#Timber calculations

[calculations1]

Steel beam calculations

Box frame steel calculations

Structural engineers with over 30 years’ experience servingthe UK. We design steel beams with full calculations for Building Control, steel connections, raft concrete foundations, joist rafter flitch timber beam calculations, and steel frames such as box frames, goal post frames, gable frames and loft extension frames. We design new build, extensions, load bearing wall removal and open plan projects by demolishing the load bearing wall and designing calculating a steel beam with padstones.

[ilbioeconomista]

UPM Timber launches carbon storage calculator

Source: UPM UPM Timber has launched a carbon storage calculator on its website. With the carbon storage calculator, wood industry professionals, UPM Timber’s customers and consumers can easily calculate the amount of carbon sequestered in wood raw material and examine its climate impacts.  Continue reading UPM Timber launches carbon storage calculator

[ltwilliammowett]

Glossary of Nautical Terms - as used in the late 18th and early 19th centuries

Aft: at or towards the stern or after part of a ship, the opposite of bow.

Aloft: overhead, or above.

Athwart: across.

Bank: a rising ground in the sea, differing from a shoal, because not rocky but composed of sand, mud or gravel.

Becalmed: to halt through lack of wind.

Bow: the foremost end or part of a ship, the opposite of stern.

Bowsprit: a large mast or piece of timber which stands out from the bow of a ship.

Burthen: the older term used to express a ship's tonnage or carrying capacity. It was based on the number of tuns of wine that a ship could carry in her holds, the total number giving her burthen.

Chase, to: to pursue a vessel in wartime with the aim of capturing, acquiring information from her, or destroying.

Colours: the name by which the national flag flown by a ship at sea is known, used to determine nationality.

Dead reckoning: a system of navigation where the position of a ship is calculated without the use of any astronomical observation whatever.

Fair wind: a wind favourable to the direction a ship is sailing.

Fathom: a measure of six feet, used to divide the lead (or sounding) lines in measuring the depth of water; and to calculate in the length of cables, rigging, etc.

Fore: the forward part.

Hail, to: to call to another ship.

Helm: the instrument by which the ship is steered, and includes both the wheel and the tiller, as one general term.

Jib: a triangular sail set by sailing ships on the boom which runs out from the bowsprit.

Jury-mast: a temporary makeshift mast erected to replace a mast that has been disabled or carried away.

Jury-rudder: a makeshift arrangement to give a ship the ability to to steer when she has lost her rudder.

Keel: the lowest and principal timber of a wooden ship - the single strongest member of the ship's frame.

Knot: the nautical measure of speed, one knot being a speed of one nautical mile (6,080 feet) per hour. As a measure of speed the term is always knots, and never knots an hour.

Landfall: the discovery of the land.

Land-locked: sheltered all round by the land, so that there is no view of the sea.

Lead: an instrument for discovering the depth of water, attached to a lead-line, which is marked at certain distances to measure the fathoms.

Lee: the side of a ship, promontory, or other object away from the wind; that side sheltered from the wind. It is the opposite side to windward.

Lee shore: a coastline on to which the wind blows directly - consequently it can be dangerous as the wind tends to force the sailing ship down on it.

Leeward: with the wind; towards the point to which the wind blows.

Letter of Marque: a commission issued in Britain by the Lord High Admiral or Commissioners of the Admiralty authorizing the commander of a privately owned ship to cruise in search of enemy merchant vessels. The letter of marque described the ship, her owners and officers, the amount of surety which had been deposited and stressed the necessity of having all prize vessels or goods seized condemned and valued at a Vice Admiralty Court for the payment of 'prize money'.

Lie-to: to prevent a vessel from making progress through the water - achieved by reducing sail in a gale. The objective is to keep the vessel in such a position, with the wind on the bow, as to ensure that heavy seas do not break aboard.

The Line (or 'Crossing the Line') Sailing across the Equator. Nautical tradition where seamen celebrate the crossing of the equator by dressing up and acting out a visit by King Neptune. Those who have not previously crossed the line are summoned to the court of Neptune for trial, followed by a ritual ducking (in a bathing tub of seawater) and sometimes lathered and roughly shaved.

Mainsail: the principal sail of a sailing vessel.

Mizzen (or mizen): the name for the third, aftermost, mast of a square-rigged sailing ship or of a three-masted schooner.

Muster: to assemble the crew of a ship on deck and call through the list of names to establish who is present and accounted for.

Muster-book: the book kept on board a vessel in which was entered the names of all men serving in the ship, with the dates of their entry and final discharge from the crew. It was the basis on which victuals were issued and payment made for services performed on board.

Pintle: a vertical metal pin attached to the leading edge of the rudder; it is fitted into the metal ring or 'gudgeon' bolted to the sternpost of a vessel. This provides the means for hinging the rudder on the sternpost and allows a rudder to be swung or turned as desired (by use of the tiller); where necessary (ie. when the rudder needs to be removed or repaired) the pintles can be unshipped quickly and the rudder detached.

Port: the left-hand side of a vessel as seen from the stern; also a harbour or haven.

Privateer: a privately owned vessel armed with guns which operated in time of war against the trading vessels of an enemy nation. Each privateer was given a a 'letter of marque' which was regarded as a commission to seize any enemy shipping as a 'prize'. The name 'privateer' has come to refer to both the ship and the men who sailed in her.

Prize: name used to describe an enemy vessel captured at sea by a ship of war or a privateer; also used to describe a contraband cargo taken from a merchant ship. A 'prize court' would then determine the validity of capture of ships and goods and authorize their disposal. 'Prize' in British naval history always acted as considerable incentive to recruitment with many men tempted to join the navy in anticipation of quick riches.

Prize Court: Captured ships were to be brought before prize courts where it was decided whether the vessel was legal prize; if so, the whole value was divided among the owners and the crew of the ship.

Prize Money: the net proceeds of the sale of enemy shipping and property captured at sea - these proceeds were distributed to the captors on a sliding scale from highest rank to lowest seaman.

Road or Roadstead: a stretch of sheltered water near land where ships may ride at anchor in all but very heavy weather; often rendered as 'roads', and does not refer to the streets of a particular port city but rather its anchorage, as in 'St Helens Roads', the designated anchorage for shipping located between St. Helens (Isle of Wight) and Portsmouth, or 'Funchal Roads' at the island of Madeira. (see Elizabeth Macquarie's 1809 Journal).

Quarter: (1)the direction from which the wind was blowing, particularly if it looked like remaining there for some time; (2)the two after parts of the ship - strictly speaking a ship's port or starbord quarter was a bearing 45° from the stern.

Ship: from the Old English scip, the generic name for sea-going vessels (as opposed to boats). Originally ships were personified as masculine but by the sixteenth century almost universally expressed as as feminine.

Shoal: a bank or reef, an area of shallow water dangerous to navigation. Sounding: the of operation of determioning the depth of the sea, and the quality of the ground, by means of a lead and line, sunk from the ship to the bottom, where some of the sediment or sand adheres to the tallow in the hollow base of the lead.

Sound: (1) to try the depth of the water; (2) a deep bay.

Sounding: ascertaining the depth of the sea by means of a lead and line, sunk from a ship to the bottom.

Soundings: those parts of the ocean not far from the shore where the depth is about 80 to 100 fathoms.

Spar: a general term for any wooden support used in the rigging of a ship - includes all masts, yards, booms, gaffs etc.

Squall: a sudden gust of wind of considerable strength.

Starboard: the right-hand side of a vessel as seen from the stern.

Stern: after-part of a ship or boat.

Tack: the nautical manouevre of bringing a sailing vessel on to another bearing by bringing the wind round the bow; during this manouevre the vessel is said to be 'coming about'.

Tide of Flood: the flow of the tidal stream as it rises from the ending of the period of slack water at low tide to the start of the period of slack water at high tide; its period is approximately six hours.

Trade Winds: steady regular winds that blow in a belt approximately 30 N. and 30 S of the equator. In the North Atlantic the trades blow consistently all year round, from the north-east; in the South Atlantic they blow from the south-east, converging just north of the equator. The meeting of the trade winds just north of the equator created the infamous 'doldrums', where sailing ships could be becalmed for days or weeks waiting for a wind to carry them back into the trades.They were known as trade winds because of their regularity, thereby assisting sailing vessels in reaching their markets to carry out trade.

Under way: the description of a ship as soon as she begins to move under canvas power after her anchor has been raised from the bottom; also written as 'under weigh.'

Voyage: a journey by sea. It usually includes the outward and homeward trips, which are called passages.

Watch: (1) one of the seven divisions of the nautical day; (2) one of two divisions of the seamen forming the ship's company.

Wear: the nautical manouevre of bringing a sailing vessel on to another tack by bringing the wind around the stern.

Weather: in a nautical sense (rather than a meteorological) this is the phrase used by seamen to describe anything that lies to windward. Consequently, a coastline that lies to windward of a ship is a weather shore; the side of a ship that faces the wind when it is under way is said to be the weather side a ship, etc.

Weigh: to haul up.

Weigh anchor: the raising of the anchor so that the ship is no longer secured to the sea or river bottom.

Windward: the weather side, or that direction from which the wind blows. It is the opposite side to leeward.

Yard: (1) a large wooden spar crossing the masts of a sailing ship horizontally or diagonally, from which a sail is set. (2) a shortened form of the word 'dockyard, in which vessels are built or repaired.

Sources: JEANS, Peter D. Ship to Shore: a dictionary of everyday words and phrases derived from the sea. Santa Barbara: ABC-Clio, 1993.

The Oxford Companion to Ships & the Sea. (ed.) Peter Kemp. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: yandere, obsessive behaviour/thoughts, implied stalking, manipulation

gn reader

Thinking about those yanderes who play the good guy – those yanderes who play it slow and safe – who take their sweet time gaining their your trust…

That calculative yandere who views you as not something to own but to earn – like a sweet-deserved prize he can taste on his tongue right before barreling over the finish line – all eager thrill and heart-blown triumph and such sweet bliss once he's crossed it, out of breath and forgetting everything else in the world.

Oh, and he's been so good – so fucking perfect these last months – the best – all according to plan – and now he’s finally going to get a taste, that victorious taste – allowed to bask in it, to roll it around his tongue, run it through his teeth – finally feel it between his hands, rake and dig his fingers into it and never let it go. 

He’s been sweet and soft and kind – so well-behaved – so boyfriendly – acting like the two of you were slowly getting to know each other even when he already knows you better than you know yourself. You’re so cute – every single squishy detail about you is just so cute.

He can barely hold it together, nearly shaking in vigor as you position yourself on his lap when the credits to the movie you’d been watching started rolling – soft music playing sweetly in the background – black screen throwing the room into an intimate dark, one that calls for certain things you do in the night, and hopefully dark enough to hide what positively red rouge tinted his cheeks as he felt you press down on where something was sleeping beneath the layers of his clothes.

He was beyond ready, beyond starving – hands so very frigid yet still with a practiced touch remained steady and deceptively calm as he placed them on your hips, grabbing onto the ample soft skin found at your waist – suppressing the urge to squeeze and settling for slowly messaging in careful meandering strokes instead. 

Even though he felt like attacking – like pouncing and trapping, like ripping clothes off – he knew that wasn't the way to win. No, he couldn’t let the mask slip – needs to keep playing the role.

His hand stirred again, ascending, perhaps too wantonly – but you didn't seem to mind as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear – feeling his labored finger-pads trace your jaw, swiping over your lips, cupping your chin, pressing into the plump squishy flesh of your cheeks, making you pout. 

He couldn't hold back the impulse that sent his tongue to swipe over his lips but quickly found a way to save himself. Asking, “Are you ready?” as though actually giving you a choice – voice as calm as he could muster, trying to withhold the strained timber of hormones that fought so badly to be satiated.

“I’m ready.” You say weakly – head bowed to look at him with eyes big and glorious.

He tilted his head to the side, pulling you in with a gracious touch when leaning forward to kill the space between your lips – smoothly brushing his stiff lips against your pillowy-soft ones – slightly parting to receive another greeting, and again and again with more and more pressure for every meeting, quite like the increasing drumming of your pulse. 

He pulled away to search your eyes, suddenly realizing his hand had slipped to wrap around your neck – but all that stared back at him were eyes full of trust – a look he couldn't help but want to devour. You’re so cute, so cute, so cute, cute, cute…

He pushed his lips back onto yours, kissing you more earnestly and desperately than before. 

The arm kept around your waist moved, also in favor of rising to head level, gently cupping your cheek as he deepened the kiss. Letting out a rugged groan when prying your mouth open.

You leaned away from the sudden boyish hunger, but his tongue slipped inside your mouth and tangled with yours anyway – making you go still as a statue until you let slip a tiny meager whimper. 

He gently rubbed your cheek at the sound – still holding you close with his words hotly purred on your lips, “Shh, Pumpkin – I won’t bite.” 

There was a look in his eyes you didn’t recognize – pooling with a predatory heat that caused a surprisingly pleasant shiver to slide up your spine, though not withholding the squeal of panic as he spun the two of you around and dropping you carefully on your back.

Now looming above you, with tenfold more control of what he had earlier.

His index finger stroked your chin before raising it for you to look up at him... or maybe for him to look down at you – enjoying the sight of you in all your flushed and bashful glory. 

It’s a different feeling than seeing you smile and laugh, different from looking at you in the hope you’d look back at him – no longer chasing but having his prey caught, ready to sink his teeth in. 

His other hand stroked a wisp of hair behind your ear as the locks had gone wild in the tumble, yet again groping your face as he leaned in closer. 

He pressed his lips against yours again – and though surprised and with a heart beating like a hummingbird, you slid your own hand around his waist, the other tangled in the short hairs at the back of his neck, legs climbing up his back, hooking over his hips and pulling him closer.

You felt his lips curl up into a smirk – before he drew his mouth from yours in favor of kissing a trail of pecks down your jaw, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, drooling with such suppressed lust, he groaned into the dip between your shoulder and neck – unsure if he could hold back once he started feeling the blood rush and pump, causing something to fatten in his slacks – unsure if you were ready to take all that he wanted to give you – unsure if you were willing to give all he wanted to take.

BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Shinso, Dabi, Hawks

JJK – Geto, Gojo, Choso, Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta

HQ – Tsukishima, Kuro, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins

[scarsnfevers]

Nothing Happend. (18+)

"I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one." – "You must be thirsty." – "You're saying I'm wrong?"

synopsis: salt clung to your skin like a memory, the ocean's breath whispering secrets against your neck as the sun bled gold over the endless horizon. You wandered through the unpredictable tides of pirates and promises, each wave pulling you deeper into something you couldn’t quite name. And then there was him—sharp-eyed, carrying storms in his bones and ghosts in his gaze. You never meant to fall into his orbit. But here, aboard a ship caught between dreams and danger, you learned that some hearts don’t beat—they burn.

pairing: zoro!chan x crewmember!reader (mentions of jeongin as luffy, changbin as usopp and jisung as sanji)

genre: smut, nostalgia, semi strangers to lovers

warnings: mature/strong language, alcohol use, heavy smut, fingering, unprotected sex, dom. Chan, various positions, he just can't get enough of you

word count: 6,9k

!minors do not interact!

The sun was a molten coin suspended in a sky of polished brass, its light rippling over the crests of the waves in glittering shatters. The Going Merry groaned softly beneath your boots, the ship’s timbers shifting like a slumbering creature stirred by the sea’s slow breath. You leaned against the starboard railing, fingertips brushing worn wood, eyes narrowed against the blinding glint of sunlight on water.

You’d stopped trying to count the days at sea. The horizon had long since lost its shape—just an endless smear of blue on blue. But today… today felt different. The wind had changed. Subtly. Not in strength, but in mood. As though it whispered secrets just out of reach.

Behind you, the canvas sails fluttered like wings. Above, gulls circled—though you hadn’t seen land in days. That in itself was strange. Too strange to ignore. You tasted the salt in the air, sharper than usual. Brighter. Almost… seasoned.

A low thud echoed across the deck.

Boots.

You didn’t need to look. You knew that gait by now. Steady, measured, unhurried—as if time itself slowed to keep pace with him.

“Still staring at nothing?” Chan’s voice was dry, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of tone that made people listen closer, not louder. You glanced over your shoulder. He stood a few paces behind you, arms crossed, one hip tilted lazily against a barrel. The wind tousled strands of green hair across his forehead, casting shadows over his eyes. “Maybe it’s not nothing,” you said. He tilted his head, gaze shifting out over the water. “Doesn’t look like much.” “Exactly.”

A beat. Then he pushed off the barrel, slow and fluid, moving beside you. Together, you stared into the horizon—where, now that you looked more carefully, something was beginning to take shape.

It was faint. Faint enough that if you blinked, it might vanish. But it was there. A blur of color too vivid for open ocean. Not an island. Not a ship. Something in between.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Do you see that?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled absently around the hilt of one of his swords, the leather wrapping dark against his hand. You saw his eyes sharpen, his shoulders still. Watching. Calculating. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I see it.” “What do you think it is?” “No idea. But it shouldn’t be there.” He wasn’t wrong. There was no reason for a structure that bright, that… designed to exist out here. This part of the sea was supposed to be empty—open waters, unbroken tides, scattered wind currents and little else. But now the silhouette was growing. Slowly. Rising like a hallucination from the foam.

Somewhere behind you, a door slammed open.

“GUYS! GUYS!”

You turned just in time to see Jeongin—burst onto the deck, straw hat barely hanging on as the wind whipped through his hair. His eyes were wide with something halfway between excitement and curiosity. “Do you see that?!” he cried, spinning on his heel mid-run and pointing dramatically out toward the strange formation.

“We’re looking right at it,” you called back.

“It’s a floating—thing! It looks like a—like a—like a giant fish!” Jeongin grinned so wide it almost looked painful. “Are we going there?! Are we stopping?! Please tell me we’re stopping!” “You don’t even know what it is,” Changbin muttered from somewhere up near the bow. He had one foot propped on the rail and his slingshot looped around his wrist, though his posture was more cautious than usual.

“But what if it’s got food?” Jeongin argued.

That made everyone pause.

Food.

Your stomach twisted a little at the thought. Rations had been thin lately. Even your own cooking experiments had devolved into heated debates about whether boiled seaweed counted as “creative cuisine.” “...It does smell like something,” you murmured.

Now that you were closer, it was undeniable. The scent drifted through the air like a siren’s call: sizzling oil, roasted garlic, sweet smoke, grilled meat. And something else—lemon? Orange zest? Citrus notes dancing on the wind. “Is that... rosemary?” you added, blinking at how absurdly good it smelled.

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Is that a yes?! Are we going?!” Chan grunted. “Doesn’t mean it’s safe.” “Come on, Chan.” Jeongin stepped up beside him, tipping his head back so his hat fell to his shoulders. “We can’t not check it out. What if it’s some kind of rare sea chef palace?” “Or a floating death trap,” Chan replied flatly.

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

You held up a hand before they could start another verbal sparring match. “Look, we need food. We need a break. Whatever that place is, it’s the first sign of anything we’ve seen in days. We at least sail closer.”

No one argued.

The Going Merry creaked beneath the shift of wind, as if it, too, was ready to rest. The sails billowed, adjusting course. Water churned beneath the keel as the ship angled toward the strange floating structure now looming larger with each heartbeat.

As you approached, the full absurdity of the building came into view. It was shaped like a fish. A massive one—its mouth agape, its scales glinting in iridescent hues of blue, red, and gold. Architectural flourishes spiraled along its back like stylized fins. Windows blinked like curious eyes, and painted signs in languages you didn’t recognize swirled across the hull. Music—live, chaotic, jazzy—poured from the upper decks, mixed with bursts of laughter and shouting. The whole thing floated on a platform held aloft by massive pontoons, bobbing gently on the waves like it belonged there. Like it owned the sea.

A waiter in a pink uniform leaned over the railing above and waved nonchalantly with a white cloth. You stared up at him, speechless. “This is real,” you said under your breath. “Yup,” Jeongin chirped. “And it smells like steak. I’m going.” The gangplank extended with a satisfying clunk, attaching itself automatically to a small boarding dock that had unfolded from the lower deck. Someone on the fish-building had clearly been expecting guests.

Or just didn’t care who showed up.

Jeongin was first off the ship, practically skipping. Changbin followed reluctantly, muttering something about “bad vibes” and “trap music.” You turned toward Chan. He hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, brow furrowed. You recognized the look—the one that meant he was watching everything. Calculating escape routes, analyzing risks, memorizing exits.

You stepped closer. “We’ll keep an eye out. Together.”

His eyes flicked to you. For just a second, something softened in them. Then he nodded once.nTogether, you stepped off the Going Merry.

The dock felt strange under your feet—solid, but too smooth. Too clean. The music was louder here. Clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the sizzling of something being seared. The scent hit you like a wave—so rich your mouth watered involuntarily.

You climbed the curved entry steps, hands brushing a banister shaped like a fish spine. The doors before you swung open not with magic or machinery, but with the welcoming chaos of a place alive. And then, framed in gold script above the arch, you saw it. The name. Baratie. It shimmered in the fading sunlight like an invitation.

Or a warning.

The moment you stepped through the archway into the Baratie, the noise hit you like a wall. Laughter, loud and unfiltered. Glasses clinking. A woman’s voice shrieking with delight. Silverware against porcelain. Someone was arguing about a stolen lobster. Somewhere in the back, a piano tripped over a jazz melody that felt half-drunk but dangerously alive.

The space stretched wide and theatrical, ringed in color and opulence that shouldn’t have belonged on the sea. Deep cherrywood beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. Lanterns swayed on chains, their golden light bathing the room in warmth and the illusion of grounded comfort. Crimson velvet curtains framed windows you hadn’t noticed from outside. Every table was mismatched and deliberate—like the owners had collected them from shipwrecks and royal chambers alike.

It smelled like heaven. Like garlic butter and roast duck and citrus and sea salt and secrets you weren’t supposed to taste.bThe hostess barely spared you a glance. "Sit where you want. No brawling, no yelling, and if you break a chair, you bought it." Jeongin was already halfway across the floor, heading for a circular booth tucked against a curved wall, arms spread like he was claiming territory. Changbin rolled his eyes but followed. You and Chan moved slower.

His eyes scanned everything. Not just the people—though there were plenty. Pirates, rich merchants, fishmen, drifters, dreamers. But also the exits, the corners, the way shadows fell in places too carefully. It was second nature by now. He didn't trust easy.

You didn't either.

Still, the booth was semi-secluded. Good lines of sight. And the table was already set with gleaming cutlery and folded napkins shaped like roses. You slid in beside Changbin. Chan took the end, back to the wall. Always.

"Okay," Jeongin breathed, practically bouncing. "Tell me we get to eat everything." "That depends," you said. "On how much money you actually have." He blinked. "I thought you had the money." "I thought you did."

A beat of silence. Chan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

You were just about to start debating whether stealing utensils could be considered compensation when a voice cut across the space. Not loud. Not demanding. But effortless. Smooth as aged whiskey over ice. "Evening, gentlemen. Lady." You turned—and saw him.

Tall. Slim. Blond hair curled behind his ears in soft waves, his black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows with the casual elegance of someone who knew he looked good. A pristine white apron tied around his waist. One hand rested on his hip; the other held a small notepad he didn’t seem to need. Eyes like honey and heat.

"Welcome to the Baratie. My name is Jisung and I'm your waiter for the evening." Jeongin leaned forward instantly. "Do you have meat?!" The waiter arched an eyebrow. "We do. Though it comes in many forms. Be specific or you’ll end up with sweetbreads." "Steak! Big steak. With butter. And garlic. And..." He squinted, sniffing. "Is that rosemary I smell?" Jisung smirked. "Good nose. Yes, rosemary." "Then I want that!" Jisung scribbled something lazily into the notepad. Then his gaze flicked to Changbin.

"For you, sir?" Changbin crossed his arms. "Do you have anything... normal?" "Define normal."

"Like... a sandwich."

"We have duck confit with citrus marmalade on toasted rye."

"...Sure."

Another scribble.

Jisung leaned over the table with a charming—if slightly smug—smile, pen poised above his notepad. “And for you?” he asked, glancing at Chan. “Something strong, I bet.” Chan didn’t even blink. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Then he turned to you. He met your gaze, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the lady?" You tilted your head slightly, the candlelight catching in your eyes as you matched his gaze. Steady. Unbothered.

"Chef's recommendation," you said. His smile curled slowly, like warm caramel drawing across cool porcelain. Not cocky—just a little too confident. "Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Adventurous. I like that."

He took a slow step closer, his notepad lowering to his side. His eyes flicked from your face to your lips and back again—not subtle, but calculated. He rested one hand lightly on the table’s edge, leaning in just enough to drop his voice into something that felt private, velvet-wrapped.

"If you ever get tired of spice," he said, “I make a dessert that’s not on the menu. Sweet, rich… unforgettable.”

It hung there. The invitation wrapped in sugar and charm. He knew exactly what he was doing. You arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" you said lightly, voice dry as salt. "Do you serve it with flattery and disappointment on the side?" The line landed like a well-aimed dagger—swift, elegant, and without venom. His smirk faltered—just a flicker—and then he laughed, soft and surprised. "Touché," he said, scribbling your order without missing a beat. "I’ll stick to the specials, then." "Good idea," you murmured. He turned smoothly, striding away with a grace that said he’d recover quickly—but you'd definitely unsettled him more than he'd expected.

There was a beat of silence at the table.

Then—

"Pfft—wow," Changbin snorted, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Absolutely brutal."

"Did you see his face?" Jeongin leaned in, eyes wide. "He looked like you kicked his puppy." Chan exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes. He tilted his head toward you with something between admiration and mischief. "Didn't even flinch. Impressive." You could feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck, rising beneath your collar. You reached for your water glass and took a slow sip, if only to stall the blooming flush in your cheeks.

"I didn’t mean to embarrass him," you said finally, lips twitching despite yourself. "It just… came out." "Please," Changbin said. "You didn’t embarrass him. You educated him." "Yeah," Jeongin added, grinning. "Lesson one: Don’t flirt with someone who can outwit you before the appetizers arrive." You sighed “Can we all just agree I handled it with dignity?” "You roasted him with dignity," Chan said, voice dry. "With style," Changbin added.

You groaned softly, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. It bubbled out of you before you could stop it, half-laughter, half-resignation.

"Gods," you muttered. "I hate you all."

"No you don’t," Chan said without looking at you.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe, right here in this ridiculous floating restaurant filled with chaos and charm, you felt something you hadn’t in a while. Something that tasted dangerously close to home.

The last of the plates were cleared, leaving behind only wine-splashed linens and the distant murmur of satisfied guests. The scent of garlic, seared meat, and something faintly citrusy still clung to the air, stubborn as saltwater. Around you, the Baratie was beginning to hum again with the rhythm of the sea—a place never quite quiet, never fully still.

Jeongin had started entertaining himself by trying to stack the bread rolls on top of one another, with Changbin offering loud, mostly unhelpful commentary. You watched them for a moment, the simple joy of it pulling a smile to your lips.

"Think we’ve earned a drink?" Chan’s voice was soft beside you, quieter than the clatter around the dining floor. You turned slightly in your seat. He was watching you, elbow resting on the edge of the table, his fingers absently toying with a toothpick. His eyes were calm, but the way his brow tilted just a little upward gave him that look—thoughtful, focused, like he saw more than he said. You nodded. "Definitely."

He stood without fanfare, waiting just long enough for you to rise before the two of you slipped away from the others. Neither Jeongin nor Changbin paid you much mind, too engrossed in an increasingly unstable bread tower. The air grew cooler as you stepped outside. A light breeze drifted across the deck, carrying the scent of open water and something faintly floral from the lanterns hanging overhead. The sky above was ink-dark, streaked with the faint shimmer of stars, and the soft creak of the ship beneath your boots reminded you just how far you were from land.

Chan didn’t speak right away. He led you up the winding stair to the upper deck, where the night was quieter, the noise of the dining floor muffled beneath your feet. There was a narrow balcony railing along the edge, the perfect place to lean, watch, breathe. He gestured to a small table tucked beneath a faded lantern. Two wooden chairs stood opposite each other. He waited until you sat, then took the seat directly across from you.

He disappeared briefly into a corner bar station still manned by a yawning server. A few exchanged words, a small grin, then he returned with two short glasses, liquid glinting amber in the low light. He handed you one. "Careful. It's stronger than it looks." You clinked your glass gently to his. "Cheers." The first sip burned pleasantly, warmth threading down your throat and spreading outward, slow and sure. You exhaled and let your gaze drift over the ocean.

"So," you said after a moment. "Be honest. Did you think we'd make it this far?" Chan chuckled softly, his voice low and even. "I thought we’d make it somewhere. I just didn’t expect it to feel like... this." "Like what?" He paused, rolling the drink gently between his palms. "Like something I don’t want to lose." That made you glance over. He wasn’t looking at you, not quite, but there was something in his expression—an openness, rare and unguarded. The kind that made you sit a little stiller, listen a little closer.

"You don’t say things like that lightly," you said. "No," he agreed. "I don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like space being made—for thought, for meaning. The wind tugged gently at a strand of your hair. You took another sip. "You’re different up here," you murmured. "Quieter." He smiled faintly. "You're just noticing that now?" You shrugged. "I think... it's easy to forget you're watching. You blend in until you don’t. And then it’s like you see everything."

Chan tilted his head. "That’s a nice way of saying I make people nervous." You laughed, shaking your head. "No. It’s a nice way of saying you’re not easy to fool." That made his lips twitch. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice had softened, losing that edge of tension it so often carried.

"You held your own tonight. With the waiter." You gave a small groan. "Don’t remind me." "Why not? It was kind of impressive." "It was mortifying." "You didn’t look mortified." You sighed. "That’s because I’ve mastered the art of internal screaming." Chan chuckled, the sound like gravel shifting underfoot—warm, grounded. He glanced at you finally, eyes catching the lantern light. "You don’t let people push you around," he said. "I like that." You looked down at your drink, unsure what to say to that. So he added, more quietly: "It means I don’t have to worry about you the same way."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "But you still worry," you said. He nodded. No denial.

You let the truth of that sit between you a while. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the railing, soft waves lapping against the hull. Somewhere below, laughter echoed faintly. A violin began to play from the main floor, its notes drifting upward, fragile and wandering.

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the table. "Do you ever miss it?" "What?" "Stillness." He was quiet a moment longer than you expected. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I think I’d miss this more." You nodded slowly, understanding curling in your chest like smoke.

When he shifted in his seat, his boot nudged lightly against yours under the table—subtle, but deliberate. You didn’t move away. The stars above blinked down, distant and watchful. You sat there, eye to eye, the sea in front of you and something quieter—gentler—settling in the space between your breaths.

The sea had softened with the setting sun, waves turning to gentle laps against the hull of the floating restaurant. From where you sat across from Chan, the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining area below drifted up to the upper deck. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, their warm golden glow throwing flickers of light across Chan’s face, dancing over the faint scar on his cheekbone and the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The table between you strewn with the remnants of your drinks—half-finished glasses of something spiced and warm, perfect for easing into the calm of night. Chan leaned back with the air of someone who rarely let himself relax, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, eyes gleaming beneath the fringe of his green-streaked hair.

“You ever play a drinking game?” he asked casually, but there was a glint of mischief behind the question.

You tilted your head, amused. “Is that your idea of a date?” His smirk widened. “Only if I win.” You raised an eyebrow. “And what do you get if you do?” Chan chuckled, low and quiet. “Maybe I’ll figure that out later. For now, it’s just about knowing you better.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the gentle way he looked at you—like he wasn’t really seeing the busy deck or the crew laughing below, but just you. The thought sent a small flutter through your chest. He leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “What are you carrying around that’s so heavy?”

You glanced down, the question brushing a little too close to places you hadn’t shown anyone. Your fingers curled around your drink. “You have no idea.” Chan’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “I bet I do. I bet I know more about you than you do about me.”

A small laugh escaped you, the tension breaking just slightly. “Yeah, right. You’re an open book.” “Care to prove it?” he said, straightening in his seat. “I guess something about you, you drink. You guess something about me, I drink.” You smirked. “Go ahead. Tell me all about myself.”

Chan took a moment, his gaze wandering as if he were replaying moments in his head. Then, “I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one.” You let the smile curl slowly on your lips, shaking your head as you lifted your glass. “You must be thirsty.” He blinked. “You’re saying I’m wrong?”

“I grew up in a small village. Barely a village. Just a handful of houses in the center of a tangerine grove. Drink.” Chan lifting his glass in mock defeat. “Alright, alright.” He took a sip, letting the flavor linger before setting it down. “Your turn.”

The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of salt and citrus from somewhere below. You studied him for a beat, narrowing your eyes like you were peeling back layers he didn’t realize he had. “Okay,” you said. “But I had you read all the way back in Orange Town.” You leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I’ll bet you didn’t have any friends as a kid.”

Something in Chan’s expression faltered—not entirely, just a flicker of something behind the eyes. He hesitated. “I had friends,” he said quietly. “Swords don’t count,” you said with a wry grin. He huffed a laugh, then looked away for a second, letting his fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I had one friend.”

That surprised you. Not because you didn’t believe him—but because of how he said it. The weight behind those words wasn’t light. There was a history there, buried like the bones of a shipwreck. You reached for your own glass. “Hell, one more than I had.” The two of you drank, a soft silence settling in afterward.

You let your gaze wander for a moment, over the edge of the ship, where the ocean glistened like melted starlight. The breeze carried the occasional burst of music from inside the restaurant, soft piano chords and the muted thrum of voices. But none of it quite reached you—not really. Not with Chan across the table, watching you like he was reading lines in a book only he could understand.

“Your friend,” you said eventually. “Still around?” Chan’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t push. The look in his eyes said the story was too old and too painful to spill just yet. Maybe not ever. Still, the quiet hung between you like a thread, fragile but real. He cleared his throat, trying to soften the mood. “Alright. My turn again.” You gestured grandly. “Take your best shot.” Chan’s lips twitched. “You were the type of kid who stole books from libraries. Probably had a whole stash hidden under your bed.” You laughed, the sound startling even yourself. “Okay, yeah. That’s not fair. That’s cheating.” He held up both hands. “Does that mean I’m right?” You sighed, then took a slow drink. “Maybe.” Chan grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It went on like that for a while—quiet guesses and quieter truths. Sometimes you were right, sometimes he was. The drinks weren’t strong, but the warmth built slowly, buzzing beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol, though.

It was him.

The way he leaned forward when you spoke, elbows braced, chin resting on his hand like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way he laughed when you teased him, soft and a little self-deprecating. The way his eyes softened whenever you let a truth slip through the cracks.

The sky darkened gradually, the stars beginning to pepper the heavens. From your seat, you could see the moon rising over the horizon, casting a shimmer over the water. The kind of view that would’ve felt too big, too distant to touch—if not for the boy sitting across from you.

“I think,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail lazily around the rim of your empty glass, “that I should head back to the Merry.” Chan looked at you, his hand wrapped around the final shot—amber liquid catching a flicker of golden light. “You want company?” he asked, voice casual, but there was a thread of softness beneath it. Not insistence. Just the unspoken echo of I'd like to.

You met his eyes. Steady. Warm. “Sure,” you replied with a nod, the corner of your mouth curving. “You’re buying the last round, anyway.”

He smiled at that, tipping the shot back with a practiced motion. The glass clicked against the table with finality. The night air outside was cooler than you expected, salty and fresh from the sea, curling through your hair and coaxing a slight shiver from you as the two of you stepped away from the Baratie’s glow. The path to the dock was quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere inside the floating restaurant. Your footsteps on the wood were slow, unhurried. Neither of you spoke at first. It wasn’t awkward silence. Just… comfortable.

You glanced at him, the way his arms swung slightly at his sides, the breeze ruffling through his green hair. He looked almost peaceful. “I think you cheated,” you said suddenly, turning your head just enough for him to catch your grin. “No way you guessed the book thing.” Chan’s brows lifted in mock offense. “Cheated? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent reader of people.” “Oh, sure,” you said, snorting. “Master of observation." “You said I was an open book,” he shot back. “Clearly, I’m just better at keeping things to myself.” You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his. “Next time, maybe I’ll bring books and test you properly.” He chuckled, a low sound in his chest, and for a moment, you just walked.

The Merry was quiet when you reached her, the familiar silhouette of the ship nestled at the dock like a waiting friend. Jeongin and Changbin were nowhere to be seen—still at the Baratie, most likely, or off exploring some corner of the floating restaurant. Chan didn’t seem surprised by the absence, and neither did you. You climbed aboard easily, the gangplank creaking gently under your steps. The ship rocked just enough to remind you she was alive. As you made your way across the deck, you felt your balance sway a little more than it should have—alcohol and sea motion conspiring to trip you up. You caught yourself quickly, laughing under your breath.

“Remind me not to drink with you again,” you said, half over your shoulder. “Oh, come on,” Chan teased, following closely. “We had fun.” “Dangerous kind of fun,” you replied, your voice light. “The kind that ends with someone falling overboard.” “Good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.” “Are you?” He grinned. “Guess you’ll have to push me in sometime and find out.” You snorted, shaking your head. “Tempting.”

“You ever think about it?” Chan asked eventually, voice low. “How weird it is… that we all ended up here. You, me, Jeongin… even Changbin.” Jeongin’s laugh rang out somewhere from the corners of the Baratie, bright and boyish. Changbin’s voice followed, loud and familiar. “All the time,” you admitted. Chan nodded slowly, then looked back at you. “You don’t seem like you’re running anymore.” The words landed somewhere deep.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out at the sea, felt the breeze brush your cheek, tasted the bittersweet flavor on your tongue. “Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I’m finally just… heading somewhere instead.” He smiled at that, soft and proud.

Your feet brought you to the hallway where the crew’s cabins were tucked away, the lanterns flickering gently against the wooden walls. The soft creak of the ship filled the silence, accompanied by your slowed footsteps as you came to a stop in front of your door. You turned, leaning slightly against the frame. Chan stood just a pace away, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the soft glow of the lantern. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “For walking me back.” Chan tilted his head a little. “Of course.” The air between you shifted. Not tense. Just—charged. Like a breath held too long. Like the world around you had gone a little quieter, waiting.

“I didn’t expect this,” you admitted, almost more to the shadows than to him. “This?” he echoed. “This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Us. Talking. Laughing. Drinking stupid games on a floating restaurant.” He smiled slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

And then, just barely, he took a step forward. Only half of one, really, but you noticed it. The flicker in his eyes wasn’t just reflection. “Should probably say good night,” you murmured. “You should,” he agreed.

But neither of you moved.

The creak of the wood. The soft hum of waves. The warmth of that final drink lingering in your veins. You couldn’t quite breathe. Not properly. And still, his eyes stayed on yours.

Like maybe he couldn’t either.

Another quiet moment passed. Then he said, almost too casually, “You know, I’m glad you’re here.” You met his eyes. There wasn’t any teasing in them now—just something honest. Something real.

“Me too,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

You closed the distance, your hand finding his collar before he could answer. Your lips brushed his — once, then again, firmer, as if daring him to pull back. He didn’t. Chan stood frozen for half a second, breath caught in his throat. But then his hand came up, gently curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. And when he kissed you back, it wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

A sound escaped the back of his throat — something like a sigh and something like a growl — and he moved forward, pressing you back until your spine met the wooden wall. His body aligned with yours in a way that felt too easy, too right. Chans other hand landed on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might vanish.

The wall was cool against your back, but his mouth was warm. Chan's kiss deepened with every passing breath, with the kind of quiet desperation you hadn’t seen in him before. You felt it in the way his fingertips brushed over your cheek, down your arm, anchoring himself in your presence.

When you parted for air, both of you stood there for a moment — dazed, breathing hard, the space between you charged and trembling. Chan leaned his forehead against yours. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. You didn’t hesitate. “Are you?” His answer came not in words, but in the way his hand found the door behind you, pushing it open. The cabin swallowed you both, lanternlight casting flickers of amber across the modest room. It smelled faintly of salt and citrus, your coat slung across a chair in the corner, and the mattress soft against the far wall beckoning like something out of a half-remembered dream. But you didn’t reach for it yet.

Instead, you kissed him again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hands traced the curve of your back, steady and sure, and your own found the hem of his shirt. The cloth slid upward, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. You felt him shiver under your touch, and it sent a matching wave through your spine. Piece by piece, clothing fell away — a glove, a belt, the fabric of the day shed like the weight of old armor. Each movement was unhurried, reverent, like unwrapping something sacred.

Your eyes searched his, and in the flickering glow of the lantern, you saw the storm of emotions raging there: want and wariness, hope and hunger. Chan's mouth was hot and demanding, but his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

His fingers brushed your bare shoulder with a feather-light touch, and even that sent sparks flaring under your skin. His eyes drank you in, as though he was trying to memorize every curve, every shade of want on your face. Chan hovered, his lips just above yours, breath mingling, warm and trembling with restraint. You closed the distance, pressing your mouth to his — a silent command, a desperate plea. The kiss deepened instantly, all softness turning to heat, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, tasting, exploring.

Hands roamed. Eager now, hungry. His palms spanned the curve of your waist, your hips, your thighs — he held you like a man who had been starving, who now sat before a feast and didn’t know where to begin. He laid you back with slow insistence, your skin sliding against cool sheets, his body hovering above you like a storm about to break. Your legs parted willingly, thighs cradling Chan's hips as his hand slipped between your bodies. Fingers explored you — warm, calloused, precise — sliding down your belly, brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced ease. You gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. He groaned against your throat, voice thick with need. “You’re already so wet.”

You answered with a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as he circled your clit, slow and rhythmic, coaxing pleasure out of you with devastating patience. His fingers slid lower, found you open, ready. He pressed one inside, then another, curling them just right — watching your face as you writhed beneath him, as your thighs shook and your breath quickened. “You like that,” Chan murmured, voice rough, reverent. “Gods, look at you…”

Your body sang under his touch, pleasure blooming fast and hot. He kept working you, steady and sure, until the heat coiled tight and unbearable. You moaned his name as your climax crested and broke — sudden and overwhelming. Your body trembled beneath him, thighs clamping around his wrist as your back arched and a strangled cry tore from your lips.

He didn’t stop right away — his fingers slowed but stayed inside you, drawing out every aftershock with gentle, teasing strokes. Your breath stuttered. You whimpered, already sensitive, already aching in a different way now. When Chan finally pulled his hand back, his fingers glistened with you. He brought them to his mouth and sucked one clean, watching you the whole time. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He kissed his way down your body, lips warm and slow — your breast, your stomach, the inside of your thigh — until he was kneeling between your legs, hard and ready. He didn’t wait long. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, and you reached down, guided him to where you wanted him.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you.”

With a low growl, he pushed into you in one slow, controlled stroke. Your breath caught. Chan was thick, stretching you inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan rumbling from his chest. “You feel so good,” he muttered against your skin.

He began to move, slow at first — a steady, deliberate rhythm that pushed the air from your lungs. Your body welcomed him, still tender and sensitive from your climax, each thrust sending soft ripples of pleasure across already-spent nerves. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your nails grazing his back as his pace built gradually — deeper, harder, more insistent.

The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin against skin, his labored breath, your soft moans filled the space like music.

Then he pulled out without warning.

You gasped, blinking up at him — but Chan flipped you easily onto your stomach and coaxed you up onto your knees. One strong hand gripped your hip, the other steadied himself as he slid back into you from behind, filling you again in one deep, powerful stroke. You cried out, fingers curling into the sheets as he set a harder rhythm now, his thrusts fast and unforgiving, each one hitting deep. Your body rocked beneath him. Chan's hand slid up your spine, then tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat.

“You feel incredible,” he growled, biting softly at your neck. “I could lose myself in you.” His pace became relentless — his need taking over, raw and feral. You moaned for him, pleasure still humming low in your belly, a steady throb of sensitivity without the pressure of another peak. Your limbs trembled from the intensity, from the ache Chan left in his wake. He grunted your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he was coming — with a deep, broken moan and one last thrust that pushed you both to the edge.

He collapsed over your back, panting, chest heaving against your spine. For a moment, all was still. The only sound was the rush of your breathing, the beat of your hearts in sync.

Then, carefully, he withdrew. The absence of him left you hollow and sore in the best way.

Chan didn’t go far — just shifted to his back, dragging you with him until you were sprawled across his chest. His cock, still slick and flushed, twitched against your thigh, already beginning to harden again. “You’re insatiable,” you murmured against his throat. “So are you,” he said with a wicked smile, flipping you over in one smooth motion. Now you were straddling him. You grinned, reached down between your bodies, and slid him back inside you — slow and deliberate, savoring the stretch and fullness, the way his hands gripped your hips and his head tipped back.

You began to move — not chasing another climax, but simply because it felt too good to stop. Your hips rolled lazily, taking him deep, grinding down in slow, teasing circles. Chan groaned, his hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitched. “Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You rode him like worship, like ceremony. Hips rolling, rhythm steady, letting the sensation build with every pass. His fingers slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the touch, hips stuttering. His eyes darkened with heat. “Don’t stop. You’re perfect like this.” You didn’t. You moved harder now, skin slapping against his, your breath rising in ragged pants. You weren’t chasing a climax, not yet—it was all about the movement, the slick heat, the way you were joined so deeply.

Then he sat up without warning, his arm around your waist pulling you against his chest. Chan's mouth found your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder—kissing, nipping, tasting. You wrapped your arms around him as he thrust up into you, your legs tightening around his hips. Each movement was deeper like this, more intimate. You felt every inch of him. When your pace began to falter, your thighs trembling from the effort, Chan gently reversed your positions. You expected him to take you from behind again—but instead, he guided you onto your side, facing him.

Spooning had its tenderness, but this—this was different. You lifted your top leg slightly as he slid into you from the side. The angle was unexpected, exquisite. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "Better?" he asked, voice dark velvet against your mouth. "Yes," you whispered. It was slow, languid, but deeper than anything before. He held your gaze as he moved, one arm curled beneath your neck, the other hand gripping your thigh, guiding your leg higher over his hip. He was fully inside you, filling you perfectly, every thrust pressing against your most sensitive place.

You were surrounded by him—his breath on your skin, his body wrapped around yours, his length buried deep. The rhythm was slower now, almost torturously so. But it built with maddening precision. Chan kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your cheekbone, never looking away. Your moans were swallowed in his mouth, and you felt yourself unraveling—every thrust driving you closer to that edge again. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips. “So tight and warm."

But just when the crescendo seemed imminent, Chan pulled back slightly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Turn with me," he murmured. He guided your leg further upward and gently rolled, until you were partially on your back, his body angled above you. With one swift movement, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, bending you open for him. Then he moved. Faster. Rougher.

The shift was jarring and breathtaking. Every thrust now hit with precision, deep and unrelenting, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your cries turned guttural, your hands gripping the sheets—or him—anything to keep you grounded. He groaned as he watched you unravel. "You take me so well... every time." You could only gasp, head tossing back as the rhythm pushed you beyond the edge of control. Chan leaned down slightly, the new angle making it even more intense, his chest grazing your breast, his mouth finding your jaw, your throat, whispering filthy praise against your skin.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Falling apart on my cock.” You felt the coiling heat in your belly begin to burn white-hot. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, the orgasm rising like a storm on the horizon. “Let go,” he whispered against your ear. “Come for me, love.” And you did.

The climax rolled through you in waves—deeper than before, slower, drawn out like silk unraveling. Your whole body tensed, then shuddered with release, and you sobbed his name into his mouth.

Chan kissed you through it, slowing just enough to let you feel every pulse, every aftershock. And only when you relaxed, body heavy and trembling in his arms, did he allow himself to chase his own end. A few more thrusts—urgent now, almost desperate—and he groaned, his release catching him hard. Chan held you tightly, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed to yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you. Nothing else mattered.

He didn’t pull away right away—just stayed there, buried inside you, wrapped around you, the rhythm of his breath matching yours.

Finally, when the trembling slowed and your hearts found their pace again, he brushed a kiss to your brow. “Stay here tonight,” you whispered. Chan looked at you, body still humming. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” He smiled, the look in his eyes was something different now—softer, almost reverent.

And then he kissed you again—unhurried, like the sea brushing the shore, as if time itself had decided to wait a little longer.

Not an end. Just the hush before the next wave.

[veryberryjelly]

OH MY GOD I LOVE THESE PROMPTS WTF CAN I REQUEST MORE THAN ONE!!!!! if not, still i would like to order a martini 🍸🌟 with a prompt number 103 for mr theodore nott my beloved

theo nott x reader

prompts ; ' kissing someone off their face '

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦ 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 !

if you weren't to be married in four days, you were sure your hen party would've been the highlight of your week.

your friends had opted to take you out to a local bar and then go out dancing and in the midst of darkness with the occasional flash of neon lights, you had all downed what your sober friend had calculated as 18 units of alcohol.

each.

so by the time you stumbled in through the door of your flat you were truly struggling to stand up straight, even with the aid of pansy under your arm.

" okay, sweetheart, let's get you into bed " she said, leading you towards the bedroom.

but it seemed you had other plans.

" nooo, i can't go to bed without teddy "

your whining elicited a laugh from the girl under your arm.

" i know, but he'll be home soon. enzo said they were leaving the club 15 minutes ago, so let's get you to bed and-"

" baby! you here ?"

the familiar timber of theo's voice flooded your flat and your smile grew.

pansy couldnt stop you from turning around and heading back to the door to find theo.

" teddy! "

and you found him with two boys with blurry faces flanking his sides.

all your drunk mind could focus on was theo in the middle of them and it seemed your feelings were reciprocated as he pushed the two boys off of him and stumbled straight towards you.

his arms wrapped around your neck and your looped around his torso, both of you swaying slightly where you stood.

you pulled back to look up at him but before either of your eyes could focus on the boy infront of you, a pair of lips were on yours and who were you to deny your beautiful fiancee.

the kiss was definitely sloppier than usual, but to both of you in your vodka fuelled minds, it was perfect.

" you can tap out, boys. i got this. i'm staying in their guest room tonight "

the next thing you heard was the sound of your front door closing.

" okay lovebirds, you've got your whole lives to do this but lets get you to bed "

you separated from theo but neither of you could wipe the shit eating grins from your drunk faces.

pansy lead the two of you through to your bedroom where you both promptly fell against the mattress in a pile of giggles.

when you felt a pair of hands pulling you from a mattress you whined softly, instinctively reaching for the boy still on the bed.

" once we get your makeup off, you can jump back in bed, but i won't be responsible for you having a pimple on your wedding day "

even in your drunk haze you knew she was right.

you didnt want a pimple on your face on the day of your wedding.

so you let her sit you on the closed toilet and wipe the makeup from your face before applying a few products you were too drunk to identify.

but when you were finally done, she lead you back out to your bed and let you collapse down on the mattress.

like a pair of magnets, both you and theo gravitated towards eachother in the centre of the mattress, your head dropping to his chest and his arms winding around you.

the only other sound aside from the rustling of the sheets beneath you was the bedroom door closing as pansy left.

and after that there was silence for a little while.

the last thing you heard before you fell into a slumber was theo.

" i love you, beautiful girl. "

[wisecura]

Sheets

megumi fushiguro x fem-reader

p.1

p.2  ( ⸝⸝꩜ ᯅ ꩜⸝⸝;) p.4

p.3

AN: Thank you for reading! Please reblog and like if you enjoy this series!

warnings: yandere, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, mommy kinks, mommy issues, arranged marriages, forced marriages, angst, eventual smut, clan politics, age gap (5 years from meg, and a little over 10 with toji), toji aint the best dad, mentions of child abuse, slowww build.

Short summary: Your arranged marriage to Toji Fushiguro had been sudden and unexpected, but now you found yourself living under his roof alongside his moody stepson. Your only directive from your clan head before moving in was clear: keep a close eye on Toji, the notorious Sorcerer Killer, and his son, a potential sorcerer prodigy.

the pancake incident

Rinse and repeat.

You’d woken up early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon.

The soft light filled the quiet apartment as you made your way to the kitchen, setting to work on breakfast for you and Megumi. You still hadn’t decided what you wanted for breakfast that morning. Maybe some pancakes? You could do some bacon too?

You were one batch in, readying for the second—until you heard it.

That deep, too deep, timbered voice cut through the stillness, freezing you in place. Your heart stuttered, leaping to an uneasy rhythm as your grip tightened on the spatula.

“Whatcha makin’, doll?”

Your head whipped around, panic flaring before you processed who it was. Your hand instinctively pressed to your chest, as if that could calm the racing pulse beneath it. Toji stood leaning against the doorway, an amused gleam in his sharp eyes. His posture lazy, yet still fucking predatory.

You weren’t normally so skittish, but something about the unexpected appearance had you on edge.

So, he just came and went as he pleased?

At least he didn’t look angry. You hadn’t seen the man since the day you first arrived. And he hadn’t interacted with you much either.

You forced a steadying breath, slipping your well-practiced mask of indifference into place. He wasn’t like Megumi—far from it.

No—Toji carried an energy dedicated all to himself. One that set your nerves on edge the moment he stepped into a room. His presence screaming authority.

While Megumi evoked the cautious fussiness of a stray cat. Toji was a more akin to a predator on the prowl, deliberate and calculating. Always watching, always waiting. Ready at any second to snap your neck. This man could send you back to your clan house—in seconds, if you so breathed the wrong way. 

“Pancakes.” 

“Pancakes?” 

The word echoed from the doorway behind Toji, this time gruffer and laced with grogginess.

You glanced over to see Megumi walking into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes, his hair sticking up in a disheveled mess. He looked half-asleep, his usual scowl firmly in place.

How long had he been there?

Your gaze softened automatically as he shuffled to the table, his mood sour but you really didn’t mind.

This, of course, didn't go unnoticed.

Toji’s gaze flicked between you and Megumi before he strode further. Each step carried a deliberate weight, the kind that made your chest tighten ever so slightly. You gripped the spatula in your hand a little tighter, trying to focus on the task at hand. But ready for anything.

His large hand ruffled Megumi’s already messy hair, a gesture that might have seemed affectionate—if not for the immediate tension in the boy’s shoulders. Or the scowl that seemed to darkened his face. You turn around quickly, focusing on finishing breakfast. He must hate his hair being touched—

“Megs,” Toji drawled, almost teasing. “You been fightin’ again?”

The question made you pause mid-stir, your ears unconsciously tuning in to the exchange. 

Fighting? 

Megumi?

Did he say again? The idea of Megumi being a repeat troublemaker was a little...difficult to imagine. But you guessed with the grumpiness territory...

You kept your gaze on the bowl of batter, carefully inspecting for clumps, but you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder to catch Megumi’s reaction.

Megumi shoved Toji’s hand off with more force this time, his scowl deepening. “What’s it matter to you?”The glare was lethal. You’d never seen one quite like it. Could a teen really give such a nasty glare?

Toji snorted, clearly more entertained than annoyed. You wonder why he brought it up in the first place if he wasn’t going to take it seriously.

“What’d I tell ya about stirring up trouble, huh? I’m not in the mood to keep gettin' calls from your school. Been givin' them hell, yea?”

Your brows arched slightly at that, though you kept your expression neutral, focusing on the mix. Once happy with the consistency, you poured three even dollops of batter onto the buttered pan, the soft sizzle ringing into the stifling air.

“Again, what’s it matter to you?” Megumi shot back, his tone colder this time.

You started counting under your breath, a small habit to keep focused. An exasperated sigh broke the tension.

“Megs,” Toji said, his tone heavy with feigned exasperation.

The bubbles began to rise along the edges of the batter. It was nearly time to flip.

“It matters, kid,” his voice somewhat stern, but in your opinion still somewhat condescending. “You think I like getting phone calls from your school? M’just tryin’ to tell you from experience. You don’t wanna end up going down that way.”

Sliding the spatula under the first pancake, you flipped it cleanly, the golden brown surface glowing under the light.

One down.

Megumi’s scoff cut through the room like a knife. Carrying more bite than you’d heard from him before. You could feel the frustration rolling across you back in waves.

Your grip on the spatula tightened reflexively for a moment, the tension winding through you. But you forced yourself to breathe, counting again under your breath.

Focus: golden brown, no burnt edges.

No need to step in—not your fight.

“Don’t start with me,” Toji warned, his voice dropping, and you could pick up hints of an oncoming fight. “I’m still your old man, like it or not. Show some respect.”

The second pancake flipped smoothly, landing perfectly beside the first.

You tried to focus on the task. But the air around you was thick and heavy. You felt your throat choking up just slightly.

Disbelief laced Megumi’s words, tinged with venom. “Respect? That’s rich coming from you.”

No response.

It crept along your spine, the kind of silence that felt volatile. Like it could break something.

Risking a glance over your shoulder, you saw Toji slump into a chair across from his son, one hand dragging down his face. He looked older than he should, worn down by life—or whatever poor decisions he’s drowning in.

And yet, they continued the conversation, as if your presence was nearly wallpaper. Were they always this…explosive?

You turned back to the stove, focusing on the third and final pancake.

Perfectly round, golden, and ready to join the others.

“Megs,” Toji said again, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “You’re not gonna get anywhere if you keep goin’ at people like this. I didn’t want that kinda life for you. Your mom didn’t want that kinda life for you.”

The spatula slid under the pancake with ease. You checked the underside—golden brown, just the way it should be—before transferring it to the stack.

“Well she isn’t here,” His voice low and bitter. You could practically see his arms crossed, pout heavily etched into his face. But the weight of his words made you stop for a moment. Your chest tightening with an ache that wasn’t yours to feel.

“And she hasn’t been here. Not for a long time, and neither have you.”

The clink of the spatula was the only response. You heard the creak of the chair as Toji leaned back.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” Toji’s tone was light, as if his son hadn’t just accused him of negligence. But there was a definite edge in his voice. The defense masked by flippancy.

Megumi’s response was immediate, brimming with unanswered questions.

“Yeah? For how long this time? A day? Two? Before you disappear again?” His voice flat out irritated. “Just leave already. At least it’s quieter when you’re not here.”

The plate of pancakes in your hands suddenly felt heavier, your grip tightening as you stood frozen, unsure of what to do. The air between them was thick with resentment, the kind of anger that only grows with time and neglect.

Still, you carefully placed the plate on the table, a quiet offering in the middle of their storm. This conversation hitting a little too close for comfort. Toji chuckled dryly, but the sound rang hollow, void of any humor.

“You’ve got a real sharp tongue for a kid, you know that? You think I enjoy just running off? Think I enjoy being out there instead of—”

“Instead of what?” Megumi snapped. “Instead of pretending to be a father for a few hours before you disappear again? Just stop pretending. Nobody asked you to be here.”

Your hand hovered over the table, frozen as you turned your eyes to Toji. They still ignored your presence, lost in their own world. Yet you couldn’t help but feel for Megumi.

Toji’s smirk faltered, then vanished entirely, replaced by something unreadable. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed firmly on Megumi.

“Watch your mouth, Megumi,” Toji said, his voice low, edged with warning.

There’d been more exhaustion, than anger—a kind of weariness that seemed ingrained, as though this wasn’t the first time they’d had this fight.

You cleared your throat gently, pushing the plate of pancakes toward the center of the table—trying again. The syrup bottle placed neatly beside it.

“Please, eat,” you said softly, your voice even but careful, hoping to cut through the tension without stepping on either of their toes. It was a quiet reminder, a nudge toward civility. “They’ll get cold.”

Megumi didn’t budge, his glare still locked onto his father, the intensity in his eyes unrelenting. Toji’s gaze flickered toward the pancakes for the briefest moment before he let out a long, drawn-out sigh, leaning further back.

“Look, kid,” Toji began, his tone rough, but with an edge of resignation. “I’m not gonna sit here and play house with you. I’ve got work to do. You think it’s easy keeping this place running?”

The pancakes sat untouched in the middle of the table, their warmth fading, much like the hope for a peaceful resolution.

Megumi’s laugh broke the silence, sharp and bitter, sending a chill up your spine.

“Keeping it running? You can barely keep food on the table. She’s the only one who’s done anything around here,” jerking his head toward you. The sudden shift of attention caused you to stiffen. “And she hasn’t even been here more than a day or two. You don’t care about me, or her, or this house. So just go.”

Toji’s eyes flashed with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. For a moment, it looked like he might argue, like he might actually try to defend himself. Instead, he shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“Got me all figured out, don’t you?” he muttered, his tone heavy with frustration.

Megumi glared at his father, his arms crossed. The malice that dripped from his look had you feeling anxious. You knew he wouldn’t be one to let this conversation drop.

You hated seeing Megumi this way—dealing with this. It didn’t seem fair, especially with what he was saying. If it was true, Toji was just an absent, shitty father.

But you weren’t one to judge the paint chip of a larger picture. There had to be more to this, with situations like this—there always was. And yet it seemed Toji was all too happy to feed into this bullshit.

“You’ve got no idea what it’s like out there, kid,” Toji said with finality. “No idea what I’m trying to protect you from.”

“Protect me?” Megumi’s voice was low and brimming with disbelief, a growl of raw anger. “You mean leaving me to fend for myself? Yeah, real protective.”

This was getting to become unbearable. They seemed ready to jump back in so easily.

Your hands are trembling now, unable to keep calm. Your breathing was picking up, a sense of comfort being lost. This will go on all night. Unable to take it any longer, you decide to step in.

You steel your face over, a mask of mastered indifference.

“That’s enough,” you said sharply, your voice cutting through the tension, easily. They hadn’t expected an outsider’s opinion.

Both of their heads snapped toward you, surprise flickering across their faces. Your hands were steeled, not a shake in sight. Your eyes are cold, emotionless.

You pushed the plate of pancakes closer to Megumi, your tone firm as you spoke.

“Eat,” you commanded, your voice brooking no argument.

That was the most important thing to you in this moment.

Then you turned your gaze to Toji, meeting his sharp stare squarely. Your voice was even but unwavering, each word laced with quiet authority. If he wasn't going to act like an adult, you would.

“And you—if you’re going to stay, then stay. If you’re going to leave, then leave. But this back-and-forth stops now.”

The room felt all the more heavy, with you finally weighing in on it. The silence all encompassing. Your gaze never wavered, holding Toji’s with the same cold indifference you'd offered him the first time you two met. You were fully aware that this was a gamble.

Toji had the authority of the house, and it really wasn’t your place to question him at all. Yet the unease bubbling in your gut—constricting your throat—wouldn’t let you back down.

This didn't feel like some passing spat—it felt too personal—too raw, and it struck something in you.

Were they always this way?

Would it always be like this?

You turned, grabbing another plate of pancakes from the counter, and placed it on the table in front of Toji.

You didn’t particularly care if he ate, but you wanted your message to click.

This wasn’t about him.

It was about the kid sitting across from him, the one glaring daggers into his head. But clearly in need of more than just food.

“Now, both of you—eat,” stern. No room for debate.

Toji blinks at you, his expression flickering for a brief moment—surprise, perhaps, or something close to it—before his smirk slips back into place.

The hesitation that lingers in the air feels heavy, almost suffocating, and you’re acutely aware of how still the room has become. He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm—just a little.

Fear prickles at the edges of your mind, but you refuse to let it show. You move to the sink, hoping to distract yourself.

At least the fight has stopped.

At least that all consuming panic from before was gone.

But this man was too unpredictable to fully relax. And you felt protective—of Megumi, of this fragile, imperfect family you’d somehow found yourself in. You had placed yourself into this motherly role. Into their family. And you are, in a way, protective of yourself, because for the first time in so long, you had something that felt almost...stable.

It hadn’t even been that long since you arrived...already, these small, fleeting interactions meant more to you than you wanted to admit. You’d spent too much of your life isolated, and now, the thought of losing the tentative bond you’d started to build made something twist painfully in your chest.

No, you had something to protect. Someone. 

“Taking his side, huh?” Toji’s voice cuts through the room, low and edged with something that makes your stomach twist.

So you did have a bite.

His dark eyes trail over you, assessing, almost calculating. The tension coils tighter in your gut as he stares you down, your back to him. There’s something unsaid lingering in the air, but you can practically hear the gears turning. He might sound teasing, but he was beyond intimidating,

Megumi, for his part, stabs a pancake with his fork, obediently, his movements stiff and jerky as he tears off a piece and dips it into the syrup dish. He doesn’t look at either of you, but at least he’s eating. That's enough for now.

The quiet clink of his fork against the plate is the only sound in the room.

You grip the sponge tightly as you begin scrubbing the pan. Busying your hands.

“Guess this ain’t the time to say I’ve got another business trip coming up?” Toji mutters, his tone light, but the amusement in his voice feels misplaced, almost forced.

Is he really joking right now? You don’t respond, keeping your focus on the dishes, but your shoulders tense as his words settle in.

Megumi doesn’t reply either, but the faint scrape of his fork against his plate tells you he’s still eating. Toji sighs, the sound exaggerated and heavy, like he’s carrying some unseen burden.

It’s not clear whether he expects sympathy or just enjoys the situation, but either way, it grates on you. Just a little bit. 

Finally, he stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses by the door. 

"I’ll be back," Toji says, his gaze lingering on Megumi for a long moment before flicking to you.

“Make sure he doesn’t burn the place down," Toji adds with another signature smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. One that neither of you manage to catch.

Megumi keeps his focus on his plate, his jaw tight, and you remain at the sink, scrubbing a dish that’s already clean.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the tension lessons—not gone, but dulled, like an ache that lingers after a particularly harsh slap. The silence feels hesitant, unsure where to settle now that Toji has left.

You glance over your shoulder, watching Megumi as he sits there, his head bowed, his fork dragging absent patterns through the remnants of syrup on his plate. You can’t read his expression, but the way his shoulders hunch tells you enough.

The kid had every right to be angry, to feel irritated. Yet seeing him like this—so despondent, so closed off—makes something twist painfully in your chest.

"Hey," you say softly, drying your hands on a dishtowel as you step closer. "You okay?"

He shrugs, his gaze not lifting. "'M used to it," he mutters. You could see the thoughts running through his head. "He’ll be gone by tonight. It’s easier when he’s not here. ’M sorry you had to see that."

There wasn’t any reason to be sorry.

You hesitate for only a second before pulling out the chair across from him and settling into it.

Resting your elbow on the table, you prop your chin in your hand, watching him. A counterpart to Toji. But you wanted to comfort him, to offer him some sense of stability, even if you weren’t entirely sure how. You felt somewhat out of your element with this one.

When your mother was around, what did she do, again? Mmmm well maybe not that. How the hell do you even comfort a rebellious teen?

"You might be used to it," you say carefully, "but that doesn’t make it fair. Or okay."

His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp and guarded. The faint shadow of exhaustion lingers in them, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to say something but decides against it.

"You don’t have to say that," he says, his tone softening despite himself. "You just got here—you don’t owe him anything." A pause. "You don’t owe me anything either."

Leaning forward slightly, you offer him a small, reassuring smile. "Maybe not," you reply, your voice warm. "But I’m here anyway."

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze searching as if he’s trying to figure out whether you mean it. The guardedness in his expression falters, just a little, before he looks back down at his plate. He cuts off another piece of pancake, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.

You don’t press him to say more. Instead, you sit there quietly, the silence between you settling into something gentler, more bearable.

Maybe it’s not much. Maybe it won’t fix anything. But for now, it's enough.

p.4?

AN: Thank you for reading! Please reblog and like if you enjoy this series!

I will also be posting updates here:

https://www.tumblr.com/communities/obsessedjjk

come home

[never-mind-09]

Never been more happy to be German. Sebastian speaking German? *Chefkiss*. Sebastian lives rent-free 24/7 in my mind. Can't wait to watch the next episode.

The village was quiet at dusk. Too quiet, really. A silence that crept between the timbered houses like a shadow, stitched with the distant howl of wolves and the wind brushing against wood and stone.

You never liked strangers. Especially not English strangers with perfectly pressed coats, unreadable smiles, and eyes like he had.

He had introduced himself with a slight bow and a smooth voice. "Sebastian Michaelis. A humble servant." That accent alone made your skin itch. Too elegant for this place. Too clean for Wolfsschlucht. You’d ignored him the first time he tried to speak to you. And the second. And the third.

But he didn’t seem offended. If anything, he looked... amused. Like you were a puzzle he’d already solved but chose to enjoy slowly.

You hated that.

You were in the garden again, sleeves rolled and hands buried in stubborn earth. The day was quiet, overcast. The kind of sky that couldn’t decide whether to rain or just hover there, gray and heavy. The footsteps came, as they always did light, deliberate, unmistakable.

You didn’t look up.

“Still digging,” he said lightly.

You muttered something under your breath that wasn’t exactly polite.

He took it as encouragement.

“I find it fascinating,” he continued, stepping to the edge of the garden. “You always manage to look terribly busy when I’m near.”

“That’s not hard,” you said. “Existing is work when you’re around.”

Sebastian chuckled. Actually chuckled. You hadn’t heard that before.

He crouched near the fence, not close, but closer than usual. “You know,” he said conversationally, brushing a speck of dust from his glove, “I’ve been told I can be… distracting.”

You raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

You weren’t sure what irritated you more...that he kept showing up, or that you’d started to notice when he didn’t. There was something unsettling about him, too smooth, too graceful. Like he didn’t belong here. Like he was humoring the world around him.

He didn’t speak again right away. Just… looked. And for once, it wasn’t calculated or teasing, it was quiet, steady, like he was trying to figure something out. You frowned and glanced up.

“What?” He held your gaze a second too long, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. A little too honest.

„Dein Anblick ist fast genug, um die Hölle vergessen zu lassen.“ (Your appearance is almost enough to forget Hell)

You blinked.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The words hung there between you, not quite heavy but strange. Weighted.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sebastian tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “A compliment, naturally.”

You stared at him. “A weird one.”

"I’ve been told I have an old-fashioned way with words,” he said mildly, already straightening to leave.

You shook your head, pretending not to notice the warmth crawling up your neck.

“Try flowers next time.”

“But you’d dig those up, too.”

And with that, he was gone like he always was, leaving behind nothing but questions and the echo of something that wasn’t just a flirtation.

[leibal]

Summerhouse in Vollerup is a minimal home located in Vollerup Strand, Denmark, designed by Høyer Arkitektur. The structure’s elongated form operates as both shelter and frame, its glulam grid construction creating a rhythm that echoes the surrounding forest’s natural cadence. Here, the ancient craft of timber framing meets contemporary engineering precision, with each glue-laminated beam carefully calculated to span generous distances while maintaining the slender profile essential to the design’s success. 

[fatehbaz]

They’ve built a “Great Wheel” on the Seattle waterfront [...].

The small timber village became a military outpost in the Puget Sound War [...], [and] soon evolved into a trade gateway, with timber tailings and other industrial trash from Henry Yesler’s mill used to fill in the marshlands [...], atop which migrant laborers raised tents and shanties [...] now working to feed raw materials into the furnaces of the Second Industrial Revolution burning in the East. [...] The first nationwide strike ripped across the country’s railways in 1877 [...]. Meanwhile, young financial conglomerates rose after the city-devastating fire of 1889, linked openly to local government [...] in the kind of symbiotic public-private relationship that would become a hallmark of the Gilded Age. [...] [L]ocal elites rebuilt [...] downtown [...] from scratch, hosting the tallest building on the West Coast alongside other new constructs [fueled] with money gleaned from the supply chains linking eastern capital to Alaskan gold. [...]

Over the next century, Seattle would see new sequences of boom, bust, and reinvention. Military investment in the region during the First World War secured the city’s ship-building industry and expanded Boeing from a small lakeside hangar into a massive war contractor. [...] Across Washington state, capital had first poured into the “Third Industrial Revolution,” founded on electricity, chemicals, and massive hydropower projects [in the 1930s] [...], then into the “Fourth” wave of petrochemicals, nuclear, and, in the case of Seattle especially, aircraft and missile technology. Each was followed by periods of dramatic decline [...] paired with rapid financialization and, finally, re-orientation around the new industrial cluster [...]. Today the city - again rebuilt [...] - is seen as one of the primary beneficiaries of the “Fifth” Industrial Revolution in information technology, outshone only by California’s Silicon Valley. [...] The digital was increasingly thought of as somehow "immaterial," sustained by intellectual labor more than physical toil [...].

Silicon Valley myths of [...] "immaterial" labor disguise a more gruesome dynamic in which growing segments of the global labor force are being deprived even of the basic brutality of the wage, instead forced out into growing rings of slums, prisons, and global wastelands. [...]

---

Perched alongside a downtown business corridor [...], Seattle's Great Wheel seems to peer out over [...] [the] prophesied “cooperative commons,” an infotech metropolis abutting the beauty of an evergreen arcadia. But travel below Seattle’s cluster of infotech industries and the image appears much the same as that of a hundred years prior - a trade gateway, squeezing value from supply chains by selling transport and logistical support. The southern stretch of the metropolis bears little resemblance to the revitalized urban core of the city proper. Instead of the “cognitive labor” of Microsoft, it is defined instead by the cold calculation of companies like UPS, founded in Seattle when the city was one link in a colonial supply chain built first for timber, then Alaskan gold, then World War. [...]

In south Seattle, this logistics empire takes the form of faceless warehouses, food processing facilities, container trucks, rail yards, and industrial parks concentrated between two seaports, an international airport, three major interstates, and railroads traveling in all directions. Meanwhile, the poor have been priced out of the old inner city, moving southward [...]. [T]hey can be found staffing the airport and the rail yards, hauling cargo in and out of two the major seaports, loading boxes in warehouses [...]. And, beyond them, the shadow stretches out to Washington’s rural hinterlands where migrant laborers staff a new boom in agriculture and raw materials [...] - and further still into America’s long-depressed interior, where the Great Wheel meets its opposite: Memphis, the FedEx logistics city, watched over by a great black pyramid [the infamous Bass Pro Shop pyramid]. [...]

Every Seattle is capable of creating an eco-friendly, “cooperative commonwealth” tended by apps and algorithms only insofar as there is a Memphis that can provide human workers to sort the packages, a Shanghai to build the containers that carry them, and a Shenzhen to solder together the circuits of the machines that govern it all.

---

All text above by: Phil A. Neel. "The Great Wheel". Brooklyn Rail. April 2015. Published online at: brooklynrail.org/2015/04/field-notes/the-great-wheel. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Presented here for commentary, teaching, personal use, criticism purposes.]

[thewritetofreespeech]

hello! i was wondering if since we didn't get the actual confession for DinoxReader 'Queen of Posions' thing if you would be willing to add that? if you're done with that story that's fine too.

part i

-------------------------------------------------------

“The doctor said you need to rest.”

“Doctors are idiots.” [Y/N] replied when they arrived back at their townhouse in the city after being cleared by the Blood. Dino had insisted on escorting them home.

After the events of their attack, [Y/N] had been taken for medical treatment to make sure there was no effects lingering in their system. Her hypothesis had been correct in that without the original, there was no way to influence will on the subject. The medical team also tried to do some tests on [Y/N]’s unique compounds found in her blood, but the fools were nowhere near the genius of its host, so they released her swiftly with directions to rest and recover.

“You should still rest.” Dino insisted again. Following her through the house and into her office. A familiar place for them as she was often working in her home lab or office on some manner of research. “You may not be enthralled, but you were attacked.”

“Yes, Dino, I was there.” Her hand came up to rub at her neck that had been bitten. No lingering effects of influence but still no less sore probably. “Your concern is touching but unnecessary. Isn’t there someone else you should be fussing over?”

“No one else is worth the fuss.”

[Y/N] stopped shuffling her papers and looked up at Dino. His tone was naturally very serious. He had always had a deeper timber than most, which led to his dry wit. But the tone he had taken now was much more serious. Dino realizes he would have to be if he wanted [Y/N] to listen to him. Though brilliant, she often mistook social cues or just simply wouldn’t listen to people. She would listen to him this time though.

“When you were attacked it felt like my world had shattered. To think that you would be controlled by someone else. That I may have to kill you like Dali did to his wife. It was too much to even consider, much less live though.”

“Dino, what are you saying?”

“I am saying that I love you.” The direct approach was the only way usually to get her to listen. “What more is there to say than that?”

[Y/N] seemed surprised by his confession, then blushed. Though a brilliant alchemist and steward of science, she was still a woman who could clearly be swayed by soft words deep down.  “Are you sure? You didn’t just get hit on the head or something? Eaten bad cheese?”

Dino scoffed. “I am not the one who was attacked, remember. And you know I can’t stand dairy.”

[Y/N] appeared to rack her brain for another logical explanation for his confession, but of course there was none. Dino might be just as cynical as she was, but he could admit that somethings were not just explained away by logic or reason. Love was one of them. “If you do not feel the same that’s fine. You wouldn’t be the first woman not to love me back. But I just thought I would let you know.”

“Save the self-pity Classico,” [Y/N] clipped at him, “I never said I didn’t love you this is just….a lot.” She said, rubbing her neck once more. “My life was just in peril you know....” She looked nervous. Dino had never seen her be nervous before. Always confident, precise, logical. This change was something new and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited by it. He was probably the only person in years to see her like this. Would she look this way during other things, if she accepted him?

The noble stepped forward. Using his full height for a change to crowd her. “I love you.” It seemed to bare repeating. “I have known this about myself for a very long time, though I know this is new for you. If you need time, I will accept it. Just so long as you accept me.”

[Y/N] looked up into his eyes. An expression of calculating honesty but also wonder. “Yes, Dino,” she told him, “I will accept you.” Dino was pleased. Not realizing he had been holding his breath while waiting for her response to then just let it out in a heavy sigh on the air.

It might have been premature & improper, but Dino couldn’t help himself. He leaned down to give [Y/N] a kiss. Yet, just before their lips touched, she cried out, “Wait! Wait! Wait!”

Dino was alarmed. He stopped immediately, thinking that was indeed premature & improper, but then cried out on his own when he was stabbed by a small hairpin in the neck. “Nine hells! What was that for?!”

“The antidote.”

He stopped wincing in pain, realizing what she meant. Her sign of acceptance. That he could touch her. Again, probably one of the first people in years she could get close to.

Dino grabbed [Y/N] hard and kissed her fiercely. No longer afraid of impropriety or decorum, or even her poisons. She would make a fine match for him. His only match, as far as Dino was concerned. Once this case was over, and vampire kind was saved, he would give the Queen of Poisons a new title. For now, he would just be happy she was safe and accepted him. That was all he could ask for right now. That and more kisses.

[saphronethaleph]

Wooden Ships and Obscure Disney Films

The RLS Warrior was three days out of Montressor, sails full of the solar wind, and her commander closed his eyes and felt the Etherium around him.

For a number of reasons – not least his old ties with Admiral Amelia – Jim had been heavily involved with the design of the ship, as well as the tradeoffs involved. For all that he wasn’t even twenty-five, yet, the ship was built as much to his ideas as to those of anyone else in the Navy, and after three days he was really starting to get a feel for her.

And he was proud of the work.

The yards had done right by them, and no mistake. She sailed the winds as sweetly as the old Legacy, and if that was partly due to her studdingsails to give her extra sail area – they’d calculated it out a dozen times, even getting Doppler involved, and every time it had come out that the sails were worth the hassle. And the engines sang a fine note, while the treated timbers making up her hull were finely seasoned and showed no sign of weakness or wear.

“Captain?” a nervous voice said, then the voice’s owner corrected herself. “I mean – Commander?”

“Captain is preferred,” Jim replied. “Can’t have more than one captain on a ship.”

Then he opened his eyes, and grinned at the young woman who was nervously clinging to the ropes around the mainmast crow’s nest. “But since there doesn’t seem to be anyone else up here, you can call me Jim if you want.”

“I couldn’t do that!” the woman said, astonished, and her ears flicked down. “You’re – you’re the Captain! And you’re a hero of the Second Procyon War…”

Jim chuckled.

“Midshipwoman Brooks, ten years ago I was a complete tearaway,” he said. “So, did our other midshipmen and women put you up to coming to ask the scary captain about his past? Or is this you personally with a question?”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind either way, I’m just curious. And come on, sit – it’s good you’re comfortable in the shrouds, but there’s no reason to hang there while we’re talking.”

“Right,” Brooks said, still sounding nervous, and clambered into the lookout spot.

For a long moment, there was silence.

“It was just me,” she said. “I was… I suppose I wondered about something, and – I wanted to ask, but it feels like a silly question now.”

“Take it from me, sometimes a silly question is just the question that needs asking,” Jim replied. “Or answering.”

The Warrior shivered a little as they came about, turning six degrees port and adjusting their vector four down as the helmsman pointed them at a different star.

“Well-” the midshipwoman said. “I… why are we on a ship like this?”

Jim raised an eyebrow, something he’d been practising, and Brooks flushed.

“I don’t mean that as a criticism,” she added. “It’s a good ship, of course! I’m just thinking of…”

“The ironclads?” Jim replied.

“The ironclads,” Brooks agreed. “I know they were important in the Procyon war. I also know the Procyons lost, but… the ironclads were so difficult to damage. It feels like even sailing ships like these is a strange choice, let alone building new ones.”

Jim nodded, doing a quick assessment of the girl.

She was… definitely less delinquent than he’d been. She sounded curious, and… realistically speaking, this wasn’t going to stay a secret for long anyway.

It was his decision, and… in this case, he was going to nurture the young officer.

“You’re not wondering anything that we didn’t,” he said. “I was heavily involved in the discussions, actually… perhaps we will end up building the same kind of ironclads as the Procyons were building – I wouldn’t be involved in those decisions, because they’re going on right now and I’m not exactly there.”

He stood, and looked out over the sails of the Warrior. They glowed with inner fire, both directly propelling the ship by catching the wind and also providing the power that let her engines burn at high power for long periods of time.

“I’ve already given you the answer,” he added, glancing at Brooks. “Your academy scores show you’re a bright young woman, midshipwoman – what do you think it is?”

Brooks frowned, and her tail twitched as she thought.

“I think…” she began. “You said… the same kind of ironclads. What other kinds of ironclads are there?”

Jim patted the royal mast, the highest of the four huge cylinders making up Warrior’s mainmast.

“You’re sailing on one,” he answered.

Brooks looked confused, then stood up herself to look down at the sails.

“...how?” she asked. “Ironclads – they don’t look like this!”

“What makes an ironclad?” Jim asked. “It’s the iron, that’s what… experiments showed that it’s actually helpful to have the iron backed by wood, that makes it more resistant to attack. So that’s what Warrior is. She’s a test ship, all right – an ironclad cruiser, with the masts and sails to travel long distances on patrol in a way the Procyon War ironclads never could, and with armour that’s almost as strong.”

He tilted his head, a little. “Midshipwoman, have you ever used a solar sailer?”

Brooks looked a little thrown by the sudden change of topic.

“...no,” she admitted. “I’ve sailed a cutter before, but those have a proper keel and mast… solar sailers seem too dangerous to me. They’re not much more than a board, an engine and a sail, aren’t they?”

“That’s right,” Jim agreed. “And they’re very able to manoeuvre, in ways you can’t even manage by just welding an engine directly to a board. The key is the sail – you’ve done vectors in your classes, the key point here is that you can combine the vectors from the sail and the engine, and the transverse resistance from the sail if you push it to go in a direction against the one it’s meant to go. You can pull some incredibly tight turns.”

Brooks was frowning, clearly processing that information.

“That sounds like it’s personal experience, Captain,” she said. “You’ve done that?”

“I’ve done both,” Jim agreed. “And I’ve captained wooden ships against ironclads… ironclads struggle to turn fast, because they only have differential thrust, and they struggle to move quickly as well. And the former is what let us run circles around them… and strategically, they were dependent on covert support ships carrying fuel. Do you think the Warrior is the same?”

Brooks shook her head.

“No,” she replied, then frowned. “So you’re saying that… the sails are an advantage?”

“They might not be forever,” Jim conceded. “Maybe some day all our line warships will have to be full ironclads, where even the risk of mast damage is too much. But I think even then there’ll be a place for cruisers to have sails, for some years longer.”

He clapped her on the shoulder. “And maybe we’ll both see that day – but right now, if we ran into an ironclad from the Procyon Wars, I’m sure we’d clean their clock. Because this is the finest ship and crew I’ve yet seen, and I’ve seen a few crews.”

Then he looked slightly awkward. “Admittedly, my first one had about ninety percent of it be pirates…”

“Pardon?” Brooks asked. “Was that during the war?”

“Before,” Jim replied. “During my misspent youth. Though… you may as well tell the others this, Miss Midshipwoman – I think I’m going to have all of you young officers, and perhaps the rest of the crew, have at least one go each on a solar sailer. I believe there’s four in one of the holds, and it’s a useful skill… once you’ve flown one, not much else can scare you.”

The feline midshipwoman looked at her captain, still not sure how to take the oddly informal conversation.

“Should I be worried?” she asked.

Jim shrugged.

“That’s more BEN’s department than mine,” he admitted. “He flat out refuses to come up to the crow’s nest, though, so I’ll have to ask him on deck…”

[phantasm-ae]

dumb self stuck in an elevator with neighbour ghost

mdni (18+ only)

cw: suggestive smut, oral (m receiving)

something something being stuck on the lift with your masked neighbour -- all 6'3 and 250? 257? pounds of solid muscle. girth wide and shoulders suffocating the small space. quiet. hulking. brooding. does this guy even talk? no? okay

You'd seen him before, sure.

A towering presence in the hallway, always quiet, always wearing that damn mask -- half medical, half something else, you chalk it up. Maybe a welder's mask? Did it make your clit throb? The answer is between you and your vibrator at this point.

But now. Up close. Trapped. Exchanging oxygen with this hulking mass of a man, you realize something else: the bastard's even bigger in silence

The kind of big that eats up the oxygen. Makes metal walls feel like cardboard and polyester. It makes you feel.... suffocated. Small. Tiny. Christ... docile?

And you hate it. Absolutely hate it.

He's just standing there. Taking up most of the space too. One arm gripping the side railing like he might accidentally rip it off if he clenched any harder. Were those forearm tattoos?

You clear your throat.

Trying not to shake as you palm your phone from your back pocket to turn it on and check the signal. No service... Of course not.

Your stomach dips.

You chance a glance again.

He still hasn't moved. Eyes forward. Posture stiff and mouth quiet. The small movements of his chest rising and falling, the only sign that at least you knew he was breathing. That he was... alive. Arms still gripping the railing like he's anchoring himself to reality. Or maybe to stop himself from doing something else entirely. You hope it was the latter former.

Forearms inked to hell. Pensive and marrowed scars seem to also litter the sharp expanse of his skin. Jesus. Thick lines of ink and chaffed skin disappearing into the sleeves of his grey jumper. Lived-in. Aged. Earned

Your throat is dry. Is it hot in here?

You don't speak. You don't want to chance hearing your voice tremble within the already shrinking space between the two of you.

He doesn't look at you. Doesn't need to. His presence alone does the talking. Doing the silence in with his own sulking figure.

The silence itches. Claws. Cracks

You try again. "So, uh... long day?"

Nothing...

Cool. Great. You swallow hard, press back further into the warming metal wall like you can make anymore space where there isn't any.

And then -- finally -- he speaks.

Low. Flat. Final.

The soft timber sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"You don't have to pretend you're not scared, birdie"

That hits you like a brick. The chill runs and spreads through your bones. You look up.

His gaze on you now. Eyes unreadable and narrowed down. Intense. No smile. No kindness. No... contempt either. Just calculation. Containment. Indifference.

You open your mouth. The words get stuck. Because he was right. the bastard was right. You are scared.

But not in the way you should be.

You're scared of how much your thighs are pressed together

You're scared of how much your breath seems to shake with every quickening exhale.

You're scared of how this feels like a test -- and how badly you want to fail it...

God you were just so dumb, weren't you birdie?

He then steps forward. Just once. Not enough to touch, but enough that you get a taste of the heat of him on your skin. The slab of metal of the lift not even creaking at his weight. Almost as if he was used to crouching and controlling the mountain and strength of who he was.

"v'e seen you", he says. "Little glances. Way you slow down when I walk past ye"

Your heart's sprinting now. Desperate. Thrumming. Wild. And still, your little brain -- glossed now with nothing more but the sight and promise of him near you -- tuning out all the warning signs within your vicinity. Dumb Dumb girl. You don't look away

"Don't act like you didn't want this, birdie"

You didn't.

And if you made his eyes roll back to his skull. Panting. Whining. Cursing out the heavens above as you took him into your mouth. knees bruised. Hair pulled. jaw locking and sore. That answer was between you and your new fwb at this point

[doumadono]

Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, smut (short & not graphic), viking themes, Shoto is a spoiled brat

Summary: in a Viking world of power, secrets and warriors, a young woman captured during a raid finds herself entangled in the life of Dabi, the enigmatic eldest son of the ruthless earl. As secrets, scars, and desires collide, their unconventional connection unfolds in a tale of love, danger, and destiny

Word count: circa 5.9k

A/N: for a few years, I've held a fascination with Viking themes and their historical era. Recently, I had the idea to place Dabi in such a setting and see where the story would take me. I sat down to write and found myself falling in love with this new narrative instantly. While it might seem trivial to some, it's already become a precious gem to me. I plan to unravel the story over six chapters. I hope you enjoy the first one, and I'm open to all opinions. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

MASTERLIST NEXT CHAPTER KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU

ACT I - UNMASKING THE SCARS

As the longship glided silently through the dark waters, the moon cast a pale, ethereal glow on the rugged Viking coastline. The scent of salt and adventure filled the night air, and the crew of fierce warriors, led by Dabi, the renegade son of the brutal, ruthless Viking earl, Endeavor, prepared to make landfall.

Dabi, at thirty years of age, bore the marks of a troubled past. Dabi's once-pale skin was now marred by those burns, darkened like a charred log in the heart of a raging fire. His body bore the scars of a fire that had ravaged him in his youth, a cruel gift from his own father, who had attempted to kill him. But it was these very scars that had forged his determination and honed his indomitable spirit. His hair was the color of snow, and his eyes were as blue as the frost-covered sea. He had a reputation as a fierce warrior, known for his ruthless tactics and the way he fought with the fury of a tempest.

The village he came from was a place of cold stone and rough-hewn timbers, where the Viking way of life reigned supreme. The women of the village shied away from Dabi, for his scars marked him as an outcast. He lived a life of solitude, seeking solace in the wild, untamed lands that surrounded their settlement.

Their destination was a small Christian village, nestled among the rolling hills. It had been raided by Dabi's people before, but tonight was different. Tonight, Dabi's heart was restless, and he was inexplicably drawn to the village's fate.

As the Vikings stormed the village, chaos erupted. Houses were set ablaze, and the cries of the villagers filled the night.

The raucous cries of his men filled the air as the village burned and the spoils of their raid were gathered. Dabi stood at the heart of the chaos, an enigmatic figure in the midst of destruction. A faint, unsettling smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hidden beneath the eerie wolf's jaw mask.

He watched with satisfaction as his warriors, his loyal comrades in arms, looted and plundered. The riches of the Christian village flowed into their grasp, their spoils of war. It was a successful trip by Viking standards, a brutal triumph in the unforgiving world they inhabited.

Amidst the smoldering ruins of the Christian village, the Vikings had unleashed their wrath. Blood had been spilled, and the lives of some villagers had been brutally cut short.

But not all of the villagers had met a swift and merciless end. The Vikings, with a calculated eye, had chosen to capture several women and a few men, sparing them from the fate that had befallen their companions. These survivors would serve a different purpose, as slaves in the service of their Viking captors. Among them a young woman. Her hair was the Y/H/C, and her eyes held the innocence of a world untouched by the brutality of the North.

As the raiders dragged the captives away from the charred remains of their homes, the air was heavy with the weight of despair and uncertainty. These men and women, once free, were now prisoners of a world far removed from the peaceful existence they had known. Their lives had taken a harrowing turn, marked by servitude and the harsh reality of Viking conquest.

For Dabi, this decision was not only about power but also about securing the resources and labor needed to sustain their existence in these harsh northern lands. The villagers had been caught in the merciless currents of fate, and their futures were now inexorably tied to the whims of the Viking warriors who had chosen to spare them for their own purposes.

As Dabi inspected the captured men, his gaze swept over the somber group, each face marked by fear and resignation. But then, as if guided by a force beyond his control, his eyes fell upon a young woman. The sight of her took his breath away, and for a moment, he couldn't lie to himself – she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon.

Despite the dirt, blood, and tears that marred her face, her beauty shone through like a radiant star in the night sky. Her cheeks bore the scars of anguish, her eyes, streaked with despair, created rivulets in the dust and grime that clung to her skin. Her once-neat clothes, now tattered and dirtied, bore witness to the cruel turn of fate she had endured.

Dabi's heart, which had been hardened by the harshness of Viking life, thudded in his chest with a new and unfamiliar emotion. She was a vision amidst the chaos, and in that moment, he realized that there was something more to her than just her physical beauty. There was a strength in her, a resilience that had allowed her to endure even in the face of such brutality.

As Dabi's eyes locked onto her, a strange and unsettling sensation coursed through him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite comprehend, a magnetic pull that defied all reason. In the midst of the chaos and destruction, this woman, captured from the village, appeared before him like an enigma.

Her hair, now messy, and those defiant eyes held a fierce determination that had not been extinguished by the horrors of the raid. She was a picture of vulnerability and strength intertwined, a paradox that captivated his very soul.

Dabi, who had always been driven by the uncompromising resolve of a Viking warrior, found himself unnerved by the intensity of this attraction. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions, but her presence stirred something deep within him, a longing he could not explain. He questioned the very nature of his emotions, grappling with the unfamiliar warmth that her presence kindled within him, even though they hadn't spoken.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. Every time their eyes met, it felt as if the fates themselves had intervened, weaving their destinies together in a tapestry of fire and ice.

Their initial meeting was far from the romantic tales sung by skalds. She was bound and helpless, standing amidst the ash and ruin of her once-peaceful village. Dabi, cloaked in darkened furs, surveyed the captives with an air of detached authority. His icy gaze met hers, a meeting of two souls from opposite worlds. "You," he spoke, his voice as cold as the northern winds, "What's your name?"

The woman's voice trembled as she replied, avoiding looking at him, "It doesn't matter anymore."

Dabi's frustration simmered just beneath the surface as her initial reply didn't satisfy his curiosity. He huffed in annoyance, the cold air from his breath mingling with the tension in the atmosphere. His desire to understand her and the strange attraction he felt only intensified.

Closing the distance between them, he moved with a predatory grace, catching her by the shoulders and forcing her to turn to face him. His grip, firm but not unkind, held a subtle hint of authority. Their eyes locked, his piercing gaze penetrating her soul. "I asked you for your name, woman," Dabi demanded, his voice tinged with impatience. It was a command that brooked no disobedience, his intensity pushing past the boundaries of the tumultuous situation they found themselves in. His own desire to know her name and the unexplainable connection he felt had turned into an obsession, and he needed answers, regardless of the circumstances.

As Dabi's demand hung in the air, she met his unwavering gaze. Her eyes, a mixture of fear and defiance, looked up into his, a silent struggle raging within her. But shortly after, her gaze faltered, shifting to the mask he wore, crafted from the jagged jaw of a wolf. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, a symbol of the fierce, untamed nature of the man who stood before her.

The man, with the mask that lent him an imposing visage, was tall and imposing, easily towering over her. His presence alone was enough to instill a sense of vulnerability in her.

Trembling, she finally surrendered to his demand, her voice quivering as she spoke, "I am Y/N." Her name, offered with a tremor in her voice, was a fragile gift, a shard of her identity laid bare in the face of the formidable Viking who had claimed her as his captive.

For the next two days, the Viking raiders worked tirelessly to pack the spoils of their conquest onto their longships.

Dabi, ever the watchful leader, stood guard over the entire process, ensuring that the riches plundered from the Christian village were securely stowed away. The village's treasures, from precious metals to food supplies, were meticulously organized and divided amongst the victorious Vikings.

The night of their conquest, the Vikings celebrated their successful raid with an infernal party. Driven by the spoils they had claimed, they emptied the Christians' pantries of beer, meat, and mead. The sound of merriment echoed through the night, a stark contrast to the sorrow that had befallen the captured villagers.

However, amidst the revelry, there were dark moments that marred the festivities. Some of the Viking warriors, fueled by intoxication and the ruthless nature of their world, committed terrible acts upon the captive Christian women without their consent. It was a grim reminder of the brutality that often accompanied such raids, where power and desire clashed with the innocence of the conquered.

Dabi, torn between his leadership role and the strange attraction he felt for one of the captives, observed the chaos with a heavy heart. The celebration, for him, was a juxtaposition of the jubilant and the sinister, a reflection of the duality that defined their lives as Vikings.

After days of tireless packing, the Viking raiders were finally ready to set sail for their homeland. The longships, laden with the spoils of their conquest, were now prepared to embark on the journey back to the rugged shores they called home.

Dabi took his place at the bow of his longship, a position of command and observation. His keen, turquise eyes surveyed the captivated people who had survived the ruthless acts of the past nights. They were a motley group, marked by both the physical and emotional scars of the raid. Some carried the burden of their violated dignity, while others were haunted by the loss of their loved ones and the destruction of their once-peaceful village.

The longship that Dabi commanded was the largest among the six that had come to the shore. It loomed like a dark behemoth against the horizon, its figurehead carving through the waves, a symbol of the Viking's ruthless power. Dabi watched as the captives, those who would serve as slaves in their new life, reluctantly boarded the vessel. It was a moment that carried with it a sense of foreboding, a step into the unknown, as they embarked on a perilous journey to a life that was bound by the harsh code of the Viking world.

Dabi's keen eyes never left the captivating young woman named Y/N as she hesitantly approached the longship. She was one of the last to board, and her trembling form didn't escape his notice. She might have tried to mask her fears with a poker face, but the vulnerability that emanated from her was unmistakable.

A faint, almost smug smirk played at the corners of Dabi's lips. He knew that Y/N was not going to be easily sold in any market or to another earl. The strange attraction he felt for her had ignited something within him, a desire to protect and possess her. He understood that she was unique, an enigma amidst the other captives, and he was prepared to put pressure on his father to ensure she remained with their family in their Great Hall.

The journey back home was arduous and relentless, the Viking longships battling through raging storms and colossal waves that crashed against their sides. The tempestuous sea was a cruel reminder of nature's might, a fierce adversary they had to contend with on their voyage.

For days on end, they sailed through the tumultuous waters, each day bringing new challenges and peril. The crew worked tirelessly to navigate the treacherous waves, their lives intertwined with the unpredictable whims of the sea. The longships, laden with their ill-gotten gains, were tossed like leaves in a tempest, and the thunderous roars of the ocean were their constant companion.

Dabi, despite his role as a leader, occasionally took walks along the longship to check on his comrades. It was an excuse, he told himself, but the truth was that he sought to steal moments to take a closer look at the captivating young woman named Y/N. She was bound to a mast, her body curled in a defensive posture, a vulnerable figure amidst the chaos.

One night, as they braved the wrath of the sea, Dabi stood close to the place where Y/N was tied. He leaned against the side of the boat, his arms crossed, gazing into the darkness that enveloped them. The crashing waves and the howling winds created an eerie symphony, but his focus remained on the woman who had become a focal point of his thoughts.

"I was curious how," Dabi's voice suddenly pierced the silence.

Startled, Y/N was pulled out from a shallow slumber she had allowed to envelop her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and apprehension.

Dabi, who had been standing nearby, turned his gaze toward her. "How do you know our language?" he inquired, his words delivered with a curious, almost neutral tone. It was a question that had been gnawing at him, the mystery of her familiarity with their Viking tongue.

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing as she grappled with how to respond. The truth was a delicate matter, a secret that she had guarded with her life. "My father was a Northman," Y/N replied, her voice carrying a note of bitterness, "and as long as he was around, he was teaching me some things."

Dabi's response was not immediate, and in the dim light, his smirk was concealed by the wolf's jaw mask he wore. The revelation intrigued him, and the knowledge that she had learned their language from her Northman father added another layer of complexity to the enigma of Y/N. It was a connection he hadn't anticipated, a bridge between their two worlds that he had yet to fully explore.

"What are you going to do to us?" Y/N asked suddenly, the uncertainty in her eyes betraying her anxiety.

Dabi sighed heavily and walked closer to her, resting his hip against the mast to which she was tied. "You'll work for us," he replied simply, his tone carrying a hint of slyness.

Y/N's expression darkened as she processed his words. "So, we're going to be your slaves," she said with a tinge of bitterness, "a beautiful perspective."

Dabi chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his mask. "Well, we Vikings have a different way of looking at things, you see. You'll find our 'perspective' quite interesting, I assure you."

"Why us?" Y/N asked, curiosity mingling with her apprehension.

Dabi's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your village was raided before, and you happen to possess a huge amount of goods we needed," he replied, the slyness in his voice becoming more apparent. "You could say it's just a matter of unfortunate circumstances."

"You're a monster. You all are. You killed innocent people!" Y/N ground the accusation from the depths of her mind.

Dabi chuckled darkly, his head tilting back slightly. "We? Oh no, sunshine, we're not monsters," he retorted, his voice dripping with a chilling nonchalance. Dabi leaned in closer to Y/N, his voice low and filled with an air of mystery. "You see," he began, a hint of smugness in his tone. "We are Vikings, warriors of the North. Our ways are brutal, but they're also fiercely proud. We live by the sword and sail by the stars. Our world is one of conquest and survival, where strength and cunning are the ultimate currencies." Dabi paused for a moment, as if considering whether to reveal more. "And you, Y/N, have found yourself caught in the wake of our world. Your journey is now intertwined with ours, and how it unfolds, well, that remains to be seen."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Dabi's sharp ears caught the sound of Y/N's quiet sobs, and he turned his gaze toward her.

Her words, filled with pain and anger, washed over him. "I wanna rather die than be a slave," she lamented, "you're animals, killing and robbing for fun. I'll never forgive you for killing my friends."

He let out a low, almost amused chuckle, a sound that resonated with a kind of sly arrogance. "Animals, you say?" he responded, his voice carrying a note of mockery. "Perhaps, but in our world, it's the fittest that survive. We aren't much for sentiment, and the reality is, we did what we had to do to ensure our own survival." Dabi's gaze remained fixed on her, and his tone took on a more cryptic edge. "As for forgiveness, sunshine, that's not something I'm particularly concerned about. We live by the code of the North, and it's a world where the line between predator and prey is often blurred. It's a harsh existence, but it's ours."

As the Viking longships sailed southward through the tempestuous sea, they finally reached their home village, known as Skjaldvargr nestled on the southern shores of Norway.

The arrival of Dabi and his crew was met with a raucous reception. The people of Skjaldvargr, mostly guards and shieldmaidens, had been eagerly awaiting their return. The shieldmaidens, with their fierce eyes and battle-worn armor, stood proudly alongside their male counterparts, a testament to the equality that defined Viking society.

The village came to life with the clanging of shields and the joyful cries of reunion as the raiders disembarked, their ill-gotten treasures in tow. It was a homecoming marked by the spoils of their conquest and the triumphant return of their warriors, a scene that underscored the unyielding spirit of the people of Skjaldvargr.

The longships were expertly unloaded, and the captivated men and women were carefully escorted off the vessels. They were bound together, forming a dispirited line, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and resignation. The captives from the Christian village now stood on the wooden pier, their lives forever changed by the Viking raid.

Dabi was the last to disembark. As he stepped onto the pier, the people of Skjaldvargr erupted into cheers. His name carried weight in the village; he was known not only as a fierce Viking warrior but also as one of the heirs to Endeavor, their ruthless earl. His presence was a symbol of power and authority, and the villagers greeted him with a mixture of reverence and admiration.

The triumphant return of Dabi and his crew marked a momentous occasion in the life of Skjaldvargr, where the spoils of their conquest and the legend of their daring deeds would echo through the halls of their Great Hall. The fate of the captives, bound and silent, hung in the balance, as the world of the Northmen unfurled before them.

Among the men and women on the shore, there was a tall, white-haired male with a thick, long fur draped around his shoulders, a figure that stood out amidst the assembled Vikings.

Dabi approached the man and wrapped him in a warm hug. "Natsuo, brother," he greeted him with a grin that couldn't be seen behind his mask.

Natsuo, the younger of the two, returned the hug, placing his hands on Dabi's shoulders. "Looking good and returning successful again. Wonderful," he replied with a hint of admiration in his voice. He stepped back, taking a moment to study his brother. "But what's all this fuss about a Christian village?" he inquired, his curiosity evident. "You've got everyone talking."

Dabi's smirk only widened as he regarded his brother. "Oh, Natsuo, it's a long story. Let's catch up over a drink at the Great Hall. I have quite the tale to tell."

The brothers shared a knowing glance, the unspoken understanding between them evident in their eyes.

Dabi wasted no time in issuing his orders to one of his men. "Make sure the Y/H/C woman is not sent to the market but is brought straight to the Great Hall," he commanded, his tone devoid of any room for discussion.

His bondsman, ever dutiful, nodded in acknowledgment of the directive.

Natsuo, wearing a mischievous grin, couldn't resist teasing his older brother about the mysterious woman. "Dabi, she must be quite the catch if you're keeping her for yourself," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Hope you're going to share a little!"

Dabi scoffed, playfully shoving his brother's shoulder. "Don't be absurd, Natsuo. She's just a captive from the Christian village. I've got more important matters to attend to," he replied, his tone gruff but carrying a hint of a secret smile. "Now, off to the Great Hall. Father is likely impatient for the reports."

The banter between the two brothers continued as they made their way to the heart of Skjaldvargr, leaving behind the captivated woman who had captured Dabi's attention and a tale that had yet to fully unfold.

His hips moved with swift and forceful determination, and the woman beneath him found herself panting and moaning his name in response. With a final series of intense grunts and thrusts, the young man with distinctive two-coloured hair reached his climax, giving one last deep thrust into the girl, spilling his seed in her.

She gently placed her palm against his cheek, her touch brushing over a scarred, reddened area under his left eye. However, her hand was met with a swift and firm push as he growled, withdrawing from her and hurriedly adjusting his pants.

"No," he snarled, pushing her off his bed with ease. "Get the fuck out now," he demanded, his tone filled with a brusque and dismissive edge.

"But you told me you liked me and that we'd have more time together," the young thrall whispered softly as she gathered her clothes from the wooden floor.

The young man's chuckle was cold and devoid of genuine emotion. "Are you that naive?" he sneered, "I only wanted your pussy, nothing else. Get out of my bed before my father or older brother catch you. You don't want to find yourself in trouble, do you?"

The thrall, disheartened and regretful, quickly dressed and left the room. She entered the main chamber of the Great Hall just as Natsuo and Dabi stepped through the massive doors.

Their father, Endeavor, the fearsome earl of Skjaldvargr, was seated at the throne at the end of the chamber, grinding his axe. His stern gaze bore into his eldest son as they approached, a silent expectation for a report on their latest raid.

"The raid on the Christian village was a resounding success. We looted their coffers, took their goods, and brought back valuable supplies that will sustain our village for the winter. The riches we've acquired are beyond our expectations."

Endeavor nodded, acknowledging the information. "Any captives?" he inquired, his eyes scrutinizing his son.

Dabi continued, "We have several men and women who will serve as thralls. We've also secured a Y/H/C woman who is very unique, father. She possesses knowledge of our language, and I've made the decision to keep her within our Great Hall rather than sending her to the market."

He listened to Dabi's report with a stern demeanor, his eyes narrowing as his son spoke about the captive Y/H/C woman. When Dabi finished, the earl's voice held a note of warning. "You know that you shouldn't be making such decisions without my consent," he admonished, his tone heavy with authority. "But this time, I will let it slide."

Inside, Dabi couldn't help but heave a silent sigh of relief. Endeavor's leniency meant that he would have the opportunity to interact with Y/N more freely, a chance to explore the mystery and attraction that had drawn him to her during the journey home. The knowledge that he wouldn't face immediate consequences for his impulsive decision filled him with a sense of gratitude, even as he maintained his outward composure.

Natsuo, on the other hand, took a seat at the long table, where freshly cooked meat was being served by their thralls. He joined the warriors who had gathered to eat, listening to the tale of their successful raid with a satisfied grin. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the Great Hall, a stark contrast to the darkness and secrets that had transpired on the longship during the journey home.

As Dabi stood in front of his father, a sudden presence caught his attention. A young man with two-colored hair, neatly groomed but slightly untidy now, had joined them. It was Shoto, Dabi's youngest brother, who had recently celebrated his eighteenth spring. His appearance and demeanor appeared deceivingly innocent, but Dabi knew that his younger sibling was not to be underestimated.

"So, you've returned, brother," Shoto said, his tone dripping with feigned sweetness. He offered Dabi a smile that was almost too saccharine, given the complexities of their family dynamics.

Dabi acknowledged Shoto with a nod, a sense of unease brewing beneath the surface.

Shoto turned his attention to their father, Endeavor, his voice carrying a subtle air of request. "Father, this winter, I want to visit Earl Gizzor's settlement, as we discussed. It's crucial that we maintain good relationships between our settlements."

Dabi furrowed his brow, disbelief tinging his words. "What? How do you intend to do that? We've declared war on them."

Shoto maintained his sweet smile as he responded, "While you were away, brother, father and I reached an agreement. We've decided that it's no longer necessary to wage war with Earl Gizzor. Instead, we've buried the hatchet."

Dabi was taken aback, struggling to process what he was hearing. Earl Gizzor was known to be a man of dubious trustworthiness, and the sudden reconciliation with him left a bitter taste in Dabi's mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, and the unexpected alliance between his younger brother and their father raised more questions than it provided answers.

Endeavor nodded in agreement with Shoto's proposal, adding his voice to the conversation. "Shoto is right, Dabi. Maintaining alliances and peace with neighboring earls is essential. We can't be at war on all fronts."

Dabi, with a simple nod of acknowledgment, turned to leave the throne area of the chamber. However, before he walked away, he caught Shoto's shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. "You have a fucking sperm on your pants, you little bastard," he grumbled, his voice low and filled with a blend of irritation and brotherly mockery. "Which poor thrall have you managed to lure into your charms this time?"

Shoto, not one to be easily cowed, replied in a wry and cocky whisper, ensuring their father couldn't hear, "You're always looking so closely, brother. Some of us don't need a mask to be charming. If you looked look like a real man, you wouldn't need to be envious of my romantic pursuits," he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took a not-so-subtle dig at Dabi, looking him hardly in the eyes.

Their exchange, hidden beneath the veneer of family respect and decorum, hinted at a deeper sibling rivalry and a history of conflicting personalities. The tension between Dabi and Shoto was a thread woven into the very fabric of their family.

Dabi's patience worn thin by the exchange with Shoto. He scoffed and let go of his younger brother's arm. He turned and made his way straight to his chamber, his footsteps heavy.

Natsuo, who had been a silent witness to the situation between his two brothers, watched with a heavy heart. He loved them both and couldn't bring himself to pick sides, but the tension in the air was palpable, and he worried about the growing rift between Dabi and Shoto.

In his own chamber, Dabi wasted no time. He shed his outer layers, discarding the fur, the mask, woolen shirt, and pants until he stood naked in the room. He flopped onto his bed, which was covered with furs, and stared at the ceiling. His mind was filled with thoughts about everything that had transpired during the days, and he couldn't help but wonder about Shoto's intentions and the potential consequences of their father's newfound alliance.

After some contemplation, he decided to take a bath to clear his mind. Dabi wrapped a towel around his hips and called for one of the thralls to prepare a hot bath for him.

As the thrall prepared the bath, the steam filled the room, creating a cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Dabi wasted no time and immersed himself in the hot water of the wooden tub. The soothing warmth seeped into his muscles, and he leaned back comfortably against the edge, closing his eyes.

The scent of the bath's herbs and oils mixed with the steam, creating a fragrant haven that allowed Dabi to momentarily escape the complexities of his world. With each passing moment, the tensions seemed to melt away, leaving him in blissful solitude and the serene embrace of the soothing bathwater.

As you were brought to the Great Hall, everything appeared new and unfamiliar. Fear coursed through your veins as you found yourself surrounded by strangers, most of them men whose eyes bore into you with an unsettling hunger. The air was thick with whispered, lewd comments, but you did your best to avoid drawing attention, keeping your gaze lowered and your composure intact.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, an older woman, a thrall who had been through similar experiences, extended a hand to guide you away from the prying eyes. She offered a reassuring smile as she took your hand and spoke in a soothing tone. "Come with me, child. I'll explain your new duties and help you settle in," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "You'll find your place here, and in time, it will become more familiar."

Her words provided a glimmer of hope in the midst of your fear, as you followed the thrall to begin your new life in the Great Hall, embarking on a journey that held both uncertainty and the possibility of finding your own strength in a world of unfamiliar faces and customs.

The thrall, as she handed you a plain, thick, greyish dress, began to speak about the members of the earl's family. Her voice was gentle and informative, and you listened attentively, eager to learn more about the people you would be serving. In the end, it was your new life.

She explained, "The earl is Endeavor, a formidable leader and the head of this settlement. He's known for his strength and authority, but also for his ruthlessness."

You nodded, taking in the information, and she continued, "Touya, the eldest son, is a fierce warrior, and he's known for his prowess in raids. His younger brother, Natsuo, is more diplomatic, often seeking peaceful resolutions. The youngest of Endeavor's sons is Shoto," the thrall continued, her voice carrying a more cautious tone as she spoke of him. "He can be the most problematic one, especially when it comes to his affairs." Her words were filled with a hint of warning. "Shoto is known for his charisma and charm, but don't be fooled. He's a smooth talker and has a way of getting what he wants." She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she emphasized, "Be careful around him, dear. He may seem charming, but his intentions can be far from virtuous."

Overwhelmed by the realization that you had been reduced to nothing but a slave, a feeling of hopelessness and anger welled up within you. You turned to the elder woman and, with a hint of defiance, you declared, "I don't want to work. I won't be a slave."

The thrall, her expression heavy with the weight of harsh reality, looked at you with a stern gaze. She leaned in closer, her voice low and foreboding as she whispered, "You don't have a choice in this matter, my child, so hadn't I. If you refuse to work, you won't survive for long. This is the way of our world, and it's a harsh one. I arrived here several years ago, after being taken from the settlement of another earl who was killed in a battle with Endeavor, and ever since, I've been toiling for the earl's family. The tasks are far from rewarding, but such is the way of life," she explained, her voice tinged with resignation.

As you inquired about the tall man who cnquered your village, the thrall's eyes held a certain intensity, and she clarified, "It was Dabi. Dabi is his chosen warrior name. His given name is Touya."

You had obediently completed your first task of cleaning the Great Hall, even though it felt like a menial chore that reflected your new life as a thrall. However, when another thrall instructed you to go to another room to help with the bath, you complied without question. With a heavy sigh, you followed the directions and pushed open the door.

As you stepped into the room, a rush of steam enveloped you, carrying a fragrance of herbs that filled the air. Your brow furrowed in surprise, but before you could react further, the steam dissipated. What lay before you was a scene that caught you off guard: a large bed and clothes, and a mask that you recognized from when Dabi had worn it.

Then, your eyes fell upon the figure in the bath, and a gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't control. You took an involuntary step back as the sight unfolded before you. The man in the bath was Dabi, his body covered with a patchwork of purple, dark, scarred skin. These gnarled, wrinkled, and disfigured patches marred much of his lower face and neck, extending past his collarbone, and continued down his arms and legs. Your whimper of shock hung in the air, and you couldn't help but take another step back, horror etched on your face. It was the first time you saw him without a mask.

Dabi's turquoise eyes opened slowly, and he gazed at you with a haunting intensity. "That's you," he whispered, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery and a deep well of secrets.

As the realization of Dabi's disfigured appearance settled in, the room seemed to grow heavy with tension. Your initial shock gave way to a mix of empathy and curiosity, wondering about the circumstances that had led to such extensive scarring.

The room, suffused with the aroma of herbs, steam and the eerie sight of his scars, seemed to cradle you both in its embrace, marking a pivotal moment that was only beginning to unfold.

heathen wolves: @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog

[onmyyan]

GIVE US A SNEAK PEEK PLSSSSS BAE U LOVE US RIGHT 😩😩😩😪

A/N: Just for you babes, here's a snippet with our boy Gabe MDNI YANDERE THEMES AHEAD 18+ ONLY 🔪

"Can't sleep? C'mere." he scoots back against his gaming chair just enough for you to comfortably slide on his lap, he gives his muscular thigh a few pats as if to encourage you, "Wanna play? It's a first-person shooter, think you'll like it." His wide puppy-like smile was hard to resist, even after all this time. Without giving it much thought you nodded, making your way to his open arms, he pulls you closer by your hips, smoothly maneuvering you both to face his bright monitor, you sigh in comfort as his warmth encompasses you, his chin is on your shoulder as he hums happily, with the adorable way you were leaning back into his chest, his wide arms holding you snug against him, he couldn't hope to contain his happiness, the warmth from his skin seeped through his shirt, as it often did, and the grey sweatpants he wore felt soft against the bare skin of your legs.

The game was easy enough, point and shoot, but you still felt a heat spread in your chest at the sudden compliment he whispered into your right ear, "You're pretty good at this huh?" you could hear the smile in his voice, the goosebumps on your neck stood at attention, and your breath hitched ever so slightly, the action made you misfire in the game, he takes note of the cute little reaction, his hands, as if lead by a mind of their own, moved from the armrests to resting comfortably on your sides, gripping your waist in a warm hold, you tried hard to focus on the game before you, but the task seemed all the more impossible when he readjusted his hands, each thumb now rubbing slow, calculated circles into the small sliver of flesh showing there, he took a deep, breathy inhale, his nose rubbing up and down the slope of your throat, you could feel his lips linger as he spoke, "Y'smell so good Wifey." he says, his deep, warm-honey voice is almost whiny, it makes you twitch in his hold.

His tone had that certain timber to it, the same one that he'd used when he'd kissed you that first morning after you'd woken up in his arms, "Thank you.." you whisper back, unable to stop your breath from hitching as he nips just below your ear, a small huff of amusement leaves his lips, rolling over your heated skin, you suddenly find your throat dry in anticipation, of what exactly you didn't know, "It's Ricky's body wash." you add, hoping to gain back some control over yourself. He chuckled against you, the vibrations making your eyes flutter shut, Gabe began to toy with the hem of your shirt, as he rubbed the fabric between his fingers, another deep breath against your nape had your hands clenching around the controller, "No, this is all you baby girl, you've always smelled so fuckin' good." he licked your earlobe just slightly, a wicked little grin on his face, the action caused your character to walk off a cliff, to which the not so gentle giant behind you snickered at. 

"Trouble focusing?" his honey-dipped voice was now directly in your ear, you didn't need to look over to know he was smirking. "Now what would give you that idea?" you ask leaning forward, attempting to hone in on the game before you, only to be jolted in place when his hands fell from your shirt to your shorts, his fingers felt as if they were burning, dancing along the edges of the clothing, he made a noise as if deep in thought. "You're trynna' tell me nothin's wrong?" His tone was amused, but you could hear the heated desire behind them, you could feel it in the way his big, warm, hands flatten out over the tops of your soft thighs, his breathing begins to pick up as he squeezes the tender flesh between his fingertips, his throat drying as he felt you shudder at the rough touch.

"Mm mm." You shook your head no to which he hummed, he swallowed thickly before continuing, "Can I touch you? Pretty please." He ended his plea with a warm kiss, just below your ear, you nodded yes, not trusting your voice to work, and felt your breath begin to pick up, matching the now labored breath of the man behind you. To your disappointment and surprise, his fingers merely traveled around the meat of your thighs, gently rubbing and massaging the skin, occasionally he'd slip a little higher beneath the fabric of your shorts, only to retreat a moment later. 

After a few more rounds in the game and the near-excruciating teasing motions of his hands, you felt him harden beneath you, his hips pressed against your own, Gabe took another labored breath before murmuring against your nape,

"God, you sure are the most beautiful thing to come outta this world you know that?" The sweet words almost seemed out of place with his raging hard-on pressing snugly in between your legs, every so often he'd buck upward, the near-electric feeling it caused made your next words come out as a whimper.

"You aren't even looking at me." you said nearly breathlessly, trying in vain not to react to his hypnotizing ministrations, one of his hands gently took the controller, tossing it haphazardly on his desk as if he could care less about the expensive thing, the other gently moved to hold your jaw in his hand, ever so softly turning you to meet his heated gaze, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he spoke, "Then let me say it again, and this time, I want you to keep those pretty eyes on me while I do." his tone left no room for disagreement, you felt yourself nodding as his thumb swiped against your bottom lip.

"You are the most stunning creature the gods put on this earth, and I could stare at you for hours."

[necarion]

When you're allowed to actually build really densely (or in really, really high), you end up getting some crazy results for the types of living standards people can have, while still cramming a lot of people into one place.

A city block is something like 200' x 600'. If you decide to ring that with apartments and then put in a central courtyard that takes about half that area, you can put something like 30 apartments that are as much as 2000 sqft (massive, the size of a lot of suburban homes that have 3 or 4 bedrooms) around the ring. If you stack that 20 stories high, that's 600 ultra-luxury homes, plus a courtyard for kids and barbecues. In reality, you're going to break that into some luxury studios at 500 ft2 and some 1000 ft2 one-bedrooms places, and so forth. So you're probably getting more like 1200 units in that building, every one of which can be way oversized for the type, and probably close to about 3000 people in that block. But let's be super conservative and say that people want to live in extreme luxury and there are only 2000 people in that block.

Or, you could elevate that a couple stories and put ground-level parking and a whole bunch of shops, isolated from the main apartment courtyard. So call it 25 stories, or about 250-300' tall. As far as urban downtowns go, that's tall, but not particularly extraordinary. It's well within the range of enegineer timber construction! (Here's a 275' tall timber building in Milwaukee, on the right.)

If you then put one of those every four blocks (25% block density), and converted the rest into parks, schools, offices, or those cool mixed use areas where there are shopping areas with parks on top, and then accept that a further 50% of your land area is dedicated to transit of one variety or another (e.g., streets, but with higher density you could up the effectiveness of transit, and also have more apartments everywhere so you can live closer to work) taking you to 12.5% density, you end up with 2000 people / (200' * 600') * 12.5% = 58,000 people / sq mile.

For comparison, the density of Manhattan is 75,000/sq mile, but New York City is only 30,000/sq mile. Right now, the average building height in Manhattan is only about 6 stories, and the average apartment size is 700 ft2.

Remember that the only difference in this city layout is that you're allowed to build to 20-25 stories everywhere. But then, you're going above and beyond in this calculation to put as few actual people into the area as possible, and to make very under-utilized apartment space, because we want people to be able to live as spread out as they want.

With this, an actually quite comfortable city layout, the number of people living in New York City could go up to 17 million, but with a considerable increase in living standards. SF's population could triple, while more people could live in larger homes.

Energy usage of tall buildings is a tiny fraction of single family homes. Not least among them, units at the top don't really need the same amount of heating, and you can do centralized AC and heating and water for an entire building for cheaper and less energy.

The nice thing about dense, tall construction isn't just that you can fit more people into a tight area, or even that you can use less energy due to the density, increased transit, etc. It's that you can do so while increasing living standards and living space considerably.