#rules for fractions

[er-cryptid]

Fraction Rules

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[tea-cat-arts]

You know what, I've read enough fanfic. I'm confiscating Madame Yu from you guys

Free my girl- she did the things she's being accused of, but not as frequently or severely as the fandom pretends, her actions are being taken out of context, and her depth is being reduced to that of a Colleen Hoover antagonist

[thebirdarts]

I wanted this Muro drawing to look like the type of portrait to hang in a monarchs castle and with the crown, his throne of stone and the bay of naples in the background i think i achieved it!

[welcome-to-green-hills]

I finally managed to figure out how to divide fractions!! The minute I figured it out the cogs in my head started to TURNNNNN I don't know many archaeological facts, BUT, I do have ASTROlogical facts! Did you know, in the Kuiper Belt, there's an object named Sedna that:

Has the reddest surface in the solar system (Even redder than Mars!)

Takes over 11,400 years to orbit the sun

Has a SUPERRRR elongated orbit from the sun, to the point where it barely shares a space with the other objects?

(Here's a picture of its Orbit!)

Oh, we love Sedna. She’s pretty!

[ratcatcher0325]

A Fraction of Justice (Chapter #30)

Chapter #30. They're becoming a real team!

Previous: Chapter #29

Next: Chapter #31

Word Count: 5,408 Read Time: Approx. 42 mins

CW: adult language

Tag list: @gatlily @patrocolus3 @beautifulunknowntrash @titan-god-420 @andraimeide @themarlo @cup-o-chai @lucentbliss @raccoontoaster @tolsizedlove @not-a-space-alien , @thegodmother007 , @honey-olive , @bittykimmy13 , @aceouttatime , @imvenusasaboy , @liminaldaze , @windshield-patent , @joxter-coded , @rosella35 , @narrans , @rubeau-art , @littlescaryinternetguy , @jae-from-discord , @kitn-underfoot , @secretly-small @writing-forever , @iinogongju , @tales-of-aestus-deactivated2023 , @itsgothgirlthyme , @make-me-giant , @reborrowing , @whatthisfemsheplikes , @soapysoap69 , @tinystrawberryshifter

Btw, DM me if you wanna be added to the tag list!

___________________________________

A Fraction of Justice

Chapter #30: Uncharted Waters

[Natalie’s POV]

Wonder Twin Powers? Really Nat? That’s the best you could come up with? 

I chastised myself while I rolled my shoulders back trying to mentally reset. Calm down, focus on the screen. I knew I had more than enough work to keep me occupied, but I couldn’t shake the electric feeling of having gotten to hold him, not once, but twice in such a short amount of time. It’s like I could still feel his tiny heart thundering against the ball of my thumb as I propped him up and stroked his chest. His face had turned a bright, beautiful pink, his crystal blue eyes, wide and wary. Poor Alexander. He wasn’t exactly the touchy feely type was he? The part that drove me up a wall is that I knew he liked it. There was too much evidence at this point for any doubt. From that first day when he’d curled around my thumb in his sleep, to the adoration he’d shown under the influence of medication, to how flustered he’d been just now. Yet, he couldn’t get out of his own way. What was that about? A fear of being betrayed? A lack of trust? Or did he just not want to want anything from anyone else? Maybe it was a combination of all three or something else I hadn’t discovered yet. 

But he had apologized in his own stiff and far too serious way. He’d literally fallen all over himself in the effort. I thought of the pretty paper flower he’d planted in my hair. My face grew hot. He may have driven me crazy half the time with his antics and weird complexes, but everytime he pushed me to my limit, he’d go and show this thoughtful, sweet side of himself that lay buried under layers of witty quips, sharp judgements and an easily bruised ego. 

I realized, all the sudden, I hadn’t absorbed a single word of the last page and a half I’d scrolled through. God, I’m hopeless. 

This little spot right by my elbow seemed alive with warmth and energy. Unable to help from peering down and sneaking a glance every now and again, I still couldn’t believe my luck: So far, at least, he’d chosen to stay exactly where I’d placed him, his little chair so close to my sleeve, he could lean over and tap me if he wanted. I became suddenly hyper-aware of all my movements, realizing even a slight shift of my arm could easily knock him over, if I wasn’t careful. Hello, down there, Alexander. 

As expected, he was a much better student than me. Absorbed in his work, he leaned into the phone display, scrolling through some document as he read and took fastidious notes. Was it stupid that I couldn’t help but smile when he ran his tiny finger along his lower lip in that habit of his which always showed he was lost in thought? Yes, absolutely. But it didn’t matter. I grinned like an idiot all the same. I guessed what really thrilled me was the chance to get to know him better. I was proud to be picking up on his little ticks and quirks and learning more about what made the Little Nightmare uniquely him. 

 I found myself trying to peer over the top of his head at his notebook below. What did his handwriting look like? Somehow I had a feeling it was far more neat and impressive than my terrible scrawl. Why was I so enamored with someone simply taking notes? Why would I be happy to sit and watch him do just that for hours? I felt my heart swell. How lucky was I to have him in my life!

It was hard to imagine what things were like before him. Certainly I got less of a daily earful, but I also had no one to share my time, my space, and my meals with, at least not regularly. I hadn’t gone home to see family in months. The coursework was killing me. The day I’d found this tiny blue-eyed thief clinging to the shelf of my pantry, I’d barely slept in a week. My modest, cramped apartment had gotten awfully quiet. Well, besides the occasional next-door cat drama. 

I’d known it for a while, but never was able to diagnose the exact malady… that is, until now. I’d been lonely. 

I felt the gravity of that sink into my stomach and slither along my spine. It unsettled me. 

That word made it sound like I was some fucking sad sack recluse who never got out. One wary glance around my desk with its utter mess of papers, pens, pencils, a dirty used mug here, and a few scattered half empty water bottles there, and it was clear there was room for improvement, as much as I hated to admit it. 

Banishing the trash heap from my foremost thoughts, I turned my gaze back to the little tuft of disheveled hair, and the tiny hand that reached out to tap the on-screen keys that were never designed with him in mind. I admired the speed with which his little fingers slid to type out the letters. He had to get both arms involved, just to span the length of the device, which was turned on its side, but he made it look easy. It was clear he’d spent years honing his efficiency. 

As I watched him lean far to one side to reach the “P” key, I had to bite my lip to resist the urge to nudge his little chair closer, just to help him reach. I knew well enough by now, that’d earn me a tiny jabbing finger in my direction and more than a few choice words spat out about not letting him do things for himself. 

I sighed under my breath. That seemed to be our continual conundrum: How could I help him and show him kindness without him taking everything I said and did as a threat to his autonomy? What was wrong with helping out every now and again? 

“I can feel you staring at me, Miss Marquez…” His tone was accusatory. I’d been caught. How could he possibly have known? He didn’t even bother to look up as he continued to copy something down on the tiny page before him. I felt my face flush. How could someone so small take me to task so easily? 

I sputtered before managing a reply, “W-well… you can’t be fully focusing either, if you’re so worried about what I’m doing!” 

“Natalie, the energetic force of your direct gaze is the proportional equivalent of two full moon beams on a clear, pitch black night… they’re impossible to ignore.” Goddamn. Still, he refused to even hazard a glance up. He could be a mean little thing when he wanted to be. Undeterred he kept right along, “You can’t assist me with my own legal matters if you refuse to study your own. If you aren’t interested in helping, I’ll just go find some other human’s pantry to raid…” 

I rolled my eyes and groaned, “Fuck you, little bastard! You’re such a bully!” I pointed my index finger at his chest. That finally got his attention. He dropped his notes in his lap, craning his neck to meet my eyes.

He shook his head, brow furrowing, “Oh, c’mon, admit it. That was good. Moon Beams Marquez… maybe that’s what I’ll call you now. Since you’re so fond of truly atrocious nicknames, you deserve one of your very own.” 

“Oh you want a war, Ale-Ale-Oxen-Free? Is that what you want?” 

My finger, about as thick around as his little head, dove for his chest again, this time playfully pushing into his sternum and sending him rolling across the desk. The second he began to careen backwards, he gripped the armrests, clinging to the piece of furniture like a shipwrecked sailor tossed about on a tumultuous sea. I could practically see his raised hackles. Poor thing, I wasn’t trying to actually scare him! 

His journey across the desk came to a sudden halt when I laid my hand across his path, easily catching him in the soft barrier of my palm, little chair and all. He immediately whipped around to see just what had stopped him. When he seemed to understand he wasn’t going anywhere, he relaxed his tiny white knuckle grip on the arm rests.  

In spite of his painfully obvious fright around this whole ordeal, he insisted on pretending all was well as he sucked in a breath and locked eyes with me, puffing out his chest a bit in a far too late display of nonchalance, “That’s some of your weakest work, Natalie. It’s not even remotely original.” Oh yeah? Is that a challenge, little man? 

Without giving him more than a second or two to catch his breath, I dove for his little ankle with my finger and thumb, pulling him closer to me. For all his show of bravery, he went right back to clinging to the chair, as he lurched forward, “You know I didn’t have to stop you, just now, I could’ve just let you roll right off the desk…” I brought him close, the tip of my nose only an  inch or so from his fluttering chest. I was delighted by the jumpy little thing before me. It doesn’t take much to fluster you, does it, Alexander?  His blue eyes shimmered as he blinked rapidly, waiting to see what would happen to him next. Delicately, I balanced his heel on the pad of my index, bouncing it up and down slightly, “Ah, he’s too stunned for words! You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right? It’s way too much fun to tease you to let you go that easily.” 

At that, he huffed and rolled his eyes, retracting his leg and planting it back on the floor, “If you’re this invested in not getting any of your work done, the least you can do is be considerate enough not to interrupt mine!” 

I wanted to quip back, but I knew he was right. I had completely derailed our efforts. But could he really blame me? I wished he could see himself through my eyes. Then, I was certain, he’d understand why it was so hard not to mess with him every now and again. 

Adjusting my spine to sit up straighter, I returned my focus back to my monitor. I was gonna cram this boring ass shit in my head one way or another, goddammit. I started to read, taking notes on key terms. Every time I was tempted to ogle over my tiny counterpart, I reined myself in by fiddling with my blue ballpoint pen. Focus, Nat. 

I read, fidgeted, reset, then read some more. The worst part was he would occasionally shift in his chair, clear his throat, run his hands through his hair to sweep the bangs from his eyes, or generally just move about in miniature and it was so difficult not to stare. 

I clicked the pen to steady myself. He cleared his throat. I kept clicking. He sat up, board straight. I tried so hard not to let my eyes slide from the screen to look at him. I kept fidgeting. 

Suddenly, I felt a tiny, yet forceful tug on my sleeve, accompanied by a strained voice through clenched teeth, “Natalie.” 

“Hm? You ok?” There was no rule that said I couldn’t gawk at him if he got my attention first! I happily gazed down at him, still toying with the writing utensil between my fingers. 

“Oh certainly, I’d be fine… if…” his face was all hard lines and creases. Uh oh. He was grumpy about something. Well, when wasn’t he? I prepared myself for another tiny lecture. 

 As he spoke these words, he plucked along the fabric of my sleeve to wheel himself toward my hand, resting alongside him on the desktop. Then, much to my suprise, he threw himself over the back of my hand, reaching up for the top of the pen, where my thumb rested. With a determined grip he clutched the clicking mechanism, staring up at me with blazing eyes “… if you stop clicking this damned pen!” He used his left hand to shove at the pad of my thumb, trying to coax it away from the writing utensil. 

He was splayed out over my hand, his good leg balancing on his tippy toes while he kept the other leg away from the ground. His hair was in his eyes, his mouth twisted into a scowl. He was pissed. I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. His face went scarlet, even as his little body shook slightly from my bouts of giggling ricocheting from my torso, down the length of my arm and through my hand. 

“Why are you laughing?! You are truly the most obnoxious desk mate I could have possibly conjured up and you have the audacity to laugh at me?!” His left hand was quick to grip onto the knuckle of my index for better balance. 

“Oh my god, you’re so mad. Look, I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry, Alexander. I didn’t realize how… annoying that was. It’s just a tick… of mine when I’m distracted…” I was barely even able to get a word in, between all my involuntary chuckling. 

“Oh really? Really?! You don’t understand how this could be annoying??” He was practically growling at me, his eyes blazing as his mouth turned into a grumpy, dissatisfied frown. He practically smacked the tip of my thumb away and then proceeded to use the flat of his palm to furiously click the pen over and over again in as rapid succession as he could manage all while boring holes into my skull with his vicious little gaze. 

I waved the white flag, “Alright! Alright! Point made! You’re just mister particular about every little thing aren’t you? I didn’t even click it that fast!” I guided his hand away with a small flick of my fingernail under his little elbow.

“You might as well for all the noise you were making with it. Do you realize how obnoxiously loud that mechanism is, sitting right next to me?” 

“Point taken. I’m sorry, Alexander…” I shifted my grip on the pen and transferred it to the surface of the notebook via my left hand. Then, taking advantage of his body being slightly slumped over my fingers, I gently squeezed his upper arm against the side of my index with the pad of my thumb, anchoring him to my hand. Lifting him up to eye level, I delighted in how his body splayed across my knuckles as his legs dangled. 

The moment he was airborne, he flushed brightly, squirming a bit as he gripped onto my finger with both hands. I’ve gotcha, I won’t drop you, you’re okay. 

“W-what’re you…?” 

“I’m sorry for being a foolish, obnoxious human that kept you from your favorite thing in the world: getting your nerd on. I do solemnly swear before this jury of one to dedicate myself to the serious business of helping this little lawyer-to-be prosecute the hell out of those piece of shit humans that dared to fuck with the smartest little man I’ve ever met.” As I spoke I held my hand up as if taking an oath. He stared at me, a smirk curling his lips as he caught on. 

*********** 

Finishing her lighthearted display of solidarity, she leaned in closer, the tip of her finger headed straight for the crown of my head. It wasn’t that long ago I would’ve jerked away and shunned her touch, but now, I let her clear the bangs from my face with only a miniscule spike in the rhythm of my heartbeats. What sort of witchcraft did she possess that within a few seconds’ time she’d managed to take me from scowling and shouting at her, to quietly thrilled at the touch of her fingertip on my scalp?  

Lawyer-to-be. She’d actually said those words, out loud. I thoroughly relished the sound of them. The pad of her index lingered, settling between my shoulder blades. Her touch was warm, soft. 

“I’m not exactly used to having to share a workspace with someone so… perceptive when it comes to all the little details. Will you forgive me?” That was a nice way of saying someone with a miniscule perspective and, therefore, a hair-trigger sensitivity. She couldn’t possibly understand though, all her flurries of movements, her thoughtful humming, her simple fiddling with office objects, while minor infractions to her, were frustrating, impossible to ignore distractions to me. 

She was waiting, anxiously, for my reply. I propped myself up on one elbow, tipping my chin, “I’ll be drafting a workplace contract that stipulates all unacceptable, obnoxious and counterproductive behavior. Upon your consenting signature, I’ll be willing to consider your apology.” 

Her brow furrowed as she wrinkled her nose, “You’re such a fucking prick, I genuinely can’t tell if you’re serious or not.” 

I couldn’t help but chuckle at her bewilderment, before responding, “If you want to be a lawyer, Ms. Marquez, you’ll need to get much better at telling when someone is playing a practical joke on you.” Much to my amusement, she genuinely breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Well, I have no doubt, with you teaching me, I’ll get better soon enough. Now, little nerd, are we doing this? Like, for real?” She offered the tip of her index finger to shake. I took it in hand, and shook heartily, “That settles it. Our case has my full, undivided attention from here on out. Okay?” Our case. I had a case. A real one. And a human to help unlock the barriers that came with filing it, “Don’t look so excited. First of all I’ve never seen you this giddy without hardcore drugs and secondly, you realize that means you’re stuck with me… like all the time now, right?” I couldn’t believe I was just allowing her to lay me across her hand while we had this conversation. When did I become the sort of man who would let a human do this to me and not give it a second thought? When did I become the sort of man who liked it? 

“Isn’t that the hell on earth I’ve endured up until this point? What’s changed exactly?” 

She visibly rolled her eyes before answering, “Oh my god you’re such a drama king. No, you little bastard. I still had class before. Now, I’m all yours!” 

“Ah, yes, how could I ever forget the infamous, what’d you call it? Ah, yes, ‘rat jail’ incident? On a separate point entirely, you can’t skip your lectures! We need all the information we can get. The last thing I need is you falling any further behind than you already are!” 

“Ouch! You really couldn’t resist punching me when I’m down could, ya? Nah, it’s fine, I’m close friends with the TA in my main lectures, I’ll tell him I’ve had some kinda family emergency. Besides, he owes me a favor, I’ll guilt trip him into counting me as present and he can just send me the taping of the lectures they always keep for archival. Piece of cake!” 

While I disliked the nonchalance with which she was ready to break the rules, I admit it left me feeling thankful that she was willing to devote all her time to me and my work. Was I feeling strangely warm again? The flush of color to my face seemed to know no limit today. 

My gratitude was short lived however, when my world flipped as she gripped me beneath my arms and plucked me up, now perpendicular to the floor far below, I dangled between her fingers, as she began to look me over, head to toe. I tried my best to hide the rhythm of my beating heart, but she seemed already preoccupied as her gaze landed on my injury, “While we are paused, though, now’s a good a time as any to mention we really should start doing some PT on that leg of yours before the muscles atrophy too much.” She used the pad of her finger to cradle my right heel, her face showing compassion laced in her furrowed brow. 

I cleared my throat to get her attention, “I concur. Though, I’ll have a much easier time working on said muscles if I was ever allowed to use them….” I cast an accusatory glance at the finger and thumb which held me captive. 

“You know, on second thought… forget what I just said. I can just carry you around wherever you wanna go…” she rubbed her thumb over my chest. Why did the mere brush of her finger elicit such a strong physical reaction from me? I was all red and uncomfortable again. 

“No! No, we’ll none of that! Bad human! Put me down! Right now!” I batted at her fingers, knowing full well it was of no use to fight her grip, she’d have to release me herself. She stuck her lower lip out and pouted, dishing out the puppy dog eyes with extreme fervor, “No! I won’t be contradicted or manipulated. Down, I say!” I scowled, folding my arms over my chest. 

“You’re no fun, I hope you know that, little sourpuss.” She cocked an eyebrow, playing the game with as much enthusiasm as I was, before carefully lowering me into my chair. 

Slowly, after taking a moment to settle, we returned to our work in earnest. She tried her level best not to fidget and when she failed in this endeavor a terse calling of her name was enough to correct her. 

In this way, minutes faded into hours, that cascaded into days, and before I knew it, weeks had given way to months and now we were on our 9th week of working together. 

I already filled one of the notebooks I’d been given from cover to cover and was halfway through my second. I’d run through countless pencils during that time, too. She’d always tease me and pretend to read my writing, either by looming over my shoulder or plucking up the tiny (to her) booklet and, pinching it very carefully between her fingers, but, much to my satisfaction, the letters themselves were far too small for her to distinguish with her naked eye. My work was mine and mine alone, a fact that made me swell with pride. 

 I’d managed to go over Natalie’s data plan on her phone about three weeks in. When she’d glanced down and noticed the warning message, she’d raised her brows, plucking the device up and away. 

“What the fuck?! You ran through my entire data plan for the month!! How?! Why didn’t you keep it on wi-fi???” 

“Your wi-fi is abysmal. You know this. You complain about it daily. I wasn’t going to let such technological handicaps hinder my progress.” 

“Goddammit, Alexander! You realize I have to pay for that right? Please tell me you at least didn’t know I was getting charged…” 

“… I had no knowledge of charges incurred…” 

“Oh my fucking god! You’re a terrible liar! You did know didn’t you? Little Nightmare, you’re going to bleed me dry, I swear to god. Were you just… not gonna tell me?!” 

“Not until I finished compiling evidence! You would’ve switched me back to wi-fi and I would’ve suffered greatly due to those agonizing connection issues!” 

“So you’d rather charge me hundreds of dollars than wait for a webpage to load for like… 20 extra seconds?!?” 

All I could do was shrug. 

“Fuck!” 

Clearly, our path to success was not without its  occasional speed bumps, but I’d characterize our forward momentum as generally headed in a positive direction. For example, while Natalie made progress on her coursework, with help from yours truly, of course, she also assisted me in exercising the torn muscles of my leg as we began the process of rehabilitation. Working out every day, with the added benefit of having plenty of weight resistance in the form of giant fingers that could counterweight whatever exercise I was engaged in, I made steady progress. 

With the help of the aluminum forearm crutch (regrettably provided by the very same institution I was working so aggressively to destroy) I was now able to walk short distances without considerable pain, and I could stand with my weight shifted off my right leg with comfortable balance. In any case, it felt delightful to walk on my own two legs again, even if only for limited stretches. 

The other utterly delightful benefit of our new arrangement was that I effectively got to attend law school with her. She’d managed, somehow, to convince her teaching assistant friend to send along the lectures, poorly filmed in the back of a sweeping hall, the auditorium-like seating steeply raked around a small stage, a massive projector behind the professor as he gestured emphatically and spoke into a lavalier microphone. It delighted me to no end how, from this perspective, the camera angled down on the spectacle below, how small the lecturer seemed, dwarfed by the silhouette of students’ shoulders. I would never admit this to Natalie, but as I watched, hanging on every word of his teachings, I couldn’t help but squint and picture myself in his place. Small, yes, but deeply convicted, passionate and knowledgeable, making up for my stature in my engaging rhetoric and undeniable love for the subject I was imparting. 

All in all, Natalie saw to it that I ate remarkably well, and we both finally got an adequate amount of sleep for the first time either of us could remember in our recent histories. I admit, I found her less desirable quirks much more manageable on a full stomach and with adequate rest. 

She’d even managed to convince me to tear myself from my work on occasion to watch some serialized television show with her, or cheer her on as she played video games with all sorts of fantastical creatures to vanquish. Her taste in media was abysmal and her proficiency in gaming was even more lacking, but… I admit, the way my heart swelled when she laughed until she cried at some poorly executed joke on her show, or she growled in frustration, swearing this time she was going to beat the enemy she’d been trying to vanquish for the last hour and a half because she ‘could feel it in her bones’ and, she was destined to win because she had her ‘grouchy little good luck charm with her’ went far beyond anything I’d ever experienced. 

 On nights like these, I could always see in the twitchiness of her fingers how badly she wanted to cradle me against her chest or in her lap, but she always settled me on the back of the couch just beside her, lounging in my own designated blanket pile, instead. Her show of restraint meant a great deal to me. And at the same time, I couldn’t help but reflect on how impossible my current situation would’ve seemed to me just a few weeks ago. Not only was I surviving in the company of a human, but… dare I say it? I was thriving. 

I was working harder than I’d ever had in my life and yet I’d never felt more at ease or more enthused to leap from bed each day and dive eagerly into the task at hand. And as my heart swelled and warmed in the comfort of the only stable living situation I’d ever known, the world outside the apartment walls grew ever more frigid.

The rainy chill of early fall had given way to the crisp, icy, cold of winter, as snowfall became a regular occurrence. I’d never been more grateful to be safe, warm and dry than when I watched the snow flurries batter the window panes and the creaking winter wind howl through the skeletal branches of the barren trees. 

It was on such an icy winter morning, seemingly no different than the ones that’d come before it, that this comfortable routine was suddenly and undeniably altered.

I was proud of the fact that I’d gradually forced Natalie to get up earlier and earlier to take advantage of the day. If it had been up to her, I’m almost certain she’d have slept in until eleven every morning! What a waste of precious time! I’d served as her much maligned alarm clock for many mornings before this, making all sorts of obnoxious sounds until, in groaning frustration, she’d rise. I wouldn’t stop until she stood from the bed on both feet. She very much wanted to throttle me in the beginning and I was grateful she hadn’t given in to her impulses. But now we both regularly woke around 5:30 or 6 am. 

All that to say, on this day in question, at the fateful hour of 10:30 am, we’d already cooked, eaten and put away breakfast, shared tea (I’d discovered that earl grey was by far my favorite) and had been working for several hours when a sharp rap at the door pricked both our ears. 

My stomach dropped, as I feverishly searched Natalie’s features for an indication on how to interpret this unexpected interruption. Just because I’d become gradually more accustomed to this human’s presence didn’t mean I felt at all ready to be introduced to some unknown stranger. 

Her brow furrowed as she sat very still. It was clear she didn’t know who it was either. Locking eyes with me, she clocked my nerves immediately. I admit I was disappointed that she’d read me so easily, I’d hoped I could’ve managed to put on a braver countenance than that. Upon seeing my stiffened spine, she brushed a finger along my back, in an attempt to coax me into a more relaxed state. Suffice it to say, it was hardly effective, “I’m gonna ignore it. Might just be UPS delivering something to the wrong door or like… Mormons or something…” We both pretended to ignore the howling wind and active sheets of ice and snow cascading from the sky that made those theories less plausible. 

Another series of knocks, harder, much more insistent. We both jumped at the harsh pounding of bone on wood. Whoever it was, they were awfully emphatic. 

“I guess I should probably go see—“ As Natalie spoke, she rose from her chair, crossing towards her bedroom door. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. What if something dangerous awaited her on the other side? I wasn’t exactly in the most advantageous position to help her, even if my leg had been fully functional. Just as she’d crossed before the door, already ajar about a quarter of the way, and her fingertips had brushed the knob, there was the distinct clamor of a key sliding into a lock and the grind of that lock sliding open. 

Natalie’s eyes widened in disbelief and shock, while I leapt to my feet, reaching for my cane to steady myself. The color drained from her face as she heard the initial creak of her door opening. She whipped around and leaned down to address me, “Stay here, and hide. Don’t come out until I come and get you. There’s only a few people who know where my hidden key is, but if this is something else… I just want you to be safe, I don’t want you getting hurt. Don’t pull some stupid hero shit on me, you hear me? Keep yourself hidden. Do you understand?” 

I nodded, having no intention of cowering like a frightened child while she confronted the mystery currently entering her apartment. She gave me one last look before turning on her heel and exiting the bedroom. The second she left, I scrambled to the pen holder, fishing out her rather sharp letter opener, and brandishing it like a pike in my left hand, I stood armed and wary, straining to hear the sounds of giant footsteps, and an opening front door beyond that, over the cacophony of my own ragged breath and thunderous heart. 

I had no clue just what lay in wait for us from behind that door, but I would later come to the undeniable conclusion that nothing would ever be the same from this point forward

[sunshiny-rants]

recently realized I'm a lesbian and I think my reward for battling the comphet should be a multi-chapter Rule 63 sapphic winterhawk fic

[binders-and-beanies]

I hate rich people and no I’m not just talking about billionaires

[saetoru]

ok if there are any artists out there who do comms can u like help me understand why there are no refunds for upfront payments even if you have not started the work at all ????

[navramanan]

still heartbroken but cannot move

[13thpythagoras]

back in 2010 I was dating this web designer and I wanted to start a blog, she got me set up with a pretty website for my blog and I started posting my crazy ish...'twas Pythagoreanism dot com and org, and then I claimed pythagoreanism on tumblr, but they promptly gave that handle to someone else even though I had claimed it and made a PW. So after like 2 months of tumblr/Pythagoreanism being a shit blog with like 10 posts in black and white of fucking linens hanging, I'm over here like starting an anarchist cult a la fight club, nah white sheets Pythagoreanism tumblr art blog and me are not the same lmao like I did a feckn seance with Pythagoras back in 2010 I'm like bro what do you wanna fuckin tell the world? And yeah my life got plenty more magical after that, I learned some very strange secrets, I had 4000 facebook friends but when I saw they were censoring me I just deleted it, I was locked out of tumblr over them stealing my username for like 6 years so I used an alternative tumblr in that time along with twitter, then I noticed the Twitter CEO doing genocide-tourism in Myanmar so I started a twitter boycott long before elongated muskrat bought that garbage fire, and that led me back to tumblr where I decided to embrace losing my original username, and go with the 13th Pythagoras line to evoke the reference to reincarnation and the tribute to the many claimants of having been Pythagoras, all of whom might not be wrong it's just a silly lil game but Pythagoras was a lucky philosopher to have lived a century or two before like, Alexander the Great, and then Jesus Christ, so including Pythagoras it's plausible to say those are like the 3 primary founders of western civ as we see it today. I later once saw an alleged portrait of Pythagoras and ngl he kind of looks just like me? haha only later did I discover that the freemasons literally call Pythagoras their original founder

USERNAME LORE GIVE IT TO ME NOW YOU ALL

[lotuswish]

𑁍ࠬܓ how they react when they see you hurt (housewardens & jamil)

synopsis: pain is not something he ever wanted to associate with you. but seeing you injured—knowing someone dared to harm you—shatters his composure. for some, it’s rage; for others, panic. and for a few, it’s cold, terrifying control—until he knows you’re safe. but one thing is certain: someone will pay for this.

featured character(s): riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, azul ashengrotto, kalim al-asim, jamil viper, vil schoenheit, idia shroud, malleus draconia.

content warning(s): angst, mentions of violence and implied revenge, mild injury descriptions (ex. bruises, wounds, pain etc.), spoilers for book 6 in idia’s part.

a/n: they’re just being silly, guys. <3

link(s): (masterlist)

riddle rosehearts

riddle prides himself on maintaining control.

his entire life has been shaped by discipline, by structure, by the belief that emotions must be ruled by logic. he does not allow himself to be reckless, does not allow himself to be overcome. everything he does is precise, calculated, deliberate.

but the moment he sees you hurt—

everything unravels.

his breath catches in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs, his mind instantly abandoning all reason. his entire world sharpens to a singular point—you—and all at once, every ounce of restraint he’s spent years perfecting is hanging by a fragile, fraying thread.

“who did this?”

his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, trembling with something raw, something dangerously close to rage.

he’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees without hesitation, his hands hovering—not touching, not yet, because what if he makes it worse? what if he hurts you somehow? his fingers tremble, itching to reach out, to make sure—

“tell me where it hurts,” he says, but his voice wavers. “tell me what happened.”

his hands are gentle but firm as he checks you over, his usually practiced movements clumsy with the weight of panic. he doesn’t even realize his breathing is uneven, doesn’t even notice the way his shoulders are shaking as he looks you over, as he takes in every bruise, every wound, every sign that something happened—

something he didn’t prevent.

“you should have been more careful,” he scolds, but the words come out thin, forced, like he’s trying to hold something else back.

you try to tell him you’re fine, try to brush it off, but he doesn’t believe you. his eyes flicker with frustration, his jaw tightening, his grip on your wrist just a fraction too tense.

“don’t be ridiculous—you’re hurt,” he snaps, and then immediately exhales, forcing himself to breathe. “just… stay still. let me handle this.”

he refuses to let you wave it away. refuses to leave it alone. you are not fine, and he will not let you convince him otherwise.

but even as he focuses on making sure you’re okay, something else burns at the edges of his mind, pressing against his temples like an unbearable weight—

who did this to you?

his hands clench into fists. his breathing evens out, but his posture remains rigid, coiled tight like a string about to snap.

because once you’re safe—once he’s certain that you’re okay, that you’ll recover, that he didn’t fail you—

then, and only then, will he deal with the one responsible.

his mother may have taught him restraint, but some things are unforgivable.

and hurting you is one of them.

leona kingscholar

danger.

his body registers it before his mind does, his instincts kicking in the moment his eyes land on you—hurt, vulnerable, not okay.

his vision tunnels, his pulse spikes, and suddenly, the world around him doesn’t matter anymore.

“what the hell happened?”

his voice is a low, guttural growl, thick with something dark, something uncontrollable. his hands clench at his sides, every muscle coiled, his body ready—ready to fight, ready to destroy, ready to eliminate whatever put you in this state.

but then he sees it—sees the way you’re holding yourself, the way your breath hitches, the way you flinch just slightly—and suddenly, the anger has to be forced down, swallowed like bile in the back of his throat.

because right now, you come first.

so he moves, closing the distance in a single step, his hands reaching for you before he can stop himself. his hands are gentle from the start, unusually so. these hands of his are capable of devastation, of turning flesh to dust, of summoning ruin with a mere touch. but against you, they are careful, restrained. the second he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the tension in his hold eases, his hands softening, steadying you instead of breaking you.

“who did this?”

his voice is still dangerous, still thick with that barely restrained fury, but now there’s something else underneath it.

concern.

fear.

he hates how it makes his chest tighten. hates the way it lingers at the edges of his thoughts, nagging at him, clawing at something buried deep beneath his usual indifference.

he kneels in front of you, his sharp, emerald eyes scanning every inch of you with terrifying intensity. his fingers ghost over your injuries, his jaw clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grind together.

“tell me.” his voice is dangerous now.

and then—when you hesitate, when you try to brush it off, when you lie—

his patience snaps.

“don’t give me that.” his grip tightens just slightly, his expression darkening. “you’re hurt. don’t act like it’s nothing.”

there’s no room for argument in his tone. no patience for your stubbornness, no willingness to accept anything less than the truth.

if you try to keep it from him, if you refuse to say who’s responsible, then fine—he’ll find out himself.

because someone did this.

and once you’re safe—once he’s sure you’re okay, once he’s made damn sure you’ll recover—

then he’s hunting.

“stay here,” he mutters, standing to his full height, his tail flicking behind him in barely restrained aggression. “i’ll take care of it.”

and if you try to stop him?

his gaze flickers down to you, something sharp, something scorching, like the unrelenting heat of the desert sun at its peak—blistering, unforgiving, merciless.

“no one lays a damn hand on you and gets away with it.”

and then he’s gone, a storm of unbridled wrath, a lion on the hunt.

azul ashengrotto

azul is a man of careful calculations.

every word, every action, every decision he makes is deliberate. he has spent years crafting a persona of charm, wit, and effortless composure—one that allows him to stay in control, no matter the circumstances. he does not flinch, does not waver, does not lose to uncertainty.

but then he sees you hurt.

and suddenly, all of that control is gone.

his breath catches, his body locks up, and for one horrifying moment, his mind is utterly blank.

“you—what happened?”

his voice doesn’t sound like his own. it’s too sharp, too raw, lacking the usual smoothness he prides himself on.

he rushes to you without thinking, but the second he’s close enough to touch, he hesitates. his fingers hover inches above your skin, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint. his mind is screaming at him to act, to do something, but a terrible thought wedges itself into his panic—

what if i make it worse?

he doesn’t trust his own hands, doesn’t trust his own judgment, not when the sight of you like this is unraveling him from the inside out.

“tell me what hurts,” he demands, his words tumbling out in a way that’s almost frantic. “is it serious? how bad is it?”

his thoughts spiral immediately, jumping to the worst possible conclusions. is it critical? should he be calling for medical attention? what if you’re downplaying it? what if he’s not fast enough?

and then you try to brush it off.

“nothing?” he echoes, breath hitching. his voice almost cracks—and he hates that. “how can you say that when you’re—when you—”

his hands clench into fists, shaking slightly as he forces himself to breathe.

“just—just stay still,” he mutters, voice tight with strain. “i’ll take care of it.”

because if there is one thing he knows, one thing he can control, it’s fixing things. making deals. offering solutions.

“i’ll call a healer. i’ll get whatever you need—whatever you want.”

his words come too fast, his mind still racing, but through it all, his hands never leave yours.

his grip is too tight, fingers wrapped around yours like a lifeline, like letting go isn’t an option he’s willing to consider.

because if he lets go—if he loses you—

he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it.

and when it’s over—when he knows you’ll be okay—he still doesn’t let you out of his sight.

“you scared me,” he murmurs, quieter than before.

his voice is steadier now, but you can still hear the remnants of his fear, lingering in the way his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles, in the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

and for the first time since you’ve met him—since he built the persona of azul ashengrotto, the untouchable businessman, the man always one step ahead—

he lets you see just how fragile he becomes when it comes to you.

kalim al-asim

kalim is always smiling.

he is a beacon of joy, a burst of light in every room he enters. when things go wrong, he looks for the silver lining. when people are hurting, he lifts them up with his boundless energy. sadness is something he refuses to dwell on, something he fights against with warmth and laughter.

but when he sees you hurt?

his entire world stops.

“oh no, oh no—”

the words leave him before he can think, his breath catching as his heart lurches in his chest. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to process what he’s seeing—his body moves, fast and instinctive, rushing to your side.

his hands cradle your face, warm and steady despite the frantic tremor in his touch.

“are you okay? what happened? does it hurt? how bad is it?”

his voice is shaking. he’s shaking.

and when he finally really looks at you, when he takes in the way you wince, the way you hold yourself like you’re trying to hide the pain—his chest tightens, his stomach twisting into something awful.

“why didn’t anyone stop it? why didn’t i stop it?”

guilt. overwhelming, suffocating guilt floods him like a tidal wave.

“i should’ve been there! i should’ve protected you!”

his grip on you tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he’s here. he isn’t letting go. he won’t let go.

and then, before you can stop him—before you can tell him it’s not a big deal—his eyes start to glisten.

“kalim, are you—”

“i’m not crying!” he absolutely is. “i just—you scared me!”

his voice wobbles, and suddenly, he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you too tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“don’t move, okay? just stay right here! i’ll get someone to help—i’ll fix this, i promise!”

if it’s something small—just a minor scrape, a bruise—he still treats it like it’s life-threatening. he refuses to let you walk it off, refuses to let you act like it’s fine.

if it’s something worse? if you are seriously hurt?

he panics, but his movements are certain. without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms, holding you to his chest like you’re something precious, like you belong nowhere else but safe in his hands.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “i won’t let anything happen to you.”

and when he finally gets you to safety, when he finally knows you’re okay—

he still won’t stop fussing.

“you need to rest! do you want pillows? i’ll get you pillows! or tea! do you want tea? i’m sure jamil will—jamil! we need tea!”

“kalim, i’m fine—”

“no, you’re not fine! i was so scared!”

his fingers squeeze yours.

and later, when you’re patched up, when the worst of the moment has passed—

he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.

“don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is softer now, the usual excitement dimmed into something deeply sincere.

“i don’t ever wanna see you hurt again.”

jamil viper

jamil was raised to handle crises.

he has spent his entire life being the one who steps in when things go wrong, the one who fixes things while everyone else panics. no matter the situation, no matter the chaos, no matter the pressure—he is always in control.

so when he sees you hurt, when he registers the way you’re holding yourself, the way your face twists with pain—

his stomach drops.

but his body moves on instinct.

“where?”

his voice is steady. too steady. his mind is screaming, but his tone doesn’t waver, his movements are calculated, precise. he crouches in front of you immediately, eyes scanning you with sharp, assessing precision.

“how bad is it? let me see.”

he doesn’t waste time. doesn’t ask what happened—not yet. because right now, the only thing that matters is making sure you’re okay.

his hands are warm but firm, brushing over you carefully as he checks for injuries. his fingers ghost over your wrist, your arm, the side of your face—everywhere that might be hurt—his touch gentle but filled with purpose.

“it’s not broken,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself, half to reassure you. “no major swelling… does this hurt?”

and then—when you flinch, when you let out the softest hiss of pain—

something inside him snaps.

his jaw clenches. his breathing slows.

“who.”

his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for the first time, there is something dangerous in his gaze.

“who did this?”

if there is a culprit—if someone is responsible for this—then they are not leaving unscathed.

but even as fury thrums through his veins, even as his mind races with ways to handle the situation, he forces himself to prioritize you first.

“can you walk?” his voice is softer now, his tone slipping back into something controlled, something measured.

if you say yes, he doesn’t let you prove it. he supports you immediately, one arm around your waist, guiding you effortlessly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

if you say no, he lifts you without hesitation. no warning, no asking—just picking you up, his hold secure, unshakable.

“don’t argue,” he mutters, barely sparing you a glance. “just let me take care of it.”

because he will.

and once he gets you somewhere safe, once he’s made sure you’re being treated properly, once he knows with certainty that you are okay—

then, and only then, does he allow himself to breathe.

“you’re reckless,” he mutters, his voice a mix of exasperation and something far too raw. “i don’t have time to deal with this every time you get yourself hurt, you know.”

but his fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against your arm, betraying the truth behind his words.

because if something had happened—if things had been worse—

he doesn’t even want to think about what he would have done.

vil schoenheit

perfection is vil’s standard.

not just in beauty, not just in his work, but in everything—his composure, his discipline, the way he carries himself. he does not allow himself to be reckless. he does not make careless mistakes. he does not let emotions rule him.

but then he sees you hurt.

and something inside him fractures.

his lips press together, his expression unreadable, his body rigid—the only betrayal of the storm brewing beneath his flawless exterior is the way his fingers tighten just slightly at his sides, the way his breath is a fraction too controlled.

“where are you hurt?”

his voice is steady. cold. clinical. but his eyes—his eyes—

they burn.

he crosses the distance between you in two strides, his gloved fingers already reaching for you. his touch is firm but delicate, brushing over your skin with the kind of precision only someone like him could possess.

“sit down.” it’s not a request. “don’t move until i’ve assessed the damage.”

you try to downplay it, try to insist that it’s nothing, but his sharp gaze cuts through you instantly.

“do not insult me by pretending this is fine,” he snaps, his voice sharp as glass. “you are hurt. i can see it. so let me handle it.”

his fingers ghost over your injuries, his touch meticulous, searching. he catalogues everything—the severity, the placement, the way you react when he presses too close.

he is silent as he works, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

“this never should have happened.” the words slip out low, almost a whisper, but the weight behind them is undeniable. “i should have—”

but he cuts himself off before he finishes the thought.

vil schoenheit does not dwell in should haves.

he fixes things. he prevents disasters before they happen.

but right now, all he can do is make sure you are okay.

“i’ll handle this,” he says smoothly, already preparing to tend to your wounds himself. “stay still.”

his movements are precise, every action perfectly executed—cleaning, bandaging, ensuring no imperfections remain. but his touch lingers just slightly longer than necessary, his fingers brushing over your wrist, your palm, the curve of your shoulder with a tenderness that is almost imperceptible.

and when it’s over—when you are properly cared for, when the worst of the moment has passed—he finally exhales.

“you worried me,” he murmurs, and it is softer now, less controlled, less rehearsed.

and then—just for a second—his fingers ghost against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

“i won’t let this happen again. not ever.”

his voice is gentle. his eyes are not.

because if anyone had a hand in this—if someone is responsible for this pain—

then they will regret ever daring to touch you.

idia shroud

idia doesn’t do well under pressure.

he was not built for high-stakes situations, for stress, for emotions so raw they leave no room for second chances. he hates unpredictability, hates chaos, hates not knowing what to do.

so when he sees you hurt—

his mind shuts down.

for a full second, he just stares, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers twitching but unable to move.

no, no, no, no, no—

his brain latches onto the worst possibilities immediately. how bad is it? is it fatal? what if you’re bleeding out? what if it’s internal? what if he doesn’t react fast enough?

what if he loses you?

his stomach twists violently, a familiar, awful panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

because this—this exact fear—is something he’s lived through before.

he remembers the first time. the real first time.

losing ortho was something he never saw coming. something he never thought could happen. and even though he’s built him again, recreated him, brought back a version of his little brother—

he still remembers.

remembers what it felt like to be too late. to fail someone he loved. to stand there, frozen in horror, helpless to stop it.

and now—

now it’s you.

you, the only person who matters to him besides ortho. you, the person who understands him, who stays, who chooses him despite all the reasons not to. you, who has somehow become his entire world without him even realizing it.

“oh seven—okay, okay—don’t freak out—no, wait, i’m the one freaking out—”

he rushes toward you but stops short, his hands hovering inches away, shaking.

“w-wait, should i touch you? would that make it worse?? oh seven, what if i make it worse—”

his mind is short-circuiting. too many variables. too many possible failures.

“idia,” you start, but he whirls on you, wide-eyed and frantic.

“y-you have to tell me exactly how bad it is, okay? give me a numerical rating—no, no, wait, i don’t trust the pain scale, um—can you move?? do you need a doctor??”

his breathing is erratic, his fingers clutching at the edge of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

but then—just like before—you try to reassure him.

“i’m okay.”

he stops.

his whole body locks up, his mind struggling to catch up.

”…are you sure?”

his voice is so small. so uncertain.

because he’s already lost someone before.

and if he lost you too—if this was his fault, if he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough—

he doesn’t know what he would do.

even when he’s finally convinced that you’re not dying, he still refuses to leave your side. he hovers awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, clearly itching to do something to make himself useful.

so he does what he knows best—

“d-do you wanna lay down? i, uh, set up a recovery station in my room. blankets. snacks. medkits—y’know, just in case. w-we can watch something comforting, i won’t even complain about the genre. promise.”

his voice is still wobbly, still slightly frayed at the edges, but the tension in his shoulders finally eases when you nod.

and later—when you’re safe, resting, and no longer in pain—

his fingers brush against yours, hesitant, unsure, before finally intertwining them properly.

“never scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is quiet. but this time, it doesn’t shake.

because he won’t lose you too.

he can’t.

malleus draconia

malleus has lived longer than most.

a century and more has passed since his birth. he has seen generations rise and fall, watched mortals grow old in the blink of an eye. nothing unsettles him. nothing disturbs his calm.

but then he sees you hurt.

and the entire world stands still.

his breath halts, and the air around him shifts—the very atmosphere bending beneath the weight of something primordial, something as vast and unrelenting as the storm-laden skies over the land of briar.

his first instinct is not panic.

it is rage.

“who did this?”

his voice is low, steady, but beneath the surface, something dangerous lurks.

his emerald eyes gleam, faintly glowing in the dim light. the shadows stretch taller, the wind outside stills, the very earth itself seems to pause, as if the land itself knows what kind of wrath is building within him.

his hands twitch at his sides, claws curling, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips—not for you, never for you, but for whoever was foolish enough to harm you.

but he stops himself. forces himself to breathe.

because you come first.

he is in front of you in an instant, his movements as fluid as shadow, his expression unreadable. his hands—hands that could command storms, reduce castles to rubble, shatter the very sky—reach for you with an almost unnatural gentleness.

“let me see,” he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over your injury, tracing the bruises, the cuts, the places where pain lingers.

his touch is featherlight, his movements precise, but beneath it all, his body is rigid with barely restrained fury.

“who did this?” he repeats, quieter now, but infinitely more terrifying.

if you don’t answer, if you try to downplay it, if you lie—

his gaze darkens, something thunderous in his silence.

“do not shield them from me.”

he is not so easily deceived. he sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you waver, the way you avoid his gaze. if you refuse to tell him, it does not matter—he will find out on his own.

but first—

“hold still,” he murmurs, raising his hand.

a pulse of magic hums through the air, a whisper of ancient power curling around your form like a protective shroud. the ache dulls, the wounds begin to close, the pain fades.

“better?” he asks, softer now, something tender hidden beneath the weight of his fury.

but even as he tends to you, even as he ensures you are safe—

his mind is already elsewhere.

because someone hurt you.

and for that, there will be consequences.

malleus does not act rashly. he does not lash out blindly.

but the guilty party will know fear.

“stay here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek for just a fraction of a second, his touch lingering. “rest. recover.”

and then, as he turns, the air thickens, the weight of his presence pressing down like the hush before a storm, like the crackling stillness before lightning splits the sky.

because someone has made a grave mistake.

and if the gods are watching, they would be wise to offer their mercy—because malleus draconia will not.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[breakingthewordcages]

The thing about looking for math videos as a teacher is that sometimes you get one that makes you go, "yes, you are mostly correct, and I understand what you're doing, but this video would confuse the hell out of my students."

[fxrheisenn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🙋How did you manage to get funding?

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

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

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

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

[biosblades]

I went to pride at 11. I wasn’t even out yet, but I definitely did feel a distinct kinship with the people there. I saw what I know now in hindsight was kink attire. I won’t lie, I was a very naive 11 yo. I had never so much as stumbled upon porn and my knowledge of sex was limited to what they taught me about puberty in 5th grade (and this is America, they separated the boys and girls, so I only knew about one side of the equation). I loved the cool costumes some people were wearing and I didn’t even think to sexualize nudity yet. My innocence was left perfectly intact and I got the opportunity to meet some people from my community. They were all super nice to me, and I left with the feeling that if I grew up to be like them there would be an accepting place waiting for me.

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

I went to pride again at 16. This time I understood what kink was. Some of it did make me uncomfortable, so I simply looked the other way instead of trying to police people IN THEIR OWN SPACE. I loved it and had a great time overall. And no, seeing leather/sexy drag/little clothing/etc did not scar me for life I was FINE. I knew I was queer this time, but I wasn’t quite there yet myself. I felt so brave wearing a single rainbow bracelet (and that was okay too; people accepted my timidness, they were encouraging, they complemented my tiny little bracelet, and they gave me space when I did look overwhelmed/uncomfortable). I left knowing that no matter how I chose to express myself one day I would have an accepting place to do so.

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

I went to pride again at 19. There were cops everywhere. I couldn’t go to most of the events because they were age restricted to 21+. Even still, I could tell the people there were not as carefree and open as they were in the past. Both times before, I was able to make a choice for myself on how to engage based on my own comfort level. I was barely even a child this time, but there was no place for me. That choice had been taken away. The adults were having a bad time because they couldn’t be themselves, and the kids were having a bad time because a bunch of conservative adults had made the choice for us that we couldn’t handle it and therefore we weren’t allowed. I knew I could handle it because I had done so before. And by this point in my life I was visibly, undeniably queer. I felt way safer with the pups and the sexy drag queens, the harness-and-nothing-else-clad leather daddies and the shirtless butches than I felt around the pearl-clutching school board members and church goers who screamed to protect the children. I was still in the school system they were purging of books, but I was also a legal adult and I knew damn well that they meant to protect the “children” from me. I had seen the rise of homophobia and the way people were governed by disgust in school, politics, and online, but I didn’t realize that they’d sunk in so deep that it would actually change pride.

I left feeling scared that this place I grew up thinking would always be there to accept me didn’t exist anymore

“But I didn’t consent to see kink” yes you did by coming to pride,

a place you know and have repeatedly said you know kink is at, a place built by kinky people, the mother of pride Brenda Howard was a queer kinky polyamorous sex positive anti war bisexual Jew and to try and remove its history or sanitise it is is spitting on her grave, you are consenting by choosing to go there

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Hoodie Thief | psh 🔞

pairing: roommate!sunghoon x reader

epilogue

You weren’t sure when it became a habit—stealing Park Sunghoon’s hoodies. Maybe it was the night you came home late from a party, heels in one hand and a headache blooming behind your eyes, and he tossed you his oversized black one without even looking up from his laptop. Or maybe it was because they always smelled faintly of cinnamon and clean laundry, like comfort itself.

Whatever the reason, you were wearing one again. This time it was gray, soft, and swallowed you whole. Sunghoon was seated on the living room floor, laptop open, knees drawn up, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he squinted at some code on the screen.

“You know,” he said, voice casual but laced with amusement, “at this point, I’m not even sure which hoodies are mine anymore.”

You sank onto the couch beside him, tugging the sleeve over your hand. “Well, technically, they’re community property now. Roommate rules.”

“That so?” he asked, glancing up at you over the rim of his glasses. His eyes lingered on your frame, his gaze unhurried as it dropped to the hoodie you wore. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You tried not to grin, but your cheeks betrayed you. “Flattery, Park?”

“Observation,” he replied smoothly, returning to his screen.

The teasing between you two had always been like this slow, drawn-out, never quite tipping over the edge. He’d brush past you in the kitchen, hand resting on your lower back just a second too long. You’d find excuses to fix his crooked tie when he got ready for class presentations, fingers grazing his collarbone just because. The tension was a thread stretched taut but never snapped.

You leaned in slightly, your knee pressing lightly against his. “You know what would really seal the roommate bond?”

He raised a brow, not looking up. “What’s that?”

“You letting me keep this one,” you said, tugging at the hoodie like it was a prize.

Sunghoon’s lips curved into a smirk, subtle and dangerous. He closed his laptop slowly, setting it aside.

“That depends,” he said, voice low, “on what I get in return.”

Your breath caught, but your smile didn’t falter. “Oh? You charging a fee now?”

He shifted just a little closer, the space between your knees gone. “Just thinking… maybe you owe me dinner. Or..” his eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up “a study session. You, me, one of my hoodies, and absolutely no distractions.”

You huffed a laugh. “Sounds like a trap.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in a fraction. “But I think you’d look good in all of them. Might as well make it official.”

Your fingers played with the drawstring of the hoodie, heartbeat ticking just a little faster.

“We’re still talking about clothes, right?”

He gave you a look. “Sure.”

But neither of you moved. The line was still there drawn faintly in the space between your breaths, in the ghost of his smile. And maybe it would stay there a while longer.

Maybe not.

-

You had one rule living with Sunghoon: do not thirst after your roommate.

It was a rule you followed diligently. Mostly. Despite the flirty banter and hoodie theft, you’d never crossed that line—because he never gave you the chance to. He was always in those oversized hoodies and loose sweats, glasses low on his nose, hair constantly ruffled like he just rolled out of bed (which, annoyingly, made him even hotter). His appeal was subtle—nerdy, quiet, maddeningly soft.

So nothing could’ve prepared you for what you walked in on that Wednesday afternoon.

You pushed open the apartment door mid-call, rambling into your phone, “I swear if he left his ramen bowls in the sink again, I’m gonna—”

And then you stopped.

Dead in your tracks.

Sunghoon was in the living room. Not in a hoodie. Not in any sort of baggy fabric, actually. Instead, he was standing in front of the open window, sipping water from a bottle, wearing a black tank top that hugged his toned chest and grey sweatpants that did dangerous things to your attention span.

He looked over when he heard you, and the way his biceps flexed slightly as he twisted the cap back on the bottle had you gripping your phone like a lifeline.

“Oh. Hey,” he said casually, like he wasn’t currently breaking the internet. “You’re home early.”

You blinked. Your phone beeped. You’d accidentally hung up.

“I—yeah.” You were proud you even managed words. “I… am.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow as he walked over, towel slung around his neck. He was glistening slightly—post-workout, apparently—and his hair was a little damp.

“I was just finishing a quick workout. Didn’t think you’d be back for another hour,” he said, stepping past you to grab something from the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yep,” you squeaked, eyes very much not okay as they followed the flex of his back muscles beneath the thin tank top.

He looked like a completely different person. Still nerdy. Still Sunghoon. Just… cursed with forearms now.

You finally tore your gaze away and flopped onto the couch like your soul had left your body. “I’m fine. Totally normal. Regular day. You just—uh—changed your outfit game without warning.”

He smirked as he opened the fridge. “What, the hoodie empire falling apart for you?”

“I just wasn’t expecting…” You gestured vaguely in his direction, cheeks heating. “That.”

Sunghoon leaned against the counter and quirked a brow. “You mean the tank top? Didn’t know it would have such an effect.”

You glared. “It doesn’t.”

He crossed the room slowly, stopping right in front of you. “Your face is red.”

“I’m warm.”

He bent down slightly, his face hovering closer to yours. “You want me to go change back into a hoodie?”

You swallowed. Your hands were very much not behaving, already fisting the hem of his tank like they had a mind of their own. You weren’t even sure when you’d stood up. His scent—clean sweat, citrus, and something entirely him—was clouding your judgment.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, fingers still clutching his shirt.

He looked down at where you were touching him, then back up at you, his voice lower. “You sure?”

That line—the one you two danced around for months—was right there. So close. So fragile.

You looked up at him, heart racing. “No. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to cross it.”

His eyes flickered to your lips, then your hand. And when he leaned in just slightly, the heat between you burned bright and slow, like something inevitable finally unraveling.

-

Since the tank top incident, something changed.

No, scratch that—Sunghoon changed.

The very next day, he emerged from his room wearing another fitted black tee. Not a hoodie. Not even a crewneck. It clung to his chest just enough to make you pause mid-bite of your cereal, spoon hovering in the air like gravity forgot to exist.

You thought it might be a one-time thing, but the days kept coming—and so did the outfits. Sunghoon in slim joggers, Sunghoon in soft, clingy tees that rolled up just slightly at the arms, Sunghoon walking around the kitchen post-shower with a towel slung around his shoulders and that same tank top clinging to his skin like it had no shame.

He was weaponizing himself. There was no other explanation.

And worse? He knew.

“Laundry day?” you asked innocently one morning, nodding toward the fitted navy tee he wore as he poured coffee into two mugs.

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, setting a mug in front of you. “Nope. Just thought I’d mix it up. You don’t mind, do you?”

You took the mug and muttered, “Not even a little bit.”

He chuckled, brushing past you to grab something from the fridge, his hand grazing your waist in that way he did sometimes—just long enough to leave sparks behind.

It kept happening. His touches were still subtle—always plausible, never overt—but now they lingered. His hand on your back as you reached for a mug. Fingers brushing yours when you both reached for the remote. His knee pressed against yours on the couch and never moving away.

And you? You were slowly unraveling.

That Sunday night, it nearly broke you.

You came out of your room, sleepy and disoriented, in search of water. The apartment was dim, quiet, save for the soft hum of music from the living room.

And there he was.

Sunghoon, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, wearing a white tank top and black sweatpants, hair slightly damp, fingers tapping lazily on his laptop.

You paused in the doorway like some unprepared victim in a slow-burn romcom.

He looked up and saw you. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Mmhm,” you managed, forcing your legs to move. You grabbed a glass of water, hoping the cold would slap some sense back into you.

“C’mere,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Why?”

He patted the floor beside him. “Just sit. You look like you’re one hoodie away from losing it.”

You hesitated, then walked over and lowered yourself beside him. Close enough that your thighs touched. Of course.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” you muttered.

He didn’t look away from his screen. “Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured at him with a wave of your hand. “The… arms. The fitted shirts. The lack of hoodies. I’m barely hanging on here, and you’re out here being a thirst trap with glasses.”

Sunghoon let out a soft laugh—quiet, amused. He finally looked at you, and his eyes were dangerous in the low light.

“You’re the one who kept stealing my hoodies,” he murmured, voice low and full of teasing. “I figured I’d give you something else to lose your mind over.”

You stared at him. “So you admit it.”

“Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Your heart was in your throat now, pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “And now?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking to your lips. “Still doing it.”

You should’ve kissed him. Should’ve dragged him down onto the floor and ruined the tension once and for all. But instead, you just exhaled, shaky, and leaned your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Just let you rest there, warm and solid.

And the line between you both?

Still unbroken. But trembling.

-

You decided it was time for revenge.

If Park Sunghoon was going to spend his days parading around in tank tops and fitted clothes like he didn’t know what he was doing to your sanity, then fine. Two could play this game.

So that’s how you found yourself in the living room on Saturday morning, casually stretching on the yoga mat in the center of the room—wearing nothing but one of his hoodies (slightly cropped from how you’d tucked it up) and tight Calvin Klein bike shorts that hugged you like a second skin.

You didn’t acknowledge his presence at first. Just stretched with exaggerated slowness, arms over your head as the hoodie rose—high enough to show off the sliver of your waist and the underside of your chest with every movement.

You knew he was watching. He was always up by now, usually making his precious pour-over coffee in the kitchen. And sure enough, you heard it—the shift of the kettle, the sudden clatter of a spoon, and then silence.

You smirked to yourself as you leaned forward in a deep stretch, back arching just slightly, your position giving him a full view of your curves.

“Didn’t know you were up,” you said sweetly, still not turning around.

“I—I wasn’t,” came his voice from behind you. Rough. Caught off guard. Like he’d swallowed air wrong. “I mean—I just woke up.”

You slowly straightened, finally glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh?” you blinked innocently, lips curling. “Hope I didn’t distract you.”

Sunghoon was standing by the counter, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, his gaze locked on you like you were an equation he couldn’t solve.

His hoodie on you was driving him insane—you could see it in the way his jaw ticked, in the way his eyes trailed down to your exposed waist and back up with a slow drag.

“New shorts?” he asked, voice notably lower.

You stretched your arms above your head again, feigning a yawn. “Mmhm. Comfortable, right?”

“They look…” He cleared his throat. “Tight.”

You smiled. “Flattering, you mean?”

He stepped closer, slowly, like his body was moving without permission.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?” he murmured.

You turned fully to face him now, still sitting on your knees, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “I’m just stretching, Sunghoon.”

He stared at you, and something flickered in his eyes—like he was this close to crossing that line you’d both danced around for months.

Then he leaned down, just slightly, meeting your gaze head-on.

“If I lose my mind,” he whispered, “just know it’s your fault.”

You tilted your head, heart thundering in your chest. “Who says you haven’t already?”

The tension was electric, heavy in the space between your lips.

But then, like always, it hovered. Close enough to taste—but not enough to break.

Not yet

Sunghoon exhaled, straightened, and turned back to his coffee like nothing happened.

And you?

You grinned, wicked and satisfied.

Game on.

-

It was late. Past midnight. The kind of quiet that only happened when the city slept and the apartment dimmed into that safe cocoon of shadows and soft hums.

You hadn’t meant to test fate tonight. You were just thirsty, literally. Woke up parched and wandered into the kitchen half-asleep, wearing one of Sunghoon’s zip-up hoodies. No shorts. No bra. Just that oversized hoodie zipped halfway, loose and dangerously low from tossing and turning in bed.

You were barefoot. Hair messy. Eyes squinting at the fridge light as you grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap off.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Sunghoon stood frozen by the hallway, bathed in low light, eyes glued to you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And maybe he couldn’t. Because the zipper of his hoodie had slipped just a little lower—low enough to reveal the swell of your bare chest, the delicate dip of your waist, your skin glowing under the fridge’s light like you were meant to be seen in that moment.

You turned, bottle at your lips, and jumped when you saw him.

“Shit—you scared me,” you laughed softly, not thinking, not realizing what you looked like yet.

But Sunghoon didn’t laugh.

He just stared.

His voice came low. Tense.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You blinked. Finally glanced down.

Oh.

Oh.

Your heart skipped. “I—I wasn’t thinking. I just came out for water, I didn’t think anyone was—”

He stepped closer.

Each step slow. Controlled. Like he was trying to hold something back and losing the battle by the second.

“You’ve been teasing me for months,” he said, voice rough, his eyes never leaving yours. “Wearing my hoodies. Stealing my space. Touching me like you know I want more.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening on the bottle. “Sunghoon—”

“You come out here,” he went on, “dressed like that… at midnight… looking like that—and you still expect me to stay quiet?”

You stepped back instinctively, but you hit the counter.

He kept walking.

Now he was right in front of you, towering, chest rising and falling fast. One hand braced against the counter beside your waist, the other hovering just an inch from the zipper hanging so precariously low on your chest.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“I think I do now,” you whispered, breath shallow.

His fingers finally touched the zipper. Tugged it just enough for your breath to hitch. Not fully unzipping—just a threat. Just a taste of the danger you’d both tiptoed around for too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice barely more than a growl.

But you didn’t.

You tilted your chin, met his gaze, and whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

That was it.

The line you drew? Gone.

He crashed into you like the tension had been a match waiting for a spark—hands gripping your waist, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was months in the making. Hot. Desperate. Hungry.

And you kissed him back like you’d been holding your breath for this exact moment.

The hoodie slipped.

The water bottle hit the floor.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon finally stopped pretending.

Your back hit the kitchen counter with a soft thud, the cool surface contrasting the fire suddenly burning under your skin.

Sunghoon’s hands were on your waist, sliding under the hoodie like he’d been dying to touch you. His mouth was still on yours, tongue teasing, devouring every gasp and moan that spilled from your lips like he needed them to breathe.

And then—he pulled back just a little.

His eyes dropped to the hoodie, to the way it barely clung to your shoulders, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath it. His fingers caught the zipper again, this time pulling it all the way down.

The fabric parted.

His breath hitched.

“No bra,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice husky and ragged.

You watched the way his eyes darkened—like something snapped completely inside him.

He dipped his head instantly, lips ghosting down your throat. “You’re so unfair,” he groaned, mouth brushing your collarbone. “You know I have a thing for boobs.”

You gasped out a breathy laugh, hand tangling in his hair. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Well,” he murmured, kissing down the swell of your chest, “you do now.”

And then his mouth was there—hot and open and obsessed, worshipping every inch he could reach. His hands cupped you, thumbs brushing gently, then firmly, then teasing—his lips trailing lazy, wet kisses across your skin like he’d been starved and this was his first meal.

You moaned, soft and high, hips shifting against the counter as he sucked lightly at a sensitive spot. His fingers gripped your thighs, dragging you closer, so your knees spread around his hips and you were fully pinned, fully his.

“God, Sunghoon,” you whispered, breathless.

He looked up at you from your chest, eyes blown wide, lips red and swollen.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I’ve been dying to do this since the first time you walked out of your room in my clothes. You were always just... there, tempting me, touching me, looking at me like that.”

You swallowed hard, your hands now sliding under his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his torso. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to cross the line,” he said, kissing you again—deep, slow, possessive. “But baby… you broke it first.”

His lips were back on your chest before you could respond, sucking and kissing like he was making up for lost time, like he wanted to memorize every curve, every sound you made. The hoodie slipped off your shoulders entirely now, pooling behind you on the counter.

And he made no move to stop.

Not when your head fell back.

Not when your thighs tightened around his waist.

Not when you whimpered his name, and he groaned like it was the only thing he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

Sunghoon’s mouth was obsessed—hungry, slow, and dangerously focused.

He pressed open-mouthed kisses across your chest, dragging his tongue deliberately over the soft swell of your breast before closing his lips around your nipple. He groaned at the contact, deep and guttural, like he’d finally gotten the one thing he’d been fantasizing about for months.

“Fuck, I knew they’d feel this good,” he muttered between kisses, hand splaying over your waist to keep you close. “I think about them way too much.”

You gasped, arching your back as his tongue flicked and swirled, switching sides with a low, satisfied sound. His hand moved to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak, and when he sucked again—harder this time—you nearly lost it.

“S-Sunghoon—”

“I’m not stopping,” he mumbled against your skin. “Not when you look like this… sound like that.”

He licked back up the valley between your breasts, teeth grazing lightly. “You wore this hoodie knowing I’d see you, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when his mouth was doing sinful things to you.

He chuckled darkly. “No bra. Just this. Like you wanted me to snap.”

And then, without warning, his hands were under your thighs—lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing.

You gasped and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, hoodie falling completely off in the motion. His grip tightened under you, fingers digging into your skin as he walked you down the hall, kissing your neck, your jaw, your collarbone with reckless affection.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered against your ear. “No more teasing. No more pretending.”

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, not bothering to turn on the lights, letting the soft glow from the hallway bathe you both in shadow.

The second your back hit the bed, he was over you again—pressing hot kisses down your chest, your ribs, your stomach.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging, anchoring yourself as his lips found your breast again, sucking harder this time. His hips rolled against yours with just enough friction to make you whimper his name.

“I love these,” he murmured like a confession, voice low and rough as he licked across your nipple. “I could spend hoursright here.”

You arched under him, heat pooling deep in your core. “Then do it,” you whispered, eyes wild and breathless.

He looked up at you through his lashes, smirk tugging at the corner of his kiss-swollen lips.

“Say less.”

And he did.

He kissed his way down, took his time, made sure every inch of you knew just how badly he’d wanted this. Every flick of his tongue, every bite, every graze of his teeth was slow and sinful and filled with months of held-back tension that was now unraveling between the sheets.

Your breaths turned to moans.

Moans to gasps.

And gasps into pleas.

By the time he finally stripped you bare and joined you in the sheets, it wasn’t just about want—it was about need. About all the nights you brushed hands in the kitchen, the mornings you wore his hoodies, the way his eyes always lingered just a second too long.

He took his time, but when he moved inside you for the first time, slow and deep, both of you lost all words—just soft curses, broken kisses, and the kind of moans that only came from finally, finally giving in.

And still, even in the heat of it all—his hands found their way back to your chest, mouth pressing against your skin like he was claiming it.

“Mine,” he breathed against your skin. “All fucking mine.”

The sheets were tangled around your legs, your skin warm and slick, heart still racing from the first time. You lay there in the dark, chest rising and falling fast, trying to catch your breath—trying to process what just happened.

But Sunghoon… he didn’t move much.

He hovered just above you, gaze roaming over your flushed face, your swollen lips, your body stretched beneath him like a dream. His hand was on your waist, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, but his eyes kept dipping back down to your chest—still heaving, glistening faintly with sweat.

“You okay?” he asked softly, a slight rasp in his voice.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Very okay.”

He smiled, just a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes—not because he wasn’t happy, but because the look on his face said something else entirely:

He wasn’t done.

Not even close.

His fingers slid up your waist, brushing between the valley of your breasts before he leaned down again, placing a kiss just above your sternum.

You sighed softly, running your fingers through his hair.

“I told you,” he murmured, mouth trailing down again. “I’m not over these.”

He kissed one breast, then the other—soft, slow, reverent.

“You’ve already had your fun,” you teased, voice low.

He looked up at you, eyes dark. “Yeah. Once. That’s not enough.”

Before you could respond, he wrapped his lips around your nipple again, sucking gently—then deeper, hungrier—until your back arched right off the bed and a soft cry slipped from your mouth.

Your thighs instinctively pressed together.

He smirked against your skin.

“Still sensitive?” he asked, fingers ghosting down your hips.

You barely managed a nod. “Yes. But also… don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His hand slipped between your legs, fingers teasing, already finding you wet again—still soaked for him. He groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck. You’re unreal.”

You whimpered when his fingers dipped inside you, slow and precise, the pads of them curling just right while his mouth stayed fixed on your chest—licking, sucking, marking you.

You were already unraveling again, body twitching under his touch.

“Sunghoon,” you gasped, hips lifting to meet every movement. “Please—”

He kissed up to your neck, whispering against your ear. “You want me again?”

“God, yes.”

He kissed your jaw. “Then get on top.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to see you,” he murmured. “Wanna see those pretty tits bounce while I’m inside you.”

Your breath caught. You scrambled to climb over him, straddling his waist, your hands braced against his chest as he looked up at you like you were a fucking goddess.

His hands slid up your thighs, settling at your hips before he guided you down slowly—inch by inch—until he was fully inside you again.

The both of you gasped.

You rocked your hips once—experimentally—and his head fell back against the pillows, jaw clenched.

“Just like that,” he groaned. “Keep going. Fuck, ride me, baby.”

You did.

You moved with him, chasing that dizzy, desperate high all over again, and he watched everything—his hands never leaving your waist or your breasts, gripping and teasing and obsessing the way he had since the very start.

Every time your hips met his, you felt yourself melt further—into the heat, into the rhythm, into him.

And when you came again, clenched around him with a cry of his name, he followed soon after—hands gripping your ass, thrusting up deep one last time as he spilled into you with a shudder and a curse.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you shaking, breathless, spent.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you tight, still inside you, still warm and pulsing and wrecked.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

But when you finally looked up at him, messy hair in your face, cheeks flushed—

He just smirked and whispered, “Still stealing my hoodies after this?”

You smiled, slow and sweet. “Every single one.”

Your legs still trembled, curled over his hips, when Sunghoon gently kissed your temple.

“You did so good,” he murmured into your hair, voice worn raw and honey-sweet. “But I think you need a bath, baby.”

You groaned something incoherent against his shoulder. “I need new legs.”

He chuckled, low and breathless, then slid his arms under you again. Without warning, he stood—effortlessly lifting you bridal-style, your bare body pressed against his chest, the hoodie still tangled somewhere in the sheets.

“Sunghoon—” you squeaked.

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing your forehead as he padded toward the bathroom. “I’ve got you.”

The bathroom lights were dim—just the warm ambient glow of the under-counter lighting—and the air was already humid by the time he knelt by the tub, one arm still keeping you close while the other twisted the knobs.

Warm water started to fill the space, steam curling up like the start of something sacred.

He set you on the edge of the tub gently and leaned over to pour in something from a bottle—lavender and vanilla, by the smell—and you just sat there watching him, dazed and still pulsing between your legs.

Sunghoon looked up at you from under his lashes, hair messy and lips swollen. “You okay?”

You nodded, still breathless. “You’re… ridiculous.”

He smirked. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it more this time.”

When the tub was full, he helped you in first, easing your body into the water, then slid in behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His hands roamed lazily—down your arms, around your waist, fingers playing just beneath the surface.

And then his lips pressed to your shoulder.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not gonna let me relax, are you?”

He nipped gently at your neck. “I was trying to. You’re the one pressing that pretty ass against me.”

You grinned, hips shifting just enough to hear him hiss.

“Okay,” he growled, arms tightening around your waist. “That’s it.”

He turned you gently in the water until you were facing him, your thighs straddling his lap again beneath the surface. The heat of the water mixed with the slow burn returning in your gut. His chest glistened, wet and warm under your hands.

You dragged your palms up his torso slowly, admiring the cut of his collarbone, the sharp lines of his pecs. Then, without warning, you leaned down and pressed your lips just above his heart.

Sunghoon inhaled sharply.

Your teeth grazed him lightly, followed by your tongue, and then your mouth again—sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.

He groaned, head falling back against the edge of the tub. “Fuck.”

You licked across the red blotch, then moved a few inches over and did it again. His fingers gripped your hips beneath the water now, holding you in place, twitching slightly with every kiss you left on his chest.

“You like when I mark you up, don’t you?” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “You have no idea how hot that is.”

You kissed lower, right over his sternum. “Wanna be covered in them?”

His breath hitched. “Only if I get to return the favor.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes wicked. “Then you better sit still.”

You kept going—slow, open-mouthed kisses that turned into suckling marks across his chest, down the dip of his abs, making sure every moan he gave you echoed off the tiled walls.

And when you finally shifted your hips and sank down onto him again—warm, wet, slick from water and need—he nearly lost it.

“God, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, head falling forward, forehead resting against yours.

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as you rode him again—slow this time, deliberately teasing, your hands braced on his shoulders as you whispered sinful little things into his ear and left even more hickeys along his collarbones.

You were in no rush.

You both dragged it out—bodies tangled under the water, teeth grazing skin, low moans bouncing off the foggy mirrors—until he gripped your ass and came with a deep, guttural sound, burying his face into your shoulder.

You followed with a soft gasp, body trembling for the third time, mouth pressed to his neck as your nails dug into his back.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

You just sat there, still connected, chests rising and falling together, bathwater lukewarm and covered in steam.

Then Sunghoon kissed your cheek and whispered, hoarse and completely blissed out, “You’re never getting this hoodie back.”

The water had cooled enough to make you both shiver a little. Sunghoon noticed first, of course. He always did.

“Okay,” he murmured against your temple. “Up you go, pretty girl.”

You were barely responsive, dazed and boneless in his lap, but you let out a tiny hum as he helped you stand, the water cascading down both your bodies.

He stepped out after you and grabbed one of the oversized towels from the rack. Without a word, he wrapped it around your body from behind, tucking the edges carefully under your arms before pulling you into his chest, your back flush against his warmth.

You felt his lips press to your shoulder, featherlight.

“I should probably dry you off,” he said softly. “But I just wanna hold you for a minute.”

You melted into him instantly, eyes fluttering closed, head resting against his collarbone. “Mmm. You smell good.”

He laughed under his breath. “You smell like me. That’s my body wash.”

“And your hoodie.”

“Exactly. You’re basically mine now.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Basically?”

His grip on your waist tightened, just enough to make you feel it.

“Unless you’ve got a reason not to be,” he said, voice low, sincere.

You didn’t answer him right away—not with words. You turned around in his arms and wrapped your own around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Not frantic this time. Just soft and warm and unhurried, your lips moving with his like they already belonged there.

When you finally pulled back, you whispered, “No reason.”

That made him smile—wide and genuine. “Good.”

He reached for another towel and gently ran it over your legs, your arms, drying you with care. When he reached your chest, he hesitated—smirked—and kissed the bruised skin reverently before patting it dry.

“Still my favorite part,” he mumbled.

“Such a menace.”

Once you were dry, he carried you—again—to the bed, laying you down gently. He tugged on a soft sleep shirt and boxers for himself, then rummaged around until he found a clean hoodie.

He paused.

“You wanna wear this?” he asked, holding it up.

You sat up on your elbows. “Thought you said I wasn’t getting your hoodies anymore.”

“I lied. You can have all of them.”

He pulled it over your head, helping you into it like you were made of glass, then kissed your forehead before climbing in beside you and tugging you against his chest.

It was quiet for a while, the kind of silence that felt full instead of empty.

His fingers traced slow lines down your spine beneath the hoodie. “You tired?”

You nodded, mumbling into his neck. “A little.”

“Wanna sleep?”

You shrugged. “Kind of.”

He shifted slightly, his thigh slipping between yours, his hand settling low on your waist—dangerously close to temptation again.

You tilted your head and whispered, “Sunghoon?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way…”

He tensed a little, worried. “What?”

You grinned sleepily. “But I’m definitely stealing another hoodie tomorrow.”

He laughed, pulling you in closer until your leg was hooked around his hip and your bodies pressed flush again.

“I’ll just take my revenge in the morning,” he murmured against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Round four, babe. You better stretch.”

You woke up to the feel of warmth—heavy, solid, draped entirely around you.

Sunghoon’s chest was pressed to your back, one arm tucked under your neck like a pillow, the other curled tightly around your waist. His hoodie was oversized on you, but your bare legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, and you were acutely aware of something hard nudging against the curve of your ass.

You blinked slowly, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

“Sunghoon,” you murmured sleepily.

He groaned low in his throat, face buried in your hair. “Mmnn?”

“Are you…?”

Another sleepy shift. The thick press of him grinding instinctively against your backside made your breath hitch. You froze, and he stilled too.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Sorry—morning wood. Can’t help it.”

You smirked. “I’m not exactly complaining.”

He laughed quietly, but you felt his hips rock against you again, slower this time, deliberate. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

His lips brushed the back of your neck. “You’re evil. You know that, right?”

You rolled your hips just slightly, teasing, letting the hem of his hoodie ride up your thighs as you pressed back into him.

“Me?” you whispered, feigning innocence. “I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Sunghoon growled softly and rolled you onto your back, slipping between your legs in one fluid motion. The bulge in his boxers pressed right against your center now, only the thin fabric separating you.

“You’re really gonna keep playing in my hoodie, no panties,” he said, eyes dark with hunger, “and act like you didn’t know what you were doing?”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted. “I just like how it smells.”

His jaw clenched, and the way his hips bucked forward told you everything.

“Yeah?” he rasped, leaning in close, lips brushing yours. “You like how I smell?”

You nodded, one hand slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie to palm at his lower abs. “You smell like sex. Like me.”

His breath hitched.

You slid your fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around him slowly. He was hot, hard, twitching against your palm.

“Baby…” he warned.

But you stroked him gently, thumb brushing his tip.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Since you’re already awake…”

He didn’t need any more convincing.

With one hand, he pulled his boxers down just enough. The other hand slid your hoodie up to your waist, revealing the soaked mess between your thighs.

“Look at you,” he muttered, eyes fixated. “Wet already, just from waking up next to me.”

You smirked. “You’re not exactly subtle with that thing pressed against me all night.”

He pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, slowly easing in. You both gasped—your body already welcoming him, warm and wet and soft around him.

His hands slid under your thighs, pushing them up, pressing your knees to your chest so he could sink deeper. The stretch was dizzying.

“Fuck, baby—” he whispered, biting his lip. “You feel unreal like this.”

Your nails scraped at his back, your head falling back against the pillows as he rocked into you with lazy, morning hunger. Deep, slow strokes. No rush. Just the steady rhythm of his body pushing into yours, skin slapping softly, lips finding each other in between gasps.

“You always gonna wake me up like this?” he asked, voice ragged.

You grinned, tugging him closer. “Only if you keep wearing those boxers.”

His laugh turned into a groan as he thrust harder, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again—his hips relentless now, chasing that high you both knew was coming quick.

You moaned into his neck, legs wrapping around his waist.

And when you came—again—Sunghoon held you through it, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough, like you were still wearing his hoodie and nothing else for the rest of his life.

Because maybe you would.

You sat across from him at the little breakfast table, legs tucked under you, hoodie still slipping off one shoulder. Sunghoon had his fork in his hand, but his eyes were not—absolutely not—on the eggs.

They were on you.

Specifically, the way his hoodie dipped low across your chest every time you leaned forward to take a bite.

You bit into your toast slowly, watching his gaze drop. Again.

And then smirked. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “You’re teasing.”

You feigned innocence, licking a crumb off your lower lip. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

He tilted his head, squinting at you. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You leaned forward on your elbows just a little more—enough that the neckline of the hoodie dipped a few extra inches, revealing the bare curve underneath.

“What, this?” you said, blinking up at him sweetly. “The hoodie rides low. Not my fault.”

Sunghoon visibly swallowed, dropping his fork. “Babe…”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You pretended to think. “Or maybe I’m just making it fair. You parade around in that tank top for two days and I can’t even exist in a hoodie without you getting handsy.”

He groaned. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“You’ve got your boobs out.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “I do not—they’re just slightly visible.”

“Slightly? I can see half the damn thing.”

You giggled and reached for your coffee, watching him glare at the mug like it personally offended him by hiding your cleavage.

“You really have a thing for them, huh?” you teased.

He didn’t even blink. “I admitted that last night. Several times.”

You raised a brow. “And during the bath.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “And yet I still haven’t gotten enough.”

You licked your spoon slowly. “Poor baby.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He pushed his plate aside, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stood up and walked over to your side of the table.

You blinked up at him, all feigned innocence again. “What are you doing?”

He leaned down, both hands on the arms of your chair, trapping you.

“Letting you know,” he whispered, eyes dropping to the neckline of your hoodie again, “that if you keep teasing me like this, you’re not gonna finish that coffee.”

You raised your chin. “Bold of you to assume I wanted to.”

He huffed out a laugh, biting his lip. “You’re evil.”

You tugged on the front of the hoodie, dipping the zipper just a little lower. “And you’re obsessed.”

“Completely.”

Then he dipped down, and for a second you thought he was going to kiss you again—but instead, he buried his face between your boobs, groaning dramatically like a man who’d gone to heaven and back.

“Unbelievable,” you said, laughing breathlessly.

“Your fault,” he mumbled against your chest.

“You’re literally addicted.”

“I’d cancel all my meetings for this.”

You rolled your eyes, running your fingers through his hair. “One day, you’re gonna have to learn to behave.”

He tilted his head back just enough to smirk up at you, still nestled between your boobs.

“And one day,” he murmured, “you’re gonna have to accept that I never will.”

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