#there's a pattern there's a pattern there's a pattern to be followed

[crookedbranchbooks]

Amber Skies by @cryptotheism

June 12, 2025

Full cloth case binding with paper overlay and design in heat transfer vinyl.

I followed Amber Skies when it was being updated weekly, and read the latter half of it live. Even though I hadn't reread it in since, so much of the worldbuilding and the imagery stuck with me. So when I started thinking about internet-published texts to bind, Amber Skies was one of the first things to come to mind. Almost all of the styling of this book stems from me finding the black and white geometric patterned paper in paper source. It defined the "black and white with yellow accents" color scheme, and inspired the maze motif in the title page and chapter headers. The "maze" is meant to evoke the complex, confusing, and often deadly shafts and halls of Teleth Thadeyn, and the front page design is roughly the shape I imagined the megacity to be (although I would not be shocked to learn that I'm off base there, Heaven being at the top of a spire is a fun visual but not structurally sound). The yellow accents on the cover are all in a handwritten/hand-drawn style, meant to contrast against the stark black and white lines, representative of all of the people (and creatures) that have passed through Teleth Thadeyn and made their home their long after the death of the architects. The symbol on the back is the shaft-diver sign for danger, as described by Kali: "an inverted triangle with a cross through it."

Materials: covers - 2 mm grey board spine stiffener - paperboard covering material - white linen bookcloth overlay - screenprinted mulberry paper with geometric design vinyl - siser easyweed yellow vinyl

endpapers - yellow fine paper with gold printing endbands - faux double core french endband, with cotton embroidery floss edge painting - yellow and orange acryllic paint textblock paper - Church bookbinding paper, 20lb, cream, 8.5x11

Typeset: Designed in Scribus. The body font is Libertinus Serif, headings are in SaaSeriesDDOT. Maze images from Adobe Stock.

Cover Design: Designed in Photopea. Font is Permanent Marker.

dimensions: 5.5"x8.5"

[bi-writes]

polarity | ghost x f!reader

maybe we're not so different after all.

type: one-shot (8.3k), AO3

cw: this piece is actually super dark proceed with caution, dark!ghost, dark!simon, sunshine!reader, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence + gore, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, meet-cute until it's not, background breeding kink, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, references to simon's past canon trauma, 18+

Ghost does not believe in love at first sight.

The concept is for children; even when he was a child, he doesn’t think he would’ve believed it then, either. There was no love where he went, even to the places where it was owed to him. In his own house, he feared what love felt like. The kind he knew was pain and misery and the terrifying reality of what it meant to always be looking over his own shoulder.

Love at first sight chewed Simon Riley up—and what it spat out was terrible, big, and caged-off from the rest of the world.

Ghost is built of many layers. Not like an onion, no—onions are easy to manipulate. With the tip of a knife, you can cut right through its skin and tear it apart, but Ghost is not built the same way. He laid concrete out in front of himself a long time ago. The things around him are rotten, curled in on itself, and it would take too long to unbury him for anyone at all to want to spend the time and try. He prefers it this way. He likes it this way. Being alone means there are no surprises, and there is no one waiting for you. There is no one to disappoint, and there is no one to prove right or wrong. There is only today and tomorrow, because yesterday has already passed, and he doesn’t care to think about what already was.

It’s Johnny that’s brought him here. In a pub too loud, with watered-down drinks that cost a quid too much. He didn’t have an excuse today to turn him down. Johnny’s got a sister he needs to see, and his sister has got a friend—someone from her uni, taking the same chemistry courses, or something like that. He can’t really remember, he wasn’t paying attention too closely, but Johnny offered to pay if his lieutenant just gave him company in the long drive into the city.

The booth is too small. His bourbon tastes off. All he wants to do is smoke a cigarette, but he’s been staring daggers at the “No Smoking” sign that’s posted behind the bar. There’s a ringing in his ears that’s been following him since they got off their last op just a few days ago, and it feels strongest here in this room, with too many unknowns in too many dark corners.

“Johnny!”

A soft voice squeals. Simon’s eye twitches, and he looks over Johnny’s shoulder to see a pretty brunette with bright, blue eyes smiling wide as she hurries towards them. Johnny slips out of his seat to cradle the woman to his chest, rocking back and forth as he hugs her. His baby Emily, he hears Johnny mutter. She’s got that same square jaw and strong brows, and Ghost imagines that if Johnny were to grow out his hair, it’d grow in the same matching, bouncy curls that Emily has. She sounds so happy to see him, and Ghost swirls a gloved finger around the rim of his glass as he watches.

It tastes sour, looking at something that he used to have. He wishes that he didn’t want it as much as he thinks he does at this very moment.

“Oh! Sorry, forgot for a wee second there. This is who I told you about—”

Emily steps aside, and there you stand.

Glossy, pink-tinted lips. A cardigan that hugs your frame with a knit, sunflower pattern. Light wash jeans, baby blue boots. Your fingertips are painted glittery and pink, and your baby blue purse matches your shoes.

Emily says your name, and you hold out your hand for Johnny to shake. It’s then that your eyes move to the shadow behind him, and Ghost licks over his teeth, satisfied, when you visibly swallow and your eyes widen a little.

“Ach, don’t mind ‘im. Tha’ scary bastard is just my lieutenant, Simon,” Johnny nods his head over his shoulder. “Simon, would ye introduce yerself, fer fuck’s sake? Stop brooding over there.”

Naturally, Emily sits next to her brother, already squeezing his shoulders and excitedly telling him about some fellowship opportunity she was up for. You slip your purse off your shoulder, shuffling towards the space next to Simon. You grip the edge of the booth to hoist yourself up onto the high seat, and you smile a little when Simon holds out his hand for you.

You take it, smooth palm in his gloved one, and it takes no effort at all for him to tug gently and get you up to sit. He sniffs, looking up when he finds himself staring a little too long at the curve of your jeans, but it’s hard not to when both of you take up the entirety of the booth. Just to fit, Simon has to lean back, and you adjust your cardigan over your shoulder when Simon stretches one big arm out behind you.

“So, uh…” You clear your throat. “What are you drinking, Lieutenant?”

“Piss water,” Simon says lowly. He cringes a little at the bite of his tone—he never means to be curt, but it always comes out that way. You purse your lips, tapping your nails on the wood, and you look at him over your shoulder.

“Hmm,” you make a face, “so Johnny made it?”

It takes a few moments for Simon to realize you’re telling a joke. The silence must mortify you, because you’re looking down and tearing a piece of yarn out of your sweater, and Simon realizes he’s wearing his mask, and you can’t see his face, and she’s trying to break the fucking ice—

“Nah,” Simon shrugs, shaking his head. “His tastes more like right shit.”

Your eyes flicker up, and you stare at him for just a few moments under your lashes before your hand goes up to cover your mouth. You giggle, cheeks warm, and he blinks at you slowly as your entire body relaxes. Your thigh touches his, and his fingers flex on the hand that’s thrown behind you, twitching as he thinks about letting them graze the skin peeking out from under your sweater.

When he gets the urge to touch you under your chin, he nearly curses out loud because fuck—

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Simon knows it as soon as he lays his eyes on you again. Staring right into yours, hand fidgeting behind you as it wants so desperately to cup the back of your neck and tangle into the strands of your hair—fuck, fuck, fuck—he’s so fucked.

He knows it, too, when you’re in his bed. Sunflower sweater draped across his floor, boots in the hallway, glittered nail-polish piercing his biceps as he tilts your head back, bares your throat, sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh there. You giggle, and it’s the rainbow after a storm. The drink of water after days in the desert, the stitch that holds the seams together, the pins that will take his broken bones and put them all back together again—

He’s feeling his cum dripping between your thighs when you ask him about his scars. He adjusts the edge of his mask as soon as you ask, sniffing under it as you smooth a finger over a puckered scar on his chest left behind by the ricochet of a stray bullet, one of many. You squeeze your thighs together when his long fingers move in squelching circles over your cunt, and your back arches when he slips them inside of you. You take his jaw between a few fingers and grip it tight, pressing your lips against his mask as you whine and kick your feet in overstimulation.

He doesn’t want you to ask questions. He doesn’t want to burst this bubble of warmth and goodness and intimacy that he’s created, because then this will be something else. Right now, he’s the mysterious, black ops military man you’ve spent an incredible night with, and if you start talking, you’ll learn. You’ll understand. You’ll find out why he doesn’t want to talk much. You’ll discover what he is under the skin he wears, and he already knows he’ll terrify you. There is nothing good about what someone uncovers under the lid he keeps over his head.

“Where did you get this one?” You point to a particular nasty white gash on the side of his ribs. He rubs a thick hand down your bare back, cupping your ass and squeezing gently.

“Op in Baghdad,” Simon murmurs. “Hand to hand.”

You touch a small circular scar on his arm.

“And this one?”

“Cigarette.”

You push the blankets down a little and bring your knee up. Simon grips the side of your thigh, and you hike your leg up to give him a better look at the puffed scar across your kneecap.

“Look at this,” you giggle. “I fell off my bike when I was little.”

“Tha’ right, swee’eart?”

“Mhm. Just like you.”

“Just like me.”

You’re still there in the morning. Cheek smushed against his chest, leg tangled between his, arm curled around his middle. There’s a little drool drying on the side of your mouth, and Simon thumbs along your jaw as he watches you sleep. The glittery eyeshadow you were wearing last night has smeared across your cheek a little, and you’re glowing. A good shag and a good night’s sleep, and you look like a right angel in the early hours.

You look like one on his couch, too. You look like one in his shirt that barely fits over your tits, watching his telly, eating the shit plate of eggs he made you since he’s never bothered to learn how to cook. You look beautiful getting your clothes back on and smelling just like him as he drives you back to your flat.

You look like his when he crowds you against the door of your place, masked mouth against your open lips as you fumble for the doorknob and yank him inside to get his pants off.

Your flat blinds him. There’s different colors scattered across the place. A fluffy pink carpet in the living room. String lights hung everywhere, in different colors, twinkling gently. There’s plants of all shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling and overflowing from their brightly colored pots. No plate or cup is the same shape or color or even matches one another, and there’s lamps in the shapes of mushrooms and fish sitting on your mismatched coffee and side tables. You collect everything—movie posters of all kinds on the walls, an entire wall of funny clocks, another wall of arts and crafts that must be homemade, framed and hung up.

Your home is what you are. Fun and colorful and happy and bright, and Simon hikes his mask up so he can bite and lick and nearly eat you as he tries to absorb all of it. There is nothing inside of this place that doesn’t incite joy, and he feeds on it like a leech. He must have it, because he never has before, and whenever he lets go, he feels it less, and that cannot happen, he won’t let it go.

If it isn’t your smile keeping him close, your pussy is the next best thing. You look incredible on your knees—perched on your elbows, ass up, pushing back against him as he fucks into you lazily. You’re so beautiful, in every position, but there’s something about getting to push your thighs apart a little and watch you take his cock that makes his belly clench as he watches you suck him in again and again and again. There’s a ring of slick gathering at the base, making it nice and easy for him to kiss your cervix, and you sound so pretty—soft whines of his name, little mewls that make his jaw tick.

“Simon—Simon, please—”

He doesn’t like to hear you beg. You deserve whatever you ask for, whatever you want. Those big eyes should never desire anything. He never wants to see you pout or blubber—he wants you relaxed and pleasured and incoherent from how fed you are in every aspect, and he’s going to fuck you right into this mattress until he gets you right where you’re meant to be.

You tell him he looks funny in your bed, surrounded by the squishmallows and fluffy teddy bears, but he doesn’t mind. He didn’t realize what a proper bed could do for his back, because yours has springs and memory foam, and his body just sinks into it just right.

He gets woken up in the middle of the night by his phone. Wheels up at 0500, and now he’s dreading getting into his truck. There’s something warm on his chest, and for a moment he thinks it’s you, but then he blinks into focus when the thing on his chest moves and stretches, staring down at him with curious green eyes. It’s a chunky tuxedo cat, and it’s wearing a black bedazzled collar.

“‘ello,” Simon mutters, scratching under its chin. The big thing just nuzzles against his hand before moving to the end of the bed to curl up between your feet.

Simon tries not to think about you on the drive back, and he tries not to think about you as he puts his gear on; but there’s a bouquet of fake sunflowers on a secretary’s desk mocking him, and when he goes to put his gloves on, there’s still glitter on his fingertips.

You are everywhere. You are in the warmth of the sand that gets under the fabric of his mask. You are in the water that sustains him on hour fifteen of sitting on a rooftop. He sees you in the bright red that trickles from the hole in his target’s forehead, matching the red of the strawberry plushie that you were holding the morning he left.

He notices himself more. How much space he takes up. How loud his voice is. He compares the way his cock looks in his hand now to the way it looked in yours, and he has to swallow the groan that threatens to break when he thinks about the way you thumbed at the tip and cooed about how pretty he was. Delicate, pretty hands, not at all like his own—not at all like the roughness of his palms, the scars along the backs of his hands, the blood against his raw knuckles from beating a hostile into the ground just to feel something.

Just to feel anything.

Standing next to you, it is all too clear what kind of man Simon Riley is. He’s not a man at all—he’s nothing more than an extension to his rifle, and when the trigger isn’t getting pulled, he’s just not that fucking useful.

Johnny is in a mood. Scowling like a brat. Glaring at the back of his head. Hitting him with his shoulder whenever they pass by each other. Simon is indifferent, and Simon pretends not to care, so he takes it in stride, but it makes his teeth ache with how annoyed he is.

“What the fuck is wrong with ye?”

He doesn’t like being scolded, especially not by his sergeant; but he sits there, and he takes it, because what Johnny is telling him isn’t a lie. There’s a girl that woke up in an empty bed—a sweet one, with glassy eyes, and she thinks he’s a two-faced asshole that slipped out when she wasn’t looking. A girl that can do casual, but not a girl that can tell him about the dreams she’s too scared to write down and lets him rest his head on the same pillow where she rests her own. Too intimate, too many words, too many times he came inside of her and told her that’s where it’s supposed to be—in y’r pretty pussy, baby, right there—

He’s never done this before. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t stick around where he knows he doesn’t belong, and he never thinks he’s done anything wrong enough to warrant some kind of apology. With Simon, you get what you get, and he doesn’t think he advertises himself as someone warm, empathetic, considerate; but he’s sitting here, his truck still running, and there’s a decaying plastic-encased bouquet of yellow tulips resting haphazard in the passenger seat.

He’s been waiting on your doorstep for more than five minutes. He sees you peeking through the window in your kitchen, and his eyes find yours through the blinds. He narrows his eyes at you, squeezing the bouquet until the plastic crinkles under his fists. It takes a couple more moments before you open the door, and Simon sniffs under the mask when he sees your eyes again. They’re big and wet and sad.

He never wants to see them like this again.

You’re sweet, so you take the flowers from him. You purse your lips as you stand there, trying to keep your lip from wobbling, but it’s very clear you’re trying not to cry. You hug the flowers close to your chest, and Simon brings his hand up, tucking his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up.

“‘ello, swee’eart,” he murmurs. “Were y’lookin’ for me?”

“N-No.”

“Y’r a bad liar, baby.”

It takes a few minutes to get you settled. Sitting on your couch, batting at your tears with the sleeve of your sweater as Simon turns the kettle on in your kitchen. The cat weaves between his legs as he steeps the tea bags, and when he comes back into your living room, you’re staring at the droopy tulips, rubbing a thumb over the petals.

“‘ere,” Simon murmurs, setting down a mug in front of you.

“I…” You wipe under your nose. “I-I don’t need your pity, Simon.”

“Not here for tha’.”

“I know Johnny said something to you, and I really don’t want to talk about it—a-and if that’s why you’re here, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

You pick up one of the stuffed animals that sits on your couch. It’s a goldfish, fat with stuffing around the middle, with a comical smile and rainbow-colored scales. You hug it, resting your cheek on it, staring at Simon through wet eyelashes as he stiffens uncomfortably. Crying, emotions, talking—he doesn’t do any of these things. This complicates things. Relationships make things more difficult, and connections mean he has obligations, and he’s already seeing now what this kind of thing will be between you.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“He did say somethin’,” Simon mutters. He sniffs, looking down at his gloved hands. His fingers curl into fists as they rest on his thighs, and he lets out the breath he’s holding harshly, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing here, but the thought of getting up and leaving seems worse. “Didn’t sit right wit’ me.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, and he watches as you absentmindedly knead the stuffed fish. You hum lowly, sheepish, and then you open and close your mouth as you try to find the words to say.

“I know we…” You flinch a little. “It was just…I know it was just a day. A night.” You rub your nose. “I feel so stupid. I don’t want you to feel bad. I don’t want you to feel…like you h-have to come here and…explain, I…” You close your eyes. “I-I just…I really like you, Simon.”

I really like you, Simon.

He leans his head back against the back of your couch. Something in his chest squeezes tight, and he swallows hard as he listens to you say it again and again in his head.

I really like you, Simon. I really like you, Simon. Don’t you like me?

“Oh, love,” Simon breathes. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re already looking at him. You have the fish to your chest, hugging it tighter, and he reaches over and touches under your chin gently. “Y’don’t want this. Y’don’t want me. I know y’think y’do, and ‘s sweet, but y’don’t want this.”

“Tell me why,” you say softly. “Convince me, then.”

“Do you…do you even know wot we do?” He asks. “The kinds of things they ask us to do? Wot I’ve done t’get here?”

You shake your head, and when his hand opens up, your cheek finds his palm, resting there, nuzzling.

“We’re murderers with fuckin’ passes,” he whispers. “There isn’t a line we don’t cross. No boundary we don’t ignore. They killed my whole fuckin’ family, and then I came back for more, because tha’s the kind of life I live, and tha’s the kind of work I do. When I come home, I have someone else’s blood on my clothes, do y’understand tha’?” He leans closer, touching his nose to yours. “We go places tha’ no one comes back from. Even now—” He pinches your chin between two fingers, “—I strangled someone with these very hands, love, tha’s the kind of man I am. Look at me—”

You flutter your lashes, meeting his eyes, and he shakes his head.

“Tha’s wot I do, love,” Simon grunts. “And the worst part of it is tha’ I fuckin’ like it.”

You lift a hand up and wrap it around his wrist. There is no resistance as you draw his hand off your face and hold it instead, intertwining your fingers and resting them in your lap. His hand dwarfs yours—long, deft fingers and spread palm that covers your own completely. You scoot a little closer, getting up onto your knees, and Simon’s eyes follow you as you abandon the stuffed fish to put one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his masked cheek.

“You didn’t say no.”

“Wot?”

“You won’t say no,” you whisper, sliding the hand on his shoulder up to caress the back of his neck. “To me. To this.”

“Because I can’t,” Simon groans. “Need you t’do it.”

“But I…” You lean down and press your forehead to his. “I-I do want it. I want you. You’re…” You kiss him through the mask, a soft press of your lips against his. You feel him kiss back, and you pull away slowly. “Please. Please, Simon?” You kiss down his cheek, thumbing under his eye, and he lets out a shaky breath as you fall into his lap, knees on either side of him. His hands come up easily, cupping under your thighs, and you whine as he drags your hips forward, a slow grind that makes you shake. “Won’t you try? For me?”

Getting Simon into your bed is too easy. He looks nice here, underneath you. You press down onto his chest for leverage, using it to help throw your hips back against his. He’s deep, pulsing inside of your cunt—your rhythm stutters every time he touches your cervix, but his tight grip on your ass keeps you moving.

You’re so wet. You’ve never been wetter with another man. Sweat, tears, slick—every part of you leaks when you’re with Simon. You dig your nails into his chest, and he grunts, when you start to feel your orgasm creeping up on you, you arch your back to get friction onto your clit and squeal when Simon gets the hint; he lifts you up and plants his feet against the bed to fuck up into you and force your eyes into the back of your head.

He tastes like you after awhile. After spending days in your flat, his kisses start to taste as sweet as the pastries you make, and he starts to smell like the citrus soaps you keep in your bathroom. You get a whiff of lavender from his clothes after using your laundry detergent, and he sleeps like the dead after round two inside of you. Cum cooling between your thighs, mouth fixed to your throat, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep warm as he breathes in a sigh of relief until he’s deep asleep. He still doesn’t take his mask off, but he gives you his mouth, and you fix yourself there, mouth against his, kissing him feverishly whenever he exposes his lips just for you.

“Will you miss me?” You ask. He’s standing at the door, pulling his jacket on. He flips the hood up over his head, clicking his tongue as he fits a hand into the back pocket of your jeans and squeezes, pulling you towards him and into his chest.

“Mhm,” he mutters. You giggle, cupping his cheeks, and when he puts his thumb between your lips, you let him open your mouth, tilting your head as he spits onto your tongue before kissing you wetly. You wrap your arms around his neck, charmed bracelets jingling as you try to climb up to him. He bends, gripping you under your thighs before he hoists you up and against the wall. You moan, scratching along his back.

“Do you really have to go?” You whisper between kisses, and he hisses in response.

“Got to,” Simon sighs, but you smile wide when you hear the sound of his belt buckle. “But I can be late.”

Like you, Simon feels like he’s seeing the world for the very first time—all in color. Food has taste. Views have beauty. His gun feels heavy, and his cot is cold to the touch. Time finally has duration—it hangs and drags now, minutes and seconds taking too long as he sits in a dark room and listens to his captain explain an op he could care less about. His leg bounces impatiently, fingers twitching as he watches the screen and tries to pay attention.

Complicated. Difficult. Not enough and too much.

You are so beautiful. Your name lights up his phone, several pink and yellow emojis beside your name that you entered yourself.

we miss u! xoxo

There’s a picture of you and your cat. You’re seated on your couch, a pink blanket in your lap, a selfie of you holding up your cat in one arm. Simon clenches his jaw when he sees that you’re practically naked—in just a yellow lace bra, blanket covering your lower half. You send another picture after a few seconds, and Simon licks over his teeth. Another selfie of you, cleavage on display, and he can see the little rhinestones that are sewn into your bra. He can also see the little butterfly clips you have in your hair and the darling smile you wear.

He comes in his fist later, selfie on display in one hand, his mind on the sound of your voice. It’s never happened so fast—just a few languid tugs, and he’s spilling over his thighs like a teenager.

It’s all he thinks about. The blood runs warmer, easier. His gun fires quicker. He’s got tunnel-vision now, eyes on his prize—the sooner he finishes, the quicker he gets home, so he sinks his blade into throats and keeps his feet moving. He keeps quiet, keeps steady, and as soon as he’s got his target in his sights, he pulls the trigger without a second thought.

“Got somethin’ on yer mind, LT?”

Simon narrows his eyes. Johnny looks smug—a ghost of a smirk on his face, face red from sweat and his own cheekiness. Simon just leans his head back against the side of the helicopter, looking outside as the ground gets farther and farther away.

“Never pegged ye fer the type.”

Simon’s hands dig into his rifle.

“Always liked tha’ one,” Johnny continues. “Got a sweet face. Always wondered why she never liked me. Guess she likes ‘em big ‘n scary.”

“Careful, Johnny,” Simon warns, glaring at him.

“I just—”

“No, listen ‘ere,” Simon snaps. “We don’t talk about ‘er. We don’t mention ‘er. She is off limits, to you or anyone else. As far as y’r concerned, she doesn’t exist, yeah? Repeat it back t’me.”

“Don’t know who yer talkin’ about, LT,” Johnny says after a few moments. Simon looks away, shaking his head.

“Good boy.”

He doesn’t go back to his flat. There isn’t anything there that he wants; everything he needs leads straight to you. You’re cooing when he comes through the door, murmuring lowly as he drops his duffel bag and shoves his masked face into the crook of your neck. He crowds you against the door when you shut it, and you giggle as he takes deep breaths of your perfume. His hands grab at your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs, feeling over the soft skin and biting at your throat even through the mask.

“What happened, teddy bear?” You mumble, scratching the back of his neck. “What did they do to you, huh?”

Dog, mutt, devour. He’s been away for too long, been starving ever since he left, and you take it with a smile. Simon is never too much for you. Simon is never too rough or too loud, and he is never too far into your space or too attached. You drink it so lovingly, and you never push him away.

He watches you carefully as you help him take his gear off. You start with the weapons. You slip the gun out of its holster on his chest, emptying the chamber and taking the magazine out. His grip on your waist tightens at the sight of you handling it with such ease, and you just shrug as you set it aside.

“I’ve been practicing.”

You unload all of his throwing knives, from his thigh holster and from inside of his boot. You find another small pistol attached to his boot, and you sigh as you unload it the same. Your hands find the buckles of his thigh holsters, and when you slide it off of him, you settle on your knees and tip your head back to look up at him.

He caresses the back of your head, and you swear you hear him purr. You lean forward, pressing your cheek to where his belt is. You kiss there, right against his zipper, and his fingers tangle into your hair just enough for you to feel a little pressure. He’s still gentle, still kind, but his eyes are so dark. You wonder if the way he looks at you now is the way he looks at his targets. Is this hunger the same—the same for you as it is to get the job done? They say love and hate are so alike, so intertwined; is that why he keeps coming back? Does he chase this feeling all the time?

What is it that you are?

An addiction? Or a necessity?

You take his dirty clothes from him as he undresses in the bathroom. Shirt, jacket, belt, pants, socks, boxers—you eye him with a smile, biting your lip, and Simon winks at you from under the mask as he slides a big hand down his middle.

“Wot?” He asks. “Like wot y’see, love?”

It would be impossible not to. Thick arms, tattoos on display. Unforgiving muscle and fat. His hands ungloved, you can see the split of his knuckles and the bruising from where he must’ve hit something—someone. Then your eyes skim over the curls just over his cock, which hangs heavy and red between his thighs. Simon has no shame—his nakedness is not something he cares to hide, especially not to you. You stand on your toes and gives his cheek a kiss before taking his clothes to the laundry room.

You’re at the sink when he’s freshly showered. There’s a bottle of peroxide next to you, and you’re wearing gloves, and he watches as you have his pants half in the sink as you work on scrubbing at the fabric.

“Wot ‘appened?” Simon asks. You hum, shrugging, ringing out a bit of the fabric.

“Just some blood. I’ll get it out. What do you want to eat for dinner, baby?”

Simon thinks that’s the moment he knew he was in love with you. Hair pinned back, baby pink matching lounge outfit with the tiniest shorts he’s ever fucking seen, scrubbing out the blood from his clothes as you talk about supper.

He knows he was fucked from the moment he met you—but it’s now that he knows he’ll never leave.

He’s reminded again of that feeling when you call him angrily from your flat. He’s pushing a trolly in the store, eyes sweeping over the selection of chocolate in the baking section. You were baking chocolate scones and would be making some ganache tomorrow, and he’s squinting at the paper you gave him with your list when his phone starts ringing.

“‘ello, love?”

“Simon, are you serious?!”

“Wot happened?”

“There’s—Simon! There’s a grenade in…in the jar!”

“Wot’s tha’?”

“The jar with my powdered sugar. I found a grenade in there!”

“Oh. Mmm. Right. Leave it there.”

“Simon! And are you taping ninja stars under my tables? I found two already!”

“Dunno. But sounds like someone ‘ad a good idea, wanted t’be prepared, y’should leave them there.”

“Simon, you are—” There’s a pause, and then he smiles under the mask when you laugh. “Just get my chocolate and get back here, please.”

You have no idea what Simon was talking about. You don’t understand what it is that he was running from. There’s so much of himself that he was meant to show to someone else. He’s been hiding for so long, and not just underneath the mask he wears—but there’s a man under it all, and you love when he comes out to meet you.

Maybe he is a little terrible. Maybe he really is just the thing you don’t need. You think about that a little too long when the water in the sink runs red again, his shirt an entirely different color from whatever it is that he had done before he got home. Maybe he really is wrong for you—it crosses your mind when you’re dusting the shelves and find a loaded pistol in the vase that used to hold your apology tulips.

He lives an entirely different life than you. He drags colors into your home that you tried so hard not to embrace, all the black and blue and grey that you’ve always felt could swallow your entire self—but you don’t know what the alternative is. There is no one else in the world that looks at you the way that he does. There isn’t anyone’s hand that feels the way his does when it’s against the side of your face or tangled between the strands of your hair or warm between your thighs.

You don’t think anyone else would mean it if they saw you crying and threatened to kill whoever had made you so sad; because he does mean it, doesn’t he? He would do it if you asked, wouldn’t he?

That’s love; you’re convinced it is. Love is the boundaries you say you won’t cross that you step right over without thinking. Love is the places you say you could never go that are already behind you. Love—real love—is the doorway that Simon keeps passing through even though he promises you that this is the last time whenever he leaves.

“Look at me—ha, Simon!—look here.” You fit the headband onto over his head, fitting the cat ears on top of his head. He grunts a little, sighing through his nose, and you warm up the makeup remover between your hands. Delicately, you start to rub it into his face. He closes his eyes, and you carefully work your fingers against his skin as the eye-black begins to run easily. “Almost done.”

You use a warm cloth to wipe his face. The eye-black comes off, but the scars remain, and when he opens his eyes, you know that you haven’t really taken anything away from him. There’s still something that weighs heavy on his shoulders, and you lean forward to get closer to him, keeping your voice quiet.

“What was it this time?” You ask, putting both hands on his face and keeping his eyes on yours. He blinks, and he goes somewhere else. He’s thinking about it. There’s something he’s looking at, somewhere far away, over your shoulder.

“He begged me not to,” Simon murmurs. “Told me their names.”

Moms. Dads. Partner. Children. They always have names at the end—as if attaching themselves to another will make their deaths harder. Men are singular beings. Rarely are they life support for another.

“It’s okay,” you tell Simon. You close your eyes as you rest your cheek against his.

“It is?”

“Uh huh.” It’s so warm here, arms around him, face tucked against his. “I forgive you.”

It’s okay. I forgive you. Everything is just as it should be.

“Y’don’t know wot I did,” Simon counters. “Wot I…got outta him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say softly. You squeeze the towel out, wetting it again with warm water before passing it over his face again. You hold him under his chin, catching the droplets of water, and you smile as you kiss his nose gently. “It never does. Never will.”

“But—”

“I made your favorite,” you interrupt, plucking the cat ears off of him and tossing everything into the laundry basket. “There’s brownies in the kitchen. I want you to try.”

Is Simon really committing heinous war crimes when his reward is chocolate decadence and wet pussy?

You look so cute. You’re wearing a flowery pajama set, tiny shorts and cropped shirt, something that leaves nothing to the imagination as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side and sinks into you easily. You brace yourself against the back of the couch, sitting up in his lap. Simon groans when your tits are right in his face, pebbled nipples poking through your shirt fabric, and he reaches up to pinch them between greedy fingers as you sit right down on his dick and take him to the tilt.

“Fuuuuuuuuck—” Simon breathes. The wet squelch is making his head spin. His wet girl, his pretty girl, his sweet girl. He sharpens his teeth when he leaves, and you dull them when he comes home, letting him sink his teeth into you and eat. You keep him in balance; the push and pull that he always felt he struggled with is nonexistent now that you’re here. When Ghost used to get put back into his duffel, Simon felt like what was left behind was almost too much to take. The nightmares, the torture, the disregard for what was moral in favor of what got the job done—it is gone with you. Your absolution resolves him of this debt.

How can he feel he’s done anything wrong when you’re calling him teddy bear and taking his cock like this?

You drag the hem of your shirt up slowly, and when your tits are bouncing, bare and sweaty in front of his face, Simon loses his train of thought. His mouth falls open, tongue hanging out, and you cup the back of his neck to draw him close until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. You whimper, keeping him there, slowing your hips to watch him let go for just long enough to spit on your chest and lick it right back up.

“Feels so good, teddy bear,” you whine. “You’re so big…” You wiggle your hips until just the tip of him is inside you, and then you sit back down, drawing out a long moan from the both of you. His hands fall to cup under your thighs, and you feel like you’re melting as his tip prods against a squishy spot inside of you and makes you see double. You grab onto his shoulders, digging your nails in, crying. “Oh—right t-there, baby—right there—”

“Right there, swee’eart?”

“Mhm! M-More…”

“My sweet girl,” he mumbles, and you squeak when he grips the fabric of your shorts, grunting as he tears the fabric apart. His fingers cup both sides of your ass, spreading them, using the new leverage he has on you to start picking you up and bouncing you with nothing but sheer strength. You’re thick everywhere that he needs you to be—hips, stomach, thighs, all the perfect places he hopes any girl he’s with will be. They never quite had it the way you do; when his fingers dig and feel nothing but softness, he hisses because it feels so good to grab onto you. It makes his mouth water. It makes him so fucking hungry. It makes his cock ache and his balls heavy, and he’s going to come if he keeps seeing your breasts sway like that as you take his cock so well. “Fuck—” He shakes his head. “Fuck!”

You lick into his mouth just as he loses control. Fingers under his chin, tongue around his teeth as he holds you down on his lap and fills you nice and warm. Your hips stutter, and he lets you lean back just enough so you can touch your clit and squeeze around him. You look down between your bodies, touching tenderly where you’re connected, like you’re fascinated by how much of him fits inside of you.

You settle after a few minutes. You rest your palms on his chest, squishy muscle supporting you as you lift your hips and let him out. You lean over him, whining when you feel fluid slipping down your thighs and gathering underneath you.

“You’re thinking too much,” you whisper as you slip your shirt back on. Simon hums as he holds you in his lap, cock twitching as he watches you move your hair out of your eyes and lick your own fingers.

“Got a lot on my mind,” is all Simon gives you. You let your knee fall open, and you use your fingers to swirl between your folds before you guide them up and into Simon’s mouth. He chuckles, taking them, and you lean forward to kiss his cheek just as you pull your fingers back out.

“You’re not supposed to think about things,” you murmur. “How many times do I have to tell you, Simon?” You cup one side of his face, making him look at you. “You could never do something wrong. Everything is okay.” You smile. “You believe me, don’t you, teddy bear?”

It’s so easy to believe you when you look at him like that. You’re so pretty—you always are. There is nothing terrible about your mind. Your brain isn’t rotten between the flesh as his must be. There is no blood forever under your fingernails, and you don’t sleep thinking about the graveyards you fill with your heavy hand. You don’t know what it feels like to have a gun burn in your palm, and you’ve never heard the screaming of someone who only has one limb left to spare. You don’t know how long it takes before a father will give up his children, and you’ve never seen your tombstone so clearly that the callous of your hands feel like the rock it’s made of.

Whatever you say must be true. Whatever you forgive him of must be good enough. There is nothing you cannot give, and there is nothing you can say that won’t be absolute reality. He feels like he poisons you every time he touches you, but when he takes his hands away, the skin underneath looks the same, and your smile never fades. You don’t bruise like other people do when he puts a hand on them. You don’t flinch when he raises his arm. You don’t scream when he comes close to you.

He hears your laughter wherever he goes. He’s kneeling now, bone digging into the ground as he lifts up his arm that holds a blade high. The bullet would be quicker, but this feels better. It pierces the neck, flesh giving away to its sharpness like a hot knife through butter, and Ghost licks over his teeth as he watches something sacred leave their eyes. For a moment, he feels bad about what he’s done. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, looking for his alternate reality.

I am no good. There is nothing good in me. I am not made of it.

There you are. Sitting on your knees between his thighs, cheek nuzzled against his jeans, sparkly, glossy lips curled into a wicked smile as you fist his cock and coo up at him. When you kiss his tip, you leave it shining, and then your tongue comes out of your mouth, and it’s over for him. There is a heaven inside of you. When you suck, his mind blurs, and his jaw aches with how hard he clenches it as you dip your head and take him deep. You whine because you like it. No one’s ever liked Ghost the way you like him. No one’s ever seen the mask and giggled the way you do. There’s no one that looked at the layers he’s made of and thought to use their fingers to lift them up to tuck themselves inside. His shell is not a barrier, it’s merely an illusion, and there you are—blinking up at him, bouncing in that sunflower sweater, wet eyes like diamonds. He feels warmth in his hands, and he thinks it’s from how hard he’s just come, but when he opens his eyes, it’s merely blood soaking into the fabric of his gloves.

The house is dark when he comes home. The cat is staring at him from her spot by the window, blinking slowly as he toes off his boots and passes by her with a soft scratch under her chin. He finds you in your bed, face against your silk pillow, wearing fuzzy purple pajamas and hugging a well-loved stuffed bear. Your nightlight is on, casting soft shadows of a moon and her stars, and Ghost finds himself watching you for more than just a moment. He stays there in the doorway, rooted to the spot, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you snooze.

You wake up when the bed dips from his weight. Groggily, your hand moves, searching for him, and when you find the fabric of his hoodie, you close your fist around it and pull him until he’s nearly on top of you.

You taste sweet. When you kiss, Ghost chases the sugar sweet that still lingers on your lips, and you seek the ash from the cigarette he smoked outside. Your knees fall open, and Ghost settles between them. Too big, but he forces himself there anyways, one big arm wrapping around you and under your back before he yanks it into an arch and bites against the side of your neck. Where he saw blood earlier, all he sees is the give of your skin under his teeth. Instead of begging, instead of screaming, he hears your soft whine, a breathy call of his name that makes his cock so hard, he has to yank down the zipper of his jeans before he cuts himself on it.

Where he saw death in their eyes, he finds nothing like it in your own. When he is inside of you again, he tells himself he’ll never leave. His body has new purpose, and this is it.

You’re sleepy all over again once you come. Draped over his chest, palm rubbing against his solid middle, legs tangled between his. You smile at him as he turns his head to look at you, and he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt to caress you at the base of your spine.

“Good day at work?” You mumble, snuggling into his side. Simon tightens his grip on your middle. When he feels the flesh squish under his hand, he breathes nice and easy. Just what he expected. Exactly as he prefers.

“Good day, love.”

“You got all the bad guys, teddy bear?”

Simon licks his lips. He thinks about who had the unfortunate opportunity of being at the end of his scope today, and he thinks about who it’ll be tomorrow. He likes this routine. It satiates something nasty in him, but he’s never been quiet about the way it makes him feel. It’s what drew you to him, wasn’t it? He told you about all the horrible things that exist in his head, and you’re still here, you’re still in his bed—it wasn’t enough to push you away, so there’s no need to hide this dark truth from you. If anything, you might want to go again.

His cock twitches at the thought.

“No,” Simon tells you, and you shrug, closing your eyes.

“That’s okay. There’s still tomorrow.”

Simon feels something ache under his ribs when you say it—like taking the words straight out of his mouth. You are so in tune, it would scare him if he wasn’t already convinced that you were meant for him.

But even if you weren’t, I’d chain you to this bed. Never let you go.

He wonders what color your blood runs. He doesn’t think it would be red—you’re too pretty to have blood be such a color. Maybe it’s pink. Purple. Maybe it’s yellow. Maybe it glitters just like the sparkles you love to wear.

Maybe it runs black. Maybe, underneath it all, you and Simon are one and the same. Maybe you are rotten inside. Maybe you’re an illusion, too, maybe what he sees is just a mirror-view, and the real you hides and plays your limbs with puppet strings and masks the horrible, terrible, evil things that live inside of you—

You pat his chest a little, pouting, an annoyed breath leaving you as you close your eyes.

“Go to sleep, Simon. It’s late.”

It is late. You’re right. Always right, his smart girl, always telling him how he needs to hear it so his mind settles and his body relaxes.

It’s okay.

Isn’t it?

I forgive you.

He can never do anything wrong.

Everything is just as it should be.

Everything is just as it should be.

[chow0w]

what would ancient nightwing fashion look like? because in darkstalkers book they had a lot of jewelry featured

Good question! After a lot of thinking, I finally have an answer and some art!

Nightwings and the Jazz Era

TLDR

I've come to the conclusion that ancient nightwing society would have the fashion of the Jazz Era. also known as the roaring 1920s, the Jazz Era was a time (1918-29) in the US which was characterized by new music, culture and swift economic growth. Following the end of world war 1, the frivolous partying, spending and inventing of the Jazz era is quite similar to the attitude of the ancient night kingdom - which was an international hub for trade and art, as well as the inventor of written dragon language. Both the Jazz era and the nightwing kingdom also share the morbid similarity that they came to a swift, chaotic end - either through a stock market crash or a genocidal magician.

When creating this post, I focused mostly on 1920s fashion - but I did also take some inspiration from other sources, such as the adjacent 1910s and house of Dior. I was chasing any kind of style which I thought mirrored the artistic success of the nightwing kingdom, so these headcanons stray partially from the 1920s to include some of my own artistic liberties and ideas. I hope you enjoy, and maybe even remember Lackadaisy is a good franchise worth WoF crossover fanart.

Day-to-Day

Starting off strong with the everyday nightwing's attire - I wanted to consider how nightwing society functions and plan accordingly through fashion. Not only do they live on a nocturnal schedule, they also - surprisingly - do not have total night vision. Because of this, I think nightwing merchants would sport brighter clothing with small gold/shiny accents (if they can afford it,) in order to catch the attention of passing dragons in the night market. These clothes would consist of a chest piece with dethatched sleeves for better maneuverability, and use leather or fur to create distinct shapes in order to compensate for their lack of actual detail.

The non-storekeeping nightwing would not have any need to stand out in a crowd, and might choose colors that better complement their scales or scale patterns. Regardless, I think the chest piece + dethatched sleeve combo would be a staple feature of everyday clothing design, given that it's the easiest to wear and would allow nightwings freedom of movement.

Party Clothes

Ancient nightwing society was one that loved art, festival and music - so they would undoubtedly have clothes to compensate for their frequent celebrations. Here, I took direct inspiration from the 1920s 'flapper girl' fashion, which was a specific look worn primarily by young women who didn't care for traditional (religious) values. These garments would probably harder to manufacture and a little bit more expensive, using long feathers for the dress portion + silky fabric and lots of beads; imported from other tribes but tailored in the kingdom.

Clips and buckles could fasten these pieces around a dragon's neck, shoulder and torso - but there would absolutely be shorter variations made for those who don't appreciate the long train around their legs. A long string of pearls and a nice headdress would accompany this dress, which would've been imported from the seawing kingdom.

Noble Wear

Finally, the finest clothes of the kingdom. I wasn't really sure of how to go about this at first, but ended up coming up with some good ideas after considering the nightwings beyond their fashion. I think the nobles and royalty of the nightwing kingdom would've dressed more for art than wealth - by which I mean, they focused more on displaying themselves in an artistic manner than showing off jewels or physical wealth. For a society which values art so heavily, being seen as a piece itself would likely be a better indicator of status than adorning yourself in diamonds.

For this reason, I focused more on couture when sketching these clothes - intricate patterns, textiles and shapes which were handcrafted by a studio of dragons and assembled to be worn only once or twice. These garments would absolutely match the current topic or festival - and in spite of their status, nobles would still opt to follow the trends of the kingdom in their own way: using the same shapes, beads and pearls to create a high-class cousin to Jass Era fashion.

---

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed these headcanons as much as I enjoyed making them. My inbox is always open to questions, critiques and suggestions of any kind - so if you'd like to inquire about the lore/fashion of your favorite tribe, don't hesitate to ask!

A few people have asked, so I'll just make it clear: I love seeing the interpretations and discussions of my headcanons, and you are absolutely free to use these ideas if you so desire. My only request is credit on any of the things I came up with (not the 1920s itself, obviously) and that you tag me so I can see your awesome work!!

Later ( • ⩊ • )

[theyuniversity]

Why English Is Hard to Learn. And Why That’s Kind of Beautiful.

If you’ve ever tried to learn English as a second language, or even just reflected on how strange it can be, you’ve probably encountered the maddening inconsistency that defines it. A humorous and insightful anonymous poem, featured in the image above, captures this frustration perfectly — turning it into a playful exploration of the language’s quirks.

Let’s break down why English is so difficult... and so fascinating.

The Plural Problem

The poem begins with a seemingly simple rule: “We’ll begin with box; the plural is boxes.” Easy enough. But then: “the plural of ox is oxen, not oxes.” Wait, what?

English doesn’t follow consistent pluralization rules. Goose becomes geese, but moose doesn’t become meese. Mouse becomes mice, but house becomes houses, not hice. Pan doesn’t become pen, and tooth becomes teeth, but booth stubbornly remains booths.

Sound Logic? Not Really.

If foot becomes feet, shouldn’t book become beek? Why not? The poem playfully applies a pattern, then breaks it—just like English often does. This inconsistency is part of what makes the language tough to learn: learners crave patterns, and English often refuses to give them.

Homophones and Hilarity

Then there are the sounds: “this” becomes “these,” so should “kiss” become “keese”? It's absurd, yet logical—at least based on other rules we've seen. This is where English can feel more like a riddle than a language.

Pronoun Pandemonium

Perhaps the most charming part of the poem is its playful take on gendered pronouns. We have he, his, him, but imagine if she followed the same pattern: she, shis, shim! Of course, that’s not real English—but it highlights how arbitrarily male pronouns get a consistent set while female ones don’t. It’s a small detail that opens the door to deeper questions about language and gender.

The Takeaway: English Is a Patchwork Quilt

This poem is more than a string of funny rhymes. It’s a reflection of how English has evolved—not through logic or consistency, but through centuries of borrowed words, regional dialects, invasions, and cultural shifts. It’s a chaotic mash-up of Germanic roots, Latin structure, and French flair, with a few surprises thrown in for good measure.

And while that might make it frustrating to learn, it also makes English wonderfully rich and expressive. Its irregularities give it character. Its flexibility lets it grow.

So the next time you find yourself puzzled by why the plural of goose is geese but the plural of moose isn’t meese, just smile. You’re speaking one of the weirdest, most inventive languages in the world.

Website | Twitter |  Instagram | Medium | Pinterest

[breakmeoff]

goddess of the desert

featuring: bang chan x fem!reader warnings: swearing, SMUT: unprotected p in v, creampie. MDNI, 18+ only* word count: 2.1k (i swear one of these days i'll learn how to write an actual drabble lol) synopsis: you come out to the states to surprise chan with a short three day vacation to a remote airbnb in the secluded beauty of joshua tree. the stunning desert landscape relaxes you both enough to enjoy the great outdoors, and each other. note: this is part of the Larie's Libations 200 Followers Celebration. this was a request by my lovely anon reader🙈, whose selection is listed below. for story telling purposes we're going to pretend this was set in the spring and the weather wasn't blazing hot. thank you for reading!

LARIE'S LIBATIONS - Bourbon Orange Crush [Wine] — Bang Chan [Cranberry Juice] — Vacation [Citrus Rind] — Kinks (creampie)

Masterlist

Orchestrating this little surprise trip for Chan had been difficult.  That man was always in control and strict to his schedules, so when his manager told him not to schedule anything for three days between tour stops in L.A. and Arlington, Chan began asking questions.  And per your explicit instruction, his manager told him nothing.

Finally, when you showed up to the second show in L.A., things started to make sense and he stopped fighting it. The day after the concert, you picked up your rental vehicle and drove the three and a half hours to Joshua Tree where you had rented a secluded airbnb in the desert, just for the two of you.

Admittedly, Chan was awful about taking time for himself and forcing himself to relax.  Once you had assured him you’d get him back to civilization and the tour within three days before the next show in Texas, he finally relented and exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

After arriving at the private home down the long dirt drive, the two of you unpacked your groceries and belongings, and Chan went to take a much needed nap.  You on the other hand had eyed the above ground hot tub just outside with an uninterrupted view of the desert. 

About two hours later, Chan awoke alone sprawled out on the king sized bed, peering out the floor to ceiling windows which faced the back.  He pushed himself up sleepily and yawned, watching you climb out of the hot tub and dry yourself off with a large serape patterned towel.

Lord, he’d never get tired of seeing you in a bikini and unaware of how stunning you were.  

With a tired smile, he shifted to push himself off of the bed and in a standing position when he caught you out of the corner of his eye walking towards the outdoor shower just down the path. It wasn’t just your walking that made him pause - it was the way you removed your string bikini, draping them over the makeshift wooden ‘privacy’ fence along with the towel.

Walking over towards the window, he was transfixed, unable to take his eyes off of the scene - the goddess-like creature, baring it all under the rainfall showerhead, immersed in the beauty of the barren landscape surrounding them.  His cock twitched the longer he watched you, swelling under the confines of his sweatpants.

Slipping on a pair of slides, Chan made his way outside quietly and down the path towards the shower.  His movements were methodical and slow, like a bobcat hunting its prey.  Finally approaching the pathetic excuse for a wall, he reached for your towel just as you turned the faucet off and turned around to see him.  

Jumping in surprise, you laughed, pressing your hand to your chest.  “God, you scared me…” 

“Sorry Baby.”  Holding the towel open for you, he tilted his head towards it, inviting you into the warmth of the fabric.  “You looked like you might need a hand,” he teased suggestively, obviously dragging his eyes up and down your naked body. 

Smirking at him, you took the few extra steps towards him and let him wrap the towel around your damp, nude frame.  “Oh, just being a sweetheart and wanting to help me out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Sure… something like that,” he whispered near your ear, kissing your temple as he wrapped his arms tightly around you, ignoring the way your wet hair was now saturating his shirt.  “Let’s go dry you off on the chaise over there,” Chan said, nodding over towards the teak, cushioned lounge chairs just on the other side of the yard, facing out towards the desert.

The heat of the day had finally dissipated and the sun was starting to sink beyond the horizon, swathing the cacti and wild bushes in dark silhouettes.  Letting Chan lead the way, you walked towards the outdoor furniture and after he seated himself first, he pulled you into his lap, right between his legs and with your back against him.

“Thank you for this,” he whispered against your ear, placing a series of soft kisses against the side of your neck once you were settled against him - arms still wrapped around you and the plush towel protecting you from the elements.  “It’s nice to be somewhere quiet, alone.  With just you.”

Placing your hands on his arms, you began rubbing your palms up and down the expanse of them as you smiled.  “I figured you could use a little break.  And maybe some TLC.”

“TLC huh,” he mused, pulling back a little so he could look down to your face.  

Tipping your head back slightly, you turned to make eye contact with him.  “If you’re lucky.”  

Huffing a laugh, he gently tugged the top of your towel down, pretending as if he was going to expose one of your breasts.  “Bold of you to tease wearing nothing but a flimsy towel…” 

Sitting up straighter, you held onto the towel tighter before you shifted your position, perching yourself fully upon his lap and now facing him.  With your legs straddling either side of him, and your arms draped lazily around his shoulders, you gave your hips a slow roll over the front of his sweatpants.  “Guess I should just stop teasing then…” you mumbled, leaning down to press your soft lips against his, melting against him in a gentle, though heated, open mouthed kiss.

Chan groaned against your lips, one of his hands finding the back of your head, cradling it as he tilted his face to further deepen your liplock as the other met your hip, gripping through the fabric of the towel as he guided your exposed core to the soft cotton of his clothed cock below.

“Careful…” he mumbled against your mouth, “we are outside afterall.  Someone might see.”

You laughed gently, pressing your hips harder against him.  “Who is gonna see us?  The javelina?”  With that, you let the towel fall from your body, exposing yourself fully to him and the elements.

Chris’ hooded eyes raked over your figure once before he cursed lowly under his breath, and snaked a hand between your bodies to brush his fingers against your soaked entrance.  “Fuck… already ready for me, Baby?”

Whimpering softly at his gentle touch, you nodded your head and breathed a reply.  “Always…” 

Dropping your hand to his waist, you lifted yourself high enough to tug his sweatpants and boxers down low enough for his thick, veiny cock to spring free.  Your lithe fingertips gripped the base of him, eliciting a low moan from Chris’ lips as he watched you pump your hand up and down his length a few times.  “I need you…” he murmured, nearly desperately.

Guiding the velvety head of his length towards your entrance, you finally lowered yourself back down onto his lap, savoring the intense sensation of him filling you so entirely.  Both of your lips parted in an exhale once he was bottomed out inside of you, and your hands moved back to his shoulders, giving yourself the leverage to slowly move up and down his hardened arousal.

“Shit…” Chris whispered, watching you maneuver your body above him, a hand gripping one of your breasts as the other fell back to your hip, gripping his digits into your flesh. 

Leaning forward, he wrapped his lips around your pert nipple of your other breast, sucking softly against your heated flesh.  Humming a sigh, you slowly began to increase your motions on top of him, tipping your head back and relishing in the feeling of his mouth against your skin.

Chan flicked the tip of his tongue against your sensitive bud before gently nipping at it and tugging the pebbled flesh between his teeth, causing a low moan to come from you.  Chris squinted his eyes closed as you tightened your walls around him, panting against your skin and digging his fingertips further into the flesh of your hip.

Dropping his hand from your other breast, his lips dotted a line of small kisses against your sternum until they wrapped around your opposite nipple, giving it the same worshipping attention as the other.

“Fuck, babygirl… you feel so fucking good,” he moaned, pressing his face against the curve of your breast as he pulled you tighter against himself.  Your speed started to increase, and switched from an up and down motion to swirling your hips in a figure eight.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, arm wrapped tightly around him as you felt yourself clench around him buried deep inside of you.  “I’m close, so close.”

With both hands tightly gripping your waist, Chan anchored his feet on either side of the chair and slipped down just enough to give himself leverage to start fucking up into you from below.  “Give it to me,” he grunted, fingers digging in tight enough to leave bruises.  “Cum for me, all over me baby…” 

Your breathing was becoming more erratic, and you tipped your head forward, locking your eyes onto his as your moans became louder.  “More Channie, more, please…” you begged, breathily, eyebrows knit together as you felt your body start to tense up in his grasp.

“Take it, take it all,” he growled, slamming his hips up into you, mesmerized by the beauty of your blissful facial expression and the way your tits moved above his face.  “Let go, let go now.”

A silent moan slipped from your lips as the tension inside you finally snapped, and your entire body tightened with your release.  Toes curling, fingers digging into the fabric of his tshirt, and eyes hazily focused on his, Chris stuttered his hips with the feeling of you clench so tightly around him and the visual of you falling apart above him.

“F-fuuuuuuck,” he groaned through gritted teeth, keeping your hips grounded down on top of him as he spilled himself inside of your warmth.  “Can’t… can’t stop…” he growled, pressing his forehead against your chest as spurt after spurt erupted inside of you, his hips sporadically bucking underneath you. 

Finally, both of your bodies stilled and you collapsed against him.  Shifting his hands from your hips, one hand returning to the back of your head and the other splaying fully against your back, he rubbed your skin soothingly as you both tried to calm your heavy breathing.  

With a small laugh, you murmured “I think we made a mess… I can feel it.  Everywhere.”  With a low, appreciative growl, Chan sat up with you still around him and shifted to lay you back against the chaise cushion at the foot of the lounge in front of him.  

Now with you laying back in front of him, he looked down to where your bodies met, a thick, creamy white ring encasing his cock as he pulled out of your pussy.  “Look at that…” he cooed, one hand gripping the base of himself, the tip of him still resting just inside your flushed walls.  “Fuck, look at you… all covered in me.”  

Bringing a hand to your face with a small blush, Chan reached up to pull your hand away with a devilish grin, and with his hand wrapped around your wrist, he brought your fingers down to the mess between you.  “Feel it, look what you made me do baby…” 

Leaning up a little, you glanced down to where he had led your hand, your fingertips now coated in the stickiness that was coming out of you. 

Finally pulling himself out of you completely, he smirked as his own fingers reached down to your pussy and gently pushed some of his seed back into your still twitching inner walls.  “Can’t let any of that go to waste,” he mumbled, still mesmerized by the work of art he’d created between your legs.

Reaching for the towel with a cheeky smile on your face, you took note of the way he looked at you in awe.

Just then, you both froze at the eerie, unmistakable howl of a coyote not too far off in the distance.  Chan lifted his eyes to yours and he paused for a second.  “...maybe we should go inside and clean up,” a look of concern now spreading over his features.

“Might be a good idea,” you agreed, shifting to sit up as he tucked himself back into his pants.  With a renewed sense of urgency, Chan grabbed the towel from you, and quickly swept you up in his arms, carrying you bridal style swiftly into the house as you giggled, relaxed and happy in his protective embrace.

my tags: @angel-writes-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @beabidoobee @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr @skzswife @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @minnysproutgriffinteddy @jqtsblyth @magicshuhua @loveesiren @szonyix6277 @seungttttop @moontabi

[archivegyu]

masterlist

The Art of Being a Girl Dad

dad! seungcheol x reader ll 5k words

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the Choi family’s living room, casting dancing shadows across the hardwood floor where an unlikely wrestling match was taking place. Kkuma, Seungcheol’s beloved white coton de tulear, had somehow found herself pinned beneath a giggling five-year-old who was attempting to braid the poor dog’s fluffy ears.

“Kkuma-ya, stay still! You’re going to be the prettiest princess dog in all of Seoul!” Naeun declared with the kind of unwavering confidence that only children possessed. Her small fingers fumbled with tiny pink hair ties as Kkuma’s tail wagged frantically, clearly torn between escape and enjoying the attention.

Seungcheol paused in the kitchen doorway, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, watching his daughter’s latest creative endeavor with barely contained laughter. His hair was still messy from sleep, sticking up at odd angles that somehow made him look younger than his years. The sight of his two favorite girls bonding over questionable grooming choices filled his chest with a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee.

“Naeunie,” he called softly, padding over in his slippers. “What are you doing to poor Kkuma?”

“Appa!” Naeun looked up with bright eyes that were carbon copies of his own. “I’m making her beautiful for the tea party! Mama said you have to come too because Uncle Gyu is bringing cake!”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows shot up. “Uncle Mingyu is coming? When did this happen?”

“This morning! Mama was on the phone and she was laughing really loud and then she said yes to cake!” Naeun had returned to her mission of transforming Kkuma into what appeared to be a four-legged fairy tale character. “She said you were grumpy about getting up early but Uncle Gyu said he’d bring the really good cake from that place with the fancy name you can’t say right.”

“Patisserie Laurent,” Seungcheol muttered, already knowing exactly which place Mingyu meant. Trust his member to remember his weakness for their mille-feuille. “And I wasn’t grumpy, I was tired. There’s a difference.”

“You made that face,” Naeun said matter-of-factly, scrunching up her features in an exaggerated frown that was disturbingly accurate. “The one where your eyebrows touch and Mama laughs.”

Before Seungcheol could defend his morning expressions, the sound of his wife’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, followed by what sounded suspiciously like multiple voices on speakerphone. He recognized the chaos immediately – Seventeen’s group chat had gone live.

“Is that the whole circus?” he asked, settling down on the floor beside Naeun and gently rescuing Kkuma from her latest hair accessory.

“Jeonghan is being mean to Seokmin again,” his wife called from the kitchen, amusement clear in her voice. “Something about stealing his face mask.”

“It was a limited edition!” came Seokmin’s distant, indignant voice through the phone speaker.

Seungcheol shook his head, simultaneously exasperated and fond. Five years of marriage and fatherhood had done nothing to mature his bandmates. If anything, having Naeun around had made them more chaotic, each trying to claim the title of ‘favorite uncle’ through increasingly ridiculous means.

“Appa, can we call Uncle Hannie too? I want to show him Kkuma’s new look,” Naeun said, having successfully managed to get one small bow attached to the dog’s ear. Kkuma looked resigned to her fate.

“Let’s wait until after your tea party, okay? Uncle Mingyu will be here soon and you know how he gets when he’s not the center of attention.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the doorbell rang with the specific pattern that could only belong to Kim Mingyu – unnecessarily long and dramatic. Naeun shrieked with excitement and abandoned Kkuma entirely, racing toward the front door with the kind of speed that made Seungcheol wonder if she had inherited more than just his eyes.

“Uncle Gyu! Uncle Gyu!” Naeun’s voice echoed through the hallway.

Seungcheol followed at a more reasonable pace, already smiling at what he knew he’d find. Sure enough, Mingyu was crouched at Naeun’s level, having somehow produced not just the promised cake box but also a small bouquet of daisies and what appeared to be a toy crown.

“Princess Naeun!” Mingyu announced dramatically, placing the crown on her head with ceremonial precision. “Your royal tea party awaits!”

“Did you really bring a crown?” Seungcheol asked, accepting the familiar one-armed hug that Mingyu offered while juggling his various gifts.

“Hyung, I don’t do anything halfway. You know this.” Mingyu’s grin was shameless. “Plus, I may have had help from a certain someone who shall remain nameless but definitely knows a lot about princess accessories.”

“Uncle Wonwoo helped!” Naeun announced, completely ruining Mingyu’s attempt at mystery. “He said princesses need proper headwear for important occasions!”

Seungcheol’s wife appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel and shaking her head with fond exasperation. “Wonwoo called ahead to make sure Mingyu brought age-appropriate entertainment. Apparently, last time’s magic tricks were ‘too easy for the target demographic.’”

“They were great magic tricks,” Mingyu protested. “It’s not my fault Naeun figured out where I was hiding the cards.”

“You left them on the kitchen counter in plain sight,” Seungcheol pointed out.

“Details,” Mingyu waved him off, then turned his attention back to Naeun. “So, Princess, what’s on the agenda for today’s royal gathering?”

What followed was an elaborate explanation of the tea party requirements, including but not limited to: proper seating arrangements for all attendees (including Kkuma, who was apparently the royal pet), specific tea flavors (apple juice was acceptable as a substitute), and a very serious discussion about cake cutting protocol.

Seungcheol watched his daughter command the attention of a grown man who regularly performed in front of thousands, completely unaware of how naturally she held court. There was something magical about the way children could make adults remember how to play, how to find joy in the smallest things.

“She’s got your leadership skills,” his wife murmured, settling beside him on the couch as Mingyu and Naeun began arranging the living room for optimal tea party conditions.

“And your ability to wrap people around her finger,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The actual tea party was a masterpiece of organized chaos. Naeun had assigned seats with the precision of a military strategist: herself at the head of the coffee table (which had been draped with her favorite blanket to serve as a proper tablecloth), Mingyu to her right as the guest of honor, her parents flanking the other sides, and Kkuma positioned on a small cushion with her own tiny tea cup.

“Now,” Naeun began, having insisted on wearing her fanciest dress for the occasion, “everyone has to hold their cups like this.” She demonstrated with her small hands positioned just so on her plastic teacup, pinky extended in what she clearly believed was the height of sophistication.

Mingyu, without a trace of self-consciousness, mirrored her posture exactly, even going so far as to straighten his imaginary tie. “Like this, Princess?”

“Perfect! Appa, your pinky isn’t high enough.”

Seungcheol adjusted his grip on his mug with exaggerated precision, earning an approving nod from his daughter. His wife was barely containing her laughter behind her own cup.

“Okay, now we have to toast,” Naeun continued. “Mama taught me. We say something nice and then we clink.”

“What should we toast to?” Mingyu asked seriously.

Naeun considered this with the gravity of a diplomat. “To… to Kkuma being the prettiest princess dog, and to Uncle Gyu bringing the best cake, and to Mama’s apple juice that tastes like tea, and to Appa for making funny faces when he drinks it.”

“I don’t make funny faces,” Seungcheol protested weakly.

“You do,” his wife and Mingyu said in unison, causing Naeun to dissolve into giggles.

They clinked their mismatched cups together, and Seungcheol felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with these perfect, ordinary moments. This was what he’d been missing all those years on the road – not just the big milestones, but the silly Tuesday morning tea parties and the sound of his daughter’s laughter mixing with his wife’s.

The cake, as promised, was exceptional. Mingyu had somehow convinced the patisserie to create a miniature version of their famous mille-feuille decorated with edible flowers. Naeun insisted on cutting it herself, resulting in uneven slices that she distributed with the solemnity of a judge.

“Uncle Gyu gets the biggest piece because he brought it,” she announced, “but Appa gets the piece with the most flowers because he’s the best appa in the world.”

Seungcheol felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. “Thank you, baby.”

“And Mama gets the prettiest piece because she’s the prettiest mama.”

The conversation flowed easily from there, jumping from topic to topic the way it did when Naeun was involved. She told Mingyu about her new favorite book (something involving a dragon who was afraid of its own fire), demonstrated her latest dance moves (a combination of ballet and what appeared to be taekwondo), and explained in great detail why purple was clearly superior to all other colors.

Mingyu listened to every word with the kind of attention usually reserved for important business meetings, asking follow-up questions and offering commentary that made Naeun beam with importance. Watching them together, Seungcheol was reminded of why he’d fallen in love with this chaotic group of men in the first place – their capacity for genuine care, for making others feel seen and valued.

“Uncle Gyu,” Naeun said suddenly, having finished her cake, “are you sad that you don’t have a little girl like me?”

The question caught everyone off guard. Mingyu’s expression softened, and he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Naeun’s ear. “You know what? I’m not sad, because I get to be your uncle. That means I get all the fun parts – tea parties and cake and hearing about dragons – but I also get to spoil you and then send you home to your appa and mama when you’re too full of sugar.”

“That’s sneaky,” Naeun observed approvingly.

“I learned from the best,” Mingyu glanced at Seungcheol with a grin. “Your appa taught me everything I know about being sneaky.”

“I did not—” Seungcheol started to protest, then caught his wife’s knowing look and decided discretion was the better part of valor. “Okay, maybe I taught him a few things.”

The doorbell rang again, interrupting what was surely going to be an embarrassing trip down memory lane. This time, the pattern was shorter but repeated three times – definitely Jeonghan.

“Did you invite more people to my tea party?” Naeun asked, not sounding particularly upset about the prospect of additional guests.

“That would be Uncle Hannie,” Seungcheol’s wife said, already moving toward the door. “He said he had something for Naeun.”

“Something” turned out to be Seokmin, Joshua, and Wonwoo, along with what appeared to be half of a craft store. Jeonghan waltzed in like he owned the place, carrying a bag full of supplies, while the others followed with varying degrees of sheepishness.

“We heard there was a princess in need of proper royal crafts,” Jeonghan announced, dumping his bag on the coffee table with a flourish. “And Seokmin insisted on bringing his guitar.”

“For royal entertainment,” Seokmin added quickly, holding up his acoustic guitar case. “Princesses need proper serenades.”

“I just came to make sure nobody burned down the apartment,” Wonwoo said mildly, though he was already pulling something from his jacket pocket. “Also, I brought more appropriate magic tricks.”

Joshua, ever the gentleman, presented Naeun with a small wrapped box. “I thought you might like these for your next tea party,” he said in his careful, accented Korean.

Inside were a set of actual porcelain tea cups, child-sized but clearly real, painted with delicate flowers. Naeun’s eyes went wide with wonder as she lifted one carefully from its tissue paper nest.

“They’re real grown-up cups,” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might make them disappear.

“Very real,” Joshua confirmed. “My mom helped me pick them out. She said every princess needs proper tea service.”

“Uncle Shua, they’re the most beautiful cups in the whole world,” Naeun declared, and Joshua’s smile could have powered the entire building.

What had started as a simple tea party was rapidly evolving into something resembling a small festival. Jeonghan had begun spreading out craft supplies with the efficiency of someone who’d clearly planned this in advance, while Seokmin tuned his guitar and Wonwoo shuffled what appeared to be a deck of actual magic cards (as opposed to his previous amateur hour attempts).

“Hyung,” Mingyu leaned over to whisper to Seungcheol, “I think we’ve been upstaged.”

“I think our daughter has an entire entertainment company at her disposal,” Seungcheol replied, watching Naeun flit between uncles like a butterfly sampling flowers.

His wife settled back beside him, shaking her head with amazement. “Remember when we used to worry about her not having enough socialization?”

“I remember when we worried about a lot of things,” Seungcheol said quietly. The early days of fatherhood had been terrifying in ways that performing on stage never was. Every cry, every fever, every milestone had felt monumental and fragile at the same time.

“Look at her now,” his wife murmured.

Naeun was in her element, directing her uncles with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted her place in the world. She’d assigned Jeonghan the task of helping her make crowns for everyone (apparently, one royal crown wasn’t enough for a proper court), while Seokmin provided background music and Wonwoo prepared what he promised would be “actually impressive” magic.

“Uncle Hannie, this one needs more sparkles,” Naeun declared, holding up a construction paper crown that was already ninety percent glitter.

“More sparkles, got it,” Jeonghan replied seriously, reaching for another container of craft supplies. “What about Uncle Gyu’s crown? Should it match his height?”

“Make it extra tall so everyone knows he’s the giant uncle,” Naeun decided.

“I’m not a giant,” Mingyu protested from where he was attempting to fold his long limbs into a child-appropriate sitting position on the floor.

“You’re bigger than the refrigerator,” Naeun pointed out with irrefutable logic.

While the crown-making continued, Wonwoo had set up what appeared to be a proper magic show area, complete with a small table draped with one of Naeun’s blankets. His movements were precise and practiced in a way that suggested he’d been doing more than just casual research into children’s entertainment.

“When did you learn actual magic?” Seungcheol asked, genuinely curious.

“YouTube,” Wonwoo replied without looking up from his card arrangement. “Also, Mingyu’s cousin teaches kids’ magic classes. I may have attended a few sessions.”

“You took magic lessons for my daughter?”

“I took magic lessons for my pride,” Wonwoo corrected. “Getting outwitted by a five-year-old is unacceptable.”

Seokmin, meanwhile, had found the perfect background music tempo – something light and whimsical that made everything feel like a scene from a family movie. His voice hummed along with the melody, unconsciously harmonizing with himself in that way that never failed to remind Seungcheol why they’d all chosen music in the first place.

“Appa,” Naeun appeared at his elbow suddenly, having momentarily abandoned crown construction. “Are you happy?”

The question was so direct, so purely her, that it caught him off guard. “What do you mean, baby?”

“You’re making your thinking face,” she said, climbing onto his lap with the ease of long practice. “The one where you look far away. Are you thinking sad thoughts or happy thoughts?”

Seungcheol wrapped his arms around her small frame, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo mixed with glitter and cake frosting. “Very happy thoughts,” he said truthfully. “I was thinking about how lucky I am.”

“Because you have the best daughter in the world?” Naeun asked with a grin that was pure mischief.

“Because I have the best daughter in the world,” he agreed, “and the best wife in the world, and the most ridiculous uncles in the world who love you almost as much as I do.”

“That’s a lot of bests,” Naeun observed.

“I’m a very lucky appa.”

She seemed satisfied with this answer and settled more comfortably against his chest, content to supervise the ongoing craft production from her new vantage point. Seungcheol caught his wife’s eye across the room and saw his own contentment reflected back at him.

“Naeunie,” Jeonghan called, holding up a completed crown that was somehow even more elaborate than the original. “What do you think of Uncle Wonwoo’s royal headwear?”

The crown in question was a masterpiece of construction paper architecture, featuring multiple layers, an impressive array of gems (plastic, but convincing), and what appeared to be actual feathers. It was also approximately three times too large for any human head.

“It’s perfect,” Naeun declared. “Uncle Wonwoo will be the most royal uncle at the magic show.”

Wonwoo accepted his fate with the stoicism of someone who’d learned that resistance was futile when it came to Naeun’s vision. The crown perched precariously on his head, held in place by sheer determination and possibly divine intervention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced formally, “prepare to be amazed by feats of wonder and impossible possibility.”

What followed was genuinely impressive. Wonwoo had clearly put considerable effort into learning tricks that would actually surprise and delight a child, rather than the transparent sleight-of-hand that had characterized Mingyu’s previous attempts. Cards appeared and disappeared, coins materialized from behind ears, and somehow he managed to produce a small stuffed rabbit from what had definitely been an empty box.

Naeun was entranced, gasping and clapping at each reveal, but Seungcheol found himself equally captivated by the sight of his normally reserved friend fully committed to entertaining a five-year-old audience. There was something beautiful about watching people step outside their comfort zones for love.

“How did you do that?” Naeun demanded after a particularly impressive card trick.

“Magic,” Wonwoo replied solemnly. “True magic can’t be explained, only experienced.”

“But really, how?”

“Trade secret. Magicians never reveal their methods.”

Naeun considered this seriously, then nodded with acceptance. “Okay, but can you teach me one that I can show Mama later?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Wonwoo said, and Seungcheol made a mental note to prepare for his daughter’s inevitable new obsession with prestidigitation.

The afternoon continued in this vein, flowing from activity to activity with the organic rhythm that seemed to characterize all gatherings involving Naeun. After magic came a mini concert, with Seokmin leading everyone in increasingly silly songs while Joshua provided harmony and Jeonghan added dramatic interpretive dance.

Mingyu had appointed himself official photographer, documenting every moment with the dedication of a professional despite the fact that his subjects kept moving and his main model had a tendency to make faces at the camera when she thought no one was looking.

“Appa, come sing with us,” Naeun called, having climbed onto the coffee table to serve as conductor for what appeared to be an original composition about tea parties and magic shows.

“I don’t know the words,” Seungcheol protested weakly.

“There are no words!” she replied with five-year-old logic. “We’re making them up!”

And so Seungcheol found himself standing in his living room, surrounded by his bandmates and family, singing a nonsensical song about royal cake and magical uncles while his daughter conducted with the serious concentration of a maestro. His wife was laughing so hard she was crying, Kkuma was barking along in what might have been harmony, and somehow it was the most natural thing in the world.

This was what happiness looked like, he realized. Not the roar of crowds or the satisfaction of a perfect performance, but this – chaos and laughter and the complete absence of dignity in service of making one small person feel like the center of the universe.

As the impromptu concert wound down, exhaustion began to set in. Naeun’s energy, while impressive, was not infinite, and the combination of sugar, excitement, and multiple uncles had begun to take its toll. She found herself gravitating back toward Seungcheol’s lap, her movements becoming slower and her blinks longer.

“Someone’s getting sleepy,” his wife observed gently.

“I’m not sleepy,” Naeun protested, even as she curled more firmly against Seungcheol’s chest. “I’m just resting my eyes so I can see the magic better.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol agreed seriously. “That’s very smart princess thinking.”

One by one, her uncles began the process of taking their leave, each stopping to say proper goodbyes and receive official thanks for their contributions to the royal tea party. Jeonghan left behind enough craft supplies to stock a small art classroom, while Wonwoo presented Naeun with a junior magician’s kit and a promise to teach her three tricks at their next meeting.

Seokmin and Joshua coordinated their departure with the efficiency of long practice, but not before Seokmin had been made to promise to bring his guitar to the next family gathering. Mingyu lingered the longest, as he always did, reluctant to leave the peaceful chaos of their little family unit.

“Thank you,” Seungcheol said as he walked Mingyu to the door, Naeun having finally succumbed to sleep in his arms.

“For what? Bringing cake? That’s basic uncle duty.”

“For all of it,” Seungcheol gestured vaguely at the living room, which looked like a craft store had exploded in the most wonderful way. “For loving her like she’s yours.”

Mingyu’s expression grew serious for a moment. “Hyung, she kind of is mine. Yours and hers and all of ours. That’s how family works, right?”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol said quietly, “that’s exactly how family works.”

After Mingyu left, the apartment settled into the peaceful quiet that followed a day well-spent. His wife began the process of cleaning up while Seungcheol carried Naeun to her bedroom, carefully navigating around the various craft projects and new toys that marked the path of her day.

He tucked her into bed still wearing her princess crown, deciding that some rules were made to be broken. She stirred slightly as he pulled her blankets up, just enough to mumble something that sounded like “best tea party ever” before settling back into sleep.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Back in the living room, his wife had made impressive progress on the cleanup, sorting craft supplies and folding blankets with practiced efficiency. Kkuma had reclaimed her favorite spot on the couch, though she was still wearing one small bow from her earlier princess transformation.

“Leave it,” Seungcheol said as his wife reached for the last of the paper crown supplies. “She’ll want to finish those tomorrow.”

“Our dining room table is going to be unusable for a week,” she pointed out, but there was no real complaint in her voice.

“We’ll eat on TV trays. It’ll be an adventure.”

She laughed, settling beside him on the couch and curling into his side with the easy intimacy of years together. “Remember when we thought having a baby would make our lives quieter?”

“I remember thinking a lot of stupid things before she came along,” Seungcheol said, tightening his arms around her. “Like thinking I knew what love was.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Choi Seungcheol.”

“I’m getting honest in my old age,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the last of the afternoon light fade through their windows. The apartment still hummed with the energy of the day – glitter catching the light, the lingering scent of fancy cake, the echo of laughter in every corner.

“She’s going to remember today forever,” his wife said softly.

“Good,” Seungcheol replied. “I want her to remember that she’s loved. Not just by us, but by everyone who matters to us. I want her to know that our family is bigger than just blood, and that she’ll never have to navigate this world alone.”

“Even when she’s fifteen and hates us for existing?”

“Especially then. That’s when she’ll need Uncle Mingyu to remind her that her parents are actually pretty cool, and Uncle Jeonghan to teach her how to get revenge on mean girls, and Uncle Wonwoo to show her that quiet strength is just as powerful as loud confidence.”

His wife tilted her head to look at him. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“I think about it all the time,” he admitted. “About what kind of life we’re giving her, what kind of person she’s going to become. Today… today I realized I don’t have to worry so much. Look at how she commanded that room, how she made everyone feel special and included. Look at how naturally she loves people and expects to be loved back.”

“She gets that from you, you know.”

“She gets that from both of us. And from them.” He gestured toward the door through which his bandmates had recently departed. “She’s growing up surrounded by people who chose to love each other, who made family out of friendship and commitment instead of just accepting what they were given. That’s not nothing.”

“No,” his wife agreed quietly, “that’s everything.”

Later that evening, after dinner had been eaten off TV trays as predicted and Naeun had been convinced to take a bath despite her argument that princesses didn’t need to wash off their royal sparkles, Seungcheol found himself in her bedroom for the second time that day.

She was already in her pajamas, a set covered in cartoon dragons that seemed to contradict her earlier dedication to princess aesthetics, but somehow made perfect sense for her eclectic personality. Her hair was still damp from the bath, and she smelled like lavender body wash and childhood.

“Appa, will you tell me a story?” she asked as he tucked her in properly this time, having convinced her to remove the crown for sleeping.

“What kind of story do you want?”

“A story about today. But make it like a real story, with once upon a time and everything.”

Seungcheol settled into the chair beside her bed, the same chair where he’d spent countless nights during her infancy, watching her sleep and marveling at the fact that he’d helped create something so perfect and terrifying.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a princess who lived in a magical kingdom with her mama and papa and her loyal companion, a brave white dragon named Kkuma.”

“Dragons can’t be white,” Naeun interrupted drowsily.

“This one could. It was a very special dragon. Now, one day, the princess decided to hold the most magnificent tea party in all the land…”

He wove the day’s events into a proper fairy tale, complete with magical uncles who appeared with gifts and talents, enchanted cakes that granted wishes, and crowns that bestowed special powers upon their wearers. Naeun’s eyes grew heavy as the story progressed, but she fought sleep to hear every detail, occasionally murmuring corrections or additions to ensure accuracy.

“…and so the princess realized that the real magic wasn’t in the tricks or the crowns or even the cake,” Seungcheol continued softly, “but in being surrounded by people who loved her enough to spend their day making hers special. And she lived happily ever after, knowing that whenever she needed them, her magical uncles would appear with exactly what she needed most.”

“What did she need most?” Naeun whispered, though her eyes were already closed.

“Love,” Seungcheol said simply. “She needed to know she was loved, and she was. More than she could ever imagine.”

“That’s a good story, Appa.”

“It’s a true story, baby. The best kind.”

He sat with her until her breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep, then allowed himself a few more minutes to simply watch her. Five years old, with the whole world ahead of her and the unshakeable confidence that came from being unconditionally loved. She would face challenges, heartbreaks, moments of doubt – but she would face them knowing she had an entire chosen family in her corner.

His phone buzzed quietly with a message. The group chat, predictably.

Mingyu: Thanks for today, hyung. I needed that more than you know.

Jeonghan: Same. Nothing like princess duty to put life in perspective.

Wonwoo: I’ve already ordered more magic supplies. Next time I’m doing levitation.

Seokmin: I’m writing a song about royal tea parties. Naeun inspired me.

Joshua: My mom wants to know when the next family dinner is. She’s making Naeun a matching tea set.

Seungcheol smiled, typing back quickly: You’re all ridiculous. She’s going to be so spoiled.

Mingyu: That’s the point of being an uncle.

Jeonghan: Wait until she starts dating. We’re going to be terrifying.

Wonwoo: I’m already researching intimidation techniques.

Seokmin: We have fifteen years to prepare!

Joshua: Thirteen years. Kids grow up fast these days.

Seungcheol could picture them all, scattered across the city but connected by their phones and their shared investment in his daughter’s wellbeing. They’d be there for every birthday, every school play, every milestone and heartbreak. They’d spoil her outrageously and drive him crazy and love her with the fierce protectiveness that had always characterized their approach to family.

He turned off the bedside lamp and padded quietly out of Naeun’s room, closing the door behind him with practiced stealth. His wife was already in their bedroom, propped up against the pillows with a book and a cup of tea, looking completely at peace with the chaos that had been their day.

“How long did the story take?” she asked as he began changing into pajamas.

“Longer than usual. She wanted all the details included for historical accuracy.”

“Of course she did. She’s your daughter.”

Seungcheol climbed into bed beside her, automatically reaching for her hand the way he had every night for years. “Today was perfect.”

“Today was exhausting,” she corrected with a laugh. “But yes, also perfect.”

“I keep thinking about what Mingyu said. About how she’s all of ours. Sometimes I feel guilty about how much they love her, like I’m taking advantage of their kindness.”

“Seungcheol.” His wife set down her book and turned to face him fully. “They don’t love her because they have to. They love her because she’s loveable, and because she’s part of you, and because love multiplies when you share it. You’re not taking advantage of anything – you’re giving them the gift of being part of something beautiful.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“I married you, didn’t I? I had to develop wisdom in self-defense.”

He laughed, pulling her closer and burying his face in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Even when you get all philosophical about tea parties.”

“Especially then.”

They lay together in comfortable silence, processing the day and preparing for whatever tomorrow would bring. Probably more craft projects, definitely more questions about magic tricks, possibly another impromptu gathering of uncles bearing gifts and chaos.

“Hey,” his wife said suddenly, her voice soft in the darkness.

“What?”

“We’re really good at this, aren’t we? The whole family thing?”

Seungcheol thought about his daughter’s laughter, about the easy way his bandmates had folded themselves into their domestic life, about the casual miracle of ordinary happiness. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “we really are.”

And in the room down the hall, a five-year-old princess slept peacefully, dreaming of magic shows and royal tea parties, secure in the knowledge that she was the center of a universe built entirely from love. Tomorrow there would be more adventures, more laughter, more opportunities to learn that family wasn’t just about the people you were born to, but about the people who chose to show up, day after day, with cake and crowns and an endless capacity for making the ordinary feel magical.

It was, Seungcheol reflected as sleep finally claimed him, the best kind of fairy tale – the kind that was absolutely, perfectly true.

[sasukekys]

the homosexuality and romance in naruto and sasuke’s relationship is textually supported inside the story

this is just an expansion of my own old post (rip sasukesun), but panels will be included in this edition. i also took inspiration from my friend @narutouzumakiarchive who so accurately wrote, and i quote, when determining the validity of something in canon you need to look at the internal logic of the world and the values that the author promotes, my post will only show other instances where naruto and sasuke do exactly (to each other) what is established by the manga itself as “love” or “romance” and even “gay”, many of them have already been pointed out by myself or other people in the fandom, but i wanted to put them all together to reinforce how a narrative is built and how an in universe logic is established. sit down cause it’s gonna be long and i will not leave it under a read more because i’m afraid to lose it forever if i do.

haku and zabuza

land of waves is such a well written arc that its presence, ideas, values etc keep showing up for the whole story. it’s the essence of the manga, if i’m being real, and if i were to put all the references here, it would be endless, but for the purpose of this post, i want to point out the implication of romantic feelings in haku and zabuza’s relationship, without any value of judgement whether i find it “problematic”, and how they parallel naruto and sasuke’s.

sasuke sacrificing himself for naruto parallels haku sacrificing himself to zabuza. but it goes beyond it because haku establishes the importance of wanting to protect people who are precious to you, an idea that persists for the entire manga. the same way haku considers zabuza precious to him to the point that he would die to see zabuza’s dream come true, sasuke’s sacrifice implies he feels the same for naruto, sasuke himself implies in his “deathbed” he wants naruto to fulfil his dream. and later in the manga, naruto internalises this thought, he wants to protect sasuke, who is precious to him.

almost 200 chapters later, and we still have land of waves clear references.

and as if that’s not enough, the feeling of acceptance that makes haku so devoted to zabuza is also shared by naruto towards sasuke.

in the arc itself, naruto recognises clearly that what haku felt for zabuza was love, the word he uses denotes feelings of affection, it’s not a mere “care about” the translation here is saying. the devotion, the desire to protect someone who is precious to you, the feelings of acceptance, they all fall under love as a definition, recognised by naruto himself when he calls zabuza out, but it goes beyond that, because kishimoto wrote haku to have romantic feelings for zabuza, something pointed out by many people in this fandom, haku blushes while calling zabuza’s body beautiful. kishimoto draws them in angles where their mouths are aligned. zabuza wishes to go to the same place haku went in the afterlife.

and yet the devotion, the desire to protect someone who is precious to you, the acceptance, all of those aspects that fall under the definition of love in haku and zabuza’s relationship are applied to naruto and sasuke. i guess it’s easy to accept that what they feel for each other is love, but it’s very curious how they parallel two people with implied romantic feelings in every single aspect of their relationship. again, i’m not here to morally judge haku and zabuza’s relationship or kishimoto’s decisions, the age gap isn’t part of naruto and sasuke’s relationship anyway, but i want to follow the internal logic of the manga, it was certainly a choice to add this romantic subtext for zabuza and haku while making naruto and sasuke follow the exact same patterns.

shikaku

shikaku talks about someone rough having a soft spot for the person they love, and shikamaru thinks his father likes to be bossed around by his mother. this is a trope kishimoto is fond of, in his manga mario, he likes that saori is tough but warms up for mario, but inside the naruto manga, the logic is no different in naruto and sasuke’s relationship. sasuke clearly has a soft spot for naruto, naruto is the only one sasuke shows weakness towards, sasuke admits naruto made me him feel at ease, and one of the things that actually got sasuke’s attention in naruto’s behaviour was his prankster gremlin antics, a trait generally rejected by others. when naruto yells at chuunin exams, people think he’s loud and annoying, but sasuke smiles fondly.

naruto also enjoys to be bossed by sasuke, this was shown in war arc, he says sasuke is “pissing him off” for giving orders but he doesn’t really do anything about it, he smiles and agrees on following sasuke’s ideas anyway, like a smitten boyfriend. shikaku says this is love, and again how naruto and sasuke act towards each other fall under what is defined as love by someone else inside the manga.

tayuya

i made a specific post about this one already, but i can’t leave what tayuya says out of this compilation because it’s one of the most interesting ones to me. tayuya doesn’t define love, she defines homosexuality specifically.

in sasuke’s retrieval arc, during tayuya vs shikamaru, tayuya asks if sasuke is that important for them to waste a team for one guy, and says that’s gay, there’s no euphemism or disguise on her words, she says they are homos. shikamaru himself explains at that moment that no, in his case at least, he wants to save sasuke because he is a brother of the leaf and shikamaru trusts his comrades, he doesn’t think he’s wasting his team for one guy, perfectly understandable, but that doesn’t change how tayuya has established a logic inside the narrative: there is a line to cross.

tayuya talks about “wasting a team” for one guy but it’s not the “wasting a team” aspect that is gay, it’s the idea of “going too far” for a guy that’s very important to you, now i wonder who has an entire narrative surrounding this idea, of many people questioning “why would you go that far for one guy?”.

“is that boy sasuke that important to you?” and the answer to naruto is yes, but not because sasuke is a “brother of the leaf”, and then you continue with what tayuya says after… so you are a homo. how naruto acts towards sasuke is established in the narrative of the manga as homosexuality, not only love or romance.

sai and nicknames

when trying to improve his social skills, sai reads a book on the matter. what kishimoto chose to show the readers by the social rules of the naruto universe is that using sufixes like “-kun” expresses distance, an emotional barrier, something that both hinata and sakura use with naruto and sasuke. but using nicknames and terms of endearment help to combat that distance, and it allows you to form an especial and close relationship. sasuke uses a term of endearment with naruto, a special nickname he doesn’t use with anyone else, actually, naruto is the only person to have that with sasuke.

in a flashback, we learn that naruto called sasuke an “usuratonkachi” first, but sasuke kept it and started using it with naruto. through the manga we see that sasuke calls naruto that multiple times, and sometimes it is when naruto is being an “idiot”, but it’s also in endearing moments, the most remarkable one being vote2, after their reconciliation. in the boruto movie, we learn that sasuke has its own definition for usuratonkachi, someone who hates to lose, a very noticeable trait of naruto’s personality, but something endearing to sasuke nonetheless. naruto’s strong will is something sasuke admires.

kishimoto uses a book on social skills to establish another in universe rule, that using nicknames with someone expresses emotional closeness, a special relationship. through the manga, kishimoto portrays sasuke to follow the same rule with naruto, showing that they are close and their relationship is special.

hinata’s confession

hinata confesses her love to naruto during pein’s invasion, in her confession, she explains the reasons for her feelings.

naruto doesn’t say anything about hinata confessing to him, but one arc later he says the same things she said, but to sasuke, basically the same reasons.

hinata to naruto: i nearly went the wrong way, but you showed me the right one / naruto to sasuke: one misstep and i could’ve ended up like you, but my connection with you helped go the right way.

hinata to naruto: i was always chasing you, wanting to overtake you, i just wanted to talk to you, i wanted to be with you / naruto to sasuke: i wanted to talk to you but i didn’t know how to approach it, you made me feel jealous so i made you my rival, but i wanted to be like you, i was always chasing after you.

on vote2, sasuke’s monologue reveals he feels the same about naruto, it’s a direct response to everything naruto has said, he even remembers that very conversation in kage summit, sasuke also adds the loneliness he and naruto were familiar with, but the same feelings of admiration naruto talked about in kage summit are there.

sasuke to naruto: i saw you growing stronger and i reciprocated the rivalry, when you started growing more, i felt jealous, you had a strength i didn’t, you had always walked in front of me.

hinata doesn’t have the same proximity with naruto as naruto and sasuke have with each other, the way she refers at him (the -kun suffix) expresses distance and an emotional barrier, meanwhile the way sasuke refers to naruto expresses a special relationship and closeness, as we can see by the social rules of this universe, and yet, what hinata says to naruto is defined as love. the way naruto and sasuke speak about each other is indicated in the manga as reasons for someone to romantically love one another, but they have a plus that their relationship is seen by the narrative as special, and what they have is mutual.

omoi and shinjuu

another one that has been pointed out by many people in the fandom, i’m not here to exactly discuss shinjuu and its references outside the manga, even though other tumblr uses have done a pretty good job on this. what i’m about to say has already been explained by @narutouzumakiarchive on the same post i linked at the beginning, i just want to compile all the references together and pay attention to the logic built through the entire story.

at the beginning of kage summit, omoi wonders about shinjuu, he specifically uses that word and frames it as romantic, translations are sometimes watered down because omoi says shinjuu (しんじゅう), the furigana is unmistakable, it means double suicide not merely “can’t let me go”, the text that doesn’t say suicide is omitting relevant information. omoi’s thoughts are basically: what if someone is so in love with him they can’t bear to be apart from him, making them propose a lovers suicide if he and the hypothetical person are to separate? omoi wonders about a romantic situation, it is not framed as anything else but romantic.

everybody knows what happens at the end of kage summit right?

the context of the entire arc shows everybody telling naruto to stop going that far for sasuke, to cut sasuke off, and yet naruto has a panic attack over the thought of sasuke dying. when naruto meets sasuke, he tells him the same things hinata said to him, and after everything, naruto proposes a double suicide with sasuke because he can’t bear the idea of existing without him, with this kind of separation. how exactly does that differ from what omoi imagined?

kishimoto throws a random and seemingly comedic and unrelated information at the beginning of the arc, frames it as romantic, and then not so innocently makes naruto repeat the same behaviour towards sasuke at the end of the very same arc. he could’ve chosen anything for omoi to say, and still, coincidentally, what he says fits naruto and sasuke’s relationship perfectly, please someone warn him the things he be writing accidentally.

kushina and minato

able to piss off even people inside the naruto and sasuke pile of shippers itself, what sasuke says about naruto parallels what kushina says about minato and why she fell for him, there are many many narusasu/minakushi parallels, actually, even more after the minato one shot, and it’s not about their personalities or looks, but rather about roles and themes.

kushina tells naruto that she fell for minato because he saved her, the only one who was able to, and he was capable of changing her heart, if those are reasons to make someone fall for another person, what can we say about sasuke that says naruto saved him, the only one who was able to, and was capable of changing his heart?

kishimoto even gives sasuke and kushina the same role of explaining to their son (k) about their fathers, and what they say about naruto and minato is also similar.

(this collage is maoam’s btw, you can check their posts, they also point out a lot of stuff i’m talking about).

kushina about minato: he looked like a sissy and unreliable, he said he wanted to be hokage but there was no way i believed in that / sasuke about naruto: he was always talking about becoming hokage but he was a loser, full of weaknesses, a good for nothing.

kushina about minato: i looked down on him, but i was wrong, he saved me and became a slpendid ninja (and later hokage) / sasuke about naruto: he pulled himself with his own strength and became hokage.

my point here is not even to show how their relationships parallel one another, but rather to talk about how the way naruto and sasuke act towards each other is framed as reasons why people fall in love in this universe, it can be seen as platonic for a reader’s standard, but for the naruto world’s rules, it isn’t, it is romantic.

not giving up

when kakashi wrongly claims that sakura has never given up on sasuke and that she’s only wanted to save him, he associates those feelings with love. this is not the first time kakashi’s judgement on sakura is objectively wrong, in kage summit, sakura was shown to be the same as any other konoha ninja when it comes to sasuke, well any other konoha ninja but one.

sasuke himself acknowledges that naruto was the only one who has never given up on him, not only that but it was naruto who saved him, that’s solely on naruto, nobody else mentioned. despite kakashi being wrong about the person, he also has a definition on love, one that was already used with kushina and minato. saving someone and not giving up on them is framed as love, and it comes out of sasuke’s mouth that only naruto did that for him.

i’ve only talked about the content itself, but in some of those instances kishimoto also uses visual language to get the message through, though that would be for another occasion, i guess.

i wonder how come so many different characters can name what’s love and romance and even homosexuality and have naruto and sasuke meeting every single standard, but people still claim kishimoto wrote it all accidentally because he is, without any proof except for the claim that he is japanese and old and a man, homophobic. i’m sorry, but it’s not “up to the audience” to decide wether naruto and sasuke’s relationship is romantic or platonic. you can disagree all you want and i know people will, but no one has yet provided the textual evidence that shows otherwise. by every metric, the narrative establishes that, in the logic of the naruto universe, what naruto and sasuke have is not only love but romance, and not only romance but homosexual.

[sacrificiallane]

smut ﹙ eat your way to my heart ❞ Percy Jackson

request ! ❛ I need the most disgustingly detailed, jaw dropping, descriptive oral sex with Percy 😻 like it wouldn’t be mean and rough paced just slow and teasing… ❜ / cw ! oral fem!reader receiving, licking, sucking, spit, one little slap

Love goes through the stomach ... or whatever the saying is. Percy wasn't too sure. However, what he did know was that he loved eating, and he loved you ! And so, obviously, the boy also enjoyed eating you ♡ And not in a weird way at all, no. In a way that was pleasurable for the both of you. Or, well... him, mostly. Because Percy Jackson also was a tease ! Not because he wanted to, but because your eagerness just made it so easy.

"Gods ―" With your legs widely spread, and his eager mouth licking broad stripes over your already glistening pussy, you wished your boyfriend would just love on you a little harder. The soft licking wasn't enough, and yet, you were already dripping a mix of spit and arousal that he was fervently drinking right up.

Basically creating only more of a mess for him to clean up...

Your fingers were tightly wrapped around his dark strands, knuckles turning white by how hard you were gripping, practically threatening to rip some of his pretty hair out. And you were trying so hard, it seemed, to push his face further into your body, hoping he would give you more. Percy only chuckled, the motion creating little vibrations against your sensitive skin.

"Let me do it ," he playfully smacked your thigh, resulting in a soft whine from you. The tip of his tongue was teasing your folds, barely ever slipping between the lips before repeating the motion again ... and again. It was maddening. And Percy knew.

"Percy ..." Your voice was just getting more and more whiny, "then- then at least do it right !"

Feeling you tug on his hair yet again ― out of sheer frustration ― the young demigod let out a soft laugh. You felt his warm fingers gently draw patterns into the plush skin of your thighs, keeping you nice and settled for him. "M' I really doing it wrong or is it just not fast enough for my greedy girl, hm ?" Greedy ? More like awfully eager ! Because your hips thrusted upwards again, seeking any kind of friction.

"Well- well both ," you stammered, helplessly watching him blow some air against your glistening parts, making you blush furiously when he kept steady eye contact with you. Hot. Another whine soon followed.

You felt him nudge his thumb against one fold, caressing the tender skin with a gentle noise, before he opened you like a book he was more than excited to get into ! And with more space to move now, a broad lick was delivered over the just slightly exposed bean right in the middle of it. You moaned loudly, your fingers curling deeper into his hair.

"More... please, more."

Percy Jackson chuckled again, devilish smile on his face when he nudged against the hood of your pearl, exposing your clit right underneath and ... leaning in to gently suck it between his lips. You were a goner ! Punished to watch your ridiculously hot boyfriend do ridiculously hot things to your body that had your eyes roll into the back of your head. And he was just grinning ! And watching each and every reaction.

"Please, please, please ..." you repeated it like a prayer, unsure what you were even hoping for. Your release ? Maybe. But you also didn't want it to end ! He'd done great work in getting you all hot and bothered, and now that he was actually doing something about it, it almost felt like too much. But, just almost.

Your toes curled when his tongue pressed against the nub a little harder, eager to see you fall apart for him. Letting go with a lewd and wet 'pop' , the boy slurped his way down, down, down, and towards your eagerly twitching hole. His nose found a place at your clit, pressing, nudging, practically nuzzling against it like it was something so precious ... and the tip of his tongue dipped eagerly inside, tasting your sweet velvet walls with a hum.

It was almost enough ! And Percy Jackson felt it too, how you were rocking yourself against his face like you couldn't wait to fall over the edge. The built-up was always so good, but Gods would you be lying if you didn't find the mind-numbing orgasm to be the best ...

Percy tightened his hold on your legs, keeping them wide and open, large palms fitting under your ass to squeeze and press you further towards his mouth. At this rate, he will be eating you whole... , his sounds only indicating that he would die a happy man with a job well done !

And soon enough, his name fell over your parted lips like the prettiest prayer, meant to be moaned by only you ♡ The kiss he lets you have is the filthiest you've ever shared, and yet the sweetest.

"My pretty girl..." he moans against your awaiting lips, "so messy..." another kiss, softer, "love you so much."

𓂃 🖊 more .

[chirishman]

This guy luckily survived being shot in the forehead because he was far enough away. Others have not been so lucky in the past.

Even if they don’t hit you in the head when fired directly they can have terrible consequences

Nevermind the fact that the police are specifically picking out and targeting members of the press. The cop clearly pauses, identifies her as a reporter doing a piece to camera, takes aim directly at her and shoots her in the back of the leg.

It’s a clear pattern.

This is a good compilation of more such incidents even if I think TYT is kind of shitty

All of these are from this week.

This is happening because no one faced real consequences not only for general unprovoked brutality but for for similar types of targeted assaults on clear members of the press five years ago in the George Floyd protests so they *know* that they can get away with it through a combination of hiding their names and badge numbers by citing fears of doxxing, qualified immunity, police unions, and the fact that lawsuits are payed out of our taxes and not by the perpetrators themselves.

Here’s a reminder of what they did last time. What’s past is prologue.

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

IF YOU LIE DOWN WITH ME

day twelve of the june bug masterlist

pairing: husband! joel miller x fem! reader

word count: 1.3k

summary: what a typical, domestic sunday looks like for you and joel. the perfect sunday- that is

warnings: SOO FLUFFY ARGH! but mentions of smut, eating out/ fingering, breeding kink, daddy kink- lots of pet names, nuturing, heavy praise

my first time writing joel please be nice hehe

"put your red boots on, baby, giddy up baby wants a dance, baby gets her way treat me nice, talk to me with that whiskey breath twirl me twice, i'll treat you like a holiday"- if you lie down with me, lana del rey

“Pick out whatcha want honey.” Joel murmured beside you, watching your eyes flickering around to all the vendors.

Everything was full of colour, catching your eye. Bright red strawberries that looked so juicy your mouth practically watered. Deep blues from the blueberries, contrasted with the bright yellow of the corn hidden in husks.

The farmers market was your favourite place on earth.

Except for Joels arms, of course.

You felt a gentle hand wrapping around to rest on your hip, drawing you closer to your boyfriend so you were snug next to him. Breathing in the familiar scent of cedarwood, leather and campfire smoke- you looked up at him, eyes sparkling like emeralds.

Sundays were the best days.

It was the day you dressed up in your softest dresses, with patterns like gingham, polka dots and florals. A little purse adorned your outfit, even though you knew Joel would not only pay for everything, but carry it too.

It made him equally as happy, to spend time with you, and to show you off to everyone in the neighbourhood.

To watch you chat with the local vendors- knowing them all by name, to observe the way your fingers traced over little handmade items like soft knitted blankets or lavender soaps.

Today was no different.

It was warm and sunny, the birds chirping in the trees that tried to stretch their branches over the park and the vendors within it. And yet, the sunlight that filtered through the leaves seemed to follow you as you walked.

“I’m thinking some berries we can put on Martha’s pies. And some fresh veggies for dinner tonight.”

That was another thing Joel loved about Sundays. The dinner you made from whatever ingredients you savaged was always exquisite.

“Anything for my girl.” he whispered, planting a kiss to the top of your head as you giggled. You touched your pearl necklace subconsciously, a gift from Joel that made you feel like a china doll. It had become a staple in your wardrobe, and you always got the best compliments from it.

Hence, the sweet remark Martha made as you made your way to her booth, giving you a sweet smile. You two are just the cutest. I say that everytime, don't I? I’m getting so old.

You felt Joel give your hand a gentle squeeze as you browsed her selection of pies and baked goods, chatting away with her as you made your choices. A sweet strawberry pie for tonight, and a loaf of sourdough to go with the stew you wanted to make later on.

Then it was onto the next. It was soothing to Joel in a way, the simple, domestic routine.

Your excitement over simple, little things made his heart soar. Tommy joked he was like a bodyguard, always just slightly behind you, observing any interaction you had with others silently.

But he didnt care. It was natural at this point, especially here. You'd talk to the locals, and he chimed in when he felt it was appropriate. But today was your time, and he was just thankful to be a part of it.

So he watched as you combed through each stall, taking your sweet time. Grabbing some jam, because you were nearly out and he always liked some on his toast. A beeswax candle because Maria’s birthday was coming up and she always had some burning whenever you two came for a weekly dinner.

And more strawberries, which box did he think looked the best?

When you had wrapped up your shopping, waving your goodbyes- he happily carried bags of goods in one hand, holding your hand in the other as he guided you back to his pickup truck.

You were instructed to wait, as you always were- and you listened to the older man, as you always did. He held the door open for you, guiding you inside and ensuring your seatbelt was done up and comfortable before he felt good to start the vehicle.

Once the truck rolled into the gravel driveway, the Sunday routine carried on.

You lit a candle, humming to yourself softly as Joel helped you organize the ingredients- where and how you wanted them. You threw on your apron as he opened a window, letting the gentle breeze slip inside, blowing loose strands of hair and smelling of fresh flowers in the gardens.

The flowers Joel had got you today were in a vase already, next to the vinyl he placed down, crackling to life from static to a soft melody you could hum along to. Every so often Joel would look up from his book, adjusting his little reading glasses as he’d watch you with admiration he never had for anyone but you.

He’d watch as you’d chop the veggies, adding fresh herbs from the garden to the simmering pot. The feeling of his arms wrapping around your waist, and chin resting on the top of your head sometimes made you jump if you were in your own little world, like this evening.

You giggled as he kissed the top of your head, spinning you round and picking you up onto the counter to kiss you deeper, his hands wandering across your soft skin, making you feel warm and fuzzy. Sweet praises whispered as you tended to the food, always making your confidence skyrocket.

Looks so good honey, I’m such a lucky man. Smells fuckin delicious sweetheart. Look at my girl eh? Cookin for her old man, such a sweet lil thing.

Once plates were cleared and dessert was finished, he swung you in his arms, holding you close as the two of you slow danced in the kitchen.

Your socks always covered his, a little height added to your frame as you stood on his toes. Arms draped over his shoulders, around his neck as he moved you to the beat of the music, humming the lyrics in that low, southern drawl of his.

Dance me all around the room, spin me like a ballerina, super high- dance me all around the moon, light me up like the Fourth of July…

Some nights, he let you curl in his lap like a cat as he read from his book to you, in that large armchair of his, his little reading lamp perched over his shoulder, the soft yellow glow illuminating the pages.

Some nights he would strum his guitar on the porch, singing sweet tunes to you that were so soothing your eyes would start to droop.

Others, he’d run you a bath, massaging your muscles because you worked so hard for him, and you were so good to him, treated him so well. Took care of him the way he needed you too.

But every night was the same, when he’d carry you up the creaking wooden stairs to bed, laying you down on the quilted bed and making sweet love to you until you were overcome with sleep.

Focusing on your pleasure, your needs as his tongue would slide between your folds, fingers pumping and curling just the way you liked.

He read you like one of his novels that sat dog eared and coffee stained downstairs on the bookcase- he knew what made your toes curl and cry his name.

The sound of his name, the pants and moans of daddy on your tongue was sweeter than any strawberry pie and fresh berries. He craved it, needing it to get him through the day. Needed the image of your eyes rolling back in your head as he entered you slowly, filling you to the brim with his seed, and plugging it in because he wanted to keep you stuffed and full always.

Needed to care for you afterwards, wrapping you up in his arms under the sheets, making sure you were clean and relaxed, eyes fluttering shut as he cooed sweet nothings to you.

The steady beat of his heart lured you to sleep every night- it was your version of white noise. The steady rise and fall of your chest as you slept, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks as you dreamt made him feel secure enough to close his own eyes, drifting off into his own dreamscape.

It was bliss. It was heaven.

And it was the perfect Sunday. 

[ineedlelittlespace]

It really would've been fun to see the early days of Murderbot's introduction to PreservationAux in the weeks before ASR happens, mostly because while they may be a weird departure from the corporate groups Murderbot is used to, weird hippies from idyllic utopian societies are not unheard of in the kind of sci-fi shows Murderbot loves. The main difference, however, is that in those shows, you usually find out by the end of the episode that the society is maintained by a secret cloning scheme or they keep the peace by having weird death penalty laws about tripping into greenhouses (*stares hard at that one episode of Star Trek:TNG*) or something. There's always a twist to perfect societies, always something dark and terrible and weird hidden under all that niceness, and you just know that Murderbot would be waiting for the world to follow the pattern from its shows.

But then...it doesn't.

And Murderbot is left to:

[paucubarsisimp]

Could you do hector fort comes home from a tough day at training, the reader pampers him with: massage, pedicure and back tickle he falls deep into a sleep

hold me

pairing: hector fort x reader

summary: pampering hector after a tough day

warnings: none!

you heard the door before you saw him.

the soft click of it closing behind him, followed by a heavy silence. no keys tossed on the counter, no familiar greeting. just the quiet sound of him breathing — slow and low, like the weight of the day was still clinging to his chest.

he stepped into the room a moment later, and the look on his face said it all. shoulders tense, eyes dull with exhaustion, curls slightly damp from his rushed post-training rinse. he looked at you, but not quite all the way — like even making eye contact took more than he had left.

you walked to him wordlessly and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest. he melted into it, arms coming around you after a second, slower than usual but just as tight.

“long day?” you whispered against his shirt.

he nodded, resting his chin on the top of your head. “felt like it would never end.”

you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “then come sit. let me take care of you.”

he opened his mouth to say something — probably a weak protest, something about how he didn’t want to be a burden — but you were already guiding him to the couch.

“don’t argue,” you said softly, with the ghost of a smile.

he let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

you brought out the small basin and filled it with warm water, adding a little drop of lavender oil just for him. you returned to him, kneeling gently as he leaned back against the cushions, watching you with that quiet sort of love in his eyes that always made your chest feel too small.

you helped him ease his feet in, the heat drawing a soft sigh from his lips.

“mm,” he breathed. “okay, that feels insane.”

you looked up at him, grinning. “just wait.”

you worked slowly, your hands warm and careful as they moved over his feet, massaging, kneading, easing the strain from his arches and ankles. his eyes drifted shut. every so often, you heard a quiet hum or a barely-there breath that told you you were hitting the right spots.

when you were done, you dried him off, tucked a blanket over his lap, and coaxed him forward just enough to settle behind him. your hands slid up his back, slow and deliberate, palms smoothing over the tension that had built up across his shoulders.

you massaged him in long, gentle strokes — firm where he needed it, soft where he didn’t. when you felt his body start to relax, you let your touch lighten. your fingertips traced idle patterns across the curve of his spine, the kind of barely-there touch that always made him shiver just a little, even half-asleep.

he didn’t speak after that.

his head dipped forward, breath deepening with every pass of your hand.

and then… nothing. just the sound of his breathing, slow and even. he’d slipped away into sleep, right there in your arms.

you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

“rest, baby,” you whispered. “you’re home now.”

you draped the blanket higher over his shoulders, curled beside him, and let the stillness settle in. your hand found his again under the covers, and you held it loosely as the room went quiet, wrapped in the quiet hum of safe, steady love.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay@joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @meganesanchez lmk if you want to be added!

[blazillafirefox]

Way too damn many people in the Midwest have this black and white thinking pattern.

It's caused me problems all my life because these kind of people have rendered themselves incapable of thinking outside the box or even outside of their own tunnel vision. Not only do they rob themselves of independent thought and the concept of nuance, but they also lose empathy by letting the law decide their morals for them.

I can't tell you how much ableism I've faced for being neurodivergent, mentally ill, and thinking/acting differently than the others. How many times they told me to obey or just be like everyone else. And their obsession with optics, meaning they censor discontent rather than take an active role in fixing it.

The deep seated resentment that keeps me from wanting to socialize. Being that I associate socializing with imprisonment, I feel I can never be my true self around people without some form of punishment.

That ableism is a direct result of this black and white rules good rule breakers bad attitude. They have a deep sense of disdain for people who don't follow their rules, even small social ones that don't hurt anyone else. They will still harshly punish you for not obeying their stiff black and white code.

Meeting genuine adults that think legal = good, illegal = bad is so bizarre, like bro not even the law itself agrees that that is a good ethical framework

[jemiswumbo]

teammate (18+)

twitchstreamer!luke x reader

part one | part two

author’s note: holy shit it’s been a whole YEAR since part two. i’m back baybeeee. only because of all the very very nice comments and messages that motivated me to get back into writing. thank you all <3 dedicated to @thatbird-fromrio because their message today is the only reason I finished this haha.

title is from the song teammate by the ready set. lyrics are HALF relevant. progress !

without further ado…. The Streamer Awards!!

tags/warnings: smut MDNI 18+, semi-public, dirty talk😳, roughness, pet names, lowkey getting caught, use of y/n, kinda long, not proofread sorry for any errors!!

The moment Luke’s Instagram post went live, your phone had practically exploded.

Notifications poured in—likes, comments, tags, DMs from people you hadn’t spoken to in years. You’d spent the rest of your anniversary dinner blissfully ignoring it, choosing instead to focus on Luke, the wine, the way his fingers traced idle patterns over your knuckles between courses, and the heat blossoming between your legs.

But now, two weeks later, the reality of going public was about to hit its biggest test yet.

The Streamer Awards.

You’d seen clips of it in previous years—the red carpet, the flashing cameras, the interviews, the screaming fans. And now, you were going to be walking it. With Luke.

~~~~

The morning of the Streamer Awards, you woke up to the sound of something crashing and breaking in the kitchen, followed by an indignant little “…Oops.” from Percy Jackson. You blinked awake, momentarily confused until everything came crashing back you to like a wave.

The Streamer Awards were tonight. The venue they were taking place at was closest to Luke’s house, so he’d invited his friends to stay over and get ready together for the big event. It was going to be your first public appearance with Luke, now that you’d officially announced your relationship to his millions of fans and followers. It was nice to have the moral support of Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and Thalia, as well. As chaotic as they were.

Really, you were going to be the moral support to all of them tonight, especially Luke. They were all nominated for at least one award. Luke was nominated for Streamer of the Year, the most prestigious award of the evening. You had no doubt in your mind that he would win, even if he was up against the most popular streamers in the world right now. He deserved it, and his fans were batshit crazy enough to make it happen.

You stretched your hand across the bed, feeling for Luke’s familiar warmth, only to find him absent. You only had to wonder for a brief moment where he was, before you heard his booming voice from the kitchen: “Percy, I swear to God if that was my bong—“

Bong? You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and sat up, reaching for your phone on the bedside table. It powered on and the time 12:18pm flashed at you. Your eyes widened, your heart beat stuttering in your chest. Only 5 hours until you had to leave for the red carpet. Shit. Talk about nerve-wracking.

“It wasn’t the bong but it was lowkey maybe that bottle of Patron—“

“Percy!”

“—but it’s fine! We picked up the big chunks of glass and now Grover’s licking up the spillage so none gets wasted!”

Annabeth, blessed voice of reason, finally spoke up: “I don’t know how either of you are still alive.”

You laughed and finally pushed yourself out of bed, searching the large bedroom for wherever you clothes ended up last night. You pulled on your sleep shorts and one of Luke’s T-shirts from the dresser drawer before beelining to the bathroom. After freshening up, you went out to the kitchen and found nothing short of a disaster zone.

It looked like Luke’s kitchen and living room had turned into the aftermath of a frat party. Or an AirBNB during a vacation of 15 friends. There was alcohol and weed paraphernalia sprawled along the island. Clothes, bags, shoes, and makeup were littered everywhere. Percy and Grover were, in fact, on the kitchen floor, cleaning up their mess. Thalia and Annabeth had claimed the floor length mirror in the living room as their get ready zone and were working on each other’s hair. Luke was by the oven, seemingly cooking actual food for once.

“Morning,” You said, as everyone greeted you. “Any reason why we’re pregaming so early?”

“Many reasons!” Percy announced, jumping from his spot on the floor to throw an arm over your shoulder. You suppressed a laugh as he continued, “One! Awards shows are a nightmare. Yes, it’s fun to be nominated and watch and see people you don’t normally see ever leaving their houses, but it’s a lot. Lots of cameras. Lots of talking. Lots of nerves.”

You met Luke’s eyes from across the kitchen. He was clenching his jaw. He knew you were nervous enough as is. You’d joked last night about maybe skipping the event for the sake of your sanity and it had really hurt Luke’s feelings. The last thing he wanted was anymore reasons for you to back out last minute.

Percy went on, oblivious to this exchange, “Two! It’s been a while since we all hung out just us and we want to have fun. Three, and the most important — the after party. That stupid prick Octavian Augur is hosting this year and I’ll be damned if I’m not blackout before arrival.”

“Jesus,” You laughed, running a hand through your hair. “Sounds like we’re in for a great night of babysitting you, PJ.”

Luke smiled, catching on to your words. You were going. And honestly, with each passing minute, and Percy’s antics… the nerves were fading into excitement.

~~~~

Getting ready was a blast. After everyone ate a decent amount of food to cushion the impending onslaught of booze, the fun began. Annabeth played music from her speaker. Percy and Grover helped each other tie their ties for over half an hour. Thalia helped you with your makeup, making sure your eyeliner was sharp and pristine.

Luke had paid some random stylist to buy outfits for the both of you. He was wearing a gorgeous suit, tailored perfectly to his built physique. The sight of him so dressed up had your heart racing and your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. He was so hot it was unreal.

For you, the stylist had picked out a glittering golden gown. It was floor length, with a high slit running all the way to your hip, and loose off-the-shoulder sleeves. You’d never worn anything so beautiful or fancy in your life. Paired with heels and some of your favourite jewelry, you looked like the only place you belonged was on a red carpet.

When you first stepped out of the bedroom all prepared and ready to go, Luke’s cheeks turned red.

“Damn, angel…” He whispered, sauntering forward and placing his warm hands on your hips. “Maybe we should just stay home together…”

You laughed, knowing he was joking, despite the hunger flaring in his dark eyes. “Down, boy. We have plenty of time for that later.”

He pouted. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

Thalia gagged. “God, you are such a simp. The Uber’s here, let’s go!”

Luke pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, barely having to lean down now that you were wearing heels. “We got this, baby.”

You let the butterflies erupt in your chest as you smiled up at him. Maybe it was the alcohol in your system, or his hand in yours, but for the first time tonight, you believed him.

~~~~

The red carpet loomed ahead of you. On the left, there was a black backdrop, showcasing logos of various sponsors of the event. On the right, sectioned off by a velvet rope, was a hoard of photographers and fans lucky enough to get early access to the show. At the end of the red carpet, two streamers you didn’t know all that well called Connor and Travis, were doing interviews with all of the nominees for the night.

Luke squeezed your hand in silent encouragement. “We walk, pause for pictures, walk a bit more, quick two minute interview, and then we’re good to find our seats. It’ll be over before you know it.”

You nodded quickly, watching as Percy and Annabeth walked ahead on to the carpet after receiving their cue. They held hands and smiled brightly for pictures. Annabeth kissed Percy’s cheek and the amount of camera flashes tripled, fans in the crowd going wild. Your stomach did a nervous flip.

Thalia poked your back. “Hey, you’re shaking.”

“It’s the heels,” You lied. “I’m used to my Vans.”

“Percy bet me twenty bucks you’d trip and fall.” Grover said, with a teasing smirk.

Your stomach flipped again.

Thalia whacked his arm. “Remember your first red carpet? You stuttered through the interview and then threw up in the fake plant?”

Grover winced. “Trust me, Thals, I have nightmares every night.”

“Was your first red carpet bad, too?” You asked, glancing at Thalia, who only ever expressed pure confidence and charisma.

“No. But only because I was used to the spotlight. My dad’s Zeus Grace, remember?” Thalia explained, squaring her shoulders.

Oh, right. Thalia’s dad was a famous CEO of some corporate company. She’d done tons of photo shoots and had a steady fanbase long before she took up streaming.

“Luke’s first red carpet was fine though,” She continued, rubbing your shoulder. “Yours will be, too. You got this!”

You gave her a grateful smile before turning back around, wrapping your arm around Luke’s muscular bicep. Up ahead, Percy and Annabeth were approaching the interview section. The event coordinator next to you gave you a cue to start walking down the carpet.

Gasps, cheers, clapping — tons of camera flashes — photographers shouting: “Luke! Look here! Smile! Give us a kiss!”

You blushed and leaned into Luke’s towering frame, trying your best to remember some poses Annabeth and Thalia had coached you on earlier in the day. They had forgot to mention how blinding all the camera flashes could be, coupled with the bright overhead lights. You couldn’t see anything. And honestly, that was fine — it made the whole experience feel so surreal, like you were in a dream and your face and appearance and poses didn’t matter. You could feel Luke’s warmth radiating into your side and that was grounding enough.

He placed a kiss to the top of your head, lacing your fingers together. “Perfect,” Luke said, loud enough only you could hear. “You are perfect.”

Both of you made your way down the rest of the carpet, the photographers and fans turning their attention to Thalia who began strutting down the red carpet.

Percy and Annabeth wrapped up their interview and walked inside, not before spinning around and giving you and Luke an encouraging thumbs up.

Connor and Travis, known better by their shared twitch handle “StollBros” sized you up as you approached.

“Luke Castellan, brother! My man!” Connor said, clapping Luke on the shoulder as he shook hands with Travis. You noticed there were four cameras pointed at the interview station. Connor and Travis were both wearing wrist straps that held phones, showing only a twitch chat flying through messages. Right. The red carpet was being streamed on twitch, too. The phones allowed them to read any comments or questions from fans in the chat.

“Connor, Travis,” Luke said, his hand finding the small of your back in a show of comfort. “Good to see you both. And this is Y/N, my lovely girlfriend and beautiful date for the evening.”

God, he was so charming. You couldn’t help but smile and blush at his words, politely nodding to Connor and Travis.

“Beautiful is correct,” Travis said, eyeing you up and down. You giggled and did a little twirl, showing off your stunning down. Travis had to ask, “Are you sure Luke is the one you want? Luke SonofHermes Castellan? The same guy that uses 24-in-1 soap for cleaning and cooking?”

“That’s a rumor!” Luke interrupted, causing everyone to laugh.

“Don’t worry, I told his fans I took him to Sephora the other day. Luke’s got an actual skincare routine now.” You replied, feeling comfortable around the goofy brothers.

Connor glanced at the twitch chat on his wrist. “The fans are dying to know, Y/N — is Boner Theory true?”

Luke’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my God. I hate my fans.”

You nudged his side. “You don’t hate them, come on. But I’m not gonna answer that ‘cause I think it’s the funniest theory on the Internet right now.”

“Y/N~” Luke groaned, wrapping his arm around your waist tighter. “You’re gonna egg them on.���

“Good!” You teased with a grin.

Luke couldn’t help himself — he leaned down and kissed you right on the mouth. It was just a quick peck but still. It was in front of millions of viewers. Even Connor and Travis shared an amused look.

“Well guys, we’ll let you both go ahead inside. Luke, good luck tonight! Streamer of the Year’s the biggest award of the night!” Connor announced, giving Luke a fist bump.

“And Y/N,” Travis said, dramatically bowing and placing a kiss to the back of your hand, “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

~~~~

A man dressed like a butler asked for your names and then directed your group to your table near the front. The tables in the venue were circular, decorated with flowers and candles and nameplates for each guest. You sat between Luke and Thalia, with Percy, Grover, and Annabeth also at your table, of course. You glanced around the room at other seats, noticing streamers and some celebrities you actually recognized. Fans were also able to score tickets, and had their seats in the balcony above. You noticed some fans waving in your general direction and you offered a small smile, knowing there’s no way they were waving at you.

Luke kept one hand clasped in yours the entire time. He was always so calm, cool, and collected, it was interesting seeing him nervous. You knew that meant he really, really cared about this award. As he should — he worked hard everyday and made so many sacrifices to get to the level of popularity that he was at. He cared deeply about his fanbase and wanted to make them happy everyday. If Luke didn’t win Streamer of the Year, you’d riot.

Streamer of the Year was the last award of the night as it was the most anticipated, so there was probably a good two or three hours before Luke would be called on stage. He needed to relax a bit before then, or he’d spontaneously combust. Luke had already downed his drink and was tapping his foot anxiously, glancing around and smiling at some friends or nodding along to the intermission music playing.

You decided to do something a little risky, a little out of your comfort zone, to help ease his nerves.

You kicked off one of your high heels and began slowly dragging your toes down his calf. Leaning over, you pressed a delicate kiss to his neck, relishing in the hitch of his breath and the extra squeeze he gave your hand. “It’s alright, baby,” You whispered in his ear, trying to sound seductive. “No reason to be anxious.”

He met your eyes, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah? You’re oddly calm for someone whose never been to an event this size before.”

Luke’s hand slipped from your grasp as he angled himself to face you more, slowly caressing your exposed thigh from the slit in your dress. You giggled, biting your plump lower lip. “Well, the shots helped. And you help, too. Couldn’t do this without you, handsome.”

“Don’t get too confident, now.” Luke whispered, voice husky in your ear. His hand slipped just a bit higher, brushing the lacy trim of your thong, causing you to squirm. “We both know I’m the one in charge here.”

You were about to retaliate when Grover looked at you two from across the table and gasped, “Keep it in your pants, you freaks! There’s cameras everywhere.”

Luke laughed as you ducked your head, giggling quietly. Little did your friends know, the fear of getting caught in the act was something you and Luke fooled around with often. Hence that time you blew him on stream.

Annabeth rolled her eyes bemusedly. “The show starts in like, twenty minutes, you know. You have time.”

Percy guffawed. “Time for what?”

“I’ll take it.” Luke announced, standing from his chair. You blushed and took his hand as he lead you back out to the lobby of the venue.

It was still pretty busy, with guests arriving, cameramen, photographers, and fans being directed to seats. You scanned the room looking for a closet, or something. Luke, still taller than you despite the heels, seemed to see an opportunity above the crowd and pulled you along towards a hallway.

After a few twists and turns, the noise of the lobby began to fade. There was a smaller washroom down this hallway, away from the ones everyone else knew about and used. It was empty and quiet inside. Luke tugged you into one of the stalls just to be safe, locking it behind the both of you.

Without a beat of hesitation, his lips were on yours, shoving you back onto the stall door. His hands worked quickly to bunch your dress up around your hips, exposing the milky flesh of your thighs. He kept the dress bunched in one fist and used his other hand to trail a finger down your pussy, still covered by your lacy thong.

“Fuck…” Luke groaned, pulling away from your swollen lips. “You’re dripping already. Needy girl.”

“Luke,” you whimpered, his touch causing heat to pool dangerously in your core. “Please…”

“Please what, angel?” Luke teased, nipping at your jaw. “Touch you? Fuck you? In this public bathroom, where anyone could walk in—“

Saying those words, Luke tore the lace down your legs and hastily plunged two of his thick fingers into your aching cunt. The pain and the pleasure mixed together had you moaning loud, knees buckling under the pressure. Your back arched against the cool metal of the stall door, a gasp tumbling from your lips.

“Greedy cunt.” Luke murmured, sucking the skin above your breast, fucking his fingers into you at a ruthless pace. His hot breath hit your ear. “Imagine someone walked in and saw you right now. The innocent, pretty girl in the pretty dress getting finger fucked in the bathroom? Oh, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I bet it’d make you come all over my hand—“

“Luke!” You cried, the familiar pressure building in your gut. He pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing small circles to the sensitive nub. “I’m gonna—“

Before you could finish, Luke withdrew his fingers from your folds, leaving you clenching around nothing. You fumed. Luke chuckled at your expression, watching the clear fluid stretch from your core to his fingers. He brought the digits up to your mouth, and you knew from experience already he wanted you to suck. You did, lapping at the salty taste of yourself, watching his pupils blow wide at the sight. “Clean ‘em up nice and good so no one knows what we were doing in here. Gotta be presentable, don’t we, baby?”

You nodded along to his words, hoping that didn’t mean he was going to edge you and leave you legitimately dripping all night long. Thankfully, after pulling his wet fingers from your mouth, he began fumbling with his belt buckle. Luke pulled his pants down just enough to free his massive, hard cock, precum beading on the top. Your mouth began to water.

“Up, angel, up,” He cooed, hands under your ass as he lifted you in the air. You wrapped your legs around his torso, pulling him close to your core.

Right as you sunk down onto his thick length with a quiet gasp, the bathroom door opened.

“See, I told you there was another bathroom down here.”

“Thank God, if I had to wait in line even a minute longer I would’ve died. I just want to touch up my makeup for God’s sake.”

You eyes locked onto Luke’s, both of you sporting matching horrified expressions. Your legs were in air, wrapped tightly around Luke’s torso. It was only a matter of time before these two girls saw Luke’s legs from below the stall and deduced someone was inside the bathroom with them. At least they’d only see one person, not two.

The thought of getting caught sent a thrill down your spine, causing your pussy walls to clench down hard around Luke’s cock. He grit his teeth and slowly, slowly pulled out of you —

only to ram back in at full force.

He slammed one of his hands on your mouth, pushing hard, begging you with his eyes not to make a singular sound. He held you up against the stall, suspended and impaled on his thick, veiny cock.

Outside, the girls continued talking, their heels clicking as they walked towards the sinks.

“Did you see Luke Castellan? He came in with his new girlfriend or whatever. She’s actually pretty. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Um, I think she’s the lucky one? Come on, have you seen Luke Castellan? He’s fucking hot.”

“He does have the aura of a guy who eats pussy with the devotion of a man starved.”

“Ugh, you’re so right. I should’ve made a move when I had my chance.”

Luke fucked into you again, bucking hard and causing you to see stars. It took all your mental focus not to scream and moan (and laugh at the girl’s conversation. Because they were right. God, were they right). Luke took his hand off your mouth, meeting your eyes again, silently ordering you to shut the fuck up. He then used this free hand to pull your tits out of your dress. Thankfully you had decided against wearing a bra. His mouth latched on to one of your nipples, biting down as he began fucking you at a steady pace, trying not to make a sound.

You held yourself up with one arm around his neck, using your other hand to finally touch your throbbing clit. The sensation was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, your head lolling back against the stall with a gentle thud.

Luckily, neither girls paid the sound any mind.

“I better win Streamer of the Year. Like, yeah, Luke’s great and popular and all, but he’s just a guy. I don’t think a girl’s won in years. And I do so much for the community.”

“So much.”

“And, you can’t tell anyone this, but I might’ve told Apollo if he, y’know, helped me out with the votes… I’d compensate him.”

“No way! You’d do that?”

“Yeah? Like I said, I deserve it the most.”

Something clicked in Luke’s brain. He must’ve finally recognized who the voice belonged to, and in doing so, quickened his pace with you. He kept one fist underneath you, clinging to your bunched up dressed and holding you up. He licked your other boob before meeting your mouth with his again, all tongue and teeth and no regret. You were being loud now, louder than you should’ve been. You were going to get caught. Your orgasm was building rapidly.

Caught, caught, caught —

Fuck! You mouthed, silent as a mouse as your orgasm crashed into you, powerful as ever. Luke continued fucking into you, letting you ride out your high. He came shortly after, biting down on your shoulder and screwing his eyes shut as he pumped his seed deep into your weeping cunt. You could feel him pulsating inside you, sending shivers up your spine.

“Wait, Drew, look — there’s someone in here!”

“What the fuck? Are you spying on us, creep?”

You suppressed another moan as Luke pulled out of you, and then helped you find your footing in the cramped stall. You grabbed a bundle of toilet paper and pressed it between your legs, cleaning up his release and the mess you’d made together.

“What the fuck?”

Luke snorted a laugh, straightening his suit and helping you with your dress. He swiped a thumb along your swollen lower lip, probably fixing your smudged makeup. He kissed your forehead, eyes gleaming with mischief, before he opened the stall door.

Standing at the sinks were Drew Tanaka and Silena Beauregard. You’d heard of them before, and watched some of their content — they mostly did IRL streams and get-ready-with-me’s. It was sort of surreal to see them in person. Especially after hearing their conversation about Luke.

“Drew. Silena.” Luke said with a polite nod, not trying at all to hide his satisfied smirk as he brushed passed them to the sink. You followed timidly, a searing blush building up from your chest to your cheeks.

“Were you two…” Silena trailed off, incredulous, at a loss for words. She blushed too. “Oh my God.”

“Couldn’t keep it in your pants for one night, Castellan?” Drew taunted, looking between the couple with an eye of disgust. You shrinked back a bit from her stare. She sounded so mean.

“Yeah, well, it can be our little secret!” Luke replied, reaching for a paper towel to dry his hands. Drew held her position, not moving out of the way. He continued, “Unless, of course, you want me to tell everyone about the fact you’re bribing the host for a win.”

Drew narrowed her eyes. “Like they’d believe you.”

“Like they’d believe you, spreading rumours about me when you’ve already caused enough drama in the streaming community.” Luke retorted, meeting her gaze.

You held your breath. Some sort of hostile stand off was happening and you had no idea how to react. Luckily, Silena Beauregard saw your nervous expression and offered you a kind smile. “You’re Y/N, right? Nice to meet you! Love the dress.”

“Uh… thanks?” You choked out, suddenly self aware of all the wrinkles in the satin of your gown, bestowed there by Luke’s strong grip.

“Anyways. Show’s about to start!” Luke said, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders. “Try not to limp, angel.”

“Bye, Luke!” Silena said with a smile.

“Ugh.” Drew scoffed, giving you a dirty glare on your way out.

~~~~

“And the winner of the 2025 Streamer of the Year Award is…. SonOfHermes!”

Luke was frozen in shock at your side. You were equally as shocked — after the bathroom encounter, you had fully believed Draw Tanaka had conned her way to the top. But no, she didn’t win. Luke won. Your Luke. Streamer of the Year.

“Go, dude, go!” Percy cheered, helping Luke strand from his seat. Annabeth, Thalia, and Grover were also standing, clapping, cheering. You joined them, giving Luke a big hug and wet kiss on his cheek before gently shoving him in the direction of the stage.

All around you, the event venue had erupted into cheers from other streamers and fans alike. The presenter at the podium held out the ugly Pepe the Frog shaped trophy out to Luke as he took the stairs two at a time up to the stage. He took the award and gave the presenter a quick side hug before they left the stage, giving Luke his spotlight moment.

The cheering died down as Luke began his acceptance speech. You kept your hands clasped together under your chin, tears pinpricking your eyes as sheer joy and pride flooded over you. Luke’s grin was brighter than any spotlight, any camera flash.

“Firstly,” Luke began, speaking into the mic. “I gotta thank my wild ass fans, man. I wouldn’t be here without your constant support and love. Well, sometimes love. You guys really do love to bully me in chat.”

The crowd laughed. Your laugh sounded more like a choked sob, tears flowing freely down your eyes now. Thalia wrapped an arm around your shoulders and held you close.

“Secondly, I have to thank Y/N, which I only introduced to you all about two weeks ago.” Luke continued, meeting your gaze even though you were just one person in a large crowd. He made you feel like the centre of the universe. “We recently celebrated our one year anniversary. I love that girl with my whole heart and soul. She does so much for me behind the scenes which allows me to be my best self everytime I start a stream. Y/N, you’re everything to me. I love you.”

“Lastly, you know I gotta shoutout the homies. Percy, Grover, Annie, Thals — my streams wouldn’t be half as fun without your stupid shenanigans making it entertaining for everyone. Love you guys!”

Luke held the award up one last time as the crowd cheered again, giving him a standing ovation as he came back down to his seat. You gave him another big hug as he lifted you off your feet, planting a firm kiss to your lips.

Luke set you back down and chuckled. “You crying over me, baby?” He asked, rubbing his thumb under your eye, no doubt where your mascara had smudged.

“I’m really, really proud of you.” You replied, kissing his cheek tenderly. “And I love you, too. So much.”

The award ceremony continued, but for the rest of the night, Luke never let go of your hand. Not when Percy jokingly tried to steal the trophy, not when Thalia demanded a round of victory tequila shots, and not even when the after-party lights dimmed and the music pulsed through the venue.

As the celebration wound down, Luke pulled you close, his lips brushing your ear. “You know what the best part of tonight is?” he murmured.

You tilted your head, smiling. “The award?”

He shook his head, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. “Nah. It’s that I get to take you home.”

Your heart swelled as he kissed you again, slow and sweet, like he had all the time in the world.

And in that moment—surrounded by laughter, love, and the quiet hum of victory—you knew you made the right decision.

author’s note: hahaha holy shit I cannot believe I wrote all that oh my god. phew. part 4 anyone?

taglist: @hayacinthandlilies @cloudtato @lovelaurakinney

[mediamime]

I feel like style wise Gabriel is like this little dude (tree frog) because of his whole "I was the fastest brother" and being a trickster gives this vibe. I also just see him with big eyes because he's super charismatic and would throw people off with them. I also just like the patterns between, like that 70s palette with organic shapes and that chameleon aspect of changing appearance.

I miss him 😭 But I heard he reappears in later seasons so I'm excited, and I love him even though he's a little sh*t (affectionate) 🥺 He's just a archangel baby.

You and @sircoolguy had the same tree frog thought around the same time - sorry these asks take me so long to get to btw :’) - and I love it! Very bright and mischievous looking lil guy.

Also @dhampiravidi had an idea in a previous ask about a frog based episode. I think a trickster episode would be really fun. Something about Gabe disguised as a frog and causing terrible luck as he shows up. “This sounds crazy but I think the frog is following us…” “Weirder things have happened.”

Anyway, 🐸 thank you for the ask as always friend

[dontsleepwa]

🍥Summer Day🍥

🍥 the set's name has literally nothing to do with the cc 😋

🍥 TOU applies

🍥 my mesh

🍥 for this single bed's textures, I hand cut and redesigned every pattern myself except the marshmallow cat!

🍥 when making this PC, the mouse originally moved... but then textures went wild . after fixing them, the mouse stopped working 😭 just deal with it for now _(:з」∠)_

🍥 now... welcome to my ramble zone lol

🍥 I just wanted to share this furniture set before my new computer arrives because I’m not 100% sure I backed up all my data, and I’m kinda scared some stuff might get lost during the transfer 😅 so hey, better early than never, right? and… OMG GUYS I just realized I’ve hit over 5k followers across my platforms!!!🥺 that’s insane I’m so touched, you have no idea. so consider this drop a little 5k follower special |•'-'•)و✧

okay, real talk I know some subs might be because my Patreon’s set to "followers-only downloads," but STILL!! the fact that none of you unsubbed?? seriously, that makes me SO SO SO SO happy🥰 It really feels like people actually like the mods I make!!

if we’re being honest, I only got into Blender after watching Greenyardsims and L3 00’s rendering tutorials. later, I picked up sculpting and a bunch of other stuff, and honestly? I started modding partly 'cause there were things I wanted that nobody made yet… and also because Blender is just stupid fun, lol

It’s only been like, three months since I first imported my own model into the game my skills are still baby level I can make simple models, UV unwrap, sculpt, and bake textures… that’s about it 🥹. every time I see other creators’ insanely gorgeous cc, I low key bawled my eyes out internally 😭 when will I ever be that good?

MASSIVE thanks to every creator who shares tutorials online , and to those sweet souls who helped me out when I nervously slid into their DMs with questions 🥺 you guys are actual angels <3

anyway… just feeling all the feels rn 🥰 moving forward, I’ll keep pushing to improve my skills might even dip my toes into pose mod territory someday Here’s to all of us growing and glowing together!!!!! ദ്ദി˶>v<)✧

🍥 Preview video below👇

🍥DOWNLOAD - Patreon