#<- mania is his name now

[cottage-fr0g]

more rayman n dark rayman :3

[feminetomboy]

You all looked at Joui "I made out with a guy and a girl at a party once" Jouki and went "surely he wouldn't do that again"? Like cowards???

---

I know a lot of you "don't go here", but if you like the art, I'm amazingly glad regardless! Fanart is art like any other and if you just think my silly little drawing looks nice, without even knowing the blorbos, that means the world to me <3

[sharkylass]

ALRIGHT, I ASKED FOREVER AGO, BUT WHO WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT MY ISA LOOPS AU??

Heads up this contains a lot, and I mean A LOT of spoilers for In Stars And Time. Including: = Act 6 spoilers, including main mystery and secret encounter = Minimal Act 5 stuff = And a bunch of extra stuff that happens through Act 3 and 4. SO BASICALLY ALMOST EVERYTHING, FINISH THIS GAME COMPLETELY BEFORE READING (ESPECIALLY THAT ACT 6 ENCOUNTER, IT WILL LITERALLY BE THE FIRST THING I MENTION UNDER THE CUT)

With all those warnings out of the way-

IN REPETITION AND CHANGE

Initial Concepts:

I feel it's important to show these sketches because they were the first ideas I ever had. I wasn't even entirely sure I wanted to make an AU at this point, I didn't even know how I'd approach it. But I started sketching and it's been on my mind since- SO! Isa is stuck in the timeloop. I know what his wish is and he DOES have a Loop equivalent! The grumpy dandelion guy is Roboro (it/they/he). Their name is a very small play on Ouroboros and they call Isa "Seedling". However, this post is not about them, as I'm gonna talk about it and Isa's dynamic in a separate post. In short, Isa is his normal loud self up until Act 3, right? They beat the King, they reach the end, and whoops, the loop isn't broken. So now, what happens is that Isa starts getting his brains out. He starts thinking more analytically and tries to problem solve.

The more stuck he gets in his head, the less he's able to perceive his friends as real people, and more like them holding him back. Because even if Isa explains that he's smart, that they shouldn't be surprised if he says something, shock of all shocks, reasonable- They'll forget it the next loop.

So Isa is stuck with trying to portray his confident, loud, supportive facade- Which is fine! It wouldn't be the first time! But it progressively gets more and more frustrating, as he tries to find answers and simply looses the energy to pretend to be stupid.

TL;DR: Isa in the timeloop, unlike Siffrin, becomes more distant and cold rather then something more akin to Sif's mania.

NOW, MORE ART!!!

KILL KILL KILL:

I imagine Isa didn't have this encounter the same way that Sif did. Yeah, frankly, Isa is pissed with the sadness- But that's not why he goes through with this.

In this moment, Isa is trying to kill two birds with one stone. He's trying to get through this quickly, as well as reassure Mira that they can do this! If he shows how strong he is, then she'll feel safe right???

Poor Isabeau forgot that whenever he shows that he thinks ahead, he scares people. How could he forget that? How could he forget that he's inherently---

Family Quest:

I still think Odile is the one to call out to him (same with sus quest).

The hangouts I'm still figuring out, cause I don't think they'd too similar to base game- But, fun fact, at the end of this run, everyone agrees to keep travel together!

Isabeau brings it up, can't hurt if you can fix your mistakes right? And everyone agrees. The relief on Siffrin is the most palpable thing Isabeau has ever seen.

In this moment they love you. In this moment they all love you. In this moment---

Death Screen:

He loops back anyways. (This is one of the initial concepts that I ended up animating. This line in particular is when he reaches the end)

Act 5 Tarot Card:

NOW TO SEE MORE OF HIS PASSIVE AGRESSIVE SIDE

Thanks to @the-bitter-ocean for prescribing tarot cards to Isa (THEY ALL FUCK SO HARD) and for the RAW ASS LINE

If interacted with in act 5, predictably, Isa tears it apart. He doesn't need the divine judgement upon him, he's faced everyone's perception his entire life.

However, he tears it methodically. Tears it once in even pieces, twice, three times, and one of the pieces once more. In a way he isn't even getting his emotions out, it's like he's actively trying to tear it apart so it stops nagging him, like he wants to shut it up. Though, the Judgement card symbolizes rebirth, absolution and inner calling. In Act 6 he'd be able to look at it and find comfort and confidence in the card.

Act 5 Mirror:

And lastly, I have the Act 5 mirror picture. I haven't quite figured out how to make the normal ones work yet, however, I couldn't let go of the idea that Isa would not want to be in the picture.

The idea of seeing himself at all makes his head hurt and his stomach squeeze. The memory haunts him as he stands to the side and says the word. He didn't think the mirror would catch him.

AAAAND THAT'S ALL THE ART STUFF FOR NOW!!

I still have quite a bit of it to post, especially about Roboro, but I'm gonna leave it here for now.

I still gotta figure out the hangouts and potentially the dagger equivalent- but I have ideas for Bad Touch, the glass equivalent, and some extra little things that didn't happen in Siffrin's loops.

I needed to yap about this, because I've been slowly stacking up ideas and writing and I needed to share it at some point- If anyone read all this and has questions and stuff I fully welcome 'em!!

[themindelectricdemo4]

how are the college alters ALREADY splitting

[suiana]

yandere! psych inmate who is in love with his dear psychologist, you.

he's a rich man, obviously, and he's been seeing multiple psychologists for his issues. yet, none of them ever really worked well.

you won't get better, they told him.

yeah right, that's not what he paid to hear. he wanted to feel something. he never could feel any emotions ever since he was young. so why are these people not doing anything to help? anyway, he got so fed up that he stopped going to these psychologists all together. that is, until his friend recommended you.

his friend had changed a whole 180, totally better as compared to a year before. he sang praises about his psychologist, your name spilling from his lips like a mantra. and... that's when your future psych inmate decided to give you a shot.

the first time he saw you, he swears he felt himself visibly react to your very presence.

instictively, he knew that he loved you. so much so that he never wanted to leave your office. of course, he couldn't just tell you that though. you'd be scared away.

but... the feelings he had for you were so intense that he just couldn't help himself.

"i really love you! please-"

but you shut him down the second he said that, shaking your head as you let out a sigh. and your new client just sat there quietly, brain not processing your words. it took him a good five minutes for your actions to finally sink in.

rejection.

he got rejected.

when he went home that day, he shut down immediately. falling to his knees as he curled up into a ball on the ground. the overwhelming feelings that appeared so suddenly came crashing down on him.

mania, anger, obsession.

he didn't know what to make of it. all of these emotions... he's never felt them before and they're all just hitting him at full force. he doesn't know whether to be glad or not that you finally helped him feel emotions.

that's why he decides to act on these emotions. surely that's what he's supposed to do to deal with the overwhelming heartbreak he feels right now, yes?

...and it landed him in the mental hospital, with you overseeing him.

"you-"

he tunes out the rest of your words, eyes turning into hearts as he realizes that now, you're bound to him. you must care for him because he's your patient. that's your job. you can't just leave him halfway. that's just wrong.

and he'll do everything in his power to make sure you know that.

[demi-god77]

BYLER GATES: A GUIDE

(Explaining all the different theories, for anyone who is also lost with how many there are)

THE BIG 4

Flickergate: This theory involves a lot of time shenanigans and is connected to the Will having powers in s5 one (possibly manipulation of time or electricity). Theory claims Will and Mike will kiss in the UD, specifically outside Mike's garage, paralleling 1x01. Will is going to tell the truth at the same time his s1 self is ("it was a seven"), causing the garage light to flicker on Nov. 6th 1983.

Birthdaygate: This theory suggests that the Duffers didn't actually forget Will's birthday is March 22nd (the day of the rink-o-mania incident). It claims that Vecna is actually manipulating the characters' memories (possibly even Will's), making them forget his birthday in the process, maybe in an attempt to make him feel excluded/lonely and making him vulnerable. (Similar to the beginning of Harry Potter and the chamber of secrets, which happened to be on the inspo board for S4)

But also the Creel murders themselves happened on March 22nd.

Churchgate: More UD kiss related theories! This one claims Will is going to get Vecna'd or possessed in the Upside Down church (and that he's going to hurt/choke Mike in the process). With a crazy amount of religious symbolism, Mike would be the one breaking him out of his trance, through a kiss or a confession.

(More thorough explanation here.)

Lettergate: This gate's truthers believe that Mike did actually write to Will in the time period between s3 and s4, but never sent the letters. Said letters (signed "Love, Mike") are going to make an appearance in s5, revealing his true feelings. (Great post that has to do with this gate here)

Also related to:

OTHER GATES

Pocketgate: Very connected to Lettergate™️, this theory has to do with Mike's infamous triangle shaped pocket in S4. It suggests that the letter signed Love, Mike is hidden in said pocket throughout s4, since it very closely resembles an envelope. Triangles have also been used in ST as a queer symbol (with Robin) and Mike's pocket consistently points to Will like an arrow.

Phonegate: Kinda similar to the previous two, this gate claims Mike did actually call the Byers in Lenora. For some reason, the calls didn't go through, either because of Joyce's telemarketer job OR because of Vecna manipulating things again (cough, birthdaygate, cough).

This is backed up by one of Dustin's lines, saying that the Byers' phone line is always busy and Mike won't stop complaining about it. We know he must have been calling WILL, since the whole reason he was communicating with El using letters is that they couldn't talk on the phone.

Loverslakegate: Related to Lovers' lake (obviously). The lake is shaped like a heart, tying into its name, but it was split in two after the gates opened, now resembling a broken one (and Mike is ofc referred to as "the heart" so it could be a reference to him).

According to this theory, Mike and Will are going to kiss/become lovers near said lake/Reefer Rick's house.

Heartgate: To put it simply: Heart reflections EVERYWHERE. This one is better explained through pictures:

Also: Different heartgate but really interesting

Colorgate: I don't think I have to explain this one tbh but anyway

Blue meets yellow in the west.

Mike and Will have been HEAVILY associated with blue and yellow respectively since the beginning of the show (even wearing eachother's colours in both of their arguments). There's an insane amount of evidence that backs this one up.

It's speculated that the Russian code in s3 was foreshadowing for s4 ("The silver cat feeds when Blue meets Yellow in the west") Silver cat: Vecna who started killing when Mike (Blue) met Will (Yellow) in the west (California, literally west of Indiana)

Curtaingate: "They don't spent their lives trying to get a look at what's behind the curtain [...] They like the curtain. It provides them comfort, stability, definition" -Murray 2x05

Mike and El are pretty consistently framed in front of CLOSED (and more often than not, yellow) curtains, or ones that have closed blinds. According to this theory, closed curtains represent not being honest with one's true feeling. So, the truth about Mike's feelings is beyond the curtain and in s5 he will open it (and come out)

Motelgate: This one has to do with the dreaded two day time skip at the end of S4. Theory claims the Cali crew stayed at a motel during that time skip and the scenes were cut for time, but we'll flash back to them in s5. It's based on a photo a production assistant posted from the New Mexico filming, as well as some bts pics of the Cali Crew playing board games in a motel.

Shoegate: In S4, we see a pair of Will's shoes in his bedroom. In s5, Mike seems to be wearing that exact pair. This, in addition to the fact that they wear the same shoe size (a 10 according to their rollerskates from 4x02), lead people to theorize they will share clothes/shoes in s5. More importantly though, this theory suggests Mike is figuratively being put into Will's shoes (maybe pining?). Also, both of them wear the same shoes they wore in s2. Interestingly enough though, even though the design is the same, the colors are reversed (so their roles will be reversed too).

Possessiongate: This one runs DEEP so I'm going to link a bunch of posts

To put it VERY simply: this theory claims Vecna somehow attached himself to Mike (maybe when the vine grabbed him by the leg in the S2 tunnels- right before he started acting weird in s3 and s4) and he has been influenced/possessed for some time now.

He's not the dungeon master anymore, he's not in control. Both in s3 and s4 someone ELSE is the DM when they play D&D (Will and Eddie respectively)

More here and here

Victimgate: Very closely related to the previous one, this one suggests that MIKE was originally supposed to be Vecna's 4th victim instead of Patrick. Since Max escaped the first time, SHE ended up being the last victim but the original plan was for it to be Patrick. However, Patrick's curse doesn't fit the theme of all of the previous ones. We only see one of his visions, he gets cursed for ONE DAY, as opposed to the other 3 that are cursed for almost a week and we also know very little about him, even though we gradually knew more about the previous victims. Chrissy (no relation to main characters) -> Fred (friends w/ Nancy) -> Max (main character who we've known since s2)

More thorough explanation here

Twelvegate: This one is not really Byler related but i wanted to include it anyway

Theory claims Will was one of the lab kids (specifically 012) and him and El are actual twins. There are mentions of Will and El looking similar since s1, and a lot of twin imagery.

This theory obviously ties in with the Will having powers one and some people believe he wasn't 012, but him and El have a deeper connection/may be actually related. It could theoretically explain Henry's connection to Will, as well as things like El seemingly recognizing him in s1.(Alternatively called rainbowshipgate, because of the rainbow ship drawing Joyce mentions in s2 and the rainbow room)

Eightfifteengate: Again, not explicitly Byler but it's quite crazy.

TL;DR: The time 8:15 seems to have great significance in the show and it's mentioned all the time, if not by the characters themselves, (Eg. "It's 8:15, you're late"- El s2) then by small details in the background. There's even a whole track named after it.

Will left the Wheelers' house at 8:15 and it's the EXACT timestamp of his disappearance in 1x01. It's also the time in which most of the UD related weirdness happens and so it's very likely the UD is stuck on 8:15. (Also you know, 15-8=7)

Radiationgate: Related to the previous one! Clocks in Chernobyl are stuck on 8:15 and Hiroshima has been described figuratively as being frozen in time. Henry has burns identical to Chernobyl victims and almost all of his + his victims' symptoms can be explained through radiation exposure. As this post explains, for radiation levels between 8.3-11 Gy (SI unit for absorbed radiation), symptoms start with headaches and disorientation, move on to unconsciousness and bleeding (the exact symptoms of his victims) and finally, death happens at around 7 days (which is about how long Vecna's curse lasts AND how long Will was in the UD for)

Whiterabbitgate: The song "White Rabbit" is the first song in the show and it plays when we first get a sense of El's powers. Theory suggests it will also be the last song in the show (coming full circle) with either Will using his powers, or Willel using their powers together.

In general though, ST has a lot of similarities/parallels to Alice in Wonderland. The white rabbit constantly being late (Mike is late to something at the start of every season), great significance to clocks/ticking/time, a lot of hallucinations/visions, the overall similarities between the Upside Down and Wonderland. Henry's sister was literally named Alice Creel and there is SO much rabbit imagery throughout the show. There are also direct references to AIW with set pieces and paintings.

Soundtrackgate: This one has to do with the Stranger Things OST and the overall insane musical symbolism throughout the show. A lot of different theories talk about the show's soundtrack, but this one talks about 3 tracks in particular: Being Different, The First Lie, The First I love You

To put it briefly: "The First I love You" plays in both Robin's coming out scene and El's kiss with Mike at the end of s3 (Already a weird parallel). The three tracks not only share the same melody, but they also sync up perfectly. "Being Different" (s4 van scene) and "The First Lie" (Nancy and Jonathan's kiss in s2) especially, match up together to create an entirely new track, completing eachother. The scenes featuring those three tracks also share very similar themes at their core. (This post goes into a lot of detail!)

Playlistgate: Character playlists! At a certain point, every character's official playlist on Spotify was deleted, except for three: Mike's, Will's and Billy's. Songs were seemingly being added/deleted for no reason to the Mike and Will ones and people were struggling to make sense of it all.

Also, Mike's character playlist in particular is VERY interesting (so many byler coded songs, as well as "Smalltown Boy" a gay anthem, about a young gay boy forced to leave his home town to escape from their disapproval and homophobia.) There are three playlists on Finn's spotify that are very incriminating. "Love songs" (That has "BOYS DON'T CRY" on it, a song that Will literally has a poster of in his room), "drive" and the most recent one "STurn". These playlists feature songs like "Let her go", "Angst in my pants", "Me and Michael", "Gay thoughts" just to name a few. Basically a lot of the songs on all four playlists seem very relevant to some complicated feelings about Mike's relationship with El/Will but also with himself and his sexuality.

Scriptgate: Oh boy. Here we go.

On August 5th 2022, the byler fandom got #bylerscript trending worldwide on Twitter while waiting for the 8flix account (run by Nick Runyeard) to release some supposed s4 scripts (that people PAID for, mind you). These scripts dropped on August 8th, featuring lines like: "I hate who I am" from Will in the van scene, "His mouth dry, like a California summer" from the bedroom apology scene and also, Will seemingly recognizing Brenner at NINA, despite never meeting him in canon.

These turned out to be fake and the community was in shambles. Nick started calling people psychos, the Stranger Writers tweeted that everyone got scammed, Nick privated his account and the authenticity of some released s2-s3 scripts was questioned. This post explains the entire situation in detail.

Breathgate: This one is also script related and specifically about a Mike/Max parallel.

In the official van scene script, when Mike sees Will's painting "his breath catches." Then, when Lucas asks Max to the Friday movie date, "(her) breath catches" as well. People caught on that parallel very fast and since the latter is obviously a romantic moment, it boosted their confidence for both Byler and Lumax endgame.

Piggybackgate: This one refers to two different situations/theories.

One, the seemingly deliberate framing of Mike and Will inside the little bubble in El's piggyback drawing (and it referening to Byler). The framing is especially suspicious, because the bubble drawing was drawn two separate times (it's different from one shot to the other). In the second shot, they're framed directly inside of it.

Two, Mike in his monologue essentially piggybacking off of Will's van confession. His monologue was going off of El's feelings, but since they weren't actually El's, the speech was based on Will's feelings. It also ties in with the parallel/foreshadowing between the monologue and Suzie's house, with Will being paralleled to the "director" kid, directing a "choking" Tabitha and their dad (more thorough explanation here).

THE SILLIES

(aka the joke-theories/memes)

Miniongate: Mike and Will are secretly minions. (Because you know, minions are primarily blue and yellow)

This information will be revealed to us in s5 and they will have a magical girl-esque transformation where we see their true minion form. (Original post here)

Localvillagegate: Related to the leaked Mike and El rooftop scene.

Basically, a mlvn used AI to lip read the scene and try to figure out what Mike is saying (and then posted the video on Twitter).

According to them, Mike was telling El they were going to leave the local village (AKA Hawkins) together and travel to a beautiful faraway land with "like, three waterfalls or something" (and also that she has to "improve her motivation", whatever that means).

People thought it was hilarious and started making a ton of memes based on it.

Parrotgate: This is directly connected to localvillagegate™️ and it was created by @cloudycleric in one of his streams.

Basically, the parrots are gay and represent Will and Mike, who in s5 will kiss under the three waterfalls depicted on the image.

Backgroundguygate: People making headcanons and creating backstories for random extras. The star of this gate is Barrett, an extra from the Lenora high school, who wears a barrette, bright red pants and a shirt that says "Hell".

According to this gate, he's actually gay and in love with Will. He has a goth best friend named Claire who is a lesbian and in love with El.

Chancegate: The theme of shipping Will with random extras continues on strong

Chance is one of Jason's friends and part of the basketball team. People thought he was attractive and somewhere along the line started making headcanons for him and shipping him with Will (Bychance). Basically, they're gonna date and Mike will be jealous.

Mikhailgate: More shipping Will with randoms! (I'm beginning to see a pattern here)

Originally created by @paladin-n-cleric

Enzo in S4 mentions his son, Mikhail Antonov. Mikhail is the Russian name for Micheal.

People started making jokes that Mikhail would arrive to Hawkins from Russia in s5 and shipped him with Will (Willhail), since he's like Mike but Russian and cooler. They made fanart, edits and posted pictures of Finn as Boris in "The Goldfinch" claiming it's Mikhail.

@will80sbyers then begun to ship Mikhail with El and thus the ship "Jail" was born.

Baldmikegate: Did you know Mike is actually bald and is bullied for it? Well, now you do.

In 2022, a cult was born and the byler tag was filled with edited pictures of Bald!Mike. Terrifying honestly.

Some people made posts about how the rest of the party feels about Mike's secret baldness and some even wrote FANFICS.

Gridgate/whiteboardgate/pixelgate: The Stranger Writers posted a picture of a pixelated/blurred whiteboard that had the entirety of s5 mapped out. People were desperately trying to decode it and figure out what was written on it.

On the space for episode 7, there was a "big black hole" that people went crazy trying to make sense of, only for it to be revealed as a pen holder.

Babygirlgate: The babygirlification of Mike Wheeler. That's it. That's the gate.

I think pretty much every line Will has ever said to Mike has been posted with the word "babygirl" replacing his name (it's hilarious and I love it)

Some examples here and here

Mattduffersbasementgate: Finn and Joe made up a third Duffer brother named Pete, who has no hair for some reason and is the actual writer of Stranger Things, while Matt and Ross are just the faces of it. Pete lives in a shed/Matt's basement and that's where he writes all of the scripts.

Finn and Noah are both also being held in Matt's basement however, and they're not allowed to leave so that they don't spoil byler endgame.

I definitely missed some gates, but omg this took SO LONG

(this post is for you @felix-fathoms @bibylers)

[st-dionysus]

(The Poem is named) Emetophobia CW

It’s 2024 and I’m in a 20 year old drag bar, watching the very first trans-masculine performer to compete on their stage, he gets second place even though he deserved first.

I show up to the men’s bathhouse on trans night to get free entry and get turned away at the door, and told it’s for transgirls only, bitch you could have put it on the flyer that transmen need not apply.

I’m doing a line of ketamine off the table, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I get banned from the camsite for listing myself as transgender when I don’t have a dick, I complain online and get told that the trans-masculine body is to grotesque to be fetishized and I should be grateful.

I wear a packer and hitch up a skirt, walk the street, get $20, calling it stealing transfem valor.

Cissie puts a TW #body-mutilation tag under my thirst trap. Tranny puts a TW #dysphoria tag under my thirst trap.

T-girl with a callout post pedojackets me, Enby with TME in bio pedojackets me, T-boy with a self-deprecating joke about men in his bio pedojackets me.

I do another line of ketamine off the table, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I am at the woman’s clinic, I am at the woman’s clinic, I am at the woman’s clinic wearing a mask – not cause I’m compromised (I am), just to hide my beard – avoiding making everyone uncomfortable.

I am getting re-diagnosed with BPD, which just means I have bitch disorder and no one trusts me.

I take my pills and throw them up. I drink my liquor before the beer and throw them up.

I am just 14 when the picture and videos go up. Remind me that I have it easy, they were only pictures and videos.

I am just 17 when the recording of my proof stops before it happens, my phone memory is full, I’m called a liar and now I can’t see buttered crackers, thanksgiving, or sriracha sauce without wanting to kill myself.

No one gets me therapy, but they still want to convert me, she puts her hands down my pants, at least I’m 19, to remind me I’m a woman – tell me how they love trans men again.

I do a third line of ketamine off the table, realize it doesn’t effect me, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I call myself a dog, I start biting my lovers and I have to hold back from ripping out a chunk of flesh, I don’t think I’d throw it up.

I am reading the statistics, 40% of BPD patients try and kill themselves. 1 in 2 transgender men try and kill themselves. I’m one of them. I’m 12 and I swallowed all the pills. I’m 14 and the gun is empty. I’m 17 and I put the box-opener against my throat. Therapist calls me a liar, there is no scar, and my words don’t count for anything.

I’m using he/him pronouns for Stormé DeLarverie, like the stonewall veteran association said to, and telling you he started the riot, calling it stealing transfem valor from a woman who told you she didn’t fucking do it.

I’m shoving my fingers down my throat in a fit of mania, convinced I can vomit up my uterus. She tells me I should be grateful, she’d do anything to be able to get pregnant.

My brother in the struggle gets bottom surgery without top, calling it stealing transfem valor to feel comfortable in his body.

It’s 2024 and I’m at trans pride, the announcers tells everyone to give a round of applause for trans woman, a round of applause for gender-queers, a round of applause for transfems, a round of applause for the enbies, a round of applause for trans-masculine people. You forgot someone. Did you know a trans man started the first ever transgender pride parade?

A book on queer history talks about gay men and lesbians and trans women and the women who dressed as men for better job opportunities. I’m reminded that my invisibility is a privilege, if you aren’t seen you don’t get bashed.

I’m 13 and they throw me in the girls bathroom, pin me down, beat me, and in black sharpie write “dyke”, write “tranny”, write “lesbo”, and pull my hair out the cap I shoved it in.

I’m 19 with D cups that a binder can’t hide and a beard I refuse to shave less I break the mirror and kill myself with the shards of glass I would swallow.

Man at the bus stop calls me tranny and tells me I’ll never be a woman. I’d laugh if he didn’t have his hand on my throat. Calling it stealing transfem valor.

I’m 21 and have to pull a taser on him, cause from the back, even with short hair and top surgery, I look rape-able.

I’m 23 and in the gay district when they chase me down the street, calling me faggot.

Make another forcemasc post, calling it stealing transfem valor.

Read an article about a trans man prostitute that kills himself and ends up another female statistic.

Read an article about a trans man shooter, they blame the HRT he didn’t have access too.

Going to read a callout about me, five pages on Google Docs, does this post make it on the list?

Do a final line of ketamine, write the final line of a poem that makes me want to die, calling it stealing transfem valor.

I puke and miss the toilet.

[blindmagdalena]

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell. 

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you. 

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself. 

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out. 

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you. 

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin. 

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls. 

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me! 

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise. 

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies. 

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

 “I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress. 

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight. 

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring. 

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water.  You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips. 

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip. 

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone. 

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. 

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all. 

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement. 

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release. 

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt. 

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits  back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are.  He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly,  shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you.  You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab. 

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation. 

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm. 

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure.  “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

[hauntingrabbits]

Happy Batman day! Went back and finished the last batch of the MLP AU I had sketched way back in May.

Part 1, Part 2

More info under the cut!

Enigma/The Riddler (Edward Nygma)

Intelligence and puzzle-solving are deeply valued among sphinxes, and those who fall short of their standards are often ridiculed and cast out. Among some (prejudiced) Sphinxes, other sapient, non-Sphinx species such as ponies are looked down-upon or seen as fundamentally inferior for not putting as much stock in puzzles and the like as sphinxes do.

Enigma, though considered a prodigy for his remarkable intelligence and skill with puzzles even among his fellow Sphinxes, was ostracized when a pony unfamiliar with Sphinx culture (a younger Sundown traveling Equestria for his training), humiliated Enigma by unraveling a puzzle of his that was meant to be judged as his final submission in a prestigious event, permanently staining his reputation and wounding his massive ego.

After years of quiet ridicule from his peers and his own growing obsession over the event, Enigma eventually snapped and fled to Gotham for revenge. His contempt has since spread far beyond that of the original pony he wished to prove his superiority over, and he now makes all of Gotham the target of his obsessive schemes, constantly trying to prove his superiority and feed his ego by putting ponies through his elaborate puzzles and riddle-based traps. He sees Batpony’s skill and determination in foiling him as both an inherent challenge to and a slight against his own abilities, reminding him far too much of that original pony from so long ago. 

Other notes:

-Apparently sphinxes in MLP have pony heads instead of human heads which makes sense I guess but it threw me through such a loop man.

-Whilst traversing the wiki I ended up with the same problem I had with chimeras in the first post where only one ever shows up in the series and there's no other info on them. So I made stuff up again.

- I imagine Sphinxes live a very long time, so the event Enigma was embarrassed at would probably take a long time to roll around again and he'd be forced to stew with his anger and wounded ego for far too long. I'm not sure what the puzzle was exactly or how Sundown dismantled it, but I imagine he did something extremely simple that a Sphinx would never have thought of (a la that software engineering joke), making it feel far more unfair and humiliating than if he'd solved in the intended way.

-His naturally crooked tail settles into the shape of a question mark, and the pattern on his arm is meant to look like a stylized question mark wrapping around his forearm (the "dot" is the white of his paw).

2. Miss Friday (Miss Tuesday)

Enigma’s teenaged assistant, Miss Friday seems to be the only pony the sphinx enjoys (or perhaps simply tolerates) the company of. Beyond her having met Enigma in Tartarus during their simultaneous imprisonments, the exact origins of her relationship to and exceptional status with her boss are a bit of a riddle in of themselves. Regardless, the two seem to have something of a mutual understanding, and Miss Friday’s mental prowess and dubious moral code are more than a match for Enigma’s own.

Other Notes:

-Yes this is a "The horse's name was Friday" joke. I'm sorry it was just too good to pass up.

-Miss Tuesday already sounded like a MLP name, but the horse named Friday thing was just too perfect for somebody who works under a guy who's whole thing is riddles. Also I relistened to the BTAA episode where she's introduced while coloring her and I noticed they reference His Girl Friday several times, so fun coincidence?

-The candy-striped leg patterns are based on her canon costume's striped pants & are meant to mirror the Riddler's wrapped leg pattern. The dark patterns on her face are supposed to be reminiscent of eye bags.

3. Mania (Bat-Mite)

Bat-Pony’s self-proclaimed biggest fan, Mania is a Draconequus embodying the spirit of obsession. Normally he watches the hero from his own dimension, but at times he tries to insert himself into the narrative or help Sundown fight, both to varying degrees of success. Though he genuinely adores Bat-Pony, Mania is usually more of a hindrance than a help, and can even be directly antagonistic at times when his obsession goes too far. 

Other notes:

-Similar issue to Chimeras and Sphinxes, only two Draconequuses (Draconequui?) show up in the series, one being Discord (embodying chaos), the other being a comics-only villain known as Cosmos (embodying malice), but honestly what little we're given worked super well for the character anyway. Discord seems to come from his own unique plane of existence/dimension and Cosmos has similarly strange origins; both have penchants for causing mischief with incredible reality-warping powers; and both embody non-physical concepts. Bat-Mite being a reality warping 5th dimensional creature obsessed with Batman was surprisingly easy to adapt.

-He has the head of a pony, a ferret-like body, two front rat paws, mite antennae, an insectoid wing, a bat wing, a pigeon foot, a chevrotain (mouse deer) foot, and a monkey tail. I tried to have him mostly made up of animals that were very small, seen as mischievous, and/or seen as pests.

4. Poison Ivy (Pamela Isley)

Said to be more plant than pony, Poison Ivy is the self-proclaimed princess of the Green. Though once a regular Earth pony, she began to spiral after receiving her cutie mark and fully coming into her powerful natural attunement to plant life. Fleeing into the nearby forests on the outskirts of Gotham, she wasn’t seen again until many years later when Gotham’s city refurbishment and expansion efforts began to encroach on the forests borders, where she reemerged with strange new powerful magic and retaliated violently.

Though she isn’t recognized politically or physically as an alicorn, plants grow from the flesh of her body in the pattern of a horn and wings characteristic of those born into or bestowed with royalty, and the strange natural magic that accompanies them seems to almost rival that of a true alicorn’s.

Other notes:

-I dont really have anything to add to this one I just thought a false alicorn would be a cool concept.

-the whole alicorn royalty thing is very strange to think about isnt it? I feel like the ruling class having such insane amounts of physical and magical power probably has much more pressing ramifications than ever was, would, or should be addressed in a kids show but they are fun to think about.

-Her actual name is Poison Ivy, yes. It sounded like a pony name. I don't know what that says about her parents.

-The leaf wings are folded down in the graphic but I think they are flighted, or at the very least useful for gliding and expressing emotions.

5. Saltbrine (Oswald Cobblepot)

Short, stout, and flightless, Saltbrine’s moniker of “The Penguin” has its origins in the taunts of his peers from his youth. Though the title has persisted into the current day, it’s often spoken with far more fear and trepidation throughout the alleys and backstreets of Gotham than ridicule. Saltbrine owns two of Gothams most well-known businesses, one being the luxurious, high-class Iceberg Lounge…and the other being the organized crime syndicate the former acts as a front for.

Other notes:

-Again don't have much to add to this one. One of my favorite designs though, I love the giant beak face.

-The bird half is actually based on a puffin, because a penguin felt too on the nose for Oswald and too strange for a hippogriff (I couldn't get the wings or face to look right at all either). I feel like the title being an insult works a little better if he's not literally half-penguin.

-he's the same color my club penguin avatar used to be (RIP)

[dannyricsmirrorball]

tying the knot • cl16 part 3 ੈ✩‧₊˚

ੈ✩‧₊˚ pairing || charles leclerc x gasly!reader

ੈ✩‧₊˚ genre || social media au

ੈ✩‧₊˚ summary || baby fever is a disease and it’s contagious!

alt. y/n is pierre’s younger sister. there’s no way she’s dating his best friend aka her childhood friend… right?

ੈ✩‧₊˚ warning || google translate 😬 again lol

ੈ✩‧₊˚ a/n || so initially thought this would be the last one but alas it is not… so one or two more party’s left! also charles on POLEEEEE LFG

NOT PROOF READ YET!

part 1 part 2

liked by francisca.cgomes, luisinhaoliveira99, and 276,646 others

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liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe, and 126,727 others

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liked by carlossainz55, georgerussell63, and 186,870 others

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tagged carla.brocker, charlotte2304, lilymhe, alex_albon, charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes

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⤷ charles_leclerc don’t worry alex, ik lily was the mastermind 😒

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charles_leclerc never letting u take the wheel again

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liked by joris__trouche, yourusername, and 11,829 others

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translation: an early october on the french riviera

tagged riccardobenetta, charles_leclerc

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joris__trouche boubouuuu 🥹

charlottesiine bébé chiara 😍💕

username11 omfg charles w a baby. i’m on the floor.

charles_leclerc 🤍

liked by luisinhaoliveira99, alex_albon, and 192,082 others

yourusername ma petite fille 🩷

tagged yourfriend1

username17 y/n w kids 🥰

yourfriend1 give her back!

⤷ yourusername never!

francisca.cgomes so cuteeee 💘

landonorris don’t drop her 😳

⤷ yourusername how could u even suggest it?!

leclerc_pascale tu es le prochain 😉🥰

⤷ yourusername maman! 😅

⤷ lorenzotl 😂

⤷ arthur_leclerc better get to work 😉🤣

liked by lilymhe, yourfriend1, and 175,982 others

yourusername auntie duties 💐

tagged yourfriend1, yourfriend2

username27 she’s so pretty

username74 baby fever arising

yourfriend2 u can take them for longer!

⤷ yourusername i just abt might take them forever 🥹🥹

⤷ yourfriend2 oh that’s not-

francisca.cgomes perfeita 😍

yourfriend1 coolest aunt out!

landonorris they trust u w their kids?!?

⤷ yourusername ur parents trust me w u?

⤷ alex_albon owned.

liked by mlnmarta, yourusername, and 887,838 others

charles_leclerc pourquoi tous nos amis ont des bébés?

translation: why do all our friends have babies?

tagged mlnmarta, riccardoberetta, yourfriend1, yourusername

username18 lmfao y/n and charles rlly are just surrounded by a bunch of babies and toddlers

username15 i’m actually dead at the amount of charles and y/n x babies content we’ve been getting

username54 charles acting like we don’t know he has the biggest baby fever ever… i mean look at talk the reels he likes

⤷ username7 same as y/n like that baby fever has KICKED IN

riccardoberetta ❤️

yourusername 🥹

username82 does no one else find all these baby posts from y/n and charles a bit… suspicious

⤷ username72 no? u guys need to get over this agenda, like they’re just childhood friends

pierregasly surprised u know how to hold one mate

⤷ charles_leclerc cant say the same for u

landonorris y/n looks like she’s going to eat the poor thing

⤷ charles_leclerc i think she wanted to 😅

⤷ yourusername U DIDNT SEE HIS LITTLE CHEEKS 🥹

mlnmarta 😍

liked by friend1, luisinhaoliveira99, and 198,827 others

yourusername j'en veux un

translation: i want one

tagged yourfriend2, mlnmarta

yourfriend2 😳 ummmm please return my baby b4 u say these things…

⤷ yourfriend1 don’t trust her.

⤷ yourusername whatever do u mean… ☺️☺️

username9 ik we were all joking abt y/n having baby fever but i fr think she does

username88 girly just got married and she already wants a baby LMFAO

⤷ username72 i mean i would to if charles leclerc was my husband

⤷ username2 average delulu charles y/n stan

username82 that pic of charles and baby c moved and changed y/n and that is so relatable of her

⤷ username26 literally SAME

landonorris have u seen ur laundry room?

⤷ yourusername shut up. you’re literally a child.

pierregasly oh? 😀

lilymhe MILF MILF MILF MILF MILF

⤷ yourusername LET’S BE MILFS TOGETHER

⤷ lilymhe OMFG YES

⤷ alex_albon oh! 😃🤨

username18 don’t mind her. she’s going through a phase 😬

danielricciardo i knew there was a reason u begged to come back to the farm w me! u wanted to steal my nephews and nieces 🫨

⤷ yourusername they’re just so cutieful 🥹🥹

username17 wild y/n on the loose! hide ur kids!!!

joris__trouche u guys are too much 🤣🤣

⤷ username91 what does he mean ‘you guys’… when i tell u everything is piling onto my charles y/n agenda 😗

mlnmarta si mignon, baby c tu manques 🌸🌸

⤷ yourusername I MISS HER 🥹😘❤️

liked by lorenzotl, charles_leclerc, and 19,092 others

charlotte2304 what a weekend 🏎️❤️

tagged carla.brocker, francisca.cgomes

carla.brocker 🩷🩷

username17 where’s y/n lol

francisca.cgomes 💕

lorenzotl ma belle

username72 leclerc wagsss so pretty

username01 where’s y/n?!

username18 y/n has NEVER missed monza. where is she?!

username89 leclerc wags w/o y/n 🥺

liked by pierregasly, alpinef1team, and 198,038 others

francisca.cgomes 🇮🇹

username9 the prettiest gal in the paddock

username14 her fits 😍😍

username16 miss y/n and kika in the paddock together

⤷ username81 please it’s one race 🙄

pierregasly 🤍

charlotte2304 😍

carla.brocker 💘

username17 i needddd her dress

luisinhaoliveira99 so pretty 💘🌸

liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63, and 109,882 others

lilymhe p7 for my mansssss 🍝

tagged alex_albon

username23 his good luck charm!!!

username41 she looks so bored w/o y/n

username18 lily where’s y/n?!!!

⤷ username16 fr where is she?! she never misses monza!

alex_albon 🐐🐐

williamsracing monza minister of defenseeeee 📣📣

2 years later // 2025

liked by lilymhe, isahernaez, and 239,092 others

francisca.cgomes famfun&friends

username53 sweetest couple

username18 missing y/n and kika hoursss

username21 it’s been two years. where is y/n hiding!!!

username14 every time kika or pierre or lily or like anyone posts i cross my fingers that y/n is in a pic and i’m always disappointed

pierregasly ma belle 😘

lando.jpg pic creds??

⤷ francisca.cgomes desculpe lan

⤷ username17 if u had told me 2-3 years ago that lando and kika were mates i would’ve been shocked

⤷ username4 it’s all thanks to y/n… she brought together all those random pairings bc they were all friends w her… and now she’s no where to be found 🫠

charles_leclerc stop taking my man 🤬

⤷ francisca.cgomes then give me back my girl!!!

⤷ username16 GIRL?!? 😳

⤷ username68 charles has a gf?!

⤷ username45 OMFG

⤷ username63 it’s y/n guys… like trust meeeee

⤷ username78 pack it up granny

⤷ charles_leclerc no girlfriend

⤷ username16 OH?! officially confused.

liked by alex_albon, carmenmmundt, and 109,838 others

lilymhe recent 🌃

tagged francisca.cgomes, alex_albon, carmenmmundt, heidiberger_, charles_leclerc

username1 i’m actually so emo bc where tf is y/n

username82 lily hanging out w charles has rlly reminded me how much i miss y/n. like what happened? where did she go!!

username17 all the best wagssss

alex_albon ✌️

heidiberger_ ilyyyyy

⤷ lilymhe mwahhhh

username76 all of them hanging out without y/n feels sooo wrong

⤷ username73 it’s been TWO years bro like get over it

⤷ username14 how do u know that she’s not there? they might just not post photos of her bc she wants privacy lol

⤷ username54 WHAT IVE BEEN SAYING!! like everyone has been throwing a hissy for the past two years abt y/n and where she is but like are we forgetting that kika is her sister-in-law and pierre is her literal brother also she grew up w the leclercs and lily has been her best friend for like over five years - i guarantee she just doesn’t have a presence on social media but is surely still in their lives

charles_leclerc traitor! i look like an idiot

⤷ lilymhe well i mean…

⤷ charles_leclerc wounded

francisca.cgomes miss u ml x

carmenmmundt 🤍

liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari, and 8,092,260 others

charles_leclerc no words. ❤️

tagged f1, scuderiaferrari

username18 “for the first time ever, charles leclerc is champion of the world!” was music to my earssss

username61 LFGGGGGG

username92 ⭐️boyyyyy

username16 il predestinato fulfils the prophecy

scuderiaferrari il formidable, il predestinato ❤️❤️

carlossainz55 deserved hermano. felicidades!

pierregasly félicitations mon frère 🫶

lorenzotl waouh charles ❤️🤍

landonorris congrats mate 😘

francisca.cgomes congratulations charles!!! 🫶💘

joris__trouche bravo mon beaux 😉😘

yourusername jamais été aussi fier de réaliser vos rêves! champion du monde ❤️ toujours à vos côtés 🤍

translation: never been prouder, fulfilling your dreams! champion of the world. forever by your side

⤷ charles_leclerc pour toujours

username71 UMMMM Y/N???!!

username8 after years of radio silence the first sign of y/n is her congratulating charles on his wdc 😭😭 they are soulmates, u cna not make this shit up

alex_albon 🔝 job charlie

lilymhe 👏👏

arthur_leclerc bon travail frère ❤️🤍

leclerc_pascale mon bébé 🥰

georgerussell63 let’s gooo 👍👏

lewishamilton 💜

username16 the way y/n’s comment is the only one charles replied too 👀

taglist: @chalecbooks @lxclerc @1655clean @dl-yum @honey6578 @lillianacristina @xcinnamongirl @glitterf1 @christianpulisic10

[knoepfl]

Perfectly Imperfect Love

Here we are again this time with our lovely Dottore! I noticed there seem to be a lot of people who like him (including myself) so this was a must! If you enjoy this and/or want to see other characters check out the Masterlist or/and write a comment or request for a character and I will be happy to do them!^^ Again the inspiration and the picture was from @devotion-disorder so check them out!!! Have fun^^

Masterlist

---

The sterile walls of the lab seemed colder than usual. At first, Il Dottore—the infamous Harbinger—was amused. His sharp gaze scanned the room filled with photos plastered from wall to wall. Dozens of them. Every picture contained your smiling face, radiating warmth and joy.

It wasn’t unusual for Dottore to obsess over things that intrigued him—and you were one of them. But then his expression stiffened. You weren’t alone in these photos. Another figure stood beside you in each one, arms draped over your shoulder, fingers intertwined with yours. They smiled down at you like they owned you.

The corners of Dottore’s mouth twitched as irritation boiled beneath his skin.

How interesting… What kind of experiment is this?

5 Minutes in:

He stood there, silent, his gaze dragging across each photo in unnerving detail. At first, he tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his red, glinting eyes.

“Hm… Strange,” he muttered. “How perfectly inconvenient.”

Dottore chuckled, a sound both sharp and dangerous. “A foolish attempt to get under my skin, is that it? How quaint.” He tapped his gloved finger against his chin, observing the way your head leaned against the stranger’s shoulder in one image, your hand caught in theirs in another.

“Sloppy work… But I can’t deny, it’s convincing.” His voice dropped to a whisper, a smile still gracing his face. “I wonder if you’d let them touch you like this.”

The mask of indifference cracked for just a moment as something vile flickered in his gaze—something possessive.

1 Hour in:

He was still standing in the same spot, staring at the photos with an unsettling intensity. The small grin on his lips had twisted into a sneer.

“Did you think you could run from me?” His voice dripped with venom, though he directed it more toward the photos than you.

He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers impatiently against his bicep. “These are fake… They must be. You wouldn’t betray me. Not after everything.”

His heart pounded beneath the cold exterior, irritation morphing into something more dangerous—doubt. And he hated it.

Dottore pulled one of the photos off the wall, his hands tightening until the paper crumpled under his grasp. Why does it bother me? Why does this stranger in the photo seem more real with each passing second?

A low, bitter chuckle escaped him. “What a fascinating experiment,” he muttered to himself, though his eyes betrayed his growing frustration. “I wonder… how much longer until I break?”

3 Hours in:

Dottore’s breathing was uneven now, each exhale coming in short bursts.

The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls closing in as his mind spiraled. His hands tugged at the mask over his face, as if trying to stop the intrusive thoughts that gnawed at him. He muttered your name under his breath—again and again—like a mantra to keep himself sane.

“It isn’t real,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “It can’t be. You would never leave me… You wouldn’t.”

He dragged his gloved hands down his face, nails biting into his skin through the material. His grin was wide, teeth bared like a wolf, but his eyes were wild—unfocused.

“And if it were real…” His voice dipped into a low, dangerous hum. “Then I’ll simply… correct it. Remove the imperfection. Yes… I could fix it.”

He laughed quietly, the sound brittle and laced with mania. He would find a way to erase whoever thought they could take you from him. He was the only one worthy of having you. Not them.

Never them.

6+ Hours in:

By now, the Dottore standing in that room was a different creature entirely.

He sat in the corner, legs sprawled out as he gazed at the photos on the walls, his mask lying discarded beside him. His grin stretched too wide, teeth gleaming beneath the dim light, and his red eyes shimmered with twisted delight.

“It’s not real…” he whispered, as if trying to convince himself. “Not real. Not real. Not real.”

But even if it was a lie, Dottore didn’t care anymore. His obsession had consumed him whole, leaving no room for rational thought. He pressed a hand to one of the photos, tracing your image with unsettling tenderness.

“Mine,” he murmured, his voice soft but unwavering. “You are mine. You’ve always been mine.” His words felt like a promise—and a threat.

He sat still for a moment longer, before his smile widened. “Ah… but I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

He stood abruptly, brushing off his coat with a calmness that didn’t match the crazed look in his eyes. “We’ll have to fix this. You won’t need them when you have me.”

He tilted his head, as if imagining your face when you saw him next—saw the mess he would make to bring you back to his side. “I’ll erase this blemish… and you’ll love me. Like you always should have.”

The Aftermath:

When the door to the room finally creaked open, you barely had a second to react.

Dottore was on you instantly, his gloved hands grasping your arms with a firm but oddly gentle grip. His eyes shimmered with a mixture of glee and relief, the madness beneath them bubbling just below the surface.

“Ah, there you are,” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “I knew you’d come back to me.” He pressed closer, ignoring the way your body stiffened under his touch.

Before you could say a word, his hands moved to cup your face, his smile a cruel mockery of affection. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Those photos… they don’t mean anything. They were a mistake—an… illusion.”

His laugh was soft, but it held an edge sharp enough to cut. “You won’t need anyone else. Not anymore.”

And in that moment, you realized just how deeply you had fallen into Dottore’s web.

There was no escape from him now—no way to free yourself from the twisted obsession that bound you to him. Because in his mind, you were his.

Forever.

---

[eskymoos]

Levi Ackerman As a Romantic Partner

Headcanons by Eskimos

Levi Ackerman is the Captain of the scouts.

Of course he will have high expectations of you. His eyes are always on the target and his strength never fails. However, he knows to keep you close during every mission. Regardless of whether his behavior betrays it, his heart beats for you. Levi would sooner put himself under a guillotine blade than let anything or anybody hurt you.

He's also the type to hold a long speech to you about how you're using your ODM gear wrong and then, when you finally get the chance to shine, he will fly past you and slash three titans at once. Is he doing it for the safety of everybody or just to impress you? That remains a mystery.

Levi Ackerman is Humanity's Strongest soldier.

He doesn't crow about his strength. Nobody questions it because it's a fact. What's more, you've seen both sides of the coin. Levi implements harsh, disciplinary methods on young, delinquent soldiers. Sometimes he even punishes them physically. You might catch the Captain in the hallway dragging somebody like a ragdoll by their hair or kicking the back of their knee to trip them and the next moment you're in his office doing your work alongside him while his fingers rest in your hair. The same fingers that just tormented somebody tangle in your hair and mess it affectionately. You know how to find comfort in his cold presence. In fact, you know he would turn the Earth inside out if something were to happen to you.

Levi Ackerman is a member of the exiled Ackerman clan.

Levi is many things and definitely not proud of his origins. He knows a thing or two about how the Ackerman clan came to be and why it's so despised. The only reason he chooses to associate himself with the name is because it reminds him of the first person he ever truly loved- his mother. Or, well, that used to be the explanation before you stepped into his life. Now he daydreams about making you an Ackerman. His partner until death does you apart. In his eyes, the shame is all gone because you're his other half and he would happily make that bond eternal.

Levi Ackerman is a hyper ultra mega clean freak.

His room? Spotless? His office? Shining clean.

Hygiene is a thing he will never ever overlook (his past can explain that mania). There's nothing more enjoyable than a deep clean and a fresh start.

However, there's a secret he will never tell anybody. Your disorganization and chaotic, aimless persona holds some charm that he never expected to find in the first place. Yes, he certaintly won't be encouraging a filthy work space but you being the polar opposite can give him butterflies and gradually drive him mad. Before you know it, his entire mind is a mess because of you and you don't even suspect a thing.

If you're a clean freak like him, then you're undeniably the soulmate he yearns for. Levi's obsession can only grow deeper if he sees a reflection of his own ideas in you.

Levi Ackerman is a murder weapon.

Having been recruited from a young age to serve Erwin, Levi is very much used to the blood bath that comes with his job. He is ruthless from the core of his beating heart. If justice stands behind violence, then he won't mind being the bad guy even if it ruins an innocent life.

Things are not so black and white behind closed doors. If you're the lucky person who owns his heart and soul, you will have the honor of receiving limitless amount of devotion from the depths of his eyes. His touch will always be gentle and his words- thoughtful. He will always be a shoulder to cry on and a shelter to stand under.

Even during more intimate moments, his focus will be entirely on you and the gentleness of his actions will make your head spin.

''Deep breaths, come on.''

''Eyes on me.''

''That's it. Just like that.''

Levi Ackerman is human. More human than people think.

There are days when things just get too much. And when the world is too loud and all burdens weigh on his shoulders, he will find you and keep you close.

Levi is confirmed to be a very emotional character. Even his silence speaks volumes when he sits beside you, arms and legs crossed and his head resting on your shoulder. He will relish you and worship these bits of tranquility that he rarely gets.

Levi Ackerman is an insomniac.

His nights are a hellish loop. Memories, work, plan-making, strategies. The man doesn't have it easy. You are the antidote for all his problems. When you sleep near him, even if you've passed out in his office, he will observe you and take care of you to the best of his capabilities. The sight of a loved one being at peace heals all his scars and suddenly he feels like he is dreaming.

''Huh-- Levi, are you alright?''

''Go to sleep,'' he'd murmur, looking into your tired eyes. ''I am here. Sleep.''

And it's true. He is always there. He always will be.

Levi Ackerman is short.

And he wishes there was a way to change that. It's an insecurity he can't mask so easily but it doesn't affect him too strongly. Truth is, building a healthy relationship with you will only fuel his desire to demonstrate other good traits. For example, if you're struggling to reach something he will walk behind you and position his cold, slender hands on your waist just to lift you up and help out. He's short, yes, but outstandingly intelligent.

Levi Ackerman? He is like no other.

[karajaynetoday]

hey now, you're an all-star | jack hughes

it took one month of watching hockey for me to write fic. lmao. classic. good vibes.

thank you @littledrummeraussie for proofreading, love you angie 💖

READ PART TWO HERE

READ PART THREE HERE

word count: 2.8k

Warnings:  i don't think it needs any? just forgive my limited knowledge of hockey and canada i suppose? mentions of anxiety related to university? it's a bit angsty bc let's be real, do i ever know how to write anything else?

(This is a fem reader insert)

More writing here (soz that the masterlist is not up to date lol) | send thoughts/feedback/suggestions here

You’d known Jack Hughes for as long as you could remember. He stood up for you in the playground at kindergarten, when a bigger kid pushed you off the swings; you returned the favour by saving him from a spider on his backpack. Ever since, you’d always had each other’s backs. 

And for as long as you’d known Jack, you’d been able to tell when he was upset about something. His lips did this thing, not quite a pout, but nowhere near the easy smile you were used to seeing. He’d pull his sleeves down over his hands, and his breathing would be… deeper, somehow. He could never meet your gaze, either. 

You were scrolling through Instagram on your couch at home, where you were supposed to be studying, when you saw a video of Jack from the Devils fundraiser event, answering media questions about his injury and when he’d be back on the ice. He laughed and smiled for the cameras, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They asked about the all-star game, and you could feel his hesitation in answering. Jack tried to be positive and assure everyone that he had a chance of playing, but you both knew that wasn’t very likely. 

You sent the video to Jack with a comment bagging out his hairstyle, hoping to lift his mood a little, before dropping your phone onto the couch and drawing your attention back to the economics case study you were supposed to be analysing. 

You’d stayed in Toronto for university, while Jack headed off to New Jersey after his draft year. Long distance friendship took a lot of getting used to, but at least you were still in the same timezone, and the NHL schedule meant that Jack was contractually obliged to visit you a few times each year. Quinn too, despite how much he complained about the intensity of hockey mania in Toronto. In fact, the entire Hughes family sometimes made the trek, which you knew your parents not-so-secretly loved. It reminded you of the warmth you felt growing up in each other’s homes, filled with laughter and joy.

The little focus you had for your economics homework was broken when your phone began to vibrate beside you, Jack’s name flashing on the screen. You rolled your eyes with a smile, before leaning over to answer the video call. 

“Good morning, sunshine!” You greeted your best friend, who was already scowling at you. 

“Is it a good morning, though? When all I do is get criticism from my supposed best friend?” 

“It’s not criticism, more… encouragement, I’d say.” You teased back, Jack rolling his eyes at you.

“Encouraging what, exactly?”

“Encouraging you to make better personal style choices, especially related to hair. You are a millionaire, after all. Least you can do is get a decent haircut.” 

“Oh, my apologies. Didn’t realise I was getting encouragement from the queen of high fashion. Is that a coffee stain on that shirt?” Jack’s eyes glanced down at what little he could see of your outfit in the video call, before poking his tongue out at you.

“Hey, I’m a university student. This is high fashion, I’ll have you know. Anyway, why aren’t you at training?” You asked, cocking your head to the side in curiosity. 

Jack’s lips pressed together, and he looked away from his phone and you; you silently cursed yourself for asking the question. Even though Jack had been injured, he’d been pretty dedicated to his rehab and recovery, so it was a little odd for him to be calling you in the morning rather than be at a physio session. 

“More scans this afternoon so no session this morning. Trying to decide if I can play next weekend or if I just have to show up and look pretty.” Jack tried to joke, but you could tell that it wasn’t something he found humour in. 

“Good thing that looking pretty comes naturally to you, J.” 

“Oh, so now I’m pretty? I thought I had shit hair?!”

“You can both be a pretty face and have shit hair, buddy. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Mutually exclusive? Is that a fancy term you learnt at school?” 

You laughed at that, earning a Jack smile in return. You continued chatting back and forth for another 30 minutes or so, before Jack had to go to his scans. 

You managed to get through the rest of your economics homework, but your mind kept wandering back to Jack and his frustration at being injured. He’d been an All-Star before, so it wasn’t that specifically he was frustrated about missing, you were certain. The difference this year was Quinn’s selection in the All-Star weekend, and the building anticipation around so-called “Team Hughes” that would see Jack and Quinn on the same team for the first time in their NHL careers. That’s probably what Jack was upset about, because as much as they chirp each other and are fiercely competitive, there’s nothing Jack Hughes loves more than his brothers. You knew that he’d be in his head overthinking everything and convincing himself that he was letting Quinn down, somehow, despite it being beyond his control. 

The only further communication you got from Jack that day was a thumbs-down text message, which told you all you needed to know. You were sporadically in touch a few times throughout the week, and before you knew it, it was the day everyone was flying in for All-Star weekend.

You’d managed to persuade your parents that a full-blown neighbourhood party was not necessary, and instead convinced them to accept Quinn’s invitation to a lowkey but nice dinner downtown near the hotel where he and Jack were staying. The dinner was something you were looking forward to all week, but you hadn’t anticipated two things: accidentally deleting half your economics essay the night before it was due and having to stay up until 3am to finish it; and the butterflies that you were feeling when you were getting ready for dinner. Why on earth were you so nervous? Seeing Jack and Quinn after a while was usually something that excited you, not stressed you out. 

You had just pulled on your dress and finished wrangling your hair when your phone pinged with a message from Jack. 

Have you looked at the menu for this place? We need to order a side of the loaded mac n cheese pls and thx 

I thought you were a high performance athlete? But of course, mac n cheese is a MUST

Correct, my body is a temple. A temple of mac n cheese. Mac is a carb, cheese is calcium for my bones. Winners all around. See ya soon x

Xo

It was freezing outside, so you took an Uber from your university apartment to the restaurant. You were running behind, thanks to traffic, and then you almost toppled over on the pavement outside due to the wet weather. Between that and your sleep deprivation, you honestly wanted nothing more than to go home, put your pyjamas on and cry; but you plastered a smile on your face and headed inside the restaurant. 

The hostess greeted you warmly, and offered to take your coat once you established that your parents had already arrived and were seated on a table towards the back of the restaurant, and you could see the backs of Jack and Quinn as you approached them. Everyone stood up to greet you with hugs and kisses, and the butterflies sparked again when Jack pulled out the chair next to his for you to sit down. Jack and Quinn both had nice sweaters on with collared shirts, and you were quietly glad you’d decided to wear a dress rather than the jeans you’d initially picked out. 

“How did your essay go, sweetheart? I know economics isn’t your favourite…” Your mother enquired, obviously unaware of your crisis the night before. 

You gave her a tight-lipped smile and took a sip of the diet coke in front of you (that Jack must’ve ordered for you, no doubt) before mumbling something about getting it sorted and hoping for the best. Your dad swiftly changed the subject to the weekend’s festivities, excitedly asking Quinn about his plans for the All-Star draft, but you could feel Jack’s eyes on you. You met his gaze and subtly shook your head, silently asking for him to save his questions for later. Jack frowned at you, but complied. 

The dinner felt like it went quickly, but also went for hours. Your stomach hurt from laughing (and probably too much mac and cheese), as Jack and Quinn regaled your parents with stories of their seasons and their plans for the next summer off in Michigan, where your two families would join each other for a month or so of adventures. You found yourself smiling as your dad and the Hughes brothers comically argued over who would pay the bill, before Jack excused himself to the bathroom and sneakily paid the bill on his way there. 

Jack and Quinn’s hotel was walking distance from the restaurant, and they excitedly invited you and your parents to come and see the fancy suite they’d been gifted for the weekend. Your mother made some excuse about traffic on the drive home and promised to come and see it some other time, but nudged you in your side as she told you to go and check it out. You were so tired and ready for bed, but reluctantly agreed; your window of opportunity to spend time with Jack was closing, so you figured you may as well make the most of it.

The butterflies in your stomach flitted around as Jack helped you into your coat before you headed outside the restaurant and bid your parents farewell. You fell into step in between the brothers as they traipsed back toward the hotel, conversation flowing easily as Quinn asked about your college classes and you asked him about the latest book he was reading. Jack was silent as you walked the few blocks before arriving at the hotel, and he gently placed his hand onto your back as you were guided through the hotel front door and into the elevator. 

Your jaw dropped when Quinn swiped his key card and you all entered the hotel suite. They weren’t joking about it being fancy, holy shit. 

The floor to ceiling windows had incredible views of the city skyline, with a very comfortable looking couch in the living area facing the view. Two doors at either side of the living room lead to bedrooms with luxurious linens, and the marble bathrooms were impeccably finished. 

Jack was grinning as he watched you take it all in, leaning up against the door frame to his bedroom as you stood near the window and gaped at the views. Quinn had flopped down on the couch and was texting on his phone. 

“Can they gift this to you year-round? I’d like to live here…” You mused, shaking your head at how insane this hockey lifestyle could be. 

“We could probably just buy it for you.” Jack said nonchalantly, as he wandered over to stand beside you at the window. 

“Yeah, if you want. They’d probably charge us more because I’m a Canuck, though.” Quinn deadpanned, earning a laugh from you and an eye-roll from Jack.

“Speaking of, the guys are all catching up in Petey’s room, so I think I’ll head down there. See you tomorrow after the draft, sugar plum.” Quinn pulled you into a hug, and your heart burst at him using your childhood nickname (which came from one ill-fated ballet performance and you insisted you hated, but secretly loved being called). 

You could’ve sworn you saw Quinn wink at Jack before he left the hotel room, but then again, the sleep deprivation could also be sending you loopy. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” Jack asked, moving to stand behind you and loop his arms around your waist as you still faced the window. Your heart rate shot through the roof as he pulled you closer, and nestled his head in between your neck and shoulder. You cringed as you realised he could probably feel your pulse beating fast. 

“Sure, but no blaming me if I fall asleep on you, sorryyyyy.” You awkwardly maneuvered yourself out of Jack’s embrace and walked over to the couch, sitting down on it and removing your shoes. 

“The first time we’ve seen each other in MONTHS and you’re going to fall asleep? Am I that boring? Sheesh.” Jack drawled, watching you from where he stood.

“Yes.” You stuck your tongue out at him, but lost it to a yawn which made you both laugh. 

“You know I love you, J. I would happily pull an all-nighter with you, but I don’t think two in a row is probably good for me.”

“Two in a row? What, where you out partying hard last night?” Jack’s voice trailed off as he wandered off into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. You heard a drawer open and a light thud onto the floor, and your throat tightened when you realised Jack was changing his clothes. God, you’d gotten changed in front of each other a million times. Why was your brain making everything so weird tonight?

“Not quite. Had a disaster that involved accidentally deleting my entire essay, sobbing for an hour, then staying up until 3am to write the whole thing. Living the dream, as per usual.” You rattled off, trying to sound nonchalant about, even though just thinking about last night made you nauseous with anxiety. Your nonchalance was clearly unconvincing, as Jack came back out of the bedroom clad in a hoodie and sweats and bee-lined for you, his face covered in concern. 

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s fine, I promise. All part of the college experience.” You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince yourself or Jack more. He couldn’t either, but instead of pushing the issue, he threw a hoodie at your head and laughed when you looked offended. 

“I’m definitely falling asleep if I put this on, by the way. You know I love being cozy. Cozy is my natural state of being.” You pulled your hair up into a loose bun using the hair tie on your wrist, before pulling the black Devils hoodie over your head. 

Jack slotted himself beside you on the couch and reached his arm over your shoulders, finding the remote with his other hand and navigating the ridiculously large TV onto Netflix. 

“Fine by be, sugarplum. I’d rather know you’re getting sleep here than send you home to stress yourself out more.”  Jack mused, his fingers absentmindedly stroking your arm while he found the latest season of a TV show you both loved to watch and pressed play.

“I’m not stres - it was just one essay - I promise I’m fine.” You sputtered, tripping over your words when Jack locked eyes with you, his gaze empathetic but all-knowing. 

“Besides, I’m not the only one in the room worth worrying about.” You said softly, nudging Jack’s side gently. Jack rolled his lips between his teeth, and sighed; he put down the remote and pulled his hoodie sleeves over his hands. 

“But we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You’re not letting anyone down, though. Quinn doesn’t think that.” You continued, softly, not wanting to cause tension. 

Jack sighed deeply again and pulled his arm away from you, leaning forward and rubbing his face with both hands. 

“You don’t know what Quinny’s thinking, sugar. And it’s not just Quinn, it’s the fucking journalists, and Bratter’s vacation being ruined, and goddamn Michael Bublé being disappointed in me, and - just - fucking all of it.” Jack exhaled deeply, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. 

You didn’t know what to say, because you could tell that Jack wasn’t in a mood that you could talk him down out of. But you could tell he needed comfort, needed reassurance, needed to know that you still had his back. Ever since kindergarten. 

You grabbed the back of Jack’s hoodie and gently tugged it, and he leaned back against the couch. You tapped Jack’s legs next, and he moved them up onto the other side of the L-shaped couch, so he was properly reclining. You paused, trying to figure out how to position yourself without being literally on top of Jack, but while your brain was running a million miles a minute, Jack’s hand found yours and yanked you towards him gently. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, before adjusting yourself between Jack’s body and the side of the couch. Jack’s arm found a home over your hips and settled gently on your stomach, pulling your back against his chest. You felt his breath on your neck as you both wriggled around, trying to get comfortable.

 

“Is this okay, sugar?” Jack’s voice was barely a whisper, directly into your ear. You didn’t trust your voice not to squeak a response so you simply nodded, trying desperately to calm your fast beating heart.

You rested your hand on top of Jack’s and gently squeezed, feeling yourself starting to lull to sleep. Despite the butterflies and your heart jumping out of your chest, you somehow had never felt more at peace, right in this moment.

This was safe, this was calm. This was home. 

[damiansgoodgirll]

Hey🤭🖤💖

can you please write reader being punk protege and drew using reader against him please?💖💖

cm punk x reader (platonic) + drew mcintyre x reader (platonic)

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

‼️just wwe typical violence

happy face

way before punk rejoined wwe, mcintyre was your mentor. he was the one who helped you gain the confidence you had now. he taught you how to act in and out of the ring. he helped you improve your speech skills and if now you were one of the most successful and loved female wrestler in the company was mostly thanks for drew.

you never meant to turn on him. in your mind, he was still the caring and kind mentor that helped you all of these years.

you didn’t even care about cm punk rejoining the company. it was none of your business.

but you and rhea were best friends and rhea and punk were good friends so the more you hung out with her, the more you hung out him punk too. at the time there wasn’t any beef going on between the two of them so drew didn’t really care about the people you used to hang out with.

but after drew costed punk’s wrestlemania, things started to change.

you had your own match at wrestlemania for the wwe women’s world title and you wanted to be ready. so when drew got booked the same night as you he knew he couldn’t help you train. he was too focus on winning his own championship and you completely understood.

when you told rhea you needed someone that would train with you for wrestlemania, punk saw that as an opportunity and he offered to help you. you were reluctant at first, knowing the beef going on with drew but you couldn’t say no to someone who had so many years of experience and hard work in wrestling.

so you agreed and you let him train you. he saw the big potential you had and he was sure you were going to get that title at mania.

you were backstage watching how punk screwed drew’s victory and how damian cashed in on him the same night. you knew drew was going to be devastated but you didn’t have time to think about that, you needed to focus on your own match.

to say that drew was shocked when he saw punk ringside during your match was an understatement. he was hurt, furious and angry. what was punk doing ringside with you? but he was hurt the most when he saw punk celebrating your victory. he saw how you hugged him and how happy you were when you won and somehow he felt like you were betraying him.

drew left the stadium and never answered none of your calls when you tried to talk to him. you imagined he was upset but you couldn’t imagine he was that angry.

months passed and you were thankful that you were drafted in smackdown, you knew you couldn’t have handled working with an angry drew every week.

till this day he never answered your calls, or your texts. not even when you tried to explain to him what was going on. on the other hand, punk understood your frustration. he knew you and drew had an incredible bond and he was sorry for how the scotsman was treating you.

one night, you were asked to do a segment on monday night raw and you knew you couldn’t say no.

but when backstage your eyes met drew, you probably realised that it wasn’t a good idea. he was still pissed and you didn’t have the energy to fight with him, not tonight at least.

“y/n…” he called your name, knowing that you were able to hear him loud and clear.

you slowly turned and faced him “drew…”

“congratulation on the belt” he said before leaving the room.

the air was thick. you knew he was going to cause pure chaos tonight and even if you wanted to avoid that, you knew you couldn’t.

you opened the show and everyone was shocked to see you there. your promo did not disappointed and everyone, your colleagues included, were so happy to see you there at least for one night.

punk was on the ring now and you were happily watching backstage.

before you could do anything, drew moved to open up the door of your changing room and he took you out.

“drew what the hell?” you almost screamed. his hand grabbed your arm and he was dragging you into the arena. he wasn’t hurting you but he wanted to let punk know how much pissed and hurt he was when you sided with him.

“i’m not gonna hurt you” he whisper and you trusted him. you knew he wasn’t going to do anything on you but drew was a very unpredictable man.

punk stopped his speech the moment he saw you being dragged into the arena by drew’s hands.

“let her go drew!” he almost screamed.

“no…no, i’m not letting her go” he screamed back into the mic. you definitely weren’t expecting to be thrown into this mess, maybe that was the reason the producers wanted you in raw in the first place “i’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen” his hand squeezed you a little, not hurting you but making you jump from the sudden sensation.

“let her go drew! this is about me and you” punk was beyond mad.

“you fucked me up in front of my friends and family at wrestlemania, you did the same during clash at the castle, in front of all my family, in my hometown…but you took from me the only person who cared about me in this business and i can’t forgive you for doing this” he said, faking a laugh into the mic.

“let her go drew” punk repeated himself but it was like drew wasn’t listening to him.

he slowly dragged you into the ring with him. the two of you facing a worried punk “no no no, i don’t think you understand what’s going on here” he chuckled again “i’m gonna take back what’s mine, from the title you screwed me over at mania! from the glory and the respect i deserve! and lastly i’ll take y/n’s back, because i trained her to be the woman she is today, i did all of the hard work and you’re stupid if you think i’ll let you take credit for all of that”

punk and you met with worried eyes. you wanted to talk with drew and explain to him the whole situation but the way he was overreacting was out of control.

“and you’re right” drew laughed “this is about me and you” he said before shoving you to the ground and letting you watch as he started punching cm punk.

you realised that you were just a distraction. he probably never meant what he said about caring about you. he just wanted to use you to hit punk.

“c’mon punk” drew laughed “show the world your happy face” he kept laughing. this version of drew was honestly scaring you and didn’t know what to do to stop him.

you tried to shove him off of punk but he was stronger and more powerful than you so it took him two seconds to push you on the ground.

“why are you defending him y/n?” drew spat back at you.

“this is not the way to handle things!” you put yourself between a tired punk and an angry mcintyre “don’t put me into this mess because you were the one to never reply to me!”

“you were so busy being friendly with the enemy!” he screamed back but before you could even speak back, punk stood up and punched him right into the face, making the big man on his knees.

“i told you to not bring her into this mess! but you never listen!” punk shouted at the scotsman “she’s able to make her own decisions and she’s able to understand what kind of sick man you are!” the two men continued hitting each others and you had to wait for security to stop because you couldn’t do anything.

security came and they were able to separate the two men, dragging drew out of the arena and leaving you and punk inside the ring.

you immediately went to check on him. his face had some deep cuts and his nose was bleeding “oh my goodness…are you okay?” your delicate hands touched his face, looking for some other injuries but he reassured you saying that he was doing fine.

drew watched from afar that interaction between the two of you, promising that he would get revenge on punk for everything he caused him.

[chixkencxrry]

crazy, crazy for loving you

Summary: Loss can make people go insane. (Yandere! Miguel O’hara x Yandere! Fem! Reader)

MINORS DNI

Warning: They’re both insane and a bit immoral. They are both very, very unstable people. This is a dark story of mutual obsession. (Mutual Non-Con Voyuerism, Mutual Masturbation, P in V, Swearwords, Mutual Stalking, Mutual Non-Con Spying, Oral (F receiving), Dark themes, Cockwarming) YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS ON YOU AND YOU ALONE!

When you see him, it's hard to keep your hands at your side and not run to him. It’s hard not to look at the man that wears your dead husband’s face and not weep like a baby. But you know it isn’t him. No, this man with the war in his eyes and fangs of a beast is not your Miguel.

But, God – God, did you wish it was. 

So, yes, you were quick to agree to be apart of his little operation. Quick clipping the gizmo onto your wrist. The Spiderman logo spread along your torso like some awful red target. He knew your name, but it was obvious that you didn’t exist in his world. If you had, you were sure they would have been together. No. The you of his world was dead, like the him of your world. It was darkly poetic. 

Lyla had taken a liking to you – his AI. She unintentionally helped you keep track of him; you didn’t stalk just keep track. 

Then it happened. The fine click that had truly sent your observing of Miguel corrupt into something else, something darker. 

Something had caused the collapse of your world. It was a war, much like the great Titan on EARTH-199999. Your world crumbled before you; you already didn’t have much left after the death of your Miguel but now you had nothing left. 

When the collapse of it came, you were not on the battlefield with the other Avengers. You had been in the cemetery, fingers clawing into Miguel’s grave – determined to bury yourself in there with him. The cold mud coated your hands and body, knee digging in. You were about two feet deep, mad with intent. 

“Y/N?”

The word stilled you. It was Miguel, you turned your head in a horrible hopefulness. Disappointment settled on your shoulders, in some half-mad frenzy, you’d thought it was your Miguel. But it wasn’t it was Miguel.

“Leave me alone.” you growled. “My world is dying.”

“You don’t have to.”

I died when you did.

“I’m right here, Y/N.”

“No.” you muttered, fingers in the dirt. “You’re below. I’m getting you out.”

A warm body dropped down, covering your back and pushing you forward. You wiggled and fought but felt a pinch at the side of your neck. Your mania subsided, a false peace overwhelming you. Before you knew it, you collapsed in the mud. 

It had taken weeks of manic behaviour. They had to sedate you to get you to calm down – barricade and and chain you to stop you from attacking. You’d gone mad. 

When Miguel came to visit you, you’d taken a turn for the better. 

“I heard you broke Spiderman 8077’s jaw.” Miguel doesn’t seem amused. He stands over you – through the fizzing cage that electrocutes you everytime you touch it. You can’t bring yourself to snarl or fight. You look at him – flesh, bone, hope. 

“He tried to make me forget.”

Miguel flinched. “He suggested something to help you sleep.”

“If I sleep, I forget him.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Miguel’s tone was soft and low. You closed your eyes and imagined being home in your apartment, the record player on and rain falling. Miguel dancing with you, dipping you low and laughing on your skin. 

The daydream dissolves when you hear the click of your cell open. His voice of stone ordered; “Lay down.”

Instinct, really – the way you move to the cot and wiggle until your back hits the wall. The bed shakes as Miguel’s massive frame sets itself on the bed. He held you, pulling you close. He smelt like your Miguel. Felt like him too. But were all rugged edges compared to the softness of the man you were married to. Your fingers threaded in his hair, snagging a few by accident to bring them to your nose. You tucked some strands into your suit. For later.

For the first time in years, sleep came to you with ease. With that ease came the confirmation of what a gift reuniting with this different Miguel was. You had a second chance. Now, it was time to make use of it. Properly.

***

Miguel had started watching you when your world collapsed and you’d transition to his universe. Now, it wasn’t that he hadn’t been stalking – following – shit – observing you before. He’d just wanted you to get used to the Universe first. Ensuring you had a good identity, a day job and income. 

You’d been grateful. So, very grateful.

He imagined that gratitude as something baser, raw and trembling. But he knew not to test the hand of fate. Yet he hungered for you. The devotion you’d shown to your husband, a version of him, was indescribably delicious. He wanted that for himself. Wanted you, all tears, all love. Each aspect of you a memorising thing; greed flooded him at the thought of claiming you.

It seemed like fate to offer you the guest room of his apartment. He hadn’t used it in years, and it was a waste not to let you in. You’d jumped at the opportunity – a perfect gift. You didn’t know what you were doing to him. Yes. Having you in his house, showering, eating, naked, open – mierda!

 He took a deep breath to cool himself down. You were still at the dorm quarters of HQ, significantly more sane than you were a week ago when the two of you first slept together. Your scent still lingered in his mind. Lilies and cucumbers, fresh and vibrant. Thick and rich, god – he wanted more of that. More of the security of holding you. More of having you have him. The feel of your body curled into his, the softness of your silk skin breaking the delicate thread of his self-control. 

Miguel looked at the room he’d allotted to you. Climbing to a corner to screw in a non-reflective camera. Getting you here was the first step and he was a patient man. Miguel had to make sure the apartment looked lived in. Making sure that some floorboards creaked, chipped at some paint on the walls, and ensured there was a leaky faucet in the guest bath.

His watch dinged. Fifteen minutes away. 

Lyla flickered into existence. “Wow. This violates so many laws.”

“Didn’t ask.” he grumbled, wrenching open a panel of the wall to place a listening device.

“You get that for free.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Anamolly on Earth-7834, they need backup.”

“There are thousands of other Spiders to call.” He placed a nail between his teeth, hammering the panel back on.

“Yeah, well, Y’N asked for you.”

That made him pause. Swearing, he hurriedly put the panel back and suited up, tapping his gizmo and falling into a different dimension. 

***

You only felt a little bad for deceiving Lyla. 

Sure, Miguel would probably be pissed when he found out that you had lied and made his AI lie to him with some clever coding but it would be worth it in the end when the two of you were finally together. You just couldn’t get out of HQ unnoticed without some sort of distraction. So, you figured what could be better than calling in a favour with a friend you’d made while traversing Universes? Felicia was more than willing to play the part, ever wanton for chaos. 

She helped you cause a minor anomaly which sent off enough of the Spiders off and allowed you to sneak into Miguel’s apartment. You looked for the master – the only room with a photo in it, one of him and his passed daughter. It broke your heart to know the pain he’d experienced. But you knew you were here now and more than willing to provide comfort and a new child. You’d even let him name the first one. 

You weren’t here for that. You were here to plant a few presents. Sticking to his bedroom ceiling, you planted a camera in the corner, near his closet. In his bathroom, by his shower and mirror – you planted another one. 

Time was limited. You knew the false alarm would only give you a short time. Before you left, you went through his closet, nose dug into his clothing and inhaling his scent. Sandalwood and oud. God, the earthiness sent a shiver down your spine. Unable to control yourself, you snatched a T-shirt and left through the window. You have five minutes left until your proposed arrival. Five minutes until Miguel consensually lets you into his home. 

Foolish boy.

If only he knew what you had in store for him. 

***

Miguel hurriedly returned home. Frustration laced his sojourn, as he tried to figure out just how Lyla had mistaken you calling out the anomaly of you being there and requesting his help. It was probably some bug. A minor thing he would fix after he greeted you. 

One minute left.

He was cutting it close, climbing through his window and showering as fast as possible. He hadn’t even had time to dry himself off when the doorbell rang, pulling clothes on with wet skin. 

“She’s here!” chimed Lyla, a little too cheerfully.

Miguel rolled his eyes. “No soy sordo, Lyla.”

When he opened the door, you were standing there with just two bags and a smile on your full lips. Eyes fluttering up at him with thick lashes and a soft look; “Hey.”

“Come in,” he welcomed without preamble. Miguel purposefully kept the space for you to pass narrowly. You were shorter than him and plush as you passed, buttocks jamming him slightly as you turned your back to pass in. Your toes shoved behind your feet to slip out of your shoes without him asking, he forgot for a moment that you knew him, even if it was another version. There were parts of himself you probably knew better than anyone did.

That made him excited. 

“Your apartment is lovely.” You said earnestly. “Where do I put my bags?”

He moved to you, taking the bags and walking ahead to lead you to the guest room. It wasn’t bad. A queen-sized bed and all other necessities for a room. Miguel gestured to the opened door, “That’s the bathroom.Might give you some trouble but you’re welcome to use me – I mean mine anytime.”

You didn’t seem to catch him fumbling – ayúdame dios – walking around the room to get a better view. In the dim light, you looked fantastic, the neon of the outside shining on your skin and the expanse of your perfect skin exposed in those tiny shorts you wore. 

Jealously bloomed in his chest. Had you fucking worn those on your walk here? How many people saw you? How many men had seen you in this way? Feral rage gripped him. Miguel set your bags down in the doorway, stepping back before he did something violent. 

“You eat yet?” the question came out as a snappish growl which seemed to startle you. He cringed. He didn’t want you to fear him – he just wanted you to know your place as his. 

Your brows furrowed. “You good, Miguel?”

“I’m dandy, princesa.”

A delicious blush bloomed on your skin. The honey was not enough to stop it from beaming forward. He wanted to drag his tongue down – to see how far this blush went. “I-I haven’t eaten yet.”

He smiled a slow, easy grin. “I’ve got some food in the kitchen. Eat with me?”

“Sure.”

Dinner went by slowly. Not in an awkward manner but it was agonising all the same. Agonsing to watch you sit across from him, agonising not to touch you, agonising not bit into your flesh and claw into your pussy with his hard cock. 

His patience wore thin but he maintained. 

The two of you had drinks afterwards, sitting on the couch until it grew too late. You yawned, hands stretching to the ceiling and pointed breasts jotting out through the cotton of your tank top. Your hoodie was abandoned somewhere. He eyed the pleasant curves of your body, the grooves that came from you being Spider-Woman and the softness that came from your natural figure.

“I’m gonna take that shower.” You announced. “Thank you for letting me stay with you, Miguel…I really appreciate it.”

Could you appreciate it with your mouth around his cock? “Of course. Anything for you. Y/N.”

You smiled prettily scampering off into your room. Miguel wasted no time in heading to his own, pulling up a camera feed from your bathroom. He sighed, watching you undress. You were humming along to something, hips shaking and hands running down your body. 

He raised his hips, shoving his sweatpants down. His half-hard length plopping out. Fingers encircled the base, rubbing up and down as he watched you move. 

You stepped into the shower and he switched the cameras. You sodded your body up, perfect nipples hard and hand slipping between your thighs. You rubbed yourself frantically. Rolling your nipple under your palms as you humped your fingers. 

Miguel turned the volume up, his own cock coated in his special essence as he watched you. His hand became frenzied, tighter as it took him closer to an orgasm. His peak came as your voice sounded the last thing he expected to hear. 

His own name. 

“Meirda…Y/N…you want me too, baby?” He coated himself, groaning as you slumped on the video. You shook off your climax and finished showering, stepping out with a glow. He restarted the video, turning the volume louder – thankful for his soundproof room. 

The knowledge that this wasn’t one-sided set something off in him. He threw his head, stroking himself from top to bottom. Desire coiled in his belly, like a snake ready to pounce.

Who was he to deny your wants, princesa?

***

Your fingers rapped on Miguel’s door somewhere close to midnight. You’d timed it perfectly. Your fearless leader hardly slept anyway so you were sure you wouldn’t be intruding. After all, you were sick? Weren’t you? The pills weren’t working, you needed to sleep. You hadn’t slept properly since that night. Lies concocted to make it all work. You just had to maintain your facade of innocence. 

You smiled, thinking of Miguel’s little performance for you on your camera. You’d seen him stroke himself over and over at some random video feed. You saw his thick seed spurt out. Saw the girth of his length twitch to life. Fuck. You wanted that. 

“Y/N?” Miguel’s voice was hoarse with sleep. You softened your face and frowned. “Did I wake you up? I’m so sorry…I just couldn’t sleep and you’d helped me that night…”

Ever generous, he opened his door wider to let you in. He’d changed form his earlier sweatpants. No doubt it was covered in his own spunk. A shame, really. “Of course, come inside. I’ll get another blanket for you.”

“Oh no.” You showed him the lilac blanket you’d brought with you from HQ. “I have my own.”

“Hmm.” He led you to the bed and slipped behind you to spoon you as easily as he had that night. You hummed, wiggling against him. You made sure to throw your blanket on both of you. You heard Miguel groan behind you, his body shifting and arms holding you close.

The synthetic material was interwoven with your pheromones, wired to set Miguel off. That night he had slept with you, you had plucked hair enough to get his DNA to pattern it so that it made him rut like a beast in heat. It was a chance you were taking. It would only work if Miguel wanted you too – if only a little You grinned, smiling as your payment boiled up. Miguel would be yours, it was what was best. 

Even if he didn’t know it yet.

Hours passed. You laid awake listening to him torture himself. Your patience grew thin. Why didn’t the idiot just hold you down and fuck you yet? “Miguel?” You whispered. “Everything alright?”

He murmured in Spanish, nothing clear enough for you to even hear. His hand, large and spanning, set itself on your hip. 

You ground your ass into his crouch. “Miguel?”

“Cállate princesa,” he growled in a tone that made your toes curl. An excited smile spread across your face. “I need to take a walk.”

That made your smile drop. “Now? It’s so late.”

He didn’t say anything, his weight lifting from the bed as he went to hurriedly dress. His back turned to you as he tried to be modest. Your eyes dropped to his round ass. Was he really going to go out and fuck some bitch after you did all the work? Not on your watch. 

“Miguel,” you dropped your tone, low and purring. “Come back to bed.”

He turned his head, eyes red as they flickered over you. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Was he afraid of losing control? How adorable. You sat up, letting the blanket fall from you, the muscle shirt that was three sizes too big fell off your arm exposing an entire breast to him. You were being desperate but you’d be damned if he wasn’t going to rearrange your guts tonight.

He paused, staring at you. You almost grinned. That seemed to do it. 

He dropped the t-shirt he held and crawled over to you, pressing his forward to your as he inhaled your scent. “Tell me this is real.”

Oh.

You desperate thing. How I will devour you, How I will keep you. “It's real. I need you, Mig. I want you.”

His lips slammed onto yours. Tongue piercing the seam of your lips to kiss you fully. His hands pawed at your body, grabbing and groping at everything. Your sleep shirt was ripped in half as he claimed total access to your body. Your hands touched him everywhere, settling on the hump of his buttocks, pulling it close to your hips. You rubbed your bare crouch against his sweat, humping him with blind need. 

Miguel pushed you back, your head hitting a pillow as you watched him take his cock out. The fat, beautiful thing you’d been dreaming about riding since you met him. There wasn’t anytime for preamble – you wouldn’t suck the beautiful thing just yet. 

He stroked himself for a moment, red eyes boring into you as he lowered his face between your legs. Miguel ate you sloppily. Lips smacking and tongue licking, he sucked your swollen clit, pressing his index in and out of your weeping pussy. 

You gripped his head, arching your back as your thrust your hips up, truth spilled from you: “Eat me so good, Miguel. Fuck, you don’t know how long I wanted this.”

He was too busy enjoying his meal to respond. The lewd noises making you tremble as much as the act. Miguel’s fangs brushed against your folds, before he fucked your pussy with his tongue, pressing his dampened fingers to rub your clit as he licked your insides. 

Clenching around his head, your mouth spewed all manner of dark desires, the height of your arousal squirting all along his face. Words failed you as he continued to worship your pussy with his mouth and fingers. 

He raised his head for a moment. His left hand cupped your tit for him to suck while his other fingered you to your second orgasm. Thumb rubbing your clit in precise circles as he bit and sucked your areola. Faster than the first, you mewled your orgasm out on his fingers. Miguel let your nipple fall, watching you as he sucked his fingers dry. He sat on his hunches, leaning back as you writhed, quivering pussy begging for more. Begging for his cock. 

“You look pretty like this princesa, pretty falling apart in my bed for me. You want me to fuck you now? Want me to spread this pussy wide? Want me to make you fucking bawl? Beg for it, baby.” His face read of cruelty while his lips purred to you. You watched helpless as Miguel looked down on you. One of his hands stretched forward to your wanting hole and slapped it. You whimpered. He grinned and slapped it again. 

“I want you to know something before I fuck you,” he whispered, leaning forward, mushroom tip brushing along the seam of your slit. “You’re mine, princesa. You’re my puta. My perra, zorra. Mi amor. Mi todo. And I’m greedy, so when I fuck you – know that it's all over. I become your world and you become mine.”

You bit your lip. The words fell like poetry in your haze: you were truly made for each other. Did he even know how perfect he was for you?

“Ye…s.” You croaked out. “Yes, Miguel.”

His hips snapped, bottoming out into you so hard you screamed against his laughter.

***

Was this heaven?

Miguel had long since thought he was banned from such a place. Long since thought salvation was removed from him. But right now, while he held your waist and fucked his cock into you – he knew he had found it. You looked divine. Your mouth agape and hands rubbing all over him. Your breasts, bounced and full as he made his mark in you. He wanted every groove of his cock known by your pussy. His cock was to be imprinted, moulded into you. You were to know no other but his by the time he was done fucking the common sense out of you.

“My pretty cock dumb, princesa.”

You hummed, heels digging to his ass as his hips snapped. You squeezed him tight but he knew he was leaving marks on your body as he fucked you into his mattress. “Gonna keep you on my cock every day. You'd like that wouldn’t you, perra?”

“Love t-that.” Nails scrapped his back. “G-Gonna cum.”

He could feel that in the tightening of your pretty cunt. The slimy stickiness of your desire echoed in the room, he pinched your nipple making you cry out. “I know, princesa. Do that for me. Cum on my cock.”

Miguel felt your climax, wet and whimpering. You cried beneath him, overstimulated as he fucked you. He fondled your breast once more, hand going between the two of you. He rubbed your sensitive clitoris, smirking as you moaned from the ache. “Good girl. So pretty crying like that. Think you can go again?”

You shock your head, tears forming in your eyes. He felt his balls grow tight but kept at your clit. You shuddered at another shockwave. Finally, he thought leaning forward to cover you until your breasts smashed against his chest. His own release came, loosening the taut feeling that had centred his whole body. Miguel’s hips jerked, making sure his seed took its rightful place in you. 

When he tried to roll off, you kept him on. He looked at you questioning.“Don’t want any to drip out just yet.”

“No chance of that,” he muttered, kissing your neck. His hips jerked, as he found himself in a slow rhythm. “I’m not nearly done with this pussy yet.”

***

“I don’t think I’ve ever visited this universe.” you pointed out at one of the monitors. It was an Earth without a Spider-persona filled with cannibals. 

 Miguel looked to your side and grimaced. “Fuck no.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s the sense of me being here if not to go to unknown places?”

Miguel huffed, hand sneaking under the skirt of your dress. “Princesa, you came here because you saw me talking to a female Spider-persona and then insisted on warming my cock for the rest of the afternoon.”

“So?” You waved your hand. He was lucky you didn’t her to that universe. Perky little bitch was looking a little too googly-eyed at him. “Maybe I was bored. You ever thought of that?”

“You can always go back out on the field.” He suggested.

You snorted, rolling your hips to make him hiss. His cock twitched, surrounded by your leaking cunt. “The last time I went on a mission I thought you were going to kill my poor partner.”

“He was being a little too friendly.” 

“Honey,” Miguel’s hand slipped inside the front of your dress, popping out your full breasts as he slowly rocked up into you. “Peter from Earth-997845 is very much engaged to Johnny Storm.” You wouldn’t mind going out again but you were so comfortable living simply with Miguel and helping him manage HQ. Who was he even talking to? He hadn’t gone on a mission for the months you two had started seeing each other either.

“You’re a hyp–” he stood up, making you bend over the desk, your breasts hitting the cool metal, he pressed the side of your face down as he slowly plunged in and out of you. “–ocrite.”

“Me?” He grunted, hands going up and down your sides as he took his time dragging his cock. “You’re the one who assaulted me in my office just so you could fill it up with your scent. You don’t think I know your tricks, zorra?”

You grinned, working your hips to meet him. “You better make me squirt a few times – just to make sure the scent takes then.”

Miguel chuckled above you, his talons ripping open your dress as he made good on your challenge. 

MASTERLIST

I'll probably make this a reoccurring thing. Hope you guys liked part 1. Reblogs and comments are nice.

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Why did Felix hide from LB and CN in S5?

My dear anon, I wish I could provide you with an explanation full of such profound wisdom and clarity that you would speak my name with reverence for years to come. Alas, I cannot because, when viewed as a complete whole, Felix's season five actions make absolutely no sense from any perspective other than, "Well, if he acted logically, then the season would be over in about five episode or, at the very least, Adrien would have learned the truth which would lead to an identity reveal and we can't have that!"

To explain, let's quickly go over the various assumptions one might have made as season five went on and why they all fall flat by the end of the season:

At the start of the season, Felix's hiding away made some sense if you assumed that he was hiding from his uncle. This was a logical assumption since Gabriel should have viewed Felix as a massive threat that must be eliminated. After all, Felix was clearly no fan of Gabriel's and Felix also knew everything one would need to know in order to bring about Gabriel's downfall. None of that actually panned out - Gabriel basically ignored the Felix issue for the entire season in favor of being the world's most obnoxious Adrigami shipper and Felix, well, we're about to get into that- but it was initially a valid assumption.

Continuing along the logical path from our ultimately erroneous fear-of-Gabriel assumption, one might think that a person who was terrified of Gabriel would go straight to Gabriel's enemies for protection. However there was an argument to be made that Felix feared Ladybug and Chat Noir's wrath just as much as he feared his uncle. This was also a fair assumption. Felix had just betrayed them plus, in those early episode, most of us assumed that Felix was going to refuse to make sentimonsters of his own, so he'd have no protection if Ladybug and Chat Noir immediately went on the attack. These assumptions all proved false in the end, but they were all reasonable when the season started.

Another initially valid assumption was the assumption that Felix's ego mania and self-serving world view meant that he only trusted himself to take down Gabriel. After all, past seasons had shown Felix to be clever, resourceful, and deeply devoted to his mother, so it made sense that he'd be working on some brilliant plan to bring his uncle's downfall and restore his aunt if only for love of his mother. You could even add an assumption he even wanted to keep everything quiet for sake of the family image or just a simple desire for personal privacy.

These assumptions and all of the others stopped holding water after Emotion. In that episode, Felix was shown to be fine making sentimonster, fine outing his own secret identity to the world, and fine confronting his uncle directly without a real plan for stopping him long term. The closest thing to a grand plan that we get in Emotion is Felix demanding Ladybug give him her miraculous:

Argos: Ladybug! Good. Now we just need to wait for Cat Noir and you'll both give me your Miraculous! Ladybug: (livid) So that's it then?! You're working for Monarch! You're the reason why I lost the other Miraculous in the first place! And why he took them!! You gave them to him without any regard for the consequences it might have with the people of Paris! Argos: True, except I work for no one.  I only helped Monarch cause it served my plans! I needed the Peacock Miraculous and today I need yours and Cat Noir's so I can make my wish!

But if this was his master plan, then why did he do the Red Moon thing? That took Gabriel by surprise, but it didn't knowingly do the same for Ladybug or Chat Noir. Without knowing their identities, there's no way for Felix to reliably find them during the Red Moon incident since he's snapping everyone he sees out of existence, making it somewhat likely that he'd accidentally snap the very people that he's looking for. You can't even go the snap-everyone-and-look-through-what-remains-to-find-the-miraculous route because he snaps the person and all of their accessories, too. Otherwise he could have snapped Gabriel and gotten all the miraculouses back in one go, then grabbed the Ladybug miraculous as a fun little bonus.

In other words, everything about the Red Moon plan was focused around making a big, flashy entrance for Agros and little else. It's not even focused on stopping Gabriel since Felix doesn't seem to have planned to snap everyone away long term or at least I think that's what's going on here?

Kagami: Happy? When there's no one left?? Adrien: How can I be happy without my friends, without my father, without the girl I love?! Argos: You really think I'm that evil? (goes to open the trash bin where he hid Marinette...) Ta-da! (...only to find it empty; Adrien and Kagami peek inside, too) Huh? That's weird. (snaps his fingers in hopes of bringing back Marinette) Huh?! I don't understand! (backs away from the trash bin) She should come back! (continues to snap his fingers) Something's wrong! I can usually bring back whoever I want, but it's like she's nowhere! Like she's completely gone! (apologetically) I'm sorry, Adrien! Kagami: Sorry? You're sorry?!?! Adrien: You're not even in control of your own power! Don't you realize what you've done? Bring everyone back! NOW!!! Argos: Okay, okay, alright. I never meant to hurt you two...

Well that was anticlimactic....

Note how Felix doesn't take this opportunity to explain the danger his fellow sentimonsters are in before bringing back the people holding their remote controls? And what about his mother? Did he snap away his mother, too? And did he initially plan to perma snap everyone or not? If not, then what was the goal here?

This episode is confusing and could even be argued as a single, giant plot hole because it reads like a mental breakdown episode, but it's also a meticulously planned attack that was hinted at all the way back in Multiplication. So which was it? What was the master plan here? What's going on? Did the writers seriously do all that Felix stuff back in season four without fully thinking through how to make that work in season five?

After the mess that is Emotion, Felix basically gives up on whatever he was supposedly doing in Emotion. There's no master plan to stop Gabriel or make the world-changing wish or anything interesting. Instead, Felix is just there to be Kagami's Adrien replacement. Much like Adrien, Felix has no motive beyond "date the pretty girl and do whatever she asks of me." I guess it's a family trait.

One would think that this would lead to Felix making some interesting new plan to stop Tomoe or even joining forces with Ladybug and Chat Noir since he knows that Tomoe is in on whatever Gabriel is doing (Kagami wouldn't exist otherwise), but that's not what happens. We don't even get Felix going full senti's only because Adrien is left in the dark, a fact that doesn't seem to bother Felix or Kagami. They're too busy being in love to actually do anything to back the nonsense claim that they care about Adrien, but it's hard to blame them when it is so glaringly not their fault.

Letting these two have the sort of active role that would make sense for their characters would ruin the story the writers are trying to tell. We'd probably never get that whole "girl power" Bug Noire thing the show wanted to end the season with because Gabriel would have been stopped way sooner. It would also mean that Adrien knows things and the show can't allow that to happen even if it makes everyone involved look like massive tools. Let this be a reminder to you that you have to let your characters shape the path your story takes. If a character knowing X ruins plot Y, then you can't have both.

In summary, Felix's actions initially made some sense depending on your point of view, but as soon as he became a real part of season five, his character stopped making any sense. The reason for this seems obvious to me: you cannot write Felix logically while also actively including him in the show, keeping Adrien in the dark, keeping Gabriel a threat, and keeping Felix from flat out winning because the peacock is so ridiculously over powered. They wrote themselves into a corner and dumbed Felix down to get around the fact the same way Alya got dumbed down to make the Lila stuff work and Nathalie got dumbed down to make Gabriel's plot work. These writers aren't consistent at writing things like lore or characters, but they are incredibly consistent at the type of bad writing they have to fall back on. Expect to see more of these issues in the future.