#and there's something about that that is really. special? to him.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny Fenton is Chip Skylark

Normally, I don't like doing multiple crossovers. I prefer to stick to just DC and DP. That being said, I have always loved the HC that Danny Fenton grows up to be Chip Skylark because it is the same creator and art style, so this is going to be an exception.

Bruce never understood the way people became obsessed with celebrities. He never experienced the whole "crush on the celebrity" or the urge to follow whatever scandal a celebrity was involved in (as long as no crime was committed).

If he liked an actor, it was because their moves and TV shows were good. Their acting had a range of roles that were well done. If he followed a singer or a band, it was because their music was something he enjoyed listening to. If he had a favorite sports player, they were terrific athletes who won competitions.

It was never because he thought them attractive or that he was burning with the need to know who they were dating. He didn't need to see every detail of their lives because he honestly didn't care if this singer was seen buying donuts on a random Saturday with an unknown man or if an athlete was seen buying from a discount bin.

It always made him uncomfortable how fans thought they had a right to a celebrities time. Running up and demanding autographs, taking videos or photos without consent and the worst of all, sending death threats to anyone they believe was stealing thier celebrity away.

He often heard people say that famous people knew what happened when you became famous, but that just sounded like an excuse not to treat another human being like a human being—at least to him.

The whole "they belong to the public now" was just....ugh.

Alfred was the same way. He got excited to meet someone famous from the theater but wasn't one to watch talk shows and sandals. Wasn't one to pin posters to walls or get offended when someone famous acted like a normal person.

Then Dick came to live at the manor, and although it confused him, Bruce let Dick get excited over a celebrity singer. Bought all the posters, signed CDs, met and greets, front row seats, and backstage passes if it made Dick happy.

Jason was the same with Broadway stars, gasping and babbling whenever someone he adored appeared on TV. Tim nearly fainted when he met that one famous skateboarder, framing the used napkin he had the man sign.

Steph adored that one Boxer, constantly babbling fun facts about the man that had nothing to do with boxing. Why would Bruce care what elementary school he went to? But he listened anyway.

Cass had dancers she went star-eyed for. There was that phase where she styled her hair the same way as her idol from Paris Oprea Ballet despite the fact that the style was only during nonperforming hours. Bruce had to special order the endorsed hair bands with a blue star of said Dancer.

Duke had an actor whom he never missed a single moive or show for. Even if the TV show she stared in flop from the terrible writing, the boy forced himself to sit through every minute if only because she appeared. He had a collection of DVDs long before moving in with Bruce and when Bruce took him to a special release night of her latest work, Duke had actually bursted into tears when they played her thank you for watching viedo before the movie started.

Really. Caring so much about people they didn't even know made no sense. He would understand if it was a fictional character, like the Grey Ghost because the character is and was just what that particular media presented. But real people? It was a real head-scratcher.

He assumed Damian would be the same as him. After all, Bruce knew his father, and his father's father had the same view of celebrities.

He was wrong.

"It's Chip Skylar!" His son screams at the top of his lungs when Danny's picture appears on the screen. His old college friend had contacted him asking if it was possible to have some special protection at his next concert.

Apparently, at the last one, he was kidnapped by some crazy fan and held hostage with a kid she babysat.

Seeing as Bruce and Danny often collaborated on tech for Batman (Before Danny got his big singing break, he was one of Gotham U's top engineering majors), Bruce saw no reason not to step in and offer help, especially if it turned out his kidnapping was due to magic, like Danny suspected.

He may not run around as Phantom anymore, but Danny had seen his fair share of magic users and magical creatures. That was the only explanation for how a tree had just appeared in the middle of the road and caused him to crash right in front of her house. She wasn't the cause of the magic, that much he was able to figure out when she chained him up, but it made Danny uneasy.

He was worried that the magic users would try again, and much like Superman, he had little to no defense against it.

"We're going to guard Chip Skylar!? " Damian hyperventilates, practically vibrating in his seat from excitement. "I get to meet Chip Skylar!?"

"You're a fan of his?" Bruce asks, slightly surprised, only to notice the same excitement on his children's faces.

"Ugh, duh. He's only like one of the most talented artists ever!" Steph gasped, pressing her hands over her mouth. "He once stopped to let a black cat, and every animal shelter in the state had their black cats adopted within a week!"

"I started flossing more regularly because of his Shinny Teeth song," Duke admits. "I couldn't get enough of that commercial."

Dick pulled out his phone, tapping rapidly. "I got to tell Wally. He will be so jealous I get to guard Chip Skylark!"

Bruce stared at all of them, wondering how even Jason and Cass seemed to be losing their minds over the same guy he once caught trying to drink three gallons of milk because, and he quotes, "It makes my bones go brrrrrrr"

"Danny is an amazing singer but-"

"Danny?" Tim snaps his eyes towards Bruce so fast, it took every ounce of his training not to flinch."How do you know Chip Skylark's birth name? Only the most dedicated fans know his non-stage name."

Bruce shrugs. "You all know how I feel about famous people. I'm not that dedicated of a fan but I happen to be friends with Danny. I can ask him to met you if you want-"

"YOU PERSONALLY KNOW CHIP SKYLARK, AND YOU DARED TO GIFT ME ART SUPPLIES FOR MY BIRTHDAY!? FATHER HOW COULD YOU!" Damian screeched, slamming his hands on the conference table as his siblings broke into an uproar.

Bruce honestly can never understand this.

[danadiadea]

Snape wasn't the one who called the Dementors in PoA? He says: "All I have to do is call the Dementors once we get out of the Willow". He clearly hasn't done it yet, and he doesn't make it out of the Willow conscious. We see that Snape leaves the castle and goes directly to the Shack too. And when given the opportunity he actually doesn't summon the Dementors to drink Black dry, he transports him and the kids to the castle.

I want to add that Harry didn't really make any legitimate counterpoints, he just pushed Snape further with dismissing his trauma (i mean the argument about Lupin not killing him during the year would sound more valid if we didn't already have Quirrell just two years ago and then Barty a year later). And Harry is at least a stressed 13yo child, but Remus and Sirius choosing to not adequately explain that Pettigrew is Scrubbers, and instead just saying "look at the rat" and calling him a fool when Snape has a billion reasons to not trust them both... I mean it's in the same category as Sirius failing to quickly explain to Harry that he didn't betray Jily – I understand that we need the plot tension, but honestly Snape can't be blamed for not really listening to them in a situation that retraumatises him after being gaslighted for a year when they don't even put proper effort into explaining themselves.

I think it's pretty clear he didn't have wolfsbane in the shack? I mean the goblet is nowhere around. Idk why, maybe transporting it would be a nuisance and slow him down, after all an advanced potion is no water, it may need special conditions to not go spoiled. Snape probably believed that he'd be able to deal with a werewolf, I bet after the Prank he studied all the possible ways to do it. Which is not a perfect course of action at all, probably coming with someone else would've been much better, but it's not a criminal level of negligence. One might argue that wasting time in a situation like this would've been criminal negligence actually, especially if one assumes Black and Lupin were both ill-meaning to the kids. It took Snape very little time to come to the Shack – mere minutes, he was running and obviously in a hurry.

Snape canonically didn't pretend that none of this ever happened, he explicitly tells everything to Fudge (excusing the kids and saying they weren't responsible for their actions – he clearly didn't want Hermione excluded). So apparently he didn't think his actions would cause him any trouble with Fudge or with Albus.

The fact that Hermione had good, in her circumstances, reasons to cause all the mayhem she caused doesn't mean it's easier to stomach! I mean I understand her, I'd be as reckless and overconfident as a kid in her shoes, but as an adult I also understand Snape for not liking her much. Her actions could result in people dying. It's not her fault she was in the awful Hogwarts environment where she felt pushed to commit unethical actions and there was no-one there to stop her, but it's also not something Snape controls, it's how the system functions.

Also wouldn't Hermione's potential expulsion require the participation of Albus and Minerva, aka people who also took part in luring Quirrell-Voldy into Hogwarts and underestimating the Basilisk, and not of someone outside of the system? They both obviously wouldn't do it though.

Hermione:

*Literally sets Snape on fire*.

*Steals from him*.

*Knocks him unconscious*

Snape: *Makes one rude comment about her teeth*

The fandom: Wow, he's such a child abusing psychopath & shouldn't be allowed to teach!

Mm... I can sense some hypocrisy here.

[alchemistc]

Just gonna say from the top I have not been paying much attention to 9-1-1 spoilers or spec so I'm coming at this from a place of Lou posted a rooftop pic around the same time there was bts of 9-1-1 filming on a rooftop. I know nothing else. I also haven't watched past 8x6 so 🤷‍♀️

something in the orange

Buck has never really been one for a lot of quiet introspection. He's done the therapy, worked at it, worked on himself - but at the end of the day his downtime typically means he's got a book in hand, a Substack to dive into, his phone open to distract his brain long enough for his body to relax. He doesn't do quiet time. He needs to have something to do with his hands, needs his eyes focused on something other than a horizon line.

He's at the tail-end of a q-word shift and Ravi's already inventoried half the station, there hasn't been anything to clean for at least an hour, and it's not like he can go bug Eddie to keep himself occupied.

(And that's a train of thought better left for the scones he's gonna bake tonight, even if Eddie's kitchen is laid out terribly for baking.)

The sunset is gorgeous.

It's not - quiet, exactly. You don't really get quiet, in LA, at any time of the day or night, but it's calm. Peaceful. Traffic runs smoothly, for a given value of smooth, down below. There's a soft breeze. The sun has warmed the rooftops of the city all day, and that extra hour baked them well, so even as it sets the gravel beneath his feet radiates just the right amount of heat.

Buck tilts his head back to watch a fluffy cloud drift across the sky, and takes stock.

He's a fucking mess, but that seems to be beside the point, right now.

Chris is pissed at Eddie but reluctantly speaking to him, and it seems like maybe there's something going on with Eddie's mom but it's not like Eddie comes to him until -

Nope.

Maddie's recovering, and the baby is fine. She'll scar, though, and Buck doesn't quite know how to reconcile that. She's been bruised, bloody, terrified, mad as hell, out of her mind and settling back into it but there's never been lasting physical evidence before and he's -

Making it all about himself, again.

Bobby and Athena are circling in on a place to live, finally, and he's happy for them, ecstatic, can't wait to watch Bobby man a grill again and have everyone - well, mostly everyone -

New line of thought, actually.

Chim seems to be holding it together extraordinarily well, considering, but Buck's not entirely sure he'd know otherwise: he's got Hen for that.

Must be nice, he thinks, and then immediately slams a foot down in an attempt to not be such a selfish, miserable bastard.

Two nights ago he'd watched Taylor Kelly do a special news report covering the wildfire recovery efforts, and she'd looked good - beautiful, healthy, with that fire behind her eyes when a story has some juice to it. And he'd watched, start to finish, and he'd selfishly wondered if she ever actually thought about him, other than an aside about the guy who'd kissed another woman and then railroaded her into living with him.

And he never knows what the hell is going on with Ravi but apparently he bought another block of condos.

So it's like -

It's just -

He's so fucking lonely.

It's not a new feeling, exactly. He's been on his own for a lot of his life. Always latching on to whoever holds eye contact long enough for him to start an info-dump. But all of his people are reaching all of these milestones, or dealing with their own shit, and even though he's made an attempt, the casual hookups just aren't doing much in the department of letting Buck unload all of his issues like he wants.

Which is why everyone ends up leaving, apparently. He takes too much, demands too much, makes things about himself, and it's not the first time he's had to square up with that but it still fucking hurts. He still doesn't know how to fix it.

Gold melts across the skyline as the sun dips low low low, and the door to the roof opens up, and Buck tips his head back again. Closes his eyes and tries to place the footfalls making their way across to him. Feels his chest tighten around the face that materializes behind his eyes and swallows it back, because that isn't happening.

He keeps his eyes closed and enjoys the last streak of heat as the sun dips below the horizon.

Gravel crunches just behind him.

"Hey," says a voice, soft and warm and always just a little surprisingly pitchy for the barrel of a chest it's coming out of.

When he blinks his eyes back open he's greeted with the underside of Tommy Kinard's chin. In the fading light the dip of his cleft is more pronounced, and his hair has streaks of pink in the barrel of the curl, light bouncing off the clouds and making a home on Tommy's crown, and Buck has to bite back the urge to shove out of his chair and tuck his whole body into the circle of his arms. They're not - this isn't -

Tommy's hand drops, warm and huge and comforting in a way Buck always leaned into like a cat, to the dip of Buck's shoulder.

He can't really find any words. He's had - so fucking many words, things he wants to say, things he wants someone to hear, but now they're all stuck in his throat or lost to the breeze kicking up around him.

God, Buck has missed him.

Tommy's eyes dart back and forth across his face, jaw tight as he takes in the sight, his posture all sorts of uncomfortable, and Buck just wants -

Just five minutes. Just. Enough time to watch the pinks fade to purple and blue. He tips his head back just enough that his skull meets the give of Tommy's stomach, and Tommy's hand squeezes.

They watch the sky streak with color and fade, and Buck thinks: if this is it, at least it's a softer landing than he'd had before.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

hi ms raven :D i was playing through vil's dream in book 7 and i was wondering if you could explain a little more about his character? i remember struggling to understand his motivs leading up to his overblot. the current understanding i have now is that vil wants to be the best or the most beautiful but is constantly getting blocked by neige probably because hes not perfect and it makes others lean towards him and want to support him while vil has reached a level where hes seemingly flawless on the outside making it hard for people to get close to him the way they do with neige? does he crave the validation from others and is that why there was an emphasis on him declaring that he himself is the most beautiful like in b6 and b7? i dont think i really understand him enough and its just been on my mind for a while now TT

I think Vil's got one of those backstories and motives that's easy to misunderstand if skimmed. This can lead to misinterpretations where fans assume he's vain and only seeking to take Neige down for shallow attention. It's a lot more complex than that!

The first thing to note about Vil is that he is a child star. His father, Eric Venue, is also a very successful celebrity, but the public does not know about their familial relationship. Vil has worked very hard to achieve his level of stardom all on his own, without relying on nepotism or riding on the coattails of his father. However, that also means that Vil was under an intense amount of pressure and scrutiny since a young age, and that can really mess with one's self-perception.

Since the start of his career, Vil has only ever been casted in villain roles. His post-OB flashback shows Vil asking his dad "Why do I keep getting picked to play the bad guy? Do I really look that mean?"

And though his father reassures him and calls him cute and charming, the vast majority of other people Vil interacts with judge him and assign labels to him. Children Vil's age "hold [him] accountable for work(s) of fiction", equating him playing villainous roles on TV to him actually being a villainous person off-set.

Similar things occur in his professional life. Film crew members praise Neige for his friendliness and wholesome vibe, but also express that Vil is just too perfect and hard for audiences to relate to, so Vil apparently isn't suitable to play the hero.

So on one hand, you have Vil's peers, who assume that he must be an awful person, just like all the characters he plays. Then you have Vil's colleagues, who put him on a pedestal, calling him "special" but also saying he's not relatable. Both viewpoints isolate and dehumanize him. They indirectly tell Vil--a young, impressionable kid--that he's not capable of goodness or of being a normal person. You also have to keep in mind that because Vil always has eyes on him, he has to maintain a cool, mature, and perfectly curated public image. He has had to grow up extremely fast in order to handle himself in the entertainment industry. That's an INTENSE amount of pressure to be under. So how does Vil react to all this pressure? By pushing himself to work even harder to prove everyone wrong. "I would do anything to be beautiful. The most rigorous training. The most tedious hair and skin care regimens. I would shy away from none of it."

At this juncture, I'd like to point out a vital area where Vil's story and that of Snow White weave together. In Snow White, physical beauty is used as shorthand to indicate the goodness of a character. Snow White is pure, beautiful, and innocent because she has a good heart. The Evil Queen is more accurately depicted in her hag form because of how her jealousy twists her into something hideous. When Vil speaks of beauty, it's also in a similar context. He's using "beauty" as a metaphor for "goodness", hence why he fixates on Neige being the "fairest one of all". Neige is the one always playing the hero, and he is also the one the internet considers the most beautiful--so if Vil can become the most beautiful, then surely he, too, can be a hero.

If beauty = goodness, then the opposite is also true to book 5 Vil: ugliness = villainy. And if he is always assigned the villain again and again and again, then its telling Vil that he's “ugly”, that he is a bad person and can never be anything but that.

Not only that, but Vil's worries about permanently being labelled a villain relates back to how his peers and colleagues perceive him. "[...] villains never stay on stage for the whole play. Once their role is finished, all they do is watch from the shadows as the happy ending plays out. [...] All I want is to stay on stage until the end of the show." Vil wants what has always been denied to him: the ability to stand on stage and take a bow with the other actors, to be treated like a normal person that's a part of the group, to have that humanity handed back to him. Why should he be the only one languishing backstage while Neige and other heroes get to soak up that spotlight? He wants to be a part of it, too. He wants to be included.

Let's get back into book 5, present day, now. Vil spends much of this book driving his teammates VERY hard to achieve his vision. To this end, he is imposing harsh restrictions on them, such as new diets, new skincare, new practice routines, and more. This of course garners many protests, but Vil insists on having his way and admonishes those who complain. In these moments, Vil is very much acting like a "villain"--but to him, it's all worth it, because he wants to win against Neige fair and square, earning that victory through his own efforts. "[...] I have no interest in spells that fade when the clock chimes midnight. What I seek is genuine, authentic aesthetic perfection."

Recall that I said earlier that beauty is used as a shorthand for goodness. Because Vil is stating that he wants to win fairly, he is attempting to demonstrate his own beauty--his own goodness--in this bid to triumph over his rival.

But what ends up happening? Vil sees Neige's practice performance and realizes right away that NRC is destined to lose. He tries to take matters into his own hands by cursing a bottle of apple juice and offering it to Neige. While book 5 is vague about what the consequences of drinking that cursed juice would have been, book 7 implies the worst--that Vil had intended to kill Neige with it. Vil went against his own principles (which he stated earlier in book 5) and used a dirty tactic to get Neige out of his way. He can only win if he harms others in the process. I would argue that what triggers Vil to snap and OB isn't his failure to poison Neige (although that's certainly a part of it), but rather Vil realizing he just... proved what everyone has always said about him right. That he's rotten to the core (ie "ugly") and will never be anything else but a villain.

Vil fixates on the eyes of his teammates, perceiving them to be staring at him and judging the moral ugliness of his actions. Like in his childhood, he derives much of his image from public feedback--from the eyes on him. "Please. Don't look at me... Don't look at me with those eyes! Why? I wanted to be the fairest one of all, so why am I so... so... ugly? Ugly?! UGLY?!"

Kalim and Rook try to reassure Vil and remind him that Neige didn't get hurt, so it's okay. But Vil only gets more upset and continues to berate himself. "What does it matter who forgives me?! I can't... I can't forgive myself!" This makes sense for Vil, who is a character that has consistently held the people around him, as well as himself, to high standards. He has betrayed himself, and he is ashamed of how ugly his envy has made him.

After Vil's OB, Rook pretty succinctly states why Vil fails to be "beautiful": because he doesn't believe in himself. Throughout his entire life, Vil has been relying on the words of others to affirm his identity as someone "beautiful", as a "good" person. You can even argue that Vil being so strict with himself is to earn the approval of others, to be seen as the "most beautiful". But Vil never truly believed he was "beautiful" ("good"), and that lack of confidence is ironically what is keeping him from realizing his full potential. "Nobody should believe in your beauty more than you yourself [...] No amount of validation from the rest of the world will ever leave you fulfilled. Even if you wind up old, emaciated, grimy, and stooped over... If you were to truly believe that you are the fairest of all despite that, even the Magic Mirror of legend wouldn't contest your claim. The strength and pride to believe in yourself is what marks the true fairest one of all. Roi du Poison. Fair Vil. I implore you to believe in yourself more than anyone else. Beauty is always with you. At this exact moment, you are the fairest one of all."

In book 6, we get to see how far Vil's character has progressed. When Idia taunts Pomefiore, calling them "wannabe heroes", Vil responds with, "You know, I've always wanted to be cast as a hero, just once. But there are no heroes or villains here. This time I'll be the one who stays on stage till the very end!" He now disregards the notion of labels and is only committed to being the one that puts an end to Idia's machinations.

This point is even further driven home when we see old!Vil, the result of him diving into Tartarus to pull Idia out. Though his dorm members are shocked to see their glamourous leader in this state, Vil laughs it off and announces, without hesitation: "Even though I'm grimy, withered, and emaciated... At this exact moment, I am the fairest one of all." This parallels the words Rook imparted onto him at the end of book 5. ("Even if you wind up old, emaciated, grimy, and stooped over... [...] At this exact moment, you are the fairest one of all.")

It's a complete reversal of Vil OBing. Back in book 5, Vil went mad because he realized his jealous actions made him hideous (even if he still physically looks young and conventionally attractive). But now, in book 6, Vil is content in knowing that his heroic actions make him absolutely beautiful (even if he stands there, old and grey). It doesn't matter what he looks like on the outside, or what other people think of him--because Vil has learned to love himself and to stay true to his principles.

He is deserving of standing on that stage with everyone else. He is human, like everyone else. He’s not THE Vil Schoenheit anymore, he’s… just Vil. This also shows in vulnerable moments late game, like him squealing from excitement at the end of book 6 or screaming in fear in book 7. He still has the image of a celebrity to maintain, but he’s now allowing himself to be less of that “perfect” person, at least around his peers. I believe this is what Vil’s dream in book 7 reinforces. I won't get into the details of that dream, since I assume you've played it + it would just repeat what I've already gone over in this post. That’s honestly what most (if not all) of the book 7 dreams do, try to summarize their personal issues, how the dream attempts to placate them with convenient falsehoods, and then have the dreamers confront those falsehoods with what they’ve learned through their own arcs.

[anbaisai]

Eeeh, I didn’t know today was also NRC Founding Day! What a coincidence. It must be fate or something!

Happy birthday to Mayu! 🎉🎉It just so happens to fall on the same day as Twst JP's anniversary, so let's have a big celebration today! ✨ (Voice lines under the cut!)

Credit to @/twstinginthewind for the blank Ramshackle card edit!

When Summoned: I didn’t think I’d get to celebrate my birthday in another world. I’m grateful that I’ve found friends in Twisted Wonderland to share this with.

Home: Wah, my hair’s sticking up everywhere!

Swap Looks: Time to get ready for the day.

Home Transition 1: Gotta make my bed before I go! Yup, everything’s neat and tidy.

Home Transition 2: I’m always so hungry first thing when I wake up. Alright, let’s see if there’s any leftovers from last night I can munch on!

Home Transition 3: I look like I have a sprout on my head? Well, we’ve gotta go out there and make sure it gets its sunshine then!

Home Transition - Login: I’m not expecting any gifts, but it would be nice to get some practical things like cleaning supplies. It’s hard keeping Ramshackle spic and span on the headmaster’s meager allowance…

Groovification: [LOCKED]

Home Transition - Groovy: [LOCKED]

Home Tap 1: Jamil-senpai wished me happy birthday and handed me a homemade bento. He really is just like a diligent housewife…

Home Tap 2: The Ramshackle Ghosts surprised me this morning. They woke me up by singing happy birthday. It was really thoughtful of them, so I’ll cherish this memory ‘til I’m a ghost, too!

Home Tap 3: I don’t do anything special to my hair or makeup. I just kinda do what feels natural! Although everyone here seems to know a lot about makeup, maybe I should try asking for tips some time...

Home Tap 4: Ace can’t be nice to me even on my birthday! He just gave me a noogie and said he’d bump me a few times, one for each year. Can you believe him?

Home Tap 5: I really didn't expect to be able to celebrate my birthday with so many people around this year. Nothing beats getting to share all this food with my friends- h-hey Grimmy! That's my share!

Home Tap - Groovy: [LOCKED]

[notapradagurl7]

One More Taste.

Creepy!Black Fem! Reader x Dark!Terry Richmond.

Summary: You got it really bad for your fine-ass next-door neighbor and co-worker Terry Richmond, just an unhealthy obsession for him and it was his birthday, all you wanted was to make him yours. But will he be open to you? Turns out he was just as hooked as you were.

Warnings: dark themes, smut, praise, dirty talk, slight fluff, unhealthy obsession, creepy!reader, dark!Terry, fingering, scolding, choking kink, stalking, mention of trauma, mention of murder, possessiveness, toxic themes, jealousy, and slight breeding kink(if you squint), some pwp, all are consensual but read at your own risk, childhood trauma.

A/N: Here is a day late b-day fic for our man Terry, 😭 hope you enjoy my loves, ☺️ this one is kinda ominous, and a special thank you to @megamindsecretlair for this wonderful tag and event, don't forget to leave comments, likes and reblogs are welcome to support, drop a request if you like, they're always open!🫡

WC: 3,265k.

Taglist: @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1

@pocketsizedpanther @beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @kaylaahisthebestest- @uniqueoutlierblog

@dxddykenn

@secretlifeoofmarpessa

@mymindisneverhere @mind-somewhere-else

@kindofaintrovert

@5starr-staciii

@23jammy @zillasvilla @musicisme333

@chaoticcoffeequeen @soft-persephone @ruewritesoccasionally @xblackreader @artsninspo @teeresaresa @kumkaniudaku

————-

It all started with the boring-ass office meeting in the conference room where Terry was introduced to everyone including yourself, all it took was a simple glance from him to get you going, he was that little drug in your veins. And you need is another dose of him.

From the one-on-one projects your boss Maggie assigned both of you to work together to Terry sitting next to you in the break room for lunch, getting to know that fine man day by day gave life to your fantasies, as some would say delusions.

You've learned so much about Terry and kept them tucked in the back of your mind like a secret you've written in your diary. He let you in his life, due to your shared responsibilities at work.

Your daily conversations built a connection that felt unshakeable, like the spine of a well-loved book.

He was a former Marine, he had a cousin named Mike whom he had lost last year, you had your share of loss just like he did, the both of you had similar interests in rock music, adding fuel to your fire for him, as it burned everything in its path.

You only stalked the man once or twice in the park where he did his morning jogs, you could have asked to join him but you already worked out enough on your own. He almost caught you.

With Marine skills of his, he could've done something.

Hearing him chat with other women in the office made you cringe, you wanted to claw their eyes out with your nails once they laid a lustful eye on your man.

And you knew he loved his coffee black with one shot of cream. The way he carried himself, all brooding and mysterious, was enough to drive you wild. He was so tall and was so muscular, you wanted to devour him sexually.

There was undoubtedly something enigmatic about Terry that you wanted to uncover, but he kept his guard up, just as you did, shaped by the personal trauma you experienced at 16, a memory you tried to shake off and ignore.

However, after you resolve to take revenge on the individual who has wronged you so deeply, it's essential to let go of the pain that lingers in your heart.

You were determined to eliminate that uncle in your family, and your older brother Jarvis offered to assist with the endeavor, so he did. It seems you weren't the only one who had that same experience at 16.

After that fateful day, your older cousin Jarvis took swift action, hiding and disposing of the body. Together, you severed ties with your family, leaving the past behind as you relocated to that familiar yet quiet neighborhood. In time, you both found stable, rewarding jobs, convincing yourself that you were on the road to healing.

But today was different; it was Terry's birthday, and the weight of your memories had to be set aside.

Determined to celebrate, you decided to bake him a cake, pouring your affection into every batter mix and frosting swirl. You invited Terry over to your cozy little house next door, eager to share a joyful moment amid the shadows of your past.

You couldn't wait to show him how much he meant to you, that was a time when Terry decided to walk you home when your car broke down. He offered to drive you home because it was dangerous for you to be alone, that protectiveness you felt with him made you fully enamored.

But Terry didn't celebrate birthdays like that, but he appreciated those who thought of him.

You stood before your table with your eyes on the small cake, he preferred chocolate cake over vanilla. “It’s perfect,” you mumbled, smirking at the cake.

You placed a few candles on the table, and washed your hands clean. Once, you heard a knock on your door, you knew that it was Terry.

You hurried your way toward the front door, and swung it open revealing the 6-foot, man with his fawn light skin. His green-blue ish spoke to your dark brown ones, in a ways couldn't fathom. It was so easy to get lost in those eyes.

“Happy birthday Terry,” You sang playfully, stepping aside to let him in.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Terry replied back, stepping inside and you closed the door behind him.

“I baked you a cake, would you like a piece?” You asked kindly.

Terry raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You baked me a cake? You really went all out, huh? I'm flattered. But you know I’m not big on the whole birthday thing.”

You stepped closer, your heart racing. “I know, but I thought it would be nice. Just us, you know? To celebrate you...just a little?”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall in that effortlessly cool way that made you want to reach out and touch him, to feel that strength radiating from his body. “You’re sweet. Just don’t expect me to get all sappy about it.”

“Who said anything about sappy?” You laughed lightly, trying to mask the nervousness bubbling inside. “I just want you to try my cake. It’s chocolate. Your favorite, right?”

Terry’s eyes flickered with something—maybe curiosity, maybe amusement. “Chocolate, huh? You’ve been paying attention.”

“Of course,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “I pay attention to everything about you, Terry. You’re...hard to ignore.”

He studied you for a moment, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got then.”

You led him over to the table, your heart pounding as you cut a generous slice of the cake and placed it on a plate. As you handed it to him, your fingers brushed against his, and a jolt of electricity coursed through you.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice low as he took a bite. His tongue gliding across those lips of his to get frosting, making your core throb. He made you all hot and bothered just like that?

“Y-You’re welcome, do you like it?”

Terry nodded in response before as his eyes widened slightly, and you held your breath, waiting for his reaction. “Damn, this is good as hell. Seriously.”

You beamed, your pride swelling. “I’m glad you like it. I made it just for you.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, the world faded away. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Yeah, I am, and I'm hoping that we can be more than friends, you know?” you replied, feeling bold. Fiddling with your string of yarn that you found to calm yourself down.

His expression hardened for a moment, and you felt the air grow heavy with unspoken words. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Try me, I’m not afraid of you, Terry. I want to know you. All of you.” you replied with a sinister tone, refusing to back down.

He set the empty plate down, his eyes darkening as he took a step closer, invading your personal space. “You really have no idea what you’re inviting into your life, do you?”

Your pulse quickened, the thrill of fear and desire mixing together in a heady cocktail. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m willing to take the risk.”

“You think that I don't know about you? Stalking me in the park, I should’ve reported you to HR or handled it myself,” Terry confessed darkly, his hand behind his back with that wicked smile of his curling up.

Your smile fell into a frown, pursing your lips a bit as you had to turn off a light switch in your head, placing your hands on your sides. Your anxiety

There was no use to deny what you did, you were there being a creep toward the man. When you could've done the normal thing and asked him if you could jog with him, not give in to your obsession with him, your felt your walls crumbling down.

“I don't blame you if you do, it was inappropriate and weird. But I just feel like we are alike, you and I, the moment I saw you. I became obsessed with you Terry,” You admitted, a grin on your face.

Terry’s gaze intensified, awe and intrigue across his beautiful face, “Obsessed huh? What if I told you that I was obsessed with you too? Maybe it did turn me on that you saw me, and stalked me like that,” he said back, crossing his arms.

“What makes you think we are alike?”

“There’s something in both of us, we've both been through too much damn trauma, and we’re shaped by our pasts, Terry. I see it in you and it resonates with me,” You said softly, your tone shaky.

“I agree with you on that which means I'll be yours Y/N, I think you need your punishment after stalking me, I need to tame a little brat like you,” Terry replied back, his grin still on his face that sent a shiver done your spine.

His words rekindled the heat within you, causing your clit to pulse, yet you remained frozen as if on ice, your lips slightly parted but unable to speak.

"Can't speak now?” Terry asked, Tilting his head to the side like a villain with a masterplan from a cartoon.

“Safe word?” he asked again, grinning at you.

“Kiwi,” you spoke up, he kissed your forehead.

“Good girl,” he replied, stepping closer to you.

You gently sat on the couch with your legs spreading apart for him, as if he told you in the back of your mind. But you needed this, and he was finally yours, Terry followed you and unbuckled his belt but he stopped, you whined softly.

“Actually, you don't get this dick since you’ve been bad,” Terry scolded with a gentle tone, his hand wrapped around your neck. You shudder from his touch.

Did you have it this bad for him like that Usher song? Yes you did, you couldn't wait any longer. You moved his hand down below your dress, he slid it over your head, while he took his shirt. Blessing you with that body, his muscles tensed from your touch. You stifled a moan from a lip bite.

His physique reminded you that he could've been a Greek god in another life similar to mythology or perhaps a Pharaoh in ancient Egypt, calling for your hand in marriage.

“I'll be good, I promise. Touch me please, Terry,” you mewled softly, pouting your lip.

His fingers gradually slide inside your pussy, practically sucking his digits in quickly. You were fully enamored with the man before you, this very moment to be touched, fucked good. This surely will suffice for now, moaning wildly and your essence splattering all over.

You needed more than his fingers, Terry moaned raspingly from that wet warmth of you, you moaned wildly and rolled your hips to match the torturous pace. “Fuck..I don't believe you, but that pussy sure does..” Terry groaned with his eyes on you.

“Now, you can get this dick..” Terry commanded with a grin, grabbing your hips while your legs parted.

He pushed his dick inside, starting off with a rough yet face pace, you gasped sharply but cutting yourself off with a moan. “Fuck, that’s..too…good but fuck!” you hollered with pleasure, moving your hips with him. Fueling his fire for you but not brighter than yours.

His full lips enveloped your nipple as his other hand kneaded and squeezed the other one; “You think that you get away with what you did? Don't ever do that shit again baby,” Terry growled, thrusting passionately yet almost lovingly.

Your wetness splattering all over his dick and you let out a soft whimper when his nails grazed the stretch marks on your brown skin. "Damn, so fucking tight, you're that deprived?" Terry teased, licking your ear. In the mess on your couch, he picked you up in his arms, your arms encircling his neck. and draped your legs around his waist, similar to a piggyback ride, but with you facing him. The curve of your ass was smacked by his hand.

“T-Terryyy…i’m s-sorryy..” you whimpered softly in his ear, your nails marking his back. Letting anyone know that he was yours, finally yours. He loved the sight of you breaking apart under him, the wet squelching sounds filling the room like a clapping noise. "I'm yours, say you're mine," he groaned deeply, Moaning his name, Music to his ears, why didn't he confess you sooner?

His hands spread your legs wide apart for him, better than he imagined, damn near masturbated to, fantasies couldn't compare, those dreamy ocean eyes of his focus on your wet pussy making his dick disappear as he filled up completely, "I'm yours! Terry! shit! You're so big!" You screamed, laying your head on his shouder.

His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to look in his eyes as he fucked you harder, your eyes closed shut in immense pleasure, was he trying to make sure you couldn't breathe or move? “So..fucking..sexy, there’s no way I can let you go, is it the same for you?” Terry panted heavily, peppering kisses along your neck.

Have you met your match? Fingers rubbed your clit in slow circles, and your moans grew louder, “Yes! Terry! I won't let you go!” Clearly, you can't, dripping sweat coated your bodies, and heat radiated from the closeness.

Tears blurred your vision, and your moans sounded like you were crying, his dacryphilia kicking in at the sight but his thrusts turned gradual and sloppy, “Cumminggg, it’s so good,” you moaned out, patting his back with your hand, panting raspingly. Letting him know that you were at your limit, he thought of cumming inside but he didn’t want to do that.

You screamed out from your essence spilling out onto his dick rather quickly, and he pulled out of you. His tip spurted out on your stomach, as he kept you in his arms lovingly before kissing you sloppily, “Mine,” he said proudly, he pulled away and carried you into the bathroom, deciding to do aftercare.

“You good?” Terry asked in concern, turning on the faucet and allowing the water to fill up the tub and adding your sweet-smelling foamy soap. He gently placed you in the tub, watching you nod.

“Nah, I’m tired as hell. Happy birthday Terry,” You chuckled softly, the warmth of the water enveloping you, contrasting the heat that still lingered from your earlier encounter. Terry settled beside the tub, watching you with a mixture of admiration and intensity.

There was something about the way he looked at you that made your heart race, igniting that familiar fire within.

“You know, this whole birthday surprise turned out to be better than I imagined, I didn't expect that,” he admitted, a playful smirk curling on his lips.

You leaned back, letting the bubbles rise around you like a soft cloud. “Well, I wanted to make it special for you. You deserve it.”

His expression softened, and for a fleeting moment, you saw a glimpse of vulnerability beneath his tough exterior. “It’s been a while since anyone went out of their way for me, I appreciate it more than you know,” he confessed, his tone sincere.

You reached out, your fingers grazing his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles. “We both have our pasts, Terry. I can tell you know that. But I want to be with you.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. “You’re a lot more than I expected, Y/N. I can’t promise it’ll always be easy, but I’m willing to figure it out with you.”

You felt a rush of excitement at his words, a warmth blooming in your chest. “That’s all I ask.”

Terry leaned closer, resting his elbows on the edge of the tub as he studied your face. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you? The things that come with being with someone like me?”

You met his gaze, the seriousness of his question sinking in. “I’ve faced my own darkness, Terry. I’m not afraid of yours.”

A slow smile spread across his face, and you felt your heart flutter at the sight. “You really are something else, I should have went easy on because you’re sweet,” he said, his tone filled with admiration.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” you replied, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Terry chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly, his expression turning playful. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only for you,” you teased back, splashing water playfully in his direction. He laughed, he kissed your lips and you feel relief wash over you.

You reached for the soap, lathering it between your hands before offering it to him. Washing yourself clean, “Want to join me?”

Terry raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you trying to fuck me again?”

“I do,” you replied coyly, biting your lip.

He chuckled, shaking his head but eventually relenting. “Alright, but we've got to go to bed,”

You grinned, your heart racing as he joined you in the tub, the warm water enveloping you both. As the bubbles surrounded you, he washed himself but then fingered you under the water. Making you cum again and again, Terry dried you off and himself. He dressed you in his tee shirt that smelled like his cologne, he slides some grey sweatpants he brought and boxers.

“Happy Birthday Terry,”

“Thank you, baby girl,”

After that, the two of you fell into a deep sleep, facing you and wrapped an arm around you protectively, this was surely a birthday that Terry wouldn’t forget. It was with you, he was yours.

—————

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.1.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. Uncharted waters for me, because I have no idea how many chapters it will come out as.

Reader is: British, Young Vic (get it?) theatre company director, working class, in her 30s, a control freak, a semi-conscious sub. Viktor is: Czech (as always), working in biotech with Jayce, working class, in his 30s, a control freak, a conscious dom.

MASTERLIST

word count: 4,6K

warnings, or rather this work contains: d/s dynamics between main characters (but who the fuck knows what Mel and Jayce are doing), love (attraction?) at first sight, no strings attached to lovers/strangers to lovers (so like reverse emotional slow burn?), lots of porn, angst, happy resolution. I will be adding kink warnings as they appear in the future chapters.

author’s note: Ok, so, um, hi! A Deer and a Man is ending, so something else has to begin. It’s like… a very freeform thing I’m doing here. Sort of about nothing, just relationships with d/s dynamics, because I want to play around with some kinks and stuff. I’m trying to make it make sense here, but not everything might, since it’s just my subjective take on things. It will have some d/s etiquette but not always, because I’m clumsy and my characters get infected with my clumsiness :v Nothing’s new really (hehe, get it?), some plot, some porn, some feelings. It’s basically me going to IKEA asking you if you wanna come and grab some vegan meatballs and the meatballs are smut in this :v So yeh, hi, welcome to another blurb of a mutlichap work.

Special thanks to my friends @rennethen and @strongfartzemergency for pre-reading this and enabling my brainrot. Artist is @petitesieste, just ahh ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Your eyes glaze over the computer screen, trying to memorize a list of poor souls to probe the next day. An ouroboros of theatre life has reached another mark, one where you must make a million decisions in a short span of time: Which plays will grace the stage, who’s performing in them, who’s directing, and who’s dressing all those people in their fancy costumes? And, most importantly, who’s paying for all of it?

So far, a successful year has set your bar even higher, with the next season looming in the golden light of August evenings. You don’t even have time to warm your bones in it—you have to think ahead, transport your brain to the future, to a cold January, when the real test begins for you. In truth, you don’t have time to do anything beneficial for your bones, and you’ve just learned to accept that your joints crack like dry wood every time you move.

A head peaks through the crack in your door, and you don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“Charlie,” you greet him, your nose still scrunched up by the screen. “I know, I know. I’m going, I just need a second.” You begin to rise from your chair but remain hunched over, extending your arm blindly toward the computer. “Did you bring my shoes?”

“Yes, and I’m not kicking you out,” says Charlie, passing you a pair of ballet flats. “But if you want a driver, well… he’s getting impatient.”

“That’s okay, I can commute,” you smile at him, taking the shoes and glancing at your watch. “It’s only Camden… oh, shit, it’s very late. You should, in fact, kick me out.” After a few hurried jumps while putting the shoes on, you're back to frantically picking up unrelated objects and shoving them into your purse: tissues, lipstick, random notes to review in the morning, and Mel’s gift—a seasonal Young Vic pass for her and her plus one.

“Where are you guys meeting?” he asks, passing you the rest of the things you will obviously want or need. It’s a seamless collaboration with Charlie. Since the very beginning, you two have been sharing a brain, and this is partly why nothing has collapsed yet. On the contrary—both you, as a theatre company director, and Charlie, as an assistant director, have been doing an amazing job, mending together a forthcoming approach and love for theatre. And this is all your head is at, despite the one evening of reprieve where you can share beers with friends in a pub that Mel has chosen completely out of character for herself. Which is why, instead of answering, you ask, “Do you really think we can do Hamlet?”

“Why wouldn’t we be able to do Hamlet?” Charlie parrots, passing you a coat with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know, is it not a bit… on the nose? It’s my second year, and my brain’s steamed up so much that I’m doing Hamlet?”

Charlie chuckles softly, as he steps behind you to dress you up. “You are going to do a bitchin’ Hamlet. And now can you please go and have some fun for once?”

“This is fun, Charlie. Hamlet is fun,” you say, holding his arms and giving him a playful shake. “Fun!”

“Calm down, captain,” he grins, rolling his eyes. “Where are you guys going?”

“Ugh… World’s End?”

“World’s End?!” Charlie covers his mouth in feigned horror, his eyes wide. “This is so unlike Miss Medarda!” he whispers, shooting you an incredulous look.

“I know, Mel wanted casual,” you shrug, rolling your eyes. Then, as you move past him, you swat him lightly on the shoulder, seeking another round of uninhibited cackles. “Don’t be mean, Charlie!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Charlie laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, World’s fucking End, who would’ve thought. Let me fetch you a driver, my lady.”

You shake your head and scan your office one last time, making sure you haven’t left anything important behind. Figuratively, of course, since almost everything dear to your heart is actually being left behind. And even though it’s only for a couple of hours, not being in control is frightening.

On the other side of the coin are your friends, with Mel right up front. She’s been there since the very first second of your meeting—right after you yelled at a light technician, making him flinch and nearly fall off the ladder. You had immediately corrected yourself with, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. But this lightwork is still shit. Please fix it. I ask you kindly.”

That was when Mel grinned, wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and whispered into your ear, “Okay. I want to be your friend.”

Since then, Mel has been one of the main patrons of your theatre company, and you—being a firm unbeliever in your own abilities—are convinced it’s largely her money and pep talks that have granted you the creative freedom that led to you becoming an artistic director. Your worlds collided fast and hard, and, being another person married to her work, she quickly became one of the closest people in your life.

Until Jayce.

Mel, being someone who treats every relationship as an investment, doesn’t limit her influence to the arts. So when her family decided to fund research grants for scientists from the Francis Crick Institute, you knew something was coming as soon as she justified the decision with, “And they are both very handsome.”

You know the urge very well—the ever-nagging need to have everything under control, to oversee every grain of sand that rolls through the waist of the hourglass, every second planned, every schedule so tight there is barely time to breathe. It’s one of the things that bonded the both of you.

So when Jayce came along—with his motivation stemming not from a sickening need for self-accomplishment or a desperate urge to prove something to the world, but from the purity of his own heart and a healthy curiosity—Mel began to crack. And then the disease spread to you.

Now, you actually rest. You spend your free Sundays socializing. You talk about things other than work. You’ve even been on a few unsuccessful dates. And it’s all Jayce’s fault.

You loved him for it immediately—the small crumbs of the outside world granted to you and Mel through his unabashed joy and excitement. Jayce made things fun, and turning your phone off—briefly relinquishing control—became a little less terrifying.

From there, your thoughts drift in different directions until your absent-minded stare at the moving lights outside the car window is interrupted. The driver, in a grumpy tone, informs you that you’ve arrived at your destination. You crack the joints in your hands before thanking him and bidding him goodnight.

The World’s End is all red from the outside, its glow bleeding onto the wet pavement. Through the glass, you spot the back of Mel’s heavily accessorized hairstyle, a head of intricate twists and gleaming accents. You glance at your reflection, and—well. You’ve seen better days.

Your mini skirt has twisted around, placing the slit exactly where you don’t want it, so you yank it back into place, cursing Charlie for not telling you. In the process, you notice a small eyelet in your tights, the hole widening with each step you take. No nail polish to stop it from spreading. You curse yourself for that one. Your shirt is crumpled at the stomach—a reminder of hours spent hunched over your desk. Your necklace has caught a bunch of stray hairs, which you pick out frantically as you stride toward the door. And the rest of your hair? An artistic mess, sculpted by an impatient hand that’s raked through it a hundred times too many today.

Once inside, Mel’s slender hand and a row of her impossibly white teeth beckon you forward as she stands up to give you a hug.

And the inside of The World's End is exactly what you would expect from a Camden pub—big, loud, and brimming with mismatched charm. The walls are cluttered with a collection of art that looks like it was bought in a rush at a local flea market. There's a hum of conversation mixing with the thrum of the music playing in the background, and the space itself is large, almost cavernous. The low ceiling and uneven, wooden floorboards give it an unpolished look that feels welcoming to some, but it's not exactly the kind of place you'd expect to see Mel at.

Mel, in contrast, belongs in a sleek, minimalistic bar, somewhere where the drinks are as carefully curated as the furniture, where everything is perfectly composed. Here, she’s lost in the midst of it all, a little too refined for the space, as if her sharp lines don’t quite align with the pub’s rough edges. The things we do for friends.

“Darling, I’m glad you made it,” she chirps, walking toward you and spreading her arms wide.

“Now I can say I’d go to the end of the world for you,” you murmur into her shoulder, squeezing her tight. Then, pulling back, you present a small envelope. “Happy birthday, love. Here—best possible seats.”

Mel’s brows lift as she takes the tickets, flipping them between her fingers. “You shouldn’t have,” she says, though the gleam in her eye betrays her excitement. “But thank you. You wouldn’t believe who Jayce has managed to drag along,” she murmurs into your ear.

“Oh, it can’t be,” you whisper back, scanning the table over her shoulder.

A few of her closest friends sit huddled together, deep in conversation and laughter. Then, Jayce’s broad frame, unmistakable even in the dim light. And next to him—

A pair of loose shoulders, wrapped in a red shirt stretched between two sharp blades. The nape of his neck, covered in a mess of brown curls. He leans on one hand, nodding along to whatever Jayce is saying, his profile cutting sharp against the glow of the street lights.

Viktor. The last man standing, the one seemingly immune to Jayce’s influence when it comes to making people step out of their comfort zones. And yet, here he is. Of all occasions, it’s Mel’s birthday that has somehow coaxed Viktor out of his self-imposed solitude. A horse you wouldn’t have bet on.

You are led to the table, where all the seats seem to be taken—until Viktor removes his cane from the empty stool beside him and gestures for you to sit between him and Jayce. As you lower yourself onto the stool, you take his hand briefly and say, “The smartest man in the room, finally in the room.”

“You must be talking about Jayce,” he counters, a glint of amusement in his eye. He holds your palm for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” you reply with a smile—until Mel’s head suddenly pokes between the two of you.

“What’s your poison, honey?” she asks. Only now do you notice her flushed cheeks and the way she’s completely disregarded the concept of personal space, her arm stretching beyond your shoulders to tug playfully at Jayce’s hair.

“A pint of bitter?” you say, startled.

She frowns slightly, but you quickly follow with, “Cheers,” hoping to steer her attention elsewhere. Her eyes squint at you, but she relents, giving Jayce’s back a clingy hug before strolling off to the bar. Only now Viktor’s hand releases yours.

He studies you for a moment before turning to his glass, giving you the chance to take a closer look—

The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the hollow between his collarbones, skin up to his neck is covered in a satin sheen of sweat. Tendons shift beneath it, blue veins threading along his throat. His hair is faintly damp around the ears, curling and plastering itself to his temples. From the side, his jaw forms nearly a perfect square.

You don’t dare to look higher.

Lower down, though, his sleeves are rolled up carelessly, exposing freckle-specked arms. You spot it by dropping your gaze naturally.

Mel was right. They are both very handsome.

As the birthday gal disappears toward the bar, you are left wedged between the two scientists, the noise of conversation assaulting your ears. Across the table, Amara leans in, her many rings clinking as she refills someone’s glass from a sweating bottle of wine. Beside her, Salo—always overdressed for the occasion, his blonde curls neatly combed back—gestures broadly mid-story, his voice animated. A few seats down, Mion, the youngest among them and always balancing the line between sharp and naive, listens intently while occasionally stealing olives from Mel’s abandoned plate.

"So," Jayce starts, shifting his weight so he can face you properly. “What’s keeping you so busy these days?”

You exhale, stretching your arms along the back of your seat, making your spine pop. “Wrapping up meetings with playwrights, directors, and actors—making sure everything aligns. Managing funding and sponsorships, finalising script choices.”

Salo whistles. “Sounds like a headache.”

“It’s a miracle she’s here at all,” Jayce adds, nursing his beer. “I half-expected her to send a regretful telegram from the depths of her desk.”

That earns a laugh from Amara, who nudges your foot under the table. “And what are the plays, then? What’s in?”

You rest your chin in your palm and do a mock countdown with the fingers of the other. “Further than the Furthest Thing, The Scottsboro Boys, A Streetcar Named Desire—possibly Hamlet.”

Mel, just returning with your beer, lets out a delighted gasp as she sets it down. “Hamlet? Oh, darling, tell me you’re doing it.”

“Calm yourself,” you warn, reaching for your drink. “I said possibly.”

She spreads her hands dramatically. “I can already see it now—the staging, the lighting—”

“Don’t start designing the posters just yet,” you cut in, but she’s grinning too widely to be discouraged. “I can still change my mind.”

“You know that’s a lot for one person,” Viktor remarks, leaning in from your right, his voice lower, meant just for the two of you. His pupils are darker, wider than the number of glasses of wine he’s had would suggest, assessing you from under hooded eyelids.

“I’ve always run through my life,” you say simply, tipping your glass toward him. “I do have help, though.” Viktor clicks his tongue, his mouth curving into a half-smile.

Before you can figure out what it means, Mion suddenly snaps her fingers. “Wait—how did you and Mel meet, anyway?”

Mel waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I saw her preparing Yerma, and it was love at first sight.”

“Love?” Salo lifts a brow.

“She was standing on stage, sleeves rolled up, arguing over how the chairs should be arranged.” Mel sighs theatrically. “Her diligence. Her eye for detail. I knew I had to have her.”

Jayce snorts. “And by ‘have her,’ you mean ‘fund her.’”

Mel grins. “Exactly.”

The table dissolves into laughter, glasses clinking. Conversations crisscross—Salo and Mion bickering over some technical aspect of stage production, and you don’t have the heart to correct them. Jayce launching into an enthusiastic recounting of an experiment gone wrong. Someone beside you leans in to talk, and for a moment, you lose the thread of conversation.

The haze of smoke, the warmth of alcohol-softened breaths, the layered voices—it all blurs. Next to you, Viktor is speaking, but his words are swallowed by the noise.

The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just the drink settling in. Sounds overlap and ring in your ears as exhaustion takes hold and you zone out. Somewhere nearby, a bottle of wine gets passed around, then discarded in the middle of the table, still within your reach. A voice cuts through the fog, softer, closer. Then sharper, clearer than before.

Foreshadowed by Viktor’s hand on your leg—his right palm rests on you, and the moment it does, you tilt toward him, only to find he’s done the same. His fingers press inward, just barely grazing the inside of your thigh. It’s a gentle invasion, entirely unprovocative, something that simply happens—natural. His left arm hovers over your backrest as his mouth nears your ear, and you can feel the tickle of his hair on your cheek.

“Pass me the wine.” A soft command, tilting toward a question at the end, firm and quiet all at once.

You reach for the bottle without looking, your eyes fixed on his throat as he breathes. The moment it comes close, his touch leaves your leg and finds your fingers instead. His skin brushes yours, spreading the sweat from the glass onto your own, and something coils low in your stomach.

“Good…” he murmurs, clipped, as if something else should follow. “Thank you.” And then his warmth is gone, leaving you painfully sober, achingly empty.

It’s one of the most agonising seconds of your life—except this time, there’s something sickly sweet curling around the edges, a lingering undertone that was missing from all the other agonising moments you’ve suffered through.

For the rest of the evening, your attention doesn’t waver, save for the necessary moments to put Mel in the spotlight.

Viktor lingers close. Not close enough to raise any eyebrows—everyone else is too busy bickering and laughing at Jayce’s anecdotes—but enough for you to notice and relish in it. His breath occasionally fans your face when he leans over you for the bottle, his knee bumps yours under the table. He sits tilted toward you, his arm hooked against your stool, and his eyes never leave you, one way or another. He bombards you with questions and answers yours without blinking.

"Where did you study?" you ask, lips glued to the rim of your glass, leaving an stamp of your lipstick there.

"Abroad," he says vaguely, tipping his head. "You?"

"England. Try again," you counter, not looking up, only baring your teeth to the remnants of a cocktail in your hand.

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, tilting his glass idly in his fingers before conceding, "Vigilant, of course. Very well—biochemistry at UTC Prague." He pauses, watching your reaction. "Then onward to Francis Crick through MSCA. Now—tell me yours." The last part, a command again, gentle and firm and you find yourself reciting in no time.

"Theatre and Performance at Goldsmiths," you reply, your words a little looser, the alcohol working its way through your veins.

"Ah, how prestigious," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"If you consider five years of bullying that, then yes," you slur, twirling your drink in your glass. His expression sharpens, brows lifting slightly in silent question. You sigh, meeting his gaze. "I got The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art scholarship. Before that, I led an utterly non-prestigious life in Staines."

"Hardworking girl," he purrs, and oh—his hand returns to your thigh, this time less inconspicuous as he drags a long finger up and stops just beneath the hem of your skirt.

"Where do you live?" he asks, his voice dipping lower, quieter, like the answer might be something just for him.

"Hackney," you answer immediately, then, seeing his knowing smile, feel the need to correct yourself. "The bad Hackney. You?"

"Eh, Islington," Viktor says, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

Your mock jaw drop is immediate. "Unbelievable," you drawl. "And you dare to make fun of my fancy living?"

Viktor smirks, his fingers brushing your thigh before retreating. "You are making it up. But we can share a cab home then."

Something jumps in your chest at the thought of being locked in a tiny space alone with this man. And the cab driver, but, nevertheless. "I suppose we can. When do you want to go?" you ask, as steadily as you can manage right now.

He exhales slowly, then leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's go now."

You have to stop your eyes from rolling in your skull. In fact, with the mix of various alcohols cursing through your veins and the secretive glances he’s been giving you, you’d probably nod vigorously if he offered to fuck you on the bar.

You step away from the table, weaving through the crowded space as you pull out your phone. Your fingers tremble slightly—whether from the drinks or the anticipation, you can't tell. It doesn’t matter. The cab company confirms your ride is on its way, barely three minutes out.

When you return, Viktor is still lounging against the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his now-empty glass. He doesn’t look at you right away, but his body angles toward you the moment you step back into his space. You lean in just enough to let the scent of him—wine, sweet sweat and washing powder—settle into your senses before speaking.

“We have three minutes,” you say casually, as if not stopping yourself from clenching your thighs.

Viktor gives a small, knowing nod and starts shuffling around for his cane and coat. His movements are unhurried, but there’s a quiet efficiency to them, a preparedness that has you smiling.

From across the table, Mel lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re leaving already? I knew I shouldn’t have sat two workaholics together.”

Jayce snorts into his drink. “At least they lasted this long. I was expecting Viktor to slip out halfway through.”

Viktor hums in vague amusement, fastening the buttons of his coat. “And miss all your storytelling? Impossible.”

Mel rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine, fine. Go, be boring. Just don’t forget—” she waggles a finger at you—“you owe me a Hamlet.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Mel.”

With that, you feel Viktor’s hand brush lightly against the small of your back—an absentminded gesture, almost cautious, but it sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s raining again, and neither of you has an umbrella, so you huddle together under your purse until Viktor opens the door for you. You fall in with no grace whatsoever and slide your ass across the back seat to make space for him. He steps in slowly, throws his address to the driver, then slumps down beside you, looking at you expectantly.

For a moment, you freeze—until you realise everyone is waiting for your address. Mumbling out the street and number, you lean back, your shoulder blades pressing against his arm.

And oh. You know damn well you won’t be able to let this go beyond tonight—or that you shouldn’t be fucking around where you figuratively eat—but he smells good, and his eyes stay on you, dark and hungry. So you tip yourself into the crook of his shoulder, tilting your head up with an innocently pleading look.

Viktor chuckles, as if something has just been confirmed, and his slender hand finds its way between your thighs. His body shifts subtly, shielding you from the driver, who barely suppresses an eye roll in the rear-view mirror. His lips, burning with alcohol and want, close over yours. His tongue pushes inside, licking slow and deep along the row of your teeth. His fingers travel up your leg, stopping painfully close to where you ache for him most, and squeeze—just enough to brace himself as he leans in further.

You fumble with the buttons of his coat, slipping your hands beneath to tug his shirt free from his trousers. Another warm chuckle rumbles against your lips.

“So efficient,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to mouth at your ear. His breath is hot when he whispers, “Do you want to fuck here, or will you be a good girl and wait until we get home?”

A strangled moan escapes you, and your own hand flies up to clamp over your mouth. Viktor grins against your skin.

“Good. Quiet,” he purrs, before dragging his tongue in a slick trail down your neck, stopping halfway to suck a bruise into your flesh.

Breath stumbles in your lungs when he stops, lips flushed, wet and red with your smeared lipstick, his teeth barely grazing your skin before he leans back to look at you. His fingers remain firm between your thighs, a teasing pressure that makes your legs tense and tremble beneath his touch.

Whatever has led you to this moment is not your usual behaviour, but somehow, you can’t be bothered to announce it. Long ago—somewhere after shitty date number five, or fifteen—you swore off bad sex for the sake of no sex and peace of mind. You grew tired of partners who were more tease than do, and the ones who assumed you’d thrive on organising everything in bed, just as you do at work.

You crave someone to take that pressure off you. Someone who would simply allow you to be dumb, even just for a few moments. To fuck your brains out so that poor strongest muscle of yours can replenish and breathe before you have to step back into the saddle and lead the chaotic orchestra of theatre technicians, actors, directors, and founders toward whatever critics deem a successful season. To take all the decision-making away and praise you for it.

And you have no guarantee that Viktor will do exactly that—other than the way his roaming hand squeezes your leg so firmly or the way his tongue, insistent and wanting, doesn’t ask permission before invading your mouth. The way he has stared at you the entire night has left you hotter and more bothered than anyone’s scrutiny ever has. And even if this is a mistake, it’s one you are willing to make. Your thighs shake at the thought, and Viktor gasps softly against your lips.

"You're trembling," he murmurs, voice low as the vowels roll thickly off his tongue. His free hand reaches up, pushing your hair aside. He trails his knuckles along your jaw, his thumb pressing lightly against your parted lips. "Cold, or something else?"

You give a breathy laugh, rolling your hips ever so slightly into his palm, chasing that friction. Viktor hums, pleased, before his fingers slip higher—just barely ghosting over the hanging-there nylons shielding your underwear. Your breath catches.

The cab rattles over a pothole, jolting you both, but neither of you pulls away. If anything, it only makes Viktor bolder. He shifts to face you fully, pressing you back into the seat as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling languidly around yours. You taste wine and your own spit on him, and it makes you dizzy.

His hand abandons your thigh only to grab your wrist, dragging it to the front of his trousers, where he's already half-hard beneath the layers of fabric. "I want you," he breathes against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip before letting his forehead drop to yours.

You palm him through the material, pressing just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. The sound alone makes a fresh gush of lust bloom in your knickers.

Then—a pointed cough.

You both jolt as if caught doing something far more illicit than you already are.

"Islington," the cab driver announces dryly, eyes fixed firmly on the road.

Viktor huffs out a laugh, dragging his fingers through his already-mussed hair. "Do you want to come in?" he says, as if you hadn’t just been grinding against each other like reckless teenagers in the back of a cab.

You swallow, pulse still pounding in your ears. "Yes," you nod. "Yes."

“I suppose we will wrap up the ride here,” Viktor says reaching for his wallet and taking out one note too many to make up for whatever the poor man had to endure.

“Yeah, mate, I figured. Have a great night.”

[tokoyamisstuff]

I need some Mohawk mark head cannons I’m desperate for anything please😞😞😞

Sure thing, I love this unhinged little gremlin! Wrote a whole Oneshot as a special treat for you. 💅

Payback

x f! Reader (gender gets mentioned exactly twice)

Synopsis: In his timeline, Mohawk killed you for rejecting him - and now he seeks you out to do it again.

Warnings: mentions of murder and violence, sexual innuendos, unhealthy dynamics, swearing, not proofread

"Y/N? Im hurt...please, I need you! Y/N...? Ah, shit."

Mohawk was kicking the air in frustration, a little pout decorating his face as he scanned the small apartment for any hint of your whereabouts. He had thought you were home, since the window on the top floor stood wide open. Almost too easy.

Bummer. He was really looking forwards to killing you again...

...after all, last time he wasn't able to enjoy himself. Not really. It all happened so fast, the only thing he remembers is that in his lovesickness, he wanted to make you experience exactly how your rejection made him feel.

Before he even knew it, his fist had buried itself through your ribcage, holding your still beating heart in his own hand. The only way he'd ever get to have it - what tragic symbolism.

Not that he'd ever admit, but that betrayed expression of yours before he could literally feel your heart stop haunts him until this day.

The countless photos you had plastered all over one of the walls piqued his interest. Can't hurt to learn more about the version of you from this world, he thinks.

A particular one he rips off, nothing extraordinary but it bugs him how many they are. Plain selfies with you in various years and situations, together with that pathetic loser - the Mark from your timeline.

Seems like you're rather close, unlike him and his Y/N. And that fucker doesn't even realize how lucky he is.

Mohawk grits his teeth, a familiar jealous anger seething in the pit of his stomach once again.

It should've been him!

You on the other hand are blissfully unaware of the intruder in your house, let alone the catastrophy unfolding on the whole globe right this moment.

It was the day after your nightshift and you had just crawled out of bed, no intention of listening to the news as they only kill the vibe anyways. And in the middle of nowhere that you called your hometown, no one bothered giving an alarm or even evacuating, as it's most likely not going to be attacked.

After a nice, steaming hot shower you stroll out of the bathroom, humming a whimsy melody as you mentally prepare your day off...

...until you notice the stranger right in the middle of your living room.

Your shriek actually caughts him off guard and this moron joins right in, but after the initial shock you merely tilt your head in confusion. "...Invincible?"

Damn. Shit. Fuckfuckfuckfuckingfuck!

Mohawks brain currently had a short circuit apparently, staring at your almost naked form like a deer that had just been caught in the headlights.

Your hair was still damp, a towel - that was way too small for this purpose - wrapped around your curves. Shit. Seems like no matter which universe, you're drop-dead gorgeous. He mentally praises Art for having a groin cup sewn into this suit - or else he would've involuntarily presented something to you he's usually not so shy about.

"The one and only." He manages to regain his cool, smugly leaning against a counter...

...however his mind soon went blank once again when you rushed towards him, wrapping your arms around his torso with your barely covered body pressed against his.

Mohawk freezes, arms itching to return the embrace yet instead he lets them fall limp to the side, hands soon balling into tight fists as you stubbornly refuse to let go.

How dare you.

He should snap your neck like a twig- no, better, break every bone in your body for this insolence...

...but instead, he caughts himself resting his chin atop of your head.

"I missed you, ya know?" he mumbles against your hair, feeling the taunting way his heart flutters in his chest. It's drum is so loud in his head, he's certain you can hear it too. Fuck.

What the hell was he doing? He came here to give you a long, agonizing death, for fuck's sake!

"Well, you are the superpowered alien" you tease, softly poking his chest. "Maybe come around more often?"

Your friend was visibly uncomfortable with the whole exchange, but you didn't seem to notice. Whenever he failed to answer, you filled the gaps of silence with your own babbling instead. It's been way too long and you're simply excited to see him again.

"Is that the new suit you were talking about?" you wonder, still holding onto the sides of his shoulders. Feeling a blush form on his cheeks he quietly glances away, feeling oddly embarrassed under your scrutiny.

"It suits you! But what about that hair?" One of your hands runs through his mohawk and he has to physically fight the urge to purr like some needy stray cat. "...you don't like it?"

You shrug, raising your hands in a placating manner. "No, I mean yes, I mean...it looks super cool and all..." That statement made his chest swell with pride, and he could almost feel his confidence returning. "Doesn't really suit an innocent guy like you though, am I wrong?"

Innocent. Ugh. His variant is so fucking boooring, but he couldn't let his true colors show just yet. This was getting way too amusing.

Only now you noticed the huge gash on his left arm where the fabric of his suit was torn, the blood running down your fingers. Hardly a scratch for a superior Viltrumite like he called himself one.

Again Mohawk felt his chest narrowing at such great display of care, the way you worriedly examined his wound despite knowing how tough his kind was. "This is nothing, it'll be healed by-"

"Na-a-ah!" You scolded him and he wanted to sass right back, but all word of protest died on his tongue. "Come, sit down on the sofa. I'll patch you up."

He complies without second thought, following you like a lost puppy.

The heart wants what it wants.

"You finished whatever mission you were on, right? Because I'm almost done cooking as well" you tell him while working on the bandage, and he has a hard time concentrating on anything else when you're so close, touching him so gently, and your eyes shine so bright. "Be my guest?"

His eyes dart bewteen you any the bandage for a brief while, examining your handiwork before sheepishly accepting your offer. "If you insist...got nothing better to do."

Oh.

When he thought there was nothing to lose by staying for a while, he totally forgot about your absolutely horrid cooking. He remembers it from his Y/N, she used to make it all the time.

In his empire he is provided with the most sublime meals, prepared by the best chef's of across the galaxy...and yet, this homely, nostalgic feeling your food provided is something no one could replicate.

"You still eat this crap?" He picks at the food, plain mac and cheese from the box, but you always claimed you 'improve the flavor' somehow.

"Your fault for not calling beforehand. If I knew I'd be having a guest, I'd have cooked something properly." You scold him playfully, gesturing with the fork to add to your statement. "I mean I'm single and practically live at work, why put in the effort?"

You're single.

That damned boyfriend of yours isn't with you in this universe.

Not that it'd have been any hindrance if he was, but this made things so much more easier.

Back at his dimension, he always wondered what you saw in this guy. He was a nobody that could never even dream compare to his greatness - and yet you chose him over Mohawk anyways.

"You're so broody again today." Concerningly enough, that's basically his standard state of being ever since he became a superhero - and knowing him it meant no good. "Do you want to talk about it, or would you like some distraction?"

His screams had been music in his ears, though...

Mohawk puts the plate down, shuffling a little too close for your liking towards the other end of the sofa. His gaze was stern, softening ever so slightly when you put your hand on the small of his back.

"Say, do you..." he swallows hard around the lump forming in his throat, taking both of your hands into his as he stared at you utterly forlorn. "Did you ever think we could've been more than just friends?"

Huh?!?

That question caught you so off guard, for a second you thought about punching yourself in the face to see if you were dreaming.

It's not like you haven't thought about it before, to be perfectly honest.

Mark Grayson is a fairly attractive guy - inside and out - and you two always clicked well. If it wasn't for the huge distance separating you and him, you might've certainly catched feelings.

Your grandma lived next door with his family, so you befriended each other as kids and played whenever you visited her during the holidays. But life happens and people grow up, so even though his powers would easily allow him to visit you more often, his priorities simply lie elsewhere.

You barely text these days, and see each other maybe once or twice a month at max. Adult life gets busy, that's just the way it works.

Not to mention the most important fact: He currently has a girlfriend.

There was a long pause of silence between his question and your answer, and the more time passed the more anxiety - and violent anger - emerged in his brain.

"Be honest" he pushes at your lack of an answer, insistingly squeezing your hands.

"What, trouble in paradise already?" You cut him off with a judging, almost irritated glare and for a moment he is taken aback. "You told me like a week ago how happy you are with Eve, that she's the love of your life, blah blah blah..."

Samantha Eve Wilkins.

Sure, he had been with her before in his world as well, always trying to make you jealous. Claiming that you were insignificant, while he was with a literal goddess...

...and still, whenever they kissed, whenever she laid beneath him, hell, even whenever they just were around each other, all he could think of was how much he yearned for her to be you instead.

It wasn't enough, never enough to make those feelings go away. In the end he killed her simply for the crime of not being able to replace you.

"Sorry, but I'm not a homewrecker." You want to turn away, angry and disappointed that you seemed to have mistaken him for a good guy, but Mark takes ahold of your chin, letting his thumb run over your bottom lip as he forces you to keep looking.

He'd get that attitude out of you pretty easily.

"Y/N..." The name rolls of his lips like a lovesong, and he drags it out for as long as the air in his lungs allowed him to. "There's no more Eve in my life. And I don't want her, or anyone else but you!"

A boyish smile tugs on his lips when he realizes that despite playing coy, you're receptive to his touch. He feels your breathing hitch when he came forwards, his nose brushing against yours as he waited for your reaction.

There. Gotcha.

The slightest twitch was enough of a sign for him to close the gap between your lips, mouth crashing over yours in all forms of desire. He was passionate, desparate even in the way his tongue delved into your mouth, needing you quite literally more than oxygen. His hands roam across your body, stroking and squeezing and crushing you agaisnt him, not knowing where to settle.

Mark's eyes stay wide open during the kiss, savouring every detail as if to commit it to memory. This, the real deal, is so much better than all those others he used to try and fill the void your absence has left in his soul.

His heart is practically clawing against his ribcage by now, subconscious screaming at him to never let anyone take you away from him again.

Not even yourself.

"Breaking news!" the volume of your TV that always ran in the background suddenly spiked up, and for the fraction of a second Mark's grip on you bordered on painful.

However it wasn't enough to keep you preoccupied, partially breaking the kiss to glance over to the screen...

...and what you saw made cold dread creep up your spine.

"Multiple superhumans all resembling Invincible are wreaking havoc in cities all around the world, overwhelming local and government forces. The police is advising everyone that if you come across one of those invididuals, do not approach them. They are dangerous and unpredictable. Remain hidden and report to local authori-"

It's him.

"They never get my good site" Mohawk's neck cracks as he moves his head from left to right, trying to relieve some stress of having been so rudely interrupted. He's not acknowledging your distress at all, instead looking straight ahead towards the footage of himself making the London Bridge collapse. "But hey, do you like what I've done to the place?"

You didn't even fully register what the news broadcaster had been explaining, and frankly it wouldn't be helpful either way - because at this moment, one of those villains destroying everything in their path was sitting right next to you.

"Please-"

"Relax, would you" he cuts you off both harshly and encouraging, draping an arm over your shoulder and letting out a content sigh. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be. Okay, maybe that was the plan in the beginning" he chuckled gleeful, "but I changed my mind."

"Wha- how- who are you?" you whimmer only to be met with a smile so innocently, it bordered on pure madness.

"I'm Invicible, but..." he ponders, thoughtfully tapping his jaw. "...from an alternate universe, I guess? Never fully understood how this shit works."

You frown. "So what, you're just like some cheap, evil version of our Mark Grayson?"

"And- why are you at my house?" You have a distinct apprehension about his reasons.

"Oh, babydoll...so stubborn" he cockily corrects you, forcefully leading your hand to rest above his sternum. "I'm the upgrade."

"In my world we go way back, you know?" Mohawk holds your face with his free hand, pressing an absentminded kiss on your forehead. "The old story: Boy falls in love, girl breaks his heart, boy brutally murders girl..." he trails off, but the picture was clearly painted. "I came here to give you what you deserve."

"...and now?"

"Still do" he shrugs, a devilish glint in his eyes as he got an idea. "But I came to think that maybe you deserve something different..."

His words make you shiver, but he only laughs at your misery. "You're trembling. Cute. But I prefered you before. I like dominant women!"

When your eyes gloss in dread, Mohawk looked almost convincingly worried, hushing you while his lips erase the teardrops running down your cheeks. Delightful not only for him...

...because much to your horror, it was oddly comforting.

Out of a whim you get pulled onto his lap, unable to escape his suffocating proximity. You look at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity, which only spurs him to become bolder. He tugs on your towel so that it'd reveal what's beneath, shamelessly groaning at the sight.

"I wanted to hear you scream my name one last time..." he admitted, playfully wriggling his eyebrows. "But there's other ways to achieve that."

Mohawk leans in, the contrast of his hot breath against the chilling air rising goosebumps on your skin. You shiver, a strangled noise of approval vibrating in your throat when you feel his hands devote themselves to more sensitive parts of your body.

"Whaddaya say, sugar? I'll make it worth your while."

[sturnsblogs]

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

Teacher!Matt X Milf!Reader

────୨ৎ────

As you pull into the school parking lot, you glance in the rearview mirror to see Eliana still swaying to the song, completely in her own world. You almost don’t want to interrupt her, but you know it’s time.

“Alright, Eli,” you say softly, putting the car in park. “We’re here.”

Eliana stops singing immediately, her big eyes taking in the school she had been so excited about all morning. Now that she’s actually here, the excitement dims just a little, hesitation creeping in.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face her. “You okay, baby?”

She nods slowly but doesn’t say anything, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The confident little girl who had been singing at the top of her lungs just minutes ago now looks a bit unsure.

You smile, reaching back to squeeze her tiny hands. “You’re gonna do amazing, sweetheart. And remember, Mr. Sturniolo is really nice, right?”

She nods again but stays quiet.

You step out of the car, walking around to her side to open the door. “Come on, let’s go,” you encourage gently, lifting her out of her seat and setting her down. She grabs onto your hand tightly as you both walk toward the school doors.

The second you step inside, your eyes land on him.

Matt.

He’s standing near his classroom door, chatting with another parent, his expression easygoing and warm. He looks good—too good for a teacher, honestly. The navy blue button-up he’s wearing is rolled at the sleeves, showing his forearms, and the way he laughs at something the other parent says sends a subtle shiver down your spine.

You blink, shaking the thought away. Focus. Your daughter is starting school, not you.

Eliana’s grip on your hand tightens the closer you get, her small fingers clinging to yours like she’s second-guessing this whole thing. You rub your thumb over her knuckles reassuringly.

Matt catches sight of you both, his conversation wrapping up as he turns to greet you. The smile he gives is effortless, like he’s genuinely happy to see you again.

“Eliana,” he says, crouching slightly to her level. “Good morning! I was wondering when you were gonna get here.”

Eliana shifts on her feet, suddenly shy, pressing herself a little closer to your leg.

Matt’s smile softens. “A little nervous?”

She nods but doesn’t say anything.

“That’s okay,” he reassures her, his voice calm and steady. “The first day can feel kinda big, but I promise, it’s gonna be fun. We’ve got coloring, storytime, and I even saved a spot for your picture on the board.”

At that, Eliana peeks up at him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “You did?”

Matt nods. “Of course. Your artwork deserves a special place in our classroom.”

Eliana looks up at you, as if silently asking if it’s okay to trust him. You nod with an encouraging smile, brushing a hand over her pigtails.

“You’re gonna have a great day, sweetheart.”

She hesitates for a moment before finally letting go of your hand.

Matt grins. “How about I show you where to put your backpack?”

Eliana nods, still quiet but a little less tense now. As she follows him inside, Matt glances over his shoulder at you.

“I’ll take good care of her,” he says lightly, his voice reassuring yet warm.

Something about the way he says it makes your heart do an odd little flip. You force a small smile, pushing away the strange feeling settling in your chest.

“Thanks, Matt.”

His lips twitch like he caught the way you said his name, but he doesn’t say anything. Just sends you one last look before walking inside with your daughter, leaving you standing there with a lingering warmth in your chest that you can’t quite shake.

A/N- I actually love this.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @jimmasterflashh @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys

[kissbyoon]

⠀𖼥ৎ⠀“wedding ring” ₍ svt ₎

───── ABOUT how svt would react to you removing and leaving your wedding ring before heading to shower.

⋆ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: fluff, humour, married au, headcannons ⋆ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: husband!svt x gn!reader ⋆ 𝒄𝒘: mentions of skinship, kissing, petnames ⋆ 𝒘𝒄: 0.6k in total

A/N: all thanks to @wonkierideul for helping me out♡ ily oomfie

 ⑅ Jeonghan, Woozi, Minghao, Vernon, Wonwoo

I feel like for these five, it really won't be a big deal. Because as far as they can remember, he didn't do something that would upset you. They are also aware of the fact that—no matter how mad you are, you would never take your ring off. But if you ever did, their heart will stop beating and it's not even a joke. They would often tell you how the ring is a symbol of your marriage that is filled with love and happiness, and it means alot to them. So there's no way you would never do that to their poor heart.

But one plus point for Jeonghan—this man would definitely be like “Phew, I thought you were mad at me for eating the last piece of the cake…” then get on his knees to beg for forgiveness when you actually get mad.

 ⑅ Joshua, Junhui, Dokyeom, Chan

These four wouldn't be a big problem, but they would definitely be a bit worried. I feel like they would ask you “Why did you take your ring off? Did I do something wrong?” As soon as you step out of the bathroom. Especially Chan and Dokyeom—this man would be worried. He is thinking of all the things he did the whole day and is ready to fall to his knees as soon as you step out of the shower. But once you reassure them with the real reason why you left it there, they would be relieved and happy again. (OUGHHH CHANNIE MY BABYYY)

 ⑅ Seungcheol, Hoshi, Mingyu, Seungkwan

Now I present to you… the most dramatic group of men. You definitely weren't thinking of it much when you left the ring there, but now, you better be prepared to face the most pouty hubby ever. And it's only fair I give you an idea of how the four of them would be dramatic in their own special ways.

Especially Seungkwan—he is throwing a tantrum. “This is torture to our 5 years of marriage… it's heartbreaking, I'm heartbroken!” Better shower him kisses because he is just waiting for that before throwing a kick in the air with happiness.

And we have Mingyu—the six feet man with all the buffiness becomes a puddle of sadness when you walk out of the shower and see him curled up on the bed, staring at the ring in front of him with a frown. No matter how much you reassure him, he is clinging to you and mumbling apologies for nothing. (STOP OMG I HAD TO COVER MY FACE WITH A GIGGLE IN THE MIDDLE OF WRITING THIS)

Well, now. Hoshi. Oh my god this horanghae guy is a menace. He looks at you with the most adorable sad puppy eyes ever when you walk out of the shower. And when I say the most adorable, I mean the most adorable sad puppy eyes. “Just say you hate me,” he would pout his heart out. But when you tell him, “Okay, my big baby, put the ring back in my finger yourself,” he would JUMP back up with the biggest grin ever that made his eyes close and kick the air with his feet at the petname. You shall call him ‘my baby’ everyday now. He accepts it more than ‘horangi’!

Sighs. Now, the worst of all—Seungcheol. This man’s hotness and buffiness is all wasted in front of you. He doesn't give a damn if he's looking like the biggest loser right now, but he would whine and pout about this the whole day. He would try to refuse physical touch throughout the day, but would eventually give up and come running to you himself. “Please hug me,” he would say while suffocating you in a hug.

KISSBYOON 2025. all rights reserved. @kstrucknet

[solxamber]

Ace trappola,romantic,true colors(Justin Timberlake version)

"And that's why I love you" || Ace Trappola

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: True Colors by Anna Kendrick, Justin Timberlake

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 510

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Established relationship, Fluff

Ace always acted like he wasn’t the protective type. He teased you relentlessly, called you ridiculous pet names just to see you groan, and pretended to be indifferent about most things. But you’d learned the truth a long time ago—Ace cared, and he cared a lot.

It was in the way he always matched his pace to yours when you walked together, even if it meant slowing down from his usual long strides. It was in how he always noticed when you were feeling off, nudging you playfully but keeping a close eye on you. It was in the way he hovered without making it obvious, like now.

You’d been minding your business, flipping through a book at the library, when a group of students at a nearby table started whispering just loud enough for you to hear. Something about how you weren’t all that special, how they didn’t get why so many people stuck around you so much.

You weren’t the type to let things like that get to you, but still, their words settled in the back of your mind, a dull ache that you couldn’t quite shake.

Apparently, Ace had heard them too.

Because before you could react, he was there, sliding into the chair beside you with a lazy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stretched out his legs, arms crossed over his chest, tilting his head toward the group. “You guys got a problem or somethin’?” His voice was casual, but you could hear the edge underneath.

They went quiet fast, suddenly very focused on their books.

Ace rolled his eyes, scoffing as he turned back to you. “Hah. Thought so.” Then, softer, “You okay?”

You nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

Later, when you were alone, he brought it up again, hands in his pockets, fidgeting like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say. “You know they’re wrong, right?” He kicked at the ground. “Like, people just hang around you for no reason. You’re—you’re kinda amazing, actually.”

You blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden sincerity.

His ears went pink, and he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you teased, smiling.

“Like I just said some sappy line straight outta a romance novel.” He scrunched up his nose, then huffed. “Not takin’ it back, though. You should know by now—I don’t stick around people unless I really wanna.”

Your chest felt warm. “And you really wanna?”

He glanced at you, smirk tilting up at the corner. “Obviously.” Then, a little softer, “So don’t let anyone make you doubt it, okay?”

You nodded, and that was enough for him. He grinned, ruffling your hair like the menace he was, before tugging you against his side. “Alright, c’mon, let’s get outta here. I need to remind you why I’m the best boyfriend ever. Ice cream’s on me.”

And as he pulled you along, you thought, Yeah. This is what love feels like.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[heliosunny]

Hi! I love your depictions of Phainon, especially when he toes the line between charming and threatening. I’m a sucker for a good unrequited love trope, so could you write a scenario where reader was in love with Phainon in the past but he treated her the same as he did everyone else so she eventually loses hope and gives up, so now he’s the one that has to chase after her? Thank you so much!

Yandere!Phainon x Fem!Reader

The first time you saw Phainon, you thought the stars had fallen from the sky and taken the shape of a man. He was brilliant, untouchable, a light too blinding for anyone to hold. And yet, you tried.

You were seven when you first told Phainon you wanted to marry him.

It had been one of those golden afternoons, the sun slanting through the trees, painting his silver hair with a soft glow. He sat on a patch of grass beside you, staring up at the clouds like they held all the answers in the world.

“Phai!” you had said, kicking your legs idly. “When we grow up, let’s get married.”

“Married?”

“Yes! Like grown-ups do! You’ll protect me, and I’ll make you happy.”

Phainon tilted his head, considering. Then, with a soft laugh, he shrugged. “Alright.”

And that was it. A simple agreement, like you had just decided to play a new game. He didn’t think about it beyond that moment, and maybe, at the time, you didn’t either. But as you grew, the weight of those words stayed with you.

Years passed. You stayed by his side, always reaching, always hoping. Phainon was kind—always had been. But as you both grew older, you noticed something.

He was kind to everyone.

He smiled at others the way he smiled at you. He listened to them, helped them, comforted them—just as he did with you. Maybe a little softer, a little gentler when it came to you, but never in the way you wanted. Never in a way that meant something more.

And so, the quiet realization settled in your heart like a stone sinking into a river.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

And then there was that day. The day you knew, without a doubt, that you were just another name in his life.

It had been at the annual festival, a celebration where lights hung from every corner, where laughter echoed in the streets, and where lovers exchanged tokens of devotion.

You had spent all morning crafting a gift for him—something small but meaningful. A charm, woven with threads of silver and blue, the colors that reminded you of him. A silent confession, the last desperate hope that maybe, maybe he would see you.

When you found him, he was standing beneath the lantern-lit trees. But he wasn’t alone. A girl stood before him, cheeks dusted pink, hands nervously clasping a carefully wrapped box.

You had seen it before—people gravitating toward Phainon, drawn in by his quiet kindness, by the way he made everyone feel special. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he would just smile, politely decline, and move on.

“Oh, for me?” Phainon had taken the box gently, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, the kind that once made your heart race. “That’s really kind of you.”

You stood there, gift clutched in your hands, heart pounding as he opened it. Inside was a scarf, delicately embroidered, clearly made with effort and care. He held it up, smiling, before effortlessly wrapping it around his neck.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” he said. And then, without hesitation, he lifted a hand and gently patted the girl’s head.

It was the same gesture he had given you countless times. The same words. The same smile.

Something inside you shattered.

You had spent years thinking you were different, that maybe, maybe the way he treated you was special. But here he was, accepting another person’s affection with the same grace, the same warmth.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

Your hands trembled around the charm you had made. And then, slowly, you let it fall to the ground.

Phainon never even noticed.

----

“Y/N”

His voice cut through the air, quiet but firm. You stiffened for half a second before turning to face him.

“What is it, Phainon?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy”

“I never meant to make you feel like—”

You stopped him before he could finish.

Eventually, you stopped seeking him out, stopped waiting for his attention. And as days turned to weeks, you started avoiding him entirely.

But you never got the chance to truly leave him behind.

Because then the war came.

It happened suddenly—one evening, the village bells rang in alarm. Riders arrived from the capital, shouting of an approaching army, of an impending invasion. Chaos followed, families scrambling to gather their belongings, the town elders deciding who would flee and who would stay to defend.

Phainon, of course, chose to fight.

You still remember the look in his eyes that night. Determined. Steady. As if the boy who once watched clouds beside you had already faded into something sharper.

“You’re leaving, right?” His voice was firm, but there was something uneasy beneath it. “You should go to the capital—it’s safer there.”

You had hesitated, watching the way his hand gripped the hilt of a borrowed sword.

He was afraid.

You had known him long enough to see it, even if no one else could.

“I—” Your throat tightened. What were you supposed to say? Be safe? Don’t fight? You had spent so long pulling away, trying to make peace with the idea that you were just another person to him. And yet, standing there, watching him prepare for battle, you couldn’t help but remember the Phainon you once loved.

In the end, you only nodded. “Goodbye, Phai.”

The way his breath caught at your words—it almost made you stay.

But you didn’t.

You left with the others, escaping toward the capital as the village prepared for war.

You never thought you’d see him again.

Years Later – The Capital

The war changed everything.

Your village, though damaged, had survived—but life could never return to what it was. The battle had taken many, scattered others, and those who returned were never quite the same.

You, like so many others, had built a new life in the capital.

With your skill in design, you carved out a name for yourself among the noble elite. What had once been a simple love for embroidery and fabric turned into something much greater—a business, a reputation, a sense of independence you never had before.

You ran a high-end clothing shop near the palace, known for its elegant craftsmanship and modern designs. Nobles sought you out, eager for your work, for the quiet dignity and beauty woven into each piece you created.

And here, in the bustling streets of the capital, you finally found yourself.

----

The soft chime of the shop bell barely drew your attention as you worked, fingers carefully adjusting the pearl buttons on an elegant gown. You were used to high-ranking visitors—nobles, courtiers, even foreign envoys—so the presence of yet another escort was nothing unusual.

“Sir Luvain, if you’d follow me, the tailor should be expecting you.”

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Phainon stood at the entrance, clad in the silver-trimmed armor of the royal knights, the sigil of his rank gleaming against his shoulder. He had grown taller, stronger—the soft edges of youth sharpened into something disciplined, something restrained.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned your attention to his companion, the nobleman he was escorting. With practiced ease, you greeted him, all professionalism and grace.

“Lord Luvain, I trust you received my message regarding the final adjustments?”

The noble smiled, stepping forward to allow you to take his measurements. He spoke lightly about the upcoming banquet, about how eager he was to debut his attire. You listened, responded when necessary, all while acutely aware of Phainon standing silently at the edge of the room.

“Your measurements are set, my lord.” you finally said, stepping back with a slight bow. “This will be delivered two days later. If there are any final alterations needed, send word.”

Luvain gave a pleased nod before turning back to Phainon.

Phainon hesitated for just a second—his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something—but you were already turning away, reaching for your next task.

----

The bell chimed again the next morning.

You didn’t expect to see him. Not so soon.

But there he stood, alone this time.

You frowned as you saw his handsome face.. ruined. His lip was cut, a faint bruise darkening his cheekbone. He wasn’t injured enough for it to be from battle. No, this was different. A personal kind of fight.

Still, you didn’t ask.

Instead, you simply set down your tools and gestured toward the small seating area. “Sit.”

“…I didn’t come for treatment.”

“I didn’t ask why you came.”

Perhaps it was the casual, almost dismissive way you spoke. Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time, you weren’t treating him as something untouchable.

But he obeyed.

As he settled into the chair, you retrieved a small cloth and a jar of medicinal balm, kneeling beside him to gently dab at the cut on his lip.

He winced slightly. “I could do this myself.”

“You’re terrible at it”

Up close, you noticed the slight exhaustion in his expression. You had heard stories—whispers of how politics in the palace were ruthless, how those who rose too quickly often became the target of others.

Perhaps he was learning that now.

It had been years since he left the village, years spent surrounded by flattery, empty smiles, and noble courtiers who praised him not for who he was, but for what he had become.

Yet here you were. Treating him with the same quiet care as always.

You hadn’t changed at all.

And maybe—maybe that was what unsettled him most.

“There.” You finally pulled away, capping the jar and setting it aside. “Try not to get hit next time.”

“You’re not going to ask what happened?”

You glanced at him, then gave a light shrug. “Does it matter?”

Then, with a soft sigh, you stood. “Well, if that’s all, Sir Phainon, I have other clients to attend to.”

You had never called him that before.

Not Phai. Not Phainon. Just Sir Phainon, like he was any other knight, any other customer.

Something about it unsettled him.

But before he could dwell on it, you had already turned away.

“Take care” you said over your shoulder, already moving on.

As he stepped out of the shop, Phainon barely noticed the bustling streets around him. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the way you had looked at him—or rather, the way you didn’t.

He had spent so long being adored, sought after, respected. And yet, none of it compared to the simple, quiet way you had once looked at him.

The way you didn’t anymore.

---

Days turned into weeks, and Phainon didn’t disappear like before.

If anything, he only climbed higher.

You heard the murmurs in the capital—of his growing reputation, his skill on the battlefield, his unwavering determination. His name was spoken with admiration, his presence sought after by nobles eager to have a knight of his caliber within their inner circles.

But no matter how high he reached, no matter how many doors opened for him, he always seemed to find his way back to you.

At first, it was subtle. A chance meeting in the marketplace, an escort duty that just so happened to lead him near your shop. Then it became deliberate. He would stop by under the guise of checking on his previous order, lingering too long, watching you in that unreadable way.

You had long stopped being a girl waiting for his affection. You had built your own life, your own success. But somehow, he refused to let you slip away.

----

“You may take the next few days off for your wedding. Enjoy yourself.”

Your worker’s eyes lit up, bowing in gratitude before hurrying off. You watched her go, your fingers idly tracing over the fabric on your desk.

Marriage.

You hadn’t thought about it much.

But now, with your employee stepping away for her own wedding, it dawned on you—it was that time in life where people settled down, where friends and acquaintances from your village were likely married with families of their own.

Once upon a time, you had naïvely dreamed of it, too.

A childhood promise, whispered in the golden glow of late afternoons—"Marry me when we grow up!"—and the careless laughter that followed, as if it was nothing more than a game.

But it hadn’t been a game. Not for you.

And in the years that followed, when you had loved him in silence, when you had watched him treat others with the same kindness he gave you, when you had finally learned that you were never special to him—

You had given up.

You weren’t that foolish girl anymore.

The shop bell chimed.

Phainon.

But this time, he wasn’t in armor. No weapons, no duties. Just simple, well-made clothing that suited him far too well—his presence somehow heavier despite his unassuming attire.

And in his hands—

A small, wrapped gift.

“For you.”

You hesitated before reaching out, carefully undoing the ribbon.

A hairpin. Carved in the shape of a flower that once bloomed in your village, back when you were children.

“…Why?”

Phainon inhaled slowly, as if steadying himself.

“I’ve been a fool. I didn’t see it back then.” He said “How much you meant to me. How much I took for granted.”

No, he wasn’t doing this.

Not now. Not after all these years.

“I thought of you often, even when I was away” he admitted. “But I only understood it after returning. When I saw you again, when you treated me as if I was just another face in the crowd.”

Your fingers curled around the hairpin.

“Because that’s what you are now” you whispered, barely able to find your voice.

“It’s not what I want to be.”

“I don’t want to be ‘just another knight’ to you.” His gaze locked onto yours, “I want—” He exhaled, softer this time. “I want you.”

And yet, all you could do was stare at him—at this man who was once your world, at this man who had only now realized his own feelings, at this man who had already taken too much from you.

You had already suffered once. Already let yourself burn for him.

You wouldn’t do it again.

Carefully, you placed the hairpin back into the box and closed the lid.

“…Thank you for the gift, Sir Phainon.” Your voice was steady, polite. “But I have no use for it.”

“Y/N—”

“I gave up on you long ago.” The words cut through the air, “And I have no intention of reliving that pain.”

“Goodbye, Phainon.”

And with that, you turned away.

You didn’t look back.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t hear the sound of him leaving.

Because this time—

This time, he wasn’t willing to let you go.

His heartbeat thundered.

He had always been admired, always been wanted. There was not a single noblewoman who wouldn’t welcome his favor, not a single courtier who wouldn’t seek his company.

But you?

You, who had once loved him so openly, had turned him away.

And it hurt.

More than it should have. More than anything ever had.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the small box still in his hands.

No.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not when the only person who had ever been truly kind to him was slipping through his fingers.

----

No matter what you said, no matter how much distance you tried to place between you—

Phainon kept coming back.

Whenever he had a break from duty, he would stop by the shop under the pretense of ordering something, checking on an old commission, or simply greeting you.

It didn’t matter if the sun was blazing or if the streets were slick with rain—Phainon would still appear, standing just outside, waiting for the smallest chance to speak to you.

And you?

You refused to give him anything.

And yet, it never stopped him.

Until one day—

You closed your shop.

It was the first time in weeks that Phainon hadn’t seen you.

He had arrived as usual, fully expecting you to be there, only to find the doors locked. A simple note hung at the entrance, inked in your delicate handwriting:

"Closed for the week. No appointments will be taken."

The words should have meant nothing.

And yet—

Something in his chest twisted.

Because you weren’t someone who closed your shop without reason. You weren’t someone who let anything—anyone—get in the way of your work.

“You didn’t hear? She’s fallen ill” one of the merchants gossiped. “Not too severe, but bad enough to keep her indoors.”

You were ill.

And no one had told him.

By the time he arrived at your house, you were already recovering.

You were still pale, still weaker than usual, but you were up, moving about, focused on tidying the mess that had gathered during your bedridden days.

When the knock came, you hesitated.

Then, with a tired sigh, you opened the door.

And there he was.

Phainon, standing on your doorstep.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I heard you were unwell.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I’ll stay”

“…What?”

“I’ll stay here” Phainon repeated, stepping forward slightly. “Until you’re fully recovered.”

You had spent weeks pushing him away.

And still, still, he refused to listen.

“Phainon.” You swallowed back the frustration. “Go home. You have better things to do than waste time here.”

“I don’t consider this a waste.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. “Stop this. You’re—” A sigh. “You’re an important figure now. You have responsibilities.”

“…You really think that?”

You exhaled, suddenly too tired to argue. “I think you should leave.”

And with that, you turned away, stepping back inside.

You closed the door.

You locked it.

After that day, something changed.

Phainon stopped coming to your shop. Stopped appearing in front of you. Stopped waiting by the doors, stopped lingering in the streets.

And for a while, you thought you had finally won.

---

The streets were quiet.

You stood at the entrance of your shop, the weight of exhaustion pressing on your shoulders as you locked the door for the night.

The metal clicked into place.

A shadow moved.

Your fingers froze over the lock. What was that? A ghost?

Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the dimly lit street, half-shrouded in darkness, his blue eyes watching you.

You had known Phainon for years. You had grown up with him, watched him rise from a mere village boy to a knight of the palace. You had seen him change—seen him become colder, more refined, more distant.

But this was unnerving.

Still, you swallowed down the discomfort, "Phainon…?"

"You've been ignoring me. Did you meet someone else?"

"What?"

"Is that why? You found someone else, didn’t you?"

You frowned, unease curling at the base of your spine. "That’s ridiculous. I just have my own life, Phainon. You should focus on yours."

Then, with an exhale that sounded almost amused—

"You don’t understand how exhausting things are in the palace."

He took another step forward.

You instinctively took one back.

"Everything is fake" he continued, "Every smile. Every kind word. They all lie. They all pretend to care. But you—"

"You were always real."

Your fingers twitched, itching to reach for the key still in the lock.

"But now you avoid me," he murmured. "Now you won’t even look at me."

"Phainon—"

He cut you off.

"If I got you pregnant," he said suddenly, "no one would bat an eye."

Your mind barely had time to process the words—what he had just said—before your body reacted on instinct.

You slapped him.

Phainon’s head snapped slightly to the side, his cheek flushed red from the strike, his lips slightly parted from shock.

But that moment of surprise didn’t last.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head back to you.

The last remnants of the boy you once knew were gone.

There was only him.

Only the man who had finally decided to take what was his.

You moved to run.

His hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing into his chest.

"That," he murmured, "was a mistake."

By the time the townspeople saw the smoke, it was already too late.

The shop was engulfed in flames. The fire devoured the wooden walls, the carefully crafted gowns and fabrics, reducing everything to ash.

And inside—

A body. Unrecognizable. Burnt beyond recognition.

A robbery gone wrong, they said.

A tragic death.

You were gone.

Far beyond the burning remains of your old life, in a place far from the city’s reach, a single candle flickered inside a dimly lit room.

The scent of smoke still clung to Phainon’s clothes as he sat beside the bed—the bed where you lay, unconscious.

Your wrists were bound. Just enough to make sure you wouldn’t do anything stupid when you woke.

He exhaled softly, reaching out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Even now—even now, you were still his.

Now, you had nowhere to run.

The ropes around your wrists chafed against your skin, but the pain barely registered over the sheer rage bubbling in your chest.

The moment you had woken up—realized what he had done—you fought.

You screamed. You kicked. You thrashed so violently that Phainon had to pin you down.

"Let me go!" you spat, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Phainon only sighed, looking down at you with something almost close to pity.

"You’re being difficult."

"Do you think I’ll just sit here and accept this?" Your breath was ragged, fury shaking through your limbs. "I will never be yours."

"You always say that" he murmured, "But you’ve never really tried being mine, have you?"

"I have time" he whispered.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because he truly believed you would break.

Your wrists throbbed where the restraints had dug into your skin. Your breath came ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Phainon knelt before you, "You’re exhausting yourself"

You flinched. He hesitated. But only for a second before he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"You always did push yourself too hard"

You gritted your teeth. "Don't act like you know me."

That made him laugh—quiet, humorless.

"I do know you." His eyes burned as he held your gaze. "Better than anyone. Better than all those nobles who use your talent, who smile and bow and then forget you the moment they leave."

"I remember you, even when no one else did." His fingers brushed against your knuckles, "I never stopped thinking about you. Even when you left me behind. Even when you convinced yourself you didn’t care anymore."

You yanked your hands away.

"You don’t get to say that"

"Why?" he challenged. "Because it’s the truth?"

"Because you’re insane."

"Maybe I am. But does it matter?"

"You’ve already lost everything, haven’t you?" he continued, voice deceptively soft. "They think you’re dead. Your shop, your name, your life—it’s all gone. No one’s coming for you. No one even remembers you exist."

Phainon cupped your face then, forcing you to look at him.

"But I do," he whispered. "I always will. I would burn the world if it meant keeping you by my side."

For the first time, you truly understood.

There was no line he wouldn’t cross.

No limit to how far he would go to make sure you never left him again.

Phainon leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.

"Stop fighting," he whispered. "Just let go. You’ll be happier if you do."

"…I don’t know how to let go"

"You don’t have to know" he murmured. "Just trust me."

You nodded.

And that was it.

That was all he needed to believe he had finally won.

Days passed.

Phainon gave you more freedom—not complete, but enough. Enough for you to move without chains. Enough for you to pretend.

You let him think you were adjusting, that his patience had worn you down. You let him dress you in fine silks, let him touch you, let him believe that you were his.

Because the closer he let you get to the edge of the cage—

The easier it would be to escape.

The day of the wedding arrived in whispers and candlelight.

The halls of the estate were decorated in muted elegance—nothing extravagant, nothing too public. He didn’t need an audience.

This wasn’t about power.

This was about you.

And Phainon already had what he wanted.

Or so he thought.

You stood before the mirror in your gown, hands trembling—not with nerves, but with anticipation.

Outside, the horses were ready.

Inside, the door was left unlocked—a careless mistake born from his growing trust.

You took a breath.

One step.

Another.

The halls were silent as you slipped through the shadows, heart pounding with every second.

The exit was so close.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice froze you in place.

You turned—and Phainon stood at the end of the hall.

His wedding attire was pristine, but the grip he had on the hilt of his sword? Tight.

Your mouth went dry.

"Phainon.."

"Was it all a lie?"

You clenched your fists.

And then—

You ran.

Bolted down the hall, legs burning, lungs aching—but Phainon was faster.

You twisted, struggling, but he slammed you back against the stone wall, his body caging you in.

"You almost had me," he murmured, "Almost."

"Let me go."

"You were going to leave me," he said, "Again."

"Then ...I'll just have to make sure you never try again."

The room was suffocatingly quiet.

The iron shackle around your ankle was too tight, cold against your skin.

Phainon stood at the door, silent, watching.

Then—

He left.

For a moment, you almost believed that was it. That he had locked you away, that this was the extent of your punishment.

Then he came back.

With a knife.

Your body tensed when he knelt beside you, when his calloused fingers traced along your wrist too gently before pinning it against the bedpost.

You sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed the knife flat against your palm—just resting there.

"You tried to leave me."

He tilted his head, as if waiting. Daring you to lie to him.

"Say it."

"I—" You swallowed hard. "I tried to leave."

The blade pressed harder. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to make you feel the cold bite of the metal.

"Did it feel good?" he murmured. "Running away? Thinking you could escape me?"

"Phainon, please—"

A sharp swipe.

You flinched, expecting pain—but he didn’t cut you.

The blade had only sliced through the sleeve of your gown, the fabric slipping down your arm in ribbons.

"You’re scared" he observed.

You clenched your fists, refusing to give him an answer.

"Good."

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

He set the knife down.

The bed dipped as he leaned in one last time, lips brushing against your ear.

"Next time," he murmured, "I won’t be so merciful."

Then he left, locking the door behind him.

Leaving you with the shackle around your ankle, the torn fabric on your arm—

And the overwhelming realization that you were truly trapped.

[whore-ibly-hot]

"What it takes to lead."

Yan!Dictator x Fem!Reader x Yan!Next in line.

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Non-con, mentions of violence, fascism, groping, p-in-v sex, sexism, questionable father son Dynamics, power dynamics, leather play.

AN: I recently began reading @yanderedrabbles works and they broke my brain, so when I saw they had a Yan!Dictator planned it inspired me. This is... meh.

You don't know how this could've happened.

It was supposed to be a routine visit. Your father was a well off oil baron, owning one of the largest refineries in America, not counting his export deals. You had gone with him, unaware of the tense political state of Dela Marina.

Admittedly, the American government was somewhat aware of the rulers less than conventional methods of maintaining control. Camps, strict surveillance, and a cutting off of outside media aside from those approved by the Dela Marina Media council, but for America's political interests, and more importantly your father's bank, the warnings signs went ignored.

It started off as just a nice, tropical vacation. White sand beaches, exotic meals, and a blaring tan from the sun. However, something soon seemed a bit off. The leader, El presidente Ramon Ballesteros, gave you chills. He said nice things, talked about his vision for Dela Marina, how he would shape the land and people to 'true culture'. It would be inspiring, if his faze didn't feel so dark, so imposing. It was as if hew was analyzing everything, every move you made.

Still, Féliz calmed you a bit. The son of Ramon, as close to a prince as you could be in this 'democracy'. He was nothing like his father. Quiet, more subdued, though just as analytical. His father takes thing in while he speaks, but Feliz stays behind, letting his father do the talking.

"Hello there, señorita." Feliz had approached you the night of the welcome dinner, a lavish affair with Del Marina's finest chefs on hand. "My father wanted me to welcome you personally, we are both youths, uh, leader of the future, he says. Your countries, and mine." He seems awkward repeating his father propaganda. Despite this, you like him. He's funny, he tells you about growing up in Del Marina, about the culture, the people. "You have to go to the beach with me, there all white sand. Is beautiful, and if we go early enough, we can see the starfish beach." You took him up on all his outings, you could tell he was deeply alone, at his core.

"Feliz?" You had asked once. "Do you... get out much? I mean, I'm one for decadence. Whole point of having a daddy with money is spending it." You laugh. You were privileged. You knew it, you embraced it. You had never had to worry about anything, never had a reason to loop beyond at the suffering of the others. Why focus on all that?

"No, I don't. It's tense, in Del Marina. Their are Terroristas, rebels. Mis padre would rather me be here, where its safer. Besides, partying isn't for me. I have to learn how to lead, to study and to help people. My people." He'd explained, fiddling with the white pressed uniform he so often wore, a less refined and adorned version of his fathers. "Loosen up." You had suggested. "We can have some fun, we're friends now, yeah? Let's go party!" Feliz had never wanted really to go to a club, to spend time with the privileged people while he knew others, those being exploitated, were suffering. But you were so, so pretty, and the only friend he felt he had. You made him feel special, not for bring the son of the president, or 'Del Marina's future'. You made him feel special for being him. He agreed.

He was terrified when you both snuck out, naturally it didn't take long for the guards to drag the both of you back to the palace, you kicked and yelled while he went quietly. He feared his father would turn his anger to you, he was ready to take the brunt of the anger. However, his father seems amused. You laugh along with his dad, not sensing the chilling undertone.

"Your son, and the american girl, Presidente." A guard said, bowing, hand over hid chest. "They were seen heading to a club on the north side."

"Ah, let them go." Ramon grins, waving a hand as the guards back off. "Kids, ey? Even at twenty, they still can't help.but wander off. It's good, independence. To think, to have fun. Kids behave this way, it's expected. Dismissed." The guards leave, and he steps down to you. "I ought to thank you, you know? No one has ever gotten my son quite so out of his shell. Feliz, I've tried to inspire that boldness in you, I suppose I didn't realize it would take such a lovely young lady to do so." Felix goes red, looking down. He knows this is a facade, and still can sense the danger in the room. Ramon takes your hand, kissing it. "But i should have known, he is his fathers son, and we are both red blooded men, yes?" He chuckles to himself.

"I didn't mean any harm, I just wanted to have some fun. And I thought maybe Feliz needed a friend." You mumble, heels scuffing the floor awkwardly. Still; you aren't sorry. "He needed a break. To live."

The president goes silent, but then nods, laughing with his arms going. "Of course! Dis boy of mine, always with the working, he wants to be like his papa. It's honorable, but a young man still needs to let loose while he's young. Next time, all I ask is you take an escort. These terroristas planning Del Marina won't care about your intentions, just the message hurting you would send." His gaze grows serious, and you gulps.

"Ah, y-yeah. I'll keep that in mind." You look down, stepping away. "I'll probably go to bed, I've had enough fun. Goodnight, Presidente." He smiles, watching as you turn to Feliz. The tan boy looks through his dark locks, trying to hide his obvious flush from his father. You didn't need any reason to be made to stay here, and he knew his dad. "Night, Feliz." You call, and he just sends you a weak wave. Worried you upset him, you scurry off. The moment you slip out of the heavy wooden door of the presidente's office; his happy and jovial expression falls, mask melting away.

"Why this sudden change in you?" "Papa, please, I didn't mean anything by it, it was all my idea-" His fathers raised hand silences him. "Enough, Feliz." Ramon sighs, strolling to his desk cabinets, hand running across the mahogany surface as he opens up a velvet box, pulling out a bottle of scotch. "I didn’t lie to you, I'm not angry. I wish that your judgment had not been blinded and you had simply brought a guard-" He pours to crystal glasses, the brown liquid filling the clear, ornate glasses. "But I'm proud none the less. You made a choice, a bold one. Hm, we drink, you're becoming a man!"

Feliz winces at the glass sliding towards him, but knows his father won't take no gore an answer. "It was nothing, Papa. Just a quick outing, she was bored and I went with."

"Oh-ho, it was more than that, my son. It's okay, I'm older, but I'm still a man. I'm not immune to the charms of a woman. She is beautiful, no?" Ramon takes a sip, relishing in the burn of the drink. "This is the real infatuation you've had, isn't it."

"Its not an infatuation, she's a friend and-" His father glares, he knows he hates liars. "I... I like her, of course. But its nothing serious, no more than a crush."

"Even a crush is serious for a stoic, quiet man like you, Feliz." His dad leans forward to lift his chin up a bit. "I've never seen you take to anyone like this, that's what makes it serious." Harshly patting the young man's cheek, he leans back. "Her Father is a great ally, a man willing to buy the vast amount of oil our country has. It would be incredible for Del Marina to seal a deal like this, to lock something down. And Feliz, I know you want what's best for the country." Once again, hisbfather cold demeanor returns, shifting from joviality frighteningly fast. "So, I tell you to pursue it."

"I don't even know if she feels that way about me, a-and I couldn't ask her to stay in some foreign country!" Feliz is spouting every excuse he can think of, to push you away, push his fathers implications away, to keep you safe from the truth. The dangers of Del Marina, of his father government and more importantly, his father. Another withering look makes him nod. "I'll... ask her out. See if she'll accompany me to the press gala." He mumbles obediently.

"Good boy. Go, get some rest." He pats his sons shoulder. "And remember, Feliz,-" He chides, turning away and taking another sip, back to the future of Del Marina. "Ballesteros's take what they want."

Lying in bed, the grandness of his room feels imposing. As cold and lonely as ever, his own oil portrait staring back at him. He never liked the commissioned piece. It felt... fake. An image of his, posed by a map, in his uniform, looking like his father. Just. Like. His. Father. The sound of a creaking door makes him sit-up, and he only feels the discomfort in his stomach grow as he sees your form slipping into his room, clad only in pajamas that cling to you. Despite the terror he feels, the pulse of arousal in his gut is prominent too. He grabs his silk pillow, covering up a growing problem as he sees you approach.

"You can't be here, w-what are you doing?" He asks.

You just shake your head and laugh. "Please, it's fine. Your dad made it clear he likes me, and I wanted to check on you." You plop down unceremoniously, groaning at the feeling of the luxurious sheets on your body. "Shit, that's good."

"Go, you have to go-"

"Are you mad at me?" You ask, pouting as you turn to face him. Hes cute when he's nervous, brows furrowed and dark hair tousled. His hands grip the sheets. "Cmon. I'm sorry if I upset you, I just wanted to have fun!"

"I know, I know." he shakes his head. "I'm not mad at you, I was excited. It's just that you don't know my papa like I do. He always has a plan, a motive, for anything he does. And i don't want you getting caught up in something you shouldn't."

You frown, but ignore his warning. "Nah, he likes me, it's fine. I'm not scared of some politician, no different than my dad-"

"No." Hes dead serious, seeing the soft, sweet man so serious makes you pale, gulping. "You have no idea what he's like. What our country is really like, I-" He puts a fist over his mouth, rubbing at his face. "Please. Just try to keep your head down. Okay?" Nodding, and cold at the severity of his sudden change, you scoot closer.

"Okay, okay." You put your hands up in mock defense. "I'm sorry, I'll keep in line. I just wanted to check on you." I pat his arm. "Didn't want you mad at me."

He relaxes at the feeling of your slumped, warm weight against him. "No, I couldn't be mad at you, amiga. You're one of the... few friends I have, even in the short time I've known you. I just don't want you hurt."

"I like you too, Feliz." You murmur, and the simple admission is enough to make his heart palpitate. He grips the sheets, before slowly putting a hand on you. "Go, you should get back to your room. I'll see you tomorrow."

Watching as you pad across the floor, he coughs. "And... there's a gala, coming up. A media event for father and yours to be shown getting along. If you... if you wanted to go. With me."

"Who else would I go with, Feliz?" You tease, making him just look down, nodding.

So how did it end up as this? You're stuck up in the room given to you at the Presidente's estate, it had once felt so grand but now felt suffocatingly small. A deal had been struck, something went wrong when you had been seen at the gala. Media went wild, rumors flew about the pretty new girl spotted alongside Dela Marina's darling prince. And Ramon approached your father with an offer. You don't know what it was, or why he'd agree to it, but it culminated in your father jetting off; leaving you behind.

"Please, please- I don't understand-" You whine, hands shaking and skin slicked with nervous sweat as you see guards sealing up the doors of your room. Trapped. "Presidente Ramon-"

"Shh." His gloved hand pressing a finger to your lips silences you, eyes wide. It is now you are beginning to see the side of the Dela Marina presidente you had heard of. Calculated, cruel. "There's no need to panic, little American darling. It's not like your losing any luxuries you had back home, perhaps you are even gaining some. Both me and your father think this is best, a joining of powers. Now, he was hesitant." Ramon rolls his eyes. "But you are a fierce little thing, and I told him you'd get a bit more discipline here. I doubt he was strict enough in your upbringing. Not that a spark isn't amusing, señora. It's charming at times." His smirk is that of a lion looking over it pray.

"You see," he intertwines his fingers together as he sits down at the foot of the four poster bed beside you. "My son. He loves you. He'll say it's a crush, but a father knows his son. He's always been good, my boy. Never asked for things, never taken what he wanted like he should. This is a push in the right direction for him. To make him make a move. I expect you like him as much?"

"I mean, I don't, I don't know-" You're stammering, hands shaking. It's all crashing down, overwhelming. The feeling of absolution in his town, of finality, is bone chilling. "He's my friend?"

"Ah, well, that's only his own fault. He has trouble taking initiative, and I dont fault you either." He sits up straighter. "Im a traditionalist, like my father and his before him. Of course it should be the man who propositions the young lady, but my son-" he waves his hand. "Has this idea in his head, silly notions about the changing of culture. I am fine with most of it, but a wife and children? Being the man for your family, for your country. No, that I will never budge on."

"Papa!" The heavy door slams open, with a frantic Feliz standing in the now open doorway. "What are you doing, why is she here-"

"Ah, my boy. Come, sit. Me and your friends father had been talking, she'll be staying for a bit. Good news, ay? Now, I'm sure you've got something you'd like to say-"

"Y-you can't do this, she doesn't belong here, papa-" Feliz juts his hands forward to help you, to try and think of a way out of this. "Are you okay? Did your father leave-"

"Feliz!" Ramon's voice booms across the room, causing both of you to still like deers caught in headlights. "Calm yourself, I'm helping you along in making a decision you are unable to make yourself. You will be grateful, and apologize."

It's shocking to see how Feliz shrinks, to see how his dad treats him behind closed doors. "I- I'm sorry, Papa. I just didn't want her in distress. I didn't want her feeling confused." He mutters, head down like an obedient hound.

"Of course, and that's admirable, but you should put more trust in your father to know I’ve already explained the situation. Now come here, come." He waves his son over, and the pair stand near you on the bed. "Tell her. Of your feelings, take charge."

"I-" Theyoung man is trying not to hyperventilate, hands gripping his white uniform short like he's staving off a seizure. "I like you, you know this. I feel emotions for you that no one else had made me feel, and-and if you'd have me-" he sounds like he's ready from a script, eyes clenched shut.

"Not if. Be assertive." His father hisses. "Tell her she is to be yours. Tell her your feelings are strong enough you won't be denied. Tell her what you can provide given your status." He's glaring like a schoolteacher scolding a naughty pupil, and the shaking boy nods.

"When- when you decide I am right for you, I'll provide what you need. Our country has vast resources, and wealth for you to enjoy. You would want for nothing." Its monotone, like an audio book, like it's pre-recorded. Seeing his fathers fist clench, he moves to kiss you lightly. As he approaches, he whispers a soft "I'm so sorry-" as he places warm, slightly chapped lips onto yours. Shocked, but to afraid to not play along, you kiss back. It's soft, it would be intoxicating if the sense of impending doom didn't weigh so heavy, being moved like dolls in a dollhouse.

"That was nice, Feliz." You can think only to reassure him, hand landlord on his neatly pressed shirt. "Very nice, I like you too, of course." You tuck his hair behind his ear, seeing the way his lip wobbles, his eyes water. He's so guilty, he never should have spoken to you.

"Wonderful." His body is jolted by a slap to the back, his father laughing. "Good man, now, shall I leave you kids alone? I'm sure you'll want time to yourself. Son, you understand what a man must take from his woman, yes?"

"I... our relationship is new, papa. I can't. I-I-" He pauses. "I won't, I won't do it. I can't, I wouldn't know how and I dont want her to do anything she doesn't want."

Ramon scoffs. "She's agreed to be yours son, go on! Of course she wants it, don't you, pequeña?" Ramon gestures to where you're laid, looking at you expectantly. When you say nothing, he raises his brows in suprise. "Unbelievable. I set the two of you up for every opportunity and you can't do that. Son," he grabs Feliz's shoulder roughly. "We are men. Conquerors, rulers. We take what we want, lions from lambs. How can you expect to lead, to protect this great country from terroristas if you cannot ask your woman for what all hot-blooded men desire!" He's growing angry, truly mad, his usual cool annoyance heating up. "You have to learn if you don't take what you want, someone else will. Your land, your power, your woman."

"Papa, please-"

"No. I have to do everything my self with you. I'm going to show you what happens if you don't take the first step." He changes his eyes to you, your cowering form. "Strip, girl." You're eyes widen, head shaking on instincts.

"What, no, no, I'm not going to-"

"The choice is not yours. I've got guards outside, you're in my country. In my home." He comes to the bedside, leaning down so he's practically nose to nose with you, dark brown eyes feel like a pool you're drowning in, swallowed whole. "The only thing you are in control of now is how gentle I am, sí?" You're still frozen, just shaking your head over and over again, resulting in him sighing. It's a minor annoyance to him, like he's not violating you but rather just dealing with a disobedient pup. "Everything by myself." He repeats.

Gloved hands brush across your collarbone, cool leather causing a trail of goosebumps to blossom on your skin. He jerks his hand back, tearing the buttons on your dress. The front pops open, buttons clattering to the floor with a 'tink-tink'. Feliz winces, hand to his mouth in horror.

"Papa, please, please don't..." He begs, voice as soft and light as he can make it. He was a good father when he was little. Doting, he'd comfort him when he cried, take him on little outings. A part of Feliz hopes that softer voice would remind him of the boy he once was, that he'd give in.

"This is what happens son, you don't take initiative, someone gets there before you." Ramon feels you squirm a bit and tightens the grip he's got on your left arm, gaze never leaving his son as he warns you. "Don't squirm, girl." He warns. "You're a lady, not some groveling worm, hold still, I'll get to you in a moment."

"Can I talk her through it?" Feliz asks. "Let me be by her side, or at least... I don't know!" He begs. Ramon tilts his head, then nods. "Alright. Second best option is getting in where you can. Rising through the ranks, get over here." Feliz scrambles to get to your other side. "Now, let's get this off." Ramon grabs the blade he keeps on his waistband at his side, pressing the cold still to your pretty skin while he cuts the lace straps of your bra off. "Aw, beautiful. Shame to hide such beautiful breasts away, without a man to reveal them." He coos. Rough lips place a kiss to your left nipple, making you whimper. "Just beautiful. Feliz, take it in. Your first woman."

Feliz is staring, both horrified at his biological reaction and awe struck at the sight of your newly revealed breasts. He'd stared many a time when they were covered, to see them exposed in front of him was a new feelings entirely. He reaches out, letting a breath he didn't know he was holding escape as he gropes your left tit.

"There we go, it's good, yeah? A woman's body is a miraculous thing." Groaning, he leans down and kisses up and down softly the nape of your neck. "Don't stay quiet, let me hear those pretty noises, girl." He whispers

"I don't, this can't happen, presidente. I don't want this." You whisper, and he just chuckles, looking up at you from his place on your chest. "Ah, amor, but you will."

A sudden pressure on your ass makes you squeak, his hands groping the meat of your ass firmly, sure to leave bruises. "Don't speak back to me, ey? Lay back and enjoy what a man in power can offer you, girl. And call me Ramone." He grins. "There's no need for formalities when I'm going to have you speared on my cock."

Feliz grimaces at the way your eyes water, so afraid. But not only can he not help, he's so horrendously turned on. Your heaving breasts, wide eyes and flushed cheeks. You're a picture of eroticism, and the hardening in his shorts is a clear sign that the part of him desiring you is winning him over. He watches his father roll you over, gloved fist kneading the cheeks of your ass.

"Just a short reminder to not talk back. To behave."

A sharp pain makes you yelps, a harsh slap to your ass. Immediately after delivering the blow, his gloved hand massages to red mark. "See? Even when in the throws of sex, you should exercise your control, my boy. Let her know you are in charge, regardless of their pleasure she is providing you." He scoots aside, petting half while looking at Feliz. Feliz swallows harshly, but hovers his hand lightly over your plump rear. Another squeak, as he delivers a softer, albeit still harsh spank. "Make sure she's okay now. A firm hand, not a cruel one."

Feliz shaky hand gently rubs the mark, mimicking Ramon's actions, and he leans down to whisper in your ear. "Not too much, right? It wasn't too much? You-" He's trying to justify himself, why he feels so aroused by all this, by you. "You liked it, right?"

You're shocked, but as you shake your head no, another slap. The gentle kneading afterwards does little to relieve the pain. You know not to protest. "It's fine." You whisper.

Feliz wouldn't normally believe you, he'd hear the pain in your voice, the tremble. He'd want to sooth you, but he was so unbelievably needy in those moment, for for relief and to believe you were happy with him. That this was a good, intimate moment between the two of you, without his fathers direction, without force. Thid was the moment he trusted himself, his virginity to you. He just smiles weakly at your statement that it's okay.

"So pretty, let's get these off of you, huh?" You can feel the gloves leather, once cool, now hot against your skin he snaps your pantie strap against your hip, making you flinch. "Hm, I bet you've had plenty of men. A rich privileged American girl, spending your papas money. Does he know, know that your a slut, or is he too busy?"

"I've only been with a few guys..." you weakly protest. "From... club and stuff."

"A few too many. If any proper man had had you, he'd be sure you only ever took his cock, allowed him inside of you." Once again grabbing that knife, he slides the blade across the strap he had previously snapped, the fabric tearing and loosening. "Beautiful..." he runs his finger over the lips of your pussy, puffy from arousal. He lets you feel each wrinkle in the leather of his gloves, before spreading your lips apart, strings of slick snapping.

Feliz feels his mouth is watering, your mouth watering, your most bare part vulnerable for him. He can't stop himself from cupping your mound, letting his fingers curiously trail up to your clit. You let out a reluctant moan at the feeling; and he just leans down to kiss your cheek. "You're so pretty. A-and you're doing so well..." Making sure his father is distracted, he whispers in your ear. "Im sorry our first time together had to be like this, but... its still nice, right?" He's still in denial about the horrors of his actions. "You still get to feel good, and you get to be with me. This... this is what we both want..."

"Feliz..." You whimper, but he just shakes his head. "No, don't tell me it's not. I can't handle that right now." Despite his good nature, Feliz has always been given what he wanted. He cant help but feel selfish, ask you not to hurt his feelings or overwhelm him while your the one being violated. He'll reflect on that later. His lips, slightly chapped, press hot against yours, once, then twice. "That was my first." He admits. "Wouldn't want it to be anyone but you."

Suddenly, his father grabs his collar, pulling me back a bit. "Come now, boy. Clear out, I need my time now."

Feliz pales. "Papa?" He's visibly confused. "You said... take what I want, be a leader, not a follower. I thought you'd be giving her to me, that I'd be having sex with her! You said a man should let his woman be only with him from the moment he decides he wants her?" His tan hands are shaking, flushed face a mix of embarrassment and frustration. All he wants is to tenderly relieve the pressure in his shorts with you, and as he sees his father let out a 'tsk', his frustration increases.

"But that doesn't apply, does it? She's had other men before, and she's not a true, proper woman of our country. If nothing else, it's better I be sure she's even worth it. It's not simply sex, this could be the woman you choose to lead alongside, boy." His father cold glare makes him shrink back, sliding off the bed.

"But, isn't it a test of my leadership that I take her first-"

"You wouldn't question your papa?" Ramom hisses, and Feliz wilts. He can't make eye contact with you as he leaves the room. When it's him violating you, he can at least pretend you feel safer because it's him, that you like it. But its his father, a ruthless dictator, and stranger. As he leaves and makes his way down the hall, he's determined to be ready to cater for you when it's all over.

Back in the room, you remain a trembling mess, watching the much older man removing his belt with a practiced speed. "Please don't, sir-" You ask. "I don't feel comfortable, I don't-"

"You should feel grateful." He reminds. "To have both the attentions of a leader and his son. I understand it might be frightening, you know the kind of man I am. How i stay in power, I've tricked your father but I've no doubt that boy of mine has admitted some things to you." As he removes white dress pants and dispenses of his gloves on the nightstand, he grips your chin with now-bare fingers. Calloused; from years of clawing his way to the top. "You aren't stupid. That's one of the things I admire about you, girl. Smart, if a bit spoiled. That's fine, respect can be taught, a place can be taught. Natural intelligence can be harder to develop."

"Why me?" You blurt. "Why are you forcing me into this, you could have any woman, I'm not even close to your age, a-and Feliz, Feliz likes me!" You hope to garner even a bit of sympathy for his son in this moment, hoping it would prevent him going all the way.

"He does not 'like' you, he loves you." He says matter-of-factly. "Which is precisely why this has to be done. You will be in the public eye, the first lady of this great country. I need to know you can be submissive, can provide as a wife should. But... I also need to know you can be taught, can take orders. My boy, he is-" Ramon shakes his head. "Meeker than I would like, despite my efforts. I need to know even with his less than firm hand that he can ensure you behave. And ones true colors come out in the bedroom, I find."

He pounces, baring down rather suddenly, grip on your jaw near crushing as his free hand strokes once, then twice over his cock; brown with a curve to it and a purple tip. "But, I am also not a liar. I admit the idea of having a beautiful young woman around my manhood isn't-" he nips are your ear, breath hot yet making you feel frigid with fear. "Intoxicating."

"It's been a long time." You whisper, and he feigns a caring pout. "Ah, I'm sure. Don't worry, I won't let you hurt. But remember, this is about taking orders. First, take me in your hands. I doubt you're inexperienced in this, so don't feign naivety." His voice is low, threatening. Despite the churning feeling of sickness, you take his length in one shaky hand, wrapping round the erect shaft, and refusing to meet his gaze.

"Good. Go on now, kiss it, just the tip. I want to see you practice restraint, just because you don't want this doesn't mean I will rush." He warns. Your plush lips gently press the bulbous tip, you can feel a shiver run up him as you do. Testing the waters and desperate to get it over with, you slowly slip in the tip, tongue pressing against the vein under his cock. He doesn't thrust, not allowing you to take hin in fully; but the clenching in his jaw shows the effect it's having.

"Wonderful..." He groans. "Very good, take a little more, yes? I know you can, shit-" He rolls his hips, the salty flavor of skin filling your mouth further as you take him in deeper. "Good, suckle. Suck the cock of El presidente-" He's beginning to get a bit lost in his praise of himself more than you.

Sloppy, wet sounds fill your ears, eyes screwed shut as a few tears slip from them. Ramon grunts, whispering another moan of pleasure before noticing and sighing. He wipes some tears with his thumb, licking up the salty water to your shock. "Don't cry, cariño. I'm not being cruel. I'm being rather gentle with your pretty mouth; no damaged goods here." He reminds. You can hear his grunts increasing in frequency, his cock twitching in your mouth, when he roughly threads his fingers in your hair and yanks you off his cock.

"Hands and knees, face away." He demands. "Don't make me wait." Your knees dig into the silk of the bed, assuming an easily mountable position. Once again, you make a final plea. "Please-" Your voice sounds as though it could shatter. "Don't hurt me."

To your suprise, you can feel him freezing behind you, and hear a deep sigh. You scre your eyes tight as you feel him assume position behind you, leaky cock pressing against your folds as his chest, still clad in his white dress shirt, presses against your bare spine. One hand holds himself up, while the other takes your chin from behind, gentler than his initially grip. He places a few small kisses mixed with nibbles against the flushed shell of your ear.

"Being a leader-" he begins, "Is not easy. Being the wife of one, even more so. There is danger, societal expectations, and constant decisions that must be made. But know this, my touch is not something you need to fear, cariño." He's uncharacteristically tender now, and that frightens you more.

He finishes his speech with a kiss to the back of your neck, before sighing as he eases his tip into your wet folds.

"Ah-" You whine, it's thick, but it doesn't fully hurt. He's tender, he kept his promise. "Feel that? The stretch of a true Dela Marinan man?" He asks, working his way in a bit deeper. His balls, heavy, slowly crawl closer to the lips of your cunt as he further enters, groaning.

"Beautiful. Mmph, you don't have the makings of a first lady." He firstly pulls out, before sheathing fully again. "You're practically sucking me in, girl. You were made to take a Dela Marinan man, god-" His pace increases, gripping your hips as the thrusts.

"Are you close?" He asks. "Can you feel that coil of pleasure within you? Go on, release. Cum when the man controlling you demands."

Letting out a final mewl mixed with a sob, you can feel yourself beginning to spasm, walls twitching as a gush of fluids coats his cock. In a display of impressive control, though not surprising for the cold blooded president, he removes his angry cock without finishing. Quickly tucking himself away, back into his boxers, he towels the sweat from his brows as he appraises your fucked-out form. "You have the makings of a good wife. There is more to teach certainly, but there will be time for that. Though-" He tilts his head as if in deep contemplation, before leaning down to press a rather full kiss to your sweat-soaked form. It's passionate, surprisingly so, and he had held back from something that intimate so far. "As much as I love that boy of mine, I wonder if he is man enough to deserve a woman like you." He whispers, before pulling away and rather curtly leaving.

You can hear what sounds like voices in the hall, and soon two female attendants come to wipe you up. You're took sore to protest, and as they scurry out, the hurried footsteps of Feliz replace the noise they made. A look of worry fades slowly when he sees you, looking tired but mostly unharmed. He's got a glass of water in hand, a piece of chocolate, and other random medicine cabinet items. It's clear he was unsure what a woman would need for aftercare, and just took everything.

"I'm here, it's okay now." You can't even bring yourself to tale comfort in the words of your friend. You wanted him to have saved you, yet the most emotion he showed during the ordeal was learning he couldn't have you first. You just lay silent, still. He lays down beside you, fully clothed, curling into your side like a child seeking their mother's comfort. He pulls the sheets over you, kissing your forehead before closing his eyes.

"It'll be better next time." He promises. "It'll be me." That hardly soothes the pain.

[caesarootham]

This is the sort of shit I come here for. I love it so much.

Liu Zhigang seems like the best combination of chill guy and absolute maniac. Like he's insanely powerful and always feels really intense, but also doing what needs to be done for humanity without raising a big fuss?

Also, the idea of him being the Ruler's favourite boi is so good. I'm insanely curious about what kind of things he could have gotten up to in past timelines that made him so popular.

This has kinda inspired an OVR style AU, where the rulers keep giving him power boosts like the constellations give rewards. Like, Sung Jin-Woo is the only one who can level up, but Liu Zhigang keeps randomly getting new abilities and insane dungeon finds that also result in him getting more powerful. By the time Sung Jin-Woo arrives it's kinda an inside joke of the national hunters that there's something about Liu Zhigang that makes him special and if you go on a raid with him you always get the good stuff.

*blinks*

he was swimming to Japan

Liu Zhigang was swimming to Japan.

Canon says later that no one would let him leave the country after what happened with Kamish because they didn’t want to lose such a powerful defender. He was only allowed to go to Korea later because Sung Jin-Woo is even stronger so people were like ‘without him as a defender we’re all screwed’ and people still complained about it and he yelled at them about ‘Korea is right next to us you dumbasses if we let Koreans die we’re going to die too.’

When the Japan gatebreak happened it’s mentioned that Liu Zhigang encountered a golem at sea, with the golem at the process of swimming to China. He says ‘fighting it on the water was a pain’ so why didn’t he like, wait for it to get to land? Maybe bait it in the direction of open coast?’

Unless he wasn’t anywhere near land. He and the golem met in the middle of the effing sea while he was trying to sneak over to Japan to help out with the rampaging golems. What do you bet he swam the rest of the way, found out Sung Jin-Woo beat them, and then turned around and swam back and went ‘yeeeah… I was totally fighting a golem just offshore the whole time, it took FOREVER’

This guy.

No wonder the rulers made him so OP: they’re in his effing fanclub. Whatever he got up to in previous timelines they were like, ‘A++ protecting humans this guy, let’s give him more power next time so he can do more of it.’ And like. kept ratcheting it up until they gave him access to more power than the people who were actually channeling them.

[uniquexusposts]

Jumping into assumptions | C. Leclerc

Summary: Charles had always considered Y/n his best friend, never imagining anything beyond their close bond. But one evening, when he realized he had fallen in love with her, he finally asked her out, and to his surprise, Y/n agreed.

The world knew Y/n as the heart of their friend group; the one everyone protected, the one who never raised her voice, the one who somehow made every place feel like home. She was the kind of girl who brought people together, the glue of their chaotic little friend group. And for as long as Charles had known her, people just assumed she was taken.

It was a running joke among their friends, really. Every time a guy showed interest in Y/n, someone would pipe up with a playful, "Oh, sorry, but she’s definitely taken," or, "Her boyfriend wouldn’t like that." The irony? She never actually had a boyfriend. And she never corrected them.

Charles had never given it much thought before. Not when they were younger, and certainly not when they fell into this unspoken rhythm of being each other’s constant. It was always Y/n beside him, laughing at his terrible jokes, rolling her eyes at his dramatics, nudging his shoulder when he got too arrogant. And, without realising it, Charles had started falling. Hard.

He’d known for a while that she was special to him, more than just a friend, but he'd convinced himself that it didn’t matter. She was Y/n. They were best friends. Nothing more. Besides, if he started thinking about her like that, who would he turn to when things were tough? Who would keep him grounded and remind him not to take himself too seriously? Who would be there to laugh with him through all the absurdities life threw their way?

It hit him one evening in Monaco, when they were all gathered at a rooftop bar, the sky burning in hues of orange and pink. Y/n was sitting across from him, laughing, properly laughing, at something a friend of theirs had said. Her head tilted back, her eyes shining, her joy so contagious that even Charles found himself grinning.

She was beautiful, of course, but it wasn’t just her looks that made his heart skip a beat. It was the way her laugh filled the air, the way she made everything seem brighter. She was magic, pure and simple.

And then it hit him.

They told him that to make her fall in love, they had to make her laugh. But every time she laughed, he was the one who fell in love.

His stomach twisted. How had he not seen it before? The way he always looked for her first in a crowded room. The way he cared a little too much when someone flirted with her. The way his world felt lighter when she was around. He was in love with his best friend.

He must've been staring, because suddenly, Y/n's gaze flickered to his, her smile faltering just slightly. "What's up?" she asked, her voice full of curiosity, the way she always sounded when she caught him in the act of thinking too much.

Charles hesitated. He could brush it off, make a joke, pretend he wasn’t on the verge of losing his mind over her. But then she smiled; soft, questioning, beautiful, and he knew he couldn't keep pretending.

“Nothing,” he said at first, then exhaled a quiet laugh. "Just… wondering if anyone’s ever actually asked you."

Her brows furrowed. "Asked me what?"

He opened his mouth, ready to say something casual, like always, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he found himself leaning in slightly, suddenly aware of how close they were. The noise around them faded, the world narrowing down to just the two of them.

"If you had a boyfriend," he said softly, his voice quieter than usual, almost a whisper. "Instead of assuming."

Y/n blinked, lips parting slightly. The rest of their friends were still talking, still laughing, but in this moment, it was just the two of them, suspended in some kind of strange limbo.

"No," she admitted, her voice barely above the noise around them. "No one ever has."

Charles’ heart pounded in his chest. It was a simple answer, but it was the most profound thing he’d heard in a long time. He felt the weight of it settle over him, like something had shifted in the air between them. She’d never been asked. Not once. Not seriously. And that realisation hit him harder than anything.

There was a brief silence between them, the kind that spoke volumes. Charles could feel the tension building, a knot forming in his stomach. The alcohol in his veins buzzed through him, making everything seem sharper, clearer. His thoughts, usually muddled, were now crystallised. This wasn’t just a casual conversation. This was the moment, the one he didn’t even know he was waiting for.

He leaned forward, closer, his gaze locking onto hers, steady and unwavering. "Then let me be the first," he said, his voice low, almost tentative. "Let me take you out. Properly. No assumptions, no misunderstandings. I will show you how it works, so you at least can say that you have been on a proper date once."

Y/n’s breath caught, her eyes wide with surprise. Charles could see the wheels turning in her head, the questions, the hesitation. But what struck him was how the uncertainty melted away, replaced by something softer, something more open. And then she smiled, a smile he had never seen before; not the playful, teasing one he was so used to, but something different, something just for him.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the bar.

Charles’ heart leapt in his chest. "Yeah?" he asked, just to make sure. His voice was barely more than a breath, a mix of hope and disbelief.

"Yeah," she said again, her lips curling into that same soft smile. "Okay."

And just like that, everything changed. The boy who had spent years making her laugh, who had always been her constant, realised he never wanted to stop. He never wanted to be just friends.

—

The next day, Charles was practically bouncing with excitement. He couldn’t believe it. Y/n had said yes. They had both been floating in the same space for so long, so close to something more, but neither of them had ever crossed that line. Until now.

He texted her almost immediately, already planning their date in his mind. He couldn’t wait to see her, to spend time with her, and to finally, finally, be more than just the guy who made her laugh. He wanted to be the guy who made her heart race, too.

They met later that evening at a small, cosy restaurant in Monaco, one that Charles had carefully chosen for its intimacy, its quiet charm. When Y/n walked in, her smile instantly lit up the room, and Charles felt that familiar warmth spread through his chest. It was different now, though. There was an air of anticipation, a new energy between them that neither could ignore.

"You look amazing," Charles said, genuinely taken aback by how beautiful she looked, her hair cascading in loose waves around her shoulders, her dress simple but elegant.

Y/n blushed, clearly flustered by the compliment. "You clean up well yourself," she teased, sitting down across from him.

Charles chuckled, the nerves melting away the longer they talked. It was like they were slipping into their old routine, but with something new and exciting beneath the surface. Every joke felt more meaningful. Every smile felt more significant.

"You know," Charles said after a while, as they shared a dessert, "I’ve been meaning to ask you something."

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "What’s that?"

"Why haven’t you ever corrected people when they say you have a boyfriend?" he asked, his tone light but with a hint of curiosity. "I mean, you’re obviously not dating anyone, so… why let people assume?"

Y/n looked down at her dessert, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate as she thought for a moment. "I guess… I never really saw the point. It was not like, if I would say anything about it, that I would be heard,” she said finally, lifting her eyes to meet his. "It was easier to let them assume than explain it at some point. Plus, I wasn’t sure anyone would even ask me, you know? I mean, no one asked me before so then I mustn’t be in the game to date, I guess.”

Charles felt a pang of guilt, realising how long he’d let things go without stepping up. Without seeing her as more than just his best friend. “Don’t say that,” he replied. 

She shrugged.  “At some point, you will assume it is your own fault, or that you are the issue. I grew up with that. I don’t know any better. I have accepted it.”

“I should’ve asked you sooner," he admitted, his voice soft, almost apologetic.

Y/n smiled again, a small, knowing smile. "Well, you’ve finally asked," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "And I’m glad you did."

They weren’t just best friends anymore. They were something more. And for the first time, Charles couldn’t wait to see where this new chapter would take them.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

[transmascutena]

something i think about a lot is the way utena twists and subverts the idea of the chosen one protagonist. from the very first sequence in the very first episode, utena is set up to be special in this way. in her past she met this mythical figure, the prince, and it is her destiny to meet him again. eventually we of course start to suspect that this isn't really the case, that there's something else going on, but the narrative still leaves us for a long time with the impression that there is something special and important about utena. she's the dueling champion after all! she keeps winning, seemingly through magic. but, as it turns out, it's all an illusion and a lie. she isn't, and never could have been, this larger than life hero figure. she's just some kid. and the only way in which she was ever "chosen" was by a predator picking out his prey. using this exact narrative about the special and important and heroic to isolate her and gain her trust. and not even in this is she particularly unique. she just happens to be the most vulnerable, the most convenient, of his targets.

and, crucially, it's okay (good, even!) that she's not this hero she is initially painted (and trying to paint herself) to be. princes aren't real. it's not a moral failing on her part that she was hurt and deceived. she's not supposed to be perfect. and the best way she can help the people she wants to help, is simply by trying to be a good friend.