#because like anyone raised so close to the political world

[smolandweirdwriter]

oh of COURSE adaine has no respect for authority figures, she was raised by a piece of shit who didn't have any actual power

[tonycries]

Madam Gojo - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.9k

A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.

They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too. 

The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.

Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.

Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room. 

Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.

“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”

Ah, right. How could you forget?

You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.

And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.

“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”

“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”

The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.

Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”

God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this. 

Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”

And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle. 

“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”

“Right, because this clan is that great.”

You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.

Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”

And oh it was like a dam burst open.

“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”

“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”

“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already. 

Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”

Oh. You’ve done it now.

You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked. 

You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-

“Sit.”

Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”

Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them. 

And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.

“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious. 

The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”

It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.

. 

A weighty beat passes. One. Two. 

He wins.

And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this? 

“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”

What? 

The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face. 

“Wan’ me to kill them?”

“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity. 

“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better. 

So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”

At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”

And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?

Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.

Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.

Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually. 

And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth. 

“Out.” 

It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.

Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”

And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now. 

“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”

“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”

That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.

“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?” 

“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him. 

Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but. 

“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”

Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. 

“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar. 

But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.

Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal. 

Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away. 

“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”

And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.

He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.

Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan. 

“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”

At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”

Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his. 

So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-

“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”

Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this. 

“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”

Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.

“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”

“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”

“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth. 

At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”

You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended. 

Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”

You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-

“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.

“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast. 

But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?

So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers. 

Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-

“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”

“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”

Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants. 

You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth. 

And Gojo keeps going. 

Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily. 

“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”

“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”

“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”

You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good. 

And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!

“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?” 

A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”

And, well, a good husband always shares, right?

Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs. 

“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”

You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-

Shit. 

You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous. 

All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.

Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together. 

Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.

“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”

And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute. 

“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”

And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone. 

Except maybe his cute lil’ wife. 

Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch. 

But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly. 

Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”

“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance. 

“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”

“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”

You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you. 

Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there. 

“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”

A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least. 

Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.” 

“Louder.”

“Like I’m your wife.”

Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear. 

It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side. 

“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?” 

You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him. 

“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find- 

“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”

That.

So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”

Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted. 

“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”

You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.

Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles. 

“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”

And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are. 

“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”

Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices. 

And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-

“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”

So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper. 

Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you. 

But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.

Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes. 

And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his. 

“Clean that room up.” 

Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie. 

But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.

A/N. On my period I’m gonna cry. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[axnqel]

ⓘ ULTRAVIOLENCE .ᐟ I will do anything for you, babe.

─ pairing .ᐟ homelander x fem!psychiatrist!reader

─ synopsis & word count .ᐟ being hired by Vought as the psychiatrist for the seven wasn't exactly what you'd envisioned for your career. and captain patria falling in love with you? yeah, that definitely wasn't on the bingo card either. you liked him—God, you liked him more than you'd ever admit—but loving him? loving him felt impossible. it was like trying to hold onto a storm; no matter how hard you tried, it always slipped through your fingers, leaving nothing but chaos in its wake. | 4.0k words.

─ content warning .ᐟ slight ooc homelander, talks of narcissism, obsessive behaviors, homelander tweaking out, lwk stalking...., reader being quite literally the complete opposite of homelander, slight arguing but tbh it's lwk one-sided, angst, hurt/not really comfort, ending can be interpreted differently tbh, takes place somewhere in season one i guess.

─ c speaks .ᐟ tiktoks gone and i had over 100 homelander edits and i was only able to save 21. this is what happens when no one turns on their saves. in mourning fr. (edit: i deleted the app when it got banned. yes i know, biggest mistake because now its back??? like omigod), also try to spot the lana songs i referenced by name !!

Vought Tower was intimidating on your first day, though you’d never admit it out loud. The glass walls, the sterile halls, the feeling that the entire building is watching you—it all felt like stepping inside a gilded cage. You weren’t naive; you knew this job wasn’t going to be easy. You’d read the reports, seen the news, and done your research. The Seven were powerful, untouchable, and deeply dysfunctional.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t done anything similar to this before. You’d worked as a trauma counselor for too long and needed something new. But although this wasn’t that different from your previous job, the paycheck Vought offered you was obscene, and the idea of helping anyone navigate that kind of mess was almost too good a challenge to resist.

Still, the reality of it was a little more… intense.

“Try not to take anything personally,” Ashley Barrett chirped, with her tangy-pitched voice and her heels clicking too quickly down the hallway as you struggled to keep pace. “They can be… uh, strong personalities.”

Well, that’s lovely. You raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond, clutching your notebook tighter. Strong personalities. Sure. That sounded like Vought’s PR-approved way of saying absolute trainwrecks and fucking maniacs.

The first meeting was set in the briefing room, a sleek conference space with a long table that was seemingly just for show. Fortunately for you, this was just an introductory meeting, and you had extra time to prepare for the sessions you would have with the supes later.

You weren’t expecting them to show up all at once—if they even showed up at all. But as you stood near the head of the table, straightening the folder in your hands for what felt like the thousandth time. the door swung open.

And there he was.

Homelander didn't just walk into a room; he commanded it. It was the first thing you truly noticed about him. Perfect posture, perfect suit, perfect smile that somehow felt more threatening than polite. His presence swallowed everything else, leaving no room for anyone else to breathe. And when his sharp blue eyes landed on you, it felt as though the world was closing in on you.

"You're the shrink?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Psychiatrist," you corrected, keeping your voice steady.

He chuckled, low and quiet, like he'd already decided this was going to be fun—for him, anyway.

"Welcome." He said, his eyebrows raising as he walked over to the chair at the head of the table.

You stepped a few steps over, but that clearly did nothing as he subtly scooted closer to you.

My, did you need so much strength for this job.

The job was not easy. In case that wasn't already clear. Getting the supes to cooperate was like talking to a wall. You didn't want to coerce them into spilling out every detail of their life, but you weren't expecting them to be so grounded. Maybe your judgement was just clouded from what the media showed you about them.

Luckily, your office was a calm contrast from the chaos exhibited in Vought tower. The decor was intentionally neutral-earthy tones, soft lighting, and a simple desk with your tablet, folder, and notebook resting on top. A pair of comfortable chairs sat across from each other, meant to foster openness. Yet, the calm facade of the room was tested by the personalities that walked through the door.

Maeve was... okay. She was sweet, closed off, and knew exactly when to stop talking. PR training had clearly blinded her.

Black Noir was quiet—obviously but did exchange a couple words through his notepad.

A-Train was clouded and very insecure. However, that didn't change your resentment for his attitude towards you. Goodness.

The Deep pissed. you. off. But you kept a professional demeanor. His misguided attempt to flirt with you and the exaggerated confidence almost made you want to punch a hole in the wall. Ha.

Starlight might've just been your favorite yet. She was sweet and willing to talk, and her soft voice made you feel safe.

However, when the clock struck 6:00, and Homelander walked into your office on the dot, lord, you might as well have fainted.

It wasn't that you liked him or idolized him. You barely knew of him. Of course, you'd heard the name here and there, but to be frank, you never kept up and your family didn't give two shits. But the way he carried himself and spoke to you, it made your heart clench.

He was surprisingly so open to speaking, but the more he opened his mouth, the more narcissistic he seemed. If you could diagnose him with a God complex, you would. He acted like some million-dollar man, though he truly was. It just seemed he wanted to be in charge wherever he went.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I want to hear about how you're doing and how I can... support you." You kept your expression neutral, though your pulse quickened.

Homelander's smile widened, but there was an edge to it. "Support me? That's cute, but I'm fine. Really. The question is, how are you holding up? First day on the job and all." His tone was so friendly and polite, it confused her.

And it went on like this every session. He would come at 6 P.M. on the dot every Friday and the atmosphere in the room would become so charged. His presence was so magnetic, and his smile was disarming, yet the more he talked, and the more you listened, you started to feel some kind of way. Not anything you could explain, as ironic as that seemed.

And there was no kidding he felt something too. But your feelings were nothing compared to his.

He felt a burning desire for you the minute he walked into that conference room and looked you straight in the eye. He was willing to give himself up for you, and it felt so weird for him. Never in his many years of living did he ever feel this way.

Plus, you were just some ordinary woman. There was nothing special about you to the ordinary eye. You weren't a superhero or an entrepreneur. At the end of the day, you were just a psychiatrist, trying to make it through the day. If that was the case, then why was he so drawn to you?

He didn't understand—no—he couldn't understand.

And as time went on, this desire only grew stronger. Mutually.

Homelander began to fixate on you, quite unhealthily for that matter. It started innocently enough: more frequent eye contact in your sessions, lingering in the doorway of your office, showing up early for your sessions, or even walking you out of the tower at the end of your shift.

Being around you was like a balm for the constant chaos in his mind.

To him, you're unlike anyone he's ever met: calm, kind, and so completely human it fascinates and unnerves him. You were the complete opposite of him, and he never thought he could be attracted to that.

He's always managed to be in a relationship that was, while short-lived, with someone who elicited every ounce of his personality. Someone who was just like him. And maybe that was a good thing, who knows? But it only confused him more.

At first, he tries to justify it. You're his psychiatrist. His shrink. Nothing less, nothing more. You're meant to listen to him, to care about his feelings; he tells himself it's just your job.

However, as time goes on, he starts wanting needing more. He's tired of the patient-doctor dynamic. He begins asking personal questions, sometimes invasive, using his enhanced hearing to eavesdrop on your conversations with others, and justifying it all with the idea that he's "protecting" you. Problem is, he doesn't really know what he's doing. He's just trying to convince himself that his actions are worth being justified.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't notice the shift in his behavior and try to keep the professional boundaries. You remind him, gently but firmly, that the relationship is strictly therapeutic. But it felt like you were telling yourself that rather than the captain himself.

"What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?" Homelander brings up after a moment of comfortable silence between the two of you.

You shifted in the cream-colored plush chair, your eyebrows raised with confusion. "I'm sorry?" You spoke questioningly. The two of you were just speaking about his narcissistic tendencies and now he's asking what your favorite ice cream flavor is? How bad was his attention span?

Homelander smiled, but it had that edge to it. So much so, you couldn't even tell if it was genuine. "What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Come on, you've gotta have one." He tilted his head as he continued to stare at you, his gaze never averting.

The question was simple. Innocuous, even. What's your favorite ice cream flavor?

But somehow, it felt like the world had slowed down the moment he asked it. What?

You blinked, the words tumbling through your heads as if he'd said something infinitely profound. It was the question itself—it was the way he asked it. The casual tilt of his head, the way his lips curved in that perfect, effortless smile, like he wasn't aware of the absolute devastation he left in his wake. His eyes—bluer than any sky or ocean you'd ever seen—were locked on you, so unrelenting it felt like he could see straight through your skin. He could.

Your throat tightened, a mix of awe and panic, as if he'd plucked every coherent though from your mind and left you with nothing but the ridiculous, overwhelming knowledge that this man was impossibly beautiful. Lord.

It was embarrassing! Really. You weren't some love-struck teenager, swooning at the mere sight of him. But God help you, that's exactly what it felt like.

"Uh..." you stammered, your brain working overtime to catch up to the question. You barely managed to form words; your voice softer than you intended. "Mint chocolate chip. I guess."

His smile deepened, and for a split second, you thought he might laugh. Not in a cruel way, no, but in that teasing, playful way that made your chest tighten even more.

"I love mint chocolate chip." He said, and you swore the warmth in his tone was just for you.

And just like that, you were lost.

You walked into your office the next day to find a tiny red cooler on top of your desk, with 4 jars of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Homelander starts requesting more one-on-one sessions than originally planned. At first, he frames it as a necessity. "You know, it's stressful being me," he says with a tight-lipped smile during one session, leaning back in the chair like he owns the room. "I think I deserve a little extra... support."

You can't exactly argue. After all, this is your job, right? If he wanted extra support, he would get it. Simple as that. But even in those early days, there’s something about the way he watches you that makes your skin prickle—not with fear, not yet, but with the awareness of something unspoken hanging in the air.

It’s manageable, at first. He talks vaguely about the pressure of being perfect, about always having to put a show for the cameras, the crowd, and his fellow teammates. He doesn’t give you much, but to be fair, he doesn’t have to. You’ve worked with people similar to him before, people who hide their vulnerability behind bravado.

What surprises you, though, is how much he seems to want you to understand him.

And he clearly won’t stop until you do. Or until he makes you feel the same way he does.

It’s late—too late for anyone to still be in the building. You’ve been working late, reviewing session notes and preparing for tomorrow’s meeting with The Seven. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, and the silence of Vought Tower felt heavier than usual.

You were so engrossed in your work that you didn’t notice him at first, not until his reflection suddenly became clear in the glass of your office window.

“Burning the midnight oil?” His voice was smooth, casual, but it startled you all the same.

You turned, clutching your chest. “Homelander—God, you scared me.

He stepped inside, uninvited, and you immediately noticed the difference in his appearance. His cape is slightly askew, his hair less perfect with strands falling into his face, and there’s a tension in his posture that you can’t seem to place.

“I was in the area,” he says, brushing off your concern with a shrug. “Thought I’d check in. See how you’re doing.”

The statement threw you off. “I’m… fine,” you said carefully, unsure of where this was going. “You didn’t need to come all the way up here for that.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not trouble. You know, I think you’re the only person in this whole damn building who’s honest with me.”

There’s a rawness to his words that takes you off guard, but before you can respond, he’s already moving closer, standing just a little too close. His gaze felt heavier than usual, like he’s searching for something in you—validation, comfort, maybe both.

"You really care about people, don't you?" he asked softly, almost as if he's testing the waters.

You nodded, choosing your words carefully. "I do. It's why I got into this field. I want to help."

He tilts his head, his smile sharpening into something darker, more knowing. "Even people like me?"

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. You meet his eyes, trying to keep your voice steady. "Especially people like you, Homelander."

"John." He corrected.

You furrowed your brows. "Sorry?"

"Call me John."

The first kiss didn't come softly—it was a collision.

It happened after one of your most intense and deep sessions. Homelander's mask slipped completely; his usual smirk replaced with a vulnerability so raw it made your chest ache. He's sat across from you, his hands gripping the edge of the chair as if he's afraid he might fall apart.

"I don't know how to stop," he admits, his voice low and trembling. "This... this thing inside of me. It's like... it's eating me alive."

You're not sure what to say. For all your training, for all your professionalism, you're still just a person. A person who feels too much.

"You're not broken, H... John," you whispered, even though you're not sure you believe it.

His eyes snap to yours, and for a moment, there's silence. Then he's standing, closing the distance between you in a single heartbeat.

"Don't say that," he says, his voice sharp but desperate. "Don't lie to me. You don't really understand—no one understands. But you... you're different."

Before you can stop him, his lips crash into yours. It's not gentle—it's needy, almost frantic, like he's trying to our everything he can't say into you. You feel the weight of his emotions in every movement, every shiver of his breath against your skin.

And for a moment, you let him. You kiss him back, your fingers curling into his suit as you let yourself drown in the intensity of it all.

But then reality hits, sharp and cold. You pull away, your breath hitching.

"This... we can't," you stammer, stepping back. "Homelander, this isn't right."

He doesn't respond immediately. His gaze is locked on you, his chest heaving. Then, slowly, a smile curls across his lips—a soft, unsettling thing.

"You felt it too," he says quietly, and there's a glimmer of triumph in his tone.

You shake your head, and the pounding of your heart is like music to his ears. "This can't happen again," you whisper, but even as you say the words, you're not sure you believe them.

You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it was a moment of weakness, nothing more. But it doesn't feel like a mistake. Not when you catch Homelander looking at you during your sessions, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

"I scare you, don't I?" he asks one day, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.

"You don't scare me," you reply, though your voice wavers.

He leans forward, his expression softening. "I should." He says, almost gently.

There's a part of you that wonders if he's right. If you're being reckless, selfish, delusional. But then there's another part of you—a darker, quieter part—that craves him. That loves him. Even though you know you shouldn't.

And that's the part that keeps you up at night.

You notice it the next morning—the way your mail seems disturbed, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in your hallway. It's subtle at first, easy to dismiss. But it only gets worse.

You find flowers on your doorstep. Your favorite, in fact. There's no note, but you know exactly who they're from.

When you confront him during your next session, he doesn't even try to deny it.

"You don't have to thank me," he says, smiling like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"John, this isn't... appropriate," you say, your voice firm but uncertain.

"Appropriate?" He echoes, his smile fading. "After everything I've done for this country, for this cruel world... you're worried about what's appropriate?"

You don't know how to respond, so you don't. But his words stick with you, planting seeds of guilt and confusion that take root in your mind.

You're sitting in your apartment, nursing a glass of red wine and trying to shake the feeling that you're being watched. The soft hum of the radio fills the space and before you know it, he's there, standing on your balcony like he belongs there.

"You left the curtains open," he says, his tone teasing but his expression serious.

"John," you say, standing quickly. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he steps inside, his gaze locking onto yours.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he says, his voice low and raw. "You're all I think about. Every second of every day. And it's driving me insane." He's practically fed up. He could kill you, get it over with and maybe then everything will go away. But somewhere deep inside, he knows that's not the case.

You should tell him to leave. But instead, you let him close the distance between you again.

When he kisses you this time, it's softer, slower, but no less intense. And once again, you let yourself get lost in it.

The kiss ends too soon, leaving you breathless and unsteady on your feet. Homelander—or rather, John, as he’s insisted you call him—steps back just enough to study your face. His expression is unreadable, a mixture of triumph, longing, and something darker, something that makes your pulse race for all the wrong reasons.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs, his voice almost tender. “I’d never let anything happen to you. No one will ever hurt you while I’m around.”

You can’t stop the chill that runs down your spine at his words. There’s sincerity in them, but also a quiet promise, one that doesn’t leave room for argument. It’s like he’s already decided what your life will look like, as if the idea of you existing without him is unfathomable.

“I’m not afraid,” you lie, stepping back, trying to regain your composure. “But this… this isn’t right, John. You know it isn’t.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, the mask slips. The vulnerability you’ve seen in your sessions flickers, but it’s quickly replaced by something colder, more calculating.

He doesn’t like being told no. You can see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the flicker of irritation that passes through his piercing blue eyes.

“But it feels right,” he counters, taking a step closer. “Doesn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too. I know you do.”

You want to argue, to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. Because the truth is, he’s right. You do feel it. That pull, that connection, that overwhelming magnetism that makes it impossible to think straight when he’s around. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff and daring yourself not to look down.

“This isn’t about what feels right,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “It’s about boundaries, John. About professionalism. And this—whatever this is—it crosses every line.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, slow and deliberate, like he knows something you don’t.

“You’re scared,” he says softly, almost sympathetically. “Not of me. Of how you feel about me.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. Because he’s not wrong, and he knows it.

“I think you should leave,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “This… this isn’t going to happen, John. It can’t.”

His smile falters, and for a split second, you see something raw and dangerous flash across his face. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, his expression hardening into something more familiar, more controlled.

“Alright,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll go. But this isn’t over. You know that, don’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. All you can do is watch as he steps back out onto the balcony, his cape billowing behind him like a shadow. He pauses for a moment, turning to look at you one last time.

“Goodnight,” he says, his voice soft but laced with something unspoken. And then he’s gone, disappearing into the night like he was never there.

You collapse onto the couch, your heart pounding in your chest. The room feels impossibly quiet without him, the weight of his presence lingering even after he’s left. You tell yourself it’s over, that he’ll leave you alone, that you can go back to your life and pretend none of this ever happened.

But deep down, you know better.

The following days pass in a blur. You throw yourself into your work, trying to ignore the way your skin prickles every time you pass a reflective surface, the way you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched.

The flowers keep arriving, always your favorite, always without a note. And every time you see them, you’re reminded of his words, his touch, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

And then, one night, you find a letter slipped under your door. It’s written in his handwriting, neat and precise, and your hands tremble as you read it.

I’ll wait as long as it takes. You know where to find me.

You fold the letter carefully, placing it in the drawer of your desk. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, that you don’t care, that you’re not waiting for him to come back.

But as you sit there in the quiet of your apartment, staring at the faint glow of the city lights outside your window, you can’t help but wonder what it would mean if you did.

Would it be so wrong to want him? To give in, just once, and see what it feels like to be completely consumed by someone like him? Or would it be the beginning of the end, the moment you lose yourself to something you can never take back?

You don’t have the answers. Maybe you never will. But you can’t deny the tiny, treacherous part of you that whispers: what if? What if it was easier? What if loving him didn't have to be so hard? Would you still do it?

And somewhere out there, in the shadows of the city, he’s waiting.

© axnqel ─ all rights reserved. our work is not to be reposted, translated or plagiarized anywhere.

[sasahuaa]

Riddle Rosehearts as an omega

Leona - Azul - Kalim - Vil - Idia - Malleus

GN reader; sfw; word count: 2680; tw: bad parenting, insecurity

Riddle’s mother had many expectations of him even before he was born, she wanted an alpha son, someone who would be seen as strong, smart, reliable and able to provide, so to say that she was disappointed when her dream son was an omega wouldn’t be an understatement.

Still, she wanted a perfect son, while she raised him, she made him repress many of his omega instincts, and yet would growl at him if he acted “too alpha”. He was an omega, he needed to be submissive, obey her and his future mate’s orders, even then, she had a dream, Riddle simply didn’t fit in her fantasy.

Riddle is starved for perfection within himself, to fulfill his mother’s wishes. Because of that, he is a really suppressed omega that doesn’t know much about his own body, living in a little box, he would appreciate a partner that encourages him to be himself, someone able to provide stability and hold themselves, independency is attractive for him, but also someone that stays close to him, since he thrives for constancy.

Courting

He first noticed you during the first year’s entrance, how could he not? Always paying attention to everyone around him, taking a thorough glance to every potential new Heartslabyul student or anyone that has the ability to become a rival to the members of his dorm.

You had his attention since then, a magicless student in a magic school is bound to receive surveillance.

Though since your companions are known troublemakers, maybe his first opinion wasn't the best, he was fast to assume that behind the nice face and delicious scent was a malicious alpha, at this time, he couldn't separate bad behavior (regardless of how much quieter, well mannered and polite you were compared with Ace or other students) from a good character.

People who don't follow the rules are simply bad, period, that's what his mom always said.

He bit his tongue after he got to know you better.

Riddle starts to develop feelings after his overblot, he spends more time with you since then, you presented yourself as compassionate and kind, you are reliable, willing to help others, even offered your own space to house ace after he had stormed out before Riddle's overblot, even when you had barely enough for yourself.

You may not follow or know the rules of the queen, but clearly had your sense of morality, and that was fine by him. You were new to this world, you are smart for what he can tell, to learn a new universe from the start is not easy, and yet you are able to carry yourself. He can help, if anything! He is being more understandable and loosening his hold onto the rules, but he would happily teach you the basics, or even more, if you are willing to listen.

You saw his vulnerability without judgment, and then knowing more about you, he was shaken.

It took him a while to realize his feelings, how he was starved for your companionship, how his heart beat faster when he felt your presence and his cheeks reddened at the sound of your melodic voice. And then even more time for him to come to terms with it, falling in love doesn't make sense to him, to be open and more likely to commit mistakes in his flustered state, to lose his words and stutter when he tries to convey a thought to you.

But Riddle couldn't deny that despite being terrified of such powerful feeling, scared to lose himself to insanity when he would let you unknowingly slip in the queen's rules, he loved it all the same. Being next to you was worth it.

So he decided to start the courting process, or rather, try to subtly convince you to start.

After all, he was an omega, and according to his mother, the duty of courting falls onto the alphas, the only way for him to participate is by seducing you, though it was already a stretch, in his ideal situation he wouldn't have to do anything at all, like the omegas from his mothers stories when they sit still while receiving proposals from strong potential mates. But he had to get through your head what he wanted, he would learn everything about you, Riddle simply couldn't let someone unworthy get you! You are the perfect alpha, others would realize it soon enough, or maybe they already had, so he has to act quickly!

But honestly, he is really bad at giving a hint, he has no experience whatsoever, mostly what he knows is from classic literature books that his mother would force him to read, which since then he was disinterested in such topics. Riddle would invite you for tea and help you study, ask for Trey to prepare sweets for both of you and walk around the garden, all while fumbling with his sleeves and spreading his scent.

Maybe you noticed his behavior and decided to court back, or Ace caught onto it and told you so. He flusters and stutters when he receives his first courting gift, an inaudible purr deep in his chest, whatever gift he receives is treated with great care, placed on his desk in his dorm room and cleaned quite often.

When he gets more comfortable in the courtship he begins to give you gifts of his own, it's a slow process to deconstruct his once thoughts of the roles a omega and alpha should have, if it was according to the books he had read about the subject, it's no doubt his mother would request for you to pay a bridal price. Reassurance is a must to him, since his overblot he is trying to rediscover himself, to act by his wants instead of his mother's. He is glad to have someone by his side to give him support.

Riddle was lonely, before, being a puppet to his family, Trey's pity of the omega's upbringing rendering him incapable to properly help his friend, Chenya going to another school, the fear his dorm mates have of him. He appreciates finally having someone to lean on, though he would never admit it out loud, at least not when he is in control of his own mind and body.

His gifts include stationery, with deep red colors, a tea set decorated with roses, and copies of his old notebooks about the classes you are attending.

Growling

In his house, he wouldn't dare growling, his mother did it a lot, but she would reprimand him instantly if he did the same.

Like his beloved strawberry tarts, her punishments didn't stop him, not really, when he was home alone, he would hide under his bed and growl quietly. It was comforting, to be able to de-stress, to let go of his nerves in his growling and let the vibrations relax his tense body slowly, until he could breathe normally again and leave his spot.

He began to growl openly when he entered NRC, how could everyone be so disrespectful towards the queen of roses’ orders? He used his growling to subjugate anyone who presumed they were above the law of Heartslabyul. His sound loud and proud.

After his overblot, he started to conceal more, he still growls in warning, but much more menial compared to before.

With you he is softer, in the beginning of the courtship he would avoid growling altogether, after all, omega's are not allowed to growl to their alphas. But after your reassurance that him growling wouldn't change how you saw him, he relaxed his vocal cords once again.

He growls when you choose the wrong beverage of the day, he growls when he sees you writing the wrong answer in your homework, he growls when your scent fades from his belongings or when you are drowned in different smells, so much that you own is barely present. But most of his growls towards you have no biting, he is merely letting go of his frustrations and means no harm.

He doesn't expect you to be perfect, of course, but he wants a perfect relationship. Growling to you is simply a warning about something that can be easily fixed.

Purring

Riddle didn't purr before meeting you, while growing up he didn't have other omega's companions close to him, even more doubtful that his mother would do this for him under any circumstance. If he did, at any moment, purr next to his mother, he would suffer the consequences for that, this gentle sound reminded her of his inherited failure, of not being born alpha.

When he received his first courting gift from you he was caught off guard by the tremor in his chest, he first thought it was another form of growling, but the warm feeling blossoming in his heart was much unfamiliar from the heat of irritation.

Eventually noticing his purr box finally functioning, he tries to shut it down, in an irrational frustration that this might be a sign of weakness, growling at himself to make the sounds stop when he did start to purr while thinking about you.

But the outcome made him feel guilty, after all, his alpha thought that the courting gifts they were giving him were not approved by the omega.

Then he starts to research more, and finds out that purring is beneficial for alphas, both for mental health, since the sound of purring results in release of dopamine, and also for being a symbol of acceptance.

At first his purr was almost inaudible, just a slight tremor inside his body, and finished too quickly, eventually becoming louder and clearer, though the tone would still break in between or stop out of nowhere.

Nesting

Riddle never nested, never had somewhere to feel safe, the closest to it was the tight space under his bed that he used to hide while he was a child. Now in NRC it's not like he felt the need to start, he was comfortable with just the common items for a bedding.

But since knowing you he felt the necessity to include some of your belongings to his sleep place. Even before courting, while his feelings were unknown to him, he was obsessed with your scent, stepping just a bit too close to your personal space while still being appropriate to a public setting.

The first clothing that was added to his blankets and pillows was your jacket. You lended it to him on a rainy day, the material covering his head and body, his entire being melted and his vision whitened for a second, everything around him was consumed by you.

Riddle went to his dorm with the new article, he had promised to give it back to you the next time you two met, but seeing your jacket sprawled on his bed with the thought of returning it made something gnaw at his stomach. It felt wrong to part from your clothing, he possessively kept it close to him during the night, falling asleep with your scent in his lungs.

Even though the jacket lost your smell he still kept it, now enveloped with his own scent, it wasn't perfect, Riddle much preferred yours, but his heart warmed that something of you was now claimed by him.

If you decided to give him more items of yours, they all ended up on his bed, he didn't make a nest separate from his sleeping space, he liked to have your scent close by while he drifted off. And if you gifted him something made by hand, like a knitted blanket, he would treasure it more than anything else, it was a sign of your dedication to him, in his eyes, he was certainly being spoiled!

It would take a while until he invited you to see his nest, and when you do, please praise it. He is new to giving in to his omega instincts, show that you care and accept every part of him.

Marking

Riddle would start to mark you later in the courtship, his hands finding your tie before classes, using the scent gland on his wrist to spread his smell on the cloth. On bad days he would also scent the collar of your shirt, an obvious warning to other omegas to stay away.

He trusts you, he really does believe you only have eyes for him, but he can't help but feel frustrated if someone thinks they have a chance with you, or if someone concludes he isn't taking good care of you by not marking his alpha.

Riddle also permits you to give him the same treatment, he is fond of your smell close to his face, he can scent clearly on his own tie, he also likes it on his sleeves next to his wrist.

Subspace

Riddle gives you permission to enter his nest when you are in an official relationship, it surprises him how cotton filled his mind became when you laid in his safe space, with your warmth next to him with everything that belongs to both of you.

It's easy to coax him to a subspace in moments like this, when there's no responsibilities ahead and just your voices fill the room. Praise him, say that he did a great job, that he is a person to be admired, how strong he is, caress soothing circles with your fingers over the scent gland on his neck, kiss his face, the omega will be putty in your hands and let his most vulnerable part comes out.

Normally he is not one to ask for affection, preferring to give hints over outwardly requesting, and Riddle never shied away from any of your touches in private. But while in his subspace he feels comfortable enough to be demanding.

He will guide your hands to his hair, kiss your knuckles, make you touch his chest so you can feel his purring vibrate through his body and touch your foreheads together. Whimpering in betrayal if you refuse him.

Just let him rely on you in moments like that, he never had the opportunity before, permit him to discover his deepest desires and he will be loyal and stay by your side until the end of his life.

☽ ☼ ☾

Riddle glanced away from his bed, the culprit of the turmoil in his mind carefully put above his pillow. Your jacket, even wet from the rain, still has your scent covering the fabric.

He growled at himself, suppressing the urge to just lay his head on it, to fall asleep with something of yours to give him the sense of protection. This was so confusing to him. Why is just your jacket able to give him a feeling of safety?

Riddle blamed his omega hormones, they seem to be going haywire lately, especially when you were close by.

The housewarden was trying to convince himself, “it's just a jacket”, he whispered to himself while sitting on the bed and taking the article close to his face, he will wash it before returning it to you, it's the polite, correct way to deal with this situation.

And yet, his omega voice screamed at him, causing an annoying weight on his heart at the thought of parting from it. It demanded to be taken care of, to relinquish the gift his alpha gave him.

Gift? Alpha? He had none of that, Riddle shushed the thought before it became too much.

And yet, he couldn't follow through what his responsible mind was telling him, he gave in to his instincts, hugging your jacket in his sleep, that night and the next, and every other night after that.

Oh well, he isn't shameless enough to ask for more, he will make do with anything you give him for now, maybe the next night he is convinced to try hinting you to court him, or when your scent eventually fades away and his omega is left feeling empty, but for now, all the comforted he needed was within his arms.

[fuck1ng-queen]

Less Complicated

Noah Sebastian x Reader

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: none actually, enemies to lovers

Author comments: hey bestiessss! this is the first oneshot i'm posting to celebrate valentine's day with bad omens and i'm so excited to this week because i'll post one per day! i hope you all like it and see you tomorrow! 💕

The wind was blowing so hard you could hear it. You pressed your arms against your body, trying your best to close your coat around you. The leafless trees danced under the light of the streetlamps. A few small piles of snow piled up on the damp sidewalks, reflecting the brightness of the shop windows decorated with red hearts and shiny letters. The distant sound of laughter and conversations between couples walking by created a cozy backdrop, contrasting with your loneliness as you walked. Valentine's Day had never been a special day for you, it was just another one when the world around you was immersed in hearts and flowers. As you walked to the café on the corner, the one you always went to when you felt lonely, your thoughts were occupied with the upcoming exhibition you were organizing for the local gallery. It was the only thing that still kept you distracted from it all.

The sound of music in the distance caught your attention. You frowned in disapproval as you recognized the melody of the famous song by the band you avoided listening to so much. More specifically, the lead singer you'd rather forget: Noah.

Noah had always been a constant presence in your life, but not always for the best reasons. Ever since high school, your lives seemed intertwined by an inexplicable rivalry. He was the kind of person who always made a point of annoying you, as if he knew exactly where every single one of your vulnerabilities was. How could someone who hated you so much get to know you so well? And to make things worse, he did it with pleasure, always with a smile on his face that at the time you could die for, but you would never tell anyone that you found it attractive.

The music in the distance brought back memories. The fierce competitions to be the best student in the class, the discussions about who was the most creative in the projects, the challenging looks you exchanged every chance you got. Noah always found a way to unsettle you, with his unfunny jokes and constant teasing. He knew exactly how to make you angry.

“Do you really think you can beat me?” Noah scoffed after one of the many competitions you’ve entered.

“At least I make an effort, unlike you who only rely on your own cheap charm,” you retorted, with sparks in your eyes.

“Charm? I didn’t know you noticed,” he replied with that mischievous smile that only pissed you off even more.

Inside the café, the warmth and the scents welcomed you. You took off your coat and sat down by the window, opening your computer to revise a few things. You were so immersed in your work that you almost didn't notice when a man entered the café, shaking the snow out of his hair and heading for the counter. He looked different from what you remembered, maybe more mature, but still with that carefree air that irritated you so much. You blinked a few times until you believed it was none other than Noah.

“I can’t believe it.” His voice brought you back to reality.

You looked up, forcing a polite smile. “Noah.”

“You here? I swear I didn’t expect to see you.” He smiled, and you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’m working. What about you?”

“Show. We're in town. It looks like the band is still following you,” he joked, and you let out a sigh.

“Unfortunately, it seems so.” You turned your attention back to the screen, trying to put an end to the conversation.

But Noah wasn't the type of person to be ignored so easily. He ordered a coffee and sat down at your table, facing you. “Why are you always so serious? Isn't it Valentine's Day? You should be having fun.”

“And what about you? Where's your romantic day?” you replied, raising an eyebrow.

“I don't have one. My passion is music, remember?” He shrugged, taking a sip of coffee.

“Of course. How could I forget?” you replied, with a touch of sarcasm. “You play everywhere.”

“You always notice, then” he laughed, making you roll your eyes. “But what about you, still organizing those art exhibitions?” Noah asked, trying to strike up a conversation.

“Yes, that's my job,” you replied as dryly as you could, turning your eyes back to your laptop.

“You know, you really take all this seriously. Haven't you ever thought about relaxing a bit?” he teased.

You sighed and closed your laptop with an audible click. “Noah, why do you always feel the need to tease me?”

“Because it's fun to see you get angry,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “But maybe I also like to see you a little out of your comfort zone.”

“You don't change, do you? Always the same Noah, eager to be the center of attention,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

“And you, always so focused, so determined,” he said softly. “Maybe that's what I admire about you.”

You couldn't help but be surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Admire? You?”

“Yes. As much as we fight, I've always admired your passion for what you do. We're artists, we can't deny that we're passionate, and I admire that in you. Even if I don't say it often,” Noah admitted, looking directly into your eyes.

You felt disconcerted. You weren't used to this vulnerable version of Noah, let alone a compliment from him, or the way you felt, unable to arm yourself for a response. You looked away, trying to process what he had said.

“Well, thanks, I guess,” you mumbled, not knowing what to say.

Noah smiled, realizing that he had managed to disarm you. “Who knows, maybe we should try being friends for once?”

You arched an eyebrow, still skeptical. “Friends? I don't know if we're ready for that.”

“Maybe not now, but who knows in the future?” Noah replied, getting up to leave. “Anyway, it was good to see you. Good luck with the new exhibition.”

“Thank you, Noah. Good luck with your presentation,” you replied, watching as Noah left the café.

(...)

In the following days, you tried to concentrate on your work, but the conversation with Noah kept going through your head. He seemed different, more sincere, more vulnerable. It made you uneasy.

On the opening night of the exhibition, you were nervous. The lights in the gallery shone brightly, reflecting the meticulously selected paintings and sculptures. You ran your eyes over everything, as if there were still some detail or other that might have gone unnoticed, in an attempt to suppress your nervousness.

“It's perfect,” Noah's voice sounded next to you, soft and encouraging.

You turned to him, surprised to see him there. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to support you. We're artists, I know how lonely today can be for you. I thought you might need a friend tonight,” he said with a warm smile.

You felt a genuine wave of gratitude at that moment, making you smile back. “Thank you, Noah. It means a lot to me.”

“Can I ask you something?” Noah hesitated, as if choosing every word he was going to say.

“Of course,” you replied, curious.

“Why have you always hated me so much?” The question was direct, but there was a vulnerability in his voice that made you feel your stomach lurch.

You took a deep breath, staring at him. “It was never hate, Noah. I think it was... fear. Fear of how you made me feel. You were always so free, so confident, and I didn't know how to deal with it.”

“Fear?” Noah asked, surprised. “I never wanted to scare you. I always thought you hated me because well... I've always been a jerk to you.”

You laughed softly, despite your serious look. “And you were. But I was also a bit stubborn and proud. The two of us were always competing, always trying to prove I don't know what to I don't know who. Maybe we were actually trying to hide what we really felt.”

“And what did we really feel?” Noah asked in a soft tone, but full of curiosity.

You sighed, your gaze fixed on his eyes. “I think we were afraid of getting hurt. It was easier to fight than to admit that maybe there was something more. Something we didn't know how to deal with.”

“I won't deny it, I always felt there was something more,” Noah admitted. “But I didn't know how to tell you. Every time I tried, we ended up fighting. And then I thought, maybe it's better this way. Less complicated.”

“Less complicated, more painful,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly. “As time went by, I kept thinking about all the things I wish I'd told you, but never did. There was always a barrier between us, something we never knew how to cross.”

Noah took a step closer, gently holding your hand. You didn't remember, but that was probably the first time you touched each other, and it gave you goosebumps. “I always felt that there was something big between us. Maybe it's too late, but I think I'd still like to explore it with you.” 

You felt your heart soar at his words. “Noah, I feel it too. I think I want to stop running away.” 

He smiled, gently pulling you closer. “So, what do you say about starting now? My name is Noah and I sing in a band.” He smiled, holding out his hand to shake yours.

You giggled, feeling your face heat up. You smiled back, your eyes shining with the chance of a new hope, feeling that the truce between you could last forever.

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Masterlist | Valentine's Day One Shots

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@lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @kenjipepsi1 @chey-h @concretejunglefm @blade-dressed-in-red

Send me an ask to join my taglist

[newtsgirl122]

Um? - January 19th, 2025

So as of now, TikTok was restored in the U.S. - we all got a little message from the app praising Donald Scumbag Trump. Which is 100% propaganda and political theatre.

I still plan on leaving the app as well as anything Meta and X related come tomorrow when that POS takes office.

One thing I do want to acknowledge is what was said about Americans after the TikTok shut down - many of us are a victim of circumstance. This is where we just so happened to be born. Do you really think we enjoy being the laughingstock of the world? This country is 100% an oligarchy! Half of us are educated and DID NOT vote to reelect him! I didn't! I never voted for him and never will!

I am a historian, I study History - specifically WWII and the Holocaust as well as anything pertaining to genocide, fascism, and the like. Ever since 2016, I have been screaming from the rooftops that this is the path we are on. I am going on 22 years old this year and I knew way back then that this place is a huge mess, and I don't want to live in it! I want to live where I am not going to fear for my life going to school or a grocery store! I want to be able to afford groceries and healthcare and I want my kids to have a good quality education! I am not rich! Being able to eat tomorrow is hardly in my budget let alone being able to leave. I have a list of places I'd love to be a citizen of instead of the U.S. but now I see just how much my fear of being welcomed is validated.

It reminds me of the Handmaid's Tale, when the Canadians started attacking American refugees who escaped Gilead. My ancestry originated from mainly Ireland, Switzerland, and Scottland. I still have close relatives that live in Switzerland. You all see what Trump says he wants to do - if I would leave for the fear of my safety as a bisexual, non-Christian, single woman with a baby on the way, would I be understood and welcomed? Or would I receive hate and backlash for being an invader? All because I'm sick of living in constant fear?

This country is not what we are indoctrinated from the age of 5 to believe it is. It is full of suffering, struggle, and oppression on levels many of you don't see. My parents were drug addicts. I was raised by my grandmother who gets no aid or support from anyone and now works part time. The "American Dream" is just that, a dream.

Americans may very well need help in the not-so-distant future, who will be there to help us? Or will we all be condemned?

Xenophobia isn't exclusively American...

[dancing-lex]

I was immediately struck by this panel in the manga in which Light is thinking about the effect of Kira's judgment on how average people across the globe interact with each other.

This is well known and well examined in the fandom but it really never ceases to amaze me how much of an influence Soichiro has on Light's values and thinking patterns. The modern police state rules with fear as the primary method of control. Light takes the enforcement of law-abiding behavior under threat of violence to the extreme by giving any criminal the death sentence. Being raised by a cop, he would be inclined to believe that this is the best or only way to attain peace.

I think this panel reveals something about Light's character; he thinks to himself that it's a GOOD thing that people are afraid, that the fear of getting killed by Kira will prevent them from doing bad things. Fear = good. Now that I think about it, I bet Light is of the opinion that if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear, so he probably thinks that anyone who is afraid of Kira would be guilty (but that's another can of worms).

The thing is, sure, fear is a great motivator, but that also effects other parts of your life. Light mentions that people have begun to treat each other better (citation needed, anecdotal evidence?) but consider. If you're afraid of your neighbors snitching on you, you're less likely to want to interact with them. You don't know who you can trust; best not to have any close personal conversations. You might be overly (inauthentically) friendly just to make sure people don't plaster your face on the internet for Kira to judge. Otherwise, you might avoid interaction as much as possible. Lie if you have to, if it preserves your safety. Conform, appear normal, be a good person, try not to draw too much attention.

And this is what gets me the most, because isn't that how Light behaves? He's taking his own fear of people finding out the ugly parts of him and imposing that on everyone else. He essentially standardizes how all the people in the WORLD interact. Can you imagine the impact of Kira's rule on communities, friendships, relationships, families, not to mention diplomatic relationships and politics?? Light is singlehandedly breaking down the networks between people.

And the fact that HE is the one doing this is just so fascinating. I'm under the impression that Light believes he's actually doing something good for the world, but what he can't see is that he's actually vaporizing something so vital to society - the genuine connections we need to survive and lead fulfilling lives. And because that's not something he's really, honestly experienced, he doesn't even realize what he's doing. He wouldn't get it anyway.

[kortsitron]

Corruption

✮ PARING Hobie Brown × Trans Male! Reader

✮ WARNINGS/TAGS reader realizes he's trans, pre-transition reader, religious themes, christianity, fluff, angst, supportive! hobie, reader is referred to as a girl/daughter in some moments, hobie and reader are both young adults, gender dysphoria, toxic parents, abuse, transphobia, cursing, reader is referred by she/her by his parents, happy ending

✮ SUMMARY A stranger comes to your town and helps you realize who you are

✮ A/N  If you know me, you probably know my opinion on Christianity and religion in general, but I won't lie, I kinda like the religious themes. Especially when it's about being taken out of it and realizing that the world has so much to offer once you leave it. I guess it's my type of thing since I have been raised as a catholic little ‘girl’ and now I hate religion with pure passion after having it shown down my throat for years when I was younger. One more thing, if you're not comfortable, please do not read this. I am aware there are people who can be triggered by any of the things mentioned in the warnings/tags. If you decide to read this, I hope you're going to enjoy it! <3

In a way inspired by confessions by @eyesxxyou

ao3 masterlist requests

You were such a perfect girl in everyone's eyes. Always so nice and polite, obedient towards your parents, in church every Sunday. You were so feminine, so lovely. Always wore those pretty dresses and skirts of yours, along with the necklace with virgin Mary on your pretty neck. And your gorgeous long hair. You were a perfection to everyone around you.

But you didn't feel perfect in the slightest.

You felt so wrong for some reason you couldn't quite name. Your body felt like a cage you couldn't get out of and you didn't know why. All you knew was that you wanted to cut your hair, hide your body under some baggy clothing and yell at everyone who called you a girl. But obviously you couldn't do that, no matter how much you wanted to. You didn't want people to look at you weirdly, to call you a freak. 

So you decided to stay quiet, knowing that nothing was going to change because you were too scared to do it on your own. Scared of judgment and scared of being abandoned. 

All you did was pray that your sinful fantasies would simply go away. But instead of them going away, something else happened. Like the prayers from the depth of your heart have been heard and finally answered.

You saw him after the Sunday mass, as you were standing next to your mother while she was talking with someone else. He was nothing like you've ever seen before. Those piercing glistening in the sunlight just like the spikes on his vest. The distressed pants with patches and chains. And those heavy boots. He was the definition of perfection, definitely not to those around you, but for you without a doubt.

You have caught eye contact with that beautiful stranger. His stunning brown eyes stared into yours as he smirked at you. He probably thought you were just a pretty girl, you assumed. After all, why would he think differently?

“Do not look at him.” Your mother scolded you, grabbing you by your shoulder and turning you to face her. You could see the disgust on her face. You’ve never seen her with that kind of grimace on her face. “I do not want to see you near him. I can already tell he's no good.”

She didn't say it, but you could already tell she saw him as the embodiment of everything that was sinful. And the last thing she wanted was her precious daughter to stray from God's path.

You glanced at the punk for the last time before your mother said that you were going home. He still watched you. He wasn't sure what it was about you that made him want to get to know you. But something inside him told him that you needed him.

Since then you saw him around the town, but you didn't dare to come close to him. You felt a rush of excitement in your stomach every time you saw him, saw that smirk of his. You didn't have anyone who excited you the way he did. But he indeed did excite you, but you couldn't even talk to him, being scared your parents might yell at you.

Everything changed when you were peacefully reading the bible on the bench next to the church. It was so warm and sunny, so you picked a spot under a tree. Your hair was made into a long braid that was getting more loose without you noticing. 

You then heard someone sit next to you. You looked up from the bible to see him. That beautiful punk, smirking at you shamelessly. He looked even better up close. 

“Hello, luv. I'm Hobie.” His voice was lower than you thought it would be. But it sounded so good, so smooth you could almost melt. His eyes looked from your face to the bible you held your hand, then back to your face. You started wondering what was on his mind. “What's your name, hmm?”

You bashfully told him your name. You weren't sure how to act. Was he expecting you to pretend to be this perfect girl everyone perceived you as? Or maybe he was finally someone that could let you be yourself? Either way, you were scared to find out.

He chuckled at your bashful reaction. Your cheeks got pink so quickly. You were just so adorable. And so… innocent. But you had a feeling he could see right through you. See that all of this was just a facade and under all of it, there was a real you, trying to get to the surface. Trying to be free.

“Have you ever listened to punk rock?” Hobie asked out of nowhere. You blinked. You? Listening to loud, unapologetic music? You could never do that. At least not without worrying about being judged.

Finally you shook your head and his smirk widened. “Darlin’, we have to change that immediately.” He saw you shake your head even more. 

You heard about punk rock. The unapologetic and loud music for brutal men who have abandoned God's ways and all the rules. At least that's what you have been told by your mother. “They are good for nothing but corrupting the minds of pretty girls like you. And I cannot let that happen.” She told you and you wondered if Hobie was that type of punk. The type to ruin you and corrupt you.

“I-I can't. I am not allowed to listen to that kind of music.” You looked down at the bible in your hands, you couldn't look Hobie in the eyes. You expected him to think you were weird for not being allowed to listen to what you wanted. But all you wanted was to avoid conflict.

Hobie's face went from confusion to smirk again. “Oh please. I can see that there's a little rebel hidden behind those pretty innocent eyes.” So he indeed could right through you.

You nervously played with your hair, wanting to both agree and refuse. And in a quick moment, your beautiful braid was untied. “Oh no.” You watched your hairband fall onto the grass. Hobie noticed it too. He moved and grabbed it, quickly cleaning it off from all the dirt. “Allow me.” He spoke so softly. You weren't sure if you should allow him to touch you in any way, but he just wanted to help you tie your hair, right? 

You decided not to overthink it, sitting with your back facing him, so he could tie your hair. You didn't expect it, but he was so gentle with your hair. No harsh hair pulling. His fingers parted your hand so nicely before he began to braid it. You almost melted.

And soon, you had your pretty braid again. Not as perfect as you could have done it, but it was still really nice. “Thank you so much, Hobie.” You said quietly before excusing yourself and saying you had to go. His eyes softened, he only nodded, asking if he could talk to you again. “I hate to say it, but I can't be seen with you.” 

Hobie sighed, his fingertip tapped at his lip ring, he seemed lost in thoughts. “And if we meet in secret?” He looked down at you, you were so short compared to him. “You can come over to my place, no one will know you were with me and I could show you some of my world.” He spoke so proudly when he mentioned introducing you to his world. And even though you technically shouldn't be meeting him, you were more than curious. So you agreed at last.

Obviously, someone saw you with Hobie. Your parents weren't proud of you for talking to him. You had no other choice than to lie, just like you did when it came to who you really felt about yourself. 

Yes, I like this dress. 

Yes, I like those shoes.

Yes, my hair is so pretty when it's so long.

Yes, I am a girl.

You had to lie, even though you wish you didn't have to. But you hoped that at the end of the day, when you were praying before going to sleep, God would forgive you for lying to everyone around you. He would understand, right?

So, as always, you lied, telling your parents that Hobie asked for some help because he was a newcomer and didn't know the town very well. Your parents weren't happy you talked to him, but knew, or at least believed, you were too good and polite to refuse to help him. They didn't think twice about it, allowing you to go to your room. They didn't mention Hobie braiding your hair, so you just assumed they didn't know about it, so you decided not to mention it either. It was better to keep your mouth shut.

You were careful when the day of visiting Hobie came. You told your parents that you went to study the bible at your friend's house. They didn't suspect a thing. You made sure no one could see you as you made your way to Hobie's apartment. And soon enough, you were in front of the door of his apartment.

You knocked lightly, heard the sound of locks being unlocked and then the door finally opened. You saw Hobie and he looked at you with that same softness like the last time. But this time he rubbed one eye with a cotton pad. You had a look of confusion on your face when you saw that.

“Come in, luv.” He moved so you could come inside, but instead of looking around, you watched him.

“Are you… wiping off your makeup?” The question sounded so stupid in your mind. Men weren't wearing makeup… right?

Hobie chuckled softly before going to the bathroom to wipe the makeup off more precisely in front of the mirror. You saw a few small eyeshadow palettes with bright eyeshadow in them, along with eyeliner and even two lipsticks. Even you didn't own that much makeup, you barely had any makeup since your parents didn't want you to paint your face like a whore.

“Yeah. I have been to a small party outside the town, so I wanted to look me best.” Hobie explained, before throwing a dirty pad into the bin. He then turned to you, it was obvious that you never saw a man wearing makeup before. You've never seen someone like him before. He allowed himself to check you out, you had a long skirt and a cute top that matched the skirt so well. “I am guessing you never wore the kind of makeup I usually go for?”

His hand grabbed one of the eyeshadow palettes and gave it to you, so you could see the inside better. You didn't think much and opened it. You hand one makeup palette and it was mostly light browns, one a little more glittery eyeshadow and two light pinks. But Hobie’s? It was so colorful. Red, blue, green and yellow. All of them so bright and pigmented.

He smiled when he saw your reaction, he felt excitement in his stomach. You looked stunned. “Why don't I finally show you that punk rock?” He left the bathroom and you followed him. His apartment was a little messy. Posters on every wall, some chokers and other jewelry scattered in some places and some clothes laying around. But his room was even better. It was so… him. You could see the room scream Hobie. Even more posters, a guitar. It might have been a little messy, but it had so much character.

Hobie moved to the old cd player and in the matter of seconds, the loud music played. Black Flag on full volume. At first you weren't sure what to think, but soon, you started loving it. You stopped caring about anything when the music played, banging your head to the rhythm. At first a little shyly, but then you were more confident about it, not caring if you were going to mess up your hair. You looked so happy, you felt so happy. It has been since you felt like that.

Even since Hobie came here, he finally saw your smile, the real and sincere smile on that face of yours. But he saw it falter when Can't Decide by the Black Flag started playing.

Sun's coming up and I can't decide

To spill my emotions or keep them inside

Go for a drive, go to the store

I'm looking for something that can't be bought there

I always wear a smile

Because anything but a smile would make me have to explain

And they wouldn't understand anyway

And they wouldn't understand anyway

I conceal my feelings so I won't have to explain

What I can't explain anyway

It hit so close to home, you almost started sobbing. Hobie saw it immediately and turned the music off. He sat next to you, one arm around you while he rubbed your arm with the other to comfort you. He barely knew you, but he was so concerned about your well being already. “What happened, dove?” He asked so quietly, almost as if he was scared he might make you start crying just by asking.

But you weren't ready to admit what has been going inside your head for months. And he could see that so well. A few tears went down your cheeks so you asked for a tissue. You smudged your makeup a bit, but luckily Hobie was able to fix it with the only brown palette he owned, the one had forgotten about since he never used it.

You gathered your things and apologized. “Don't apologize, luv. Just know you can come and talk about what's going on in that pretty head of yours.” You only nodded before leaving. 

Your parents weren't home by the time you came back, they were probably in the neighbor's house, talking and eating how they did once in a while. Probably praising you how good and obedient you were, and how they were happy to have a daughter like you.

And after that situation at Hobie's place, it became harder to pretend. It became hard not to cry when you were called a perfect daughter, pretty girl and beautiful woman. You couldn't wait any longer, you had to talk with someone about it. And the only person who would not judge you was Hobie. 

It has been a while since you talked to him. But you came back, trembling, looking like you were about to start crying at any given moment. Hobie didn't think twice, he just let you in, sat down on the floor while he seated you on his bed. His calloused hands found yours and he caressed them gently in order to comfort you.

And finally, after all this time, you opened up about what has been on your mind for all those months. You explained how you felt trapped in your own body, how you hated being seen as a girl and how much it hurt when you were called and seen as one. How much you just wanted to be yourself.

Hobie's eyes softened, his hand touched your delicate cheek as his thumb stroked it. You didn't flinch away from his touch, instead you leaned into his hand, enjoying the way he touched you. “Darlin’, I think you might be trans.”

“I might be what?” Your nose was already stuffed from all that crying, making your voice sound funny. Hobie sighed before his lips curled into the soften of smiled. 

“Trans, hun.” You still looked confused, but he wasn't going to blame you. You've been living in a place where you were too scared to be yourself, you couldn't name your feelings even though you have been feeling them for months. It was obvious these people weren't talking about things like that, at least not in the way that would make you want to explore those feelings.

“It's uh, it's when your body doesn't match how you feel on the inside. Like you, you have been born as a woman, but you don't feel like one, don't you?” You shook your head, of course you didn't feel like a woman. Thinking about yourself as a woman didn't feel right. 

Hobie got an idea. “Why don't you go to the bathroom and take all of that off? I'll bring ya some clothes and then you'll tell me how you feel.” He helped you with making your way to the bathroom and closed the door after you. You took off the dress, standing in nothing more than your underwear. It felt a bit less suffocating to not be wearing that stupid dress.

Soon, you heard Hobie knock on the door. “I have some stuff I think might look good on you.” You covered yourself with the towel that was near you, not wanting for Hobie to see your body. But he didn't even peek in, instead he held the clothes for you, letting you grab them before he quickly closed the door behind him.

You looked down at the clothes. Some distressed jeans with patches and studded belt, white shirt with some graffiti, which you assumed was decorated by Hobie himself and even some hand warmers to match the outfit.

You had put on the outfit and left the bathroom, only to see Hobie waiting for you. His eyes sparkled when he saw you. And he could see it in your face that you felt better. He looked so excited for you.

But you still had that long braid. “Let me…” Hobie murmured before you felt him touch your hair again. You weren't sure what he did exactly, but when you stepped in front of the mirror, your hair looked so short. It wasn't perfect, but you loved how your hair looked, way more than it looked in a braid, ponytail or any other hairstyle you were used to. You looked like a boy, and you were so happy.

At that very moment, you knew you couldn't go back to how your life was before. You couldn't go back to wearing dresses, praying to the God that probably never listened to you and did not care about you. You could no longer pretend that you were the perfect girl you were seen as until now.

Hobie's hands grabbed you by your shoulder. “Do you want me to call by a different name?” He asked, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as he rubbed your shoulders. You thought about it for a moment, before looking up at him and speaking up. “Do you think [Name] would suit me?”

Hobie chuckled and nodded. “Definitely, luv. Definitely.” He couldn't help himself and softly kissed your cheek. You were surprised by the sudden affection, but you enjoyed it.

“I want you to cut my hair. I want it short..” You said so suddenly, your voice was a little shaky, but you couldn't wait anymore. You have wanted to cut it for a while and you didn't want anyone else other than Hobie to do it. He was surprised by you. He didn't expect you to want to do it now.

“Are you su–” 

“Yes, I am sure.” You cut him off, you didn't want to be mean, but you couldn't wait any longer. “Please… I don't want to go back to what was before. I don't want to pretend to be someone who I am not.” You begged, you sounded so desperate. He couldn't say no to you when you sounded like that.

“Okay.” He said, giving your shoulders a squeeze before he took you to the bathroom. He brought a small stool and seated you on it. He grabbed a scissors, untied your hair, looking at it for the last time before he started cutting it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your stomach swirling with anxiety, as you listened to the sound of the scissors cutting your hair.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

You felt your hair, your hair that you got so many compliments on, tickling your arms and neck before it fell down on the bathroom floor. “Done.” Hobie said, his voice was flat. It made you worry. Did you look bad? Did he mess up your hair? Was it a mistake?

He brushed the cut hair off of you, before you stood up and looked in the mirror. It was not perfect, but it still made you feel good. You started sobbing immediately. “Dove? Are you alright?” Hobie asked, worried and a little panicked.

“I've never felt better.” You sobbed out and he sighed, relieved that you liked it. He hugged you tightly, being so glad to see you happy with who you were.

But it couldn't go on forever. You came home pretty late, still wearing the clothes Hobie gave you earlier. And in the hoodie he gave so you wouldn't be cold while coming back home. You knew confrontation wouldn't be something you were able to avoid . And you knew it wouldn't be a light confrontation either.

Your parents were sitting in the living room. As soon as you closed the front door behind you, you heard your father call you by the name you no longer wished to be called by. You took a deep breath, pulling a hood over your head before you entered the living room. Your parents eyes were immediately on you, your mother gasped loudly.

“What the fuck is that!?” Your father yelled, he stood up and grabbed you by the hood and yanked it off your head. He intended to grab you by your hair, but there was nothing to grab. Your lovely long hair was long gone and there was nothing they could do about it. In a way, that made you proud.

“What have you done to yourself!?” Your mother shouted with tears in her eyes. You've never seen her crying and you didn't expect her to get so emotional. She always seemed so cold. “Where's your hair? Your dress?” She's never been so panicked. “What will we say to the others once they see that your hair is gone? What will they think of us? What will they think of you?”

There was this need to apologize, turn the time back and never let yourself explore who you really were. But you weren't going to let this need win. You have been obedient for way too long. You were pretending for way too long and now? You were tired of it.

“I don't fucking care what are they going to think of me!” You shouted back. Both of your parents were startled by the fact that you just cursed. They never heard you curse, nor did they hear you sound so confident. “I have been pretending to be someone who I wasn't me for way too long. I am not going to let you decide about how I am anymore!” 

Slap!

Your father slapped you so hard you fell to the floor. Your cheek was all red already. You and your mother were both shocked. Your father was about to take his belt off and start beating you, but your mother stopped him. “I am sure there's something we can do instead of beating her up. People will notice and they might think we were the one to cut her hair off. We can buy a wig until her hair grows back.”

“I am not growing it back and I am not putting the dresses back on.” You hissed. Maybe you shouldn't have done that, but you ripped off the virgin Mary necklace off your neck and threw it.

Your parents were more than shocked at your action. “She must have been corrupted by that punk!” Your mother cried out. “What are we going to–” Your father lost his temper. Instead of beating you up like he initially planned, he grabbed you and threw you out the door. “I no longer have a daughter!” It was the last thing you heard before he closed the door.

Soon, your father started throwing your things out the window. All those gorgeous dresses and skirts flying out the window. Before you were terrified to even slightly rip them and now? You didn't care that they got dirty, they stopped mattering to you. You only waited for your father to throw your phone. You wanted to catch it, but it fell onto the concrete, the phone screen broke, but luckily for you, you still were able to use it. You grabbed some more important things that your father had thrown and then made your way to Hobie's apartment.

He was concerned, but both of you knew it was better that way. If you stayed, nothing would change and everything would go worse. More praying, more femininity, more pretending. But you weren't going to stay with your parents, luckily Hobie said you could stay with him.

You were laying with Hobie in his bed. You were so lost in your thoughts and he could see it clearly. Hobie laid on his side to face you, the tips of his fingers brushed against your jaw to get your attention. You turned to look at him. “You okay?” You put your hands on your face and sighed.

“I'm fine. It’s just… I've wanted to be myself for a while and I…” You paused for a moment, not looking into Hobie's eyes. In a way, it all felt unreal. Usually, you would now be in your bed, reading the bible or praying. And now, you were laying with a man you didn't know very well, but he gave you everything you could have asked for. Acceptance, help and hope. 

Your eyes finally met his again. “I didn't expect that it would actually happen. I thought I was going to be everyone's perfect girl until I die, but you came into my life and changed everything. Thank you so much for that.” You smiled at him, you were so grateful he came into your life. He smiled back at you and leaned to kiss your cheek.

��You're very welcome, luv.” 

You both left the town as quickly as you could since that happened. Now, it has been 6 years since the day you met him. Everything has been truly perfect since then. Your transition was going well and you recently had your top surgery.

And Hobie? He was with you the whole time. During the first appointment at the doctor, he helped you take your first testosterone shot and he held your hand both before and after the surgery.

Life couldn't be more perfect and you never felt more perfect.

taglist: @sk3llly

[ikkyfics]

Come back to me

Tom Ryder x fem!reader

Summary: "Why are you here, Tom?" Your voice was firmer this time, despite the pulse hammering in your ears. "Because you left me." He tilted his head, and the slightly joking tone disappeared for a moment. "And honestly, I thought it was clearer that I don't let things get away so easily."

Warnings: suggestive , just Tom being Tom

Masterlist

The sound of knocking on the door echoed through the dark room, interrupting your peaceful night. You settled into the couch, the tub of ice cream balanced in your hands and the spoon between your teeth, frowning. It was too late for visitors. For a moment, you stood still, hoping whoever it was would give up and go away. But the knocking persisted, steady and rhythmic, as if the visitor knew you were home.

Sighing, you put the ice cream aside and stood up, hurriedly adjusting your short pajamas. The soft fabric hugged your skin, the fuzzy socks muffled the sound of your footsteps on the floor. You hesitantly unlocked the door and opened it just enough to peek in.

There, framed by the pale light of the hallway, he stood.

Tom Ryder, with his perfectly trimmed beard, his hair tousled in a calculated way, and that unbearably confident expression. The expensive leather jacket and the impeccable shirt underneath were in keeping with the image of a movie star he carried like a trophy. Even his tailored pants and leather shoes gleamed ridiculously opulent.

“You?” Your voice came out louder than you intended, betraying your surprise.

He smiled, one corner of his mouth turning up, his blue eyes boring into you as if they knew a secret you didn’t. “Now, don’t look at me like that. Are you going to leave me out here? That’s not very polite of you.”

“How… How do you know where I live?”

His smile widened, tinged with an almost irritating smugness. “I know more than I let on, honey.”

You blinked, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. He, the man who had practically turned your life into a circus with his endless post-its and absurd demands, was standing there, in your doorway, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“I… I don’t think…” you started to reply, but he raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, as if he was gauging your resistance.

“If you’d rather have our picture taken and it become news tomorrow, fine. But personally, I think it would be better if we talked away from the cameras. Don’t you think?” His eyes trailed down to your ridiculously short pajamas, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped a few octaves. “And I’d hate for anyone else to see you like this.”

Before you could form a response, he walked past you, his woodsy, expensive scent filling the air between you. Your house suddenly felt smaller with his presence, overwhelmingly filled with an energy that was impossible to ignore.

“Lovely, by the way,” he murmured as he walked toward the living room, glancing sideways at your fuzzy socks with a half smile.

You closed the door behind you, still processing the surreality of the scene, feeling the blood pool in your cheeks. There he was, collapsing on the couch as if he owned the house, his arms resting on the backrest and his legs crossed in a relaxed manner.

“Are you comfortable?” Your question was laced with sarcasm, but he just laughed.

“Much more than you seemed in the office.” He reached out, grabbing the tub of ice cream you’d left on the coffee table. Before you could protest, he dipped the spoon into the ice cream and took a generous bite.

“Strawberry,” he murmured, a smile curving his lips deliberately. “It suits you.”

Heat rose quickly to your face, but you weren’t sure if it was from irritation or the way he said it—his voice low, almost like a purr. He held the tub of ice cream with an irritating ease, as if it were completely normal to break into your house and steal your dessert.

"Hey, you weren't invited to get this!" You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way he'd settled himself on the couch, taking up even more space, and the way his presence seemed to make the room feel suffocating.

He looked up from the bowl, his blue eyes staring at you with intensity. It was a gaze that stripped you bare, that seemed to register all the details you didn't want him to notice: the short pajamas that exposed your thighs, the skin that heated up under his gaze, as if he were touching you without even moving.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, without a hint of remorse, returning the bowl to the table with sloppy elegance. "But you can't really blame me for this. That ice cream was asking for it."

"Asking for it?" you repeated incredulously, but your voice sounded weaker than it should have.

"Yes. Just like you seem to be asking for a break, my dear. Do you want me to explain myself or are you going to keep looking at me like that?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but couldn't form anything. He leaned back on the couch, his long fingers resting on his bent knee, looking at you with a mixture of amusement and something much darker, almost predatory.

It was overwhelming. The couch seemed too small to contain him, too small for the two of you. Your home had never felt so strange as it did now, filled with his scent and the force of personality he carried.

"Why are you here, Tom?" Your voice was firmer this time, despite the pulse hammering in your ears.

"Because you left me." He tilted his head, and the slightly joking tone disappeared for a moment. "And honestly, I thought it was clearer that I don't let things get away so easily."

"Get away? I'm a person, not a contract!" You snapped, trying to ignore the way he leaned forward slightly, his beard shadowing his jaw in a way that made it hard to look away.

"I know that." His tone softened, but it didn't lose its intensity. "And that's why I'm here. Because… I needed to remind you that no one does what you do. And honestly, I refuse to accept anyone else in your place."

"So this is about work?" You glared at him, crossing your arms again.

"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow, letting the question hang in the air.

Your heart gave an uncomfortable leap in your chest, especially when you noticed his gaze slowly trailing down your face and neck, before continuing to the soft swell of your breasts, covered only by the thin fabric, leaving little to the imagination. It was a second—a moment too quick to be considered deliberate—but it was enough to set your skin on fire.

You wanted to scream, wanted to tell him to go away, but all you could do was look away, only to find him fixed on you again. That smile was back, a teasing half-smile that he made seem natural, but that was carefully calculated.

“Did you bother coming all the way here, in the middle of the night, because you can’t accept someone saying ‘no’ to you for once?” you asked, trying to ignore how your voice had gotten lower.

He laughed, a deep sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because, as unbearable as you are, you’re the only person who can stand me.”

For a moment, the silence between you was thick, heavy with a tension that felt palpable. Your eyes met, and the space between you on the couch seemed nonexistent. You could feel his heat, every little movement reverberating in the air as if it were amplified.

“So?” he murmured, his tone almost hypnotic. “Are you going to make me beg or are you going to accept that you’ve always been the only person who could put up with me?”

And in that moment, it was impossible to deny the power he had over you—and how annoyingly aware he was of it.

Your heart was beating so hard it felt like it was trying to escape your chest. But you weren’t going to show it. Not to him. Not to Tom Ryder.

He was still sitting on the couch, his legs relaxed, his hands resting on his knees in a way that oozed confidence. But his eyes… Oh, his eyes. They were following you, analyzing you, challenging you.

“If you think I’m just going to go back because you came all this way, you’re more delusional than I thought,” you said, crossing your arms and lifting your chin, though your voice had lost some of the firmness you’d intended to convey.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, a smile playing on his lips, as if you’d just issued a challenge he was more than willing to accept.

“Then I’ll beg you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, each word laden with a calculated softness that seemed to wrap around you like silk.

“I’m listening,” you snapped, trying to ignore the heat that was creeping up your spine, getting harder and harder to contain.

“You’re the best, you know that, don’t you?” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs as his eyes held yours like invisible threads. “It’s not just the work you do—although that’s unbeatable. It’s you. How you’re impossible to ignore. How you walk into a room and everything feels different. There’s no one like you, and I won’t find anyone else who does half of what you do. Who is half of what you are.”

His words were like a spell, each one packed with an almost addictive sweetness. And before you knew it, your feet were moving, small, hesitant steps toward him, as if he’d become damn gravity.

“Keep going,” you said, your voice no louder than a whisper.

He smiled, a flash of triumph shining in his eyes as you stopped right in front of the couch, between his long legs. "Do you have any idea what it's like to look at you and know that I can no longer count on your patience? Your… strength? You're the kind of woman who makes any man lose his mind, and you know it."

The air between you seemed to vibrate. He lifted his hands, his deft fingers touching the fabric of your pajamas in an almost experimental way. Just one touch, and you could already feel the heat radiating across your skin. He laughed, a low, husky sound, before letting his hands slide to your hips, steadying himself there. The pads of his fingers tracing lazy half-circles.

The touch wasn’t invasive; it was deliberate, almost reverent. But the heat he brought was overwhelming.

“Tom…” You began, but the word died on your lips when he tilted his head up, his eyes now dark with an intensity that seemed to burn.

“I need you,” he said, his tone so low you could barely hear him. “And I don’t just mean work. I mean you. I want you to come back. To me.”

The world seemed to stop. The heat of his hands on your skin was unbearable, his fingers just enough to remind you that he was the one touching you. His smile, his voice, his eyes—everything about him seemed to conspire against your sanity.

But the worst part was that you liked it. You liked the way he seemed unable to hide how much he wanted you, liked the power it gave you, even when he was the one who seemed to be in control.

His fingers tightened on your hips, firm, as if to reinforce the urgency in his words. The touch carried something more than a request; it was a demand, a reminder of how much he wanted you, how much he needed you.

“Will you come back to me?” His voice was barely a whisper now, but it carried an urgency that made you tremble.

You tried to resist, tried to remember all the reasons he was insufferable, all the times you wanted to scream at him—but none of that seemed to matter now. The warmth of his hands on your skin, his eyes burning into yours, the woody, expensive scent that surrounded you… it was overwhelming. Far beyond anything you could ever dream of bearing.

A weak "yes" escaped your lips before you even had time to realize what you were saying.

That was all he needed.

Before you could react, he pulled you firmly to him, positioning you on his lap in one fluid movement, as if you were made to be there. The initial shock was replaced by an overwhelming heat as his hands moved from your hips to your back, holding you with a strength that seemed to say he wouldn’t let go any time soon. Your hands gripped his broad shoulders in an attempt to find some balance, your breath coming in short gasps from the intensity of the moment.

“Finally,” he murmured, his tone filled with an almost dangerous satisfaction, before pulling you into a kiss.

There was no room for caution or hesitation. His kiss was desperate, almost savage, as if he had been waiting for this for years. It tasted sweetly like strawberry ice cream. His lips were warm and demanding, and you barely managed to hold back the moan that escaped you when you felt his beard lightly scratch your skin, adding a touch of roughness to the contact. You felt his fingers curl into the bare skin of your waist, as if he wanted to leave a mark.

Your fingers moved instinctively, tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, as if they needed to anchor him there. He responded to the touch with a low sound in the back of his throat, a sound that made every cell in your body vibrate.

His hands didn’t stop, exploring your back, moving up and down with a possessiveness that made your heart race even faster. It was as if he was trying to merge the two of you, holding you as if he feared you would disappear. The room seemed to have disappeared; the entire world had been reduced to the heat of his body against yours, to the taste of him, to the way he held you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever touched.

When you finally broke apart, it was only for the need of air. But he didn’t pull away, his forehead lightly touching yours, his blue eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath falter.

“I warned you,” he said, his voice husky and full of desire. “I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

And in that moment, it was impossible to tell who was in control. Because no matter how hard he’d pulled you in for the kiss, no matter how hard he’d initiated it, it was you who seemed to have the power to make his heart beat as fast as yours.

[j0kb0x]

Since guts and blackpowder gives us free range for the characters here’s some personal headcanons for their personalities and lives given you can only psychoanalyze them so much. This is as realistic as I can make it based off surface level psychoanalysis + untrue garbage I made up.

Barry:

Despite his short temper (Typical brit) Williams is socially inept and shy. Like super timid. That dumb little softboy persona he has going on there shouldn’t be an indicator that he isn’t dangerous. Dude literally got trained as an infantry solider. He doesn’t want to hurt people, in fact, he avoids it when he can. The war is needless to him and he doesn’t understand why they’d draft someone like him — a lowly stableboy who’s quite known in his village for treating his horses and farm animals like his babies. His overly affectionate and polite personality (which came directly from his overbearing mother) has landed him a lot of bullying by his peers. Aforementioned hesitation to the enemy, but to zombies? He’s under the belief they’re from satan himself like the rest of the world. Afraid of them, but feels a spiritual duty to slay God’s enemies.

Jean:

He’s overly paranoid of Napoleon failing, and holds those french revolutionary beliefs. He wants Napoleon to win, so badly. He really doesn’t want his children living in a world with a stupid monarchy eating better than they do. Jean has no comprehension that maybe Napoleon isn’t the best fit for a country’s leader, in fact he’ll yell at you if you suggest otherwise. His wife died during childbirth and this, coupled with war has hardened him. He has never laid a single hand on his children because his father was deeply abusive, and of course this resulted in a pretty pessimistic, sad, depressed mess of a man. Constantly wanting better and yet fearing the worst. He’s a tough love kind of fatherly friend. Eat your damn rations or you will die. Speaking of which he literally wants to die :D

Jacob:

If this were modern day he’d be legally blind. His clumsiness isn’t the result of stupidity. The direct opposite in fact. He overthinks his job way too much and couple that with his dogshit eyesight, it’s no wonder he has a track record of being the napoleonic war’s personal south park Kenny. If ever a cartoon were made, I could l definitely see him in the background nailing in stakes incorrectly and getting confused as to why it wasn’t as affective as the other sapper’s. He has two sisters back at home and they hate him. They’re pro-monarchy, he isn’t. He raised and took care of these awful pieces of shit. Who were independent thinking teenagers by the time their parents died of sickness. So he couldn’t really influence them even if he tried. He has largely remained non(?) un(?) courted and unmarried his entire life. Hes a huge wine mom induced by stress and if you ever asked him why he never took a wife, he’d start spontaneously crying probably. Sad drunk. Cannot show emotions unless he’s drunk.

Karl / Unnamed Officer:

Selective mutism, ambition.. Way too much ambition. He wants to take down Napoleon himself and even fully believes he’s capable of doing so. Wants to cheat his way above the ranks somehow. He hides this and refuses to reveal his intentions to virtually anyone. Trying to get as close to the general as possible. Not because he agrees with the monarchy thing, but he just wants the fame and glory that comes along with executing him. The other men have horrible tempers but him? Holy. shit. He does not usually act upon his anger but as a wise man once said, “Silence speaks louder than words.” He silently judges those he’s angry at. Could imagine him getting teased, gripping a damn teacup so hard that it shatters in his hand and causes the entire room to go quiet. His whole regiment is batshit TERRIFIED of him. He refuses to betray his life story, let alone if he has any family. Nobody knows crap about him and that furthers the fear. Karl literally popped out of nowhere and his adorable babyface and gentle voice has won him the hearts of women wishing to be his wives… Whom he rudely pushed away in disgust. Has anyone seen that one scene in pootie tang where a woman is simping after him, and so he slips her a bowl of milk like a fucking clingy cat? Yeah I feel Karl would pull something like that.

[spiritussancto1]

lawyer Regulus Black?

writers i gift unto you this idea. someone who knows something about the law please write this cause i don't know shit and i really don't want to do the research, i'll end up studying for the bar. the adhd is WILD.

Regulus "law is a gentleman's profession" Black. Lawyer Regulus Black with a fantastic excuse to wear very expensive perfectly tailored suits every day. who definitely came from money and took advantage with the best schools, a comfortable home etc, but now takes pride in NOT living off the Black fortune, thank you very much. he's still working through some of his privilege.

Regulus Black as a prosecutor who is absolutely out for blood against anyone hurting the vulnerable. he could be rather disapproving of his wild older sibling's best friend. he knows Siri is the more reckless of that pair but they egg each other on! they're going to get into real trouble one day...

Divorce lawyer Regulus Black who is so comforting and kind and thoughtful behind closed doors and absolutely terrifying in the courtroom.

Autistic lawyer Regulus Black who loves the order and rules of the court, and that (hopefully, maybe, generally) we're trying to do the right thing. it doesn't always work but it's all we have, really. lawyer Regulus Black who was raised to work within the system. with some pretty grey morals that he works on over time.

Defense lawyer Regulus Black who really does think everyone deserves a fair trial and representation. one of the few who still say that with real sincerity. he could meet the rest of the skittles more easily that way, be they other lawyers or defendants.

Slightly corrupt lawyer Regulus Black? perhaps finding his way back to being a good person or perhaps pushed into the corruption? AU with the black family having their fingers in the muggle world and its political powers and courts. pick any country you like for this really

Trans Regulus Black who took the education and ran away now that he could take care of himself. transitioning away from his parents and living totally separately, meeting up years later for some legal matter and they don't recognize him at all. but now he's done the therapy work and isn't scared of them any more. Regulus telling the court officer to please make sure Walburga and Orion aren't regularly interacting with any children because he is a mandatory reporter isn't he? "you see now she's scared. cause I know everything about you and I don't owe you loyalty any more"

please take this idea and run with it. i'm already a reggie kinnie but my anxiety is too high and my adhd too bad to end up studying law and that's how i research as a writier

[mullermilkshake]

Politician Suguru Geto

Suguru is a well rounded politician on paper, he wins the hearts of voters and is absolutely adored across the country.

That is, until he is alone with you, his wife, behind closed doors. Manipulative is an understatement and to be frank, it's what's gotten him this far in the politics world.

In other words, he is a bastard.

He's never raised a hand to you, but that's because he doesn't need to. His words are ammunition enough to force you into a corner and collect here he wants you.

It's not like you can even tell anyone. They won't believe you for a minute. But the way he looks at you when you try to defy him would dissolve even the most solid stone heart into a pit of acid.

He uses the fact that you blame yourself for an incident years back. You weren't to blame, you know that, but he uses it to keep you right where you are, so that you don't ask for a divorce or break away. You foolishly believed that he actually loved you, despite how he still claims he does.

He doesn't love you, he just want's to own you. And all the time he's holding that guilt over your head, your shoulders can't ever be free to shift his own weighted baggage.

So you smile and pretend everything is okay, even if you are plotting his murder one hundred times a day in your head where even Suguru can't hear you.

One day you'll leave. That's a promise.

[utilitycaster]

Here’s my C3 hot take: I think Matt just messed up. I think att just didn’t do a good job DMing this one, and I’m sad but I don’t think the players could have solved the problems entirely on their own. The lack of a session zero makes no sense, but more to the point I think Matt just has to much Catholic Trauma tm to have told this story. His blind spot to religion v. Personal worship in his world building is to big to stick this one. His excitement about the culmination of these narratives after 9 years made him play story beats to close to his chest looking to surprise and shock his players, and also, because he was so tied to it, he didn’t pivot, or change the story to guide the players through. The pacing, especially at the beginning feels like he was entirely to excited to get to the clever plot.

Honestly… and this makes me sad, a lot of the issues feel like he sort of started believing his own mythology. I am so happy for him to be self confident but this all feels like a story guided by someone who thinks their terribly clever and so don’t have to rely on the same level of hard work, collaboration, prep, planning etc. of previous works (and also wanted to be novel, I just think of their original campaign announcement where they said “anything might happen” and sigh a little).

My bit of hope? That’s a really easy thing to come back from! I hope they reflect and improve going forward!

p.s. this isn’t to say the others couldn’t have made things BETTER, they could have, for sure.

Hi anon,

I disagree with most of this. Most crucially, this is not the form of campaign I think would come of Catholic religious trauma. Matt's mentioned he was raised nominally Catholic but he's also mentioned his parents were artists, hippies, and D&D players, and he seems to be on pretty good terms with them. I think this is a vast overstep on your part that came from basically nowhere, especially since the logical outcome of a Catholic Trauma campaign would in fact be one that actually did portray Vasselheim as a vast controlling force within the world regulating the worship of the gods across it. A pretty massive hole in the worldbuilding, at least as this campaign demands we see it, is that we really haven't seen religion as an oppressive force except in one highly specific case, and even that was spearheaded by mortals and not the gods and is indistinguishable from a purely political land grab. Like, the blind spot you mention is actually a sign that he was not raised particularly religious; someone who was raised strictly Catholic would be extremely aware of religion as a highly organized hierarchy with clear rules and a vast worldwide network and not "a few missionaries who didn't kill anyone or even forcibly convert anyone, Vasselheim seen as a good meeting spot for a worldwide conference, and Ludinus's grievances are all highly personal." Like, the Catholic Trauma version of Exandria has Vasselheim at war with the Empire for their banning of half of the prime deities, or going full Inquisition/Crusade on Hearthdell.

I want to be clear: when I accuse fans of projecting religious trauma it's because they outright have said shit like "I always like when a narrative kills the gods bc I'm a white southerner who was raised Christian". I do not say it just because they are affiliated with a specific religious denomination.

I also don't think the issue is so much believing his own mythology as much as the one major correct thing you said, which is the lack of not just a session zero but a heavy hand in character development, coupled with a very specific plot he wanted for this campaign. Campaign 1 worked because he tailored a campaign heavily to the interests and stories of the characters, and built a world around them. Campaign 2 similarly allowed for that same give-and-take; characters like Trent and Uk'otoa and Marion and the Gentleman came from the backstories the players came up with. Some of the players' ideas were changed as part of that heavier hand in character creation. The guidance for that campaign (morally gray and complex) was actually accurate, and when the characters took a sharp turn away from the planned story, Matt was able to pivot quite gracefully.

The problem really is that it's clear Matt had a very developed vision of this campaign and didn't realize that the characters of Bells Hells largely failed to fit within it. I don't think hard work wasn't done (I think there was in fact a TON of prep that we haven't seen, eg, I 100% believe Matt has an extensive amount of work done on Otohan, Ozo Cruth, Marquet, the Apex War, etc that Bells Hells simply did not see); I think, in fact, that like three hours of work that probably would have resulted in scrapping or drastically changing the characters to fit the intended story would have fixed the vast majority of problems here. It is only, frankly, because the characters are such a bad fit that the issues we're talking about (little establishment of organized religion vs. personal practice) even became issues! But it's literally that - it's not realizing that even a longform campaign can live or die on character creation. It might even be that too much prep was done ahead of time and he was too unwilling to abandon it.

[shizuturnspages]

could i bother you for anything u got on yandere thoma and gorou? not poly (^///^)

thank you ^^

I've got loads for these two

Here you go, darling <3

Yandere Thoma

❥ On the surface, Thoma’s just the perfect, helpful guy. Everyone loves him because he’s always got that warm smile, that dependable attitude. But the moment you catch his eye? That sweetness turns into a suffocating need to have you all to himself. Thoma’s still polite, still charming, but now every kind gesture has an edge to it. He’s making sure you’re comfortable, but also making sure no one else can get near you. You might not even notice it at first—he’s just so damn good at hiding his obsession under that sweet smile.

❥ Thoma’s loyalty is next level. Once he’s decided you’re his, he’ll do anything to keep you safe. And by “safe,” I mean locked down under his watchful eye. He’ll make sure you’re always taken care of—cooking your meals, fixing your clothes, always being there when you need him. But that helpfulness has a dark side. He’s monitoring who you talk to, where you go, and who even dares to show interest in you. He’ll take care of any “threats” to your safety, and you won’t even realize how deep his control runs.

❥ Thoma’s a master at using guilt to keep you close. He’ll never raise his voice or threaten you outright—that’s not his style. Instead, he’ll make you feel like you owe him for all the things he’s done. He’ll remind you, subtly, that no one else will take care of you like he does. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he’ll say, with that soft smile, but the weight of his words will trap you. He’s so good at making you feel guilty for even thinking about leaving, it’s almost fucking impossible to escape.

❥ Thoma will slowly, methodically, isolate you from everyone else. But he’ll make it seem like it’s all for your own good. “I don’t trust them around you,” he’ll say about your friends, “I just want to protect you.” And soon enough, you’ll find yourself with fewer and fewer people in your life, until it’s just you and him. He’ll make sure he’s the only one you can rely on, the only one who truly “understands” you. And before you know it, Thoma’s become your whole fucking world.

❥ Thoma’s so good at playing the nice guy, but when you start to push back? That’s when you’ll see the cracks in his facade. He won’t snap outright, but you’ll feel the shift in his energy—like there’s something darker lurking just beneath the surface. His smile will still be there, but there’ll be an intensity in his eyes, a warning that he’s not going to let you go that easily. He’s spent too much time, too much effort, making you his. And now, he’s not about to lose you to anyone or anything.

Yandere Gorou

❥ Gorou’s loyalty is legendary, but when it’s focused on you? It becomes fucking insane. He’ll do anything to protect you, anything to make sure you’re safe, even if it means going to extremes. You become the center of his world, and every action he takes is to serve you. He’ll treat you like his commander—someone to protect at all costs—and he’ll follow your every command, but the second you step out of line or try to leave? That loyalty turns into dangerous fucking obsession.

❥ Gorou’s always been protective, but now? It’s on a whole other fucking level. No one gets near you without going through him first. He’ll growl, literally, if anyone even dares to look at you the wrong way. His senses are on high alert, always tuned in to your presence, always watching to make sure no one steps out of line. And if someone tries to take you from him? They’re fucking done. Gorou’s not afraid to show his teeth when it comes to protecting what’s his.

❥ Gorou’s not one to raise his voice or force you into submission, no—that’s too obvious. Instead, he’ll use guilt, his own vulnerability, to keep you close. He’ll remind you of all he’s done for you, of how much he cares, of how he needs you. “You’re the only one who understands me,” he’ll say, with those big, sad eyes, making it impossible for you to leave. He’s so fucking good at making you feel like you’re responsible for his well-being, trapping you in a web of emotional manipulation.

❥ Gorou’s protective instincts are already through the roof, but as a yandere? Holy shit. He won’t just watch over you; he’ll smother you with his care. Every little thing you do, he’ll worry about. “You shouldn’t go out today, it’s dangerous.” “Let me handle that, I don’t want you to get hurt.” And soon enough, you’ll find yourself unable to take a step without him hovering nearby. It’s suffocating, but he’ll make you believe it’s all because he cares. And the worst part? He really does. But that care comes with a heavy fucking price.

❥ Despite his loyalty, Gorou has a mean jealous streak. You wouldn’t expect it from the good boy general, but when he sees someone else getting too close to you? Oh, shit gets dangerous. He’ll try to keep his cool, but the second you give someone else attention, that possessive side comes out in full force. He might not snap right away, but he’ll confront them later, with that low growl and those sharp fucking eyes. And if they don’t back off? Well, accidents happen, don’t they?

[andy-15-07]

Our Love

masterlist ! pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

SUMMARY : a morning full of love and declarations

GENRE: fluff, loveeee

Coriolanus Snow never thought he would care about anyone, until Y/n appeared in his life. His life changed radically.

Y/n, now Coryo's fiancee, only she is allowed to call him that, turned his world upside down, with her beauty, intelligence and the smile he fell in love with.

They met during the Academy and it didn't take long for Coriolanus to ask Y/n if she wanted to be his girlfriend.

All their colleagues thought that they are very different, Y/n is the most likeable, funny, beautiful and intelligent person, and Coriolanus is not too open with his feelings, his eyes are a blue color that can make you lose your mind thoughts, cold with other people but with Y/n it's completely different.

When Coriolanus had to go to District 12 as a peacekeeper, Y/n knew what Coriolanus did, but his girlfriend didn't judge him, they found ways to communicate. Y/n knew the conditions her boyfriend was living in, but that didn't stop her from loving him, she helped Coryo's family.

Every morning I wake up alone, Coryo's side is empty, either he went to solve some things or he is in his office, but this morning everything is different.

I turn and see my dear fiancé, he was sleeping on his back, and the sun's rays were falling on him, his hair was stuck to his forehead, he looked so calm when he was sleeping and peaceful. The blanket was at the level of his hips, Coriolanus always slept only in boxers, he always says that he likes to be wanted so he feels even closer to him.

I've been studying him for a few minutes, but I didn't realize he was awake until he made a sudden move to bring me as close to him as possible.

"You know it's not polite to stare while some people are sleeping?". he tells me and pulls me to his chest.

"I know, but you weren't sleeping, you were awake and I wasn't staring, I was just admiring your beauty." I tell him and return to his arms, I raise my head and I'm already met with the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen in my life and it belongs to my future husband.

"Good morning my love!" He tells me and kisses me on the forehead.

"Good morning Coryo! Do you have anything to do today? I hope you don't leave me alone again..." I say and look down, with the hope that I will make him stay with me at home, more precisely that we spend the whole day in bed, in each other's arms.

"I don't have anything to do today, I don't have any meeting or anything related to work. But what's with all these questions my dear?" He tells me and I can't look him in the eyes because it seems a little childish to me that I don't want to be alone, but it's been a long time since we spent the whole day together.

"Because I miss sitting with you, sitting in bed, in your arms, like we used to do before." I say and I look at him, he had a small smile and nodded, he came closer and kissed me.

Coriolanus is the first to break the kiss and look at me while tucking my hair behind my ear.

"What do you say about this, we spend all day here in the bedroom, doing whatever you want, watching TV, reading, cooking. Everything my dear future wife wants, you agree." He tells me and pulls me closer to him and kisses me all over my face, this makes me laugh.

"I agree, my dear future husband." I tell him and put my head on his chest, and my hand finds his and we intertwine our fingers together and Coriolanus puts our hands on his chest, next to his heart.

As hard as it would be to find time for the other, we will always have something that attracts us, the love for the other, regardless of the time, place or event.

We are together until death do us part.

[obsessive-valentine]

Would a platonic yandere Ares. X F reader because in the myths he is very much giving girl dad

Platonic!Ares + Daughter!Reader

Ares is already protective and great yandere material so I don’t think this is to ‘ooc’ but having to raise a daughter definitely brings out his softer side.

Ares is definitely a good dad, in fact amazing compared to most other gods. He actually killed Poseidon’s son for abusing one of his daughters and he’d do all that and much more for you.

Maybe you were his daughter from Aphrodite but had to live under you fathers care once she had to return to her husband Hephaestus. Or maybe you were born to a human mother but either way I do see him insisting he raise you on Olympus to keep you out of trouble. Especially due to his tendency to wage conflicts amongst humans.

Having a daughter around would bring him a lot of amusement, he encourages havoc and freedom, and comes of as a very laid back father letting you speak however and run around doing whatever you choose. He’s surprisingly empathetic and gentle with you, never did you feel unloved or out of place in your fathers care.

His favourite pass-time is watching you torment the servants. Or if you are a more polite child despite his encouragement to not be, he enjoys telling you stories of his battles as you sit in his lap curiously watching the people down on earth scurry around like ants.

He doesn’t subject you to any of his anger -it’s inevitable he get angry around you but never at you. He’s one of the least manipulative and controlling parents for sure, he doesn’t need to be worried when everyone knows you’re the daughter of the most temperamental gods representing the brutal spirit of battle.

But just because he doesn’t aim any anger or harm towards you doesn’t mean he shields you eyes from the chaos and destruction he causes. I actually see him influencing you from a early age to be desensitised to the battles and deaths he has a hand in.

Some days you sit with your father watching over the battles, laughing and commentating like it’s some sport. He’s refused to marry or have close friends because people oppose him so readily due to his crass morals, but with you, you adore your father and enjoy anytime you spend with him even if it’s listening to his war plans or grumble about his enemies.

In a world that he feels a lot of indifference or hate towards you are a fresh perspective, a young mind. Most of his days are spent with you in his company, often asking about your thoughts on a matter or using your chatter take his mind off a matter.

Other times he amuses you and teaches you to spar or use a weapon. Obviously since you were a child you learned to fight, after you could walk he was already indoctrinating the spirit of fight in you by very gently play fighting you but now your older he takes it seriously. With you he can joke and crack a few laughs but when teaching you to fight he becomes stern.

Of course that’s the only thing he makes you do. You choose to be in his presence and he lets you talk to who you want because he knows that they know he’s always watching and ready to start a war amongst the gods if anyone even speaks to you in the wrong way.

Like your father you’re not widely worshiped but definitely known amongst gods and humans, he makes no effort to hide you but rather for people to be weary of you and be on their best behaviour -because dads always not to far behind.