#found a pose idea for this somewhere

[literacide]

~

Tired from building things out of Kokichi’s scribbles

vs

Spent all day drawing new things for Miu to invent

~

[my art do not repost]

[jaeminvore]

Credit Card Baby | Z.CL — PREVIEW (read here)

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda).

TEASER WORD COUNT: 770

FULL FIC WORD COUNT: estimated 15K (more or less)

RELEASE DATE: June 26, 2025 — 11 PM PST

TAGLIST: send an ask if you want to be notified when the full fic is posted!

NOTE: if you listen closely, you can hear me screaming because no one is more excited than me, who finally got around to writing a Chenle fic after so long of telling myself that I will. Eventually. And now we're here YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid one towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head–” (“I did not need to know that.”) “–anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” You were sure that wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating–” Yizhuo made air quotations “–on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn clock app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying.”

On the other hand, Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna

[lambcultist]

꒰ ♱ ꒱ sugar mommy!caitlyn kiramman headcaons ┆ fashion designer!caitlyn, sugar mommy!caitlyn, serious bdsm dynamic, mommy kink, bondage, sex toys (strap-on), lingerie and collars, free use kink, size kink, aftercare, oral (c!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), dom!caitlyn, sub!reader, femme!reader, age gap (reader in early twenties and caitlyn in her early thirties), i want her :( ♡  MINORS DNI ( 18+ )

♱ caitlyn was born into wealth, the kiramman name already highly influential. she had big shoes to grow into, and from a young age she had found an unusual way to transform the success of the family name into her own; fashion.

caitlyn had an eye for style since she was young, and began learning how to draw fashion sketches and develop new patterns as soon as she could wrap her small hands around a pencil. trained to sew by the seamstresses her parents often commissioned, caitlyn was equipped with everything she needed to dominate the industry; the skill, the knowledge, and the personality, all of which shone through every piece she designed.

she won awards as young as eleven years old for her creativity, was crowned best dressed in the yearbook as she graduated private school, and was praised for the uniqueness of her style. caitlyn had a natural gift; there was a rareness in the approach she took to fashion. something the industry wasn't used to.

inspired by the elegance of royalty, the dramatic flair of victorian era trends, and a feminine twist on traditionally masculine pieces, caitlyn carved her name into the industry by force. she wouldn't slow down for anyone.

she was driven by passion. if her latest line wasn't selling the numbers she wanted, she'd waste no time getting back into her studio to make something better. almost always, she'd make a comeback greater than the last. she bought a magnificent cabinet with the goal to fill it with awards and plaques to commemorate her success. the kiramman name would dominate catwalks—the high fashion industry was never the same as it was before she had touched it. other designers worked hard to keep up, but caitlyn's pace was relentless.

♱ she had everything she ever wanted. caitlyn had made her mother and father proud, she was reaching every goal she wanted. but she was lacking somewhere.

caitlyn could have any woman she wanted, she knew this and often was unafraid to use this to her advantage, but the older she grew, the less satisfying it had became to see a different woman each night. she needed someone loyal. for the first time in her life she felt stagnant. and then she met you.

the loveliest service she had received in any restaurant, michelin star or otherwise, had been from you. it was terribly busy but you had an eye for everything happening all at once. you handled it with a poise caitlyn hadn't witnessed before, and she rewarded you with a hefty tip and a request to have your contact details—it took her pulling a few strings to get this, but she could get whatever she wanted in this world.

♱ you were desperate. every calm reaction to meticulous dining requests and customer issues was due to your desperate need for tips, bills and rent piling higher and higher over your shoulders at the time. the moment caitlyn found this out, she wanted to assist you.

caitlyn hadn't considered herself the type for a transactional relationship like this, but it was an easy decision to make once the idea struck. she wanted devotion, you needed help. she could throw away as much money as she liked on you, it was pennies to her.

but most importantly, you revived her. caitlyn was quick to run to her studio, inspired by your beauty.

♱ soon, everything you owned was kiramman. your clothes, your makeup, your perfume, your shoes, your bags. she made custom pieces for you, her most special muse. you'd be posing in the middle of her studio for her to run her hands over your body with a tape measure, trying on half-finished pieces, modelling every new item for the catalogues and online store.

if you were to be seen publicly at her side, caitlyn would have you dressed as appropriately for the event as she desired.

♱ she had changed your life. from waitress to full-time model, and, unbeknownst to the public eye, her submissive.

your lingerie was kiramman. your collars were kiramman.

caitlyn was never cold. she was intimate and tender, a guiding hand. your mommy, who never punished, and only ever rewarded you. if you misbehaved, she never knew about it.

♱ caitlyn would give you anything you ever wanted. she ensured you were still making your own money via your modelling, but she gave you a sizeable weekly allowance as her baby, and 'bonuses' given to you at random if you needed a little extra to buy something you liked.

she kept you happy. financially or otherwise, caitlyn was very focused on keeping you close. if you were insecure or afraid, she supplied loving snuggles on her couch with her cats. if you were cold, she'd sleep by your side in luxury bedding. she had a perpetually warm body, her bosom the most comforting pillow to lay your head.

every kiss of caitlyn's was expensive, flavoured by hundred dollar lipsticks and sophistication.

♱ the filth of your sex life, which was certainly alive, was so special because it was something nobody knew about. people could speculate how your life was under caitlyn's wing, but they didn't know the ins and outs of her like you did as her sub.

it was part of your deal, after all. caitlyn could have you whenever she liked. if she wanted you, she would have you. you would kneel on the floor by her desk while she worked. she'd tug on your leash every now and then to remind you of your place and to demand your silence as she focused. she would bind your wrists with ribbon to restrain you while she touched your body. she'd tell you it's only so that you'll have an easier time being a good girl and not squirm too much.

if you were ready for bed, but looked too pretty in the sleepwear she designed, she'd pull your slip over your hips to curl those long, mean fingers into your pussy.

if you were bored, or looked lost, she'd call you over and coddle you, letting you suck on her clit to entertain yourself for a little while.

designing your lingerie was her favourite. it was always in her favourite colour. rich, custom made navy lace and silk were always her go-to fabrics to use. she'd design it so that you would match with whatever she wanted to wear as well.

she liked any position, from doggy, to cowgirl, to missionary. she was taller than you, stronger than you, and could manipulate you into any position. fucking you with her strap was the most therapeutic act. the continuous cries she pulled from your lips, the repeated 'mommy, mommy, mommy', and the tears that glimmered down your cheeks in the low light, were the most pleasing to her. she could overwhelm you so easily.

♱ aftercare was luxurious. caitlyn would immediately scoop you up, gathering you into her lap and letting the tactile sensations steady your heart. then she would ready a bath, treating it like a spa day. expensive soaps lathered over your body, not a single spot missed by her slow hands. you'd be dried with a soft towel after and put to bed in her arms as she enjoyed a cup of tea and a book, your breathing slowing as sleep finally overtook you.

♱ caitlyn could say it was simply transactional, and she took much pride in being such a great sugar mommy, but she didn't want to accept that you were much more than just her sugar baby. you were the loyalty she needed, the inspiration she needed, and you were so pleasant to look at she would feel her heart swell every time. especially at every photoshoot. she was fond of you. perhaps more than she should've been.

um, hi... hehe... now that i've finished my big ellie one-shot (posting on the weekend if you missed it) i am back to regular posts. until i focus on something else. which, i do have lots of longer fics lined up that i'll want to work on soon.

🏷️ @abbysdollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @emmap3rkins @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @angelxvs @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @tennisthatcher

[xoln04f1xo]

Pairings: Figure Skater!Reader x Land Norris

Warnings: MDNI 18+ Performance, soft dom/sub dynamics, dressing room sex, praise kink, afterglow, smau ig?, soft launch

WC: 1.3k

DC: @cursed-carmine

L's thoughts: So i'm back from my little break and i've had this idea in my notes for like FOREVER so i decided to finally do it. Hope you enjoy reading!!

You had never seen the arena this packed before, the lights hot on your ski, the ice beneath your perfect canvas.

You stood alone in the center, one gloved hand raised, heart thudding like a drum inside your ribs. This was it. The culmination of months of brutal training, mental walls shattered and rebuilt - your shot at gold.

Somewhere in the crowd, you knew he was watching.

The music filled the arena, a haunting orchestral arrangement that started soft and aching, like the whisper of a secret. Your blades cut across the ice in a single fluid stroke, arms raising like wings. Every move was precise and graceful. To finish the routine was a triple lutz into a clean toe loop, your landing smooth enough to steal breath. You spun with a kind of fury, passion radiating from every pirouette.

The final pose came with a crescendo - and you dropped into it like a dancer on stage, breathless, eyes shining.

The crowd erupted.

You blinked, chest heaving. The arena blurred. Your name on the scoreboard lit up with a gold number 1 on it. You had finally done it. You were a nationals winner.

You bowed, soaking in the roar of the crowd, but all you could think of was him. The boy in the stands who told your this was yours the night before, who made you believe it.

You slammed the changing room door behind you, laughter caught in your throat as Lando pinned you against it, his mouth claiming yours before you could even speak.

"You were fucking divine out there," he growled against your lips, hands roaming your waist, gripping the glittering fabric of your costume. "I couldn't breath watching you."

"Did I make you hard in the stands, Norris?" you teased breathlessly, gasping as his teeth found your throat.

"You made me lose my mind," he muttered, grinding against your hip. "That landing? That split? I nearly got up and dragged you off that ice."

You moaned softly, head falling as he his hands under your skirt, dragging your tights and panties down with deliberate slowness.

"You want this medal off?" you asked, fingers tangling in his curls.

"Leave it," he whispered, eyes dark with hunger. "You earned it."

He dropped his knees before you, hooking your legs over his shoulders as your back hit the door again. The cool air bit at your thighs. The his tongue found you - hot, slow, tortuous - and your legs shook instantly.

"Lando... fuck..." you cried, gripping his hair, the pressure building fast. He moaned into you, like he was starving, like you were the only thing in the world he needed to taste.

When your orgasm hit, it was loud, blinding. He stood, wiped his mouth, and kissed you again - deep and messy and full of heat.

"Still with me?" he asked, palming himself through his joggers. You nodded, dazed.

"Then bend over the counter."

You obeyed, bracing your arms against the vanity as he yanked your costume up around your waist and pushed inside you without warning, groaning low at how wet and tight you were.

"Oh my god, fuck..." you whispered, back arching. "You feel so... fuck..."

His pace was punishing, every thrust laced with pride and lust and that worshipful way he looked up at you, like you were both goddess and fire.

"This pussy wins gold every damn time," he rasped into your ear, one hand gripping your hip, the other pressed over your chest, right where your medal lay. "Mine. Always mine."

You came again with his name on your lips, and he followed with a low, shuddering moan, hips buried deep.

Silence filled the room, broken only by your uneven breaths.

Lando leaned forward, kissing the space between your shoulder blades, arms wrapping around you from behind.

"You were perfect," he murmured.

You smiled, breathless. "So were you."

He chuckled. "You're gonna need another medal if we keep celebrating like this."

"Maybe next time I win, we do it in the locker room shower?"

His eyes darkened again. "Now that's motivation."

The interview...

You stood in front of the sponsor wall, gold medal still around your neck, fielding a line of questions from reporters, lights flashing so often it felt like a strobe show.

You were calm. Glowing, even though only partially from the win.

"Congratulations on the gold," one reporter smiled. "Absolutely stunning routine. How are you feeling now that it's sinking in?"

You smiled brightly. "Exhausted. Grateful. Hungry."

Laughter rippled through the press crowd.

"And uhh, rumor has it someone special flew in to see your routine?" another voice chimed in, a little too smooth, clearly fishing. "A certain F1 driver?"

Your brows rose just slightly - but your smile stayed perfectly polite. "I have a lot of friends who support me," you said, voice calm and professional. "Some of their brands sponsor me, uhh for example Quadrant." you say pointing to the logo on your shirt.

A murmur passed through the reporters, and you spotted the PR assistant from your federation trying very hard not to laugh off-camera.

"Come on," a younger journalist passed with a grin, "Lando Norris was seen in the stands yesterday. Front row. And he wasn't exactly subtle about cheering."

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Oh, was he? I wasn't looking at the stands much. Had some... spinning to do."

More laughter. Someone muttered "touché."

You paused - just a second too long.

Then you smirked. "Nothing I wouldn't do again."

A beat of stunned silence. A few gasps. One woman visibly dropped her pen.

The media session finished moments later, but the rumours were already flying."

📸 [@ landonorris] Photo of your gold medal draped over a McLaren hoodie on a hotel bed.

Caption:

“Champion energy only 🥇🔥”

Let's just say... fans were losing it.

It started innocently enough. Well, soft launch innocent.

You posted a photo on Instagram: just your hand holding a disposable coffee cup with a familiar-looking sleeve… one you’d definitely stolen from Lando’s McLaren garage stash.

Caption:

“Jet lag and espresso shots don’t mix ☕️✈️” Location📍: Monte Carlo, Monaco

Lando reposted it an hour later to his story. No caption. Just a blurry zoom-in on your hand - your gold medal charm bracelet clearly visible - and a fire emoji.

Fans were connecting the dots fast.

Then came his own post: A photo of two pairs of feet on a dock. Yours, in white figure skates. His, in slides and socks.

Caption:

“Balance.”

The comments exploded:

“WAIT.”

“I recognize those skates.”

“Lando soft-launching a literal national champion 😭”

“Does she teach you how to turn without locking up?”

“No way that’s THE golden girl???”

You didn’t confirm or deny. Neither did he.

But the next week, you were flying out to Barcelona for the Grand Prix.

THE RACE 🏁

The paddock was a whirlwind of orange. You wore a black tank top, Lando’s signature number 4 subtly printed on the corner, and a papaya McLaren cap tugged low over your eyes.

You stayed back in the garage with the team during qualifying. Kept it low-key. Just a supportive “friend.”

But by race day, the energy was electric. You felt the same nerves as competition day - except this time, you were in the stands, not on the ice.

And when Lando took P1 after a flawless drive, the garage exploded.

You ran down with his engineers, squeezing past cameras and PR staff. He was already out of the car, helmet off, curls wild with sweat and champagne.

You barely heard the reporter shout, “What does this win mean to you, Lando?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“It means everything,” he grinned. “Not just because of the car, the strategy, or the team - though they were brilliant. But because someone really special is here today. She knows what winning feels like… and today, I finally get to join her.”

The camera swung toward you.

You froze.

Then you gave a small wave, your medal-charm bracelet catching the sun.

The internet exploded.

(Later that night)

📸 [@ landonorris] Photo of you in the garage, back turned, still in your cap and tank, Lando’s arm around your waist.

Caption:

“My champion.”

[@Y/N:]

“Mine now too 🏁❄️”

L's thoughts: I really hope you enjoyed this one! i am literally running out of ideas so please request! i'll write anything (just look at my guidelines please first before requesting)

Library

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Taglist: @dessashippr @barcelonaloverf1life @kuinasstuff @bubble012 @fangirlmusicbiashoe @linnygirl09

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Nursle.

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo Satoru x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 3.4k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Mentions of Pregnancy, Implied Stalking, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Lactation, Slight Breeding Kinks, Daddy Kinks, Mentions of Abusive Relationships, and Age Gaps (Gojo is 20, Reader is 35+).

[Part Two] [Part Three]

A few days into the new school year, you decided that Gojo Satoru could not be Fushiguro Megumi’s primary guardian, despite what the paperwork filed by the former claimed. Honestly, the fact that Megumi’s name had been misspelled in every conceivable way across the aforementioned paperwork should’ve been enough to make that clear, but after a decade of teaching, you’d learned to pick up on the smaller signs; a certain discomfort that passed through Megumi's expression whenever you asked about his homelife, the lapse before a half-hearted answer whenever you posed a question to Satoru as to Megumi's preferences. It didn’t necessarily mean anything bad was going on, just that something was going on - something you couldn’t ignore, not completely.

Four weeks into the new school year, you decided that Fushiguro Megumi did not like Gojo Satoru. All your students were at the age where they were suddenly eager to distance themselves from any adult they could call an authority, but Megumi was the only one still in your classroom hours after the school day ended, the only one who stayed for as long as you could afford to let him. Sometimes, Satoru would make an appearance, loiter outside of your classroom or pass time with the best attempts at small talk someone nearly two decades your junior could make, but Megumi made a habit of ignoring him and try as you might, you'd never had the heart to be very strict with your students. The only days he didn’t stay to help you (as much as a nine year old could help anyone do anything) were the days when his sister was free to pick him up and, much to your relief, Satoru was nowhere to be found.

Two months into the new school year, you found yourself on the doorstep of Gojo Satoru’s listed address which, notably, was not the dingy flat you’d dropped off Megumi in front of whenever he stayed too late to justify letting him walk home alone. Instead, you gaped openly at the skyscraper in front of you, as tall as the eye could see and pouring out the kind of people you couldn’t help but want to get away from. You’d called ahead, let Satoru know you’d be making a home visit to discuss some of your concerns about Megumi, but for as long as he’d kept you on the phone, he’d never bothered to explain why he would ask you to meet him in a place like—

“You’re early, Miss (L/n).”

You stiffened, glanced over your shoulder to find Gojo Satoru – dressed in his usual plain, black uniform and unaccompanied by the student you’d come to discuss. He greeted you with a wide grin, a lazy nod, and you returned it with a purse-lipped smile and a tightened hold on the strap of your messenger bag. “Well, I’d hate to waste your time.” You toyed with the idea of meeting his eyes, but your gaze skirted over the pitch-black lenses of his sunglasses and settled firmly on the collar of his button-up. “And you don’t have to call me that. It makes you sound like one of my students and—” A slight pause, a nervous laugh. “I think you might be a little too old to blend in.”

Satoru’s grin only widened. With only your own paranoia as warning, he strung an arm through the crook of yours, dragging you towards the entrance of his looming tower. “I think it’s got a nice ring to it, Miss.”

Something sharp pricked at the back of your throat.

In hindsight, it might’ve been easier to do this with the nine year old.

You kept your teeth grit and your smile plastered on as he led you through the lobby – all shining crystal chandeliers and glistening marble floors – and hauled you into a gold-gilded elevator, the kind that would’ve let you know you were somewhere you didn’t belong under normal circumstances. You watched in stomach-knotting, heart-stopping terror as the numbers ticked up, up, up, until the mirrored doors were sliding open and you were stepping into the living room that could’ve swallowed your shoebox of an apartment whole. Your heels (blocked, low, practical – the only pair you’d found the strength to wear since coming back from your leave) clicked against the bare tile floor as you stumbled into the remarkably open space, his furniture sparse and largely utilitarian. You spotted one of Megumi’s drawings on a low coffee table, a pile of Tsumiki’s hairbands forgotten on an otherwise empty bookshelf, but any other signs of life were either nonexistent or exceptionally well-hidden. Any hope you had that Megumi and Satoru’s situation might’ve just been that of a young, overburdened guardian and his slow-to-warm ward evaporated immediately. Those of limited means tended not to live in penthouses that cost triple your annual salary in rent.

If Satoru noticed your growing anxiety, he didn’t seem to pay it any mind. With an exaggerated yawn, he strode past you and collapsed onto a leather couch – too pristine to have been recently visited by two hyperactive children. When you stalled near the entryway, he let his head lull to the side, his tinted glasses falling low on the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to be shy. There’s plenty of room – not that I mind the view, if you really wanna stand.”

You took a deep breath and let it out in a long, labored exhale. He’s practically a kid, you reminded yourself. You could only be thankful you hadn’t gotten him a couple of years ago – otherwise, you’d be dealing with an actual child.

Reluctantly, you squared your shoulders and perched yourself on the far edge of the sofa. Satoru immediately closed the distance, draping his lanky arms over the back of the couch, his fingertips just barely brushing against your shoulder. You pulled your messenger bag into your lap, opening your mouth as you looked for Megumi’s file, but Satoru cut in before you could start your well-practiced monologue. “This is your first year at his school, right? I’d remember if I saw a teacher as pretty as you around campus.”

“It’s my first year back,” you corrected. “I’ve noticed Megumi very introverted for a boy his—”

“Let me guess – maternity leave?”

Your lips quirked into a tight frown. Fighting the urge to cross your arms over your stomach self-consciously, you sent him a withering look out of the corner of your eye. “I’d rather not talk about my personal life, if it’s all the same to you. Like I said, I’m not here to waste your time.”

Your tone was clipped, your voice strict, but Satoru’s only response was an airy chuckle, a careless grin. “I’m not in a rush,” he said. “But you’re probably eager to get back home to your baby girl. I know you try to spend time with her on weekends.”

This time, you didn’t try to breathe. Letting your bag fall back to your side, you moved to stand, but Satoru was quick to catch you by the wrist, to pull you back down with a single, playful jerk. Your bag fell off of your shoulder, hitting the floor and spilling open at your feet, but you didn’t reach for it. He was stronger than he looked, and you already knew everything you had to about strong young men with more power than they knew what to do with. “I’d really rather not talk about myself when Megumi is—”

“Can’t be easy, leaving her all alone like that. Did you ask your neighbor to babysit again, or was it that brat of a teenager you call up on weekends?” His hand fell to your thigh, and you immediately regretted wearing a dress, let alone one that ended well before the knee. You’d wanted this to seem causal, unintrusive, but as his fingertips bit into the plush of your thigh, you regretted not going straight to the police as soon as you noticed something strange. “Can’t be easy, not having a husband to dote on you and the little princess anymore.”

You keep your eyes on your feet, on one of the manilla folders spilling out of your bag. Megumi's name was scrawled messily across the upper right corner in red pen, because red was his favorite color and you knew he would see it every time he helped you organize paperwork for your other students. “I appreciate your concern, but we’ve managed to take care of ourselves.”

“I know.” He was close, too close. You could feel his breath, hot and humid, against the shell of your ear. “It’s just that I think I might just be able to take care of you a little better.”

“I think I should leave.” You spoke slowly, your tone flat, factual. Like you were talking to a child, or a dog, or worst of all – a man in monks' clothing, ready to worship at his own alter. “Before either of us does anything we might regret.”

Satoru let his lead lull forward, his fanged smile biting into the corner of your jaw.

You tried to bolt, but it was already too late.

It happened too quickly for you to process. One second, you were writhing in your own skin, your favorite student’s neglectful guardian pressed into your side and the next, you were on your back, splayed over the length of his couch, Satoru’s knee between your open legs and his hands on either side of your head. Your body reacted before your mind, trying to run, to resist, to get away from him, but Satoru’s hand was on your chest before you could so much as sit up, keeping you trapped underneath him without a trace of effort. “You can stop working so hard, momma.” His glasses had fallen away completely, revealing eyes as blinding as the cloudless sky and as unfeeling as raw ice. It was hard to remember why you’d ever thought a man like this could ever have anything to do with a boy as sweet as Megumi. “Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you.”

You shouldn’t have been so worried about the dress. It didn’t matter how long your skirt was, not when the cheap material fell apart so easily under his eager touch – your bra and panties discarded with just as little thought. You panicked, started to kick and shove and thrash, but his hands were already locked over your hips, keeping you pinned to the couch as he bent down and buried his face between your thighs. However young you’d thought he was, he must’ve been younger; his inexperience shining through in the overzealous way he nipped at the inside of your thighs, how hastily he laved the flat of his tongue over your slit. His pace was rough, his technique nonexistent, but you couldn’t remember the last time you had time to touch yourself, and you hadn’t slept with someone else since…

This time, when your mind went blank, you were the one willing away fractured thoughts and bitter memories. You didn’t want to acknowledge the twisted pleasure Satoru was forcing onto your body either, but it would’ve been impossible to ignore the way his teeth grazed over your clit as he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, to not hear the slick sound you just couldn’t seem to believe a part of you would make as he forced two fingers into your tight pussy. You threw your head back, clenched your eyes shut, but no amount of aversion could seem to block out his throaty laugh, to make the reverberations his deep voice sent pulsing through your cunt anything short of unbearable. “Needy little thing,” he muttered, pulling away just far enough to press a lingering kiss into the apex of your hip. “Bet he was neglecting you even before you ran off. Is that why you had to leave him? He didn’t know how to treat a pretty thing like you?”

You would’ve given anything to make him stop talking, but you didn’t have a chance to try and bargain. While his fingers pumped mercilessly into your pussy, his mouth pushed slow, wet kisses into the rounded curves of your stomach, your midriff, your chest. He noticed it before you did; saw the thin trail of thin, near-transparent fluid running down the curve of your chest before you felt the telltale soreness in your breasts, managed to draw a connection between that and the shallow, airy moan Satoru let out as he ran his tongue over your leaking nipple. He took long, agonizing seconds to lick up the spilled milk before his lips found the closest nipple and finally, he latched onto you properly.

He was worse than your newborn. It was an awful thing to think, it was a terrible thing to have to think, but it was true. He was rough, and clumsy, and noisy – groaning as he lapped and sucked, eager to swallow down anything you had to give. Drool seeped out of the corner of his mouth, whatever pain he might’ve alleviated immediately replaced as the fingertips of his free hand kneaded into your swollen tit. By the time he pulled away, he was panting, scissoring open your pussy with enough force to leave your toes curling, your thighs twitching, little involuntary whimpers slipping past your lips despite your best efforts to choke them back.

He didn’t so much earn your climax as drag it out of you, piece by fractured piece, broken moan by stuttering convulsion. Your hands shot to his head, fingers soon knotted through messy white hair, but he didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to mind, his attention devoted entirely to spreading open your cunt and milking your chest dry even as the last of the aftershocks faded and the first pangs of overstimulation began to set in. When he did pull away from you, it was with an exaggerated smack of his lips, a teasing nudge of the heel of his palm against your clit, a cocky smirk that reminded you of the expression Megumi would sometimes draw onto his doodled stick figures as they were hit with simplistic, two-dimensional cars or torn apart by black and white wolves. That was something you’d meant to bring up during your conversation with Satoru – Megumi’s tendency towards more violent forms of creativity, how it could be an early sign of emotional unrest in children too young to properly express themselves. Now, you could only wonder why he didn’t draw Satoru more often.

You were barely conscious by the time he drew back working one arm under your back and another under the bend of your knees. You let your eyes fall shut and, by the time you found the strength to open them again, you were on your back, dark satin sheets underneath you and Satoru above, snowy hair providing a much-appreciated barrier between you and those terrible eyes. This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from meeting his prying gaze, and he welcomed your bleary stare, drinking you in for one second, then another, before dipping that much lower and slotting his lips against yours. The kiss was surprisingly gentle – all slow tenderness and delicate warmth. Your mind flitted back to dark eyes and pitch-black hair, pointed teeth and deceiving smiles and you willed yourself not to think at all.

You heard fabric shift, felt his hands curl around your thighs. With an aching sort of slowness, he pushed your knees into your chest, leaving you spread open and vulnerable below him. You felt the head of his cock press against your slick entrance, heard a raspy groan trickle past his lips as he thrust into you – bottoming out in the same stroke.

He didn’t wait for you to adjust to his size. With his face buried in the crook of your neck, he rutted into you with short, brutal thrusts; never pulling out of you entirely, never happy unless his cock was abusing the deepest pocket of your wet heat. Immediately, it was overwhelming – too much stimulation being forced onto you too quickly with too little preparation. Your hands fell to his back, your nails biting into his skin as he fucked into you with a jagged kind of desperation. His cock scraped against something soft and spongy inside of you and you cried out, arching against him. “I can’t— It hurts, Gojo, slow—”

“C’mon, baby, you can do better than that.” His voice was low, airy. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the corner of your jaw, rolled his hips and pressed himself that much deeper into you. “What’s my name? Who’s takin' care of you from now on?”

It was more an act of desperation than anything; a broken plea that you could barely recognize as your own voice. “Daddy,” you sobbed, shrinking against him. “Please, don’t cum insi—”

You were cut off by an unabashed moan, the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you. His hips pressed into yours, his thrusts growing shorter, more violent as he pumped something warm and awful into your pussy. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, pushing harsh circles into the vulnerable bundle of nerves and bringing your exhausted body to its second climax. Your vision burnt white as your cunt clenched around him, as his thrusts turned labored and languid, as collapsed against you – limp and boneless. Idly, almost lovingly, he nuzzled into the side of your neck, letting several seconds pass in silence before sighing, the pinnacle of satisfaction. Eventually, he picked himself up, resting his weight on his elbows as he cupped your face. “Pretty girl. I think the brat’s got a crush on you, too – always going on about his favorite teacher, telling me to keep my dirty hands away from you.” He laughed, shook his head. “Think he’ll be excited to have a younger sister?”

You didn’t answer, but Satoru didn’t need you to. He was already picking himself up, already pressing a kiss into the crook of your neck as he straightened his back, staring down at you with eyes that must’ve gone lifeless years ago. Eyes that, despite your best efforts to ignore their similarities, you couldn’t help but feel that you’d seen before.

“Speaking of, I think it’s about time we checked on our baby girl.”

~

Less than an hour later, you found yourself in your makeshift nursery; the corner of your bedroom occupied by a crib and a few shelves of miscellaneous supplies. You sat on the foot of your bed as Satoru held your daughter in his arms, rocking her as she sniffled and threatened to cry. You’d taken a taxi back to your apartment – called up and paid for by Satoru, of course. He’d given the driver your address before you so could so much as process where he was taking you, something you were currently choosing to ignore.

“She looks just like him.” His tone was light, his smile soft. He gestured to your daughter’s curly tufts of dark hair, her brown eyes – both only a shade away from black. “It’ll get worse as she grows up. He was always like that – couldn’t stand to let anyone else be the center of attention.”

You felt sick. Black spots still danced in the corners of your vision, and it took all your strength just to choke something coherent out. “He’ll never meet her. I’d die before I ever let him put his hands on my daughter.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He flashed you a grin, then turned back to your daughter. “I’m gonna keep both of you safe, be such a good daddy to both my pretty girls.” He pulled her that much closer to him, pressing a ginger kiss into her forehead. “You know, you really gotta open up more. I tried as hard as I could, but I don’t think I ever managed to catch her name.”

That made sense. You tended not to use it, when you could help it, when you were strong enough not to think about the man who’d given it to her – the man who’d tried to take yours, before you’d gotten away from him and and his monsters. You weren’t feeling very strong right now, though.

“Himari,” you mumbled, the sound of it alone still enough to steal the air out of your lungs, to leave the taste of blood heavy on your tongue.

“Geto Himari.”

[inkskinned]

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

[lostinlovingrevery]

HEYY VANNN 💗

I heard you wanted to talk about Logan and I gotchu 👀😉

So I was thinking about Logan and what his reaction would be to seeing you in something of his. And I know I’d steal all those mans shirts but what about something else to get a rise out of Logan?? Like going to bed in his boxers OR meeting up for a date night and you show up with wearing his favorite belt buckle he swore he lost with the tightest jeans you have on that you know will make him go feral. I feel each Logan variant has a different vibe so you can take item(s) of his and he sees you wearing that and it’s OVER 😏 I have thoughts for a few but would love to hear what you think!💞

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!! DAMI THIS IS BRILLIANT!!!

I absolutely LOVE this idea. the belt buckle is so cute!!! I feel like he would tug you forward with them- looping his finger around your belt, staring down at it before looking at you, and calling you a little thief <3

Thank you for sending this in!!! <3 <3, I hope you enjoy!!

Logan Variants Reacting to You Taking His Stuff!

(slightly smutty, fluffy, and slightly angsty stuff below!)

Trilogy Logan: He crossed his arms, taking in the sight before him.

His dogtags, sitting pretty right in the valley of your breasts.

He was showering, heard you come in for a second- didn't pay too much attention to that. Was half tempted to tell you to join him- but considering he was almost finished washing up, and the water was getting cold, hell just join you in bed instead.

When he climbed out- his dogtags that just happened to be taken off with his clothes for once when he showered was missing. He checked all over the bathroom- even stared in the mirror to make sure he didn't go insane and it was still around his neck, but found that it was not the case.

He swears he didn't take it off in the bedroom- but as he opened the door to step into yours and his shared room, the mystery was quickly solved.

You were leaning against the headboard, posed in a sensual position, a big smile stretched across your face as his eyes trailed over your nude figure. Finally landing on the dogtags. He could make out his name on them.

He dropped the towel, letting you see what he thought of your little trick- and your new sense of fashion as he walked towards the bed, kneeling onto the end of it- his member at full attention for you.

"Now, that's a good look for you sweetheart." He mumbles low as he leans over you, fingers coming up to trace over the tags.

"sure you don't want them back?" You teased.

"Nah, keep em. Let everyone know who you belong to."

Origins Logan: You stole, yet another one of his flannels.

He'd be irritated, if he could. Yet, they look better on you anyway.

Especially when you're walking around in nothing, but his flannels.

It happens at the most random of moments too. Usually he's home after a long day at work. He sheds his clothes off, changes into sweats and a clean t-shirt before settling down somewhere to read, relax, watch tv. You'll be off doing your own thing, he'll distinctly remember you wearing a pair of boot-cut jeans and a tank top.

Then suddenly you're walking past him, an hour later- not even socks or panties on you as his flannel practically swallows you. He used to say something about it, tease you, make a joke- but now he smirks, catches a glance of your ass, barely hidden by the hem, before returning to his newspaper.

Eventually you'll end up in his lap. He's frumping over the stolen cloth, and you'll make a sweet pout and tell him that it smells soooo good that you couldn't help it. Smells just like him.

"Yeah princess? That's why you like it so much?" He'll smile, his hands tucking underneath the flannel, brushing over your bare skin as his eyes wander down- admiring the way your chest is barely concealed from him. You bit your lip, and nodded. "Hm." He tipped his chin up to look at you. "Alright. Keep it on, but you'll have to do something for me."

Old Man Logan: "Darling? You seen my glasses-?"

He stopped when he finally spotted you in the kitchen- trying on the glasses that he'd been looking for, for the last 20 minutes. He hated the damn things, hated how old they made him feel. Perfect vision for nearly 200 years and now he needs them. Really?

The only thing that keeps him from smashing the damn things is you cooing in his ear about how cute he looks.

A small guilty look on your face as he crossed his arms, raising a brow at you, and you smiled. Your hands dropped to your side, leaving the glasses sitting on your face.

"Got a reason to be stealing my glasses, doll?" He asks, feigning annoyance- but he could never really be angry with you.

"I just wanted to see what it looked like with your glasses" You answer innocently.

"And?"

"You look fuzzy."

He smiles, looking down at the floor, before moving forward into the kitchen towards you. "Real cute sweetheart." He coos. Reaching up, he pulled the glasses off you. "There. Better?"

"Kinda."

You reached for his glasses, taking them from his hands, flipping them over and putting them on. It slips a bit on the bridge of his nose, and he tipped his chin down to look at you past them. You smiled.

"Now, it's better." You wrapped your arms around his waist. "So handsome."

"Mm." He tipped his chin up again. "I don't know doll, they did look nice on you."

Worst Wolverine: He was half asleep and barely noticed you had them on.

You went to shower, while he watched some old black and white movie on the tv in your shared bedroom. It was boring- and he had seen it before. Granted it was over 100 years ago- but he did see it, and he remembered not liking it then either.

So he started to fall asleep, eyes closed, arm stretched out across your side of the bed. He picked up the sound of the shower shutting off- always alert at what you're doing.

He began to fall deeper into slumber, knowing that you'll be by his side soon. He heard you come in, silence at first- before your quiet shuffling around the room continued. Drawers opening and shutting, and finally you're climbing in bed by his side.

He turned to spoon you, arms wrapping around you protectively. His hands, as usual began wandering over your form. Tracing along your figure- it was a comfort thing for him. A habit he's built over time with you, reassurance that you're still there- that you're okay.

His hands, as usual, moved downwards- where instead of your panties that he has become so familiar with- it was a different fabric.

"Babe." His brows creased together, eyes still shut as his hand continued to investigate what was on your bottom half. "Are these mine?" He finally asks, pinching the fabric between his fingers.

Quiet mirth escaped you. "I thought they looked comfy." You responded. He opened his eyes, pushing himself up onto his elbow to glance at his boxers that were adorning your lower half. You turned your head to look at him.

"Hm." He continued to feel the fabric. "i wanna get a better look at this."

He moved onto his back, urging you to straddle him which you happily did so. He examined you, intensely- like someone examining a piece of art- making sure it was real. You couldn't help but laugh.

"why so intense about it Lo?" You hummed. He chuckled.

"Looks good on you." He says, taking the waistband and snapping it against your hip. "Little big."

"Well, have you see you?"

He smirked. His hands coming down to rub your thighs. The look of his boxers on you- they peaked his interest, they looked good. Really good. It made his mind wander- wonder things like how they may feel after you wear them. Maybe, just maybe if makes you real happy while wearing them- some of you essence will get left behind, staining the cloth.

"Say baby, not too tired are you?"

2013 Wolverine: His old jacket.

The leather jacket he used to wear all the time, back before everything happened. Left it behind when he left the mansion- when he left you.

Not that he wanted to leave you- but he thought it best. He failed you, he failed everyone.

Yet here you were, staring back at him, wrapped in the leather that was a bit too big for you. Looks like it was keeping you warm though. Good, considering the mountains are freezing. He certainly knew that.

"Logan."

Your voice sounded sweet- just as he remembered it.

He wasn't sure how'd he react when he'd see you again, wasn't sure how it'd go. However all he could think was how nice you looked in his jacket.

You pulled it closer around yourself. Seemed like a habit, the way your hands held onto it. He could almost see, by the look in your eyes and the way your fingers held the fabric. Like you were imagining it was him.

"It's time to come home Lo." You say. "I miss you."

He didn't say anything. Just stood there, staring back at you- not quite sure if you were real. Had plenty of strange dreams, saw strange things while living out in the Canadian Rockies. Most of them involved you.

Only one way to be sure.

He walked forward towards you. The snow crunching under his boots. You didn't move, looking at him pleadingly- waiting for his next move.

His arms came around, and pulled you into an embrace. He buried his face into your hair- then down to your neck as he took a deep breath. His jacket- the one he wore religiously for years, now smelled like you.

He wondered if you'd be willing to give it back to him, once you're both back home.

Patch! Logan: "Where is the damn thing...." He mutters quietly under his breath. He was all ready- his sparkling white suit, cleaned and pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Cuff links, in a shape of a X, pinned to the cuffs of his jacket. His eye patch- set perfectly, as usually. All that was missing was his bowtie.

The damn thing was a bright red. How could he not find it?

He remember taking it off last night- or rather, you took it off. Nearly ripped the damn thing off. Threw it...By the window.

He pushed the furniture around- still unable to find it.

He checked his watch. Couldn't look any longer. He'll have to settle for a regular black bow tie. It's classy sure. His red tie however- he considered it lucky. He needed all the luck he could get tonight.

So there he was, his usual thing, gambling, drinking, spying- eavesdropping.

That's when he spotted you. Pretty thing- as always. Only something.... different.

You were next to the head honcho of the casino- usually are. He likes to parade you around and show you off however you have no interest in the likes of him.

You had that pretty red dress that drives him wild on. The one that hugs your curves, leaves little to the imagination with the slit in the thigh and off the shoulder sleeves and a neckline that reached very low. At the center of neckline, was his bow tie

You must have pinned it there, you little vixen.

You looked bored, until you spotted him in the crowd. The way your face lit up sent butterflies through him- only they melted into something more, as he felt his trousers grow tighter when you brought your hand to the bow tie that sat pretty.

Your boss put his arm around you, unnoticing that your attention was on Logan from across the room.

This guy may act like you belong to him to the public, but you were quietly yet openly wearing the very thing that told Logan,

You belonged to Patch.

Cowboy! Logan: He'd been looking for it all day. Unsure of how he could have lost the damn thing! Took it off during a catnap against a tree, woke up with it gone.

All he knew, is he was going to shoot whoever the hell took it.

Eyed the farm boys who act scared as hell of him- he doubts they would have done it. Hell they pretty much piss themselves if he so much glanced at em.

the lil kids that like to climb all over him- as if he wasn't the most dangerous outlaw in the West- no - The States. They've tried to take his hat more than once after all- but a quick glance into the school building and they definitely weren't the culprits. Neither was the teacher who shooed him out.

Checked the bar- making sure those damn assholes that sit and drink their health away didn't pull some bullshit. He wouldn't be surprised, since he beats them at every card game they've challenged him to since he's shown up. It wasn't them though- on account that they were all passed out on the floor with a disgruntled barkeep.

He was at a lost, about to surrender that he'll have to go buy a new one. To bad, he really liked that hat.

Until it occurred to him that he hadn't seen you in awhile.

In fact- he was so disgruntled by losing his hat, he completely forgotten that the catnap he took- was right by your side. You were leaning on his shoulder, falling asleep just like him. Now you and the hat were missing.

Didn't take long for him to find you- nearby your family home, by that pond you like to read by. You held a cheeky smile as he approached you.

"There you are, you little thief." He accused- eyes taking in the stetson upon your pretty little head. "I was bout to shoot someone over that thing, you know that right? Anyone teach you not to take stuff?"

"What?" You acted innocent. "You put it in my lap. Naturally I thought you were giving it to me."

He pressed a hand and leaned against a tree, looking down at you. "Now sweetheart, you do know what it means when you wear a cowboys hat, right?"

You blinked innocently up at him. A devilish grin spread across his face. "No? What does it mean?"

[moodymisty]

𝕺𝖋𝖋 ����𝖍𝖊 𝕰𝖉𝖌𝖊

Author's note: The first chapter is done! I really hope you guys enjoy this! Relationships: Damarion(Ultramarine OC)/NightLordSerf!Fem!Reader Warnings: Blood, Brief mentions to unconsensual sexual content, The sorts of things you'd expect being a Night Lord serf Word Count: 2911

Guilliman reads the report in his hands with an inhuman level of efficiency. His eyes gloss over each and every word darting from line to line, faster than any baseline could ever dream to process. Through this he remembers key pieces of information to form his conclusion once he finishes the hundreds and hundreds of lines within a few moments. Statistics, casualties, recorded vox chatter between astartes- all memorized.

-recovery of valuable data successful

-investigation of reason for ship’s abandonment conducted

-no signs of external attack. Suspected internal conflict

-survivor found

-plans for extraditing survivor to nearest habitable colony delayed

Guilliman diverts his eyes from the information in his hands looks to the marine in front of him. He stands stoic and at attention, hands behind his back as he stares at Guilliman and awaits a response. The primarch gives him a momentary once over, looking at the condition of his armor and the look on his face.

He’s young, but not that young. His scars are somewhat minimal, mostly surface level; A helmet is locked onto his belt not far from a basic issue combat knife. A standard, by the books Ultramarine. Nothing particularly special.

“This… survivor; You found them.”

The marine nods. Damarion; Guilliman remembers the name from the report. He spoke on vox that he found a survivor amongst the derelict ship after hearing screaming he soon located the source of. He shifts his weight from one ceramite boot to the other.

“Yes. A serf.”

Guilliman tenses and loosens his jaw, continuing to watch the marine intently. He raises a hand and rubs his cheekbone. He supposes this is the sort of mess he gets bestowed with whenever he dares to muster a thought of being bored. Curse it all, he should've perished the thought before they set off.

“A singular serf? They managed to survive whatever happened on that ship? I was informed it looked like a battlefield.”

Damarion takes a step closer and his hands drop from behind his back, going into a slightly more casual pose as he begins to explain.

“It looked as if the crew formed two separate hierarchies and slowly killed each other off. The rest either escaped or perished somewhere else.” Guilliman hums. Seems sound enough. The Night Lords are far from unfamiliar in terms of infighting, and the idea of them slowly killing each other during a power vacuum is not one that he would blink much of an eye at.

"We were in the barracks hall, one of the quarters had been locked from the outside. I heard yelling from the interior." That was shortly before they managed to get inside, and presumably found a disheveled, hungry serf. Locked inside for safekeeping by the owner, Guilliman would presume.

“Alright. What is his name?”

Guilliman’s brow furrows in confusion when the marine becomes… Nervous.

He shuffles a bit and it makes his armor plates clank against each other, pursing his lips. He suddenly has a bit more trouble looking his own primarch in the eyes, shifting from side to side.

“She… Doesn’t have one.”

The look Guilliman gives him only further heightens the marine’s unease. The two look at each other at odds in a sort of standoff, but not from a personal conflict. Guilliman hadn't expected the serf to be female; Even if there wasn't much reason why he shouldn't. He prods for a bit more information that wasn't in the report.

“What do you mean she doesn't have one?”

The marine clears his throat awkwardly, habitually covering his face with an armored fist for a moment.

“She claims that she doesn’t remember it. That they gave her a new name when they took her for a serf.”

Guilliman raises his eyebrows; He supposes that along with whatever she's encountered, one might be forced to no longer use their own name, or forget it outright. It would be one of the milder things he’s heard in terms of the abuses that baselines face when under the ‘ownership’ of the Sons of Kurze. It seems serf might not be the correct term. Guilliman attempts to pry even further.

“And what was that?”

Damarion suddenly regains any nervousness he’d previously lost, and opens and closes his mouth not unlike a fish suffocating on a beach. It takes a moment before he actually begins speaking again.

“With all due respect My Lord, I cannot repeat it to you.”

Guilliman now grows multiple more layers of confusion, quickly growing frustrated with the roundabout way this conversation is going. Why will one of his men answer an extremely simple question?

“You can’t?” The young marine swallows thickly enough that Guilliman notices his change in demeanor. “And why not?” His brow furrows as well.

“It was, something related to her reproductive organs.”

Guilliman doesn't recoil, but disgust quickly paints his face. He knew that Curze’s sons lacked honor, but it seems the surprises are neverending. He never hears the end of their horrors and abuses against human life; If anything, they only seem to grow like some sort of malignancy.

“Very well.” Guilliman takes a habitual glance towards the datapad, despite the fact that he’s long since memorized the information contained on it for this particular excursion. “And you denied the process to have her transported to Macragge?” Damarion curtly nods once more and returns his hands behind his back into a proper formal stance.

“I wish to take her on as my own serf.”

Guilliman wants to rub his temples and sigh. This all is a mess- But at least it will be this marine’s mess now. As long as he isn’t having to continue dealing with this, then the primarch supposes there is no harm then just letting this young marine have away with it and forgetting this all has happened. If something inevitably goes awry, one of his captains will deal with it.

“Very well. I do not have the time to deal with a singular serf. if this is what you wish, by all means. Just keep her out of trouble.”

Damarion nods. He can work with that.

He hopes.

Leaving Guilliman's office with a respectful bow, the first thing he does is return to his own quarters- knowing you'll still be inside.

Half of the reason that he decided on taking you on as a serf was ever since finding you, you've latched to him incredibly hard. But at the same time, you're horribly frightened of him. It’s as if since he’s established he won’t immediately kill you, he’s proven to be the safest option. But the Night lords surely instilled a heavy, all-consuming fear of astartes in you, and everything about him down to his smell sets you off; It doesn't take much to send you cowering into the corner as if he is going to wring your neck.

You are now his serf, and he will expect a particular decorum from you, but the last thing he wants is for you to fear him.

When he enters his quarters he hears you jump, eyes wide with fear that only calms a bit when he's someone you recognize. The rag is tight in your grip, and it takes him to notice his quarters is immaculate in comparison to how he left it. Every corner is cleaned, the cot blankets are refolded and the floors are spotless. Your voice is still a bit scratchy when you speak.

“Hello Master.”

He winges a bit at the title. Lord was acceptable among the Ultramarines and commonly used by the serfs, but many preferred just their rank or family name. It was something they were used to being called. Master had a connotation to it that he wasn't fond of, particularly when coming from a sickly serf currently on her hands and knees cleaning the floor like a single spot found would spell her own demise.

“Get up off the floor.”

He gestures bluntly, wanting to get you off of sitting on the cold metal floor. You keep refusing to sit on anything else.

But instead of getting up you just cower, looking up at him worried as if you were about to get beaten into submission.

“I'm sorry, I cleaned everything and I didn't want to dirty it.”

The room is indeed spotless, he's surprised you managed to do so much in such a short amount of time. Not that there is much in his quarters to clean; Ultramarines tend to forgo trophies and excessive keeping of things that do not provide any worth to them. The room now reeks of harsh cleaning chemicals that burn his nostrils, and he notices the skin on your hands is inflamed. You've surely been in here this whole time, just toiling away. Damarion doesn't even remember a time you've left his quarters; You're far too frightened to do such a thing so soon after being brought back from the derelict vessel.

“You did fine. Now get up off the floor.”

You slowly rise up, fiddling with the front of your new clothes. Shrinking like you're prepared for a beating, Damarion feels a bit ill at the idea that such a thing was a regular occurrence for you. You still have bruises that he’s noticed already, ones so new that only recently had they begun to fade.

Wilting like a flower, your head lowered into your shoulders and your voice quiets enough that his ears need to prick up in order to hear it.

“I'm so sorry, I'm just a stupid-” He groans and raises his own voice, cutting you off.

“Quiet with that woman, you're fine. Just sit on the cot.”

You suddenly begin look at him like he just asked you to dance. Your eyes dart around his face, and he feels as if you’re checking to see if he’s laid out a trap for you. Not being taken for his word is aggravating him, but he holds it in.

“What? But that's yours…”

Quickly reaching his wits end, he attempts to find more rope in it anyhow and hold strong. Had you been anyone else he would’ve long since pushed you off, but he just…

He can't get visibly upset. The last time he did you cowered like he was going to kill you, and he would rather not see that again. He doesn’t like the feeling of fear like that; From assuming his so monstrous that he would crush you simply for annoying him.

He put this on himself. He supposes this is his punishment for his impulsivity.

“Yes it is, but you can sit on it. Were you only allowed on the floor?”

You nod. He should’ve assumed as such. What callous tyrant would beat his serf within an inch of their life enough times that they now cower in fear at any astartes, with the wounds to prove it, but allow them to sit on his cot? Much to his surprise, your voice raises a bit and you provide a bit of context to your odd behavior.

“My master only let me onto the cot when he wanted to use me.”

Damarion resists the slightly hot feeling in his mouth at such a casual admittance. Use you… the implication was easy to understand. You look at him blankly unaffected by such a thing, before skittering to sit on the edge of the cot.

“Is that what you want from me?”

He sees you reach for your the top of your robes and start to undo it, and jolts towards you before he can fully register the affect of such a quick motion. It causes you to skitter backwards in fear; Your clothes are partly undone and bunch awkwardly.

A pair of marines passes by his open door during this, seeing him reaching for a serf cowered in fear and attempting to undress herself.

“Do not-!”

He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. He attempts to remember his training, remember the many times his superiors told him to keep hold of his temper as he straightens up.

The marines pass. He knows he'll be hearing from his superiors about this. He’s already gotten in trouble enough times, whats another he supposes.

“Do not do that again. There is no need to undress yourself.”

He's going to need to somehow get a second cot. Or by Terra, at least a blanket for you to lay on. He would feel like a monster for making a sad, beaten serf sleep on the cold metal floor.

The other serfs might be able to get you something, perhaps.

Going near the serfs quarters had been an odd affair for him; He's never seen the place. When he ordered what he wanted done, it hadn't taken long for someone to inquire about the reason.

“You are the one with the serf from the Night Lords ship?"

He didn't confirm or deny it- he had no desire to do such a thing to a random serf. Though the confirmation that the news is spreading is, abit concerning.

Of all the things he would be known for, it wouldn't be his valor it would be for his...

Wrapped tightly in the tattered remains of your robes he carries you cradled in one arm- the other holds his bolter. He doesn't look down at you, and simply continues forward as he follows his squad. They all look at him curiously.

...Moment of impulsivity.

Satisfied with this success, Damarion goes to have his armor removed. This mission was the last of his current rotation, so he's due to be removed. It's a long process, and doing so gives him plenty of time to think. The mechanicum that begin the process pay no mind to his unfocused eyes, his body going through the habitual motions as piece after piece is taken from him.

He regrets doing this. Taking you.

You would do better tossed in with the other serfs. His eyes stare of at nothing as he feels the electrical jolts of his armour disconnecting from his armouring suit. For a brief second it feels like he's missing a part of him, but that feeling fades after a moment each piece is removed.

They always said he had a temper. Was impulsive; Too brash for an Ultramarine. He made a split second decision to the Primarch himself and now there's no way he can go back.

You'll settle with time.

Baselines might not be as stoic as them, but you're flexible, adjustable. And this ship will surely prove more pleasing than whatever it was like with the Night Lords. It won't be long until you begin to behave normally. Like a frightened animal, you just need a bit to realize you're safe.

You had acted surprised when he had lights in his quarters, and whenever he returns to you, he finds them off. He's seen you squint almost as if your eyes hurt because of the lights, and Damarion assumes you spent much of your time in at pitch black.

He makes a discontented sigh at no one in particular once his armouring suit is peeled from him and detaches from his ports. His skin almost feels odd now that it touches the stagnant air, and that brief, uncomfortable feeling of now being out of his armor lingers for a few minutes before it fades. What remains however, is his desire for a shower. The stench of him is now unsealed and he wants for not much more than to not stink like a sewer. That becomes his first order of business once the Mechanicum are finished.

Once he is clean and covered in his casual linens, he returns to his quarters to see you sitting on the ground again, and the spare bedding he had requested is sitting folded on his cot. You seem to have made no attempt to touch them, and if anything, you seem to be actively avoiding even looking at them. He gestures vaguely.

“...They are for you.”

The way your voice pitches when you look at him gives him an odd feeling.

“Really?”

You hesitate grabbing them for a moment after he nods, before you finally pull them off his cot and make almost a sort of nest on the floor. He watches for a moment out of just sheer curiosity, before throwing his weight onto his cot.

He is able to slow his own brain instantly and soon after fall asleep, though unbeknownst to him you stay awake for a good bit longer. You watch him intently to make sure he's really asleep, fiddling in the corner on your blanket. The idea of sleeping in the same room is still unsettling. The dim candles that are lit provide just enough light to see most things, but not strain your eyes.

Only once you know he's asleep, do you attempt to get some sleep yourself. The fear still remains, an astartes is in here your body is tight like a spring, but eventually the fatigue takes over and everything finally goes black.

[vesna-v-irkutske]

What do you think Artyom and Nikita (mostly Nikita) would think of their "fans" ?

Oh, Artyom likes having "fans". Knowing that someone is interested in him, and someone sees him as something more, tries to understand him, shows him sympathy, must stroke his ego. Although Daphne said somewhere that he was still kind of shocked by it, that he didn't understand it. Two things can be true at once.

May 22, 2023. "Vlada, hi. Got the letter on May 5th. • To be honest, it's an interesting admission — the interest in Nikita's and my philosophy... O_O I'm being completely serious: this is the first time I've seen something like this. I'm very flattered. =)"

June 26, 2023. "The reaction to the sudden popularity was calm. Although I was wildly freaking surprised. But at the same time, remained calm =D"

Although I bet he'd have cringed at some stuff and tried his best to ignore it and focus on something else.

January 6, 2024. "How I feel about trolls on the internet. I don't give a hoot about the internet and everyone who lives in it =) I hardly ever go there, so I don't come into contact with trolls."

As for Nikita, it's hard to say. Back then, he wanted attention and recognition. I'm sure both of them had fun playing Among Us in real life. Law enforcement officials said that they kind of liked talking about their crimes, that someone listened to them, paid attention to everything they said. They got what they wanted: attention and being treated seriously. They posed a real threat, they felt powerful, they were capable of changing lives.

Later, I think, the shame and realization woke up. Half a year after their arrest, Nikita said that he no longer needed all this, and that he felt ashamed. In November 2012, he said, "I feel sick/bad when I think about what I have done."

In June or early July 2012, Nikita gave an interview to a newspaper: — Why is Anoufriev supported on social media, but you don't have any fans? Is he more ideological? — I don't really care about this idea at all.

What I'm trying to say is that Nikita only talked to his mom and gave interviews to a couple of newspapers and journalists because they asked him, not because he was particularly eager for it. In short, he wasn't looking for contact. Just like his whole life before that. So I think he didn't even know about his "fans", or he wasn't very interested. Who knows exactly why there's not a single letter from Nikita from prison. He had no one to write to but his family. And I'm not really sure if someone else knew his address to write to him. Besides, he was a very closed-off, anxious and depressed person, I doubt that he wanted to communicate with strangers. Who knows what they might have written to him? All kinds of threats and insults? He knew it himself.

I think he'd have distanced himself from it all and disappeared into the shadows. At the same time, I'm not denying the possibility that he would be interested if he found out about the "fans". Just a sizeable maybe. But I think that he, just like Artyom, would be extremely surprised, confused and wouldn't understand this. Maybe he wouldn't necessarily have thought anything about their "fans". Maybe he'd have thought it was weird. Perhaps he'd constantly wonder why people were interested in him, if there was any catch in it, if they were actully laughing at him? Maybe he wouldn't really care.

But he'd totally be weirded the fuck out because of some of you, especially if it had to do with his looks and something romantic/sexual in general.

Of course, he knew about TCC, but he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of that interest. And I think he'd have been very distant with his "fans". He was never a talker, and even less with a bunch of different people. Maybe, by some miracle, he'd have managed to make a couple of friends (hopefully better than those he had before, just someone nice and compassionate instead of someone interested in very dark stuff; however, Nikita was very deeply convinced that he was nothing good, and that he didn't deserve anything good; besides, all these positive and pacifistic things were alien to his mentally ill, disappointed in the world, people and himself brain; there's comfort in suffering and misery, if it's something you've been used to since an early age, because it's familiar, and getting better requires a desire to change, effort and energy, which depressed people have very little of). Anyway, who knows how it'd have affected him. Don't encourage mentally ill person's bad tendencies.

[cineatros]

right where you left me ˎˊ˗

pairing ˎˊ˗ manon bannerman x ex!reader about ˎˊ˗ Manon couldn’t let go—not really. While you lived like you’d never been happier, she convinced herself it was all an act. Desperate for a second chance, she threw an anonymous party just to see you again. But nothing could have prepared her for what she found. genre ˎˊ˗ ex lovers. angst. cw ˎˊ˗ kissing. wc ˎˊ˗ 1.3k words tune in ˎˊ˗ party 4 u - charli xcx a/n ˎˊ˗ this song is all over my fyp especially the outro, so why not make a imagine for it and the song is very manon vibes! thank you tiktok for the party 4 u edits 🙏

She Never Moved On

Manon had known heartbreak.

It clung to her in the quietest moments, in the soft, aching spaces between breaths, in the way she stared at the ceiling late into the night with her chest hollowed out by grief. It was in the way she still flinched at the buzz of her phone, still half-hoping—half-dreading—that your name would light up the screen. It was the cruel hope that stitched itself into every corner of her, the kind that refused to die, no matter how many times reality tried to smother it.

She told her friends she was fine. She smiled until her cheeks hurt, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, posted sun-drenched selfies where the light caught her just right, hoping—no, begging—the world to believe it.

But in the dark, when the noise faded and there was nothing left but the sound of her own heart beating far too loud in her ears, the truth rose up like a tide she could no longer outrun.

She wasn't over you.

Not even close.

You, though?

You looked like you’d never even known heartbreak.

You smiled brighter now, laughed deeper. You danced in the arms of strangers without a care, posed in sunlit photos that she stumbled across when she wasn’t even looking. Friends mentioned you in passing, casual and unthinking—Oh, did you see them at the beach? Looked like they were having the time of their life!—and every word hit her like a slap she hadn’t braced for.

You seemed lighter. Free.

And Manon hated herself for wishing you weren’t.

For months, she lied to herself with careful precision. She whispered that you were just pretending. That the smiles were hollow, that your laughter cracked under the surface if only she could hear it properly. That somewhere, deep down, you missed her just as much. That you had to.

Because if you didn’t?

If you had really moved on?

Then what was she still holding onto?

The idea came on a sleepless night, when the loneliness felt unbearable and desperation tasted bitter in her mouth.

She would throw a party. Something extravagant and anonymous, draped in velvet shadows and glittering lights. She would rent out a club, scatter invitations like seeds on the wind, and pray that you would come. A Gatsby moment—tragic, grand, hopelessly romantic.

She told herself it wasn’t about you. That she just wanted to throw a party for once, live a little, feel alive again.

But even as she designed the night—the music, the lights, the whispered invitations—she knew the truth.

This wasn’t for her.

It was for you.

It was always for you.

The club throbbed with bass so heavy it vibrated through her bones. Blue and violet lights cut through the darkness, making the crowd a sea of faceless silhouettes, bodies moving together in a tidal rhythm.

Manon stood just inside the door, frozen for a heartbeat too long, feeling the weight of her own hope crash down on her.

You were here.

Somewhere.

She could feel it like a current running under her skin.

Her heels clicked against the marble as she moved through the crowd, heart hammering in her chest like it wanted out. Her dress clung to her like a second skin, but it wasn't vanity that made her straighten her shoulders and set her jaw.

It was hope.

Find me, she begged silently. See me.

But the music swallowed her words.

And then—

Through the crowd, she saw you.

Soft pink lights pooled around you, making your skin glow, your smile sparkle. You were laughing, tipping your head back in that familiar way that made her chest ache.

But you weren’t alone.

There was someone with you—a girl, pretty and confident, her hands locked around your waist like she belonged there.

And before Manon could move, before she could even breathe, you leaned down.

Kissed her.

Slow, sure, easy.

Like you meant it.

Like you hadn’t even thought twice about it.

Manon felt the room tilt, the music bending into something sharp and broken. The bassline echoed in her skull like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers anymore.

The world blurred.

The crowd spun.

And she just stood there, rooted to the floor, invisible in a sea of strangers.

You didn’t see her.

You didn’t even look.

You have moved on.

And you hadn’t been acting.

All these months she had clung to the fantasy that somewhere, hidden behind your smiles and your new life, you were still hurting the way she was.

But no.

It was only her.

Still bleeding.

Still drowning.

Still reaching for a ghost that didn’t even know she was there.

She stumbled back through the crowd, the lights streaking into messy trails across her vision. Her throat burned, but she didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. Not here. Not where anyone could see her fall apart.

Around her, the party raged on.

The music roared.

The laughter soared.

And she, she was nothing more than a phantom, drifting through the wreckage of her own desperate hope.

She should leave.

She should pull herself together, fix her makeup in the bathroom mirror, and pretend this night never happened.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

She stood by the bar, gripping the counter until her knuckles went white, the room spinning around her.

The DJ switched songs, a glittering, heartbreaking synthwave bleeding into the night.

I only threw this party for you, the lyrics whispered, again and again, slicing her open.

Manon closed her eyes.

Swayed slightly.

"I only threw this party for you," she whispered to herself, her voice lost in the noise.

But you didn’t hear her.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t even care.

Time blurred after that.

Maybe she stayed an hour. Maybe it was ten minutes.

She didn’t know.

All she knew was the cold hollowness inside her as she finally turned and pushed her way toward the exit, each step heavier than the last.

The night air hit her like a slap, sharp and cold against her flushed cheeks. She sucked in a breath, steadying herself against the brick wall outside the club.

The city moved around her, alive and indifferent. Cars hissed past. Laughter floated from nearby alleys. Somewhere, a siren wailed.

And Manon stood there, wrapped in her too-thin jacket, feeling more alone than she ever had before.

She thought heartbreak was something you survived.

That one day, it would scab over, become a scar you could trace with your fingers and say, I lived through that.

But maybe some wounds didn’t heal.

Maybe they just became part of you.

Maybe they were stitched into your skin, your bones, your blood.

Permanent.

She pulled out her phone without thinking, scrolling through her gallery. There you were, smiling up at her from the small screen—frozen in time, untouched by the wreckage.

Her thumb hovered over the photos.

Delete them, her mind whispered. Let go.

But her heart, stubborn and stupid, ached at the thought.

So she just tucked the phone away again, too much of a coward to cut the last thread tying her to you.

The walk home was a blur.

Her heels clicked on the pavement, her breath puffed out in small, ragged clouds, and she thought about all the ways she had tried to move on.

The jokes.

The parties.

The late-night hookups she never stayed for.

None of it had worked.

Because it had never been about forgetting you.

It had always been about finding pieces of you in other people.

And no one ever measured up.

No one ever felt like home.

She reached her apartment, fumbled with her keys, and stepped inside.

The silence hit her harder than the music ever had.

She dropped her purse, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the couch, burying her face in her hands.

The party was over.

The dream was over.

You had moved on.

And her?

She was still here.

Still loving you in the ruins you left behind.

[rosieyart]

okay, by popular demand (and by popular demand, i mean 3 people and my inability to keep my mouth shut) i am here with my saiou/ousai relationship + mini character analysis. this is an elaboration on this ask i got earlier !!

i should mention that i’ve only ever played through v3 once, so there is probably a lot i am missing, nuance wise and what not. i also haven’t edited this well, so it’s kinda just a word dump (sorry), so i’m not sure how understandable/coherent it’ll be. nor do i know how original my ideas are; there’s probably someone who’s dumped their opinions exactly like mine somewhere… in any case, here is my conclusion on why i think saiou is a rather intriguing ship and why i’m personally drawn to them, individually n otherwise ✌️

ouma kokichi. god what a complex character. some might argue otherwise, but i think his character and his arc throughout the game is not only hard to crack/understand, but integral to the v3 plot and overarching themes presented. well never truly know what he was thinking, and so many have already fought tooth and nail to defend or oppose him. in my humble opinion, however, the way i see it is this: ouma’s overall goal was to unite everyone against an active, obvious threat in the killing game. the mastermind was hidden amongst them, as they decided found out on, and by outing himself as the mastermind, making himself a clear and obvious target, it encouraged the remaining survivors to build trust within one another and fight together. kokichi realized very early on that no one was going to trust anyone as long as there was a hidden mastermind posing as a student within their group. he knew they weren’t going to get anywhere if they kept doubting each other — so in a very unorthodox way, he united them together. they didn’t need a friend, he realized, they needed an enemy. and by default, he sort of becomes shuichi’s nemesis as most antagonists in the games do.

i was on tiktok the other day and found this comment that i thought made a good point, regarding kokichi’s character and why people hate him.

though i am biased, i think it’s fair to say that in a world without the killing game, kokichi would want to be friends with shuichi. or at the very least, he’d be intrigued by him and push shuichi’s buttons to figure him out. i think it’s funny and such a nice detail to notice, but just as shuichi (and us, by default) are confused about kokichi and his actions, shuichi himself is actually a mystery to ouma as well. in the eng version, kokichi had shuichi labeled “trustworthy?” on his whiteboard meanwhile in the jp version, it’s “tricky/can’t figure him out.” in both versions regardless of translation, i think it’s fair to say that kokichi is intrigued and wants to understand shuichi better. one part of their dynamic i really love is the whole “i’m gonna annoy because it’s so fun and you react to said annoyances in ways i thoroughly enjoy.” and it’s fun, and silly, but i think it’s also kokichi’s way of figuring shuichi out. shuichi is… an anomaly. he’s an ultimate detective who’s supposed to search for the truth, yet he is ironically afraid of what he’ll find out. he has a knack for discovering and unearthing mysteries (he can’t help but connect two dots together) and yet he simultaneously is hesitant to discover more. he wants to find the truth, but is willing to tell lies in the classroom trials. this is a really fun juxtaposition with kokichi, who is notorious for telling lies and skirting around the truth like it’s the plague. and yet, they both want the same thing: to find out the truth and be done with this killing game. one is searching for the liars within their group, the other is finding out the truths.

this is one reason why i really enjoy saiou. one of the biggest themes for drv3 is the relationship between truths and lies. there’s the overarching “truth” of their world which is that it’s gone to hellfire and everyone but them are dead. the world ended. except, nope! that’s a lie! the *real* truth is that they’re in a killing game show. kokichi is known for telling lies, and so when he reveals the fire destroyed world outside and says that this is the truth out of the outside world, it’s ironic. kokichi knows there’s something else up, but he reveals the truth of the outside world to them (this, from what i understand/theorize, is ultimately to further everyone’s hatred towards ouma and help them form a close and trusting bond together, but the symbolism behind it is really interesting to me). “here is your truth,” he says, and they can’t dispute it as a lie because it’s right there in front of them. just like they couldn’t dispute gonta in the fourth trial.

except… what *really* defines truth? kokichi must’ve known the outside world was a lie, or that there was something more to it, otherwise why did he go through with his suicide in chap 5? to beat a dead horse: he tells a lie about the “truth” that is the outside world. we circle back to this lie vs truth theme in chapter six when shuichi starts questioning his sense of self. what is really true if he used to be someone else? if his memories and experiences are fake, does that make himself a fake human? a fake person? ultimately we come to know that it doesn’t matter — *he* gets to choose his own truth, even if there are lies buried beneath them. his memories may be fake, but his emotions and feelings aren’t. you cant fake the beating of your own heart or the pain you feel at knowing it’s all unreal, that it’s all a *lie*.

one thing i just thought was so so clever and genuinely helped me understand kokichi more was his friendship reward. for every friendship star completion thingy you complete, you get their underwear (💀) and a special skill to use in the trials. kokichi’s friendship reward is “kind lie.” he has a multitude of lies under his belt — real ones, hurtful ones, white ones, and ofc kind ones. you could argue his plan to deceive everyone as the mastermind was both a hurtful lie and a kind lie — he was ultimately lying for the greater good (imo). shuichi, despite being afraid of the truth, has no problem lying for the greater good either. i was so confused about the whole “perjury” aspect added to this game. i thought it was just another lame addition that didn’t make sense as a means of attempting to change it up a little in comparison to the last two games. but now i understand it’s greater purpose. lying is ultimately not a bad thing. not always, anyway. lying, as we find out, can help us pursue the truth. and i think kokichi knows this to be true in some ways, which is why he’s always acting so oblivious and naive at some times — or outright lying when he knows the truth is the opposite of what he’s saying. without a doubt, kokichi seriously helped move debates along during the trials. pretty sure whether you hate him or love him, people could agree to that. even if he appeared to be spouting nonsense or derailing the conversation, shuichi being the detective he is was able to slowly but surely understand (if only somewhat minimally) kokichi’s methods and thinking process. which is why chap 5 was so wild because it quite literally was all up to shuichi. kokichi single handedly put his trust into kaito to follow through with the plan, and shuichi to figure it out; NO ONE ELSE would’ve been able to figure it out except shuichi (except maybe maki but she was too stubborn to see thru to the truth). and that is like. holy shit??? that’s crazy to me and i think it shows that despite not trusting anyone and not knowing how it was going to turn out, kokichi took that gamble anyway. and it worked! except yknow. it also didn’t, in a way. all in all, the lying aspect of the trail grounds ties into the bigger overarching theme of choosing your own truth to live, and choosing what lies to believe in — good or bad.

side note: i think it’s so funny how mad kokichi gets when shuichi lies about seeing him in the virtual world in chapter four. had shuichi not lied, we wouldn’t have figured out it was gonta (or more likely, kokichi would’ve spoon fed the answer to everyone a bit more). gonta wasn’t supposed to have memory loss, and i have to wonder if not lying about kokichi would’ve made the trial go along if gonta still had his memories from the virtual world. in any case, when shuichi pulled the “yeah i actually did see you walk up the stairs” — the fact he LIED (mr “i’m searching for the truth so we can live and find the culprit” detective) to notorious king of liars ouma kokichi was so funny to me. like girl. ofc kokichi’s gonna realize you lied. and he did and he got so fucking mad over it and kokichi being petty like that and just saying “yeah okay gonta’s the culprit” is so funny to me. bro was LIVID he decided to just up and say the truth to be petty 😭

moving on, i think the big three characters juxtaposed with shuichi is something to note. those three being kaede, kaito, and kokichi. mayyyybe i’m looking a bit too much into this but i want to mention their relationship with shuichi and their character designs because it feels very intentional to me. a while back i discovered shuichi and kokichi have inverted color palettes — black with light accents vs white with dark accents. grey-ish yellow vs purple eyes. but the eye color inversion also actually applies to kaito and kaede, who, just like kokichi, have purple eyes. here is my argument: purple is an important color to the story, as it overall conveys a symbolism for trust and truth. if you look at those three’s color palettes, purple is a notable color. for kaito, it’s dominating. kaede, she’s a bit more desaturated, and kokichi it’s like his accent color. barely there, but noticeable nonetheless.

kaede is our first culprit (except she isn’t since her plan failed). she is trusting and sweet and kind and encouraging. she is desperate, *desperate* to find the mastermind first thing because she is heavily determined to help everyone escape. her color palette is a mix of purple and pink, with pink being more prominent and her purple being a more lavender shade. she’s desaturated in color, especially in her eyes, and i want to say this is likely symbolic of her desire to find the truth, yet her willingness to deceive others simultaneously. she’s not a bad person, far from it, but when she “kills” rantarou, she doesn’t own up to it immediately. she owns up to it eventually, but she also doesn’t take advantage of the first blood perk as a means of further trying to find the mastermind. she is willing to lie about her plan to shuichi (even if it’s lie by deception/not telling) and willing to take a risk to find and kill the mastermind. this, i believe, is why her eyes are so desaturated in purple; she is telling the truth, but it’s watered down.

kaito is almost the complete opposite of kokichi, but also not exactly the same as kaede. out of the three, he has the brightest purple eyes and the most purple on his body. he is a living, breathing, walking example of trust and truth. he wants to find the truth so badly and would never even THINK to tell a lie. would never even consider murder, even if it was the mastermind. his hair is purple, his jacket is purple, and his eyes are purple as all hell. purple, in my opinion, is a huge color resembling truth and trust. he *trusts* maki just because he wants to. he *trusts* shuichi just because he wants to. he wants to believe in them because he wants to find the good in everyone. his trust in them help bolster shuichi into a better mindset, especially after kaede, and encourages him to keep going. kaito might not be the brightest, nor the most helpful in the trials, but emotionally he is vital to shuichi. because he *trusts* shuichi.

kokichi has the least amount of purple in his color palette, but i think his purple accents are the most important out of all of the purple trio. if purple is the color of truth and trust, then having that color reflected on kokichi almost seems ironic and misinforming. except it isn’t. ouma kokichi, the notorious king of lies, is actually quite good at leading everyone towards the truth. the only purple on him is in the dyed tips if his hair and his eyes— almost like the truth his bleeding out of him, or rather just barely visible that you can’t make it out unless you focus hard enough. after all, at first glance i imagine everyone would take in the checkered scarf and the fact black and white is so prominent on him. i think it’s symbolic to have purple as his eye color. it’s a nice character design aspect imo, but it also harkens back to that one saying “the eyes are the window to the soul” or something long that line. despite what kokichi might say or do, the truth is in his eyes (literally). it’s silent and unassuming, but it’s there. his eyes are actually a brighter and darker purple than kaede’s. not as bright as kaito’s, but still something to note.

with all this being said, shuichi gets a difference sense of truth and trust from each of them. kaede provides him an equal dose of truths and lies, kaito gives him absolute truth, and kokichi gives him almost all lies to find the truth.

and i really, *really* love the dynamic between shuichi and kokichi with this whole truth vs lie theme. kokichi, as we learn in his free time events, loves to play games. he’s a bit childish but still extremely mature. his way of having fun is messing with people (though not necessarily in a mean way. after all, he makes the stakes extremely high and concerning, like killing yourself if you lose — but he still purposefully rigs each game so they end in a tie, or with shuichi winning. hell, he STABS himself, hurts himself, in the knife game that is in the final FTE and holy shit if that isn’t foreshadowing for chapter five idk what is. he is willing to hurt himself to avoid others getting hurt. obviously this can get more complicated when it comes to chap. 4. you could argue he hurt miu and gonta terribly and he should’ve died if what i said was true, but i would counter argue by saying the killing game would’ve gone on and on, just like tsumugi wanted, without his intervention there… still a heart wrenching trial nonetheless and gonta and miu both deserved better imo. but what would danganronpa be without unfair trials and bullshit like that?).

it’s this push and this pull, this dance, if you will, between shuichi and kokichi. kokichi is a trickster pulling various stunts and never revealing his hand, and shuichi is a detective trying to uncover his secrets. i think kokichi gets thrilled at the prospect of being uncovered like that — he lies and he lies and he *wants* someone to catch him. after all, in the love suite hotel his entire thing is phantom thief being captured by detective shuichi…… the fact he still says “because i love you shuichi” is fucking insane, but that’s actually not the most important part here. during the love suite, he brings up playing games again, just like in the FTEs. “you weren’t bored playing with me, were you?” kokichi asks. and then “are you mad because i toyed with you? don’t worry. i’m always thinking about you!—“ (bombastic side eye 🤨🏳️‍🌈) “—you’re always trying your best to catch me. i really have to give it my all to win .” and then shuichi points out directly after that he seems to be enjoying himself, despite being a “cornered criminal.” and that’s when kokichi admits that he *wants* shuichi to catch him. ….. oh boy the connotations here are kinda crazy but…. it gets even crazier. i cant believe this part is voice acted but here i’ll just link the video so people can watch. (from 4:32 to 5:10) a lot of this, esp towards the end, is likely for the whole romantic love suite hotel roleplaying thing going on to appease the audience playing the v3, but even still it’s such a fun dynamic. again, the push and the pull. it almost feels like a game of tag, the thing going on between shuichi and kokichi. except it’s hard sometimes to figure out who’s running after who. overall, kokichi is a liar and it’s hard to tell what he says is true, and shuichi is a detective hungry for truths.

side note 2.0: i think a lot of people hate saiou because it feels toxic and i can sorta see where they’re coming from: from a very bare bones glossing over their character dynamic, i could potentially see how they got to that conclusion, but i don’t think that conclusion did any real deep diving into their dynamic and characters. so no, saiou is not toxic. and also, it should be mentioned the moment shuichi shows signs of unease in the love suite hotel after kokichi shoved him over the bed, bro was up and out. kokichi respect boundaries and understands a no when he hears one 😁👍

tldr: truths vs. lies. games. purple = truths and trust. chasing after one another. saiousai cool ✌️👍

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER

Before everything:

Both Harley and (Y/N) had worked on the Playtime company before actually getting to know each other. They've seen each other, rarely, but sometimes in corridors or around the compound in general

When Sawyer had to visit the orphanage to observe the development of the children, sometimes you would be there. At first he took you for another bleeding heart, just as the rest of the caretakers. Then he learned you were a psychologist, at that time you were just that but he could see something in your gaze, something analytical, something that brushed a deep rooted curiosity.

He was curious. Harley didn't right away ask you or even approached you, he had more important things to do, but whenever he needed to go to Home Sweet Home, he would stare a little bit longer than needed trying to find that look of yours. The look that said that you were observing not admiring.

Later on, you were promoted by Elliot Ludwig himself as head psychologist of the company and or course, you were granted executive access.

Now you had knowledge of the deeper and darker secrets of the factory and of course you were expected to participate.

The first person you started talking with was Leith Pierre. The head of innovation and the head psychologist were two positions that complemented each other well because of the need of better, newer and more effective designs on toys and staff management.

You always worked closely to the innovation team, giving ideas and offering advice that would make the toys and the company more appealing.

But it was later, when the Bigger Bodies initiative was presented that you started working with Harley more often. The experiments needed mental stability so they wouldn't pose a threat to other stuff and to children. And of course to work efficiently.

At first he hated the compassion and empathy you showed the toys. How you were an ear to listen, to validate and to advice. To help them navigate the change. To see the light at the end of the tunnel.

But he was somewhat wrong in his opinion about you. When you talked to him about them you gave him a full report of the experiments mental weakness and where to improve so they could be more controlable, manageable.

You, just as him, were searching for control and while he imposed it over the experiments; you made them let you in. Where he found walls that delayed his work, you found a door of which you had the key.

That's when he understood why you looked at them that way. You were analysing your surroundings. Already strategizing a way to crack them open.

Of course you sometimes showed some preference over certain experiments, everyone is entitled to a whim, and even though you really seemed to have certain care for certain toys, that never stopped you so there was no problem.

You were made to adapt. You needed to adapt. Every toy was different, every kid had a different world in their head's. You were more than willing to explore it and conquer it.

Even though somewhere deep in you felt a little sad for the situation of the kids. You've made yourself be able to chose what to feel at any given moment, therefore you would be able to just ignore it for your own good.

No project would ever get done if you just felt bad for pushing the boundaries. The limits where what draw the line between mediocre and greatness.

This project was everything to you. Any reminder of the moral compass you might thought to have was thrown away in order to satisfy your need to unravel the human, and not so human mind after pushing the boundaries of life.

And the same way Harley noticed your true intentions by pure analytical view, you noticed his.

Harley, as much as he hated was still very much human and as the human he was he had his outbursts. He was an easy man to anger.

When you started to get more confortable with each other, he would sometimes just start ranting about everything that annoyed him that week. You knew showing him empty compassion or useless words would not suffice so, true to yourself you adapted to him recognising what he needed at that moment.

That's what always startled him about you. You were damn good at your job. You knew what he needed, you knew what was needed and you did it with little to no error.

Sometimes he would hear you mumbling to yourself about the development of some experiments or about how Leith was fucking up the designs. To repetitive, to traditional, to boring, to unchild-like.....

Just as you listened when he ranted about what bothered him, he listened to your speeches about how the designs would only decrease the sells and you quoting some psychological studies that discredited whatever the design of the toy was. Sometimes it was the colors that weren't lively enough or didn't combine well; other times it was the unfriendly shape of the toy....

You, just as him didn't like when others did your job (even though it was needed because you cannot be everywhere) because you though that they could never do it as good as you.

He would listen to you talking about child psychology. Talking about how the other psychologist were not handling well the experiments. Sometimes you would joke about them buying their titles or something like that.

(Y/N): "Harley, I swear, I think this idiots bought their titles online because there is no way that someone is that fucking dumb on purpose."

Harley: "I differ, we have Pierre as an example."

Both you and Sawyer basically isolated yourselfs on the deeper laboratories. The executives were noticing this too but since you both were very stubborn people, no one could convince you to stop.

Leith started requesting Ludwig to call you out because whether he liked it or not, your advice in the innovation and marketing department actually helped a lot the company and your absence was taking a toll on the finances.

Once a week you would go up to give Leith your design and give him a very detailed explanation of why this design was the most effective and the one that the public would like the most.

This bothered Harley because he had gotten so used to you that now he was almost unbearable to work with any other specialist or psychologists.

Eventually they all quit or just presented a formal complaint to Ludwig.

Headcannons:

Your fingers are almost always covered in blue ink or in pencil dust due to your reports, notes and designs.

Harley and (Y/N) have, accidentally, switched glasses once or twice and since they have different affections (Harley doesn't see well near and you don't see well far) you basically have a moment of confusion before realising that it's not your glasses.

Leith and (Y/N) actually got along well at the start. But (Y/N)'s obsession on the projects made her very self centered, only worried about feeding her curiosity.

When bigger bodies started, Harley was 39 and (Y/N) 37 while Leith was already 43.

Since (Y/N) stopped taking care of herself so much, the white hairs in her head became more visible after starting the Bigger Bodies initiative.

The kids usually liked (Y/N) a lot because she always treated them as people and not like idiot kids. They basically view them as little adults with less knowledge about the world. That's it.

Harley gets somewhat irritated when (Y/N) is not much time in the laboratory or in the interviews with him because she just starts a new obsession over a project. (Mommy long legs, poppy, Doey, Catnap, Piannosaurius etc.)

Okey people, sorry for not writing but I'm in finals so I want to pass. I've made some drawing.

⚠️⚠️SPOILER PART 5 ⚠️⚠️

(Part 5 in process)

I wanted to give more depth to (Y/N)

-Unedited fanfic-

[ivyyisbored22]

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮—𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids one shot

Read part one: 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 to understand the story...

Synopsis: Young and successful, Stray Kids are dominating the world with their ongoing tour. While the other members have moved on and found their own happiness, Chan remains trapped in the bittersweet memories of your love and the pain of your breakup.

A few years later when you attend their concert at the front row, fate decides to bring back the world it once shattered.

Content Warnings: Second chance. Tears, mention of alcohol, hurt, comfort, getting back together.

Note: This is the part two, the idea which won in this poll I posted. Sorry that it took so long to be uploaded ^^;

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count:4.4k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The wind brushed strands of hair on your face, the surrounding bustling with excitement, chatters and giggling as you stood in front of the enormous stadium, large enough to fit over eighty thousand people.

“Ah I'm gonna see Stray Kids for the first time!” An excited fan smiled and exclaimed, posing in front of the stadium doors with their SKZOO plushie and lightstick.

Others were making their way inside, dressed in gorgeous outfits, everyone equally excited to see the eight idols dominate the stage.

You watched as everyone made their way in, yet you stood in front of the stadium, your heart torn between deciding if you should go inside or just turn back and go to the airport.

It's been five years.

Five years since you last saw him. In front of you. His dimpled smile, Australian accent, killing eyes that you once fell for.

And you still are. Even after all this time.

“Are you lost?” A voice startled you. You turned around to see a security guard looking at you curiously, you've been standing without a movement for quite some time.

“Oh no, I—” you stuttered but then showed your phone to the guard.

He took a look at your screen, front row, and pointed you in the direction towards the VIP entrance. "You're right this way," the guard said with a polite nod, stepping aside to let you through.

Your feet felt heavy as you took slow, deliberate steps toward the entrance, the distant thumping of the bass from inside the stadium reverberating through your chest.

Your grip tightened around your phone, knuckles turning white as your emotions warred within you. Excitement, anxiety, and something deeper, an ache that never quite healed.

As you entered the stadium, the roar of the crowd swallowed you whole. The stage was massive, glowing in a spectrum of colors that danced across the eager faces of thousands of fans.

You took your seat in the front row, surrounded by a sea of lightsticks waving in unison, creating an ocean of pulsating red.

In the backstage, the eight RockStars were preparing to get on stage. Felix and I.N were fixing their earpieces and straightening their outfits, Lee Know and Changbin helping each other rehearse their lines but mostly just joking around.

Seungmin was fixing the chords of his guitar while Han did a quick facetime with his girlfriend back home and Hyunjin was being sneaky with his girlfriend somewhere backstage.

And there was Bang Chan. His eyes drifted across the bustling backstage area, his members were thriving, finding happiness in ways he once imagined for himself.

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was happy for them—genuinely. Like the best leader he always was.

Amidst the excitement and anticipation of another sold-out show, he couldn’t ignore the emptiness that still lingered in his heart.

"Hyung," Felix’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. "You good?"

Chan blinked and nodded quickly, forcing a reassuring smile. "Yeah, yeah. Just thinking. Let's kill the stage.”

Felix studied him for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but decided not to press further and bumped fists with him. "You know we always do.”

“Boys! It's time!” Chan called out, the members gathered one by one, forming a circle and putting their hands in front.

“Step out! We are STRAY KIDS!”

They chanted in unison and prepared to get on stage. A montage of their journey played on the enormous screens, and cheers erupted as the lights dimmed.

The opening VCR ended, and the members took the stage one by one, their energy electrifying the atmosphere. You watched as Han and Hyunjin emerged first, followed by Felix, Seungmin, Lee Know, I.N, Changbin.

And then… Bang Chan.

He walked onto the stage with the same effortless charisma that once made your world revolve around him. Your heart pounded behind your chest, he looked almost the same as he did five years ago but now more stronger and powerful.

True to the name of their tour, the eight stars indeed dominated the stage with their energetic music, dance and performance, the crowd erupting in waves of cheers and screams.

The setlist carried on, the members pouring their souls into every performance, when Chan's gaze swept over the front row and landed on you, everything shifted.

Time froze in that instant, only the locked space between you and Chan floating in the air. Your heart clenched as his eyes widened, refusing to believe that it was indeed you in front of him tonight.

The girl he once had to let go because loving you had come at a cost too heavy to bear.

Chan’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, he forgot where he was. The thundering bass, the flashing lights, the deafening cheers—all of it faded into the background. It was just you. Standing there.

Looking up at him with those same eyes that once held his entire world.

Distressing nights crashed into his mind.

The brown liquid stung and burned when it made its way down his throat. It was strong and bitter, like chewing and swallowing medicine.

Only three glasses of whiskey and that reached the limit. It didn't do anything to numb the pain and the fire burning in his chest.

Han and Changbin watched their friend struggling to cope after his break up with you. Han got up from the couch and silently moved the bottle and glass away from Chan whose head had fallen back on his desk chair.

“Chan Hyung..." Han’s voice had been soft yet firm, like he was talking to a fragile child. “This isn’t the way to deal with it.”

Chan’s head lolled to the side, his bloodshot eyes meeting Han’s concerned gaze. “Then what is?” he rasped, his voice cracking from shouting into the void earlier.

“What do I do, Han? Tell me, because every time I close my eyes, I see her walking out of that door. Every time I breathe, it feels like she’s still here, but she’s not. She’s gone.”

After you left, Chan was grieving the entire night, unable to work or do anything at all. He had promised to not contact you again but impulsivity led him to go to your apartment only to find out that you had moved out without a single trace. His friends tried to contact you through social media, but everything related to you had vanished overnight, as if nothing about you ever existed, crushing his soul in and out.

Changbin had sighed heavily, gently placing his hand on Chan's shoulder. “Hyung, you know we’re here for you, right? But killing yourself like this, drinking until you pass out, it’s not going to bring her back.”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Chan had snapped, his voice hoarse with frustration and heartbreak. For the first time YEARS Chan raised his voice that made Changbin and Han flinch.

“I let her go. I had to, for the group, for the fans, for everything that wasn’t her. And now...” His voice broke. “Now, I don’t even know who I am without her.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the studio equipment. Han had stepped closer, his expression pained but resolute.

“Then find yourself again, Hyung. Please. It’ll hurt, but you have to. For us, for the fans and for her. But we know that one day you'll reunite again…”

That night had been a turning point. He had thrown himself into his work with relentless fervour, using the music to drown out the noise of his heartbreak.

But no matter how many songs he wrote, how many hours he spent producing, he could never erase the phantom of you.

Now, five years later, that phantom was standing right in front of him, flesh and bone and as breathtaking as ever

His fingers curled tightly around the mic, knuckles white, but years of performing instinct kicked in. He forced himself to move, to sing, to dance—but it wasn’t the same anymore.

Every step felt heavier, every lyric hit closer to home, and every glance at you chipped away at the careful walls he’d built around his heart.

“You okay?” Lee Know mouthed between the choreography, nudging him subtly.

Chan could only nod, blinking hard to refocus. His body was working on its own, but his heart and mind wandered elsewhere.

While maintaining professionalism and his usual banter on stage along with the members, interacting with fans, every now and then he took a glance at you, who continued to watch him with nothing but pride filled in your eyes at how far he has come.

One part of your heart was happy that he still remembered you even if the both of you can never be together again, and another part of it ached at the past feelings and the shattering heartbreak.

Your grip tightened around the lightstick in your hand. Chan saw the way your chest rose and fell unevenly, saw the way your lips pressed together as if holding back tears.

With their final act, for a long time Chan's gaze only glued to your row, wrapping up their show for the night.

One by one Stray Kids bid their goodbyes and began disappearing into the darkness. The crowd erupted into cheers, some were emotional, others wore a huge smile on their faces for having the best night of their lives.

While you remained not knowing how to feel.

Not knowing if you should feel happy for finally having the courage to attend a concert and see Chan after so many years or hold your heart that's in pieces and go back home knowing that's the final you're giving yourself to ever see him again.

With a low exhale, you turned away to the exit when the same security guard who helped you inside stopped in front of you.

“Can I help you?” You asked, feeling slightly intimidated by his tall figure.

“Wear this,” he handed you a black mask, “and come with me.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you stared at the black mask in your hand. “I—I'm sorry, but what is this for?” you asked, your voice cautious.

The guard remained impassive, his gaze steady but not unkind. “You’ll know soon enough. Just put it on and follow me.”

Hesitation gripped you. You swallowed hard, your heart was still racing from the concert, from Chan’s lingering gaze that felt like it was reaching deep into your soul.

Should you run away? But something in the guard’s gaze said that it could be something you might not expect, so reluctantly, you slipped the mask over your face, tugging it securely behind your ears before nodding at the guard.

Without another word, he turned and led you through a side passage that veered away from the exiting crowd.

The further you walked, the louder your heartbeat became, echoing in your ears like the remnants of a song you weren’t ready to let go of.

The corridor was dimly lit, the hum of staff members and distant voices filling the space. It smelled of sweat, stage fog, and something unmistakably nostalgic.

You were led past a heavy curtain, and suddenly, the guard stopped. “Wait here,” he said firmly before disappearing behind a door, leaving you standing in what looked like the backstage area.

You blinked, taking in the chaotic but empty space around you—rows of clothing racks, half-empty water bottles scattered across tables, a faint hum of music still reverberating through the walls.

As you turned around, you caught the sight of two guys, standing frozen in place like they had just seen a ghost. You recognised them instantly (well obviously), memories flooding back when you were like your own little friend group.

Han’s mouth fell unhinged while Hyunjin's eyes threatened to pop out of his sockets.

Your heart raced like a freight train, swallowing hard you smiled. “Uh…hi?”

“No way.” Han was the first to recover, shaking his head with a bewildered chuckle. “Are we dreaming? Is she actually here?” He nudged Hyunjin hard enough to make him stumble. “Dude, say something.”

Hyunjin’s lips parted, his gaze scanning you like he was trying to piece together an impossible puzzle.

Slowly the other members appeared one after another, gathering before you, like a long-lost family reunion frozen in time. Each of them stood there, wide-eyed, their expressions shifting from disbelief to cautious joy.

Your chest tightened, emotions welling up at the sight of them all together again. Memories hit you like waves—late-night hangouts, inside jokes, and the way they always made you feel like you belonged.

“I…” you started, your voice faltering under their weighty stares. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Han’s smile faded slightly, his eyes softening. “Yeah, no kidding,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You just—poof. Gone.”

Hyunjin finally found his voice, quieter than before. “We looked for you, you know? But you disappeared without a trace.”

You swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at you. “I had to. I... I couldn't stay.”

Before anyone could respond, a familiar face cut through the air, appearing behind Changbin. The moment you saw him, your heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Air was knocked out of your lungs.

Chan stepped into view, his breath hitching with a soft smile the second his eyes locked onto yours.

“Hey my love,” he breathed, barely above a whisper, yet it echoed through the silence like a deafening confession.

You bit your lip as your chin wobbled, tears gushing up your eyes, so close to falling. You stood rooted to the spot, your pulse pounding in your ears. His dark eyes swept over you, lingering on every familiar detail as if he was afraid that you’d disappear again if he blinked.

Chan walked towards you, the sound of his boots echoing off the walls, each step feeling like a lifetime as he closed the distance between you.

You touched your elbow, hoping it would hold you from falling on the floor, your breathing increased with every passing second.

“Let's give them a moment…” you faintly heard Felix tell the others, you could see them disappearing but nothing could be registered other than Chan who stood in front of you.

Present and achingly real.

Tears blurred your vision, the moment you blinked they rolled down your cheeks. Chan hesitated for a fraction of a second, his hand twitching as if unsure whether to touch you or not.

But then, without another thought, he cupped your cheek so gently, his thumb brushing away the tears that spilled.

Words were stuck in your throat. Time was frozen. A longing warmth engulfed you. You leaned into his touch instinctively, your hands trembling as they reached up to hold his wrist.

A shaky breath left your lips as you held onto him, trying to soak in the warmth you had been deprived of for so long. Chan smiled softly and pulled you into his arms holding you tightly against his chest, as if afraid you might slip away again.

Your eyes widened, then closed, your hands gripping his back, hugging him back equally tightly.

Held back sobs broke free, you choked as you let your tears fall and soak his top, holding onto Chan unwilling to let him go.

Chan held the back of your head, not speaking a word but his throat was tight, holding back his emotions biting the lower lip, his eyes shut but lashes brimming with tears.

His arms tightened around you, his grip was desperate, his heart hammering against your ear, a silent confession of everything he never got to say.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, his voice raw and heavy with years of unsaid words. “I’m so…so sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, pressing your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t,” you managed to croak out between your sobs.

Your body shook with quiet sobs against him, your fists clutching the fabric of his top as if it could hold together the pieces of your shattered heart.

"I missed you," you choked out, the confession slipping through your tears.

"I never wanted to let you go," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I didn't have a choice... they—"

"I know," you whispered, cutting him off, your voice raw with pain.

You remembered that devastating evening when you walked out of his apartment, closing the door behind you and heard a loud crash soon after. With every ounce left in your body you walked away, refusing to look back.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes, those same dark, expressive eyes you fell in love with, were bloodshot and glassy with unshed tears. You could see everything in them. The pain. The regret. The love that never faded.

“I left that day,” you continued, your voice trembling, “telling you my heart belonged to you… yours to love and yours to break.” Your lips wobbled, fresh tears slipping down. “And it still does, Chan. Even after all this time.”

Chan’s face contorted in anguish, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks again, trying to wipe away years of pain. "I never wanted to break you," he whispered. “I'm so sorry for hurting you my love, I'm so fucking sorry…”

You swallowed hard, your eyes searching his. "Did you ever move on?"

Chan shook his head instantly, his grip on you tightening. “No,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “I tried, but...how could I? You were everywhere. In my music, in my dreams, in every damn thing I did.”

He laughed bitterly, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I wrote songs about you... but I couldn't say your name. I couldn't even let them know who they were really about."

You sniffled, a small, broken smile tugging at your lips, your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair. Chan let out a choked laugh, pulling you even closer.

Silence stretched between you, the weight of the years apart pressing down, but in this moment, none of it mattered. It was just you and him, tangled in a mess of heartbreak and longing.

Your hand cupped his face, his skin was hot under your palm, he leaned in, soaking your touch, as if this was the first time in five years he could finally let his feelings out.

Your heart pounded against your chest, but you whispered, "I don't know what happens now.”

Chan opened his eyes, brushing a strand of hair being your ear, a desperate kind of hope in his gaze.

"We try," he said softly. "If you'll let me...we try again. I don't care what it takes, sweetheart. I lost you once, and I can't do it again.”

The scars never healed and wounds were still fresh. Could you do it again? Could you believe in him? Let yourself fall back into the world you once built together, knowing how easily it could shatter all over again?

His gaze was searching yours, silently pleading for an answer. But he could see it, the fear etched across your face, the hesitation flickering in your eyes.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice laced with understanding. “I know you’re afraid. I am too.” He leaned in closer, his forehead brushing against yours. “But I swear, I won’t let you get hurt again. I won't let you go.”

Your lips parted, a shuddering breath escaping, but before you could say anything, Chan’s mouth crashed with yours.

You froze, eyes widened, but you melted into him in a heartbeat, letting his tongue slip past your lips and kiss you fiercely.

Love, hurt, fear, anger, desperation.

His hand held your neck as your fingers snaked through his hair, teeth against teeth, breaths colliding, there was no room to breathe.

You gasped against his mouth, the tears slipping between your lips, but neither of you pulled away. The kiss deepened, urgent and unrelenting, you both were trying to make up for all the lost time, for all the moments you could have had but were cruelly stolen from you.

Finally, when air became an undeniable necessity, Chan pulled back, his breath ragged and hot against you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “For everything. For letting them take you away from me. I should have fought harder. I should have—”

You silenced him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips, shaking your head as fresh tears welled up. “We both got hurt, Chan,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“But I always hoped that one day I could find my way back to you.”

You played a trembling smile that made Chan’s breath catch, his dark eyes glistening with a mix of relief and longing.

The weight of what felt like an eternity of lost years pressed heavily between you both. You remembered the nights you spent staring at the empty space beside you, wondering if he missed you as much as you missed him.

And now, standing in front of him, you saw it, the same ache, the same yearning in his eyes. He missed you just as much, refusing to move on and playing a smile on his face that was convincing enough to make everyone think he was fine.

But only the ones who knew, knew that he wasn't.

Chan's fingers intertwined with yours, his forehead pressing on yours as he exhaled a long breath, living in the moment.

“Can we try again?” His breath ghosted over your skin, his voice so raw and filled with a quiet desperation that it made your chest tighten painfully.

Your lips parted, your pulse hammering in your ears. “What if we end up breaking all over again?” The vulnerability in your voice made his brows furrow, his eyes searching yours with a tenderness that almost unraveled you.

His thumb traced soothing circles over your knuckles. “Then we’ll piece ourselves back together,” he said softly, his voice steady yet laced with the same fear you held.

You swallowed hard, staring into his eyes—the eyes you had once memorized, the eyes that haunted your dreams every night. “I’m still scared,” you admitted, voice shaking.

Chan let out a breathy chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “I’m scared too, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“But I’d rather be scared with you than be without you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he was quick to catch it with his thumb, his touch lingering against your skin. “I’ve missed you,” he breathed, his voice cracking.

“I missed you too, Channie. Every single day.”

Chan bit his lip smiling yet his eyes held a wave of fresh tears, his dimple deepening, that same dimple that made your heart flutter in the best way possible.

“Will you stay with me?” He asked for the third time, hope still lingering across his features, refusing to give up.

He fought himself, blamed himself, hated himself for letting you slip away from him that easily.

But now he was determined to win you back no matter the cost. Because sometimes the heart remembers what the mind tries to forget. And love has a way of finding its way back, even through the wreckage.

A shiver ran down your spine, voices in your mind screaming for you to not fall for false hope even though your heart begged you to not let him go.

Your fingers reached up, tracing the curve of his cheek, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you.

Chan watched you curiously and cautiously, you closed your eyes, his presence grounding you, anchoring you to a reality that felt both terrifying and beautiful.

And in that moment, despite the fears clawing at your soul, you nodded—slowly, hesitantly—but it was enough.

His hug engulfed you again, letting out a shaky sob but traced with a low laugh, relief washing over him, finally giving the chance to forgive himself.

“Thank you,” he breathed, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

And you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, a real, genuine smile playing on your lips for the first time, letting yourself get lost in the world you once walked out from.

Bang!

The loud sound of the popper tube made both your hearts threaten to jump out of your throats, pieces of shiny gold and silver confetti swirling around you in a cascade of shimmering light.

You gasped, instinctively gripping onto Chan’s top as laughter erupted from behind you. The guys stood there, grinning like a bunch of mischievous kids, their faces full of warmth and excitement.

Felix, holding the empty confetti popper, yelled “Surprise!” breaking the emotional tension with his infectious, sunshine energy.

You blinked, feeling the weight of the moment give way to laughter as Hyunjin threw his arms in the air. “Finally! I was starting to think you two would just stare at each other forever.”

Chan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head, his arm securely wrapped around your waist and the other hand rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced down at you, his eyes warm and radiant.

A small giggle escaped your lips as you wiped the tears away, feeling the love, the warmth of the people who once felt like family. Changbin walked up, his usual tough exterior melting as he patted Chan on the shoulder.

“Don’t mess it up this time.”

“I won’t,” Chan said firmly and his gaze locked with yours. “Not again.”

Felix bounced over, wrapping both you and Chan in a sudden hug, his voice soft but full of emotion. “You have no idea how much we’ve missed you,” he murmured. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“I missed you all too,” you whispered, your heart swelling.

Chan’s fingers tightened around your waist, grounding you in the moment. He leaned in, his voice low and meant only for you. “So… are you staying?”

You gazed up at him, the memories of your love flashing behind your eyes. The late-night conversations, the way he used to hold you when the world felt too heavy, the way you were destined to find your way back to each other, no matter what.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, a soft smile breaking across your lips. “Yeah, Channie. I’m staying.”

A loud cheer erupted from the guys, Felix jumping up and down with I.N, Han dramatically fake-crying into Hyunjin’s shoulder, Lee Know nodding, draping his arm around Changbin's shoulder, showing a thumbs up at Chan, while Seungmin simply smirked, satisfied.

Chan’s eyes shone with something you hadn’t seen in a long time, pure, unfiltered happiness. He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“We’re gonna make it work this time. I promise.”

You smiled looking up at Chan and leaned your head against his body, his lips brushing against your hair.

Just because something didn't work out the first time, doesn't mean it can't be even better the second time around.

And sometimes, the love that got away is the same love that comes back to stay.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Enjoyed this one shot? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

[sugardollcurse]

SO GLAD TO HEAR YOU LIKE REQUESTS WHERE THE READER IS IN THE BAND omg. those hcs of the boys being protective were 2 die 4. kicks feet & giggles.

if you're into the idea, could i request maybe where the reader is part of the band & it's the premiere of the hard day's night movie?? maybe brian has arranged them all dates for the night cause it would Not look good to the press if any of them were date-less AND too focused on each other...cough cough the reader & john...who is not suuuper keen on it cause he privately fancies the reader quite a bit? feel like he'd spend the night being a bit troublesome!

𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑦 | john lennon x reader

𐙚 summary ; it’s the london premiere of a hard day’s night, and brian’s got everything arranged. including “dates” to keep the press from asking too many questions. but john’s been off all night.

𐙚 note ; yesyesyes ♡ this is so delicious. thank you for bringing me this perfect little dish of tension and tuxedos and longing… it’s going in the oven as we speak. mwah!!

“Don’t make that face.”

You turned to see Paul grinning at you, tie crooked, hair freshly combed. He was speaking under his breath, just for you, above the din of press and handlers shouting outside the Odeon’s grand entrance.

“I’m not making a face.”

“You are,” he said. “You look like you’re about to be executed.”

“Well, it feels like it,” you muttered. “Brian’s got me waltzing up with some posh toff from his cousin’s law firm, doesn’t even like the Beatles. Called us ‘the noise their kid never shuts up about.’”

Paul winced. “Oof. That’s rough.”

“Also winked when they asked if the ‘one with the nice eyes’ was available.”

“…Me?”

You elbowed him. “Me, you prat.”

Paul laughed, and you managed a reluctant smile.

“Look,” he said, softer now, “just stick it out for the cameras, yeah? You’ll only be on that arm for the first few minutes. Then we’re all together again. And it’s our movie. Can you believe that? Our actual film.”

You nodded slowly, taking it in.

But your eyes were drifting, past Paul, past the stretch limo, past the carefully arranged rows of policemen holding back the crowd.

You were looking for John.

⸻

You’d all been briefed.

Brian had pulled each of you aside in the week leading up to the premiere with a well-rehearsed smile and a folder of press memos.

He’d been kind about it, even apologetic.

“Nothing personal,” he said. “Just appearances.”

Because the press had already started noticing the way John looked at you. The way you always gravitated toward each other, laughing backstage, leaning too close at interviews, whispering between takes.

There were already questions in the papers. Photos of you laughing too close to John. A quote from him about how “our Y/n plays like they were born to.”

Too much chemistry. Too much time shared in hotel rooms and green rooms and back corners of tour buses.

Brian didn’t tell you not to love each other.

He just asked you to keep it quiet.

At least for tonight.

⸻

You found him eventually, John, near the theatre steps, smoking with George and the man who was apparently his date: a tall, statuesque girl with a voice like velvet and a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.

She was clinging to his arm like it meant something.

He didn’t look pleased.

You tried not to care.

Inside the lobby, it was warm, loud, chaotic.

Photographers shouted for poses. Lights flashed. Somewhere behind you, someone was saying, “Where’s Y/n?” and another voice replied, “Right there, the one with the toff!”

You could feel your date’s hand hovering, unsure whether to touch you for the photos. You stepped slightly out of reach.

John was a few feet ahead, laughing too loudly at something George had said.

You caught his eye. Just for a second.

He looked away first.

⸻

In the theatre, you were seated between Paul and Ringo, thank God.

John had insisted on the far aisle. Said he needed to stretch his legs. Said he didn’t want to “be stuck next to the wankers from The Mirror.” But then he stayed quiet the whole time. Didn’t even crack wise during the trailer reel.

During the screening, you caught him looking at you.

Not just glances, looking. When the screen lit your face. When you laughed at something he said in the film. When you winced at the sound mix on your solo bit (it really had been better in the studio). His arm was stretched along the back of the row, and you could feel how close his fingers were to the back of your neck.

He didn’t say anything.

Not until after.

⸻

In the green room, after the screening, Brian congratulated everyone in that breathless, nervous way of his.

“You were marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. And the press are eating it up. Y/n, your date told me you were charming-”

“Didn’t say anything about my playing, though,” you replied, forcing a smile.

Brian gave you a look. “Please, don’t start.”

You nodded. “Wasn’t going to.”

But then John was next to you.

Drink in hand. Tie already loosened. Hair sticking up from where he’d run his hands through it.

“That was the worst few hours of my life.”

You rolled your eyes. “The film wasn’t that bad.”

“Not the film,” he said. “The girl. The bleeding mannequin they strapped me to. Said she was a fan, yeah? Didn’t even know which one of us was Ringo.”

You snorted.

“She kept askin’ me if I fancied her hat,” he went on. “Who wears a hat to a bloody movie premiere?”

“Someone who thinks you’re into hats.”

“She said I was her favourite,” he added, watching you closely.

“Oh, well then.”

“Said she liked my ‘mysterious energy.’”

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “You, mysterious?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

And then, more seriously: “I think she was disappointed I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.”

“Were you supposed to be?”

He shrugged. “Brian said to look like we were together.”

“And did you?”

John paused.

“Dunno. Guess not.”

You met his gaze. The room felt loud, but you couldn’t hear anything.

“You looked like you were having a good time,” he said, too quickly.

“With that posh git? Kept calling me ‘love’ like we were already married.”

“Maybe they want to be.”

“Maybe I want to disappear.”

John laughed, then grew serious again.

“You were quiet tonight.”

“So were you.”

“Didn’t feel like talkin’. Not to her. Not to anyone.”

He looked down into his glass.

Then, softer: “Not unless it was you.”

You swallowed.

The silence stretched, then snapped.

“You didn’t like me with that toff,” you said, watching him carefully.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he looked at you, really looked. A little too long. A little too open.

“Felt like watchin’ somebody nick my guitar and play it all wrong,” he said. “Like they didn’t even know what they had.”

“John.”

“And I know it’s pretend, alright? I know it doesn’t mean anything. But I didn’t like it.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So he went on.

“I don’t like pretending.”

You glanced around. The others were still mingling. Laughing. Accepting compliments from cast and crew.

You and John were in the corner, the only ones in the room that mattered.

He stepped a little closer.

“John,” you said again. This time more like a whisper.

“I’d say something proper,” he added, “but you know me. I’m shite at this.”

You laughed, and it came out almost like a sob.

“You’re not shite,” you said.

He met your gaze.

And then, very quietly, he asked:

“If I held your hand now… just mine in yours, in the middle of this posh room with all these bloody liars… would you let me?”

You didn’t answer.

You just held out your hand.

And when he took it, your fingers fit like a secret.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

[fatal-thoughts]

A Gorgeous Introduction

Hermes x Nymph! Reader

Synopsis: Restless and bored, Hermes wanders aimlessly—until he spots you, a mysterious nymph hidden in a grove. Well you've certainly piqued his interest...

warnings: dawling hermes, flirty, overall sweet, a bit short.

A/N: Hey, it's been awhile. Vacation is coming soon which means I'll be free and my writers block is fading. Care to send me requests?

Hermes let out the most dramatic sigh known to Olympus, hurling himself backward into the sky like a particularly glamorous comet. His sandals fluttered as lazily as his motivation.

“One year,” he mumbled, arms crossed over his chest, floating somewhere above the Ionian Sea.

“One whole year since Ody came home and decided to become, ugh, domesticated.”

With a flick of his fingers, he sent a breeze spinning into a nearby flock of seagulls, just to hear them squawk.

“Not a single cursed map,” he grumbled. “No monsters. No sirens. No ancient grudges to carry in my pocket like candy.”

Odysseus was supposed to be his favorite little mortal disaster—constantly getting lost, calling for divine intervention, needing clever ideas whispered into his dreams. Now? He was… gardening. GARDENING.

Hermes made a gagging noise and twirled in the air, trying to distract himself. “Maybe I should start a war,” he muttered, pulling a golden drachma from nowhere and flipping it. “Heads, I throw Hephaestus’s tools into the sea. Tails, I—”

A flash of green shimmered below, nestled in the folds of a quiet grove by a crystal spring.

Hermes blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then immediately stopped midair, wings flaring, sandals skidding against invisible sky.

“Oh,” he breathed. “What… do we have here?”

You were just doing what nymphs do best: existing gorgeously among nature. Draped in ivy and laughter, you sat on a moss-covered stone beside the spring, humming a tune that only the wind and frogs could understand.

You hadn’t expected a god to drop from the sky. Certainly not with an audible oooh of appreciation, and definitely not with hair tousled like a golden storm and a smirk that practically twinkled.

“Hello, hello, hello darling~,” Hermes said as he landed—well, more like posed dramatically—on a nearby rock. “Tell me, do you always sparkle like that, or is today special because I’ve finally lost my mind?”

You blinked at him slowly, like a deer assessing the threat of an unusually attractive peacock. “You’re Hermes.”

“Correct!” He pointed both fingers at you, then immediately picked a flower and tucked it behind your ear. “God of travellers, thieves, charming banter, and currently: desperate gods with way too much free time.”

You arched a brow. “Shouldn’t you be... delivering messages?”

“Everyone’s either dead, immortal, or finally settled down.” He flopped beside you, chin in hand. “Honestly, I might start writing poetry out of sheer loneliness.”

You stifled a laugh, which of course made him lean closer, eyes bright like summer storms. “Are you laughing at me or with me? Because either way, I’ll allow it.”

“And what do you want from me, messenger god?” you asked, voice light as wind-chimes.

“Entertainment. Distraction. Possibly your undivided attention for, say, the next eternity?” Hermes grinned, wings flicking playfully. “You’re too beautiful to be left here all alone in the forest. It’s practically criminal. And trust me—I would know.”

You gave him a side-glance. “Aren’t you supposed to be fast?”

“Not when I don’t want to leave,” he said, suddenly softer. “Besides, maybe for once I’ve found something worth slowing down for.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. And when you rose, leading him deeper into your grove with nothing but a glance and a flick of your fingers, Hermes followed like a moth to flame.

Later, the frogs swore they saw a god giggling like a fool, dancing barefoot in the dew, and kissing a nymph as though the world might end before morning.

Tails, he spends the night with you~

Hope you liked that.

I've also been noticing some people want another part of A Lovely Exchange...

Should i? :DD

[inchidentally]

admits he hides his eyes during scary movies and that 'there might be some screams'

'I'm a big baby about cold water'

I cannot find it now but he said the drivers room was somewhere you could cry if need be

sings to himself during races to stay calm

bases his entire music taste around femininity one way or another: first with Lily (house music) and then Lando (Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, general power girl pop)

favorite show for a while was Sex Education

'my hands are too small!' I just love that he doesn't buy into idiotic male insecurities

he's competitive over competition's sake but not competitive with other men for show or for appearances

despite prolific twitter usage, not a single instance found of even mild or unconscious sexism

totally unapologetically proved he knows what 'bottoming' is in a non-F1 sense not just once but twice

along w Lando, casual and consistent usage of neutral pronouns when not discussing specific partners/people

best interviews are always with Laura Winter

zero chemistry or connection with D*x Sh*pard

does not view his girlfriend as a possession or status accessory to his life

doesn't pose with Lily with his hand on her ass (I might actually say he's the only pro male athlete I know of who's never done this w their partner)

happily a pushover for Lando off the track bc Lando has hyper specific wants/needs where Oscar is super flexible so why not customize things more toward Lando?

despite natural competitiveness and single-minded desire to win that all drivers have, can shake off any disappointments from team orders or Lando getting a podium and not him and be genuinely happy/proud of Lando bc he respects Lando and also why stew on things he can't change?

no idea if he's even aware of this but where he decidedly will not do creepy pseudo "gentlesir" shit with Lily (ie treating her as helpless or in need of his aid to exist in the world) his natural desire for acts of service finds an outlet in doing things for Lando and anticipating Lando's needs (bc no history of social creepiness associated with men doing that for other men)

doesn't care that other people find his long nails weird, he likes having them and cuts them only when they get too long

idk I don't have a heading for all this I just feel like it all ties into things that make Oscar so lovable