#it doesn’t seem like he knows what feels good for him

[iannmin]

What kinks do you think San would have? <3

KINKS SAN WOULD HAVE ⁺₊❆⋆ 최산

🏷️ ⋆ smut, drabble, intentional lowercase, size kink, praise kink, breeding kink (serious), lingerie play, somnophilia, cum play (LOTS of cum)

🗒️ ⋆ RAHHHHHH WTF I’ve been wanting to write this SO BAD!!! thank you thank you so much for the opportunity skjdkskdksk i hope both sides of your pillow are nice and fluffy every time you sleep <3333 also i just couldn’t help but put the edit of long haired san hehe

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆ ⁺₊❅⋆

PRAISE KINK ⋆

no offence but sannie would be on the number one priority list for those who have praise kink. like can you see how he folds and gets absolutely all squishy and subby when wooyoung praises him? like his cheeks gets all flushed and hot,, he’ll probably desire the same with his s/o, whether it’s him giving or receiving. and to be honest san is more of a soft dom, so he’ll love reassurance. just imagine every time when he’s about to enter you he will most definitely whisper softly “you can take it baby, it’s gonna open up so well for me, your pussy’s gonna feel so good, hm?” (and I’ve noticed that san loves to say ‘hm?’ after his sentence a lot in his voice lives and it drives me absolutely crazy)

SIZE KINK ⋆

sannie is a total sucker for size differences and he absolutely builds his ego off of watching his s/o squirm under his huge frame. like just picture him headlocking his s/o from behind, broad chest sticking to his s/o’s back while just absolutely pounding the fuck out of them and whispering dirty things into their ear ughh. and do you remember that one fanmeeting clip of san’s back facing the audience and wooyoung is literally holding his neck attempting to kiss him??? he’ll probably look like that coming home to his s/o from a long day of work,, kissing them at the entrance as a ‘I’m home’ type of gesture. and also,, that’s probably why san hits the gym sososo much, it’s really just to assert dominance and feel big

BREEDING KINK ⋆

don’t even get me started with this once :,) like do you guys realise how traditional san is? like in terms of family and stuff he seemed to have grown up in a very traditional household where his father was strict on him and all that. like just look at how much respect he has for his parents and how well-mannered he is,, and especially do you remember when san mentioned that if he had a daughter he would raise her in a very princess way but if he had a son he would raise him like his father did in a strict way? so anyways,, the whole point I’m making is that san would probably want to start a family early with his s/o so that they can have cute little family outings together, and he can be a dad. so that’s where the feral breeding kink comes in. like he just goes absolutely bonkers the first time his s/o let’s him hit it raw after their marriage, or even better, when he learns that his s/o wants to try for a baby, so he makes sure to absolutely fill their cunt to the fullest, even going beyond his usual stamina of two rounds because for some reason he keeps getting hard after watching his white cum seep out of their hole and dripping onto their thighs :( P.S. he might even have a sex marathon with his s/o on the week their ovulating just to maximise his chances of becoming a dad

FINGERING ⋆

okay okay, I know sannie is a clean type of person and he doesn’t really like making a huge mess, especially when you see how clean and minimalistic his dorm room is but when it comes to his s/o, all morality just gets thrown off out the window. he goes pussy drunk and fingers them until they’re making an absolute mess. and I’ve seen some people commenting that he has chubby hands like cheese-stick fingers but won’t they feel so fucking good when their up in his s/o’s hole? i bet the stretch is a whole lot better with thick fingers like his and it’s definitely enough to get his s/o squirming and whimpering, even squirting.

SOMNOPHILIA ⋆

sannie treats women with so much respect and probably hates non-con stuff which is a great turn-off for him. but somnophilia? that’s his jam right there. the first time his s/o told him up front that they like being fucked awake no matter when, he was slightly hesitant, but he probably discovered a whole new world right there and then when he slid his dick into their unprepped cunt, the raw feeling being absolutely addictive. so even on days when his s/o looked absolutely unsexy, wearing a pair of kiddy-looking pajamas, he will still have a great urge to pull down those cartooned pants and fuck them. he just can’t get enough of the moment when their brows finally knit together and their eyes flutter open, raising their head from the pillow just to see him wrecking their pussy open, and that’s when all senses and feelings process in their brain and they start moaning and squealing.

LINGERIE ⋆

just a bonus kink here hehe,, and not to mention sannie is not the type to rip open the lingeries because he respects how expensive they are, but he’s more of the type to push their panties to the side and fuck them <3

[oblivious-aro]

This was pretty much my exact same thought process a week before I made this post. I do get where you're coming from, but here's a question: when does the episode explicitly condemn Danny for cheating? Does TUE actually say “cheaters deserve to watch their family die”?

Furthermore, consider this line from the end of the episode:

Remembering this line was my turning point. Clockwork is a very wise character (he was literally just established to be omniscient right before saying this), and he’s the one teaching Danny the lesson TUE wants him to learn. If the lesson is supposed to be ‘cheating is bad’, wouldn't that be completely undone by having Clockwork immediately turn around and, by his own admission, and in those exact words, “cheat”? It’s a very prominent line with a lot of attention called to it, too.

“Cheating is bad” is the kind of moral you’d expect this kind of kids cartoon to make, so I think a lot of us preemptively filled in that blank without truly listening to what the episode was actually saying. I get it, I watched my sister struggle through the public education system while getting practically no help or sympathy from it, and I'm sure a lot of viewers were in the same boat as her. Academic pressure can be a sensitive subject, especially if it looks like a character is being chastised for struggling, but that's not what’s happening here. We jumped the gun. The text doesn’t look down on Danny for wanting to cheat. He’s in a difficult position, and being forced further and further into a corner is a feature of the story, not a bug. Danny's situation feels unfair so that the audience understands why he wants to cheat:

"OK! I get it! You're brilliant, I'm stupid, and I'll never be able to get as high a score as you."

"Guys, come on. I'd love to have spent the last month studying, but I was fighting ghosts! Besides, if you two think this test is so meaningless, why do you even care if I cheat? Why shouldn't I open this up and study the answers, huh?"

TUE’s stance isn’t that “cheating is evil”, it’s “cheating isn’t worth the risk”. Despite what Danny’s been led to (erroneously) believe, he’ll have other chances and opportunities if he does badly on a test, even one this big. There are people in his corner looking out for him (Mr. Lancer gives him to come forward even when he knows Danny stole the answers, and literally offers him a make-up test. Clockwork messes with the timeline just to tell Danny that he’s a good kid who deserves more than one chance), but getting caught cheating really could screw up his future. You could still say that’s an anti-cheating message, but the writers do show more sympathy for Danny than people give them credit for.

I don't think the concepts are that abstract. Everything that happens in the present is presented directly, and the main idea you need to get out of the future stuff (bad stuff happened because Danny got caught cheating) is pretty simple and clear. Everyone I've heard talk about the episode seems to get the basic idea.

As for all these events caused by Clockwork… yeah that's 100% true. But given that Clockwork is all-knowing, the master of time, and clearly sympathetic to Danny, it can only be assumed he’s doing what he can to help Danny. Omniscient/psychic characters are kind of weird like that. They make the stories they’re in a bit messy, and you can't really judge their actions by typical standards (ie. Garnet from Steven Universe). Same with time travel, but I won't go into much into detail, because this post is long enough and discussing rules around time travel can get overly technical, but the gist of it is Clockwork is on Danny’s side, but he’s working under some very specific restraints, either from The Observants or from the natural laws of the timestream.

Danny isn’t being taught that cheating makes him bad, he’s being taught not to place such unhealthy (and unrealistic) importance on his academic performance. Sure, this lesson isn’t explicitly stated in exact words, much like the themes in Teacher of the Year, but I don’t think it’s fair to say that the writers were just trying to condemn Danny in either intent or execution.

And as was the original point of this post, the episode really speaks for itself:

"Maybe that's all anybody needs…a second chance."

"I guess the future isn't as set in stone as you think it is."

"And here we are with you, a fourteen-year-old child, risking everything to save the people you care about. You've given everyone else a second chance. Why not you?"

Me for years: I can't believe The Ultimate Enemy is telling kids they deserve something as horrible as watching your entire family die for cheating on a test!

the Ultimate Enemy:

[wordsinhaled]

thinking of a scenario where when charles was little, his mum used to take care of his injuries and do the kissing-it-better thing, until he got older and his dad got wise to that and she couldn’t anymore. but it’s just something tiny that charles associates with comfort.

and so the first time, early on in the agency, that edwin gets badly hurt on a case and charles is patching him up, he leans in and presses a little kiss to the mostly-bandaged spot. it’s just the whole case gave him a scare, because he hadn’t seen edwin hurt bad before, and he’s just getting used to the fact that edwin’s his person, his to keep safe and he didn’t manage that this time, and in his distress he doesn’t even think twice.

edwin stiffens, and charles realizes he just kissed his best mate’s arm, and that’s not the sort of thing you do, is it, and maybe that’s really the sort of thing that’s going to get him knocked in the jaw. only edwin is just looking at him with curiosity, and edwin isn’t the sort of bloke who knocks people in the jaw but he is the type who could leave, could leave charles behind and... and now charles’s face is burning.

“sorry,” he chokes out, finishing the bandage hurriedly. “um, it’s just—something my mum used to do, y’know, kissing it better. when… um. when i’d get hurt as a kid, yeah? used to make me feel proper better, more than the plasters and all that. i know it’s silly, i didn’t think—”

“i did not mind it,” says edwin—who had never had any injury of his kissed better in his short life, and certainly not any of the damage he sustained over 73 years in hell.

“oh,” says charles. “that’s good, then.”

the next time edwin’s hurt it’s a significantly smaller injury, a really minor iron burn that’s already starting to look better even as charles applies the salve. he bandages it up anyway, though. but he’s surprised when edwin stays where he is once charles is done, still expectantly holding out his injured hand, not pulling away, as he usually does. and then he realizes that edwin is waiting for charles to kiss it better. and so he does—hesitant the whole time, in case he read edwin all wrong, up until edwin finally pulls his hand back seeming satisfied somehow, like charles has fulfilled some unspoken half of a bargain.

and that was twenty-some years ago. by now it’s just ingrained that every time charles tends to an injury of edwin’s, even one as minor as a paper cut from a page in edwin’s notebook, he kisses it better. edwin won’t move away until he does.

after edwin’s confession, things change. charles starts to notice that he feels a bit fluttery, the first time after hell that he leans in to press his lips to edwin’s scraped shoulder through a layer of bandage and the fabric of his shirt. and he tries to think nothing of it, only that then his mouth doesn’t connect with anything; because edwin has moved away, moved out of his reach, neatly risen out of the way of charles’s kiss so that he hovers, lips parted against empty air, feeling off-kilter and confused, something like hurt churning through him.

edwin had said he wanted nothing to change between them, and here edwin goes changing things himself. of course that hurts. but why does it hurt so much? and what was that fluttery feeling? and why can’t charles stop thinking about it?

[witchywithwhiskey]

first christmas with trucker ari levinson

pairing: dark trucker!ari levinson x female reader

summary: you ask ari if you can hang up some christmas decorations in his truck cab, and after his initial refusal, he starts to come around to the idea—and has some fun making you beg for it.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, slightly dry/painful sex, creampie, cock warming, bondage, choking, breathplay, dirty talk, degradation, some praise, daddy/dad kink, begging, pet names (sweetheart, baby, kiddo), some aftercare, a mean hot man

word count: 2.0k

a/n: based on this ask from @veltana: Are trucker Ari's and trucker Jake's readers gonna decorate the rigs for the holidays? since Ari's canonically jewish, i wanted to work that in while still showing what he's willing to do for his girl. (also apologies if there's any tense switching in this one, i'm not used to writing in present tense 😬)

trucker king masterlist & dirty filthy truckers universe masterlist

Trucker Ari Levinson isn’t the type of man to decorate for the holidays. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, you’re well aware of this fact about your trucker, but you think it would be nice to put up some decorations in the rig, just to make it feel a little bit festive.

When you broach the subject, the two of you have just set off on a six-week stint of driving, which means you’ll be on the road through the new year. Already, the vast, snow-covered plains of the midwest have you feeling melancholy, so you’re really hoping Ari says yes to some Christmas cheer.

However, your trucker shuts you down with a curt, grunted, “I’m Jewish.”

You try not to show your disappointment, but you haven’t quite gotten used to the way you can never hide anything from your deceptively observant trucker. So while you think you do a good job of playing it off like you don’t care that Ari doesn’t seem willing to let you decorate, he knows he’s struck a chord—and it doesn’t sit well with him.

At the next rest stop, Ari’s grabbing snacks while you’re in the bathroom and he catches sight of a small display of Christmas decorations. They’re all cheap and plastic and poor quality, but before he can stop himself, he’s swiping one of the bright red Santa hats and adding it to his haul.

Ari shakes his head to himself, wondering what his mother would think of him if she could see him buying a Santa hat when he hasn’t worn a yarmulke or stepped foot in a synagogue in over a decade. But then he pushes the thoughts aside, reminding himself that his mother was gone, she’d left him, and she had no fucking right to judge what he was doing.

You’re settled in the rig by the time he gets back, an e-reader in your lap, and already engrossed in some smutty Christmas romance when Ari hauls himself into the driver’s seat. You don’t look up until a bag of Christmas candy lands in your lap, and you’re so taken aback, you glance at your trucker in surprise.

It’s then that you see the Santa hat pulled down over Ari’s slightly greasy brown hair. In his dirty red flannel, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Ari looked like the hottest, filthiest Santa you’ve ever seen, and your core quivers with eagerness as you suck in an excited breath.

Ari’s staring at your mouth, his eyes dipping lower to the way your tits are trembling as your breathing speeds up. You’re wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts, the buttons undone an almost indecent amount, and nothing underneath. (You’d worn leggings into the rest stop bathroom, but taken them off as soon as you got back in the truck—Ari doesn’t like you wearing too many clothes and, truthfully, you don’t either.)

“Why don’t you come sit on Santa’s lap, kiddo,” Ari rumbles, his voice low and smooth—the charming tone of the man who’d coaxed you into his truck that first day. His hand pats his thigh enticingly as he spreads his legs, the fingers of his other hand deftly undoing the button and fly of his jeans. “Tell daddy what you want for Christmas this year.”

Your pussy is already wet with desire, so you toss your e-reader onto the bunk in the back and quickly navigate the space between your seats so you can throw a leg over Ari’s thighs and slide into his lap. Your ass lands on his legs, your pussy already slick enough that you whimper with the need to be filled.

“Beg for this cock, sweetheart,” Ari rumbles, stroking his thick length, his knuckles brushing against your damp slit and making your hips buck forward, seeking more friction. “Beg me to use your cunny like my own personal cock sleeve.”

“Please, use my pussy, daddy,” you beg breathlessly, fingers twining around the hair at the nape of Ari’s neck, careful not to knock the Santa hat off his head. “Use me to keep your cock warm, please—I want nothing more than to be your perfect little cock slave.”

“Good cock whore,” Ari purrs, one of his big hands grabbing your ass and urging you to lift up. Then he was notching the head of his dick at your tight little hole and helping you sink down on him.

A lewd moan slips from your lips as you take Ari’s cock. Your pussy isn’t quite wet enough to take his thick girth, but you don’t care. You’d take Ari dry if that’s what he wanted, and you both know it. 

There’s a delicious sting as your pussy protests the thick intrusion but you push past it, forcing your hips down until your ass meets Ari’s strong thighs. You sigh with contentment, swaying a little in Ari’s lap, your eyes half-lidded as you stare into your trucker’s ungodly handsome face. 

For some reason, the Santa hat is really doing it for you, making Ari even hotter than normal and you think, dazedly, you might have a Santa kink—so long as Santa is your dirty, filthy trucker.

“Feels s’good, daddy,” you slur, pleasure making your tongue feel thick and clumsy in your mouth. 

Ari chuckles and gives your hip an affectionate pat before he removes his hands from your body and starts up the truck, the engine growling to life. 

He’s pulled his rig back onto the snowy midwestern roads before he reminds you about why you’re on his lap in the first place.

“I wanna decorate the cab for Christmas,” you murmur, laying your head against Ari’s shoulder and enjoying the feeling of the truck rumbling beneath you, the warmth of the rig surrounding you.

Your eyes slide closed and you relax against Ari’s chest, letting the soothing vibrations and the perfect feeling of being filled by his cock lull you. Your whispered plea is spoken into the hollow of Ari’s throat, right above where the star of David he always wears is nestled beneath his t-shirt. 

“Please, dad.”

You feel your trucker’s cock twitch inside you, and a second later he lets out a tortured groan. It joins the soft moan you bury in the shoulder of his flannel shirt, your hips rocking lazily on Ari’s lap. Your juices are soaking his cock already, dripping down to his balls, and his cock is throbbing inside you, both of you equally turned on by what you’d called him. 

“Fine,” he grits out through clenched teeth, though you know he’s not angry, just trying to hold back from coming inside you so soon. He always reacts that way when you call him ‘dad’ instead of ‘daddy’. “You can have one string of lights, baby, but I’m going to test ‘em out before we hang ‘em up.”

Sucking in a sharp breath of surprise, you lean back and look up at Ari to make sure he’s serious. You find his jaw clenched tight and ticking, but when his eyes meet yours, there’s a sparkle of something like affection in them. Before you can be sure, though, he looks back to the dark road. 

“Thank you, Ari, thank you,” you cry, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing kisses to his scruffy cheeks and burying your face in his thick beard to nuzzle his jaw. Happily, you lick and kiss down his neck, sucking on the spot at the base of his throat that makes his cock throb inside you. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” he grumbles, one of his hands falling to the small of your back and urging you to settle. “Now be a good cock whore and sit still while you keep me warm, we’ve got another couple hours of driving before you can properly thank me.” 

“Yes, sir, daddy,” you purr sweetly in Ari’s ear as you settle down on his lap. You lay your head on his shoulder and press your mouth to his neck, licking and sucking on his skin idly while you do your best to stay still and let him drive in peace. 

When Ari finally pulls off for the night, you’re practically vibrating with a need to show him how happy he’s made you and as soon as he puts the rig in park, you’re riding his cock hard and fast. 

Your hands are planted on his bare chest—since you made him strip out of his flannel shirt and t-shirt—and you lift your ass up before slamming it down hard, the tip of his cock pushing against your cervix with every thrust and making your cunt squeeze the life from his hard length.

Once he’s let you take control for long enough, Ari’s hand wraps around the front of your throat and he pins you back against the steering wheel, not caring that the horn blares while he fucks up into you ruthlessly. 

All you can do is watch your trucker king, wearing a cheap rest stop Santa hat, fuck the hell out of you while your tits bounce and your mouth falls open in a moan.

Ari comes with a rough shout, yanking you down hard on his cock and making you grind your pussy on him, rubbing your clit against the coarse hair at the base. His hand squeezes your throat, choking you just hard enough to make your pussy spasm, and then you’re coming too, your scream of pleasure stifled by his grip on your neck.

After, Ari helps you into the bunk and tucks you into his big body beneath the blanket. He falls asleep wearing that Santa hat and some boxer briefs, while you’re naked in his arms. With your back to his chest, you can’t see the faint smile that curves his mouth as he drifts off.

When Ari finally buys you that string of lights he promised, you learn that the ‘test’ he wanted to do before you strung them up was to tie you up in them. He winds the cord around your calves, then your thighs, binding your legs together before he plugs them in to make sure they’re all working. 

Ari takes a long moment to look at you like that, naked on the bunk in the back of his rig, save for the thick socks keeping your feet toasty, and the warm, golden lights of the Christmas decoration he bought for you. 

It makes him want to buy you more, to see how you’d look laid out beneath a fully decked out Christmas tree while he fucked your pussy, or how you’d feel curled up in a blanket covered in reindeer while he held you on his lap, his cock buried in your ass. He wants to see you wearing a Santa hat that matched his own, sucking his cock on Christmas morning while he made you coffee.

Ari reminds himself that the two of you are spending Christmas in his rig that year, driving around the country until well into January. But he saves those ideas for another time, tucking them into a box in a corner deep in his mind reserved for all the softer, more domestic plans he has for you—the ones you’ve started to inspire in him despite the fact that he’s never thought of himself as a man with soft or domestic side. 

To distract himself, Ari digs out the Santa hat he bought at that rest stop and puts it on your head, pulling it down over your ears and giving you a satisfied little grin. Then he folds your body in half, pushing your bound legs up to your chest and off to the side so he can watch your face contort in pleasure while he sinks his cock into you.

The string of lights are digging into your skin a little painfully and you’re bent in an almost uncomfortable position, but you can’t help but enjoy it when Ari plunges into your cunt and sets a fast, merciless pace. 

You’d never expected a conversation about Christmas decorations to end up with you tied up in a string of lights, but then, nothing about your trucker was ever what you expected—and that was part of why you loved him so much. You couldn’t wait to spend that Christmas and many more with your trucker king, Ari Levinson.

trucker king masterlist & dirty filthy truckers universe masterlist

[saintobio]

blue christmas

a sincerely yours christmas special. non-canon. angst. 900 wc. part of the sy side-stories.

It was quiet that night. 

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and the scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air while the warm glow of Christmas lights twinkled on the tree. Outside, snow drifted lazily to the ground, covering the surroundings of your home in a soft, pile of white. It felt peaceful—almost too peaceful—and you sat back on the couch, lounging after a nice Christmas dinner with your teenage son, Sachiro, who cradled a mug of cocoa in his hands beside you.

You smiled faintly, admiring how much he had grown, and how this quiet night seemed so far removed from the all the drama that had once filled your life. But the comfort of the moment didn’t last long before he spoke. His voice, deep like his father’s, broke the silence of your supposed peaceful night. 

“Mom,” he began, “Why didn’t you ever choose to remarry Dad?”

The question hit you harder than expected, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the right words. Really, what were the right words? You had never been good at talking about these things, and you didn’t expect that your son would put you on the hot seat like this. The past, especially those connected to Satoru—sometimes it felt easier to leave them untouched, forgotten. As it should be. 

You glanced at your son, unsure of how to explain the complicated web of emotions that tangled inside you. “I thought... it was for the best,” you said quietly, voice soft as you searched for something that sounded right. His question was too sudden to be given a decent answer. “You know your Dad and I just couldn’t make it work. And for you, for us, it was better this way.”

Sachiro nodded slowly as if he already knew the answer, yet his fingers tightened around the mug. You could see the way he was processing your words, as if he was hoping for better reasoning. He had never even known the sibling he had lost until recently, the gap that finally forced his father out of your lives. Sachiro only saw the quiet love that both his parents shared, but it wasn’t enough, not for either of you.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if my sibling were here?” he asked, clearly inciting. “If you kept her, mom. Would she be celebrating with us tonight?”

You felt the ache in your chest as the question landed. You knew Sachiro’s question came from a place of grudge, aiming really well at a spot that hurt the most. And it did good at bringing you a pang of grief from a memory you had tried to bury long ago. You weren’t numb. Of course the loss still stung, even all these years later.

“I think about it all the time,” you murmured, unable to hide the shame in your voice. “What she would’ve been like. How she would’ve looked like. But... I don’t want to remember, Sachiro. I’ve made peace with it.”

But he wasn’t done. “Then, why didn’t you try again?” His voice was so gentle, yet so curious. “Why didn’t you remarry anyone else? I mean... Dad’s married to someone else now. And they’re having another baby. Shouldn’t that be a sign?”

The words felt like a stab to your chest, your heart shattering with an emotion you couldn’t name. Satoru’s life had moved on without you, far far too long ago, yet every reminder of it still cut deep. 

“I’m happy for him,” you said softly, the words stuck in your throat. “But that doesn’t mean I want the same outcome for myself. It’s... complicated.”

Marrying someone else again was not in your books. 

You could feel the intensity of Sachiro’s gaze on you, as if waiting for more. But you didn’t have more to give. You didn’t know how to explain the parts of you that had been shattered, the pieces that had never fully healed. Even if your own son hated you for it. 

“I just want you to be happy, Mom,” Sachiro said, turning away from you, his gaze landing on the Christmas tree. “I want you to have what you deserve. When I have my own family someday, I don’t want you to be spending your Christmas all alone.”

You wanted to tell him everything. How much you loved him, how much you would do for him. How hard it was to move on, how hard it was to see his father moving on with someone else. But the words needn’t be said. At least, not for tonight. 

And then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it faded into a kaleidoscope of memories. The world around you shifted, and the warmth of the fire and the smell of Christmas began to dissolve. Suddenly, you were back in your bed, heart pounding recklessly in the darkness.

You woke up eyes wide in surprise, until the reality of your room finally made sense to you. You blinked, trying to steady yourself. It was a dream. It was all a dream. 

Sighing, you let your head fall into your hands. And just for a moment, you let yourself mourn the future you would never have. The family you would never see, the happiness you could never quite reach.

But as the soft glow of the Christmas lights flickered in the silent night, you slowly allowed yourself to breathe. Tomorrow would come. But tonight, you would let the dream linger just a little longer.

[doctorho]

this one is for eveyone who needs some extra love around these times.

Viktor knows better than he'd like that life isn't always...pretty. Or simple, or easy, or fair. No matter how hard most of Piltover seemed to pretend that there was something magical in the midwinter turnpoint that made everyone suddenly forget the suffering and misery and the complexities of real-life situations, he knows that's not the case.

Which is why he doesn't ask stupid questions when you stay at the Academy over winter break. He doesn’t pry; he doesn’t need to. It's evident enough in the way you preoccupy yourself with work that it's something you'd rather not discuss. You're focusing harder than usual, and he's familiar enough with what that precarious, tight-knuckle grip on being okay.

And Viktor?

Well. Viktor's more than happy to be a distraction.

When he gets to the lab, mid-morning, you're already there. He's not exactly surprised; he'd anticipated this. Maybe even hoped for it. He'd worked with you for a while now and grown exponentially more attached to your company - not that he'd told you the extent of his affections. But he'd get to that. Hopefully.

He came prepared with two warm drinks and still-steaming pastries, and he silently starts unloading those to the common desk that had been designated as the makeshift kitchen of the room.

"Good morning," he says casually, "I brought breakfast." He thinks of adding if you want some, but upon reflection, doesn't. There's a fine line between respecting someone's free will and pushing them to make good choices, and he's currently erring hard to the side of I don't know if you've eaten anything yet today but you definitely should.

You only hum in response, not lifting your eyes off your current project.

In response to this, he hums back and tilts his head, studies the organized mess on your desk; circuit boards, either half-assembled or half-taken apart, he's not sure, stripped wires, a steaming soldering iron. Your hands, shaking a little.

He places the drink intended for you on your desk, just annoyingly out-of-reach, and waits for you to look up.

"When was the last time you ate something?" he asks, holding up the pastry now that he has your attention.

"Why does that matter?" you ask, reaching for the takeaway cup on the edge of your desk. Viktor leans the handle of his cane to block your reach, which makes you look up at him. Properly.

"Just trying to determine if I should make you take a lunch break while I'm bothering you, or if the pastry will suffice."

He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for you to answer.

You shift in your seat. He can hear your back crack in several places, and not in the pleasant type of way.

"Last night," you answer, leaning back with a sigh, then quietly add, "I think."

Viktor reaches over to turn off your soldering iron. "Lunchbreak it is, then. These can be dessert."

"I'm fine-" you start, and he lifts an eyebrow.

"I don't believe you," he says, completely casually, "I think you're pushing through low blood sugar to get this-" he gestures towards the desk, "finished, and I can tell you it's much easier to make mistakes when you aren't thinking clearly."

When you're quiet, he continues, picking up your coat and offering it to you. "You can trust me on this," he says, "I have more than enough experience."

You take a deep breath and sigh it out, feeling somewhat like a toddler.

"I promise you can go right back to poking at this later." He adds, and you slowly take the jacket from him.

"Good," he says, "I know a place."

It's a careful dance, and he knows this; he doesn’t want to push you. But he's been there, and he doesn’t want you to suffer more than absolutely necessary. And he really does know a place.

He re-packs the drinks and the pastries, and you follow him to a nearby cafe-and-drink-cart that's serving small steaming dishes outside. They're serving small steaming cups of - stew? Soup? And warm bread filled with different things, and you hadn't really noticed it before, but now that you were looking at - and smelling - the food, you were starving.

By the time you've registered the selection, he's already ordered for the both of you, and then the guy at the cart is offering you a brown paper bag and Viktor is moving again, and you take a few hurried steps to catch up with him.

"Where are we going?"

You can see him smile before he answers.

"Well," he says, "I was thinking we could take advantage of the great hall being empty, and eat there." He turns to look at you with an eyebrow raised, "I can only imagine how displeased the Academy Staff would be if we risked dirtying their marble floors with common food."

"Oh, really, you can only imagine?"

He shrugs, grinning. "Are you insinuating I have experience with matters such as these?"

"Yes," you answer, opening the paper bag to study its contents while you walked.

He hums in answer. "I am shocked by your accusations." He says, then, clearly fighting a smile, "I would never get caught breaking such a boring rule."

You smile now, too. "Right," you answer, "only the interesting ones."

The way he glances at you and smiles is more than enough of a response.

He stops at one of the long tables at the grand hall, and as he shrugs off his jacket and sits down, you place down the paper bag and do the same. He starts unpacking the contents of the bag, focused, placing down steaming bowls with a spicy scent to them, paper-covered wraps of something, utensils, and smaller bowls of... something colorful. Spices? Toppings?

Viktor opens the containers one by one, making the contents of the single takeaway bag look like a pretty impressive feast.

And you study him as he moves. Careful, confident in his movements, calm. While your insides felt like they were trying to hide, and had felt like that for... a good while now, he was calm like any other day. A rock-solid presence in the otherwise empty room.

"Are you not going to ask me?" you ask, "why I'm working through the winter break."

Viktor's only imminent reaction is the gentle lift of a single eyebrow.

"No," he answers, casually, and it sounds simple when he says it like that.

He meets your eyes, and that feels simple, too; because he is here, too.

It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that. He unwraps a folded paper napkin with careful fingers, and then places a steaming-soft bread in front of you.

You look at him for a moment, and then take a bite of the bread. It is soft and warm and heavenly, and when you taste the stew-soup-something, it's like it warms you down to your soul. You eat in silence; but it feels like there's a gentle bubble of understanding surrounding you.

You hold the warm bowl, and slowly, your hands shake less and less. The tension around your head gives away a little, too.

"Do you like the snow?" Viktor asks, and you follow his gaze out the window.

"I probably shouldn't," he continues, "the cold isn't exactly gentle on me. But it is pretty, I can't deny that."

You hum in answer. "Yeah," you agree with a small sigh, "it is beautiful."

His eyes meet yours, and he tilts his head.

"Do you want to break another rule?" he asks, something michievous curling at the end of his words.

You tilt your head in response. "A more interesting one?"

"Infinitely," he responds with a smile, and you're already on your feet.

And that's how you end up breaking into the roof of the Academy with him. Or, it's probably not technically breaking, since he has the keys, but you definitely aren't supposed to be in there, so that's what it feels like.

It also feels... breathless. And not just because it feels illegal, but it's... it's beautiful, and he holds your hand in the dark stairway and doesn't let go when he guides you to the expanse of the roof, and there's snow floating down all around you-

and for a moment, it feels like you're the only two people in the world, surrounded by a gentle blanket of snow and silence.

Or... not-silence. There is a song softly floating through the air, like it's being reflected in the snowflakes all around you.

And Viktor is offering you a hand.

You furrow your brows as your head catches up with your heart. "Are you asking me to dance?"

"Would you say yes if I was?"

And that was the question, wasn't it;

would you?

Your head tries to butt in with should you, but... something still-soft and light in your heart comes in way too solid with a yes.

Yes, you would.

So you take his hand, and meet him halfway to an embrace. He pulls you close to his chest, and the dance is as gentle as the snowfall around you; just a soft sway from side to side, breathing in sync with the music.

And Viktor isn't sure if this is a good idea, but... you look like you're further away from that edge now, no-longer shaking, and... he hated seeing you in your head that deep, and if he could do anything to help you find your way back to yourself, he'd do that.

It feels a little selfish, this dance, but... it was difficult to justify that when you were in his arms, breathing calm and even.

"I really am fine," you tell him quietly, and he runs a hand up your back slowly. You swallow. "Or I will be, at least."

"I know," he breathes out, and he means it.

You close your eyes, and believe it.

[occamstfs]

Tailgating

Uptight Benji tries to force his way though rowdy tailgaters to get to work. How was he supposed to know the stupid game was such a big deal? Seems he’ll be learning in short order after having a beer or two to take the edge off.

Spin on one of my favorite older stories on here, also named Tailgating! Slightly shorter fratification, burps and personality changing sunglasses ahead! Also only a few days left to vote for the Talismen finale, there's a clear favorite but anything can happen! Enjoy this little ode to sweaty bodies and hoppy breath! -Occam

The roads around the campus library are closed for the big game, but Benjamin was still determined to host his Office hours. He knew there was some kind of football thing today but had no idea it was apparently the biggest of the year. Some bowl game or massive rivalry or something, He didn’t care- doesn’t and will never care, in fact . He’s done good work avoiding the jeering crowds of drunkards so far as he sneaks across campus. Nearing the home stretch however it’s clear there is no way around. He must somehow power through the horde.

Benji makes it a few good yards into the festivities unassailed, dodging elbows and spilled drinks like the best of them. Unfortunately the prudish academic takes time to grimace and sneer when one of the behemoths burps loud enough to make him flinch, pausing just long enough to become irrevocably caught in the chaos. 

Like an animal held by the scruff of its neck, Benjamin finds himself in the clutches of Bruiser, president of the school’s new Beta Delta Alpha chapter. “Yooo lil bro! What’s up? Looks like you’re not havin’ a good time?” Stuck in a meaty hand and between instincts of snide remarks and swift flight he opts for smarmy sarcasm, “Nono you bovine brute I’m having the time of my life on this commute.” Bruiser narrows his eyes, “hmmmm I dunno dude.”

Feeling the man’s sweaty, surely beer-covered palm soaking through his shirt he swats at it, “Ugh, the idea of work foreign to you hedonistic morons?” Bruiser’s lip twitches into a smile as he reaches to grab something with his free hand, “ohhh you’ve got work lil bro?” The hairs on the back of Benji’s neck stand on end as he feels something shift in the man’s expression and he tries to bolt away, Too Late.

Bruiser forces a massive mirrored visor onto Benji’s eyes and the prude freezes. His vision is shaded a dark burnt orange and his eyes scramble, the only remaining part he seems able to move himself. Bruiser releases his shoulder and pats his back, “Welcome to the party bro hahah!” Benji cannot see the man’s own eyes glimmering through his new visor, though as he leans in close all his senses are overwhelmed by how powerful the scent of beer is on his breath, “Here lil bro, let me help you chill out.” Despite disgust, despite fear, despite everything in him begging him to flee, the scent of beer on Bruiser’s thick breath fills him with an overwhelming thirst.

Benjamin doesn’t know how a tall boy ends up in his hand, but he can guess what is soon to happen when Bruiser turns to shout, “Yo bros! Lil Benj over here is gonna kill a tall boy in one gulp!” Through his tinted visor he sees the can raise to his lips, no one can see his eyes widen from fear as beer begins to pour into his mouth. Try as he might to slow the flow, to close his mouth, to not swallow he is totally unable to move. And then, his eyes lose focus for half as second, why would he want to stop drinking it?Did he like beer? As it continues to flow into his mouth he can’t imagine not liking it? ‘S pretty good. Despite his body willing itself through the can, in its paltry state he could never manage to drink this quickly. Rivulets of the swill spill out of his cheeks and down his jaw, staining the recently shaved upper lip and cheeks darker, a mustache never given the chance to thrive begins to sprout. Benji’s throat burns from the effort of racing to down the drink, through with each gasping swallow it becomes easier, more adept at performative drinking competitions, tight to the can his mouth widens into something cruder, made to be loud. And then he’s done

Tossing the can to the ground without a care Benjamin stands, swaying back slightly despite having only had the one drink. His hand pats his stomach and it jiggles slightly, the tall boy must be expanding in his stomach or something. He grimaces as it grumbles, his neck reflexively tenses as he feels a burp coming up. He can’t, no surely not- the glasses squeeze tighter on his head and he laughs once, wouldn’t it be funny though?

Bruiser watches with as smile as he sees the meek man’s torso begin to fill out as he fights the urge to burp. Beneath the visor his eyes surely go glassy as his midriff is exposed and soon enough covered by a treasure trail climbing up towards his chest. Buttons begin to pop from the beer-stained collar of his shirt as something a little less defined than pecs begin to hang on his chest. Impatient with the nerd’s hesitation, Bruiser steps in and pats the man on the back. 

With the slightest encouragement from his bro, er- from this frat bro, Benji lets loose. *BRGURRRP* It lasts a few seconds, it’s not alone *BUURRP* Immediately Benji’s mind returns and he again tries to take control of piloting the machine that is his body. His arms feel heavier as they hang limp from his shoulders, his neck falls back as from another back pat and the shouting of Bruiser he burps again, *BURRP* shorter, deeper. He feels his arms straining his sleeves and a gut that shouldn’t be there pushing against the buttons of his shirt.

Stains begin to make themselves clear in his pits as he grows sweaty from the effort of, drinking? Growing? Struggling to keep his mind? His declining mind accelerates as the smell of his own musk begins to assail his nose. He’s unable to fight the urge to laugh as a hand unfamiliar, clumsy and thick scratches into his pits. He has the clear memory of putting deodorant on his almost hairless pits this morning before leaving the house for, uh- surely not to come here right? 

No no, he had something to do. It’s Saturday. Usually on Saturdays he has work? “YO BENJ!” Bruiser shouts into his ear, “YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” Benji nods wordlessly as whatever shred of himself is left in his mind tries to remember. Yeah he had work, it’s why he’s wearing this button up- He looks down to see a stained shirt, skin clearly peaking through a litany of tears through. He grumbles as his head hurts, he scratches at his itchy chest as it begins to pattern with hair. Suddenly his nose twitches as he smells something. 

Grimacing at the stink he moves to smell his own pits and laughs once more, unaware he’s caught himself in some perverse feedback loop. Man though, he would’ve sworn he sprayed some axe before heading out? He scratches his chin with his pit-sweat covered fingers as he remembers sniffing them at the house and flinching before spraying the forests with at least a few coats. Yeah he’d never leave for, uhh- looking down he sees the shirt has now completely shredded off, leaving him topless as his beer gut continues to fill out and shift 

His once waifish treasure trail spreads to cover his thickening waist as he grows a beer belly that makes it clear this is not his first rodeo. Looking down at his meatier torso his mouth falls open as his struggling mind grinds slower, he’s not- this isn’t him. His body rocks as Bruiser returns and throws an arm around him, “Sorry it took so long BJ- You know how it be huhuh! Had to show a couple bitches who was boss!” 

Benj reflexively raises a fist to bump his bro, discarding a bottle he can’t remember downing to do so, nor does he realize that he seems to be in control of his body once more. Scratching at his crotch he goes to grab the drink Bruiser brought him and he remembers he can always ask his main bro what’s up, “Yo uhhhh, Bruise? Did I have somethin’ tah do today?” Bruiser smirks as he hears the man’s plodding, clearly thoughtless voice, “Fuckin’ yeah bro! You had to show those fuckers who’s boss!”

BJ stares mouth ajar for a few seconds as his existence recontextualizes itself. Sure he’s a student but C’s get degrees huhuh, Bruise’ll have a job for him at his dad’s firm when he graduates anyway. The new tank’s mouth grows into a wide smirk as he remembers that the only thing college is about is having a blast. “YEAH DUDE!” All eyes turn as the man’s new voice tears through the tailgate party, “LET’S SHOW THOSE BITCHES WHAT A REAL FOOTBALL TEAM LOOKS LIKE!” Foam sloshes out of his cup as he raises it in the air, before pouring it on himself and shouting some more.

His resounding cheers are echoed by the crowd of people around him, many almost spitting images of himself and Bruiser. Burly beer soaked men guffawing and toned men only concerned with vanity muscles, all drowning themselves in jungle juice until the game starts. Most frats on campus have sororities over for the shindigs but not the ΒΔΑ guys, no their quarry is all those fuckers who think they’re too good to have a good time. BJ smirks as any prior desires are completely paved over by the idea of molding some pansy little fucker into a real man, just like him, just like his pres.

Indeed he and Bruiser go about the crowd like predators, hungrily seeking out people who were harangued to come to the game. Offering wallflowers drinks and watching as their hair bleaches platinum, pecs bursting through newly bought faux jersey’s. Giving frat-thirsty twinks a chance to become their quarry sweat stained sunglasses and delighting as they fill crop tops to bursting, new furry bellies and hairy below the belt bulges making their intentions clear for all.

 In no time at all Bruiser has a platoon of brother’s behind him, all suddenly excited for the game and otherwise finding the newly stubbled mouths of their fellow brothers. The president’s eyes scan the rowdy crowd around him with glee, excited to sample his new brothers after the game, but none is he more excited to ravish than his new number two, BJ.

When kick off nears he bumps his new brother on the shoulder, the same he clutched when the fucker thought his prissy little job was important. “Yo bro, game’s about to start- Let’s head on in-” BJ’s glassy eyes wrinkle with a smile as he begins to stumble alongside his bro, excited to watch his team stomp. Excited to just watch another game. “LET’S FUCKIN’ GO BRO!” His drunken voice dull and louder than he could dream to near before meeting Bruiser

Even as Brusier clutches his ass his mind stays focused on the upcoming game, though his cock bulges in his shorts either way. His own hand clutches at his bro’s defined waist. God it’s been like a decade since the last rivalry game, and to watch it right by his Bruiser. Man, BJ wouldn't miss this for the world. 

[freshbakedbreadstick]

Small NSFW Viktor Blurb... because i'm thinking too much about him

Arcane Viktor x F!Reader

The way Viktor fucks is so... scientific.

The way he speaks to you, so softly yet so calculatingly is addictive. It's embarrassing how wet it makes you when he speaks this way. It's not at all that he's talking down to you as he dirty talks, he speaks in the manner that a scientist testing his hypothesis would. He has no condescending tone, no hint of sarcasm, and certainly not trying to degrade you. The opposite really.

"Interesting..." he would murmur as he notices you twitch particularly hard, sitting back against the pillows as he watched you feed his thick cock into your throbbing core, watching the way your slickness coated him with every miniscule movement.

He adjusts himself with his arms, eyes piercing your pussy as his shifting makes you gasp out, pushing more of his length into your tight heat. His voice is strangled as he speaks,"You really seem to like it when I move like this..."

If it were his way, he would have a notebook out to jot down everything he notices as you two fuck. You're pretty sure you caught him writing in a small black notebook one time after a particularly good romp too, but you've never been able to find that little notebook and have never been able to figure out what it contains.

Between his gasps and clutching of the bedsheets underneath him, he stays trained on the way your pussy takes his thickness, stretching around him and leaving a creamy ring around the base as you rode him.

"Hm," he would murmur, hands reaching to shift your hips forward a bit, shifting them back when he notices your brow furrowed more when you were positioned that way on his cock.

He would spread your legs carefully, with shaky hands, adjusting your position to one that he hypothesized and tested before as to being much more comfortable for you. He knew you wouldn't get as tired in this position and that he had easier access to that throbbing clit of yours, nimble and long fingers trailing from the soft mound of your right breast, thumbing your pebbled nipple, down the softness of your torso to where you ached for him the most.

He bit back smirks as he moved his fingers in the exact motion he knew made your eyes screw shut and mouth drop open, drool running down your plump bottom lip before hitting and running over your chest. Of course, he tried and tested it before.

"Like that, yes? I know, I know my sweet, I know you like it this way... prefer to have my fingers move like this, yes? Feels good when you move your hips like that?" He would coo, free hand moving to your hip, digging his fingertips in.

He knew this amount of pressure would leave small finger shaped bruises on your skin, the very kind he loved to see when you two would retire to bed in the lateness of night, fingers tracing over the skin under the glittering moonlight. 

His amber eyes would rake over your form, listening to you gasp out. He would be mentally taking in the tell tale signs that you were close to cumming, getting closer and closer with every gasp. He would take note the way your eyes would glaze over before shutting, how your head settled, brows furrowed. Between his own pleasure he would note the way your clenched, milking him so sweetly that he couldn’t help but jerk his hips up, using his arms to move. 

It made the mattress creak, the frame hit the wall, the pillows go tumbling down. It made his mental notes, ones he made sure to write down once he had a chance as any researcher does, go blurry in his mind. But his eyes never fell from your body, watching his most perfect work bring you to that peak of absolute pleasure, crying out his name as he did everything he knew was tried and true to make it feel so overwhelming. 

Viktor was a scientist at heart, always has been and always will be, but that doesn’t make him a boring academic when it comes to intimacy. If anything, that makes him a lot more mindful, as any good scientist in his field is. 

[quarterlifekitty]

Clingy/Obsessive König makes me sooo stupid like a giant violent dog of a man who knows he’s not good enough for you, and never will be, but also won’t let you slip away, cannot let go of you, who begs for scraps of affection but also takes you like a wild creature. 👌 its just so good

So this is like way overplayed but being a medic who happens to pull a bullet or two out of him during combat— and suddenly he has a complex over you. You’re the angel that saved his life. He’s in love with you. Dude has had so little to cling to in his life, it’s easy for him to latch when he’s shown the barest hint of conscience and sympathy.

Not so much that he’ll tell you what you mean to him, but he is following you around like a stray. Glaring over your shoulder. Doing things on the field that are almost foolish to protect you. His presence alone is enough to ward off any romantic attention from others.

He seems almost like a hypochondriac. Comes in to get checked more than necessary for things he used to just ignore, or tend himself. Anything for feel your hands on his skin.

So when your hands start to linger when you’re checking over him, what is he supposed to think? When you tell him you like him coming to visit you, even if he doesn’t really need medical attention. How is supposed to keep his hands to himself? When you don’t pull away when he cups your cheek with a trembling paw, how is he meant to stop?

[supermenz]

one

summary: One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do; two can be as bad as one, it's the loneliest number since the number one. Or: you're two years old when you lose your parents. Your brother, a kid himself, is unable to give you the love you deserve, and you end up at twenty being as burn out as only a Gotham University student can be. So, what do you do? Change scenery, of course.

pairing(s): clark kent x wayne!reader, bruce wayne x sister!reader, eventual platonic batfam x reader (no use of y/n)

warnings: genius kid trope, kinda doomed siblings, language, there are reference to what happens in "the batman" but there will be a merge of both comics and films, written with david!superman in mind cuz he's my pookie 😞, bruce is so pathetic i love him sm

word count: 2.2k

author's note: my first ever fanfic for the dc universe!! constructive criticism is welcomed as english is not my first language,

next | series masterlist

Gotham has left you feeling more claustrophobic in the last few months than it did all your life. 

Maybe it’s because you’re seeing your brother slip into his work — aka beating criminals in the night as a hobby — more and more, or maybe it’s just your brain playing tricks on you. It’s probably the latter. 

You’ve never been good with emotions — it comes with being a Wayne, and surely, having your parents die before you were three didn’t help your situation. Bruce spending most of your childhood abroad with barely any contact with you also probably didn’t help either. 

“But I’m here now,” he had said once, “Am I not?”

He is, but even if you love him with all your heart, sometimes you think that you’re more like colleagues rather than siblings. Your bond is strained, with him being so closed-off and spending most of his free time cosplaying as a bat, and you having just entered your twenties, trying to get your second degree in biology after an early graduation and an even earlier PhD in engineering. And since his first big case four years ago, neither of you has been the same. 

Your relationship has never been easy. The flood and the Riddler’s case basically forced you to trauma bond over what you both had experienced, as surely no therapist would’ve wanted to hear about all the horrors that you two experienced, even for all the money in the world. Besides, it’s not like Bruce could just enter a therapist’s office and tell them that he’s the fucking Batman. 

As of now, you tend to have your… ups and downs. Both prefer to just hide behind paperwork, projects, cases or research rather than just talk some things out. Because yes, Bruce’s your brother, but that doesn’t mean he’s easy to love. There are some days where he seems to be barely able to talk to you, others where you know he just wants to scream at you for whatever reason, others where… others where you think he might just crumble at your feet and start crying. 

You don’t have a lot in common. Maybe that’s why he manages to stay in Gotham even after all that’s happened — combined with the fact that he’s spent ten years or so abroad. Maybe you need that, too. 

“I’m thinking of moving out,” you tell him during one of your rare dinners together. You have already talked about your plan to Alfred, who has shown his support towards the idea and urged you to get out of Gotham as soon as you could, but you also wanted to tell Bruce — just to be honest with him. 

Yes, he left you to study abroad all those years ago without any kind of goodbye or anything, but you have no intention of leaving him behind like he did to you — you may be grown adults now, but that doesn’t mean that being left behind doesn’t exist anymore. You doubt Bruce would ever feel left behind by you, of all people, but still. “Found a faculty in Metropolis that will be able to transfer all my credits and studies and a nice flat downtown near the Wayne Enterprises’ site there. I think I need a breath of fresh air– I need to go somewhere where the sun actually shines and not everyone has hidden agendas.”

You’ve heard good things about Metropolis, and you think that the Martha Wayne Foundation could be expanded a bit more — somewhere far from Gotham, where surely there are other orphanages, other people in need that could use some help. “I could handle Wayne Enterprise’s gestion and settle our matters there while continuing my studies in a more… calm environment.” calm is a big word for a metropolitan city as big and populated as Metropolis, but every city is calm in contrast to Gotham.  

Your brother doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, wide-eyed, fork still raised to eat the potatoes Alfred cooked, his face blank. Is he having a heart attack? You didn’t think that you moving out would’ve been such horrendous news for him. Yes, even if you are not that close he’s still very protective, but he went to live abroad at ten. You’re twenty and you’re just… moving to Delaware. It’s not like you’re going to the fucking Himalaya mountains as he did. 

(Meanwhile, Bruce is spiraling. He wonders when the hell did his little sister grow up, how it can be that she isn’t the little girl he used to sway around anymore, and why would she ever want to move out. Is it because of him? Did something happen? 

Isn’t Metropolis in another state? Is he so tremendous that you have to move states in hopes to forget about him? Is he too overbearing? He thought he had always given you enough space to do your own thing–)

Instead of saying all of the things he’s thinking, he tries to muster up a smile, even if it comes out as a grimace. “Alright.” 

He nearly jumps out of his seat when you beam at him — is he really that obnoxious that you can’t wait to move out and have him out of your life? “Oh, I’m happy that you’re taking it well! I was afraid you’d freak out.” you get up from your seat and move over to hug him, and he chuckles nervously. “Why would I? You’re an adult, you can do what you want.” 

(What do you mean?!, his conscience screams in his head, She isn’t even twelve! Just yesterday she was talking about going to the homecoming dance with her friends–

But time has passed, and even if Bruce feels that it was particularly hard on him, he didn’t think it’d affect you too, somehow. It’s weird acknowledging something’s — someone’s — changes in the years in… so little. He had gotten so used to you being his little sister that he didn’t even think about you becoming a full on woman. He still remembers the pink bundle of blankets your parents had given him that day at the hospital, telling him to be careful with her, she’s your little sister.

When have you grown this much? Where did the time go? He swears it was just yesterday when you were admitted to Gotham University.) 

“But… a flat? Are you sure you’ll be comfortable there? It’s not exactly as big as a manor.” 

You avoid his gaze, scratching the back of your head. “Yeah, about that…”

He raises an eyebrow, “Let me guess, you bought the whole building?” 

You snap your fingers, “They don’t call you the greatest detective for nothing!” you sit back down, cutting the meat on your plate, “I plan on making the floors I won’t live in into a laboratory of sort– almost like the Batcave, y’know, so I can continue working on the models I designed undisturbed.”

When Bruce had started his crusade as Batman, you had just gotten your bachelor’s degree in engineering, and were working on your master’s degree. You had basically given him the head-start, creating the software of the Batcomputer (or of the computer, as he calls it), designed and adapted a sport’s car to the Batmobile (just call it the car, Bruce always insists) and basically modified and created every single one of the gadgets and systems he uses. 

You just hope he won’t let the Batcomputer get hacked as soon as you land in Metropolis — you spent weeks programming her and years perfecting her system. You spent so much time on her, she might as well be your firstborn by now. 

“I’ll always be a call away,” you murmur when your brother’s eyes get a little dazy, unfocused– like he’s in another world, always thinking about the worst that could happen. “You know that, right?”

Bruce blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I– I know that.” 

(He isn't sure about that.) 

You pat his hand, mustering a smile. "Maybe you should take a break, too. Why don't you book a vacation in, let's say... the Bahamas? Just to get a bit tanned and remember what the sun actually looks like."

He shakes his head. "Can't. Batman doesn't go on vacation."

You raise an eyebrow, sighing in defeat. "Well, I'm sure the GCPD could handle Gotham for a few days, but do as you like."

Your arrival in Metropolis is, of course, followed by an unhinged swarm of journalists and press that surround you as soon as you land.

You can already see the headlines — THE PRINCESS OF GOTHAM NOW IN METROPOLIS or some other corny predictable shit like that — as they shove their cameras in your face, screaming and trying to grab you, as your bodyguards try to contain them. You're much calmer than they are, having already endured years and years of invasive journalists.

“Miss Wayne, would you care to tell us the reason for this abrupt change in scenery?”

“Has your move got anything to do with your relationship with your brother?”

“Miss Wayne, look here! A smile for the front page–”

“Miss Wayne, why Metropolis, of all places?”

“Miss Wayne, a word for the Daily Planet?”

The guy for the Daily Planet catches your attention– he seems far too nice and isn’t elbowing anyone; he must be either new at the job or is too nice for it. He’s got a mop of curly, black hair atop his head, thick glasses perched on his nose, baby blue eyes behind them. His posture is a little crooked — he’s getting squeezed by reporters on both of his sides — but, even as disheveled as he is, you notice a thing. 

Ohh, he’s pretty. Like, jaw-dropping pretty, the kind of pretty that makes you want to bite his cheek and never let go for the rest of your life. 

You stop in your tracks, lifting your sunglasses to your head, bodyguards panicking at the swarm of journalists that suddenly all point to one direction; you reach for the pocket of your jeans and take out a business card that you pat on the pretty reporter’s chest. “Another time, pretty boy,” you promise as he takes the card, his fingers brushing yours, the other journalists speechless around you. “I’m kinda busy right now.” 

You don’t stay long enough to see him blush and hold the business card tight in his palm so that the other reporters don’t snatch it out of his grip — the bodyguards urge you forward, towards the SUV with obscured windows that is waiting for you right in front of the arrivals’ exit of the airport. One of them opens the door for you, and you don’t hesitate to get inside, the car speeding off as soon as everyone’s inside. 

“Never seen anything like this,” one of the men mutters.

You shrug, “I’ve had worse.” 

The ride to your building is short, mostly because it’s late in the evening and there aren’t many people still around. You leave a generous tip to both the bodyguards and the driver, thanking them but assuring them that you can walk alone the thirty steps that separate you from the entrance to what’ll be your home for the foreseeable future. They help you take out your trolley and duffle bag, which you swing over your shoulder right after taking the keys of the building out. 

You open the front door, carefully closing it behind you, taking the elevator right in front of it. You press the number thirty out of thirty-four, which turns green with a ding, and wait for the doors to open back up. And once they do, you’re not disappointed. 

The loft is arranged just like how you asked the movers to — it would’ve been hard not to, as you sent them the 3D interior design plan you had made, but still. You’ve been raised with the idea that if you want something done well, you have to do it yourself, so you’re pretty happy about how it turned out. 

Still, something’s missing. 

You check around the loft for any pieces of missing furniture or something like that, not finding anything. You even go back to the 3D model to make sure that everything got here safe and sound, only to find that yes, everything is in the colour you ordered and exactly in the place you asked for it to be. 

You sit on the U-shaped couch that sits right in front of the giant windows that let on the skyline of Metropolis, eyebrows knit in deep thought. The house is nice — for fuck’s sake, you bought a whole building just for you and your projects — but it’s weird not having anyone else around. There’s no Alfred to welcome you, no half-asleep Bruce roaming without an idea of where he is, no squeaking and creaking of the floor when you walk. 

You sigh. “Maybe I should get a cat.” 

[disgustingtwitches]

A Rose in Harlem

New York is supposed to be the city where people vanish into the chaos, but somehow, Simon Riley has found his way into your life. He’s managed to slip past your defenses, filling a void you didn’t realize was there. But when the closeness starts to feel too real, you pull back, desperate to hide your vulnerability. Simon, however, has already bared his own scars and expects you to do the same. Suddenly, your life feels like a romcom you never signed up for, starring the one man who’s impossible to ignore.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete, when no one else ever cared.

Masterlist

PART 4

The Sweetest Taboo

So, you're sleeping with your neighbor. This is fine. Totally fine. You're two consenting adults; no one needs to know. Except Simon seems to disagree.

You wouldn’t peg him as the "kiss and tell" type, but much to your duress, Simon is unapologetically the "kiss and show" type.

At the grocery store, he casually shows up at the same time, grabbing your bags like it’s second nature and walking you home. The stares from the neighbors make your face burn.

Morning run-ins in the foyer have evolved into something dangerously inappropriate. He refuses to let you leave without a kiss. Sometimes it’s just a fleeting brush of lips; other times, it’s deeper, lingering, and edging into the territory of lewd, making you shove his face away.

Then there’s the hoodie. One of his oversized ones, soft and smelling faintly of him. He bullied you into wearing it. You caved, of course, but it stays hidden in the back of your drawer when Ishta comes around—there’s no way you’re dealing with opening that can of worms.

It’s not just the overt gestures, though. It’s the way he lingers too long at your door after you’ve kissed him goodnight. Watches you through the fire escape, like he has every right to. Sitting there with his legs sprawled, a cigarette lazily dangling between his fingers, he makes no attempt to hide it.

You tried to put an end to that one. Bought curtains on a whim, feeling smug about the newfound privacy they’d grant you. But they mysteriously disappeared the day after you installed them—conveniently after you’d gone to work.

Simon played dumb when you confronted him, leaning casually against his doorframe.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, angel. Someone breaking in while you’re away? Maybe I should stick around your place and keep watch.”

His grin was infuriatingly smug, as it usually is.

It’s all becoming a little too real, a little too… loud. And yet, when you’re pressed up against him in the quiet of your apartment, his hands framing your face like you’re the only thing worth holding onto, you almost forget about his wrongdoings.

***

“Brought out the good shit tonight.”

Ishta grins, popping open a bottle of prosecco—the cheap, overly sweet kind she adores. You hold back the urge to grimace as she pours, passing you a glass.

“What's the occasion?”

“Me and Mr.Scottsman are official!”

She squeals lifting her glass high. You mimic the gesture, the clink of glass on glass ringing lightly through the room.

“Wow, it's so official you still won't tell me his name.”

You quip, rolling your eyes as you take a cautious sip. The sweetness of the wine hits immediately, and you fight the reflex to wince.

“John. Johnny.”

She sighs dreamily, hearts in her eyes.

“I call him Johnny because John is way too serious for my liking.”

You raise a brow at her,

"Sounds like you’ve got it bad, Ishta.”

She doesn’t deny it, swirling the prosecco in her glass like it’s some romantic prop, her grin widening.

"Oh, you have no idea. He’s got this laugh—it’s ridiculous—and he can’t make tea to save his life. But, ugh, he’s perfect."

You shake your head, taking another begrudging sip of the prosecco, already bracing yourself for what’s sure to be a night of gushing anecdotes about Johnny.

“Perfect,”

You echo with a laugh, setting your glass down.

“You’ve been together for how long now? A month?”

“Three weeks,”

Ishta corrects.

“But when you know, you know.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, sure. You’re gonna marry this man, huh?”

“Don’t tempt me,”

She says, her grin widening.

“He’s already invited to meet his family. Can you believe it? His family, and I’m just over here trying to not come off as a complete lunatic.”

“Well, you’re failing spectacularly.”

You tease.

She throws a pillow at you, laughing.

“Says the one who’s been mysteriously glowing these past few weeks. Care to spill why?”

You freeze for half a second, a sip of prosecco poised at your lips.

“Glowing? What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,”

Ishta says, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re hiding something. Someone.”

You feign indifference, shrugging.

“Maybe I’ve just been using better skincare.”

“Bullshit. Spill. Who is it?”

She leans forward, her gaze piercing.

There’s no way you’re telling her. Not about Simon. Not about the fire escape. Not about the way his hands feel against your skin or the things he whispers in the dark.

“No one,”

You say firmly, hoping she buys it.

“And stop projecting your ridiculous love life onto me.”

Ishta squints at you, unconvinced.

“Uh-huh. Sure. For now, you’re off the hook. But mark my words,”

She wags a finger at you.

“I’ll figure it out.”

You laugh nervously, downing the rest of your drink.

You’re grateful for how easily distracted Ishta can be, her attention now fully locked onto the trashy dating show the two of you watch every Thursday. It’s a routine you’d both adopted more for the chance to mock strangers' poor life choices than for any genuine investment in the drama.

Occasionally, she’ll pipe up, her voice dreamy as she recounts the latest romantic gesture from Johnny, her “Mr. Scotsman." She compares him to the guys on TV, and each time, she insists that Johnny does it better. You can almost hear the wistful sigh in her voice as she talks about how much she adores him.

You smile at her, teasing lightly,

“Gonna end up as one of those military wives?”

Ishta laughs, a genuine, carefree sound that rings out in the space between you. She shrugs with mock indifference, but there’s a spark in her eyes.

"Maybe. I mean, he’s a loverboy under all that wildness, but yeah… I’d say I’ve got it bad.”

You smirk at her, shaking your head.

"You’re hopeless."

"And you’re one to talk,”

She fires back, leveling you with a knowing look.

“Sexy British neighbor still got you tied up in knots?”

You scoff, taking a sip of your drink to stall. The wine’s still too sweet, sticking to your tongue, but you focus on the tang that lingers at the edges.

“I’m not ‘tied up’ in anything. Haven't even spoken to him since the noise complaint situation.”

“Riiight.”

She side-eyes you, unconvinced.

“Something tells me that's not entirely true. You get this weird look on your face every time I bring him up.”

You try to keep a straight face.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into things.”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans back, crossing her arms.

“One of these days, I'll catch you slipping.”

You roll your eyes, desperate to redirect her attention.

“I think you’ve had too much wine.”

“Or not enough,”

She shoots back, taking another sip with a knowing smirk. She hums, like she just remembered something important.

“I forgot to tell you, Johnny invited you to come with me to meet his family.”

You make a face of confusion.

“Me? Why?”

“I talk about you a lot, believe it or not you are one of the most important people in my life.”

The statement takes you back a bit, makes you feel a twinge of guilt lying to her.

“But his family?”

“Well…”

She tilts her head, searching for the right words.

“They’re not exactly blood relatives. They’re his squad, I think that’s the term he uses. He trusts them with his life, so he sees them as family—or the closest thing to it. Something like that.”

It’s her turn to hesitate, her fingers absently trailing the stem of her wine glass.

“Anyway, he thought you might want to come along. Besides,” She adds with a grin, peeking up again.

“It'll be fun. Think about it! Drinks, charming military men, and me as your entertainment. What more could you want?”

With Simon in your life, you think to yourself, you find yourself wanting for nothing lately—except maybe a little less suffocating attention.

“Yeah, what more could I want.”

You say aloud, masking the weight of your thoughts with a light laugh.

Ishta beams at your answer,

“That’s the spirit! You’ll see—it’ll be good for you. And hey, if nothing else, you can help me judge Johnny’s friends. Who knows, maybe one of them is a secret disaster like the guys on this show.”

The conversation shifts back to the TV, her playful commentary dragging you out of your head. But even as you nod along, your mind is already working on an escape plan.

You’re just gonna text her some excuse when the day comes. She’ll understand. Probably.

***

“How can you breathe in these?”

You groan, tugging at the waistband of Ishta’s skin-tight leather pants as she twists and wiggles, trying to pull them up.

“Breathing isn’t a priority here.”

She huffs, planting her hands on her hips and giving a final shimmy.

“Looking good is. Besides,”

She admires herself in the mirror.

“Johnny will love it.”

“Yeah, he probably cares more about how easy they’ll be to take off, Ishta.”

She grins, running her hands down the smooth fabric.

“Yeah. My man, the most efficient guy I know.”

You laugh, shaking your head as she strikes a dramatic pose.

“Efficiency—truly the cornerstone of romance.”

“Don’t knock it,”

She quips, spinning around to face you.

“He’s got it down to an art. Makes him a great lover.”

“Ishta.”

“I mean seriously, when I'm running late he knows exactly what to-”

“Ishta!”

“What? Someone has to get laid here, and it sure isn't you!”

You groan in protest, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at her. She ducks, her laughter ringing out as she returns to inspecting her reflection in the mirror, twisting to check out the back of her pants.

“I think my butt’s getting bigger.”

She declares, completely unfazed.

“Aren’t we running late?”

You ask, exasperated.

“We’re fine. He’s getting us an Uber.”

She replies, adjusting the waistband of her pants with a smug little smile.

“To Brooklyn? Ouuu, big money.”

You tease, rolling your eyes as you grab your bag.

She grins, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I just got him trained right. I'll show you how to do it when you get your own man. Or woman. Or anyone.”

Before you get to have your say her phone dings, and she grabs her keys.

"C’mon, Uber’s here."

You give her one last look before following her out the door, ready for whatever insanity lies ahead.

***

The bar you stand outside of is dingy and small, a stark contrast to the sleek black SUV Johnny arranged for Ishta and you. You raise an eyebrow, already feeling out of place.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

You ask, rocking side to side in your heels, feet already hurting.

“Too good for it?”

Ishta teases.

“No, just… aren’t we a little overdressed?”

You reply, glancing down at your outfit. Her red-bottoms are going to get ruined by the sticky floors, and your top is way too low-cut for a place like this.

Ishta smirks, giving you a look.

“You’ll be fine. Besides, if anyone stares for too long, the guys will probably scare them off— if they are anything like Johnny describes.”

And so, you step hesitantly into the grungy spot, thinking of what shitty liquor you need to get you through the night.

The bar is dim, louder than you expected, the scent of stale beer and fried food heavy in the air. Ishta leads the way with her usual confidence, weaving through the mismatched tables and chairs. You follow, heels catching on the sticky floor, your stomach tightening as she heads toward a table in the back.

That’s when you see it: the large black hoodie. The person wearing it is turned away, broad shoulders hunched slightly. Something about the way they hold themselves makes your chest tighten. You tell yourself it can’t possibly be him. The odds are ridiculous, almost laughable.

And yet, your feet falter.

Johnny spots Ishta first, lighting up with a grin so wide it makes his eyes crease at the corners, laughter lines deepening across his face. There’s a boyish enthusiasm in the way he waves her over, unrestrained and unabashed, like a pet spotting its owner after a long day apart.

You remember her mentioning once, in passing, that he was born the year of the dog. It’s funny how fitting that feels now. Loyal, eager, a little too earnest. He all but bounces out of his seat, the movement causing a ripple of attention to shift across the table.

The ridiculously pretty man seated next to him glances up first, his expression brightening with easy charm. Across from him, an older man with a beard you could only describe as unnecessarily dramatic turns and nods politely.

Then, the hoodie moves. Your stomach plummets.

Simon.

His expression is unreadable, but the sight of him freezes you in place, and before you realize it, you’re standing there looking like a deer caught in headlights. The rest of the table follows his gaze, looking at you with various degrees of curiosity.

Ishta grabs your arm.

“Oh my God. Girl, is that your man? What’s wrong? You can’t back away now!”

She says in a low voice, dragging you forward before you can recover.

“That is not my man,”

You hiss back, but it does nothing to stop her relentless pull.

Johnny grins as you both approach, his voice warm and thick with his accent.

“Almost scared her off, Ghost.”

Ghost?

Your eyes flick to Simon. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word.

Johnny, takes over the introductions.

“This is Simon. Don’t mind him, wasn’t properly socialized as a bairn.”

There’s some shifting around as the group makes room. To your dismay, Simon stays tucked into one side of the booth, leaving Kyle and Price to scoot out. They pull over chairs from a nearby empty table, and you find yourself awkwardly squeezed beside Simon while Ishta takes the seat across from you.

“Finally nice to put a name to the face.”

Ishta beams at Simon, and you can see the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t respond. She laughs when Johnny makes a confused face, giving a brief rundown to the table.

“She says you haven't seen each other since that incident.”

Ishta waves her glass in Simon's direction.

Simon leans back in his seat, mask still up.

“Avoids me like the plague, she does. Must’ve left quite the impression.”

Kyle snorts, leaning forward with an amused grin.

“That’s just his thing. Simon’s got a talent for being a nuisance, don’t you, mate? Knows exactly how to make people’s lives hell.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

Simon replies smoothly.

The table chuckles, but you stay quiet. His knee bumps yours under the table and you shoot him a sharp glance. He doesn’t even look your way, focused instead on swirling his drink he hasn't touched. You drink more than you probably should, hoping it’ll dull the awkwardness.

Thankfully, the rest of the table carries on without issue, their conversation flowing easily.

“Military, huh?”

You ask eventually, your voice quieter than intended.

Simon doesn’t look at you, but Johnny leans in with a grin.

“Yeah, we're stationed here for a while, so get used to seeing my handsome face around.”

The ease in his tone does little to settle the tension twisting in your chest. Simon doesn’t so much as flinch, remaining a stoic, unreadable presence. His silence feels deliberate, heavy, but Johnny’s brightness seems determined to lighten the mood.

“Maybe you’ll even get used to this one,”

Johnny adds playfully.

“Though I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s got the personality of wet cement.”

That makes you laugh a little, along with the rest of the table. Younod toward Simon.

“So… Ghost. That’s a call sign?”

Simon hums, noncommittal, leaving Johnny to fill the silence.

“Wish I got something cool like that,”

Johnny says, shooting Simon a look that’s both teasing and fond.

“Guess he earned it, scary bastard.”

You glance at Simon again. His face gives nothing away.

Ishta leans over and whispers something into Johnny’s ear, her lips brushing against his ear with a playful familiarity. Whatever she says prompts a crooked grin to spread across his face, his blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

The two of them fall into their own little world, lovebirds whispering and laughing softly, entirely lost to anyone else at the table. Their giddy exchange contrasts sharply with the tension simmering between you and Simon.

You shift in your seat, feeling the press of his knee against yours again. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but the contact makes your pulse quicken. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if it’s intentional. If he notices your reaction, he doesn’t show it.

Across the table, Price and Kyle keep the conversation flowing, their camaraderie effortless. You envy the ease they seem to find in this dynamic, the sense of belonging that eludes you in this moment.

Eventually, you decide to call it a night.

“Think I’ll head out, guys.”

You say, grabbing your bag. You glance toward Ishta, but she’s too busy twirling a strand of Johnny’s hair between her fingers, practically sitting in his lap.

Kyle stands, reaching for his jacket.

“Want me to walk you home, love?”

Before you can answer, Price butts in.

“Think Simon’s closer. Said you're neighbors, right?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.”

“He'll take you home. Don't need Kyle chasing up your dress.”

Simon finally looks at you, dark eyes unreadable. Without another word, he gets up.

***

The train ride back is painfully silent, tension coiling thick between you. Simon doesn’t make small talk, doesn’t fill the awkward space with meaningless words, and you can’t decide if you’re grateful or annoyed.

When you finally reach your apartment, you stop at the door, fumbling with your keys. You unlock it and step inside, turning to offer a polite, “Goodnight.”

Before you can close the door, Simon’s boot wedges into the frame.

“No kiss goodnight?”

He murmurs, pulling down his mask, voice low.

“Do you always have to be like this?”

You mumble, leaning forward and tilting your head up.

“You like it.”

He replies, pressing his scarred lips against your glossed ones.

The kiss lingers in your mind longer than it lasts, the warmth still spreading through your limbs. He pulls away, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. You stand with the door still open,

“Ok, well, goodnigh-”

“Not gonna invite me in for a drink?”

The way he says it—like he’s giving you the option, but he knows exactly how this game goes—brings a rush of heat to your cheeks.You hesitate for a moment, the weight of the night pressing down on you, but it hits you then—you’ve been waiting for him to make this move. Simon knows exactly how to push just enough, always teetering on the line between being too much and just enough.

You tilt your head, playing the game, your voice teasing.

“I don’t believe in letting strangers into my place, Ghost.”

His jaw tightens at the name, a flash of something flickering behind his eyes, but he recovers quickly, scanning your face with a quiet intensity.

“Hit your head, angel? The name’s Simon, remember?”

“Hmm,”

You cock your head, a playful smirk curling on your lips as you tease,

“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

Simon’s expression shifts, eyes narrowing just a fraction as his lips curl into a grin.

“No? Thought you’d remember it with how many times you say it when I’ve got you bent over that couch.”

“Simon!”

You gasp with a smile.

“Glad to see your memories back, love. Had me worried there for a moment.”

His voice drips with smug satisfaction, fingers creeping around your waist as you step backward into your apartment. His movements mirror yours, closing the distance, the same familiar rhythm between you two. Except this time, the dance ends in your bed, bathed in silvery moonlight that filters through the windows, casting shadows and soft glimmers over the room.

What he says to you in that space, the things he says are as depraved as they are tender, sinful words laced with something softer, gentler. And in that moment, you realize they’re the sweetest things Simon is capable of offering.

Lying on his chest, you let your thoughts drift, his sparse chest hair tickling the side of your face. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat drums against your ear as your fingers trace lazy circles on his skin. His hand mirrors yours, gently skimming the small of your back in slow, soothing motions.

You enjoy these moments just aas much as the more heated ones—maybe more. They feel almost domestic, like peeking through the keyhole of something you tell yourself you can’t have. But for now, it’s enough. It fills that quiet loneliness you feel some days.

Simon presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering there for a beat longer than you expect. It feels like him savoring the closeness he so rarely allows himself.

“Mind if I sleep here tonight?”

His voice low and casual.

Your body goes stiff before you can stop it, and his hand on your back stills.

“Oh,”

You say, forcing a laugh that cracks at the edges.

“Didn’t think you’d grown tired of your bachelor setup. What happened? Mattress on the floor finally giving up on you?”

Simon hums, unbothered, his fingers resuming their lazy path.

“Figured I’d upgrade. You offering?”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you sit up quickly, putting a small but deliberate distance between you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He doesn’t move, watching you with hooded eyes, his expression calm, unreadable.

“Why not? Thought we were comfortable now.”

His tone is deceptively light, but you can hear the challenge beneath it.

“I don’t sleep well with someone else in the bed,” You say, crossing your arms, covering your bare chest.

“It’s just a thing—I’m used to having my space.”

“Space, huh?”

He sits up and leans back against the wall, hands clasped behind his head, looking entirely too at ease.

“Didn’t seem to need space a few minutes ago, angel.”

You frown, heat rising to your face.

“That’s different. Sleeping is… it’s personal.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly.

“And what we just did isn’t?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your irritation in check.

“You know what I mean, Simon.”

“Not sure I do,”

His tone is playful, but there’s a stubborn edge to it now.

“Seems to me like you’re just makin’ excuses.”

“I’m not.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. You sigh, running a hand through his short hair, an apology of sorts.

“It’s just… I’m not ready for that.”

“A lil sleepover?”

He tilts his head. Before you can respond, he grabs your face with one hand, his fingers pressing against your cheeks to make your lips pout.

You yank your head away, sucking your teeth in frustration.

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, leaning back against the wall like he’s won something.

“Am I? Or are you just makin’ this harder than it needs to be?”

“Simon,”

You snap,

“It’s not about being hard or easy. It’s about boundaries. Respecting them.”

“Boundaries?”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk slipping just slightly.

“Since when have we had those?”

Never, you think to yourself. It's a little distressing if you think about it too long, letting a man have such sway on you.

He pulls you closer, his thick arms wrapping around you with an ease that feels as natural as it is intrusive. You don’t resist, though. Instead, your fingers trace the inked lines on his forearm, a distraction, an excuse not to look him in the eye.

“Think you got one more in you?”

His voice is low, dipping into something softer, coaxing.

“I’ll be out your hair after that.”

You can’t help the faint smile that tugs at your lips, even though you hate yourself for giving in so easily. It’s always like this with him—pushing, pulling, finding that sliver of space where you’re weak enough to let him in.

“Yeah,”

You murmur, leaning just slightly into his touch,

“Think I do.”

His lips curve into a grin, satisfied, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he pulls you into his lap. And just like always, he gets exactly what he wants.

Prev | Next

[willyoubemycherryy]

𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑆𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 (𝐹. 𝑇𝑖𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑎𝑟)

Unfortunately this is my life right now. I needed my family gone YESTERDAY.

Contains: stressed, stress, stressing, tangible irritation, dysfunctional oblivious family, kissing, hiding, cameo appearance based on my older sister

There wasn’t a breath deep enough you could take to calm yourself down.

Fiyero seemed to be acutely aware of this so he stayed silent as his chest was pressed to yours where you both were glued together, currently hiding from the everlasting season of irritation that was your family and the holidays. There honestly weren’t any words.

The lack of space, the way they stayed glued to your side during most of their stay, the snoring, endless noise, whining, complaining, the way all your brothers seemed to speak in surround sound, all the mess, how nothing was ever good enough for your mother, toppled over with all your unfairly assigned “sister responsibilities”.…you exhale heavily through your mouth as you run your hands down your face. If all the general inconvenience wasn’t enough, you barely got to spend any alone time with the one person who didn’t constantly stress or annoy you. The most you got to do was a peck- maybe kiss- and you had to sneak to do that because if they knew you had a boyfriend after being socially averse your whole life, you know how badly they’d blow it out of proportion- before one of your family members was off wanting to do something or another. Another heavy sigh and with this one, you’re fighting tears. You just want your apartment back, no mess and no noise with no loud family that wears out every welcome you’ve ever given. Peace and quiet. That’s all you wanted.

So, here you were; hiding with your secret boyfriend in the bathroom with the lights off to escape the noise and be alone with the solace you give each other for just a few minutes. You’ve had a headache for days and Fiyero’s been going with everything assumingely unbothered but you know better. He likes the space you two have. He also knows that you truly didn’t want to do anything this year so the look on your face when all your close relatives and siblings literally appeared at your place on Friday for a surprise stay at your place for Christmas week gave him a hint on why you wanted to stay out of the drama for this year. Plus…Fiyero misses you. Yeah, you were there but you weren’t happy. He misses you happy and the flow you both had before it got disrupted. Your folks were nice enough but he couldn’t overlook how…inconsiderate…they also were. Just dropping in without checking in on how you felt about it or if you had any prior plans and then expecting you to accommodate them, didn’t feel right. He can only imagine how over it you really are so that’s why if in this moment all he can give you is silence, he will. Smoothing a hand down your hair, he resigns himself to wait in the darkness along with you until you’re ready but you speak first.

“I want our apartment back.”

“I know. Me too, miss having you all to myself.”

You smile a little at that because it really was lovely with just the two of you. Quiet, calm, and a sweet atmosphere that came with coexisting with the love of your life.

“Don’t get me wrong- i did miss them just-”,

“Not all at once for an impromptu 7 day stay?” You pinch your lips in as a frown overtakes your features, the picture of unhappiness and Fiyero pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you and rests his chin on top of your head while you pout.

“Exactly.”

You both sigh in tandem, soaking in the one break you’ve had in 5 whole days.

“What else is it? You’ve been more…” Fiyero trails off as he cups your face, peering down into yours. He doesn’t really have to elaborate because you know what he means and you know he won’t judge your answer.

“…they’re just so…needy. They want everything. You should’ve seen the episode yesterday in the shopping center.” You groan remembering how much a season you didn’t plan on participating in has cost you. You didn’t even want to celebrate in the first place. You just wanted to relax, have sex with your boyfriend, and enjoy holiday themed stuff and occasional outings with your friends but nooo you couldn’t even do that.

Sensing your rapidly overwhelming frustration, Fiyero presses a slow, firm, kiss on your lips. Humming when you kiss him back before pulling away.

“Just 2 more days”, he says, squishing your cheeks so your mouth opens then leaning back down to kiss you again but deeper. He swallows your moans as you drag your hand up his back, feeling the muscles there as he takes your breath away. You feel his tongue lave hotly across the inside of your cheek and you almost lose your balance from the jolt of pleasure that shoots through you, other hand gripping his forearm. However, Fiyero pulls away before you can make a scene, resting his forehead against yours as you gasp against his mouth, trying to catch your breath. You barely hear him when he talks through the blood rushing in your ears, heart pounding.

“Two more days. Okay?”

The rasp in his voice hypnotizes you and you nod belatedly, movements slow and jerky as you repeat dumbly after him.

Mmhm, yeah, two more days.”

Fiyero smiles at how eager you are to forget the past 5 days of disaster through his touch but it’s only 4:11 pm and you have company waiting. You slip your hands underneath his ugly Christmas sweater, feeling the hard ridges of his muscles, tilting your head up with a pleased hum when he meets your lips again within seconds. It’s honestly the best you’ve felt in days, held and being kissed breathless. The only noise being your panting and Fiyero’s low groans. You drag your fingertips down his happy trail- not to start anything, of course but just because his skin is nice- feeling giddy at the way his hands hold you tighter.

“Honey! Are you almost done? We have awkward posed pictures to take!” Rapid knocks accompanied by your older sisters voice make you two spring apart and you fight not to scream in frustration.

“Yeah I’ll be out in a few minutes!” You yell back, craving an empty space more than ever. Huffing one more time, you feel Fiyero nose along your temple before whispering in your ear.

“Two more days?”

“Two more days and not a hour longer.” You hear the footsteps walk away from the door but of course it’s not the end the end of it.

“You should invite your friend! The one that’s been hanging around the last couple of days! He’s ridiculously hot and he’s got an ass that could cause traffic!!” She yells across the distance she walks from the door and your mouth drops in sheer mortification, face hot while you pointedly ignore the shake of Fiyero’s chest as he laughs; clearly very much enjoying your sisters praise.

“I really am all that, huh?

This won’t be the longest two days of your life at all..

[ropebuny]

oh no of course !!! you’re definitely right, thank you so much for this addition it’s an important aspect of it all to consider. my addition of the dom giving the sub impossible to complete tasks was brought up because I personally have had that happen to me and my ex partner, and I personally found it really hot because I had a suspicion that they were essentially lying in order to be hot and make me all needy and frustrated. and I knew that they would never actually be upset with me, we had a very trusting and respectful relationship so I definitely think that something as serious as indulging in an impossible task would DEFINITELY need some discussion beforehand between the two, the dom seeing how the sub feels about it. and I mentioned these impossible scenarios with the possibility of the sub using the safeword if they felt the need to do so in mind. but of course when it comes to the sub feeling the need to voice the safe word, feelings can already be extremely hurt and the trust feel disrespected. so I definitely agree with your addition heavily, maybe these people are just not compatible. this guy definitely should have just communicated with his sub about what he expects/wants/desires from her and her doing the same for him. my addition of impossible tasks was just meant to be something to be considered as a more fun way to deal with punishment, if maybe at the moment the ‘standard’ rules feel too ‘boring’ like the original guy complained about. and how it should only be implemented once the once the dom had full confidence that it wouldn’t hurt the sub emotionally, and knowing their personal limits since you really need to be extra careful in kink and especially when dealing with punishments. I know that I definitely would not appreciate if someone that I did not feel confident with just started to gaslight me like that, but when that scenario happened between me and my ex partner who I trusted wholeheartedly, it was a very hot and enjoyable experience for me. or maybe I am very trusting of my dom but in the moment, I am just not in the right headspace to be treated like that. so the dom should definitely be extra careful when dealing with such scenarios which can easily be hurtful to the sub on an emotional level, it’s not something to be careless with. it definitely all depends on the person and their limits, and the dom should never push these. I also never wanted my post as coming across as me saying the dom should implement these and only these, because as another person has voiced, these impossible to win tasks can definitely become old so so incredibly fast. my intention was to perhaps voice how kink doesn’t have to be ‘boring’ like that guy was complaining about, maybe the sub and dom can experiment with non ‘standard’ rules to how kink is believed to work. I wanted to bring attention to how kink can be and should be creative, but these scenarios definitely all depend on the person and what kind of sub they are and for the dom to be aware of the risks of implementing these strategies as to not hurt their sub emotionally.

kink communities definitely have a soft spot for brats while belittling subs who are “too good/obedient” as if that was even a thing… obedience, especially such that is soo devoted and dedicated like the op’s sub, should be praised and respected. while that guy seemed to not realise just how much of an honor it was for his sub to be so incredibly committed to being obedient for him

thank you so much for bringing up this important aspect of it all, I really appreciate you taking the time to open up and share your thoughts and disdain for it, I never meant my addition of impossible tasks to be seen as something to be used against subs to fuck with them and break them on and hurt them on an emotional level which they would not appreciate. it’s a sensitive issue and it definitely NEEDS to be handled with proper care and respect to the sub from the dom. and in my mind when I was adding that aspect of it to the text post, I had my personal experience in mind which was very enjoyable because I felt incredibly safe with the person I was doing it with and the fact that I caught onto the fact that they were fucking with me on purpose. but I definitely should have mentioned how careful you must be when dealing with gaslighting in play like that, because it’s definitely not something to just fuck around with carelessly, so thank you so much for your addition !!

saw a guy on here complaining about how disappointing it sometimes is to have such a good and obedient little girl, how when she obediently pulls up her skirt and counts all the spanks without messing up it gets boring because there’s no fun in it since it can’t be counted as a punishment anymore. my brother in christ how can you ever become bored or disappointed or feel that it’s not of any ‘fun’ when someone is so endlessly devoted to you and is so so obedient and obeys your every command and would do anything to make you proud. that level of obedience takes real dedication and a really strong willpower and a really strong and committed mind. you’d never catch me calling that boring or disappointing, ever. it’s the farthest thing from it, and frankly it should be praised instead

[martybaker]

There was only one couch

Tfw you cannot find the jayvik fic you crave so you write it yourself 🙃

I also gotta preface this with - Does it even make sense that they would have microwaves in Piltover? Do they have electricity? My quick search didn’t yield any decisive results so if you know pls lmk. Also, I don’t really know if Jayce is making any sense talking about them but in my defense, he is sleep deprived (and I am dumb and didn’t put any real research into this, sorryy)

—————————

They’ve been stuck at this problem for hours, any potential paths they managed to come up with immediately shattering after but a couple pokes of logic aimed to test the solidity of their foundations. Like bubbles popped by a child’s finger. Like heated corn kernels. Like dreams of making a difference-

Viktor’s too tired to think in metaphors.

He drops the pencil and swivels in his chair, facing Jayce who’s already draped across their shabby sofa, long legs sticking out from one end, head inclined on the armrest on the side closer to Viktor.

“What if we…err, try to like, microwave it, but I don’t mean like an actual microwave,” he waves his hands in the air as he talks, as if that would help illustrate his train of thought, “but like a device, a - an oven, that could create vibrations and …uhhh, direct the particles? Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Viktor chuckles. He doesn’t know why he does, it’s not even particularly funny, the exhaustion must have erased any common sense of his that was left. Yet it’s…comforting to see that same exhaustion mirrored in Jayce. The same dark circles, the same bone deep tiredness weighing him down, the same look of frustration after they’ve been hitting dead ends and running in circles. It’s a shared exhaustion, just like the hard work is shared. Probably should have called it a night hours ago. They both direly need the rest.

“Ovens and microwaves? That would be your hunger speaking, I’m afraid,” Viktor says, reaching for his cane, grinding his teeth to gather the energy to push himself up onto his feet.

“Nah, m’not hungry,” Jayce mumbles. “We had those sandwiches for lunch. Or was it dinner? What time is it even?”

“Too late by all accounts,” Viktor says, taking the few steps towards the couch. He looks at Jayce, who seems glued to the couch and likely is planning to spend the night there. Viktor looks towards the door, but hesitates. The idea of the track across campus to his lodgings really doesn’t sound appealing.

It’s not even that far, the university tried to accommodate Viktor’s needs as best as they could and gave him a room on the ground floor, plus the building is the closest housing to the Engineering department’s laboratories. And yet, today it feels miles away. Damn his leg, damn all the stairs, and damn his hubris for yet again pushing his body beyond its limits, knowing fully well it will backfire ten folds and render him even more useless in the morning.

Jayce notices his hesitation, damn his partner’s bright mind too. He can read Viktor too well, he guesses the reason for his histation despite Viktor’s lack of complaining.

“Oh, do you wanna sleep here? I’ll head home, no problem,” he suggests way too readily, already hoisting himself up onto his elbows.

Viktor tsks and pushes against Jayce’s chest, pushing him back down into the couch.

“Stay,” he hisses. Jayce lives off campus, it would take him much longer to get home. Viktor’s not about to kick him out. And he doesn’t care for compassion either.

Jayce knows this, yet the man cannot help but be kind and caring, and though it irritates Viktor when it's aimed at him, it is also a quality of Jayce’s that he admires. He’s kind to everyone. Meets everyone halfway. Though at times they push too far, and Jayce lets them. Too kind for his own good.

Viktor shakes his head, trying to clean it, the stacked up piles of thoughts seem to have all spilled inside his brain and are rattling around. Rest. He needs to rest.

He looks at Jayce, who is still lying down on the couch, hands raised as if in surrender, big doe eyes staring at Viktor. Was Viktor too cross with him just now? He’s unable to determine. He pats Jayce’s knee in an attempt to smooth over his own prickly temperament.

“I just…I need to take a moment. Before I head out,” he tries. He hopes Jayce won’t insist. He is too tired to come up with reasonable arguments. He doesn’t wanna fight.

But Jayce doesn’t fight, he nods, then he bites his lip and opens his arms.

Hmm.

Viktor considers.

The couch is clearly too small for one grown man, let alone two.

Still it would be more comfortable than the chair.

And Viktor’s not averse to touch. Despite perhaps coming off as such. To everyone, except for Jayce.

It is true that he doesn’t like to be touched by strangers, especially unexpectedly. But he is human and just like for anyone else, there are moments when he would welcome touch. Moments when he finds it comforting. And Jayce is a very tactile person. He didn’t hold back from putting a hand on Viktor’s shoulder the very first day they met, and he hasn’t stopped since. There was a moment near the beginning of their partnership when someone pointed out Viktor’s (alleged) aversion to touch and Jayce panicked, apologizing profusely for making him uncomfortable, and it took days for Viktor to convince him he really didn’t mind. Because that was the truth, Viktor didn’t mind. Not when it was Jayce.

Of course cuddling on the couch was an entirely different matter.

They’ve never done that before, however, Viktor wasn’t a stranger to the comfort of a warm body next to his either.

From cuddling with his parents for warmth as a kid in one too small bed, to seeking the pleasures of a lover to relieve stress, the warmth of a body next to his was undoubtedly beneficial.

And he and Jayce are friends. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

And so Viktor slowly drops his cane to the floor and lowers one of his knees to the couch, trying to figure out how to arrange himself next to Jayce.

Jayce tries to help but it takes some maneuvering, what with Viktor’s leg and their sleep deprived brains, there are a couple of winces and pointy elbows and just way too many limbs, an “Oof” from Jayce when he earns a knee to his stomach, but eventually Viktor finds himself situated with his back against the back of the couch, his head on Jayce’s chest, right leg on top.

It’s…it’s warm.

It’s nice.

It’s not a big deal.

“Okay?” Jayce checks.

Viktor hums. He can hear Jayce’s heartbeat, feel his breath on his forehead. Smell the musk, the odor of an unshowered body, but he has no right to complain, they both haven’t showered for however many hours or days they’ve been locked in here.

Jayce’s heartbeat and breathing slows, but Viktor cannot slow his racing thoughts. He can feel every point of contact where their bodies are touching. He can feel Jayce’s muscular chest moving under his hand. Jayce’s right hand briefly pets Viktor’s hair before it settles on top of his shoulders. Viktor fights against the urge to burrow closer, to inhale Jayce’s smell, to tug his hand back into Viktor’s hair.

Stupid sleep deprived brain. Viktor could have figured such close proximity to a warm body would reduce him to animal instincts. He can only be glad he’s way too sleepy for his nether parts to react as well.

Jayce feels his restlessness. How could he not, pressed so close.

“Viktor,” he whispers, warm breath tickling Viktor’s forehead and despite himself Viktor exhales and melts against that strong chest even more. “You can rest, V, I’ll wake you in a couple of minutes and walk you home.”

My ass you will, Viktor thinks, we’re both gonna fall asleep here, your right side will be completely numb and my back will be killing me tomorrow. He’ll barely be able to stand. But he’s too tired and too comfortable to say any of that now. It’s a Tomorrow Viktor’s problem anyways. This Viktor burrow’s closer against Jayce’s chest, letting all his worries and all the problems fade, falling into the sweet embrace of sleep.

[uniquethingtastemaker]

Vil x Reader -- Body Swap Pt 1

Summary: You and Vil swap bodies near the beginning of VDC.

Word Count: 4k+

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Character Arcs

Author's Note: Merry Christmas. There's more to come. This is what I have so far. It's great. Buckle up and good luck. I'm not going to give you any other context. You're welcome

Tags: @solxamber @marsinrain

You open your eyes to a dark room. You feel strangely alert. There’s no grogginess or desire to stay in bed. It’s unnatural. What time is it? You fumble around the nightstand, searching for your phone.

You click it on. It blinds you for a moment and you squint. 4:01 am, it reads. It’s not your lock screen though. The background is a dark purple with a familiar dripping red apple in the center. It’s framed in swirling gold. It’s a variation of the Pomefiore crest. This has to be Vil’s. Who else would have this lock screen? But why is it in your room? Did he leave it when he checked everyone’s rooms? It seems unlikely given his personality. Either way, you need to give it back. He’ll wake up in a frenzy if you don’t do it now. You’d rather deal with a half asleep and grumbly Vil than an awake and frantic one. 

You sit up and place your feet on the floor. There’s a pair of plush and cozy slippers underneath your feet… You don’t have luxurious slippers. You furrow your brow. Something’s off. 

Nonetheless, you slip on the comfy shoes and shuffle to the light switch. You flick it on. 

The first thing you notice is the mirror. Vil’s reflection stares back at you. You raise your eyebrows. It copies you. You glance at your body. You’re wearing the dorm leader’s expensive silk pajamas. You pinch yourself and wince in pain. This is real. You’ve somehow swapped bodies with the Queen of Pomefiore. You have to solve this.

You spin around on your heels and stride out the door. Your slippers pad down the hall. You knock on a specific door and wait. It doesn’t take long for the occupant to answer.

“Roi de Poison?” Rook questions, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Let me in,” you command.

The vice leader steps aside as you to brush past. He turns on the light, closing the door. 

“You know I’m not Vil,” you state, turning around. 

“Oui,” he confirms, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

“It’s [Y/N],” you answer.

Rook raises an eyebrow. 

“Your gait is the same, Trickster,” the hunter tells you with a nod. 

“I’m not surprised you know,” you comment, “Do you know what’s going on?” 

“Non, I’m just as baffled as you are. I’ve never heard of a magicless person and mage swapping bodies,” Rook replies, before looking curious. “Did you come to me because you want to get this sorted before Beautiful Vil wakes up?”

“You’re sharp as ever, Rook,” you confirm, “Yes, he’ll flip his lid once he finds out. I would like to prevent that.”

“I agree, Trickster. It’s for the best. I assume you have a plan,” the hunter replies. 

“Of course, we break down Crowley’s door and demand answers,” you tell him. 

Rook laughs, “Such an aggressive tactic from our lovely Trickster! I’m most honored to see such a beautiful and unique side to you. I will do all I can to help.” 

“Including my hair,” you add. 

Rook lights up. “I’m glad you’ve already thought of that, Trickster. I was going to offer my assistance.” 

“As long as I have a reference photo, I can recreate Vil’s makeup. I’m well-versed in skincare, so that shouldn’t be a problem. That being said, do you have any recommendations on what toner and serum to use for Vil’s skin today?” 

You lean in to let the hunter get a better look. Rook’s eyes widen before he breaks into a delighted grin. 

“Trickster has amazing foresight!” he praises, before examining Vil’s skin. “I would suggest the Shrinking Toner to reduce pore size and the Luminous Serum to brighten the skin.” 

“Perfect. Thank you. Get ready and come to Vil’s room to help me,” you instruct before leaving. 

“Oui!” Rook agrees with enthusiasm. 

You shake your head with a smile, striding down the hall in Vil’s comfy slippers.

——————

“Bang on his door,” you instruct. 

“Oui! Trickster’s suggestions are straight to the point and no-nonsense. It’s so different from how you usually behave. It’s magnifique,” he compliments. 

“Yes, yes, hurry up. We don’t have all day,” you urge.

You wait before the thudding of footsteps is heard. The bird man opens the door with ruffled feathers. He’s wearing dark indigo flannel pajama bottoms and a ratty white t-shirt with black crows and feathers.

“What is all this racket? It’s 4:45 in the morning. Couldn’t this have waited?” Crowley scolds, before pausing to register who’s in front of him. “Mr. Schoenheit and Mr. Hunt, what are you doing here?”

“It’s [Y/N]. Vil and I have somehow switched bodies. I want answers before he wakes up in hysterics. It would be in your best interest to let us in,” you demand.

Crowley is stunned but steps back. You sweep past him with regal elegance. Crowley raises an eyebrow at your demeanor. Rook slips in, standing beside you. The headmaster closes the door and puts a hand to his chin. 

“A mage fueling a magical phenomenon for themselves and a magicless person isn’t unheard of. The caster has to be extremely powerful, but Mr. Schoenheit fits the bill,” he muses.

You stay quiet as Crowley thinks.

“The only thing I can think of is wish magic. Do you have a strong wish?” He asks.

“Yes, I wanted to perform on stage in front of an audience,” you reply.

The headmaster nods before consulting Rook, “Mr. Hunt, you know Mr. Schoenheit well. Is there anything he desires more than anything else?” 

“Oui, Roi de Poison wishes to break out of his role as a villain,” he answers. 

“Everything fits the requirements for this phenomenon to occur,” Crowley murmurs before speaking up with a clap. “I know what happened!

“Sometimes when two people close by have an intense wish that can be solved with one solution, the ambient magic grants them an opportunity to obtain both wishes. Once both wishes are fulfilled, the magic will revert to normal,” he explains.

You’re silent, before turning to Rook. 

“My wish won’t be fulfilled until VDC ends. I want to perform on stage, so I’ll be filling in for Vil,” you inform.

There’s a flash of deep concern before he covers it with a familiar encouraging smile.

“I have no doubt you’ll be able to fill in for Beautiful Vil! I will support you in every way I can. As the resident Vil expert, I can help coach you,” Rook offers with an elegant bow.

You cut his movements off. 

“I’m Roi de Poison for now. I expect to be addressed as such. I won’t tolerate a slip of the tongue. I suggest you start practicing in private. I’m sure you know what will happen if you don’t,” you punctuate with an icy voice. 

Rook jolts with wide eyes. His hands fly up into a surrendering pose. 

“Oui, Roi de Poison, I will heed your command,” he complies. 

“Good, I expect nothing less from my vice leader,” you state, before addressing Crowley. “That’s the most helpful you’ve been since I’ve arrived here. I suggest you get your act together before your negligence is exposed. If people learn of my living conditions, my fans will riot.” 

Crowley looks at you, gobsmacked. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. 

“Are–are you threatening me?” He stutters.

You narrow your eyes. 

“The only thing I’m threatening you to do is your job. If you don’t want your reputation to go down the drain, I suggest renovating Ramshackle Dorm. I’ll even be gracious,” you say, emphasizing his signature word. “I’ll give my portion of the VDC reward to fund the operation.”

The headmaster stares at you in shock. Your eyes sweep the older man’s form, evaluating him.

“You also have… questionable tastes. As a sponsor, I will be consulted before the designs are finalized. It’s nonnegotiable. Thank you for your assistance, headmaster. Rook, we’re leaving,” you command, before sweeping out of the room.

——————

You lower yourself to the ground, dismounting the broom. You prop it against the wall.

“Trickster, you’re a natural! You fly and handle your magic like Beautiful Vil. It’s elegant and powerful. It’s a beautiful flurry of flowers in a windstorm,” Rook compares. 

You raise an eyebrow before stating, “Thank you, but I’m more concerned about passing as Vil.”

“Oui! You’ll fool everyone!” Rook reassures.

You drop your Vil act and answer with a smile.

“I’ll fool everyone except for you. You’re too observant,” you correct, sitting next to him. “Thanks for helping out. I wouldn’t be nearly as good if you didn’t correct my walk and give me pointers to handle this body’s magic.” 

“Of course, Trickster. You’re a wonderful and talented person to work with,” he answers. 

“You are too,” you return with a smile.

The two of you fall into comfortable silence. Your eyes slip close and allow yourself to breathe. It’s been hectic these last three hours. You finally have time to process. Your breath slows, as you slip into a meditative state. It’s something you picked up a few years ago. When you meditate, you’re less reactive and more grounded. When you finish, you hear an ear-piercing shriek. 

“That’s our cue,” you comment, standing up. 

“Oui!” Rook agrees, following your lead.

A herd of elephants thunders down the upstairs hallway. There’s a muffled shout. 

“Don’t yell in my ear, henchman!” Grim yells.

A door slams open.

“What’s wrong?! Are you hurt?!” Deuce cries.

You and the vice leader arrive at the foot of the stairs.

“I expect you to back me up,” you tell Rook, slipping into your Vil persona.

“Of course, Roi de Poison, let’s give them a show,” he grins with a bow.

You nod and ascend the stairs. More footsteps join. 

“Is everything ok?” Kalim’s voice resounds, “Jamil’s good at first aid if [Y/N] is hurt.”

“Yo, why do you keep staring at yourself?” Ace questions with mild irritation, “Has Vil infected you? Are you freaking out over a breakout or something?”

Epel pipes up, “You’re kiddin’. Ya woke us up for nothin’? I could’ve slept for another 30 minutes if ya didn’t start hollerin’ like a rooster.”

You breach the stairs with a disapproving expression.

“Epel,” you snap, “Watch your language and accent. If you want to reach your full potential, you must speak with eloquence. No cutting corners. You have to practice in private.” 

The group whips around to face you. You stride up to them. They part, allowing you to peer into your room. Vil gapes at you like a fish out of water.

“Close your mouth. It’s unbecoming,” you tell him, before addressing the others. “We’re having an emergency meeting downstairs. I expect all of you to complete the skincare routine I detailed last night. Once you're done, meet Rook and me in the living room.” 

The group shares a few concerned looks, before dispersing. You turn to the person occupying your body.

“That includes you,” you add before walking away. 

Once you’re out of earshot, Rook reveres you.

“That was the most worthy performance! You live up to your namesake, Trickster. You’ve tricked the others,” he gushes. 

You chuckle at the clever wording and sit down on the sofa. Picking up the papers Rook organized, you flip through them.

“Thank you for giving me written documents about Vil,” you voice, “I suspect you know more about him than he does.” 

“Oui, Roi de Poison has told me that multiple times,” he confirms with a chuckle.

You shake your head with a small smile. Rook’s far better than any of your perverted stalkers and hate fans in your original world. At least the hunter has good intentions and is helpful. You don’t mind his strange antics. You skim through the documents while you wait. 

The first one to arrive is the youngest Pomefiore student. You zero in on him, looking for a fault. 

“Your slip up was improper and your attire is too,” you criticize, “Your vest is wrinkled and your bow is crooked. Rook, take Epel to steam his clothes.”

“Oui!” He complies, ushering the boy out of the room. 

You sigh. You disagree with Vil’s methods. They’re inefficient and callous. Thankfully, you only have to play along for a little while. You can tweak his character after you’ve proven yourself. 

The Clown Crew announces their arrival by sounds rather than sight.

“How dare they kick me out?! It’s my room too,” Grim complains. 

He comes around the corner with Ace and Deuce in tow. You skim over the two Heartslabyul students, before doubling back. You stand up and stalk over. The three freshmen freeze as you bear down on them. You grab Ace’s face and click your tongue.

“You should’ve thought better than to forgo my skincare routine. You underestimate my expertise,” you sneer, releasing his face. “You missed toner, serum, and sunscreen. You're going to do it again. What are the steps?”

“Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen,” Ace lists with dead eyes. 

“So you’re capable of absorbing information. Learn to apply it in the future,” you scathe, “Get out of my sight. When you come back, I expect you to have done it right. I don’t need someone on my team who can’t follow basic instructions.”

Ace backs up, startled. The Scarabia students step in. Your attention shifts to the newcomers, allowing your friend to flee.

“Did Ace get in trouble?” Kalim asks, glancing back at the dashing freshman. 

“Indeed, he decided to skip some steps in his skincare routine,” you confirm with distaste. 

Kalim comments, “I would’ve forgotten too if it wasn’t for Jamil.”

“I’m sure you would have,” you retort with an eye roll. 

Rook’s voice comes around the corner. 

“Oui! Monsieur Multi is one of the most helpful people I know. He truly is a master of multitasking and many skills. He’s deserving of his title,” the hunter compliments.

The vice leader reveals himself along with the shortest Pomefiore student. You assess Epel and deem his appearance acceptable. The sunshine student turns to Rook with a blinding smile. 

“Yeah! Jamil’s the best. He’s way smarter than me and super helpful. He also cooks the most delicious food,” Scarbia’s leader praises.

You tune out their ramblings, returning to the couch to refocus on the documents. 

Vil runs with Jack Howl, his childhood friend, every morning at 6 am. They’ve cancelled until VDC has concluded. 

Vil knew Jack as a kid? That’s unexpected. You didn’t even think they knew each other. They’re in different grades and different dorms. However, you’re unsurprised that Vil chooses to work out and run with him in the mornings. The actor seems like the type.

Your body walks in. You glance up to scrutinize Vil’s appearance. Before you can look very hard, Ace sweeps in front of him. He passes the disguised dorm leader and your focus turns to the redhead. Observing his skin for a moment, you find it adequate and retract your gaze. 

“Sit and let’s get started,” you instruct.

Rook takes his place beside you. The others find a seat. Once everyone is settled, you address them.

“Vil and I have switched bodies,” you state. 

The group pauses.

“What?” Deuce blurts out.

“I said Vil and I switched bodies,” you punctuate. 

“You switched bodies?” Kalim clarifies.

You let out an irritated sigh. “Is that not what I just said?”

Ace speaks up. “Wait, who did you switch bodies with?”

You give an unimpressed look. 

“Who else but the person who screamed bloody murder, waking everyone up?” you suggest, looking at the culprit. 

All eyes turn to your body. 

“V—Vil?” Kalim questions hesitantly. 

The dorm leader nods but doesn’t say anything. He continues to glare holes into everything around him. Rook jumps in to ease the tension. 

“Trickster and I found out what happened!” He exclaims, reclaiming the crowd’s attention. “We broke down Crowley’s door and demanded answers.”

“You broke down the headmaster’s door?” Deuce repeats, stunned.

Ace smacks him upside the head.

“I can’t believe you’ve survived this long considering how dumb you are,” Ace quips.

“Hey!” Deuce shouts in defense.

Your voice cuts across, silencing them. 

“It’s an exaggeration.” you clarify, before launching into a summary of the situation. 

“Vil and I won’t switch bodies until after VDC. With that in mind, I will take up the mantle as leader,” you conclude.

Vil bolts up from his chair.

“You can’t do that! You have no right!” he opposes. 

“If you want me to perform in an important movie instead, then we’ll be here longer,” you state. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Vil growls, “You can’t act as me!”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“Why not?” you question. 

“You’re going to mess up,” he snaps, “You have no credentials! I have a reputation to think about. You can’t just parade around in my body. I have so many schedules and habits. You won’t be able to remember them. I refuse to have my body deteriorate because of your incompetence! Unlike you, I have responsibilities. I’m the head of Pomefiore, the leader of this team, and a third-year student! There’s no way you can act as me. You’re unqualified!”

Vil’s voice grows and grows until he’s shouting by the end. His chest heaves up and down. He glares daggers into you. You stare at him with no reaction.

It starts as a quiet scoff in the back of your throat. Then, a small shake makes its way into your shoulders. A chuckle slips out. From there it turns into a wicked laugh, before crescendoing into a demonic cackle. You double over from the force of your howls. You can’t get enough. He’s playing right into your hand. 

It takes a minute to calm down. When you recover, you glance at the others. They stare with disturbed concern and unease. You chuckle to yourself again. You sit up with a sinister smirk. You stare into Vil’s eyes.

“You should think twice before criticizing someone,” you advise. 

‘Someone who’s in your body,’ you silently finish. 

You wait for the implication to sink in. It takes a moment, but Vil’s eyes widen in horror. You put a hand up to stop his line of thinking. You just want to scare him.

“Don’t worry. I won’t do something so barbaric as threatening your body or reputation. As a former top-charting idol, I understand the importance of a well-maintained public image,” you inform, “As for the third-year curriculum, I’ll allow Ace to confirm my credentials.”

Ace gives a wary look before his mouth quarks in a mischievous smile. He doesn’t mind putting Vil in his place. 

“Yeah, if you haven’t noticed, but by some miracle Leona’s test ranking has gone up. That’s because of [Y/N]. They've been teaching and tutoring Leona, since his overblot. They’re up to date with the homework,” Ace brags.

Without waiting for a response, you gesture to Rook.

“And your evaluation of my magic?” You request.

“It’s strong and similar to Roi de Poison’s. I was surprised at how quickly they picked it up. They’ll have no problems posing as you in terms of magical ability,” Rook details.

Vil is still, staring at Rook. You can practically hear the thought swirling in his head: He’s being replaced. You decide to push him over the edge. 

“I don’t think I have to give my resume for my acting, but I’ll ease your mind. I’ve done a few jobs here and there. I was most well-known for my favorite roles: villains. In light of that, you’re quite easy to play,” you reveal. 

There’s a moment of silence before Vil screams and lunges. On instinct, you grab his throat. Vil halts with wide eyes. You take the opportunity to push him back against the wall. He regains his bearings and slashes at your face. You give Vil’s neck a short squeeze. He gasps and his hands fly to your’s. 

His fingernails claw into porcelain wrists. It stings, but you ignore it. You snatch his hands and raise them above his head. You slot yourself against his body and restrain him. Now, you wait. 

Vil struggles. He attempts to bite, kick, and scream his way out of your hold. He’s not thinking. Vil doesn’t remember there are other people here. He’s just focused on you. You don’t flinch and you don’t react. You wait for him to lose steam. 

He becomes desperate with your unresponsiveness. Vil throws everything he has into fighting back. Tears of frustration and anger stream down his face. He’s loud and messy. It’s so different from the put-together, dignified Vil. All he cares about is lashing out and hurting you. 

By the end of the one-sided battle, Vil is heaving, unable to breathe enough air. His body slackens, falling limp. His head is tucked into his chest, hiding his face. He stills and falls silent. His body is still coiled with tension. You finally speak. 

“How does it feel?” 

Vil tenses beneath you, but doesn’t say anything. 

“How does it feel being on the receiving end of your behavior?” you try. 

Vil’s head snaps up. 

“I don’t act like that!” he growls, gritting his teeth. 

You keep your eyes on Vil but address Epel. Your tone is softer. 

“Epel, is this how you feel when Vil insults and criticizes you, then he forces you into compliance just because he’s stronger than you? Is this how you feel?” you question. 

There’s a brief period of silence. The only thing you hear is Vil’s labored breath. 

“Yes,” Epel replies.

You stare at Vil. 

“This is how you act. You poke and prod people’s weaknesses. You’re annoyed when they become upset and resistant to your advice. So, you strongarm them into submission, citing you’re doing it to help them. The reality is you’re hurting people and accumulating their ire. You wonder why people keep treating you like a villain. Wake up and face your reality, Vil,” you state. 

You let him go, stepping back. You turn to face the others. Shaking off the lingering tension as much as you can, you perk up to address them. 

“We’ll have rehearsal as usual. I will lead the team. I expect the same dedication you’ve demonstrated so far. My teaching style will be different, but still effective. I look forward to working together,” you tell them, before looking at Epel. “Epel, I have a special project for you. I’m going to solve Vil’s problem for him. You’ll have a few adventures in the upcoming days. You’ll miss some regular practice, so I’ll privately tutor you.” 

Checking that they understood, you dismiss them. You pick up Vil’s backpack and place Rook’s notes in it. You call out to the two Pomefiore students. They wait for you. You finalize details regarding Epel’s “adventures.” The two other students seem wary of your body against the wall. You make a point ignore him. 

You escort them out of the Ramshackle Dorm. When you get to the door, Rook hesitates. You place a hand against his back and guide him forward. Vil needs to reflect. 

Afterward, you ask for some bandages from Rook. 

—----------

“Wake up and face your reality, Vil.” 

The words echo and swirl in Vil’s head. He sinks to the ground. Vil sits under the spot where [Y/N] restrained him. His head thumps against the wall and he thinks. Did he become a villain? Did he become the very thing he despised? 

He glances at his hands. They bleed. Your hands—he corrects—bleed down your wrists. He sank his nails into your hands when you restrained him. 

This isn’t his body. You promised not to hurt his. He’s already failing to maintain yours. 

Vil feels empty. A void has opened up in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s not special. He’s a villain and he doesn’t know what to do.

Without his permission, tears slide down his face. He doesn’t have the right to cry. He forced others to feel this way. He didn’t know. However, it doesn’t change the fact Vil hurt others. He caused more pain to them than he feels now. Vil has no right to cry, but can’t stop the spring shower falling from his cheeks. 

Vil looks at his wounded hands and hates himself.

-----------------

Author's Note: Very proud of this one. Let me know your thoughts! If there's any mistakes let me know too. Just make sure to point them out gently lol. I'm working on pt2. Look forward to see some of Epel's adventures in there as well. What are you guys looking forward too?

[revelboo]

You really write really good stories ✨👌.although I'm already quite addicted to it lol, I literally go offline for 3 days for work and when I come back to read in 10 minutes I've already read everything🫠. btw the "everything will be okay" plot is really good and I'm WILD with Earthspark stories (it became my favorite series and there are almost no Earthspark stories🤧)

I’m just having fun writing my nonsense

Give Up/Give In Pt 13

TF Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• They’re trying to help. He knows it. Appreciates it. Even if he wants to growl. Just wanting a peaceful meal with you, a chance to sit and talk alone. Not realizing Dorothy and the kids would try to help. Alex had cooked for him, and Hashtag and Twitch had found an enormous plaid blanket to spread out under the tree in the yard. Jawbreaker and the others had found old holiday decorations and bit of broken glass and strung them up in the branches so the sun dapples the grass and blanket in a kaleidoscope of blues and greens. As much as he appreciates the effort, none of it was by his hand for you and it bothers him. You, though? You’re smiling as you tip your head back to look at the tree. “Is this alright?” He asks.

• “It’s gorgeous.” And it is, the kids working to help Megatron spreading warm through you. Even if you’d heard Hashtag whisper something about ‘Team Romance’ to Twitch. The two seeming to not understand that you’re a human and Megatron is, well, Megatron. Completely incompatible, but it is sweet. “I love it.” Easing down on the blanket, you watch Megatron lower himself across from you, still towering over you as he leans his arms on his knees.

• Nudging the tiny basket of food closer to you, he reaches for an energon cube while you make a plate. Wishes he could mass shift, but it’s too risky with Starscream and the other Seekers at large. Can’t leave himself and you vulnerable. “What else do you love?” Your little face tips up, expressive face surprised by the question and he likes that you’re so easy to read, that he doesn’t have to wonder about your motives. “Tell me,” he adds gently, trying to not demand, but he wants to know everything about you. Who you are. What you like.

• Shoulders lifting in a shrug, you push your food around on your plate. “Not much to tell. Honestly, I just work and go home. Pretty boring.” And sad now that you think about it. No real personal life. A job you don’t care for, but can’t quit because there’s so few prospects in a small town. Too scared to try for a bigger city, so you’d gotten stuck. Still are.

• Venting, he reaches to tip your chin up. Making you meet his optics. “What do you like to do? What dreams keep you going?” He asks, voice taking on a wistful edge. Because dreams seldom go the way planned. His dreams of a better world, of freedom had led to a war that had ravaged his home. Reaching up to touch his servo, you offer him a smile.

• “I played violin as a kid. Wasn’t great at it, but I had fun,” you admit, eyes closing. “I used to dream I could be great. That I could play and people would care.” It sounds so silly. You hadn’t wanted to be rich or famous, just wanted to play well enough the music would make people feel something real. “I doubt i even remember how to play anymore.” Laughing softly, you gently push his servo away.

• “You’ll play for me.” It’s not a request, it’s a demand, but you still smile for him. Wants to hear you play, to lose yourself in something that makes you happy. Desperately wants to see you happy and relaxed. Spark warming when you tell him okay. And you take turns sharing things. He sketches out the war and his mistakes in the broadest strokes he can, not wanting you to know just how awful he is. But needing you to know that side of him is there. Listens to you talk about your family in return, offering him little glimpses of who you are. It’s dark by the time he remembers his deal. That he’d promised to take you home. That home isn’t with him.

• “Are you ready to go?” Heart speeding as he plants a palm on the ground and stands, you want to say no. To ask to stay. To take up even more of his time, all of it he’ll allow. You like talking to him, listening to that rumbling voice. Like the warmth of his big servos when he touches your arm or cheek. Like him. But know this can’t go anywhere, that eventually he’ll get tired of your clinging, so you make yourself nod and smile like you’re okay when you’re not.

• Transforming and dropping his ramp, he can feel you walk inside his alt mode. A little hand brushing a wall as you look around his cargo hold and he feels when you hesitate. Making him remember that he’s not had time to clean up, that your blood is still there. “It’s alright,” he says softly, closing his ramp. “You’re safe here.” And you move through him lingering just inside the cockpit while he waits on you to find somewhere to settle. “Sit anywhere.”

• “Sorry,” you murmur, slipping into one of the pilot seats. Because it’s still weird that he’s this giant aircraft now and that you can just walk around inside him. Can he see you or is he just feeling you moving around? Isn’t that weird to him? Sinking into the seat, you look at all the dials and controls and feel a momentary twist of the surreal. Because this is still Megatron. Different, but still him. When the rotors start up, you touch the harness wondering if you need to strap in.

• “You’re shaking, little one.” He can feel you trembling as your little fingers ghost over his harness, touching the yoke when he shifts it. Nervous and wide eyed. “Are you sure this is what you want?” To go home instead of staying with him? Safe where he can watch over you? And your fingers grip his harness. Hates that you’re so frightened right now, because this isn’t a threat he can destroy or attack.

• No. It’s not what you want at all. Frozen, you want to be greedy. To not go back to the real world. To steal a little more time. Listen to him and ask him questions, because what you’ve seen so far doesn’t mesh up with the stories you’ve heard. He’s not a monster, not cruel or vicious. He’s gentler than you’d expected. “I want to stay,” you whisper, the words so soft there’s no way he can hear them over the sound of his rotors, but they slow and stop. Hear him rumble around you. “I want to stay with you.”

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Constructicons: Some assembly required. Can I just ride around in Scavenger’s scoop?