#look at him trying to stand like a real human boy and failing

[vrtualchg]

FORMULA FOR DISASTER

Y/N's failing chemistry—barely clinging to a passing grade and much more interested in lip gloss than Lewis structures. Naturally, her teacher assigns the school’s golden boy, Peter Parker, to tutor her. He’s top of the class, painfully polite, and irritatingly hot in that awkward, cardigan-wearing, accidentally-dominant kind of way. What starts as a tutoring session quickly spirals into something way more intense. She’s a teasing, pouty distraction in miniskirts and pink gel pens; he’s a tightly wound genius with too much self-control for his own good. But when she tests him—grinding in his lap, pouting over pop quizzes, and whispering "punish me, Professor Parker"—he snaps. Hard. Suddenly, chemistry isn’t just a subject—it’s a game of rewards and consequences. A slow, burning power play where every right answer gets her praise, and every wrong one earns her discipline. Over his thigh, bent over the desk, drooling on her own notes—he teaches her in every way she’ll let him. She wanted extra credit. Peter made sure she earned it.

pairing: Peter Parker x reader

genre: smut, academic tension, tutor/student dynamic, slow-burn to full burn, dom!Peter

Authors note: yes I know they’re doing basic chemistry. Piss off.

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, choking, overstimulation, slight dubcon (consensual but bratty), possessive behavior, thigh riding, dry humping, praise & degradation, use of “good girl,” reader being a brat, Peter being accidentally dominant, teacher kink/“Professor Parker,” light degradation, hand on tummy during creampie, power imbalance (soft), aftercare tease, cheeky texting, nerd x bimbo dynamic (kind of), reader failing chemistry but not failing to seduce

bot version: PETER PARKER - nerdy

Peter Parker had long since accepted his fate as Midtown High’s unofficial poster boy for all things academically torturous. Honors student, science team prodigy, volunteer tutor, human calculator—you name it. If the school had a nerd hierarchy, he sat comfortably at the top, which, ironically, meant he had very few people below him and absolutely no one standing beside him.

So, naturally, when the chemistry teacher—exhausted and probably two missed paychecks away from snapping—needed someone to babysit a failing student, she turned to her ever-reliable go-to: “Peter, you're so gifted in this subject. Why don't you help her out?”

Her being Y/N.

Y/N: pink-acrylic-nails-tapping-on-her-phone-screen Y/N. Miss can’t-pass-chemistry-but-somehow-has-a-closet-bigger-than-his-entire-apartment Y/N. The kind of girl who showed up to school in designer sneakers and lip gloss that probably cost more than his entire monthly grocery budget. She wasn’t mean, exactly. Not the stereotypical Regina George knockoff people expected from girls like her. But she was exhausting in a way that felt deliberate—always flippant, always dramatic, and somehow always surrounded by this faint glitter-scented aura of chaos.

Peter should’ve said no. Should’ve bowed out, claimed he was too busy with Stark internship work or homework or literally anything else. But no. Because Peter Parker was pathologically polite, emotionally guilt-tripped by authority, and—for reasons he hadn’t yet admitted to himself—just a little too curious about her.

Which was why he now found himself sitting uncomfortably stiff on the edge of a designer couch that probably had a name. A French name. Her house—mansion, really—was the kind of place that belonged in movies where the girl dramatically descends a staircase during prom season. High ceilings, gold-accented crown molding, a literal chandelier in the foyer. He was half-convinced the doorknobs were real crystal.

Jesus Christ, even her WiFi is probably fast enough to download a Marvel movie in 10 seconds, he thought, adjusting his glasses and trying not to look impressed.

And then she walked in.

“Ugh,” she groaned theatrically, her glossy lips forming a perfect pout as she tossed her books onto the pristine desk like they’d offended her. “Why does chemistry even matter? I’m not trying to become a periodic table.”

Peter blinked slowly, fighting the urge to smile in that way he always did when people said stupid things with full conviction.

“Right,” he muttered, deadpan. “Because atoms are so last season.”

She ignored the sarcasm, flopping into her chair with a huff loud enough to echo against her crystal candle holders. Her hair was half-pulled up with a velvet scrunchie, her phone glittered in its pink rhinestone case, and her entire aura screamed sugar and fire.

Peter gave her a look. A long, tired, vaguely judgmental look.

Same, his brain whispered.

She blinked at him, then stood up with dramatic flair—bare feet patting softly against the plush carpet—and dragged over another chair from across the room. Not just any chair. A plush, bubblegum-pink monstrosity with bows carved into the wooden legs and little heart buttons stitched into the backrest.

It looked like it had been stolen from Barbie’s dream house.

She plopped it beside her desk chair and patted the seat like she was inviting him to sit on a throne.

“There. Come on, Parker. Tutor me.”

“Is this... my assigned seat?” he asked dryly, staring at the chair like it might swallow him whole.

“Obviously,” she said, smiling sweetly. “What, too much pink for you?”

“I didn’t know chairs could be weaponized.”

“Maybe I’ll bedazzle it for you next time,” she teased, twirling one of her earrings with practiced disinterest.

Peter sighed, muttering something under his breath about human suffering, and finally sat down beside her. Their knees almost touched. She was warm—too warm for someone who always acted like she didn’t care about anything. And he could smell her perfume, something sweet and citrusy and wildly inappropriate for studying.

He glanced sideways at her as she opened her notebook and stared at it like it had personally wronged her.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

But for some reason, he wasn’t all that mad about it.

Peter leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, and flipped open his own battered textbook—the spine cracked, corners dog-eared, and annotated to hell with color-coded tabs. The difference between their supplies was... comical. Hers looked like it had never been opened for anything other than aesthetic purposes. Pink-tinted, untouched, and almost offensively sparkly.

He glanced over as she pulled her own books from her bag, and—of course. Covered in shimmery pastel paper, sticker-bombed with little hearts, cartoon cherries, and one aggressively winking Hello Kitty near the corner. She opened the notebook with a flutter of manicured fingers, and he nearly snorted when he saw the pages inside.

Everything—everything—was written in pink gel pen. Curly loops. Puffy lettering. A couple hearts dotting her i’s.

He tilted his head slightly, brow raised. “Do you have a vendetta against black ink?”

She blinked, looked down at her notes like she genuinely hadn’t noticed, and shrugged. “Black’s boring,” she said, twirling the pen between her fingers. “And pink makes me pay attention more.”

“Right,” Peter said, lips twitching. “Because neon ink definitely improves focus and memory retention.”

“I’m a visual learner,” she said innocently, batting her lashes. “Pink makes the mitochondria easier to remember.”

He looked at her, entirely deadpan. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. That’s not even chemistry.”

“Oh my God, whatever,” she groaned, dramatically slumping in her chair. “See, this is why I said I suck at this. I literally don't get what magnesium is. Why do I need to know what it is? I’m not trying to be, like, a magnesium... person.”

Peter blinked. “A chemist?”

“Yeah, that,” she said with a small pout, like the word had personally offended her. “Can’t I just, like, skip this part and move on with my life?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Magnesium is literally a basic element. It’s kind of unavoidable. It’s in your body. Your bones. Your cells.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So I am magnesium?”

“In a sense, yes.”

She made a face. “That’s gross.”

Peter couldn’t help it—he laughed. Actually laughed, soft and surprised, like the sound had been dragged out of him. She turned her head quickly, eyes catching his in a way that made something in his chest tighten for reasons he’d rather not unpack.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she said, though her lips were curling upward.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, still grinning. “Just... with a deep, deep sense of secondhand concern.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and he rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered. Something about her was infectious—loud and ridiculous, but weirdly sincere. She didn’t pretend to understand anything she didn’t, didn’t try to impress him with fake interest in formulas or elements. She was just unapologetically her. Loud. Sparkly. Utterly allergic to science.

And for some reason... it didn’t irritate him the way it should.

“Okay,” he said, taking a breath and adjusting the textbook. “Let’s start small. Magnesium’s an element on the periodic table. Symbol Mg. Atomic number twelve. It's an alkaline earth metal.”

She blinked, eyes glossing over almost instantly.

Peter paused. “...Which means it’s shiny and kinda chill.”

That got a smirk. “Like me.”

He gave her a look. “Magnesium also catches fire if you heat it up too much.”

Her smirk widened. “Like me.”

Peter stared at her, utterly unimpressed. “You’re literally a danger to chemistry.”

“And you’re a danger to fun,” she shot back, but it was playful. Teasing. Her eyes sparkled when she was being bratty, like she knew exactly what she was doing—and, God help him, it was working.

He cleared his throat and glanced back at the book. Focus. You’re here to teach. Not flirt. Definitely not to flirt with someone who probably thinks electrons are a TikTok trend.

Still, he couldn’t stop the thought as he glanced sideways at her again, catching the way she chewed lightly on the end of her glitter pen, eyes squinting at the page like the words were written in ancient Greek.

This was going to be painful.

But maybe... not in a bad way.

“Explain it to me in girl language, Pete,” she said, leaning a little closer, the curve of her pout deliberate and devastating.

Peter blinked at her, blinking twice just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating how cute she looked when she did that. He wished she’d stop doing that thing with her mouth—the slight downturn, the soft lip jut, the puppy-dog eyes like he was the last person who could save her from the terrifying mysteries of magnesium. It wasn’t fair. It was a weapon.

“Girl language?” he repeated flatly, like someone who had just been asked to translate quantum physics into emojis.

She nodded earnestly, ponytail swishing behind her like this was some innocent favor instead of a personal attack on his willpower. “Yeah. Girl language. You know, like—pink-coded. Digestible. Fun.”

Peter stared at her like he was actively buffering. “You want me to translate chemistry... into girl.”

“Exactly!” she chirped, smiling like he’d just caught up. “Because all this periodic table, proton-neutron talk is, like, too much. You’ve gotta speak to me in a language I actually get.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Dragged a hand down his face, then slowly leaned back in his pink torture-throne of a chair.

“I’m going to regret this,” he muttered under his breath.

She grinned wider. “You already do. Now go on, Professor Barbie. Make it sparkle.”

Peter gave her a look that could curdle milk. Then, with a sigh so deep it came from his soul, he turned toward her fully and began, “Okay. Magnesium—Mg—is, like... the chill, underrated best friend of the periodic table. Not flashy like gold or dramatic like sodium, but still essential. Very supportive. Gives your bones strength. Helps your muscles move. Keeps your heart from, y’know, stopping. So basically? It’s like... the bestie who’s always holding your hair back when you cry after making bad decisions.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, so she’s, like, the backbone friend. Silent ride-or-die. Not a main character, but necessary. Love that for her.”

Peter blinked. “You’re... actually getting this?”

“Bitch, yes. Magnesium is the bitch who holds my life together. I’m obsessed now.”

He tried not to laugh, but a sound escaped—half-snort, half-wheeze. He shook his head, eyes dropping to her glitter-smudged notebook, and then up again to her face, where she was looking at him like he’d just solved world peace.

“Okay,” he said, humoring her, “let’s keep going. Next up is calcium. Another ride-or-die. Works with magnesium. They’re, like, co-dependent besties.”

“So they’re Elle and Paulette.”

“...Who?”

She gasped. “Peter. ‘Legally Blonde’? Bend and snap?”

He stared blankly.

She looked personally offended. “Oh my God, we’re fixing that. You’re watching it next time. No wonder you’re sad all the time.”

“I’m not sad all the time.”

“You are scientifically the saddest boy I know.”

Peter bit back another smile, biting the inside of his cheek as she scrawled “Mg = BACKBONE BADDIE” in pink ink across the top of her notes.

He couldn’t decide if he was in hell or rapidly descending into something way worse—something that felt like liking her.

But then she scooted a little closer, her knee bumping gently into his, and smiled at him like he wasn’t just a tutor but a secret she was starting to enjoy keeping.

And suddenly, Peter wasn’t so sure he wanted to be anywhere else.

Peter kept talking, though at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure if he was teaching chemistry or performing a live spoken-word act called Science for Brats: The Glitter Edition. Still, he powered through—explaining molecular bonds and electron shells in his best attempt at “girl language,” which apparently consisted of metaphors involving friend groups, ex-boyfriends, and Sephora membership tiers.

It shouldn’t have worked.

But it did.

Except… she wasn’t writing any of it down anymore.

He’d noticed the subtle stillness at first—the soft stop of her glitter pen, the way her elbow relaxed from where it had been poised over her notebook. When he finally glanced up, she wasn’t even pretending to look at her notes. She was just... watching him. Chin resting in her hand, eyes locked on his face like he was explaining the formula for eternal youth, not atomic structure.

He trailed off mid-sentence.

“What?” he asked cautiously, brows drawing together. “Why are you staring at me like I just offered you a Dior lip gloss or a Birkin bag?”

She tilted her head, smiling in that lazy, dangerous way that always meant trouble. “You kinda sound hot. Like, nerdy hot.”

Peter blinked. Once. Twice. His brain short-circuited for a second, skipping over logical processing and heading straight into full system error. “You’re not serious.”

She was. God, the look on her face made that painfully clear—coy, amused, and just a little bit predatory. She shifted slightly, turning toward him in a graceful sprawl that should not have been as mesmerizing as it was. One leg tucked under her, the other stretching lazily out to the side. Her pleated skirt shifted higher along her thigh as she moved—dangerously high—and Peter’s brain promptly fell off a cliff.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she said sweetly, voice dipped in honey and challenge. “If more of my classes were taught by awkward, hot nerd boys who talk about electrons like it’s foreplay, I’d be graduating with honors.”

“I’m not—” he started, horrified, “—I’m not hot. That’s not—no.”

“Debatable,” she said with a one-shouldered shrug, like it wasn’t even a question. “Anyway, you should say ionization energy again. That was kind of sexy.”

Peter stared at her, visibly struggling to maintain composure. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, because he had to correct her, obviously, because that’s what tutors do, even when they’re being flirted with by a very-pretty-very-annoying girl in a skirt that’s suddenly his mortal enemy.

“It’s ionization energy,” he corrected weakly. “Not... ‘ionizatain.’ That’s not even—God.”

“Oh my God,” she mocked softly, mimicking his voice with a teasing smirk. “Say it slower, Professor Parker.”

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face, ears going pink. His entire posture shifted—shoulders tense, back rigid, eyes darting anywhere that wasn’t her thighs.

“I came here to help you pass chemistry,” he muttered. “Not be... verbally assaulted.”

“Assaulted? Peter, please. You’re blushing like a Disney prince who just saw ankle for the first time.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You so are. It’s cute. Like your little ‘serious tutor’ voice.”

He groaned and slumped back in the pink chair, defeated. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” she said, leaning forward until her perfume clouded his thoughts, “are hot when you’re mad.”

Peter didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His brain had officially disconnected from the rest of his body, and all he could do was sit there, blinking, as she smirked at him like she’d just won a game he hadn’t even known they were playing.

Somewhere, buried under all that panic and embarrassment and mental chaos, was the very faintest flicker of pride.

Because if nothing else... she was definitely paying attention now.

“Are you gonna punish me, Professor Parker?” she asked with a giggle, the words lilting out like a joke, but her eyes said otherwise—wide and glinting, watching him for a reaction the way a cat watches a laser pointer.

Peter leaned back slowly in his chair, his expression unreadable, fingers folding loosely in his lap. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. He just looked at her, long and hard, like he was running an internal diagnostic on the entire situation—and maybe himself.

Then, in a tone far too calm for the storm he felt brewing inside, he replied, “Yeah. I will.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Peter’s gaze didn’t waver. “If you don’t stop whatever this is,” he said, voice quiet, collected, but firm, “and actually focus... I will punish you.”

There was a beat of silence. It stretched, thick and slow, the kind that made the air buzz.

She turned to him fully, body stilling, lips parted. Her breath caught a little, and her thighs subtly pressed together under the desk. “What?” she whispered, genuinely unsure if she’d misheard him—or if he’d just flipped some hidden switch neither of them realized he had.

But Peter just shrugged, the movement easy, fluid—almost too casual. Like this whole thing wasn’t cracking his moral compass in half.

“I’ll punish you if you keep teasing me,” he repeated, eyes never leaving hers. “But…” He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees, voice dropping a fraction of an octave. “I’ll reward you if you try. If you actually pay attention. If you show me you’re listening.”

The breath that left her was almost inaudible. She couldn’t tell if she was being scolded or seduced, and honestly? She didn’t care. Her brain had turned to glitter-slush the second he rolled up his sleeves.

Which he just did. Casually. Absentmindedly. Like it meant nothing.

But it did something. God, did it do something.

Her gaze dropped—unconscious, involuntary—and locked on the sudden reveal of his forearms. Veins, tendons, subtle lines of muscle flexing under warm, freckled skin. They were stupidly unfair. Strong and lean and just—masculine in a way she hadn’t been prepared for. She stared at them the way she stared at designer heels: like they were expensive, dangerous, and possibly worth ruining her life over.

“Eyes up here, princess,” Peter murmured, dragging her attention back with that impossible, slow confidence he had no right to possess.

Her face flushed—just slightly—and she cleared her throat, trying to play it off with a smirk. “Well. Someone’s feeling bold all of a sudden.”

“You started it,” he said simply, flipping open the textbook again with one hand, the other draped lazily over the back of his chair. “You flirted. You teased. You said I was hot.”

“You are hot,” she said automatically, almost annoyed by how true it felt in the moment.

“And now you’re distracted,” he said, eyes flicking down to her lips for the barest second before meeting her gaze again. “Which is fine. If you want to be bad, be bad. Just don’t expect to pass the quiz at the end of this.”

Her brows shot up. “There’s a quiz?”

“There is now,” Peter said, utterly unfazed. “Five questions. Get them right? You get a reward. Get them wrong…”

He let the sentence hang, trailing off with just enough weight to make her swallow.

“What kind of reward?” she asked softly, sitting up straighter, trying to appear composed even as her pulse quickened.

Peter gave a small, knowing smile—more to himself than to her—and tapped the edge of her glitter pen with his own. “Study and find out.”

She hesitated for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that was definitely not helping either of their situations. But eventually, with something dangerously close to sincerity in her eyes, she gave him a tiny nod.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice breathy, softer than before. “I’ll listen.”

Peter glanced at her, mildly surprised by the shift in her tone—but he didn’t question it. He just gave a satisfied hum, nodding once like a teacher approving a particularly well-behaved student.

“Good girl,” he said absentmindedly, flipping to the next page in the textbook. “Now we’re talking.”

The words hit her like a slap and a kiss all at once. Simple. Offhand. Barely emphasized. But God. Her thighs clenched under the desk like it was reflex. Her breath hitched—just slightly—but Peter had already turned away, unaware of the small detonation he’d just caused in her lower stomach.

She blinked hard, trying to push air back into her lungs, her posture suddenly straighter, hands clenched in her lap. If he noticed the way she subtly crossed her legs tighter beneath the desk, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because he was dead serious now. Back to chemistry. Back to explaining covalent bonds and energy levels like he hadn’t just casually dismantled her brain with two fucking words.

She swallowed and nodded along, trying to process anything that wasn’t the warm ache pooling deep in her core. His voice washed over her—low, steady, undeniably attractive now that she was actually paying attention. Which, unfortunately, she was. Too much.

She stared down at her notes, willing herself to focus, to be the so-called good girl he’d just praised. She wrote Magnesium = supportive baddie in the margin, then underlined it three times just to pretend like her hand wasn’t shaking a little.

Peter kept talking, guiding her through atomic structure, gesturing casually with a pencil in hand—occasionally using it to point at diagrams, or to tap her paper gently when she looked confused. And every time it made her jump just a little. Not because she didn’t understand—okay, sometimes she didn’t—but because now everything he did felt weighted, electric, impossible to ignore.

When he leaned over her shoulder to correct something in her notes, she stopped breathing. His cologne—clean and faintly cedar—wrapped around her like a noose.

“You see where you went wrong?” he murmured beside her ear, voice lower now that they were closer.

She nodded dumbly, though she couldn’t remember a single thing he’d said in the last two minutes. Her eyes were stuck on the way his fingers looked wrapped around her pen, steady and precise. She wanted to say something flirty—something biting, something to bring the control back into her hands—but all her usual weapons had short-circuited.

She was, for once, actually trying.

Trying to listen.

Trying to learn.

Trying not to melt every time he so much as glanced at her.

But then, just when she thought she might finally be settling into something resembling focus, he leaned back, tossed his pencil on the table with a soft thud, and said, “Alright. Pop quiz. Five questions.”

Her head snapped up. “Wait—seriously?”

Peter gave a small, wicked smirk. “I warned you.”

“This is so unfair,” she huffed, arms folded tightly beneath her chest, gaze narrowing in what she probably thought was intimidation but really just looked like a pout he was trying very hard to ignore.

Peter barely looked up from his notebook. “Life’s unfair,” he replied coolly, flipping the page with a maddening sort of composure. The kind that made her want to scream—or maybe crawl onto his lap and see how long that composure would last.

“Now,” he continued, pen poised, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose, “question one.”

She groaned like he’d asked her to recite the periodic table backwards in Latin. “You’re enjoying this.”

He tilted his head, mouth twitching at the corners—not quite a smile, but a glimmer of something unholy. “A little,” he admitted. “But I warned you. Actions have consequences, princess.”

She muttered something unrepeatable under her breath, but sat up straighter, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Her arms stayed crossed—subtly pushing her chest up, not that she was doing it on purpose or anything. Not like she noticed the quick flicker of his gaze or the slight pause before he looked away.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the end of his pencil against the desk with slow, deliberate rhythm—like a countdown. “First question. What’s the difference between a covalent bond and an ionic bond?”

She squinted. “Wait, is this multiple choice?”

“Nope.”

“Can I phone a friend?”

He raised a brow, deadpan.

She sighed dramatically. “Ugh, fine. Covalent is, like… sharing? Electrons?”

He nodded slowly. “Go on.”

“And ionic is… a full transfer? Like one atom gives the electron away?” Her brow furrowed. “Like a rich dad paying off child support.”

Peter blinked at her. Then—despite himself—laughed. Soft and low and entirely involuntary. “Sure,” he said, biting back the rest of his smile. “Correct.”

She lit up. “See? Told you. I’m not dumb, I just need sexy incentives.”

He ignored that. Barely. “One point. Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

“Question two,” he said, and this time his tone turned a shade darker—cool, clinical. “What’s the atomic number of magnesium?”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding. I barely know its name.”

He gave a patient shake of his head. “No cheating,” he warned, nudging her notebook shut with the eraser of his pencil as her eyes darted toward it.

That firm tone again. It went straight to her spine—and lower.

She narrowed her eyes, fingers tapping against the desk. “Uhh… twelve?”

Peter paused. Then nodded. “Correct again.”

She grinned, smug. “Two for two. I want gold stars.”

“You want a reward,” he corrected smoothly, sitting back just enough for the light to catch on his glasses. “You’re halfway there.”

Her smile faltered for a second—just a second—because his voice had changed again. Gone softer. Darker. Like a warning wrapped in silk. “I don’t choke,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

He smirked. “We’ll see.”

She blinked.

“Question three,” he continued before she could recover. “Define ionization energy.”

She blinked again. “That’s the hot one, right?”

Peter let out a sigh that sounded a lot like a laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

“No, wait! I know this one—it’s the energy it takes to… remove an electron from an atom?”

His brows lifted. ���You’re getting dangerously close to being my favorite student.”

She preened. “Don’t stop now, professor. I’m learning so much.”

“Then let’s test that,” he said smoothly, flipping another page with that same deliberate slowness that made her stomach tighten. “Question four: which element has the higher electronegativity—fluorine or oxygen?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a trick question.”

“It’s not.”

“…Fluorine is the toxic one, right? Like, yellow gas of death or something?”

He gave a noncommittal hum.

She squinted. “Okay. I’m gonna say oxygen. Final answer.”

Peter didn’t flinch. Just clicked his pen and marked a quiet ‘X’ beside her name.

Her jaw dropped. “Wait, it was a trick question!”

“Nope,” he said, too innocently. “It was just science. You were so close.”

She groaned, head hitting the desk with a thunk. “This is psychological warfare. You know I need pictures and glitter pens. My brain’s not wired for raw data.”

Peter chuckled under his breath, but the gleam in his eye said he was enjoying this more than he’d ever admit. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s still one question left. One more shot at redemption.”

She lifted her head slowly, leaning her weight onto her elbows, cleavage framed perfectly between her arms. “And if I fail?” she asked, voice pitched low.

He didn’t blink.

“Then you’ll learn what punishment really means.”

Her breath caught. A quiet flutter in her chest. “Kinky.”

“Consequential,” Peter corrected, but the look in his eyes betrayed him. His voice had dipped into something deeper. Something that made her spine straighten and her legs cross instinctively beneath the desk.

“Final question.”

She sat up, trying her hardest to look serious—and not like she was seconds from combusting. “Hit me.”

He tilted his head slightly, and asked, voice velvet-smooth, “What’s the electron configuration of sodium?”

She blinked.

“Okay—what the fuck did you just say to me?”

Peter’s lips twitched. “You’ve seen this in your notes.”

“Which you closed,” she muttered.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Think back. Shells, sublevels—remember?”

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure some memory of that godforsaken diagram. “Okay… 1s2, 2s2… um… 2p6… 3s1?”

Silence.

Peter tapped his pen once. Then slowly set it down.

“That’s correct.”

She blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded once. “You passed. Barely.”

Her breath rushed out in a relieved laugh, her eyes lighting up. “Oh my god. I passed chemistry.”

Peter’s brow arched. “You passed my quiz. You still missed one.”

She stilled.

“…Which means you still get the punishment.”

Her smile faltered just slightly. “Right. That.”

“But,” he added, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs as his gaze locked with hers, “you also get your reward.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Okay… so… what’s the reward?”

Peter didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just said, calm and devastatingly clear:
“You get to sit in my lap.”

She stared.

“I—what?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice soft and measured. “Come here.”

Her heart was hammering now, pulse fluttering high in her throat. “And the punishment?”

Peter smiled—small, sharp, and entirely dangerous.

“You’ll find out if you move.”

She hesitated for a second—just a second—then slid from her chair and stepped between his legs, her heart jackhammering against her ribs. Peter didn’t say a word. Just watched her. Calm. Expectant. The silence thick between them.

Then, slowly, she lowered herself into his lap.

At first, she tried to keep a respectable distance—her weight barely resting on his thighs, posture stiff and uncertain. Her skirt rode up as she settled, the hem skimming far too high for decency, but she still kept her hands clenched in her lap like that would make any of this feel normal.

It didn’t.

Peter’s hands found her hips.

Without a word, he pulled her back—firm, steady, inescapable—until her spine was flush against his chest and she was properly seated. Full weight. Right over the growing bulge in his jeans.

The breath left her lungs in a soft, involuntary gasp.

And God, she could feel him. Hard. Thick. Pressed perfectly between her legs, separated only by the flimsiest excuse for lace and the whisper of her skirt. The contact sent a lightning bolt of heat straight through her, and her thighs instinctively tried to squeeze together—but it was him there, and the pressure just made it worse.

Peter leaned forward slightly, his mouth close to her ear, voice low and dangerously gentle. “You move,” he murmured, “I punish you.”

She nodded shakily, barely able to breathe. “Y-yeah.”

But Peter wasn’t finished.

His right hand stayed firm on her hip, thumb stroking lazily against the curve of her waist like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His other hand? Calmly reached across the desk to pick up his pen again. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like she wasn’t already soaked through and losing her mind just from sitting still.

She swallowed thickly, eyes fixed on the way the pen moved in his fingers. “Are we… Are we still doing chemistry?”

He smirked against her ear. “Of course.”

Then, like nothing was out of the ordinary, Peter opened his notebook again and started writing.

Meanwhile, she sat there—frozen, breath shallow, thighs trembling as every tiny shift of his legs beneath hers sent another pulse of heat through her. His cock was so there—right up against her, thick and hot even through the layers—and she knew he could feel everything. The slick heat between her legs, the tiny quiver of her muscles, the way her hips threatened to roll with even the smallest breath.

But she didn’t dare move. Not even an inch.

“Question,” he said after a beat, casually, like he wasn’t slowly unraveling her sanity with nothing but proximity. “How many valence electrons does nitrogen have?”

She stared blankly at his notebook. Her brain was soup. Her mouth moved but no words came out.

Peter glanced at her over his glasses, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Need a hint?”

Her breath hitched. “Y-Yes.”

His lips brushed her ear. “Don’t move,” he said again—soft but lethal. Then he nudged his hips upward.

Just once.

A gentle grind. A warning. A promise.

She bit down hard on her lip, stifling the gasp that tried to break free.

“Nitrogen,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, “has five.”

And she couldn’t tell if she was learning or being conditioned.

“Good girl,” he added absently, going back to his notes, completely ignoring the way she squirmed at the praise—except, of course, for the way his grip tightened just slightly on her hip, holding her still. Possessive. Controlling. Teasing.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—him casually quizzing her, her trembling on the edge of obedience and full-blown ruin—but she knew this: she wasn’t passing chemistry.

She was being rewired by it.

She heard his voice. Could feel it—low and smooth, rumbling through his chest and curling around her like velvet. He was still talking, flipping pages in the notebook, gesturing lazily to some diagram as if this were still about atoms and bonds.

But none of it registered. Not a word.

All she could focus on was the pressure between her legs and the way his thigh sat perfectly between them—solid, unmoving, a delicious point of friction. Without even realizing it, she started moving against him. Slow. Subtle. Barely-there rolls of her hips, grinding down gently, dragging her soaked panties along the rigid line of muscle beneath his jeans.

Peter kept talking.

For a while, he let her have her little secret.

But she should’ve known better than to think he wouldn’t notice.

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing behind the frames of his glasses. He didn’t say anything right away—just leaned back in his chair, arms folding slowly across his chest as he stared at her with unreadable calm.

“You’re not even listening, are you?”

She froze. Her breath hitched, her lips parted—but she had no excuse. Nothing to offer. Just need. Pure, aching, unbearable need.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I need you, Pete.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Something dark and heated. But then it was gone, replaced with quiet restraint and that maddening composure she was starting to loathe.

“No,” he said simply.

She blinked. “What?”

“You don’t get me,” he said, his voice cool and steady. “Not yet.”

He shifted, nudging his thigh up just enough to make her gasp softly, her thighs tightening reflexively around it.

“Use my thigh,” he murmured. “If you’re that desperate. Get yourself off.”

She stared at him, flushed and wild-eyed, shame and arousal bleeding together in equal measure. But she nodded. Of course she did. She’d take anything from him—anything he’d give her.

With shaky hands, she braced herself on his shoulders and began to move. This time with intention. No more subtle grinding—this was unabashed, slow friction, the lace of her panties dragging over the rough denim, her breath catching with every roll of her hips.

Peter watched her the whole time.

Unblinking. Silent. His eyes traced every stutter in her movement, every flicker of desperation that passed across her face.

“You’re such a mess,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “Look at you. So greedy.”

She whimpered, burying her face in his neck, her hips rocking harder now. “Please, Peter. Please, I can’t—”

Her hand reached between them, fumbling with the front of his jeans. Desperate. Mindless.

But he caught her wrist before she could even touch him.

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “That’s not yours yet.”

He guided her hand away, placing it back on his shoulder as she whimpered in frustration, eyes glassy with need.

“Get yourself off,” he said again, voice dark and low. “Earn it.”

She nodded frantically, biting down on her bottom lip to keep quiet as she chased the friction, riding his thigh with increasing urgency. Her body trembled with it—overstimulated and under-touched, burning from the inside out.

And Peter just watched.

Like she was a lesson in control.

Like her pleasure was a science experiment he already knew the outcome of.

It happened so fast she barely remembered breathing through it.

One second she was grinding, her rhythm frantic and erratic, and the next—she broke. Her hips jerked, a gasp leaving her lips like it was punched out of her, her thighs trembling violently as pleasure surged through her. Nails dug into Peter’s shoulders for purchase as she came, messy and silent save for the high-pitched, shaky whimper that slipped out just before her body slumped back against him.

Her breath came in quick, uneven bursts, body still twitching in aftershocks. But Peter’s voice cut through it—low, measured, merciless.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked down, barely able to keep her head up. “Peter—”

He just looked at her, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just let her make a soaked, squirming mess of herself all over his leg. “I said,” he murmured, reaching down to tug her hips forward, forcing her to grind down again on his soaked thigh, “I didn’t say you could stop.”

She let out a broken sound—half sob, half moan—her clit already painfully sensitive, each new rub of lace and denim making her jolt. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, dragging her hips in rough, firm circles, his grip unforgiving. “And you will. Since you clearly don’t know how to listen unless I fuck obedience into you.”

Her mouth fell open, head tipping back as another wave of overstimulation rolled over her. “Wait, wait—please—Peter, it’s too—”

“No.” His voice sharpened, his patience finally fraying. “You just can’t follow instructions, huh?”

Then, in one fluid motion, he stood—taking her off his lap, only to bend her forward over the desk, palms flat against the cold wood, her skirt pushed up to bare her trembling thighs and soaked panties.

Peter stood behind her, undoing his belt with a slow clink of metal, his composure barely holding. “I came here to tutor you,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Not to fuck the last five brain cells you have left out of that pretty little head.”

She whimpered under him, fingers curling against the edge of the desk, already pliant and arching back toward him despite her sensitivity.

Peter leaned over her, voice brushing hot against the shell of her ear as he dragged her panties down slowly, letting the wet fabric fall just to mid-thigh.

“You want to act like a brat?” he murmured. “Then I’ll fuck you like one.”

And with one devastating thrust, he was inside her—fully, deeply, to the hilt.

The breath was knocked out of her lungs. Her cry came out hoarse, wrecked, her knees nearly giving out beneath her. If it wasn’t for Peter’s grip on her hips, firm and possessive, she might’ve collapsed right there against the desk.

“You wanted to be a brat, right?” he growled, each word punctuated by a hard snap of his hips. “So take it.”

His pace was merciless. Sharp, relentless, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room like some obscene rhythm. Each thrust punched into her so deep she could barely keep her head up, the force of it dragging her forward against the desk with every stroke. Her legs trembled, her mouth hanging open in a silent moan as he hit that spot—thatspot—again and again, until the edges of her vision blurred and her body forgot how to breathe.

Peter leaned over her, one hand pressing down between her shoulder blades, forcing her to arch for him. And that’s when he saw it.

A thin line of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth, dripping shamelessly onto her open notebook—right across the half-scribbled answers to questions she barely remembered him asking.

“Look at you,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes narrowing. “You’re fucking drooling all over the books.”

Without missing a beat, he reached forward and shoved them out of the way, clearing space on the desk while still pounding into her like he had no plans of stopping anytime soon.

“So messy,” he murmured, voice thick with mock-disapproval and something darker. His hand curled around the back of her neck, guiding her head to the side so he could see the dazed, fucked-out expression on her face. “So cock-hungry, huh baby?”

She let out a high, broken whimper, unable to form words.

Her body had gone limp under him—pliant, trembling, ruined in the most beautiful way—and Peter couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips. “All that mouth earlier, and now look at you. Can’t even speak. Can’t even think.”

He thrust into her harder, dragging another gasping moan from her throat.

“I could teach you every element on the periodic table,” he whispered against her ear, “and you still wouldn’t remember a thing except how it feels when I’m buried inside you.”

Her fingernails scraped at the desk’s edge, her whole body shaking as she tried to hold on—but it was too much. He was too much.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, slowing his pace just enough to make her whine. “You gonna cum again for me, baby? Right here? All bent over your chemistry homework?”

She nodded desperately, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“Then be a good girl,” he said, voice tightening, “and take what I give you.”

She barely managed to nod—her brain had short-circuited, thoughts smeared like the notes beneath her. And still, Peter didn’t stop.

He gripped her hips harder, bruising now, using her body like she was nothing but a toy made to take him. His thrusts picked up again, savage, the desk creaking beneath their weight. She couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Could only moan as every nerve in her body screamed at the overwhelming heat building and building, threatening to snap again.

Then she felt it—Peter leaning over her, chest flush against her back, his breath hot against her ear. His hand left her waist and moved up, fingers curling loosely around her throat.

“I said take it,” he growled, voice rough with restraint. “You don’t get to tap out yet.”

His fingers tightened—not enough to hurt, but just enough to make her mind spin, to make everything sharper and louder. Her hips jerked back against him, helpless and needy.

“Peter—fuck—I can’t—” she gasped, voice breaking apart.

“Yes, you fucking can,” he snapped, thrusting up into her so deep her vision went white. “You wanted to tease me? Act like a brat? Now you’re gonna cum until your legs give out.”

She cried out again, that pressure building viciously inside her until it shattered—her second orgasm crashing down hard, ripping through her with a sob. But even then, Peter didn’t slow. He didn’t let her.

She squirmed under him, too sensitive, whimpering as her body tried to twist away. But he caught her by the throat again, tilting her head back, breath hot against her cheek.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” he hissed, the filthy edge in his tone almost feral now. “You’ll cum again. I’ll drag it out of you if I have to.”

Her whines dissolved into moans as he fucked her through it, relentless. Her skin was flushed, slick with sweat, mascara smudged beneath glassy eyes. Her mind gone, tears streaking down her cheeks. And then—

Peter spat.

Right down onto her tongue.

She hadn’t even asked. But her mouth had been hanging open, breathless and ruined, and he just leaned over and let it fall—a slow, warm string that made her whole body jolt.

She moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever done to her.

“Fucking filthy,” he growled, voice wrecked now, jaw clenched tight as he watched her swallow it without hesitation. “God, look at you. Dripping, shaking, and still begging for more.”

One hand slid down to rub her clit, merciless in its rhythm, as he kept fucking into her like he wanted to mold her to the shape of his cock.

“Pete—Peter, I—too much—can’t—” she sobbed, her words blurring into wet, incoherent sounds.

But he just leaned closer, lips at her ear. “Then cum again.”

And she did.

Her body seized, thighs trembling violently as her orgasm ripped through her, messy and primal and raw. Her screams were muffled against the desk, fingernails scratching helplessly at the surface as she came hard—clenching around him, soaking them both.

Peter didn’t stop until her legs fully gave out, collapsing under her with a broken moan. Even then, he held her up, letting her breathe, his grip firm on her throat and her hips like she was the only thing anchoring him now.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and dangerously close to unraveling. “You’re such a good little mess for me.”

Peter groaned, the sound guttural—feral—as he felt her clamp down around him again, her pussy spasming with aftershocks. She was limp beneath him, trembling and soaked, barely able to hold herself up on her elbows. And he still wasn’t done.

He kept fucking into her, slower now but so deep it felt like he was rearranging her. Dragging it out. Grinding his hips forward with purpose—owning her.

“You’re still gripping me,” he breathed, one hand sliding from her hip to her belly, spreading over the soft skin there. “Fucking hell—do you feel that?”

He pressed down. Right over the swell of her lower abdomen where his cock kept driving into her, so deep inside it felt like he was punching into her core. She gasped, back arching, thighs twitching.

“R-right there,” she choked, voice wrecked. “I can feel you, oh my god—”

Peter’s eyes darkened, his jaw flexing as he felt the outline of himself through her stomach. “Yeah, you can. That’s me, sweetheart. That’s how fucking deep I am.”

Her moan was nothing more than a high, strangled cry as her hips rocked weakly back into him. She was long past gone, completely fucked out—and he fucking loved it. Loved the way she took it. Loved how ruined she looked—mascara-streaked, drool on her chin, eyes glossy and lost.

“You wanted to be filled, didn’t you?” he rasped, voice sharp and trembling with restraint. “Wanted me to fuck you dumb, huh?”

She nodded frantically, biting her lip to keep from sobbing again.

“Say it,” he growled, his thrusts picking up just enough to make her fall forward again, her cheek pressed to the desk.

“I—I wanted it, Peter,” she whimpered. “Wanted you to finish inside—please, I need it.”

That broke him.

His rhythm turned punishing again—fast, deep, brutal, the slap of skin echoing in the room as he chased it now, chest pressed flush to her back, his hand still firm on her belly like he was making sure she’d feel every last drop.

“You’re gonna take it,” he snarled against her ear, breath hot. “Take every fucking drop like the good little cumdump you are.”

And then—he groaned. Loud, raw, desperate. Hips stuttering as he buried himself one last time, grinding as deep as he could go. He spilled inside her with a low, broken moan, cock twitching as his cum filled her, warm and thick and so much it dripped back out before he’d even pulled away.

Peter stayed like that for a moment, cock still buried in her, both of them panting, their bodies trembling against each other.

He gave her stomach one last possessive press, almost reverent now. “Fuck,” he whispered, “look what you do to me.”

She just whimpered, so far gone she could barely respond, thighs sticky, cunt fluttering weakly around him still.

“You feel that?” he murmured, pressing in a little more, letting her feel the heat of him deep inside. “That’s mine. You get it now, don’t you, baby?”

And from the ruined way she moaned, he knew she did.

A week after that tutoring session—the one that started with flashcards and ended with her drooling on his chem notes—Peter was half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, still in his suit pants from patrol. His hoodie was tossed somewhere on the floor, hair a sweaty, tousled mess. His limbs were heavy, mind drifting in and out of consciousness when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He groaned, cracking one eye open. Probably Ned sending him another blurry screenshot of a TikTok he didn't understand or MJ forwarding some dry meme with a caption like “ur humor.” He dragged his arm over, fumbling until his fingers curled around his phone. The screen lit up.

Not Ned.
Not MJ.

Y/N.

His brain clicked on like a light switch.

He sat up slightly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he opened the message. It was a picture. Her chemistry test. And there it was—an A+ circled at the top in red pen, like a glowing beacon of success. Like she’d actually listened to him.

Beneath it, her message:

I passed my test, can I get my reward :)🩷

Peter let out a short laugh, low and warm, as he ran a hand down his face. His cheeks flushed, and not from exertion this time.

Of course she passed. She might’ve giggled through half the session and made zero eye contact during anything remotely science-related, but when it counted, she’d nailed it.

God, she was something else.

[inotakumagf]

day trip

✶ sylus qin x non-mc!reader

word count ✺ 1.7K

summary ✺ you lose your kidnapping virginity to Onychinus....kind of.

warning ✺ kidnapping, allusions to human trafficking, mild violence. just a short drabble today <3 reader is not mc, but is fem in this

──────────𝜗𝜚──────────

“You ever been to the N109 Zone?”

You would respond, but the duct tape over your mouth kind of makes it impossible. The man who had kidnapped you isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he did manage to snatch you up from under your parents’ heavily guarded care, so you’ll give him that. You just wish he had used something other than duct tape, because it’s really going to hurt when it comes off. Do cloth gags not exist in the kidnapping scene anymore?

He continues talking, as if you’re not even there. “It's a scary place, especially for a weak thing like you. You’ll get to meet the man in charge, lucky you.”

You glare at him and try to say a few choice words that your mother would clutch her pearls over, but it’s muffled by the duct tape. He glances at you from the car’s rear view mirror, grinning at your failed attempt at speaking.

“Or should I say lucky me? It’s not every day you make millions selling a doll like you to the Onychinus leader. What do you think he’s going to do to you, huh? I heard he’s a ruthless, violent man. You better watch your attitude before we get to his base.”

You falter. What kind of kidnapping is this? You’d thought maybe it had to do with your affluent parents, who are exactly the kind of rich people who would get themselves wrapped up in Onychinus’s web. But Onychinus deals in selling people now? Is this what your life has come to? How mortifying.

Your dumb-as-rock kidnapper parks the car in front of a tall mansion with large, arched windows. He steps out, slamming the door behind him. In the few seconds you have alone, you try to think of how you can get out of this, but it’s no use. What are you going to do, in the heart of the N109 Zone? Your door is yanked open, and you can only kick at your kidnapper desperately.

He backhands you in frustration and growls, “Behave. Or it will get worse for you.”

He drags you along to the massive front door. He hesitates, before using the knocker. He steps behind you, and you give him a look. Seriously? You’re offended that this is your first kidnapping. A flutter from above catches your attention, and you watch the glint of a crow disappear into an open window above. The door in front of you creaks open ominously, inviting you in silently. Oh, why the hell not.

Your kidnapper doesn’t look eager to enter the lion’s den, so you roll your eyes and breeze through the door.

“Now wait a minute!” He says, grabbing your shoulder harshly. “Not so fast. There’s nowhere to run.”

How this man managed to successfully kidnap you is beyond comprehensible. The door slams shut, causing the both of you to jump. You turn to see two figures standing side-by-side. They have identical masks with long, pointed beaks, which only adds to the bizarre atmosphere. 

Your kidnapper lifts his chin. “I have something your boss is going to want.”

You straighten as the one of the two figures turns their head to you, tilting it slightly like a real crow. The other watches the man, walking circles around him.

Finally, one of them speaks up, “Boss is waiting for you.”

They usher you to their “boss”, and if you could guess, the voice under the mask sounds like a younger boy. You didn’t know that the Onychinus leader hired people so young. Not that it’s your concern.

You’re used to your lavish lifestyle, but the decor in this house is on an entirely different level of wealth. You can’t help but admire the halls you pass through. If you weren’t heading for your doom, you’d compliment the Onychinus leader’s taste in art and decor. You’re led to a door at the end of a hall, and you barely have a moment to compose yourself before one of the two figures pushes it open, walking in without fear for who stands behind the door. The second figure follows behind you, maybe to make sure you don’t try to run. Your eyes drag along the interior, taking in the rich furniture and the dark aesthetic that continues from the rest of the house. Finally, your eyes land on the man of the hour. His back is to you, but you can see his broad shoulders and silver hair.

The leader of Onychinus.

You’re frozen as you take in every detail that you can see of him. Your kidnapper pushes you forward, which only causes you to lose your balance, since your hands are bound together.

You only have a split second of fear flashing in your heart when one of the figures catches you before you can trip. His touch is gentle, in contrast to the reality of why you’re being sold to Onychinus. You tug your arm away from him and continue the walk towards your doom alone. The masked boys and your kidnapper follow beside you, but it feels like it’s just you and the Onychinus head in the room. 

You stop right in front of him. He’s still facing the window, as if he has not a care in the world. Your kidnapper clears his throat and says, “I brought this for you.”

His hand clamps over your shoulder as he brings you a few steps closer. You jerk your shoulder roughly to try to shake him off, but it’s no use. He squeezes your shoulder, as if reminding you of his earlier threat. 

The silver-haired man turns towards you and…wow. This is entirely the wrong time to be checking him out, but you have to wonder why the rumors never mentioned that the Onychinus leader is so handsome. His crimson eyes take in the sight of you, and you can only shift uncomfortably at his intense gaze. When your eyes meet, you expect to shrivel under his terrifying gaze. But he just looks at you and…he smiles. It’s a softer smile too, like the two of you are in on a joke. You blink rapidly and shift your gaze away. 

This is ridiculous. Your mother would faint in disbelief if she knew that you were not only kidnapped, but shrinking back in fear too, like a wet kitten. You straighten your shoulders and shake off your kidnapper’s hand. 

The Onychinus leader turns to your kidnapper. “What exactly are you talking about?”

Your kidnapper stumbles over a response. “Well, she’s the daughter of the wealthiest man in Linkon City. I-I thought you would want her as a prize, or as blackmail against her…”

The man trails off as the Onychinus leader stares down at him with an unamused look. The silver-haired man doesn’t respond immediately, and you can see the way his jaw tightens.

Finally, he turns to the masked boys and says, “Luke, Kieran. If you’ll leave us to…chat.”

In synchrony that must be practiced, the boys say cheerily, “Yes, Boss!”

Sweat collects on your brow. You take a micro step back as the Onychinus head approaches you. But he just gives you another slight smile and a dip of his head before turning towards your kidnapper. His face shifts so suddenly now that he’s in front of the other man.

You can hear the anger in his voice as he says, “Onychinus does not deal in the business of trafficking innocent civilians, least of all young women who don't deserve to be treated in the harsh ways that you see fit. If you were any smarter, you would not have come here.”

The man’s smile drops when he realizes that he’s not getting a cut of your ransom and also that he’s seemed to really piss off the most powerful man in the N109 Zone. He backs up. “I didn’t mean…She…I was just trying to–”

He cuts himself off, giving up on trying to explain himself and going straight to running away. He shoves you aside and turns towards the door. He gets as far as yanking it open, but it slams shut by the force of powerful tendrils of energy.

The Onychinus leader steps slowly towards the cornered man. “Let your stupidity serve as an example for others.”

He extends his hand, allowing his evol to consume the man within a storm of deep red energy. One second, the man is squirming in front of you, and in the next he is just…gone. Once the Onychinus leader is finished with your kidnapper, he turns to you.

With expert hands, he unknots the rope that rubs raw against your wrists. He massages the skin gently before lifting the back of your right hand to his soft lips. His breath tickles your skin as he murmurs, “I apologize, miss, for your rough treatment. If you’ll allow me, I would like to make it up to you by giving you an experiential tour of the N109 Zone.”

At your silence, he glances up quizzically, only to soften when he remembers the whole duct tape situation. “Of course, how could I forget? I haven’t yet heard the voice of the angel that has graced my home with her presence.”

You roll your eyes at his exaggerated and flowery words. He’s really laying it on thick, isn’t he? He guides you towards a cushioned loveseat. For a minute, he’s gone, and you wonder if you can sneak out of this place. But again, you have no idea how to get around this place, and you’re sure that he can find you easily if he wants to.

He returns with a bowl of water, a towelette, and a bottle of oil. You hold your breath as he sits beside you, inches away from you. He lifts the wet towel to your face and whispers, “May I?”

It takes a moment for you to stop staring at him, and even then, you barely manage a nod. He smiles and starts to massage the towel against your covered mouth. Using the warm water and oil, he loosens the adhesive enough that it peels off without irritating your skin. He runs the warm towelette over your lips one last time, eyes flickering between your soft lips and your eyes.

He stands off the sofa, bowing before you with a hand extended towards you in invitation,

“My name is Sylus, and I hope that I may improve your impression of the N109 Zone.”

You scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there’s no hiding the grin that spreads across your face as you take his hand.

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

"Baby Yandere" | AIB + SQ x GN!Reader |

Baby Yandere: A character who is too innocent to notice their actions are bad. Who believes they are doing the best for their S/O even if they hurt them. By me.

Summary: Various AIB + Squid Game characters x Reader - Yandere Themes - Stalking - Obsession -

♤ Arisu

Arisu its Smart at games. And even a bit in social circles. However he cant tell when his actions have crossed a line. Its not like he cant tell what its morally fine and wrong. No, he can. Its when it comes to you, the lines blends and ends being all blurry, he cant tell what he is doing.

It may start safe enough. With just the right amount of "What did I just do" till his brain tells him its fine. Because its for you.

At the Borderlands he would protect you from everything and everyone. He never thought on using someone to save you. In fact till he met you, he did try to save as much people as he could. After some down and terrible games and you being his only light and hope he started to care less and less for others and only thinks about you.

He may not be a fighter but he has no fear on getting beating up for you.

And also, has no fear or sense of remorse in case he needs to use someone during the games to save you. Its all fair because he wants you to survive and himself.

Maybe the line blends more when its the closest ones he is ready to leave for you. If you two met before his Friends died and somehow the four of you ends in a game together with other players...well Arisu may get the idea of using even his Friends if thats going to secure your win.

Non Borderlands Arisu meets you at College, probably. And from that moment he falls hard.

Here his morals will fail him during exams. If he sees you having problems he will try to give you the answer even if that would end with him in trouble.

Getting exams from a professor who trust in himself a lot... honeslty he would totally do it.

At the real world Arisu may not get his hands bloody since there is no danger. Unless you tell him someone has been following you. He may lose himself and beat that person up. If he ever kills someone on accident then he has his father influence to protect him.

♤ Tatta / Borderlands

Tatta its someone who would be totally out of it. And what I mean by this is:

He believes you love him no matter what.

He really cant stand his ground but is willing to get hurt for you.

The emotional distress this causes you, he uses it (without him knowing he is doing it) on his advantage over you.

Tatta its in this case not a Yandere who looks for control over you. At least not in a way that he is aware of it. Tatta stalks you like a lovesick boy around the Beach. Most will find it cute, weird or will ignore it.

He does not want to cause you pain. On the contrary he wishes he could give you safety and protection. However his actions will cause you emotional pain to the point of not knowing if he is even trying to live.

At the end. You would become his guardian. Maybe he was kind to you in the past and now you feel like you are in debt with him for that. It drains your energy making sure he is safe and out of trouble.

Tatta would see this as an act of true love. He would never think you feel in debt with him. And will use this to get closer to you.

○ Gi-hun S1

Season one Gi-hun was never mean to fall for you on the first place.

In games or outside them. Gi-hun was in no position for a relationship in all the ways. He was kind and good heart but he had problems besides gambling and debts.

If he becomes obsess with you its because at first you helped him out. Maybe you gave him some money or showed him some real human action. Its 100% sure he does idealize you to the point of making other concern for you when they hear how he talks about you.

Gi-hun would totally get himself drunk only to use it as an excuse to call you for help and crash at your place.

He makes you get worried over him when he shows up with his face all hurt from the loan sharks. Sometimes he may do it himself so he can have you close as you nurse him back to health.

He wont ever know how worried you get over him. How anxiety eats you at night. Or how sad you end when he goes off to the games to later never know about him again.

○ Min-su / In game /  S2 pre S3 (no idea whats gonna happen in S3 when writing this).

He is shy by nature and insecure. Uses you as a protector from others. He will stick to you like a shadow no matter the time or whats going on.

Min-su its the type of Yandere who also idiolizes you. Even if they show how you ended in debt he will look pass it.

Its someone who does not know he is hurting you. Yes he basically hides with you and uses you when someone bullies him. But thats alright, you are his protector after all, its your work to do it.

He is obessive during games. Trying for the best outcome for him and for you. But he is not shy from betraying you, hoping you will make it out somehow. He has you so high that believes you can walk out from any situation.

Maybe the worse its how he after that goes back to be with you. Breathing down on your neck, trailing behind you. He never says "sorry" for what he did. Or how he acts. He just...well follows you.

○ OC/Random Guard

Probably a circle guard who thinks they can protect you by giving you Hints for the games.

Even if you end being punish for it, the guard wont ever consider it their fault. It was you who did not hide the note well!!

Maybe a Triangle guard who does not care for their methods. If they need to punish you, they do it.

Its an obsession with a lot of a sadistic side on their part. Even if they know you from outside the games, chances are they were always like this.

A Obsessive freak who enjoys themselfs in hurting you. Knowing they are part of you life by this. At least a fraction of you belongs to them.

[wickedsmille]

broken and still breaking

uhhhh, this is a little fic technically titled Angsty McAngst Pants Angst in my notes because Jason goes to his Re-Welcoming/It's A(n Alive) Boy! gala then gets triggered into a PTSD episode of dying which Tim helps him through. It was SUPPOSED to be gen but then they started flirting and bantering so. Welp.

Buyer beware cause I haven't beta'ed this, aforementioned PTSD episode, mild depictions of blood and injuries and what nots.

Alright then *thigh slap*

------

If it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of being settled in his own skin, Jason would’ve told Bruce to fuck a cactus for offering to make Jason Peter Todd a real boy again. On principle alone he nearly said no. Besides, creating aliases is fun. James Austen, John Red and, to be nothing if not a mature adult with refined tastes, Dick Dickins. So many others, too. He could get the utilities at a new safehouse hooked up under Stephen Wolfe’s name then turn right around and renew Emmerson Bronte’s license at the downtown DMV.  

See? Being legally dead has allowed him room to express himself creatively in a way that has nothing to do with experimental ammunitions and testing the limits of the human body. One might even say it’s a healthy passtime. Sort of. Relatively speaking, okay. He’s not a perfect person, wouldn’t even dream of entertaining the thought. Not when he’s had so much practice turning the inside of someone’s skull into a modern day Picasso. 

But he’s been trying. Is trying. 

So, rather than testing the integrity of Bruce’s dental implants, Jason bit his cheek so hard it bled, swallowed back every bitter, snide remark dancing along his tongue and nodded tightly. He can’t think about the way Bruce deflated after. How his eyes went soft and the weight of the cape and cowl fully slipped off to reveal an infinitely exhausted but relieved Bruce Wayne, Failed Father Extraordinaire. If Jason does, he might ask himself what it was all for anyway and if any of it really ever mattered. Those kinds of thoughts lead to nothing but self-imposed isolation and self-destruction. 

He’s definitely regretting his decision as his gaze scans over the crowded ballroom of the Grand Hotel in downtown Gotham. A sea of opulence swims below the upper landing he has stalled out on. Men and women stand around in circles, chatting one another with plastic smiles etched into their faces. The sound of faked laughter grates, making his jaw clench and his teeth grind together. Wouldn’t it be just his luck that the food tables are all the across the room.

“Ha, ha, ha. Oh my, this little thing?” a woman simpers loudly at the bottom of the stairs. “Why, it was my mother’s.” She fingers the delicate gold chain around her neck. On the end is a diamond large enough it could feed a family of four in the Alley for a couple years.

A man across from her, entrenched in his own conversation partners, tips his head back and holds his belly as he chortles. “Mr. Campbell, you’re in luck! I have a penthouse in uptown and a condo on the westside and they’re alright but, if you’re looking for a sound investment, I suggest getting a cabin or three in the Northwest. Best decision I ever made!” he says blithely like there aren’t families and children sleeping in their cars because every apartment building is leased up and the list for voucher programs are thousands long.

Jesus fuck, he did not miss this.

Being a Wayne again means he gets the horrific honor of taking a half-step into the limelight. At first, Bruce wanted to do a full spread. Interviews and press conferences, staged sightings by the paparazzi and several welcoming events. Jason promptly shut him down by threatening to find every copy of his adoption papers and burning them. He’d rather chew off his own arm and beat Bruce with the appendage than do any of that. The compromise? A single gala as a re-introduction then Jason could fade into the background once more. 

So long as you don’t cause a scene, Bruce had said sardonically, knowingly. Bastard.

With the implied threat to his privacy, Jason has smartly decided to be on his best behavior. Even though the simple, black suit he’s wearing feels too tight and too hot. Though his hair is stiff from all the product in it. Despite the shiny leather shoes pinching his toes. No matter the way he feels like everyone is staring at him even if they’re not. 

Sure, quite a few of the guests are surreptitiously staring, thinking they’re oh so clever with the way they side-eye him before quickly looking away. They’re subtle, or so they think. It’s not like everyone is facing him, gazes boring into him. He almost thinks that would be better. At least he’d have a good reason to sneer and dip out scot free. Would it really be a scene if he were to loudly trip coming down the stairs? He’ll feign embarrassment at drawing attention to himself if it means he can back out. 

An elbow bumps into his side, making him jolt. Jason’s head whips around, intending to give whoever has invaded his personal space a thorough tongue lashing until he sees Tim. Calm, cool, collected Tim holding two champagne flutes, one held towards Jason. He’s smiling softly with his head tipped to the side in an unspoken question. The gold and white of his corset vest contrast well with the black of the rest of his suit and make the blue-gray of his eyes pop without washing him out. Tim would look right at home if he were down on the floor swimming with the other sharks. Goddamn him for fitting in so well.

“I’ll back you if you want to leave,” Tim tells him. “Due to your violent bout of diarrhea and uncontrollable gas.”

Snatching the offered glass out of Tim’s hand, Jason drains the entire thing in one go. “I hate you,” he murmurs miserably, only partly meaning it. Then he snags Tim’s own glass and downs that as well. 

A thoughtful frown makes its way onto Tim’s face. “I’d be careful. Getting tipsy won’t actually make this any easier to navigate.”

“Stop talking like you know me.”

Tim shrugs amiably. “I might not know you as well as I’d like to but I know them.” 

He inclines his head towards the dodos guffawing over their latest insider trading power plays and gossiping on whose husband is sleeping with which of the help. Or lamenting on how finicky children can be, not realizing their kids aren’t really the problem because they’re capacity for introspection matches the frigidity of their hearts somewhere below absolute zero. Jason tries very hard to not bite and snarl at Tim since he’s one of the blue bloods. Born and bred for the hoity-toity bullshit with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat he must’ve been gagging on it. 

Tim isn’t like that and never has been, he reminds himself. In fact, for all the ways Jason had to show Tim how to effectively coupon stack and explain why he microwaves his sponges, Tim is as far removed from the vultures and roaches and leeches they’re surrounded with as he could be given his upbringing. For one, Tim isn’t a total douchebag. Unthinking at times and eccentric, but not outright malicious. He can be surprisingly sweet like when he requests Alfred make one of Jason’s favorite foods when he knows Jason will be coming over for dinner or upgrading Jason’s helmet when his own tech know-how fails him without Jason ever needing to ask. 

The guy is a squishy ball of good intentions wrapped in a deceptively tiny package which has never, not once, held him back from putting dusty, crusty board members and hardened, violent crooks in their place. Once he’d had a chance to actually get to know Tim, Jason found himself feeling grateful. Bruce didn’t concede to just anyone stepping into Jason’s pixie boots. At least he went for the best. 

“If you knew me any better you’d have a key to my apartment and a drawer in my dresser,” Jason drawls, steering the conversation away from the swarm of jewels and silks he wants to pretend doesn’t exist.

“I already have a key to your apartment,” Tim points out. 

Rolling his eyes, Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, but you come over so I can make you buy pizza and kick your ass in Mortal Kombat. Not fucking you into the mattress and making you breakfast in bed after.”

“You never asked, did you?” Tim asks him slyly.

Just about every coherent thought in Jason’s mind fucks off into some deep, dark hole. Leaving him a flustered mess with vague recollections of waking up sticky and wanting. So his witty, top of the line comeback is, “Nope.”

“Eloquent as always,” Tim laughs, patting Jason lightly on the shoulder like he didn’t just break Jason’s brain. “We should get down there before they start chattering about how egregiously anti-social we are.”

All the clamboring what if’s and could be’s get ruthlessly, shamelessly smothered and die a quick and violent end so he can get himself back on task. “I don’t want to,” Jason says petulantly to drive the conversation back to safer, calmer waters.

Now it’s Tim’s turn to roll his eyes. Huffing, he points at Damian to the far left where he’s leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed tightly. “Suck it up. If he can do it, so can you. Now come on.” 

Tim holds out his elbow which Jason bats away with a scowl. He can make his own way down the stairs, thanks. Telling Tim as much, Jason nearly trips over himself when Tim challenges him to put his money where his mouth is. There’s a reason Tim is his favorite because it’s just the thing he needs to unstick his feet and get him moving despite the way his skin prickles the closer they get to the main floor. Although Tim had been joking when he volunteered to escort Jason down, he finds himself wishing he’d taken Tim up on it if only for the grounding comfort of a familiar touch as the smooth soles of his shoes land on the polished floors. 

Graciously, Tim does see him through the crowd to the food tables Jason had been eyeing up. As a kid, they were an oasis. It’s hard for others to talk to you when you’re stuffing your face as fast as you can while chewing as slowly as possible to delay and discourage conversation. Plus, it’s good. A little bland because the chefs have to cater to the tastes of so many, watering down their usual Michelin star flair to a point that probably pains them. But still good in spite of it being pretentious.

Once satisfied Jason can be his own keeper no longer in need of a handler, Tim drifts off. He switches over from the insufferable geek Jason has come to like to the smoothed, glacial veneer of a corporate socialite. The totality of the shift leaves Jason reeling. One thing he’s never understood, no matter how much he puzzled through it and tried to emulate it, is how Bruce and Tim can switch between the two extremes so flawlessly. It’s like trading out coats for them. A flick and a swish then, poof, like magic they’re entirely new people. What that says about their psyches and the inherent fault in their neural wiring is something he shies away from.

Jason tucks in with gusto when an older woman in an inappropriately low cut halter dress and coiffed hair sets her sights on him and starts striding over. With nimble fingers, he loads up the plate his grabs and shoves whatever in his mouth, hoping the age-old trick still works despite being over a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. 

Score because it totally does. She wrinkles her nose at his puffed out cheeks and actually sniffs haughtily when he chews purposefully with his mouth open. He even smiles, masticated mush on full display, and waves cheekily. The woman redirects her steps to take her closer to where Dick is holding court about twenty yards out. She joins the gaggle of women and men magnetically drawn in by Dick’s natural charm. He doesn't quite fit like Tim and Bruce do but he has his natural personality to make up the difference.

Unlike Jason. Which he has no problem with. He’ll take himself, authentically cynical and caustic and brutally honest, over being a fake fuck any day. 

The bacon wrapped, maple seared figs don’t settle well as more people attempt to approach him. Even for him, there’s only so much he can eat. Rapidly, he’s reaching his limit. The twisting viper pit turning his stomach inside out isn’t helping his appetite either. So far he’s been successful in warding people off but his stomach flips, signaling his need to find a new method to avoid unwanted advances and carelessly hurtful words. 

Setting his plate aside, Jason casts his gaze out across the crowd once more. Being tall does have its advantages. Like being able to pinpoint where exactly the rest of the family is and relatively what they’re up to. Dick is wholly unaccessible with the amount of attention he’s getting. He can keep the center stage, Jason is trying to move behind the curtains. Bruce is similarly front and center with his own gathered horde so that’s a no go even if he thought he could handle it without fisting Bruce’s collar and dunking him into the champagne fountain in the corner. 

Damian is somewhere. It’s a toss up whether Jason just can’t see the shrimp or he’s faded into the shadows to either eerily stare out at the crowd from a corner or making his way towards a Bat bothole to go on an ill-advised patrol. As helpful as it would be to have Cass, she’s no better handling these things than Jason so Stephanie has been guiding her. Her attempts at bumbling but Stephanie is nothing if not determined and relentless. It’s why Jason likes her even though he hates those qualities, a reflection of his own, weaponized against him. Duke, the lucky duck, got to skip.

Then, there’s Tim. He’s making amiable small talk with a couple to Jason’s left. They’re too far for Jason to make out the words but close enough Jason feels comfortable weaving between bodies to reach him. So what if it makes him needy or weak. Everyone has to take a knee from time to time and he doesn’t need anything more than a temporary crutch to get him through the next hour or two before he can leave without causing a fuss. Tim is crutch-shaped. It makes sense. 

Saddling up to Tim’s side, Jason inserts himself into the conversation. The man speaking stutters, words petering out as he looks up, up, up at Jason. Jason flashes what he hopes passes as a polite smile. He’s not sure it works when the guy recoils minutely. The woman, his wife Jason assumes if the three-figure rock on her finger is anything to go by, gives him a flat grimace he assumes is supposed to be a smile.

“Jason, it’s good to see you. Enjoying the party so far?” Tim asks him, voice level and almost serene.

“It’s a blast,” Jason deadpans, bumping his hip into Tim’s as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“It is a fabulous venue,” the woman says. “We were delighted to get the invitation and haven’t been disappointed yet.”

Yet. Goddamn. He forgot just how snippy these people could be. 

“I’ll be sure to pass your praise along to our event planner,” Tim replies so Jason doesn’t immediately make an ass of himself. “By the way, Jason, this is John Anders and Mary Ann Anders. They’re the founders and CEOs of Anders Packaging. Wayne Enterprises is lucky to call them partners.”

“Jason Wayne,” Jason introduces himself. He holds out his hand which John hesitates to take but social norms win out. Jason makes sure to squeeze on the side of too tight and doesn’t stop till John winces. He goes easier on Mary Ann though, maybe he shouldn’t have because she digs her nails into the skin of his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

When Tim’s hip bumps into him, Jason reads it as the warning it is so he backs off. Tim takes back the reins of the conversation to steer them away from Jason himself. The transition back to dull, unassuming chatter is easy when Tim is the one leading. The tension from John drains away as he falls under Tim’s spell. Jason does feel some small amount of respect for Mary Ann as he notes she isn’t as enamored with Tim’s performance as her husband is. She gives Jason a shrewd look as if to say I see you both, I’m watching you and, yeah, he kind of likes her and hates that he does. But she probably hates him right back since she has to like him. Or pretend to.

Jason rises to Mary Ann’s challenge when she narrows her eyes at him. It becomes a game where they both adopt an air of cordial confidence whenever Tim and John are looking. Then they cast it aside for suspicion and mutual distaste when the other two aren’t. It’s kind of fun. If Mary Ann doesn’t think so, sucks to suck. Jason has had an entire lifetime of pissing people off by doing nothing but existing to hone his craft of being a nuisance without lifting a finger.

Tim looks at him askance, drawing Jason away from his silent feud with Mary Ann and back to the conversation. 

“I thought it would be fun,” John laments ruefully.

“You’re adventurous,” Mary Ann says as she pats his arm. 

“I suppose so,” John replies, giving her a small, genuine smile. “I certainly have a better appreciation for remodelers! Doing the kitchen in our summer house? Never again! I was trying to knock out the cabinets with a hammer for ages until Mary Ann grabbed me a crowbar.”

Jason’s blood runs cold. He abandons the game with Mary Ann in favor of racking his mind for a graceful, or graceless if necessary, way to leave. 

The mention of a crowbar sinks its hooks into his mind, making it run syrupy slow. Too slow to slink away before John keeps going. 

“Now that did the trick! It still took me an hour but, whoo, let me tell you. That is a workout,” John laughs. The arm he has around Mary Ann’s waist unwinds and he takes a step back to give himself some more room. Then he’s miming swinging his arm back and forth. High above his shoulder then down and across, grunting from the effort and smiling from the humor of it all. “You have to throw your shoulder into it. Really get into it. It was fun!”

John laughs again but it’s not John. Not to Jason. It’s too high, too loud. The sound echoes in his head and amplifies with every reverberation. He would cover his ears if he knew it would do any good but it’s all in his head. Now would be a good time to leave, decorum be damned. But his feet feel rooted to the spot and every muscle is coiled so tight he’s shaking with it and immobile. Jason's hands start trembling as John keeps going. On and on and on about his skill with a crowbar. Proud of himself for it. 

In horror, Jason watches as John’s smile keeps curving and twisting into a rictus grin so wide it should be splitting his face but it isn’t. The white straight line of his teeth shift and dull to a pale yellow while all the color of his skin drains away to an unnatural white. The charcoal gray of his suit bursts into color Purple and green and red. So much red. John’s hand isn’t empty anymore either. Now he’s swinging a real crowbar with the end of the metal dented from where he used it to shatter Jason’s femur and tailbone. 

Jason watches as John as the Joker pummels Jason as Robin right there on the ballroom floor. A deep dark red spreads out across the ground. Jason as Robin screams and pleads. Snot and blood and a broken jaw making it difficult to form words but he knows what he said. He was calling out for Bruce. But Bruce never came and the pool of blood has spread far enough he’s standing in it and Jason can’t do this anymore - 

He’s off like a shot. All the restless, animalistic panic inside him zips through his veins. His chest heaves with the effort to suck in as much air as possible but it’s never enough. There’s nothing but the jagged, wet sound of him breathing and the pounding beat of his pulse in his temples. Maybe someone is yelling his name, too, but it’s muffled like someone is holding his head underwater. The elite, esteemed guests gawk at him as he flies by and he doesn’t understand why they aren’t in a tizzy about the dirty warehouse they’re in. 

When he reaches the door, it isn’t locked with a winding length of chain. His hands scramble to clutch the knob of the door but it opens easily under his hands. Over the din of the crowd behind him, Jason can hear the tick, tick, ticking of the bomb. But the door leads to another warehouse so he sprints to the next door, hopping over the puddle of blood on the concrete. The next door opens without issue but it leads into a small, black hole. Yawning and bottomless and hungry.

“Get out!” someone commands from close behind him.

On instinct, he lashes out but whoever it is isn’t having it. Their arm smacks into his wrist, redirecting his punch. Then there’s hands on his chest, shoving him back and into the void. He expects to be falling endlessly but his ass crashes into the ground, arms buckling from the way he catches himself to keep from toppling over completely. He hasn’t even completely settled on the floor before the darkness is chased away by a bright cascade of light from above. Shadows lurk in the corners, wriggling and writhing like a mass of worms and maggots. 

“Jason, Jason,” someone says urgently. They try again gently, “Jay.”

“I need you to breathe with me,” they say, tone brooking no argument. It’s all a serious, low tone Jason can hear clearly over the he ha, ha, HA in his head. “You need to follow me. Fuck. Okay, okay. Can I touch you?”

He wants to understand who it is crouching next to him but the black spots dancing across his vision, the blurry edges of it, keep him from piecing it together. A hand encircles his wrist and he tries to twist away from it. They’re strong though. Stronger than he thought they’d be. His hand is planted firmly on a plane of smooth, warm fabric. The fingers around his wrist pop lose and disappear completely so he moves his head up until the pads of his fingers brush against skin. 

Then he latches on and squeezes with his teeth bared and all the higher thinking of a cornered wolf spurring him on. 

“J-Jay,” they choke out. “Alright then. Feel that?” 

They draw in a comically large breath around the pressure Jason is putting on their windpipe. The pulse beneath his fingers is thumping hard and quick but controlled. Up and down their throat presses against his hand. Unconsciously, he finds himself mimicking the movement. His focus narrows down to the rhythmic movement of their throat and the stuttering attempts his chest is making to imitate it. 

“Jay,” they say faintly. 

Jason becomes aware of two things immediately. He’s in a spacious store room. It smells like a hodgepodge of herbs and spices co-mingling into something overpoweringly herbaceous. The smell is enough to tickle his nose. Several overhead lights are shining down on the packed shelves of nonperishables and Jason and Tim. Because Tim is there with him, on his knees in front of Jason with his pants rucked up and jacket rumpled. With Jason’s hand around his throat and the pale skin of his face a worrying shade of red.

Like he’s been burned, Jason’s arm snaps back. The dimples from Jason’s fingers fade, leaving red indents sure to turn a nasty purple later. Tim gasps loudly and pitches forward onto his hands. He coughs and sputters, rubs at the tender skin of his throat. Checking for any cartilage damage, Jason realizes.

He did that.

The thought has Jason leaning to the side and emptying the contents of his stomach. It’s disgusting. Everything he ate earlier comes up for an encore but its decidedly less appetizing this time around. The bitter taste on his tongue makes him gag even after he’s done. All he can smell is bile as shame wells up, threatening to muscle everything else out because he was choking Tim. Fuck the food. They can get more food. If he seriously hurt Tim, they can’t get a new Tim. 

“Why didn’t you stop me,” Jason rasps, clearing his throat and spitting it out onto the rest of the mess. Not like it's salvageable anyway. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Tim looks up at him sharply. He pushes himself back onto his haunches. Defiance draws his shoulders up and back. Out of them all, Tim has never let him get away with shit. The kid spat in his face even after Jason beat him to a pulp. Never once has Tim backed down from Jason’s misdirected anger or shown fear the times they’ve needed to play fight for the villains intent on pitting them against one another. Dick lets his guilt bleed through too much and lets him be lenient with Jason. In contrast, Bruce is as immovable as Tim but where Tim is kind and even sweet at times, Bruce is a complete and utter asshole.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Tim snarks. 

Jason really hates how little Tim values himself sometimes. Especially given Jason’s own high regard of Tim. 

“Never do that again,” Jason orders, whole body quaking with the aftershocks of his episode. PTSD, one doctor had told him. A normal side-effect of The Life, Jason had privately corrected him.  

“LIke to see you try and stop me,” Tim says, cheeky and sharp with a half cocked grin to match. 

This fucking guy.

“Can I hug you now?” Tim asks with a hint of hostility hiding in his tone. 

Jason can appreciate Tim’s innate ability to understand him and all the ways Jason would outright reject him if he were nicer about it. The contrast to Dick’s antsy need to use touch as a comfort is stark and wonderful. Grumbling, Jason nods his head at the nasty puddle of ick next to him. 

Tim rolls his eyes so hard Jason’s surprised they don’t pop right out of his skull. “Oh, yeah, like I don’t deal with worse on a nightly basis.”

“Touche,” Jason mutters. 

He scoots closer to Tim and away from the gross. His palms stay flat on the ground but Tim shuffles to fit himself against Jason, molding them together as he winds his arms around Jason’s neck. One hand buries itself in Jason’s hair. The nails scratching at his scalp break apart the gel in his hair. It kind of hurts but it keeps him present and helps chase away the jittery feeling in his limbs. The other hand splays across the broad expanse of his shoulders. This close, he has no choice but to follow the rise and fall of Tim’s chest so the quickened pace of his breathing slows to normal. 

Jason’s gut says to push Tim away and maybe even kick him in the jaw for daring to touch him. The impulse dies a quick death as warmth spreads out from his center. It’s soft and sweet and gentle. He presses his face hard into the curve of Tim’s neck and breaths in Tim’s overpriced cologne. Although he’s bigger than Tim, he feels protected like nothing can touch him in this bubble of fragility they’ve created. Finally, finally his mind goes blessedly silent and he settles back into his own skin, not the phantom corpse of a boy who lost more than he ever gained and was cut down before he ever really had a chance. 

Shifting, Jason moves so he can wrap his arms around Tim’s torso and cling tightly to the back of his suit jacket. The ribs of the corset vest flex under his hold. Aside from a quiet grunt, Tim doesn’t say anything. To be a shit, Jason makes them flex again. A warning rumble reverberates from Tim’s chest straight down into Jason’s bones, shaking out the cobwebs of memory and making him puff out a breath through his nose in a parody of a laugh. 

“How do you breathe in this thing?” Jason mumbles into the damp skin of Tim’s neck.

“Force of will and spite,” Tim tells him succinctly. 

“Anything for fashion.”

“More like anything to make Mr. Williams as horrendously uncomfortable as possible after he let slip a couple choice words to me at the last gala.”

“Your commitment to pettiness is unrivaled.”

“Have you met yourself?” Tim accuses him incredulously. 

“I don’t have a commitment to pettiness. I am pettiness.”

The sound of Tim’s easy laughter washes over Jason. He can’t help but to join in even if his own is weak and half hearted at best. Things feel less heavy than they did, less inevitable and better. So much better. Tim still hasn’t let him go and he has no intentions of releasing Tim either. 

With the silence comes the realization of what happened and how it must have looked to everyone else. Jason curls into himself, arms tightening around Tim. In an uncharacteristically small voice, he gives life to his uncertainty and shame. “Everyone saw, didn’t they?” he asks. 

Tim shrugs as much as he can in the vice of Jason’s arms. “You were more subtle than you think you were. Nothing a quick cover of explosive diarrhea won’t fix,” Tim tells him lightly. The callback and absurdity of the idea forces a bark of laughter from Jason. More subdued and serious, Tim adds, “Besides, it doesn’t matter. To hell with them. What matters is that you’re okay and everything else we can fix.”

“Trying to say I can’t be fixed?”

Making an irritated noise, Tim bops his head into Jason’s in chastisement. “I’m saying you don’t need to be fixed. You are who you are and we wouldn’t have it any other way. If it means you need more support, we’re happy to give it but you don’t need to be fixed, Jason.”

“Cool it on the soliloquy, Timberly,” Jason teases so he doesn’t start tearing up. “Ain’t nobody wants to hear your bleeding heart.”

“Charming as always,” Tim sighs, resigned, but he still hasn’t let Jason go.

So Jason smothers the poisonous voice in the back of his head whispering about Tim backing away to leave him cold and bereft, mocking him then relaxes entirely in the safe space Tim carved out for Jason between his arms.

[ssentimentals]

joshua + halloween prompt

creature: siren

note: look at me, as always being late to the party :D open ending here cause i'm incapable of writing angst and i made sirens capable of transforming into humans for plot. enjoy!

'they change their appereance. it's a myth that sirens exist only in the deep deep oceans.'

joshua blinks, shaking himself out of the stupor. evening in unfamiliar tavern turned into a horror story night and at first he didn't even listen to what old woman was saying, but then he got pulled in by the story just like all other random travelers. her soothing voice paired with a horrifically gore story about siren who lured in all kinds of innocent men and women had everyone under some spell; joshua's head feels a bit dizzy like he's tipsy even when he only had a one glass of ale.

'they eat your soul,' woman finishes in a spooky whisper. 'and the worst part is that you'll give it to them willingly'.

shiver runs up and down joshua's spine and he bristles at the cold wind from open windows. he stares at the storyteller, who collects her small payment from kind strangers, counting her coins - joshua searches his pockets to give her some change as well. it was entertaining even if he feels a bit unsettled, like something is pulling at the pit of his stomach. he finds some coins to spare and opens his mouth to call for the old woman, when someone slides up at the seat next to him.

'hello, stranger.'

joshua traveled east and west, south and north, but he's never seen someone as beautiful as you. part of him wants to pinch himself to see if you're real and not a figment of his imagination; the aura you give off is too majestic and out of this world. he stares and stares, knows it's rude but he can't help it - your beauty pulls him in like a vice. 'hi,' he breathes out, gaining back his ability to speak.

you smile and lean closer, gesturing towards his glass of ale. 'is it good?' joshua nods. 'can i try it?'

'uh.' it's not like this is a weird request but he's never met bold women and during his travels he rarely met women at all; joshua fears his social skills are somewhere in the dirt now. 'yeah-yeah, sure.'

every move of yours is gracious and for joshua everything happens in slow motion: the way you lean in, how you take his glass in your hands, how you tip it and never close your eyes, maintaining eye contact with him as you take a sip. it sends big enough sparks to start a fire in his chest; joshua holds his breath while you put the glass back, licking your lips in the way that cannot be considered innocent at all.

'sweet.' you conclude, never once looking away from him.

ale is not sweet. ale is generally bitter and this one here is not even good, but joshua's mind fails to register that. in fact, his mind fails to register anything apart from your big eyes that draw him in, refuse to let him go. without thinking, he pushes his glass in your direction with: 'you can have it'.

joshua is usually smoother than this, that's the thing. usually it's him who has other girls blushing and stuttering over their words, eating up from his palm. he's handsome and he knows it, uses it sometimes for his advantage. but right now he's the one scrambling, trying desperately to come up with anything to make you stay. 'is there anything else you want? i can get you something to eat, what do you want?'

joshua knows the answer before it even leaves your lips: 'you.'

he feels it then. when you are this close - when did you even manage to get this close? - he can feel something. it's hard to pinpoint what exactly, but it is something. something that makes hair on his arms stand up and goosebumps awaken. something that dulls ringing alarms in his mind that scream at him to sharpen his attention, to maybe get away, to-

'don't fight it,' you whisper, rising your hand to gently caress side of his face. 'what a pretty boy you are. why are you fighting?'

joshua doesn't know. he's not very aware that he's fighting but even if he's been unconsciously fighting something, all the willpower leaves him, when your other hand snakes up his thigh. god, you are unreal. a goddess sent to him from above, a gift from-

'hell.' suddenly old woman's voice rings in his ears and he turns sharply, looking at the storyteller who now stands right next to him. 'go back to where you came from.'

pointed nails dig into his thigh painfully and joshua hisses at both this and how your grip on his face tightens. he doesn't see how your face confronts into a grimace but he catches dangerous glint in your eyes, when you turn to the other woman. 'leave,' you say but it sounds like an order. 'it's too late now.'

when older woman turns to joshua, he sees so much regret and despair in her eyes that it almost triggers panic in him. he almost sits up straighter, almost takes her hand. almost reaches out to ask what's wrong. almost, because before he can do any of that, you turn his head to your side, leaning so close that he can feel your breath on his face. 'come with me,' you whisper, looking right into his soul. 'i'll sing for you, my dear.' your hands find their way into his hair. 'i'll make you happy, i'll make you mine. don't you want to be mine, hm?'

your nails scratch just slightly but your grip on his hair tightens when you make him turn to the right, away from the old woman. joshua is hypnotized, lets you treat him like a ragdoll, almost moans when your tongue traces his jawline. god, yes. yes, yes, yes. he's saying it out loud and he has no idea, needing more of this, needing anything you can give him, willing to beg for it. he closes his eyes in a bliss and doesn't see how your smile turns predatory and how your eyes gleam with bright blue for a second before turning back to black. he doesn't see how you turn back to the old woman, whispering something to her in a language that no one knows. he doesn't see, he only feels and he feels like he's floating, when your lips are on his neck and jaw, when your nails dig painfully into his shoulders.

'pretty boy,' you whisper again and there's something raw in your voice, something he hasn't heard before. 'all mine, yes?'

'yes,' joshua confirms, following you as a puppy when you lead him from the bar.

his mind tingles with questions but when he thinks of them his head only starts hurting. you coo at him, all lovingly, walking in hurried steps closer to the shore. 'what did i tell you, hm? don't fight it.'

right, don't fight it. joshua nods dumbly, lets himself be whisked away. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when you start singing. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when you pull him into the water. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when your face and skin slowly start to change. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when water reaches his chin. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when your entire face distorts, turns white and blue. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when water enters his lungs. he looks into your beautiful eyes, when they turn blue. your beautiful eyes are the last thing he sees, when sea takes him under.

a/n: so. ugh i hate spooky stuff, i don't think that can even count as 'spooky' but oh well. this one is for @rwithkali and i know it's not what you meant but it is halloween, so sirens as monster creatures it is! - nini

my other seventeen works are here

my formula 1 works are here

[desertsanctuary-blog]

We know how Clover feels about the Main Monsters... but how do the Main Monsters feel about Clover?... Both before + after the Pacifist Ending? :)

(The main characters: Asgore, Toriel, Papyrus, Sans, Undyne, Alphys and Mettaton!)

That is a really good question. I'm suprised I hadn't done anything with the subject yet. Since you aksed, I'll give the before and after of the Pacifist Route.

Before

Toriel: To her, Clover is the child she failed before she even learned his name. She doesn't know much about what is going on outside of the Ruins besides what she heard from Sans and what information came through from Napstablook and the Spiders. She is happy that Clover is alive

Papyrus: He doesn't have anything against Clover. Sure, it's his job to take him down and his following, but that isn't personal. Paprus doesn't know much about him, but he's sure that Clover has good intentions, even if he doesn't quite understand them.

Undyne: She hates him. She hates Clover with her entire being. She views Clover as a brat trying to destroy everything that Monsterkind has worked for. An infection which turns Monsters against. She wants to personally deliver his Soul to the King. However, deep in her soul, a small part of her is scared. The way Clover carries himself, the way he speaks, and the way his eyes seem to glow when he is angry all paint a picture of someone you don't mess with. Someone who has crossed certain lines before and can cross them again

Alphys: She's scared of Clover. She doesn't believe that he will hurt her physically, but that is the impression that the cold look in his eyes leaves you with. The blackmail, knowing that he can discover and expose her darkest secrets if she doesn't comply, doesn't help.

Mettaton: He finds Clover boring and doesn't believe he is tapping into his full potential. He's glad that the cowboy is working so hard to protect humanity, but he doesn't need to be so dull about it. The boy was born for the cameras, and yet he refuses to tap into his full potential. Also, he totally isn't salty about Clover refusing to be interviewed. This has nothing to do with that.

Sans: Seems cool. Didn't tip him for his Hot Cat, though.

Asgore: Asgore is one of the few characters who sees Clover as a child. A child who grew up too quickly, but a child nonetheless. It is why he allowed Clover to see the human souls. He doesn't want to fight Clover, not just because of what it would mean for his people, but also what it would do to the young boy with kindness as great as his anger.

After

Toriel: Toriel was surprised by Clover's attitude when she met him. Him being cool with Agore almost caused her brain to crash. Clover isn't what Toriel had expected, but she still cares for him. She just isn't used to humans that act so... grown up.

Papyrus: Imagine his surprise when he learnt that his friend Martlet his friends with their enemy, Clover. Jokes aside, Papyrus concluded that Clover is a pretty cool dude after getting to know him, even if he is a bit too cynical for his tastes.

Undyne: Her hatred for Clover is pretty much gone, and she respects the hell out of him. It takes real guts to stand by your principles like he did. They aren't friends, far from it, but there is a certain level of understanding between them. Also, Undyne apologised for being an asshole during the peace talks.

Alphys: She isn't scared anymore, so that's good. She still isn't entirely comfortable being around Clover or any of the Sanctuary people, but it becomes easier every day.

Mettaton: He hates how Clover keeps stealing the spotlight from him without even trying. On the surface, Clover is constantly hounded by paparazzi, reporters, talk show invites and documentary offers. And he doesn't even appreciate it!!!

Sans: Still hasn't tipped him.

Asgore: The two have grown relatively close since the Barrier broke, at least as close as they could get. Asgore had asked Clover personally to testify at his trial. They talk whenever they can, and Clover had even confided in Asgore about Flowey's Resets since he's one of the few Monsters that know about the ability. Of course, Clover didn't tell him everything. The Vengeance Run is a secret he'll keep to his grave, and the fate of Asriel is not his story to tell.

[team7-headquarter]

Team 7 introductions are like:

Naruto: I want to obtain POWER so I can force people to look at me like an actual human being and not a monster, haha! They won't ignore me or isolate me anymore! They're gonna BEG ME and put their lives on my hands and— Oh and ramen. All the ramen. And maybe prove to everyone that they are dumb ass fuck for not believing in me? Yeah, prove them wrong, that's cool! And and and Iruka-sensei is cool! I'm so happy when someone does the bare minimum and respects my life and acknowledges the fact that I'm just a kid and that I'm suffering (one of) the craziest discrimination acts applied by our government Hokage...

Sakura: you know how the first real goal I got like the first thing I wanted for myself after years of being bullied and being nobody and wanting to disappear was the affection of this boy? Well, all these other girls think I don't stand a chance and that they'll get the boy, so I'm gonna win the boy and laugh at their faces. Does it mean that I need validation and affection and attention and love? Not, what are you saying, I have a perfect normal life and parents that are totally involved in my life and I am happy! So happy! I wouldn't know what sadness or loneliness is like! Never! I'm normal and totally nothing to worry about!

Sasuke: you'll find that the things you like in life are meaningless when you carry the trauma of being the sole survivor of a genocide committed by the brother you loved and adored. I want him dead which shouldn't be surprising given that we live in a society ruled by violence, right? I hate a lot of things because I'm painfully aware of how miserable our reality is. Since this is my trauma, no one else has the right to do something about it. They certainly didn't seemto have the balls to go after him, even when they call him criminal, so I'm gonna kill Itachi myself. Obsessed you said? Try enjoying life when you know someone can commit genocide and no one would give a fuck and the government won't do a thing. Try caring for others knowing they can get kill any day and you'll have to look the other way. I dare you to.

Kakashi: *most emotionally neglected adult in the village, abandoned as a kid, saw his father do the right thing and get so socially pressured he ended up commiting suicide and the government didn't give a shit, forced to become a perfect weapon at young age to show off the village strength, forced to become an elite assassin as a kid, people in the village widely making fun of his trauma and acting like he's just weird / peculiar and not on the verge of losing his mind for real, a champ at dissociation and a minute more away taking roots in front of the graves of his mistakes because he spent way too much time there in self-punishment, basically the most miserable jounin in the whole village*

Kakashi: hm, I won't let you get to know me or get close to me because everything I touch dies and I don't want to get attachments because you're soldiers and you might die and it doesn't matter that I have history with two of your families and that you all remind every single minute of the boy I watched die and the girl that I killed and the boy used to be. You will never know any of that. I am a whole man with a whole life that you'll never know because I am just your superior here and you must obey me in our missions. I'm definitely not hiding the fact that the village just failed me and set me up to be the one who failed you all in case you get killed or lose your shit once and for all.

[hopefulromances]

my queen is back 😭😭😭😭🤍🤍🤍🤍

just a little thought, a kindergarten teacher that has this girl-next-door/miss honey/sweetest human ever vibe and jamie meets her and is just ✨️lovestruck✨️ and maybe little snippets of how their relationship evolves, sorry if it's a lot 😭😭😭 I had a dream about this

I'm here again! I hope I can do this justice! This is such a sweet prompt!

The first time he saw her, she was carrying a large box of - what looked like - homemade planets. He was coming home from a run as she tried to open the door to her car while juggling the large box in one hand. Trying and failing he should add. Being the gentleman he is, Jamie ran over to assist.

"Here let me help you," he said, taking the box out of her hands.

"Oh, thank god," The woman sighed out, straightening up. Finally, Jamie could see her fully. She was wearing a space themed dress and wearing Saturn earrings. She smiled brightly at him as she opened the door. "That was a real struggle."

Jamie was fucked.

She looked between him and the box before moving to take the box out of his hand. Jamie snapped out of his stupor in time to move out of her way. "Let me... there we go."

He place the box down in the car, dusting his hands off. "That's a new PR for me, lifting the entire solar system."

The woman laughed and Jamie thought he could feel his heart leap out of his chest. He smiled at her, liking the idea that he could make her laugh.

"I'm a kindergarten teacher," She explained, motioning to her whole outfit. "Today is planets."

Jamie's eyes shot down and up, trying to be discrete as possible in his checking out of her body. "Gotcha... solar system, makes sense. Gotta teach them the about the mother serving pasta or something."

The woman laughed again, her hands flying up to cover her face. "I think you mean noodles. Or nachos as some people say."

He felt himself smiling again. The woman was blushing, trying to keep her face hidden behind her hands. He held out a hand for her.

"I'm Jamie."

She took his hand, finally revealing her blush fully to him. "(Y/N). And I know who you are." Jamie's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Fuck, sorry, that sounds weird, my boyfriend... or ex-boyfriend I should say, was a big football fan."

Ex-boyfriend, huh? So, she was single then. "Well I hope you still support."

"I do" she answered quickly. "I definitely do."

She blushed again. God, that was cute. The two stood in silence, smiling at each other for at least another minute before (Y/N) looked down at her watch.

"Oh, shit! I have to go!" She cursed, starting to turn around. She mad a 360, trying to find herself before turning back to face Jamie. "Sorry, I have to go. I'll see you around. Thank you for your help." She grunted as she ran into her side mirror. "Fuck, sorry, I'll uh... I'll see you around."

He waved at her as she got in the car and started to back up. As she did, on the other side of the driveway, Roy stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You stopped your workout to fucking flirt?"

...

The next time he saw her, he was doing a charity event for the local elementary school. Roy had set it up through Phoebe's school to get some of the team to go play with the kids. And lo and behold there she was with her little class.

Today, she was wearing a dress that had a football pitch decoration on it with football earrings to accompany it. She was busy making sure all the kids were in line, ready to meet the footballer that she she didn't notice him come in.

But one of the boys pointed at him and shouted excitedly.

"It's Jamie Tartt! Jamie Tartt!" He cried out standing up. (Y/N) turned and saw him, her blush returning to her cheeks. She covered her cheeks with her hands and turned to calm the boy down.

Jamie smiled and walked over to the lad.

"Hello, there," he greeted crouching down to the boys level. "Have you been a good lad today?"

The boy nodded furiously, suddenly becoming very bashful. He grabbed onto (Y/N)'s dress and hid behind her skirt. She knelt down and whispered in his ear.

"My name's Simon," he stated loudly, holding out his hand.

Jamie shook his hand and smile. "Nice to meet you, Simon. I'm Jamie." The boy giggled pulling hand back to hide his face. "Do you want to play some football with me and my friends."

Jamie nodded over to where Sam and Isaac were standing. Simon nodded again reaching his hands out from Jamie. Jamie took the boy and hoisted him over his head so he sat on his shoulders. "Alright let's go, lads!"

The boys stayed for much longer than they were required to. Play with the children for several rounds of football and several set ups of headers until one boy hit the ball too hard and broke his nose. After that, they finished up by signing whatever the kids handed to them from jerseys to notebooks and even an eraser.

After all the children left, Jamie found his way back to you.

"So, you teach kindergarten," Jamie mused, walking up to you.

"I teach kindergarten," she agreed, turning to look at him. "And you are excellent with children."

"Would you want to get drink tonight?" Jamie's question surprised himself. (Y/N) raised her eyes and surprise and that blush that Jamie loved so much came over her cheeks.

"Yeah, sure. I'll be done in a few minutes, would you wait?"

"Yes I would, definitely."

...

Well the first date went well. And so did the next date and the date after that and soon it'd been a few months and they'd been seeing each other regularly. (Y/N) started going to games and every now and then she's come to school with gifts for the students, which they all loved.

Jamie loved to pick her up from work. She always worked later than she should and Jamie figured out just the perfect time to get her as she was leaving. Today Jamie had picked her up along with some Chinese take out for a relaxing night in. She was sitting on the couch, leaning against him, showing him the papers she was grading as Jamie fed her fried rice.

"Simon still talks about you in all of his writing," She told him, making a mark on the paper.

"Honestly, babe, how you can read that shite is impressive," he commented squinting his eyes at the paper.

"Please, your handwriting is way worse," she teased, marking an 'A' at the top of the page.

Jamie scoffed in faux offense. "My handwriting is not that bad."

"Yes it is!"

"No it's not!" Jamie grabbed her sides, tickling her aggressively . (Y/N) let out a squeal and desperately tried to get away from him but Jamie just grabbed her and pulled her back into him.

"Jamie!" She giggled, her cheeks turning red. "Stopppp!"

"Tell me that my handwriting isn't the same as a kindergarteners," Jamie demanded, never letting up his torment.

"Fine! Your handwriting isn't quite as bad as the kindergartners."

Jamie finally let up, letting (Y/N) catch her back as she fell back into him. As she laid there, head on his shoulder, letting out a chuckle as she caught her breath, Jamie felt something shift inside him.

"Hey... I love you."

Her eyes widened and she turned to look up at him. "Really?"

He nodded, his own cheeks turning red under her gaze. She shifted, turning around and resting her hands on his chest. She leaned down and kissed him softly. Jamie made a noise of appreciation as she did, his hand coming up to rest on her neck.

"I love you too, sweet boy."

And that is how Jamie fell in love with a kindergarten teacher.

[flusteredfools]

(Summer Daze again- sorry!!!) Was there ever a moment where Sun or Moon genuinely hurt Reader's feelings, or upset them that caused them to back off or avoid the boys for a while? How did Sun and / or Moon react?

First, please don’t be sorry!! I love answering asks and ones for my Fics/Au’s are especially delightful as well as help me flesh more of them out if it’s not something I’ve already focused/touched on so it’s really really nice and helpful!! I’m not sure how close I am to starting the main fic so I’m not too worried about spoiling things that will be in it; though for those who do mind, you might not want to read this if you have good memory and will most likely remember it later in a few months or so XD

(included some rough doodles before I start the next batch of ych prizes XD)

Moon, not so much, but only because conversations were already so few and short between him and the reader; his silence slowly lost its edge as Reader accepted he just is soft spoken and short with his words. So even if/when Moon wanted his silence to bother them, it never hurt too much after the first few times. 

Sun, though, made it crystal clear that he didn’t like Reader from the start, and while not quite bullying (as he would NEVER let that happen to anyone under his watch) he certainly tried his very best to make things as difficult for them as possible. And while it did make them feel sad (after all it's not fun to have your new coworkers not like you) they accepted there had to be a reason for his actions and tried to work through it while hoping the two would eventually come around and the three would be friends one day.

That friendship became a bit of a double edge sword though, as once they started to get closer, Sun had started to lash back out and at that point, Reader couldn’t help but take it personally; friends one day but not the next makes for a confusing struggle. 

The final wound that broke their hope was an overheard argument Sun was having with Buck (The human counselor from Team Fauna), where Sun (who still couldn’t be honest with himself) shared what he claimed were his true feelings before Moon could stop him as Reader turned the corner to where they were standing. 

The immediate hurt that washed over their expression as their eyes filled and overflowed with tears had both bots’ processes stuttering in panic as Reader turned to run away, choosing to hide in the woods to cry their heart out alone. Moon shouted after them but couldn’t get himself to move out of his frozen shock, and Sun was still just as equally frozen; he’s said plenty of borderline mean things but he’s never made you cry before, it was the first time in his whole existence he truly felt such a deep regret over his actions.

Once they manage to get themselves moving, the two try searching for the Reader and despite knowing the trails and forest well enough to map every path without looking, fail to find them. Eventually Reader leaves the woods and quietly stumbles back to the shared cabin at night; only entering once they believed the two bots were charging in their sleep mode to hide under their blankets for some restless sleep. 

The next day both celestials were greeted with short and forced pleasantries and awkward smiles that they knew held no real joy. Moon had attempted to smooth things over, to at least help rebuild the foundation of the shared relationship; but it seemed you had resolved yourself into believing none of it. Even though the ‘truth’ shared was only by Sun; Moon wasn’t spared from the cold distance, excuses Reader would make to stay away and keep themselves busy with tasks that didn’t require either co-counselor. 

Neither liked it, not after knowing how sweet all the shared moments could be. The hurt Moon had felt only worsened and festered, turning into small fights with Sun over the loss of a wonderful friendship, let alone the loss of a budding love neither would now get to experience. It only took one moment to break everything, and now the two will spend every moment trying to fix it. 

[the-most-humble-blog]

Marvel Gave Me a Flat-Chested Silver Surfer and a Pregnant Stoic Barbie. And They Want Me to Clap. A Female Viewer’s Breakdown of Why This New Fantastic Four Isn’t Fantastic — It’s Sterilized.

You ever watch a trailer and feel like it’s gaslighting your biology?

That’s the new Fantastic Four.

I’m a woman. I’m not here to cape for men. But even I can see Marvel has lost its entire goddamn mind.

A female Silver Surfer with the body of a neutered elf?

A pregnant Sue Storm who talks like a divorced dad on lithium?

Reed Richards reduced to a whimpering co-star who says “I don’t know” like it’s his catchphrase?

I don’t want a girl power fantasy. I want a story with polarity. I want a movie that respects the fact that I have ovaries, not a chipset.

I. 🧬 Women Have Bodies. Deal With It.

Let’s start here.

Silver Surfer is supposed to be cosmic nudity with sadness.

He’s tragic. Naked. Otherworldly. He looks like a statue built to cry.

Now? We get a female version named Shalla-Bal who looks like a 12-year-old boy dipped in chrome. Flat. Unmoving. Plastic. She has no hips, no breasts, no presence.

This isn’t equality. This is a sterilized costume stuffed into a gender-neutral wetsuit.

II. 🩸 Sue Storm Is Not a Man — And That’s Okay

Sue is pregnant — and somehow more stoic than Reed.

She’s emotionless. Cold. Masculine-coded. She stands in the trailer like she’s auditioning to be a Vulcan commander, not a mother or a woman.

And it doesn’t make her powerful. It makes her hollow.

I’m a woman. I’ve been angry. I’ve been powerful. I’ve been tender. I’ve orgasmed and screamed and broken shit.

But I’ve never felt powerful while imitating a man with no emotions.

Hollywood seems to think that if they remove our softness, our sensuality, our hormones, our hips — we’ll suddenly be taken seriously.

Newsflash: I already have a uterus. I don’t need to borrow your stoic monotone to matter.

III. 🤢 Marvel’s “Strong Woman” = Unfuckable and Unrelatable

I don’t want Sue Storm to be:

A sex doll

A submissive throwaway

A damsel

But I also don’t want her to be:

A pregnant NPC

A monotone space general

A dead-eyed avatar for someone’s gender theory thesis

There’s no warmth. No tension. No femininity. No danger. Just one big beige billboard that says:

“This character has been deconstructed for your safety.”

And the Silver Surfer? She looks like she pees steam and apologizes during sex.

IV. 🔥 I Wanted Myth. I Got Messaging.

The original Fantastic Four worked because it was about a family. Flawed. Dynamic. Sexual. Human.

Reed was brilliant and a little distant. Sue was powerful because she had emotions. Johnny was fire and chaos. Ben was tragic and grounded.

Now?

Reed says “I don’t know” like he’s trying to avoid getting cancelled

Sue’s pregnant and dead inside

Silver Surfer looks like a chrome fetus with a WiFi signal

I don’t feel empowered. I feel manipulated.

V. 🧠 Women Don’t Want Soft Men. We Want Real Ones.

Reed is written like a man afraid of his own voice. He’s quiet. Hesitant. Passive. He talks like he’s afraid Sue will yell at him if he thinks too loudly.

And guess what? No woman wants that.

We don’t want:

Men who apologize for existing

Men who look to us for moral approval

Men who can’t protect, correct, or lead without consulting a feelings chart

We want men who can build, fuck, protect, and speak with conviction. And Marvel gave us a dad in timeout.

VI. 🩸 They’re Trying to Erase Gender — Not Showcase It

This isn’t about strong women. This is about making all characters un-gendered, sexless, and behaviorally identical.

And it fails.

Because the body remembers.

I don’t want to see a man cry because he’s afraid of power. I don’t want to see a woman sterilized to be “strong.” I don’t want to see a chrome child call itself a Herald of Galactus.

VII. 🧬 The Real Female Fantasy? Polarity.

You know what makes a woman feel something?

A man being dangerous but safe

A woman being soft but shattering

A character who can bleed, scream, seduce, and destroy

Marvel’s characters don’t move me anymore because they’ve been processed like soy:

Nutritionally empty, artificially shaped, and tasteless.

🧠 FINAL TRUTH:

I don’t hate women in film. I hate films that hate what women actually are.

Marvel doesn’t believe in:

Hips

Hysteria

Menstruation

Orgasm

Biological truth

It believes in:

Uniform tones

Chromed vaginas

Emotionless monologues

Censorship of polarity

And that’s not art. It’s mental sterilization with a billion-dollar budget.

🩸 ORGASM-TRIGGERING DISCLAIMER

This post is literary satire and psychosexual cultural critique. Any arousal, rage, laughter, blushing, wetness, or subconscious submission is a side effect of cadence-based gender deconstruction, mirror neuron entrainment, and evolutionary truth. You’re not crazy. You just miss myth.

🧠 QUOTE REBLOG PACK (FEMALE VERSION)™

“Sue Storm’s pregnant and emotionally neutered. I felt nothing.” “Silver Surfer looks like a genderless Roomba.” “Hollywood forgot what a woman is. So they made her chrome.” “I’m not empowered by this. I’m insulted.” “Women don’t want sterile. We want sacred and dangerous.”

📡 CALL TO ACTION

Reblog if you’re tired of watching strong women written like men with cramps. Reblog if you miss myth, polarity, and female power that doesn’t apologize. Reblog if your pussy dried up at the sight of that chrome mannequin. Reblog if you want characters who actually fuck, feel, and fall apart. Reblog because being a woman isn’t a crime — but neutering us should be.

— A real woman from Mr. Humble’s bench.

I’m not a bot. I’m not brainwashed. I’m not angry at men.

I just know the difference between a hero who fucks, and a placeholder with CGI abs and no pulse.

And I’d rather bleed in the arms of something real than clap for another chrome mannequin built to offend no one and arouse nothing.

We don’t need “strong female leads.” We need polarity, myth, and heat.

And if that scares Hollywood — let them make cartoons.

I want cinema. I want cadence. I want truth.

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

“Sweetheart, if you knew the things I could do with you, you’d have run away a long time ago,” said the young man standing below the arch of the city gate.  If you looked at him full-on he seemed normal enough, but catch him in your peripheries and he seemed Wrong somehow.  Like he had too many sides to him, or like his limbs were just out of proportion, or like he moved with a grace that wasn’t quite human.  He reached out to run a finger along a stray lock of hair escaped from the pigtails of the young woman he was talking to.     

She groaned loudly.  “Don’t. We’ve known each other far too long for this bullshit.” 

The man grinned.  It was an unexpected grin, usually men like this are expected to smirk, or leer, or smile slyly, or even quirk an eyebrow if it came to it.  But the grin was real, open and glad, briefly washing away the aura of inhumanity and leaving merely a boy who very much liked talking to this girl. 

“But it’s funny.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“But it’s really funny.”

Let’s back up a bit.  Everyone knows that history repeats itself and certain outcomes always arise.  Violence is condoned through complacency.  Tyranny lasts for a while then tends to burn itself out.  Empires always end up toppled in the end.  These are our stories, at least, which crop up again and again.  The principle is true in other lands as well, they just happen to view different things as histories. 

Fulfaran was particularly high in story density as cities went.  It seemed you couldn’t turn a corner without running into a run-away princess, or a charming scoundrel, or a crone (crones were particularly bad – it was a 50/50 chance as to whether they’d try to destroy your life or give you genuinely good advice).  The markets were teeming with exotic goods, the castle at the top of the hill flew its banners brightly in the breeze, and there were established parts of town you went to only if you wanted to a. meet an orphan, b. meet a thief or c. fall down a hole.  Rather a good place for Reynard and Connie, who tended to be plagued by stories. 

Constance was a baker’s daughter who had been taken as a teenager to live in a tower by a witch in exchange for her impoverished family receiving enough gold to live on.  She never fully understood that witch’s motivations but that’s just how it went.  She had immediately proceeded with a number of escape attempts, most of which failed until Reynard had ridden below her window and she had bargained with him until he snuck a rope inside with her food deliveries.  He had claimed to be a prince, but wasn’t.  Connie knew he wasn’t quite human either, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it and she didn’t want to pry. 

She had wanted to go home, but she knew the witch would try to exact vengeance.  So, she said her goodbyes for a second time and started out in the opposite direction, which happened to be where Rey was headed as well (or so he claimed, in truth he had no direction or purpose.  But he liked Connie, she was sensible and she made him laugh). 

Unfortunately, it seemed the two of them were not fated to have an easy path.  For one, events kept transpiring which forced Rey into situations where he was expected to betray Connie.  Said events seemed rather upset every time he simply told her everything and they worked out a solution together.  Connie, on the other hand, was continuously being offered chances to fight royalty and claim a kingdom.  It wasn’t that she wouldn’t like a kingdom, she commented once as the two of them wandered through the woods, but she didn’t think she had the training to run one.  She was, after all, a baker’s daughter.  She could make excellent bread but she didn’t care for administration. 

They also stubbornly refused to fall in love with each other, which seemed to make the stories very distressed indeed.  This was not helped by how within a few hours of meeting they had become firm friends – Connie rather thought they had been expected to be unlikely allies who hated each other at first.  But it wasn’t in either of their natures to hate very hard and she liked Rey – he was clever and cutting, but never cruel.

Eventually the events all became too much, which is why they had come to where they were, the main gate of Fulfaran.  The storied city.  Surely someone here must know how they could get out of this. 

Connie felt herself smiling back despite herself.  “Fine, it’s a little funny but I honestly don’t know how you can say stuff like that in public without wanting to curl up into a ball and die,” she said starting to walk again, under the gate into the crowds.  Rey fell into step beside her. 

“I have no shame,” he shrugged, “besides, I don’t know any of these people. No one’s paying attention and even if they were, they’d think it’s normal.  I’m pretty sure I saw at least three pairs of ‘people who definitely hate each other’ coming in after us."

Connie was going to reply, but she was cut off by a harsh voice that had snuck into their path. 

“Child! I see greatness in you—”

“Oh not today, thank you!” said Rey, doffing his cap to the aged woman in the dark cloak swaying before them.  Connie summoned up her best customer service smile, the one with just enough of a hint of rage in it that it tended to shut people up without them knowing why, and slipped past the figure. 

“Wait!” the crone cried, “there is a prophecy—”

“Probably not me,” said Connie cheerily over her shoulder.  “Try that girl with midnight-blue eyes over there, that’ll do the trick.”  She rolled her eyes at Rey who grimaced. 

“When we get to the inn we’re taking the most boring room imaginable,” he said emphatically.  “Nothing on the top floor, nothing with secret passages, just four walls and a bed.”  The two of them had long since given up on multiple rooms, or even multiple beds.  No matter how hard they searched every inn was always just a little too full. 

“We better do it quick, I want to sleep before dinner.  Who did you say this place was recommended by again?”

“Basically everyone I know who’s been here,” said Rey, scanning the buildings as they passed.  “They say it’s lovely, really quaint and unique. We should be there right around this corner—”

He halted.  Connie almost hit his shoulder but she hardly noticed, too focused on the inn they had found.  It was small and smoky, almost crumbling beneath the weight of the sky.  Hooded figures passed in and out, glimmers of gemstones sometimes flashing out from beneath their clothing.  The sign was covered in enough grime that it couldn’t be read and there was a large board on the front with dozens of papers stuck to it advertising quests, monster-hunts, missing people, missing dogs, various balls, festivals, and competitions, and the best shops to find weapons in the area.  Connie’s heart sank and Rey’s expression told her he was feeling the same thing. 

“I saw a TreacleTavern down the road,” he said under his breath.  TreacleTaverns were in every city and they were all huge and identical.  Connie nodded vigorously.

“Let’s go, let’s go.”  She all but shoved him back down the way they had come. 

As they left she shot one last look over her shoulder.  A young man was staring at them.  He had chestnut brown hair and an intense expression, as though he had seen them before.  He seemed oddly familiar to Connie, though she didn’t know how she might have met him. 

It was probably something very important that she would have lingered on had the circumstances been different.  Unfortunately for the stories, however, she was still extremely invested, come hell or high water, in getting her pre-supper nap.   

[consumeroflemoans]

Oh boy, my favourite clown archetype you ask?

I'm gonna be honest, it's a hard pick for me because I like a lot of them and the whole topic for me is rather interesting

I am very intrigued by the white clown, or clown blanc if you wanna get french, because it's a type of clown that cannot exist without another

The clown blanc is in it's nature a straight man, often times taking a position of authority over his contrast, this traditionally being the August

Most clowns main objective is to amuse and they achieve this mostly by ways of being an exaggeration of a human, they do not speak, but they make sounds that convey emotion and action, they portray traits, but do so in an exaggerated manner, they are technically playing people but they are often non-descript, types that are given faces only by virtue of being played, and to then have a clown who while being also an exaggerated image fails to amuse by itself, what makes it so, wether it be personality or position is fun to consider, but once again the clown blanc exists only in a dynamic

It is in a way an inherently social clown, but it is also exactly that socialness that causes it to be made not only ridiculous to others but even subject to ridicule

I believe it's humor in big parts derives from a serious, stern and in control person being put into a position where said control gets taken away, having it taken in a way by the less serious, often clumsy and described as stupid August, this can happen both in situations of, to put it bluntly, being fucked over a bit, but also as an underminig of the authority it often holds

The latter being in the vein of using mockery as critique

Less common, but a third can be thrown into the mix, introducing the contra-August who fills the position of a mediator, often just as unserious as the August, sometimes trying to emulate the clown blanc and of course failing, gotta appreciate that one though

I have a real weakness for the entirety of the commedia dell'arte as my clown research has lead me to research on the theater form and they do function as ancestors to a lot of clowns

The most well-known of the bunch obviously being Arlecchino and Pierrot who even during, the first of which is at least said to have been a favourite among audiences of the time, a lot of stories featuring him as a zanni as well as commonly being one of the Innovation together with Columbina

I like both of them very much, in the seminar they were both described to have something cheeky about them, in Arlecchino's traditional position he is as you may know a servant, like the category of zanni describes as opposed to the vecchi, figures of high standing and considered antagonists within the stories

He was described as a trickster, rather intent on screwing with whomever was in his way, most of all the people he worked for, but doing so in a more clever way, behind people's backs

Pierrot on the other hand has long since taken on the role of the dreamer, the hopeless romantic often with sheer endless misfortune, there's a story where he falls in love with the moon and is made fun of for it, that being said at the seminar he was generally described as being in his own world, dreamy, but would not only walk himself into bad situations, but trip people up and then hide behind his romantic demeanour, he's also a silent clown

I just

Clowns, man, clowns

I’m finally answering this ask, rejoice

Aauauaaugh that’s so cool. My going down a clown rabbit hole did not give me nearly enough information man

I do like the idea of straight man in a clown dynamic because it would enhance the humor. My brain isn’t fully functioning rn but yes. Huge. That sounds really cool

I’ve heard of the commedia dell’arte but only because of looking into Genshin lore 💀

Very very cool I have barely any idea what you’re talking about :D

[fernsnailz]

OH ALSO. ik you said something abt how some aspects of your feelings on the shth game have changed - what would you say is different now? (again feel free to ignore this)

oh yeah! overall, most of my feelings about shth2005 have remained the same - that game is a contradictory mess and i adore it. i mostly have a few minor grievances with my big shadow 2005 analysis essay. i'll talk under the cut about some specific moments that i think a little differently on - if you haven't read the big shadow essay, i'd say read it first and then come back to read this post.

grievance #1: The Doom

"being Good or Neutral around Maria makes WAY more sense than taking the Dark path. The game’s morality system breaks so badly in [The Doom] that things start to make sense again."

i still mostly agree with my thoughts on The Doom, and the game's failure in design affecting the morality system is something that i think could prompt further discussion. but a couple of people pointed out that the hero mission is still an interesting indicator to shadow's emotional state on the darker paths, and i don't want to completely discredit that concept because i like it a lot.

The Doom's hero mission is grueling. 60 gun soldiers to defeat in a maze level is not something most players would be willing to do. but it may be something that shadow is willing to do on a darker path - rage leading him to hunt and eliminate every single human he can find is harrowing, and it's a malevolence that the darker paths of this game fail to really show. so as much as i dislike the morality missions in this game, i do think they're an interesting measurement of the lengths shadow is willing to go to if it means defeating his enemy. the guy just doesn't stop.

grievance #2: boy what on earth is that take about the hero cast

"They want Shadow to work for them because of a desire to prove their side of the cycle is the right one."

i'll be real with you i think there was a bit too much analysis going on here lol. the heroes want shadow's help because there's a literal alien invasion threatening to wipe out all life on earth. are they manipulative towards shadow? i mean sometimes, but i don't think most of them do it out of malice or intentionally, and i definitely don't think they really care about proving their side of the moral compass right during the Fucking Alien Armageddon.

the only hero character that i think would be deliberately manipulative (minus eggman) is sonic, and i don't think he would consciously realize it. best example i have of sonic's occasional manipulative attitude towards shadow is the whole "if he can't be forgiven, can you?" bit from the mr tinker arc in IDW. and this is really only something he does to shadow - sometimes he just wants to get under shadow's skin without realizing what he's actually saying. sometimes sonic's just an asshole! and i like that, it's an interesting aspect to sonic that i wish was explored a little more in shth2005, the game about his rival. idk that's all i have to say here

grievance #3: who is shadow even?

"to him, doing what’s “right” means giving as many people as possible that same chance at life. It’s not a justification of morals or a desire to be heroic that leads Shadow down this path - it’s just what he wants to do."

i've circled around my final opinions in my shadow 2005 essay a lot because honestly. i don't really know where i stand on these thoughts currently lol. shadow is inconsistent enough that i struggle to really pin down what exactly he deems as "right" or what he even wants to do most of the time - it's especially difficult to pin these things down when trying to cover shadow as a whole across the entire franchise, which is what i was trying to do here. because man, does this guy feel all over the place when you look at everything.

i think there's truth in the idea that shadow doesn't really care about protecting the people of sonic's world (this sonic channel story explores that concept a bit). at the same time, i think it's also entirely possible that this "i don't care what happens to others" attitude is a bit of a front he puts up (especially around sonic). and as silly and non-canon as i think the sonic twitter takeovers are, i do think they were kinda cooking something when they made shadow work at a soup kitchen. these are all somewhat different ideas and interpretations of shadow, but i think they're all plausible for this character. personally, i'd rather embrace the inconsistency then try to limit him to one worldview.

the only solid "truth" i can formulate about shadow's motivations right now is this: whatever he deems right, or whatever he wants to do, he decides for himself because it's his life. he doesn't do these things for maria, or for gerald, or for the rest of the world. his choices and actions are his own - maybe inspired by others, but not for them. and the things he decides to do are often inconsistent because he's an immortal, traumatized, teenage hedgehog - a paradoxical creation that's still learning how to live. he might be the ultimate life form, but it's more important to me that he's just shadow.

[obeymeluv]

Quick! Kiss Me! [Part 4: Leviathan]

I'm back. Let me know if the story is cohesive. It tried to copy itself more than once. I just killed the post and redid it. It was weird.

Note: I’ve taken some liberties with whether or not the boys have a “true” demon form. I personally believe that the in-game form we see is the one that’s easiest for humans to see/reason with/tolerate. I don’t think that’s their real demon form. I believe their true forms would be more monstrous and maybe have more traits in common with their symbolic animal. Another personal headcanon: Levi’s giant-ass aquarium isn’t confined to the back wall of his room. I think it can actually span at least two sides of the house and they just panel over it because he doesn’t want to be seen when he swims. So between layers of dry wall and such, there’s his aquarium. It’s like his secret little tunnel around the house that has several exits but he prefers the one in his room (which is why he made that room HIS room when they first moved into the House of Lamentation).

Side note: for my personal use, I headcanon the library as Lucifer’s study. He just kind of has this…pocket dimension made for himself in there. The brothers can find it if he allows it. Sometimes he’ll throw magic around it to disguise it. You have to go through the library to get to it. Anyways, onto the story. This one may not be as long as the others. We’ll see where it goes

Leviathan:

You’d made several laps around the House of Lamentation. The dizzying, bubbly feeling had yet to return. It was like a tease, lasting for a pulse or two in certain rooms and then fleeing as quick as it came. Everything else was a dull buzz, cold bubbles in your chest. After your last lap you stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water—soon after remembering you couldn’t currently open your mouth—and locked eyes with Beel. A displeased fizzle shot through you; your mouth suddenly dry for another reason.

That was an unexpected sign but it was a reaction. Maybe you just needed to go look at the other brothers to figure out who DIDN’T give you that feeling?! Beel’s purple eyes flicked over your locked lips; he smothered a hum with a bite of pastry. He seemed to sense he wasn’t the one for you. “Lucifer’s in his study if you want to try him next.”

The tip was appreciated but the walk was not. Each step towards the eldest’s study sent a wave of stomach-churning nausea through you. It was like the ultimate gut feeling of ‘turn back!’, your stomach so sour it felt like it was curling in on itself. Unable to stand the tartness prickling on your tongue or the sweat beading on your brow, you bolted away from the shimmering door and past rows of books to find reprieve down the hall. Not Lucifer, you thought to yourself, doubled over with your hands on your knees as if that would help all the acid yuck drain away from your chest and mouth, not Lucifer.

Something cold touched the back of your neck and you snapped up, wincing at a pinch going through your lower back. The yelp failed to break past your lips, your brain switched gears to help you exhale the nervous energy through your nose as Satan registered in your periphery. His brow creased apologetically, squishing a damp cloth against the back of your neck gingerly. “You seemed ill. I was trying to help.” he dabbed at your neck and traced the curve of your cheek with the cloth, green eyes watching the flush fade from your neck.

You must’ve run right by him in the library and not even realized it.

The cloth was a simple, well-meaning gesture between friends, you both knew that. You got the feeling he’d been reading his romance books again, maybe questioning how a small moment like this could be what lovers immortalized and built a life on. How did clichés like this become addictive classics? You felt pondered and marveled but not revered, a bit like how Jane first looks at the sketch of Tarzan at the camp. “Your love lies elsewhere, I think.” Satan murmured, perhaps to both you and himself, as he deemed you healthy enough to go to the second floor and find whoever was meant to undo the cosmetic chaos.

The squeak of the last step died in your ear as a white-hot knowing consumed you. It silenced everything else around you, throwing you into a tunnel that ended at Leviathan’s door. You’d almost felt like you’d teleported, not totally sure how you knew to go to his door instead of the others. No bubbles, no acid—his doorknob felt strangely cool and comforting in your hand.

Your nerves settled.

The door opened into a room washed in blues; the air was a little cooler here but not damp. If not for the bioluminescent life in his large aquarium, the room would be pitch black. There was no Levi, no anime running, no controllers clicking….nothing. Large swaths of kelp danced at the edges of the tank, framing the open water quite beautifully. A tiny bottom-feeder fish sucked at the base of seaweed clusters, scaring a Cerith snail back into their shell when it nudged a rock in its direction.

You forgot how much of a labor of love this aquarium was. Levi put a lot of time into it between the physical cleaning and the species research. Placing your palms on the glass wasn’t enough to sate the desire to just…sink through it and bob in the water. Maybe it could wash off the makeup? A trio of Devildom teacup jellies twinkled as if to invite you in.

A longing drummed painfully in your chest, just shy of feeling like an open wound. It was like a tender crack in your very being. Levi’s mark glowed on your body, casting a dim yellow light against the glass. Something large and dark cut through the expanse, stirring up a layer of dirt and whipping the smaller creatures around in their own little maelstrom. Pebbles clinked against the glass as the creature folded itself around to press against the glass.

Levi?! You’d be lying if you said your legs didn’t turn to jelly as the sediment haze cleared to reveal a towering serpentine creature with Levi’s face. His tail was long and smooth, glistening onyx scales tapering into a barbed point hemmed by fluttering webbing on either side. The scales at his hips were drop-like and had more color variation; shades of gray decorated him and crept up to his navel. Something quill-like jutted out from his hips; they flexed in the water and you wondered if they acted like sensors. They looked awfully sharp

His chest was largely unchanged, still pale and lean. It was both a small comfort and a large contrast to how mottled and dark his arms were. The diamond pattern on the left side of his neck wound down his arm, obscuring where hand met claw. Those were most definitely claws now; they couldn’t even pass for fingers. Leviathan’s right arm wasn’t as dominated by the diamond pattern but the hands matched.

Levi’s shoulders were capped in scales almost like a defense mechanism. His face was the same, save for his eyes and little markings under them that reminded you of his branching coral horns. Diamond pupils dilated as he sank down to see you face-to-face, pushing the haunting gold of his iris to near nothingness. Can you see me? You’re not saying anything back.

I see you, Levi finally answered, his voice surprisingly measured and serene despite his…feral-looking appearance. His lips puckered almost bashfully as he turned his face away slightly, pupil shrinking back to a normal slit as he bobbed in front of you. He eyed you intently, like a predator does its prey. A large fang slipped past the pucker of his lips, but just for a second. You almost thought you’d dreamt it.

Why do you need me? his tail flailed almost impatiently, maybe angrily. You lookin’ for one of those normies? He buried his claws in the bottom of the aquarium, scratching through the rocks and fighting off envious urges to strangle that he’d never really go through with. The quills at his hips flared and went rigid. Levi swung his torso back carefully, withdrawing spines from the nearby kelp and assessing the plant delicately.

Acid began to build up in your chest and you wondered if this is what his envy felt like manifested.

No, you answered quietly, I’m looking for you.

Your lips are still sealed shut?! Levi could’ve knot his tail in disbelief, appendage coiling and uncoiling wildly at the prospect of you still being unclaimed. He hated this form of his—his true form—it left him with enough consciousness to know he was more devil than human, more instinct than logic.

More selfish than he cared to admit, too.

You kissed the tank to prove your point, feeling like your words would be lost on him. When Levi was in one of his moods—which he was—words did little to sway him. He needed actions when he was that far gone. Leviathan surged forward with great interest, gills at his neck fluttering and quills quivering as he looked at the glossy print. Will you kiss me, Leviathan?

Kiss you? Leviathan pursed his lips to suffocate his eager words, I would do more than kiss you. I would give you the sunrise, all of the sea’s riches, and my soul, itself, if you let me. The gross normie within him was simply bursting at the seams to give you the most epic romantic monologue guaranteed to boost your companion level at least ten points. Yeah, maybe some of that was ripped off from different animes but you would never know. Only his most favorite parts for you.

He pushed himself towards the top of the tank, tail boosting him up with little effort. A clawed hand breached the water, sending some kind of plug-like panel tumbling off to the side to land somewhere in his room. “You’ll need the chair,” Levi’s voice was whispery and melodious; you felt drawn in and almost mindless as you jammed the chair against the tank and stood up carefully. One arm on the rim of the tank, Levi held his breath and resisted the urge to snatch you up before his gills protested the lack of water.

His claws cut through the material of your shirt whether he wanted them to or not, Levi cringing at the sound of threads snapping. Your skin felt warm against the scales on his hands; his tongue flicked out from between his fangs. You were none the wiser, of course, facing away from him and now hanging obediently on the edge of the tank as he left to grab an herb that could help you breathe underwater. You went to bite the herb as he presented it to you but Levi hissed reflexively, a sound of warning as his fork tongue seemed to point at you in admonishment.

The herb was wrapped around your neck like a scarf. You winced and yelped as something jabbed into your neck. Satisfied, Levi took your hand as gently as possible and began to swim down. Your struggle was mindless and instinctual; Levi would be lying if he said it didn’t rouse something primal in him. Undeterred, he swam down into a patch of kelp, tail coiling around you and drawing you further into his chest.

You panicked and pushed against his chest and…breathed? The pressure of the water didn’t exist; your chest wasn’t burning for air. Those plant spines help you breathe under water. They’re like shunts for airflow. If you take them out, you won’t be able to breathe. Levi’s hands ghosted down your arms, claws hooking in a piece of your hair. He flinched, too scared to untangle himself.

I’d rather you help me breathe, you smiled brightly at him. Playfully.

He gurgled embarrassingly, his gills tensing open before resuming their fluttering. His cheeks tinged with color. You thought he’d throw you away in his embarrassment but his tail operated on truer feelings because he drew you closer. Leviathan’s kiss was shy but unmoving. You felt your mouth open up and it was the best breath you’d ever taken (even if you were under water).

A small current stirred the water around you, barely masking the sound of bones crackling. You watched the scales disappear under Leviathan’s skin, his normal tone returning as his tail shortened and split back into two human legs. Fins fell off, webbing retreating back into normal skin as the claws splintered away into human-ish nails. Veins tensed in his neck as his teeth resumed their normal form and his gills flattened back into regular skin. “There,” Leviathan hmph’ed, “Happy now?”

He tried to make it seem like a big chore but his cheeks were pinker than yours and his tail was wagging excitedly.

“Very.” You grinned. Now that you could breathe normally you felt a bit cold. The plant scarf may help you breathe in water but it didn’t make the saltwater sting any less or keep you warm. “Want to get out and dry off?”

You wouldn’t mind getting something to eat, either. It was a reflex to grab the lip of the aquarium and try to climb out Outside was waiting and you’d be warm, dry, and get food!

“Wait!” Leviathan fumbled as he wrapped his arms around you and yanked you back in. “You’ll suffocate!” he protested. If the weight of the scarf didn’t make things difficult, the lack of air would. He pressed you against a corner of the aquarium, nudging your arm over the lip as he kept the two of you afloat with his tail. You bobbed against each other, his hair dripping water into your eyes as he worked carefully to unwind the scarf.

The kelp scarf acted as a filter and was separate from the spines, you found out. Leviathan murmured the number of spines, turning your chin this way and that to look at them, careful not to bump them with his knuckles. He pinched your cheeks gently, anything he could think of to distract you from the bite of plucked spines. The two of you laughed between pinches of pain. It was cute in its own way.

“Hey! It’s just supposed to be a kiss! And none of those look like they’re on the lip! Look at you, dirty, dirty Levi!” Asmo laughed brightly from the doorway.

“It’s not--! They’re not--! Some normie like you isn’t gonna make fun of me like that!” Leviathan’s face grew redder and redder as he realized the spines left little red blossoms across your neck. Someone like Asmo WOULD mistake them for hickies! He hissed, launching himself out of the water with his tail. Asmo yelped as Leviathan snaked across his bedroom, slippery and ferocious. It reminded you that you were living in a house of people pretending to be human.

The pair collided and all you heard was:

“Don’t you spit poison at me! You didn’t know you had it until I showed you!”

“Keep talking and I’ll squeeze you.”

“You think that’ll do anything? I get choked on a regular—“

“UGH! STOP! WHY DO PEOPLE THINK OTAKUS ARE GROSS AND DIRTY? YOU’RE WORSE!”

“Yeah, but I’m cute—AHH! RUDE!”

“Did you just throw Asmo out of your room?” You leaned out of the tank, trying to plan your fall into the chair. Leviathan’s tail was still thrashing wildly, coiling and uncoiling.

“He deserved it!” Leviathan hissed, words cut by large, glinting fangs. He threw his back into the door, flicking the lock in place as Asmo kicked and yelled on the other side. Leviathan willed himself to ignore the noise in the hall and beyond, heart slamming in his chest and his ears as he looked at how small, pitiful, and wet you looked.

Humans need to stay warm, the thought kicked him into motion. He scrounged up dry clothes and tucked himself bashfully in the corner as you changed. “You want to watch some anime? Or a movie?” Leviathan thumbed the sticks on his controller as he slid into his bathtub bed. Only his hair was wet; you figured his serpentine skin just soaked up the excess water.

“Sure,” you’d just figured out how to get into the tub without pulling a muscle or falling in when Lucifer blew through the door like Leviathan never locked it. It startled you into the tub and you collapsed on top of him with a little apology.

“You know what you did,” Lucifer looked very menacing, staring down at the two of you. His feathers were bristled. He balanced a plastic cup on the rim of the tub. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Leviathan started to protest out of reflex and Lucifer took the opportunity to grab the third-eldest by his purple hair and make him bite down on the cup. You watched in confused awe as Leviathan’s fangs hooked the cup and began to drip a strange liquid. He tried to wrestle his mouth off the cup but Lucifer kept his grip and pushed the cup into some sort of gland. “Demons with serpentine lineage must submit poison samples when an incident occurs to keep their strain on file. You know this, Levi.”       

Seems Leviathan had a history of spitting poison at people? Interesting.

Lucifer released him with a click of the tongue, satisfied. He pulled a wrapped popsicle out of his pocket and held it out to his younger brother like an olive branch. Leviathan took it with a scowl, squeezing it from the bottom so it popped out into his mouth. “No kissing for at least an hour,” Lucifer looked at the two of you sternly, “he needs time to neutralize his own poison.”

Was that what the popsicle was for, to dilute his own poison? Or maybe getting poison fangs hurt demons since they retract? Hell, Lucifer probably hurt his mouth with the cup. You both stayed quiet as he left, glad he shut the door behind him. Leviathan used the popsicle as a reason to stay quiet, turning on a random anime instead.

You leaned against his chest as the exhaustion of walking and swimming took over you. Your consciousness started to fade against the sound of a purr rumbling in Leviathan’s chest, just vaguely aware of his tail weaving itself around your leg. “Best ending unlocked,” Leviathan whispered excitedly to himself, panicking soon after as he tried to make sure the popsicle didn’t get in your hair.

[hymnoire]

"and you.. who are you?" ( for my boy @homelander-rp-blog for any of your muses! for apocalypse au! )

Six months ago, during the war, Gaya fell and broke. Shot in the stomach, ejected through a window that cracked open, twenty floors high. Her spine shattered, her left arm snapped like glass, and her iliac wings were pulverized. She bled out on the pavement, dead. Technology had advanced in this new chapter of the world, enough to piece her body back together, enough to merge flesh with steel and thread her nerves through circuits. Her left arm and her spine were fully replaced, bionic. Neural pathways were rerouted through a matrix of living code. Her body healed, but she was no longer just human. Half a woman, half a machine. That same technology is what tore the world apart. It began in secrecy, in government labs chasing transcendence, trying to rewrite the limits of the human condition. But the secret didn’t stay buried. Titan, a terrorist syndicate with no face and endless reach, stole the research before the government could even lie about it. By the time Titan was found, it was too late. They were out for blood, and they got it. Gaya always believed humans shouldn’t play God and she was right. Sadly, she still failed to stop what came next. The war that followed wasn’t just civil, it was apocalyptic. Titan’s stolen tech created HumanAIs, hybrids built for war, programmed to kill who inevitably start killing regular humans. What started as a silent war became a global one, spiraling out of control. Now, what's left of humanity hides. Scattered. Starving. The cities belong to the HumanAIs who operate for Titan, soulless, and ruthless. The rest of the world is a crumbling wasteland of rusted skeletons and toxic air. Humans live in exile, in otarcy, a kind of existence where survival is a full-time job and trust is extinct. Many wander the red deserts, where wind doesn’t blow and the sky forgets to rain. Gaya hasn’t awakened yet from her recovery and surgery, she still lies in a bed made of glass, intubated, in a room that’s kept hidden. A room watched over by Kaeleena.

Kaeleena stands like a ghost wrapped in ivory, a vision so pristine it feels offensive. Her dress is immaculate, the color of untouched snow, stitched from something too soft to be real, yet too perfect to be fabric. It clings and drapes with eerie fluidity, a high-collared robe that splits open like a ceremonial blade down the front, revealing thin bands of gold coiled along her ribs. Ornamental and useless, like jewelry meant for gods. Her feet are bare. Clean. Silent. She moves like she’s never touched the ground. The room she inhabits is an aberration in this post-collapse world. A sanctum of impossible luxury carved into the bones of Titan's supremacy. Glass walls rise around her like cathedral windows, refracting artificial light into dancing gold across the marbled floor. A single desk dominates the room, sleek and angular. Behind her, a massive screen displays with schematics, pulse maps, surveillance grids, and living files. One of them is labeled simply: Gayane. Cables slither from the ceiling like lazy serpents, some plugged into her desk, others drifting, whispering data and venom. The air smells of antiseptic and something older, like ozone or blood. Kaeleena leans against the edge of the desk, absurdly at ease in this sanctuary of horrors. Her eyes are pale, too pale to be fully human anymore. She was once, like all of them. When she smiles, it is with the slow satisfaction of someone who has already won. Her presence is cold. Where Gaya burned, Kaeleena freezes. She doesn’t need horns or claws. Her power is in her poise, her intelligence, and the certainty that she knows everything. Every path, every death, every betrayal. She watches John with the look of someone who already knows how the story ends. He is being escorted, not dragged or restrained, merely shadowed by the men who guard Titan’s inner sanctum. She has been expecting him. When he enters, she smiles, the curve of her lips dangerous. He asks who she is. Even if she would love to kill him, she doesn’t. Not yet. For the love of the game. “I do wonder,” she says, voice smooth as oil over glass, “if Gayane ever spoke of me, darling. I sincerely hope she did. If not... I shall be very disappointed. And I do not wear disappointment well.” They look exactly alike, Gaya and Kaeleena. Same eyes, same bone structure. But where Gaya kept the storm in her dark hair, Kaeleena bleached hers into light, so pale, almost white. Their auras, however, could not be more different. Gaya was the flame. Kaeleena, the frost.

“Who am I?” she repeats, stepping closer. Her voice is steel. “I am the villain in your precious narrative, John. Welcome to Titan. Our empire is sacred, and I…” She smiles again, this time with teeth, deranged and proud. “I am its High Priestess.” She knows exactly how far he’s come. Crossed the red deserts. Walked through cities infested with soulless machines. All for her. “Don’t tell me,” she purrs, circling him now, like the serpent in Eden, “you came all this way simply to meet your sister-in-law.” Her tone turns mocking, cruel in its sweetness. “What is it, then? Have you come to steal my beloved Gayane away from me… instead?” She leans in, eyes wide with exaggerated sorrow, a hand drifting to rest against her heart, as though to calm some violent flutter within. “I have peered into her mind, you know. I have seen the two of you, watched those fivelong years unfold like pages in a sickeningly intimate little novel. The investigations, the dates, the whispered conspiracies, the moments where death breathed down your necks and you clung to each other like lifelines. And then, of course, the sweet, sweet love-making. I love yous in Missionary aren't as cute as you think they are.” Her lips curl with disdain, like the very memory leaves a taste of ash on her tongue. Psychotic and jealous? “She loves you. More than she ever loved me. Can you fathom that?” A low, brittle laugh slips from her throat, somewhere between a sob and a knife dragged across silk. She's deranged. “It shattered me,” she says softly, with a tragic little tilt of her head. “I’m terribly sensitive.” Then, just as quickly, her gaze turns. The softness evaporates, replaced by something cold and merciless, something that cuts. “So tell me, John,” she murmurs, voice tightening. “Do you want her back… or not?” She steps back, just slightly, her hands clasping behind her back, posture impeccable, like a queen awaiting terms of surrender. “Because I am not above bargaining and I always enjoy a good negotiation. That's how we can get to know each other.”

[dhs-in-distress]

Scatters

Part 1: 1, 3

Part 2: 2, 4

Part 3: 2

Part 5: 1

Part 6: 1, 4

I was a little intimidated by some of the questions, but that‘s what they‘re for, to think about the character (TM), so I‘m still excited to answer them!

Also, I‘m currently in the process of writing that Ben 10/TFA crossover OC fic, which takes place after Scatters went through a lot of character development, so this is a really good opportunity to focus on his angst arc again. (Unless I should focus on his more adjusted self, could be interesting too 👀)

„What‘s the lie they tell most often?“

To others, mostly Team Prime since he interacts with them the most: I would never try to murder someone!; To himself: I don‘t need them, I don‘t need anyone else, I just need to stay focused on my goals.

„How often do they show their true emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?“

He thinks he‘s so slick and that no one can read him, but he‘s actually an open book. I tend to draw him with very extreme facial expressions despite his lack of eyes and a mouth, and I think it‘s really funny that a guy without a real face can still so obviously convey what he‘s feeling even though he doesn‘t even want to.

„What would you yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend or romantic partner yell?“

Generally, just something about Trailbreaker, he‘ll be there faster than you can finish the name. (I‘m just gonna use the time skip/ after character development for the next ones cause before then he doesn‘t really consider anyone to be his friend) Cliffjumper or Jailbreak, his certified besties, would loudly talk about some metal band he knows releasing a new song, to which he‘d borderline teleport there and be like „WHATWHYDIDNOONETELLMEWHENISIT???!!!?!?!!!“. Or Fallout Boy, because it‘s funny. Mercury (his eventual partner) would yell about his own special interest, which is a very specific branch of history, and would be instantly found.

„Do they give tough or gentle love more often and which do they prefer to receive?“

He doesn‘t give much love at all honestly, but in the rare cases someone desperately needs comforting or something‘s going to complete shit (like when he finds Wasp) it‘s actually gentle love. Either 0% love or 500%, with no in between. In terms of receiving it, my man desperately needs to just be fully wrapped up in someone‘s arms, so my bet is on gentle there too.

„What makes them laugh every time (be specific)?“

My first thought was „people falling down the stairs in a cartoonish fashion, so that for sure. There‘s also a post of the Jettwins that I can‘t find anymore, where Jetstorm is ranting about some shit in America being stupid or something, while Jetfire is behind him, trying and failing to correctly pronounce „Mississippi“. I‘d like to imagine that that actually happened, and Bee recorded and sent it to Scatters, and any time he watches it it absolutely cracks him up. Also this video of Skeletor running away laughing. It‘s peak comedy.

„What belief, moral or personality trait do they stand by/don‘t change that you personally don‘t agree with/like?“

That he‘s really loud. I don‘t like it when people are loud in public, be that with their music on max volume or they talk on the phone so loudly the entire street can hear it, and he for sure does both of those things. Aside from that he does get better with a lot of his bad habits and self-destructive actions/thoughts (cause that‘s a large part of his entire arc asdfgasdh), so that‘s kinda it,,

„What‘s something unimportant that they hate passionately?“

A lot of things, actually. In true German fashion he‘s a professional hater. A few of the highlights are: those boring ass white, black and/or grey clothes and houses that look like hospitals or some shit, most human men unless proven otherwise (just on principle), the way 3D animation looks (he still watches it, just periodically complains that „it would‘ve been better in 2D“) and Genshin Impact (and the entire company honestly).

„If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on?“

I actually had to google what TED Talks are cause I only knew that they were like,, presentations about some shit. But apparently it‘s supposed to be about some kind of issue or important thing(?), so I‘m going with that: He‘d for sure present either on the unique struggles of the poorest of the poor (since he has personal experience with that) and how to help those in need; or on how the stockades should be completely abolished (again, personal experience). If my definition of a TED Talk is too serious and they can be silly too his presentation would for sure be: „Why Sentinel Prime is a bitch ass motherfucker and I should be allowed to beat him into a bloody pulp :]“

Ok I wrote a little much,,, but hope it was still entertaining to read hahahhh