#my brain is obsessed with the idea of him as the master

[vinnyvamppp]

I haven’t read the Invincible comics yet, but ever since I saw that part of Mohawk Mark on his throne, it did something to my brain 😵‍💫🔥🔥👀 with that, can I request Mohawk Mark x sub!male reader, fucking on his throne?🤭

Stay Seated

Note: I enjoyed writing this way more than I should have. I genuinely started tweaking when I ran out of ideas.

Synopsis: Mohawk Mark Grayson has conquered entire timelines — and from each one, he’s stolen a version of you. But only one of you holds his full, terrifying attention. In a throne room soaked with power, sweat, and jealousy, Mark breaks you open with his cock and his obsession, proving that in every universe, you are his favorite meal.

Warnings: Smut, Variants of Reader, Cockwarming, Overstimulation, Dom!Mohawk mark, Sub!Male Reader, Dirty Talk, Degradation, Praise, Posessiveness, Cumplay, Voyeurism, Orgy Teasing, Mild Humiliation, Power Imbalance, Breathplay, Brief Violence (NOT TOWARDS YOU BOOKIE), Creative Liberities Taken, Emotionally Obsessive Behaviors (he's lowkey in love with that cookie).

Invincible!Mohawk Mark x Male!Reader

WC: 2k

There’s twenty-five of you, technically. Twenty-five variants of you, scattered across the multiverse — same face, same voice, different trauma responses. Some cry when Mark chokes them. Others beg. One of them calls him “Master” without being told to, and he hates that one the most.

But you?

You don't crawl, you grin at him from your knees. You talk back. You bite when he tells you to open. That’s why you're the only one allowed to sit on his throne when he's not using it, the only one he pulls into his lap mid-meeting, while his generals pretend not to notice the slow grind of his hips behind your back.

Right now, he’s lounging, one leg thrown over the armrest, fingers dragging lazily along the seam of his costume's bottoms, watching the lesser versions of you try to charm him like desperate strays. His Mohawk’s still dripping from battle. There’s blood dried in the crease of his jaw. He hasn’t looked at you once, but you know he’s waiting for you to snap.

And when you do, when you push the others aside and strut barefoot across the obsidian floor like you own it, Mark’s mouth curls slow and cruel. “Finally. Took you long enough.” His voice rings out, skin practically taut with excitement. The throne room smells like ozone, iron, and sweat. The others are still lingering, some pressed to the obsidian pillars like sad little ornaments, others whispering to each other, desperate to be noticed. Mark ignores them, but you don’t.

Your smirk is slow and venomous, eyes flicking their way like you know he’s only seconds from snapping. That’s part of why you lean just a bit too far into his space, arms draped over the back of his throne, your breath ghosting along the edge of his jaw. He doesn't look at you. He looks at them. "Get out."

His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It rips through the air like a blade nonetheless. "But—" one of them starts, a variant with a softer voice and stars in his eyes. "I said—out. You know how I get when I’m eating. And this one's my fucking favorite." His very delivery and gaze sends him gasping. They vanish, one by one. Out of fear. Out of jealousy. Out of shame. But you're still there, smiling.

"Someone’s cranky," you say. Mark finally turns to you — eyes widening, teeth bared. "Someone’s starving." He grabs you by the back of your neck, rough but reverent, and drags you into his lap like you weigh nothing. Suddenly… you’re flipped.

Not to ride him. No. He bends you forward over the high armrest of the throne—back arched obscenely, chest pinned to the cold metal, legs dangling in the air—and holds you there with one hand braced at the base of your spine. "Look at that," he mutters, yanking your pants down just enough. "Hole’s already twitching. Like it knows who owns it."

You moan—breathless and undignified. Mark chuckles, rutting against your ass once, twice. He teases the head of his cock against you, just enough to make you clench and whine.

“Pathetic,” he hums, but there’s pride in it. “So much better than the rest of you. They beg. You behave.”

He thrusts, without much give as it pops through the ring of muscle.

You scream, half folded over, toes barely touching the floor. The throne groans under the impact, but Mark doesn’t stop. He fucks you like he’s marking his territory, grip locked around your waist like a vice, breath ragged and hot against your back. The stretch is obscene—your hole tight and quivering as Mark pushes in, inch by inch, until your breath catches in your throat and your thighs go numb. You feel every vein on his cock like it’s carved to fuck you specifically, pressure building in your gut like a coil snapping with every cruel grind. There’s no mercy in the way he sets the rhythm —brutal and addictive— each thrust punching the air from your lungs. Slick drips down your thighs, pooling beneath you as your body goes lax, surrendering to the drag and fill, the perfect press of him inside you, again and again and again.

"You feel that?" he growls. "That stretch? That’s your god breaking you open. Gonna keep you like this, pretty and wrecked, where you belong." He adjusts — lifts one leg, props your knee over the throne arm, spreading you wider, deeper. The new angle has you sobbing, stars bursting behind your eyes. You can’t stop the sounds falling from your mouth, open-mouthed moans slurred into nonsense, gasps that turn into high, keening whines every time he hits that devastating spot. You’re flushed all the way down your chest, trembling, vision swimming. Every muscle clenches helplessly, like your body’s trying to milk him dry. Your cock bounces untouched against your stomach, leaking in thick, messy strings, each drop smearing between you as your hips grind back instinctively, chasing more, always more.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a quiet gasp.

One of the variants, a version of you, still watching. You open your mouth to warn Mark—too late. Without even pausing his thrusts, he snaps his fingers. A brutal shockwave slams the man against the far wall.

“Didn’t I say I was eating?” Mark hisses. “If you’re gonna stay, you watch in silence. Or I make you hold his ankles and see how long you last.” You moan at that—and shamelessly so.

“Oh? You like the idea?” Mark laughs. “Of course you do. Fucking whore.” He flips you again—this time upside down across his lap, head dangling over one knee, legs still spread. Gravity makes you drip.

He shoves back in. You choke on a moan, eyes rolling, teeth bared against your wrist. And Mark? He just groans, low but reverent. “Goddamn. You take me so fucking good it should be illegal.”

He doesn’t stop. Even after he spills the first time—hips jerking, buried to the base with your name rasped like a warning—Mark keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing the ruin he lives for. You’re bent half off the throne’s edge now, face wet with drool, eyes glossy, hole fluttering like it’s starved.

His cock drags through you in deep, mean strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other smeared across your ass, fingertips spreading slick.

"Fuck," he groans. "Listen to yourself. Sloppy little hole won't even let me go. You gonna keep me locked in all night, baby?"

You try to answer—to say yes or please or anything, but all that comes out is a whimper.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." He bites your shoulder hard enough to make your legs shake. “You like this. Being opened up like a prayer book. Every goddamn page soaked in me.”

Then he pulls out—slow, just to watch it stretch and leak.

But he doesn’t give you a break. Oh no. Mark shifts—scoots forward on the throne seat, spreading his legs wide, cock still glistening, pulls you back into his lap with your wrists pinned behind you, and starts bucking up into you with brutal precision.

You're straddling him now, fully seated, thighs shaking, his hands holding your wrists behind your back so your chest is thrust forward — vulnerable, trembling, owned.

"That's it," he hisses, mouth at your throat. "Ride it. C'mon. Show me how you make my cock disappear. Bounce on it like you need it."

You do. Desperately. The pace turns filthy, wet slaps, sharp thrusts, your breath broken into high, gasping moans as you move in sync, riding him like you were made for it. He pants praises into your neck, fisting his hand in your hair to keep your face tilted toward his.

“Look at you. So fucking perfect. My favorite hole in the multiverse. Every other version of you’s a pale, whining imitation—but you?” He sucks a mark onto your neck. “You were built to worship this cock.” You don’t even know where you end and he begins anymore—not with how deep he is, not with how your body’s locked onto his like gravity. His cum is still hot inside you, mixing with your own slick, your thighs shaking, hole spasming around the overstimulation and begging for more. Every time you try to lift your hips, he pulls you back down, impaling you with a snarl like he’s mad at you for even trying to let him go. You’re not riding him anymore—you’re being kept there, used, adored, ruined like a holy vessel meant only to be filled by him. When you come to, you’re in his lap, knuckles pale as you grip the thrones headrest. He licks sweat from your collarbone, hips stuttering against yours, and laughs into your neck when you sob. “You feel it? That stretch? That’s me rearranging your insides. Gonna pump you so full you drip for hours. Let the whole fucking empire see who this hole belongs to.”

You can feel him twitching inside you again, rhythm getting erratic—and you know he’s close, know it’s about to happen again. But you don’t notice the air shift. You don't hear the footsteps behind you, or the way the temperature dips, or the soft, unsteady breaths returning to the room. You only notice when hands begin to touch you.

One ghosting across your spine. Another dragging lazy circles along your sternum. Fingers thread through your hair from behind. Lips brush your temple, your shoulder, your mouth. Whispered moans and praises—your own voice, different, warmer, sadder, hungrier—fill your ears.

“Can’t stay away from him either, huh?” one voice says, breath hot against your cheek.

Mark stiffens, his eyes narrowing, yet he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop them. He lets it happen and that’s how you know you own him too.

Even when hands are sliding down his chest, nails raking lightly across his thighs, tongues lapping at the sweat on his jaw, even when he’s being worshipped like a king by half a dozen other versions of you, his gaze never leaves yours.

"You feel that?" he whispers, voice raw, eyes locked on your face. "They want me. But I only come for you." And he does. Again.

With a groan so guttural it sounds like a mangled cry, he drags you down, burying himself to the root, and spills inside you with a loud, shaking, and claiming groan that seems to echo, almost pornographic, almost submissive itself.

You clench around him, helpless, ruined, as the other hands caress you both like a sacred offering. Fingers slide down your back—soft, trembling with need. Another pair trace your chest, teasing your nipples until you whimper, twitching in Mark’s lap. A third hand cups your throat with gentle pressure, tilting your head back so lips can press slow kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You barely notice how many touches there are now—hands, mouths, heat and want surrounding you from every side, but none of it breaks the spell between you and Mark. He’s still inside you, buried deep, arms around your waist, gaze locked to yours like he’ll never blink again. “Let them worship,” he murmurs. “But this cock stays yours.”

~~~~ You’re boneless in his lap now, barely breathing right—head lolling against his shoulder, your thighs sticky with slick and sweat, chest rising slow and shallow. Mark’s arms are wrapped around you tight, one hand petting your hair, the other resting possessively across your stomach, thumb brushing idly across the mess he made inside you. He’s not hard anymore—but he’s still deep, cock resting soft and wet inside your twitching hole, refusing to pull out.

“You did so good,” he murmurs into your ear, tone turning sweet in that terrifying way only he can manage. “Took it like you wanted to be ruined in front of them. Like you liked showing off.”

Then, without even looking, he speaks louder, smug and deliberate. “Hope the rest of you had fun. All that moaning, all that tongue, all that desperate fucking effort—” he laughs, slow and mean, “—and guess what?” He tilts your face up, kisses your dazed mouth, and hums.

“Still not you.” He shifts slightly, and you let out a soft, spent whimper—too sensitive to move, too full to care. “This is the part you don’t get,” Mark says, his eyes flicking toward the others sprawled across the floor like discarded toys. “You can touch me. You can even make me come.”

He cups your jaw gently, all too fond of you, and whispers just for you: “But only he makes me stay.” A/N: DID WE EAT? (I was transcended to another reality over this request, thank you, anon.) I’m trying to make my male readers feel more inclusive, TRUST, every man in the universe wants you. 🪄

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[lykoiii]

that one artist who is always doing warm ups

[magic-shop-stories]

Hello! Hope you're doing well. Love your work! Can I request something slightly.. Maybe confusing?

Idk why but I've always felt that Yoongi and Namjoon have the potential to be attracted to similar people, given their ideologies and personalities. So what happens when they meet reader organically and feel drawn towards them?

I am not envisioning a love triangle per se, but only the illusion of one. Where both grow closer to reader but with namjoon, it indeed is just a solid friendship. Lovestruck but in denial Yoongi doesn't see it that way necessarily. At least initially. Maybe some angst there.

Therefore despite the reader showing interest back, it takes our honey boy a minute to get there, and finally it's all sorted. Yoongi and reader end up together and all their friends are happy for them!

Cold Storage: An Archive of Imperfect Notes

Pairings: Min Yoongi x Archivist!Reader (slow burn), Platonic Kim Namjoon x Reader Rating: R (M) Genre: angst, romance, hurt/comfort, fluff Warnings: alcohol use (whiskey), emotional confrontations (themes of self-doubt, fear of artistic irrelevance), mild language, jealousy, kissing (non-explicit) Word Count: ~ 3k

Description: As HYBE’s archivist, you’re a keeper of ghosts - demos, coffee-stained lyrics, and the jagged edges of artists’ past selves. But when Min Yoongi starts haunting the archives to resurrect his old mixtapes, his obsession with the boy he used to be collides with the man he’s become. Between debates about Rilke, Camus, and the stains on his notebooks, you’ll learn that some wounds outlive the knife… and some hearts only thaw in the cold.

💌 Reply:

Hi love! 💜 First off - THANK YOU for this brilliant request (and your kind words, my heart 🥹). I hope you don’t mind that I spun this into a full imagine/fic — your concept of Yoongi and Joon’s parallel pulls and the “illusion” of a triangle hit me like a TRUCK. As a Yoongi ult (he’s my first/last/always 🐱) and Namjoon bias-wrecker, I vibrated at the idea of their dynamic clashing over someone who challenges them - god, I wish I could thank you enough (you scratched my brain) I kept your vision sacred: no real triangle, just Yoongi’s honey-coated denial, Joon’s platonic muse vibes, and the angst of two artists fearing too much vulnerability (at least in my mind). Also, the others teasing Yoongi? I couldn't NOT do it If this isn’t what you pictured, I’ll happily tweak, but I hope it gives you that slow-burn, you deserved. Thank you for trusting me with this gem. Now go feed your brainrot, legend. 🖤 – c – 💜

Cold Storage: An Archive of Imperfect Notes

Cold Storage: An Archive of Imperfect Notes

Prologue: The Quiet Before the Storm

The archives room at HYBE was a cathedral of silence, if silence could hum.

You liked it that way; the steady whir of climate-controlled servers, the faint tang of aged paper clinging to your fingertips, the way dust motes drifted like static in the blue-tinted dark. Here, in the belly of the iconic building where music went to hibernate, you were more archaeologist than archivist. Unearthing demos from 2013 felt like brushing silt from fossils, each lyric sheet was a bone fragment of who BTS used to be.

You’d taken the job for the anonymity. Artists came to you as ghosts, through track lists scrawled in Sharpie, voice memos buried in hard drives, the occasional coffee ring staining a producer’s notes. They rarely came in person.

Until today.

The Catalyst

The door hissed open at 3:47 PM. You didn’t look up, fingers skating over the spine of a 2014 lyric journal. “If you’re here for the Dark & Wild masters, they’re digitizing in Bay 6.”

“Not here for Bang PD’s old angst,” a voice drawled. Dry, low, lacquered with a Daegu rasp. “Looking for mine.”

Your head snapped up.

Min Yoongi leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His face was all angles under the archival LEDs. his sharp jaw, sharper eyes. You’d seen him before, of course. In hallways. Through the frosted glass of Studio 4, in the practice rooms... Never here, where the past was kept under lock and humidity controls.

“Am producing D-3,” he said, pushing off the frame. “Ten-year reissue. Need the raw stems. And the notebook I used back then. The black one.”

You blinked. “The one where you wrote ‘I want to scream but my throat is a cemetery’?”

His eyebrow twitched, he seemed impressed for a second. “…Yeah.”

You stood, chair screeching. “Physical copies are in Cold Storage. Digital’s accessible if you...”

“Want the physical.” He crossed his arms. “Need to see the… stains.”

Ah. The coffee spills, crossed out words - rewritten a hundred times, whatever sins of sentimentality survived a decade. You nodded, turning toward the steel vault door.

The archives chose that moment to spit out Kim Namjoon.

He materialized between shelves like a philosopher-king misplaced by time, hair tousled, glasses smudged. “Hyung? What’re you...”

“My mixtape’s getting a facelift,” Yoongi said, not taking his eyes off you. “You?”

Namjoon hefted a dog-eared copy of The Myth of Sisyphus. “Preparing speech on art as resilience. Need more Camus. And… something that doesn’t sound like a TED Talk.” He grinned, dimples cratering. “Help?”

You snorted. “Camus is a TED Talk. 1942 edition.”

Namjoon’s grin widened. “Then give me the director’s cut.”

Yoongi cleared his throat. Loudly. “Cold Storage?”

“Right.” You led them deeper into the archives, fluorescent lights flickering like a heartbeat monitor. Yoongi’s shadow loomed over your shoulder; Namjoon’s fingers trailed the shelves, dislodging years of dust.

The vault door groaned open. Yoongi stepped into the 12°C chill like a soldier entering a trench.

“Box S-13,” you said, gloved hands lifting a battered container. Inside lay the notebook, the pages warped, edges singed. “Handle with care. Literally.”

He took it like a relic. For a moment, his mask slipped, lips parted, eyes soft and startled, as if meeting a ghost. Then he sniffed. “Nostalgia’s a scam. This…” He flicked a page. “Kid was an idiot.”

You tilted your head. “Or you’re scared he’s smarter than you now.”

Yoongi froze.

Namjoon coughed; badly hiding a laugh.

“Growth isn’t a diss to who you were,” you continued, pulling a crate of Camus essays for Namjoon. “Just proof you survived.”

Yoongi’s gaze cut to you, calculating. “You psychoanalyze all the artists, or just the ones who peaked in 2014?”

“Only the ones who leave burn marks on their notebooks.” You nodded at the charcoal smudges on his thumb.

Namjoon burst out laughing. “Oh, I like her.”

Yoongi didn’t laugh. But his lips quirked, brief and begrudging. “Whatever. Thanks.” He turned to leave, then paused. “…Kid me. You think he’d hate me now?”

The question hung in the frozen air.

You considered the man clutching his past like a grenade. “He’d pity you.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed.

“For thinking you had to choose between him and who you are now.”

For a heartbeat, the vault hummed with unsaid things. Then Yoongi huffed, tucking the notebook under his arm. “Tell Cold Storage to chill less. It’s fucking arctic in here.”

He left.

Namjoon lingered, thumbing through Camus. “‘The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart,’” he read aloud. Then, softer: “You believe that? That art outlives the artist?”

You handed him a first-edition Rebel. “Depends. What if the artist wants to fade? To let the work breathe without their shadow?”

He stilled, eyes narrowing behind smudged lenses. “…Are you always this dangerous?”

“Only to philosophers who quote dead Frenchmen at me.”

Namjoon’s laugh echoed off the vault walls. “Noted. But fair warning...” He leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. “Yoongi-hyung’s gonna be back. He hates losing debates.”

“Not a debate. A fact.”

“Even worse.” He winked, tucking the book under his arm. “Thanks, archivist.”

You watched him leave, unaware of the eyes burning into your back from the security feed in Studio 4... Yoongi, rewinding the footage, pausing on your smirk.

On the desk, his old notebook lay open to a scribbled line: I want to die - I want to live.

He hit replay.

The Dance

The HYBE cafeteria at midnight was a liminal space, flickering vending machines, the scent of stale coffee, and the ghost of Jungkook’s laughter echoing from a meme video left playing on a tablet. You sat hunched over a dog-eared Rilke collection, blue-light glasses slipping down your nose as Namjoon paced, reciting draft lines like incantations.

“Art as… a rebellion against entropy,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “No, too clinical. Art as... shit, what’s the equivalent for ‘intergenerational dialogue’?”

You tossed him a chocolate bar from your bag. “Try 유산 (legacy). Or 대화 (conversation). Depends if you want your audience to weep or nap.”

He caught it, dimples flashing. “Why not both?” Collapsing into the chair across from you, he ripped the wrapper with his teeth. “Help me murder this paragraph. It’s got three metaphors and zero soul.”

You leaned over his notebook, red pen slashing through a convoluted analogy about “sculpting time.” “Camus would disown you. Keep it raw. Like your ‘My heart was filled with straight lines only’ line in Trivia: Love.”

Namjoon’s eyes lit up. “You know that song?”

“I archive your old journals. You wrote that lyric after spilling green tea on Hegel.”

He barked a laugh, loud enough to startle a passing cleaner. “Okay, archivist. What’s raw but profound?”

You scribbled in the margin: “Art isn’t a relic... it’s the wound that outlives the knife.”

Namjoon stared, then slowly grinned. “…I’m stealing that.”

Yoongi found you two days later, arguing over the pronunciation of “Schwere” (heaviness) in Rilke’s “Archaic Torso of Apollo.”

“It’s sh-veh-reh,” you insisted, slamming a German dictionary on the archives desk. “Not shuh-wear. You’re butchering the Schmerz (pain).”

Namjoon leaned back, smug. “Hyung, back me up. It’s about feeling, not grammar.”

Yoongi hovered in the doorway, a box of 2015 demos under his arm. His black sweater rode up slightly as he shifted, frowning. “Why’s Rilke in my studio?”

“Speech,” you said, not looking up. “He’s romanticizing existentialism again.”

Namjoon tossed a crumpled post-it at Yoongi. “They’re ruthless. Tell them schwere (heaviness) is subjective.”

Yoongi caught it, squinting at the scribbled lines. Art isn’t a relic - it’s the wound that outlives the knife. His jaw twitched. “Sounds like a  D-2 B-side.” He dropped the demos on your desk. “Need these scanned. And the notebook from last week.”

You frowned. “You’ve requested that notebook three times.”

He met your gaze, unblinking. “I like the stains.”

His visits became clockwork.

Tuesdays at 4 PM

“The 2016 tour schedules. For… chronology.”

Thursdays at 7 PM

“Original First Love lyrics. The ones with the coffee rings.”

Each time, he lingered; arguing over tracklists, scoffing at your critiques, circling back to debates about his old self.

“Reissue Track 5 should be The Last pt.2 ,” you said one evening, sliding the old demo across the desk.

Yoongi stiffened. “Too raw. People won’t get it.”

“Or you’re scared they will.”

He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. The small 7 on his shoulder peeked out, a silent confession. “You think you know me because you’ve digitized my angst?”

“I think The Last saved someone once. Maybe you.”

He held your stare, the air thickening like storm clouds. Then he snatched the demo. “Track 5 stays Agust D - WHO?.”

But the next day, the tracklist update included The Last pt.2.

It was Namjoon who shattered the détente.

You’d met him in the cafeteria again, debating the ethics of AI-generated art. His laugh, warm and booming, carried across the room as you mocked his “algorithms can’t cry” argument.

Yoongi walked in just as you tossed a sugar packet at Namjoon’s chest.

“ So if a robot writes a love song,” you said, grinning, “...is it plagiarism or progress?”

Namjoon caught the packet, eyes crinkling. “Depends if it’s got soul. Like your Rilke edits., but probably not.”

Yoongi froze, tray in hand. His knuckles whitened around a cup of bitter black coffee.

Of course it’s Joon.

He left without a word.

That night, Yoongi stormed the archives.

“Seesaw,” he demanded, slamming a hand on your desk. “The original first-demo. Now.”

You didn’t flinch. “...it’s 11 PM.”

“And?”

“You’ve listened to Seesaw a thousand times. Why now?”

His throat bobbed. “Need to remember why I wrote it.”

You swiveled to the server, pulling up the file. The demo played, raw, unpolished, Yoongi’s voice cracking on “I’m afraid I’ll get used to this pain,” - a line that didn't make it too the final track.

He stood rigid, back to you.

“You wrote it because you were tired of balancing pride and regret,” you said softly. “Because vulnerability felt like failure.”

Yoongi spun, eyes blazing. “You don’t...”

“Know you?” You stood, meeting his glare. “I know the boy who scribbled ‘I need u’ in margins. Who still comes here to argue with his ghost when noone is looking, but I see.”

He stepped closer, heat radiating off him. “And what do you get from this? Playing therapist to fucked-up artists?”

“Maybe I like the company.”

A beat. His gaze dropped to your lips.

The door creaked.

Namjoon poked his head in, blissfully oblivious. “Archivist! Need your take on Nietzsche’s ‘eternal recurrence’ for the speech... Oh. Am I interrupting?”

Yoongi jerked back, cheeks flushed. “No.”

“Yes,” you said.

Namjoon glanced between you, smirk blooming. “I’ll… come back.”

Yoongi left without another word, but not before you spotted the tremor in his hands; the same tremor from the day he’d first held his old notebook.

The Fracture

The air in Studio 4 was always sterile, a vacuum sealed against the outside world. But tonight, it felt like a tomb.

Yoongi had been playing his  The Last pt.2 draft on loop for hours, the demo’s jagged bassline gnawing at the soundproof walls. His fingers hovered over the mixing board, tweaking the same three-second clip - “I built my pride from broken glass”, until the words lost meaning.

He didn’t hear the door open. You were one of the few people in the company with keys to almost every room.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Your voice cut through the noise. Yoongi’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn. “Busy.”

“Bullshit.” You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. “You haven’t answered a single text. Skipped the archives all week. What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong. The track pulsed, raw and unpolished. “The Last pt.2” was supposed to be a sequel, closure for the boy who wrote “I want to die” in smudged ink years ago. Instead, it felt like a relapse.

“MIN YOONGI.”

He spun, chair screeching. “Why’re you here? Shouldn’t you be helping Joon craft his precious speech?”

The venom startled you. “He asked me to rehearse. That’s all.”

Yoongi scoffed, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Saw you. Foreheads touching, hands all... whatever. Looked cozy.”

You blinked. “I was stopping him from clicking his pen. He does it when he’s nervous. You know that.”

“Do I?” He stood abruptly, knocking over a half-empty glass of whiskey. The liquid seeped into his notebook, blurring the notes as he shoved past you. “Doesn’t matter. Got a producer meeting.”

“At midnight?”

“Yes.”

You blocked the door. “Talk to me.”

His laugh was brittle. “About what? How you’ve got Joon wrapped around your finger? How he looks at you like you’re his damn muse?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He stepped closer, the whiskey on his breath sharp and sour. “You quote his lyrics, fix his speeches, laugh at his jokes... fuck, you even know how he takes his coffee. What’s next? Translating his diary?”

You flinched. “It’s not like that. Also you only drink decaf, iced...”

“Sure.” He yanked the door open. “Have fun crafting legacies.”

Rooftop, 1:14 AM

The wind bit through Yoongi’s sweater as Namjoon found him slumped against the guardrail, whiskey glass dangling from his fingers.

“You look like hell,” Namjoon said, settling beside him.

“Feel like it.”

A beat. The city below hummed, indifferent.

“They quoted The Last in my speech today,” Namjoon said quietly.

Yoongi stiffened.

“Not the lyrics. The… feeling. Said it reminded them that art isn’t about permanence. It’s about…” He paused. “'The courage to shatter what you’ve built.'”

Yoongi’s throat tightened.His line, from the 2016 notebook, unreleased.

Namjoon turned, gaze piercing. “They’ve been stealing your words to fix mine this whole time. Not because they’re mine... because they’re yours.”

The glass trembled in Yoongi’s hand. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” Namjoon’s voice softened. “They’re not my muse, hyung. They’re yours. Always have been.”

Yoongi stared at the amber liquid, the reflection of his own fractured face staring back.

“You gonna keep hiding in demos?” Namjoon stood, clapping his shoulder. “Or write a new verse?”

Studio 4, 2:03 AM

The door creaked open again.

You froze, breath catching.

Yoongi stood in the threshold, The Last pt.2 still looping. His eyes were red-rimmed, hair a mess, but his voice steadied the storm.

“I’m… shit at this.”

“At what?”

“Talking. Feeling. All of it.” He stepped inside, the door shutting with a soft click. “But I’m worse at pretending I don’t.”

The track swelled - “I built my pride from broken glass” - as he closed the distance.

“Joon’s right,” he muttered, gaze dropping to your lips. “I’m an idiot.”

The space between you crackled.

“Prove it,” you whispered.

He didn't, not yet...

 The Harmony

The archives hummed with the static of a thousand dormant stories, the air thick with the scent of ink and longing.

Yoongi stood in the center of the room, his back to you, shoulders tense as he rifled through a box of 2018 demos. The small 7 on his shoulder peeked out beneath his tank top, a silent testament to loyalty, and fear.

“You left this in Studio 4.”

He froze at your voice.

You held up his old notebook, the one with the warped pages and coffee-stained edges. It fell open to “I need u”, the words circled in red, your own scribble bleeding into the margin: “I need you too.”

Yoongi didn’t turn. “Thought you’d be with Joon.”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Stop pretending you don’t see me.”

He spun, eyes dark and stormy. “See what? You quoting my lyrics to fix his speeches? Laughing at his jokes? Holding his damn hand...”

“To stop him from clicking his pen!” You repeated and stepped closer, the notebook trembling in your grip. “You think I care about his speeches? About legacies? I’ve been here every night, waiting for you to look up from your damn demos and see me!”

Yoongi’s breath hitched.

You thrust the notebook at him. “You want to know why I memorized The Last notes? Why I stayed late every time you asked for another mixtape? It wasn’t for the music, you idiot. It was for you.”

The archives fell silent, save for the whir of servers.

Yoongi stared at the notebook, your confession etched beside his oldest wound. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I thought… I was just another track to you. Something to analyze and shelve.”

“You were never just anything.”

He looked up, vulnerability stripping him bare. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestured between you, the air crackling. “Wanting someone who… who knows all the broken parts.”

You closed the distance, your fingers brushing his. “Then stop hiding in your demos.”

His gaze dropped to your lips. “What if I ruin it?”

“You won’t.”

The kiss was a crescendo; slow at first, tentative, then desperate. Yoongi’s hands cradled your face like you were the last fragile tape in the archives, his lips soft but insistent, tasting of whiskey and unsung verses. The shelves pressed into your back, demos scattering like imperfect notes around your feet. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging gently as he deepened the kiss, a silent plea for more, more, more...

“Took you long enough,” a voice drawled.

You broke apart, breathless. Namjoon leaned against the doorway, tossing a USB drive at Yoongi. It landed at your table, labeled “Hyung’s Love Song (Finally)” in Sharpie.

Yoongi glared, cheeks flushed. “How long were you...?”

“Long enough to know you owe me 50,000 won.” Namjoon smirked. “Jin-hyung bet on tonight. I said you’d chicken out till dawn.”

Yoongi flipped him off, but his arm stayed wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to his side.

[Bonus] Epilogue: One Month Later

The OT7 group chat exploded at 8 PM.

Jin: [photo of Yoongi feeding you kimchi jjigae in the cafeteria] “Grandpa’s first date since 2014!!! Transfer payments, children.”

Jungkook: “WAIT THEY'RE REAL???”

Hobi: “I TOLD YOU ALL IT WAS THE ARCHIVES. PAY UP!!!”

Taehyung: [Screenshots of Yoongi’s Spotify wrapped] “Since when does hyung listen to Rilke ASMR??”

Yoongi: “Fuck off.”

You: [photo of the USB plugged into Yoongi’s laptop, titled “Love Song (Draft)”] “Track 1: ”Not Yet” 👀”

Namjoon: “Finally.”

END

[voxmortuus]

✧*̥˚ PAIRING: *̥˚✧ Yandere!Count Vronsky x F!Reader!Wife ✧*̥˚ UNIVERSE: *̥˚✧ Anna Karenina ✧*̥˚ WORD COUNT: *̥˚✧ 3.6k ✧*̥˚ PROMPT: *̥˚✧ This was given to me by the lovely @bettytaylorversion || Okay, okay I'm lately obsessed with yandere Count Vronsky, so how about yan Vronsky suspecting that his wife is seeing someone or like in love with someone and it doesn't help when his mother keeps feeding his suspicions so he ends up locking the wife/reader up in their house in countryside/ another country house where no one can reach them and where he makes sure his beloved wife knows exactly how much he loves her. ✧*̥˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS: *̥˚✧ Dead Dove Do Not Eat | Yandere Count | Possessive Count | Aggressive Count | Stalker Count | Demanding Count | Accusations of Cheating | Toxic Mother | False ideas | False Suspicions from mother | Toxic Marriage? | Isolation of Reader | Slapping | Pushing or Shoving | Yelling | Slamming doors | Gripping readers throat | Passionate making out | Throwing reader on bed | Stripping reader | Unprotected PiV | Aggressive sex | Reader fights a bit but stops fighting | Dub-Con? | insinuated Cream Pie | Crying Reader | Fluff | Reader questions if she loves him at the end | Relationship conflictions | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ✧*̥˚ NOTES: *̥˚✧ I've been wanting to write for him for a long while! Thank you love for this request! I hope this is along the lines of what you were hoping for... Sorry if it doesn't hit exactly what you're looking for but I tried!!! Anywho.... I hope this brings you some joy. ✧*̥˚ DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @nyxvuxoa ✧*̥˚ TIME PASSER DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @voxmortuus ✧*̥˚ IMAGE CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @peachyspaceslvt ✧*̥˚ ATJ TAGLIST: *̥˚✧ @earth-elemental18 @nyxvuxoa-writes ✧*̥˚ My Master Masterlist | Aaron Taylor-Johnson Masterlist *̥˚✧

It was this gnawing feeling, this feeling of dread, sorrow, a pain in his gut he couldn't shake. Watching you go as he leaned against the window frame, he knew where you were going. He knew, he just had this gut feeling that he couldn't quite shake. It ate at his heart, it ate at his brain, it was like these cogs and wheels working, but not in a way of rationality. His thoughts were completely irrational. Looking out that window as your carriage vanished into the thick fog of the dawn, he felt so lost, so angry. He wasn't happy, and not happy may be quite an understatement.

Placing a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips he grabbed a match from the fireplace and lit it. The smoke bellowed above, tossing the match into the fire he turned to see his mother sitting at the table.

"She does not have love for you anymore, Alexei." She stated. Her tone appeared caring, honest, maybe even having pity, but it was just because she didn't like you.

"She must love me. That is my wife, she must." He stated he didn't seem demanding about it, he seemed sad, heartbroken even.

"But she does not. She will never love you as she loves him. What married woman is happy with her husband? She has grown bored of you. Had she not she would not go to him as she does." She points out.

His heart, if it was a glass a cat had pushed off the counter it would have shattered. He only hoped that you were as enraptured by him as he was about you. He looked up at the wall, the painting of you seemed to be watching. He closed his stormy blue eyes and looked back at his mother.

"She does love me. I know it to be true. You speak lies, like a snake in the garden." He snapped and walked to the table and had taken a sip from the slightly sweetened tea he had poured only moments before your leaving. Sitting there he tapped his smoke against a small crystal ashtray and his mind became overrun, thinking of everything his mother had stated. Thinking of those possibilities. What were you doing? Were you spreading your legs for him? Was he satisfying you? Were you unhappy with him? Did you not love him? Did you grow bored of him? He rubbed his lip a moment as he took another drag before looking at his mother.

"When she comes home, I will settle this." He stated. Taking the cup and his almost-gone smoke and had vanished to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed after putting the cup on the bedside table and looks over your side of the bed. It was too much, these feelings he had, it was like they were just bubbling up, ready to overflow and put out the fire that kept the pot lit. Feeling the stinging in his nose from the slight anger he ran his hand through his curly blonde locks and his jaw clenched as he put his smoke out in the ashtray and grabbed his clothes for getting dressed before he slammed the bedroom door.

His mother had heard the slam and had made her way to the room. Letting herself in she looked over him and sighed. "I just want what is best for you."

"I said I would take care of it. I do not need your help. She is my wife, not yours." He sort of snapped.

"You are right, she is your wife. And your wife is off with another man, spreading her legs and enjoying her time away from you. So how are you going to handle that Alexei?" She asked.

"I will take her away from here. I will take her far away from everyone. Including you." He snapped. "Now if you do not mind, I am getting dressed. Go find something else to bother." He snarled slightly as he escorted her out of the doorway and closed and locked the bedroom door.

Looking out the bedroom window and looking over the garden, he watched the flowers bob from the heaviness of the heads that were filled with the morning dew. It was something so simple, and yet even looking at their beauty, he saw you, he saw your smile, your smooth skin, your curves, he saw how your hair fell, that glow in your eyes when you were happy. You had to love him, why was he questioning it? Why was he standing there, looking out on those flowers questioning if you loved him?! With a clenched jaw and a knitted brow, he threw open the closet door and grabbed his attire for the day.

After fastening the last button on his coat, he makes his way back to the kitchen- it's like he doesn't want to acknowledge the other parts of the home without you here. Feeling lost, and one track minded. He didn't like that you were gone, it loomed over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain looms over the dirt countryside roads. He needed to know where you were going. He needed to know what you were doing. He needed to know what you were saying. Were you tired of him? Were you unhappy? It just gnawed at him like a beaver gnawing on a log.

Why was this even a feather of a thought? It's not that he didn't want you to have friends, it's just, why did they have to be male friends? And even then, it wasn't the idea of male friends that bothered him, it was the embedded, plated thoughts from the snake in the garden that made him believe that you were unhappy, that you were not in love with him any longer, that you were looking for a way out of this relationship. Well, that was going to be nipped in the bud right away. There was going to be no second-guessing it, not after this.

He decided to gather himself a little more and decided to head out to find you. He had these questions that needed answers. He turned to look at his mother who was still there. "Watch the house while I am away. We will be gone for a while." He states. His mother went to speak but before she could retort with a comment he was out the door and off to the stables.

After a few hours of looking and getting a general idea of where you were he stopped, getting off the carriage he approached, standing a good distance behind as you stood there, talking to another man. Oh, this did not sit well with him, but he watched and observed. With a lick of his lips and a look of heartache, as you touched the other man's face, he couldn't help but feel that slithering snake of a mother of his was right.

The more he watched, the more you laughed, the closer this man seemed to be getting to you, and the more it climbed up him like ivy claiming lattice fencing. This green envious monster coils around his every nerve, his nostrils flair as he walks toward you and clears his throat, but you don't pay much attention until he grabs your arm and pulls you to him.

You gasp and look over his face. "My Love, what are you doing here?" You ask him.

"I could ask you the very same." He states. His stare was cold, his stare pained, and his stare… it bore into you like a hot glue gun into plastic.

"I am just out with a friend, we do this every week. It means nothing." You state honestly.

"Does it? Does it really mean nothing? You were touching his face, and laughing with him like you do with me. Do I not make you happy anymore? Have you grown bored and weary of me?" He asks you with a small shake in his voice almost as if holding back tears.

"Of course you make me happy, why would you ask such a thing?" you respond back looking into his stormy blue hues.

His jaw clenches and he looks at your friend and back to you. "We are leaving." He states as if dismissing you from your date with your male friend.

"What? No. Alexei, no." you stated.

"I do not know him, nor do I like how you were touching him, we are going somewhere. You'll like it. Get in." he states and gestures to the carriage.

"Alexei, no." You state firmly.

He clenches his jaw and looks over you. "Do not make me put you in there myself. Now. Be a good wife, and get in the carriage." He snarls lowly.

Licking your lips you look over his face and let out a slight breath before getting into the carriage. Feeling the shake of the carriage from the door closing. Placing your hands in your lap you look down, studying them a moment before you close your eyes almost in defeat, and wonder where he is taking you. It was clear he wasn't taking you home. Why was he suddenly acting this way? What was it that made him feel like you were unhappy? You began to study yourself, you even began to question yourself. But why? His actions alone.

His actions just then made you question if this was really where you needed to be. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that maybe he was seeing something you were not seeing. Were you really happier with your friend than you were with him? Was he not seeing how much you loved him? Were you really doing something bad? You turn back and look at him as he stops the carriage and climbs into the back of it with you as someone else takes over. Someone he had paid to drop you both off and take the carriage back to the house.

You sit there, in silence, and you study him, you study his face, his eyes, how his jaw twitches, how his brow knits, how his eyes seem to be full of sorrow, and maybe is that hate? You look down, and you think about all you've done, but you can't help but shake your head. You love this man, and he was blind to false things. Was there a way to fix it? Was there a way to get him to see that you love him just as much as he loves you?

"Where are we going? There is nothing for miles." You point out looking out the little window of the carriage door.

"We're going someplace secluded." He states.

"Secluded? Whatever for?" You ask with a slight bit of worry in your tone.

"Enough with the questions, you will see when we get there." He states, short in his tone.

You lick your lips and hike a brow before looking back down at your lap and letting out a slight sigh. You feel this could get problematic.

By the time you get to where you were going, the sun had already set and come back up. You look over his face as he offers to help you off the carriage. Your jaw clenches and you shake your head.

"Are you serious? Why are we here? We are days away from home at this rate Alexie." You point out.

HE shakes his head and looks at you and looks over the country home before looking back at you. "You will survive. This is for a reason."

"THIS IS ABSURD!" You scream. The only thing you cause to stir is birds out in the field. Your jaw clenches and you look over him shoving past him and heading toward the inside.

He sighs slightly and shakes his head, he isn't expecting you to understand. Rubbing his brow a moment he looks up at the gray skies and then over on the vast rolling fields of nothing. A small smile creeps across his face as he listens to the front door being slammed. Another soft sigh escapes his lips as he heads toward the house.

Upon walking in he looks around and spots you standing there in the living room. As he walks toward you to join you, you turn and look at him.

"What is all of this about?" You ask.

"You need to see how much love I have for you. I cannot do that back there." He stated honestly.

"So you isolate me?!" You raise your tone.

"Yes! It keeps you away from another man touching you!" He snaps.

"NO ONE ELSE IS TOUCHING ME!" You snap back.

"HOW DO I KNOW?!" He steps closer to you.

"No. You don't get to ask me that question! How do you not see that I love you!? I have always loved you!" You snarl as you step forward challenging him.

"Well, I suppose now you can show me just how much you love me as I show you how much I love you." He stated coldly.

"Don't be so pigeon-livered." You growl to yourself. "You're being a floozer Alexei. What has ever gotten into you?" You ask him.

"Are you really going to throw insults at me? Pigeon-livered? Floozer? Do not." He grips your arm and pulls you close. "Do not cross me."

You shove him and look over his face. "Or what?" You ask with a tightly knitted brow. "What are you going to do?"

Stretching his neck from left to right he licks his lips and his jaw clenched.

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!" You snapped.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!" He snapped back. He began to pace. "All I ever do is shower you with love and attention, I do nothing but prove to you how much you mean to me. I make sure you always put your best forward. And you do this. Run off with another man doing god knows what." He states.

Crossing your arms over your chest you stare at him a moment and blink a few times. "Are you blinded by your own selfishness right now? Can you not see past your own nose? I am not laying with another man Alexei! I have never laid with another man!" you snap.

"HOW DO I KNOW THAT?!" He snaps. "How do I know that?" He asked you. A complete and utter look of defeat sprawled across his features.

Walking to him you slap him across the face. Not once, but twice. Reaching forward he grips your throat and moves you through the house. Kicking open a door he shoves you into the bedroom and starts to unbutton his jacket. Looking over you his eyes hungry. His snarl was fierce, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear the bones grinding and you could feel the flex of his jaw. You try to shove past him but that wasn't happening.

"What are you going to do rape me Alexei?" You ask.

He scoffed and looked over at you. "Do you think that little of me? Strip." He demands.

"No." You cross your arms. At this point, you were fighting him to fight, how far could you push?

"I said strip!" He demands again. Walking to you he spins you around and starts to untie your skirt.

Layer by layer you fight, until you are both stripped down to mere thin layers. Tears staining your face, you look over him and shake your head, a small thumping sound of your heart feeling like it was echoing in the room.

"All I have ever wanted was for you to love me. You have to love me, you must love me." He states. He steps closer to you, looking over you he grips your face and pulls you near. "You will love me. You will." He states firmly.

Scared at this point you cannot find your words. He presses his lips to yours and at first, you give in, you cave, you wrap your arms around him and kiss him deeply, lovingly, longing for that affection he wanted to give you, but then you start to push away, saddened by the fact that he couldn't believe you, that he had no trust in you.

"No…" You start to push away, but you didn't want him to at the same time, it was this conflicting feeling.

"Do not tell me no, you want this…" he points out as he listens to your breathing.

You have no means of responding.

"I'm not taking that as a no." he states.

You give him a cold stare, looking over his face, his lips press against yours and you shove him back, and he throws you to the bed. You bounce once before he climbs on top of you and looks you over. He tilts his head and looks over your face and takes your wrists and places them above your head and looks over your face intently.

You attempt to wiggle free but he hovers over you, his body pressed against yours. In one hand he has your hands gripped together, in the other hand hikes up your skirt, he looks over you, and he leans in and nips at your lips. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you close your eyes. Shaking your head you begin to breathe heavier. It felt good, his hands on you, it always felt good, but there was this sense of fight that also washed over you.

As his lips found your neck he kissed up your neck to your jaw, finding your lips. While you loved his affection, you were terrified. Literally scared of him.

"Get off of me." you demand.

"Let me show you. See how much I love you." He takes your hand and places it on his hard cock. "This is how much I love you." He states.

You pull your hand away and turn your head in another direction. His senses overwhelm him, and unable to control himself he groans softly as he presses himself against you. You turn your head away from him, maybe checking out, but at the same time ever so present in this moment. As he thrusts himself into you you take in a deep breath. A whimper leaves your lips as a groan leaves his.

Looking over you he observes your features as he turns your face to look at him, leaning in he kisses you again. And it was then you cave, just a little. Your lips pressed against his, your hand moved up his arms to his hair and you pull him closer. Your hips roll against his thrusts and you begin to whimper against his lips. The feeling of him against you was something you always loved. Truthfully you never questioned this man's love for you. But you were conflicted because of how he was coming at you. You didn't know if you should fight him, or cave to him a little more.

The more he thrusts the harder he becomes in his motions, the more you fight. But the more you fight, the more he growls, it was a conflicting feeling all over again and you aren't sure what to do, it was overwhelming. You push him away, shoving him but he pulls you closer.

Feeling your body flush against his you let out another soft whimper. You move your hands to his shoulders as you feel him thrust deeper into you, your moans escaping you were almost pained but yet pleasure-filled. Your hips rolled against his as he continued to thrust with a fever. He pulls you even closer to him, pulling you into his lap as he guides you along his stiffened cock, nuzzling into you, nipping and biting at you.

The moans fill the bedroom, bouncing off the windows and the walls, and while you might be fighting him because of his choice of actions, this man was your life. You kiss him deeply as you both moan in pure pleasure. Your bodies collide in such a raw motion. Thrust after thrust, grunt, and groan after grunt and groan, screams of pure euphoria leaving you both. It all came to a halt with a trembling body-shaking finish, feeling as his cock twitched inside of you as hot ribbons of seed coat your velvet walls. He snarled against your skin, and you bring a hand across his face, and you begin to cry.

Holding you close, he looks down at you, smoothing your hair he presses his face against you.

"Shh… now now, everything is alright. I love you, so much." He whispers. "You have to love me back, you just have to." he says softly.

"I… I do love you, Alexei. I do. I wish you would see that." you say between sniffles.

He holds you close, nuzzling against you. "Shall we draw you a bath?" He asks.

Nodding your head he looks over your face and nods. "I shall draw you a bath. Think about what I said." He states.

"Are you isolating me? From everyone?" you ask as he gets up and slips his pants back on.

With a firm stare, he looks over you. "I am, and it's for our own good. You won't be seeing him, we will stay here as long as it takes." He states truthfully.

And like that, your heart becomes conflicted, you love this man, but you feel scared of this man… but then you look at him, and you don't feel afraid anymore. You just want him to see that you do love him. It's conflicting, and it's terrifying, you love him, but is it true? Staying here, you're only choice is to grow to love him. But that's been his goal all along, for you to love him, and for him to show you in so many ways how he loves you.

[fanningfics]

DC Prompt: Kon Gaslights, Gatekeeps, Girlbosses Tim into a nuclear family.

(Just a little something my brain cooked up)

Conner Kent had learned to treasure what life had given him, and be rid of the things that impeded him. That's why Conner loved Martha and John Kent and held absolute disrespect for Clark Kent aka Superman. He grew to be possessive of the things he considered his, obsessive almost - something he suspected had to do with Lex Luthor's DNA. And despite what some may say, Tim Drake is his. The first to ever look at him and see a person, the first to teach him about the beauty and reality of living, the first to ever prioritise him. So of course Kon had to return the favour. Kon loved Tim Drake, and he won't stand for his love to be exploited by the Bats any longer. He'd long since learned the art of manipulation at the hand of a master manipulator like Tim Drake. And he will use it without remorse to get Tim out of that toxic fucking family no matter what.

It starts with Kon hinting about eventually wanting children. It continues with Kon pretending to be sad about the fact they can't have kids with both his and Tim's DNA. When Tim tentatively Brings up the idea of using the same cloning tech as Luthor, Kon tells him that would be a great idea someday.

There was a bit of a hiccup when Kon briefly died. But apparently It turned everything in his favour because when he was alive again, Tim had been burned almost catastrophically by the Bats and had turned to him in tears feeling guilty about creating their test tube children during his death. Their kids were only a month old by the time Kon returned and Tim had fixed the Bat family's problems. Kon didn't turn Tim away like he had feared. No, for Kon this was the best news he had ever heard - he was elated. He was prepared for his plan to need 10 years to come into fruition but it turned out amazingly well during his death - of course Tim being incredibly worn out was bad, but this just meant Kon could wheedle him to his side more for comfort. So now, Kon has biological twins with Tim and he's ecstatic, because phase 2 of the plan could start right away.

Phase 2 meaning gaslighting Tim about the safety of their children around the Bats - what with Jason being so volatile, the demon brat being so aggressive, and now he can add Dick to it too being unreliable. Kon doesn't know why his beautiful boyfriend can't see how terrible the Bats are but their beautiful babies will make him see it. Because while Tim may not have any self-preservation Instincts, Kon knows he’ll wreck hell on earth for his loved ones, and their children have just now taken top priority.

Kon knows that logically, the Bats wouldn't ever harm babies but that's the point of gaslighting, to go against logic, to believe the unfactual. And it was working. Tim had been back from the time stream for three months and had yet to contact any of the Bats, too busy living their blissful life in San Francisco.

One day, Tim suggested to the team about staying in San Francisco permanently and taking on a new Hero identity. Kon is so glad their teammates are on the same page and encouraged it heavily. Kon is right beside Tim as he sends his resignation to Wayne Enterprises, returns his Red Robin uniform through the Zeta tube and remotely removes Red Robin from the Gotham roster. Kon is vibrating with delirious joy and rewards Tim with vigorously enjoyable love-making.

There is outcry of course, from the Bats, but Kon is there to tell Tim he made the right choice, that he had to think about their children, that he wouldn't want to subject their kids to the Bat treatment. He's not entirely sure which of his words hit, but one of them does, and suddenly Tim is gung ho about his separation from the Batfamily. Kon is more than relieved.

Dick, Damian and Jason try to come to the tower, but they have long since been banned. Damian and Jason for their previous attacks, Dick was turned away by Kon himself, never once catching a glimpse of Tim.

Bruce enters the tower and Kon is right beside Tim grinning smugly as the man spots the babies between him and his adoptive son.

“Tim what did you do?” He had forgotten about everything he wanted to ask as he saw the babies each boy held.

“These are mine and Kon's children.” Tim told him, cradling one of them close.

“How?”

“A little help from clone technology.”

“Tim thats unethical-”

“He had my permission” Kon interrupted “I wanted the kids, Timmy just made it happen”

Bruce is surprised by Kon's even stare, shoulders bared protectively. And then he spots the smirk on his lips, that proud tilt of his lips, something about it was mocking.

“What are you doing here Bruce?” Tim asked.

“Tim- I -you left. Permanently. You resigned from everything. You didn't even talk to us, you kept refusing to talk to us.”

“I'm not hearing a question” Tim said distractedly, cooing at his child.

“Tim, why did you leave?” Tim looked up, this is the first time Bruce has seen his eyes in months - and he doesn't recognise the coldness in them.

“I left for them” Tim brushed the cheek of his baby.

“I don't understand” Bruce stammered.

“We would never turn you or your kids away.”

“I don't feel safe in that manor.” He was direct, unfeelingly straightforward, and unregarding of the flinch his statement caused.

“W-what?”

“I don't feel safe in your family where two of your sons have tried to kill me without reparations, where your oldest tried to convince me I was insane for knowing you were alive, where the most sensible man there has ignored every abuse thrown my way, where you have repeatedly insisted on making me just as paranoid and mentally unwell as you. I don't feel safe in your home mentally or physically, and I don't want my kids to be anywhere where they might get hurt.” Tim takes a deep breath, and stares at him with that distant unfamiliar stare “Bruce, I love you,” he said quietly, loudly in the silence “but I don't feel safe with you.”

Bruce can feel his heart break, “Tim” he croaked out weakly, and from the corner of his eyes, he spotted Kon's wide grin, wider than it had been when Bruce had first entered, full of satisfaction, glee and vindication. Bruce has the eerie feeling that this was his fault somehow, his Ducky would never do this without being pushed and this boy had something to do with it.

Kon, having noticed Bruce's realisation only smiled harder “I think it's time for you to go Batman” Kon said mockingly “if any of you want to get in touch with Tim, you'll have to talk to me first.” Bruce glared at the upstart, and then looked to Tim to try and have him deny it, but Tim only nodded his assent and averted his gaze. Bruce fumed, somehow he knew that Kon had obviously manipulated Tim's compliance.

[advisorykitty]

Haii!! Can I request a Nyon x Reader x Nyen? Where Reader is a Catwomen who is very ditzy and airheaded. Also very sleepy. And Nyen and Nyon who surprisingly were warmed up to her (in their minds they have the same love for her like they do Luther) and they’re very possessive and obsessive. Maybe she manages to get out of the house and she’s approached by a stranger who won’t leave her alone. But she didn’t realize she was followed by Nyon and Nyen who didn’t like her leaving the house at all.

Caught in the middle nyonxreaderxnyon

The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a warm, sleepy glow, the kind that made you feel like curling up in a sunspot for a nap. Your tail swayed lazily behind you as you wandered down the street, half-awake, half-daydreaming. It wasn’t often you ventured out of Luther’s house—being a cat(wo)man meant you spent most of your time napping in cozy corners, pissing Nyen off when you had the chance, and taking constant duties from your master. Your soft [F/C] outfit a constant companion.

However, today you thought you'd try something new. Something had stirred your curiosity, and before you knew it, you were out, wandering the streets.Your (H/C) haircut—Luther’s idea, of course—framed your face perfectly, giving you that carefree, sleepy look he always said suited you. You liked it, though; it felt effortless, just like your life most days.

You were so lost in your own little world that you didn’t notice the man following you until he was right beside you.

“Hey there, beautiful,” his voice interrupted your thoughts, and you blinked, trying to focus on him through the haze of your sleepy brain.

“Huh?” you mumbled, your ears twitching slightly.

“I said, you look nice today. Maybe we could grab a coffee or something.” His grin was too wide, too eager, and it made you want to take a step back, though your slow brain didn’t quite catch up to your body.

“Oh... I don’t like coffee,” you said softly, still half-dazed. “I like [F/D] better.”

His smile faltered for a second but came back, this time with a hint of irritation. “Well, we can get [F/D] too. I don’t mind. C’mon, I’ll show you a good time.”

You blinked again, trying to process what he was saying. There was something off about him, but your brain was too foggy to figure out what. “Um... no thanks. I think I’ll just... go home.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly. Let’s go grab that [F/D]. You cosplaying?? I could get behind that, i know some forepl- .”

Before you could figure out how to respond, a low, angry voice cut through the air. “She said no, asshole.”

You turned, and there he was—Nyen, stepping out from behind you, like some pissed-off avenging cat. His eyes flashed with anger, and his whole body practically vibrated with tension. Nyon stood beside him, quieter but no less intimidating with his hat casting shadows over his eyes.

The man turned, looking Nyen up and down. “Who the fuck are you?”

Nyon didn’t even flinch, his Russian accent thick as he added, “You leave. No good for you here.”

The man’s confidence wavered, but he still tried to act tough. “She doesn’t need a babysitter. I’m just talking to her.”

Nyen’s lip curled in disgust. “Talking? Yeah, right. You were bothering her, dickhead.”

You blinked, your brain finally catching up to the situation. “He was?”

Nyon sighed softly, muttering something in Russian that you couldn’t understand but knew was probably an insult.

The man bristled, clearly feeling cornered. “Look, I was just being friendly.”

Nyen stepped forward, his fists clenched. “Friendly? You call that friendly? Get lost before I shove my boot so far up your ass, you’ll taste leather for a week.”

The stranger visibly paled, finally realizing he was out of his depth. With one last mumbled insult, he turned and walked off, much faster than he’d arrived.

You blinked again, looking up at Nyen. “Was he bothering me?”

Nyen groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, are you that clueless? Yes, he was bothering you.”

You frowned, trying to piece it together. “Oh... I thought he was just being nice.”

Nyon shook his head, muttering more Russian under his breath. “Ты такая беспечная,” he said, though there was no real anger in his voice, just exasperation.

Nyen shot you a look that was equal parts annoyed and protective. “Look, you can’t just wander off like that. What if we hadn’t been here? You’d have been fucked.”

You yawned, rubbing your eyes lazily. “But I just wanted some fresh air…”

Nyon sighed, stepping closer and looking down at you with concern. “Air inside house... good too. You stay safe.”

Nyen grumbled, crossing his arms. “Next time you wanna go outside, tell us. We don’t like you being out here alone, not with creeps like that roaming around.”

You blinked, surprised by how serious they both were. “I didn’t mean to worry you... Sorry.”

Nyen sighed, his anger finally fading as he looked at you. “Just... don’t be so fucking dumb next time, alright?”

Nyon nodded in agreement, though his tone was much gentler. “You be careful. Always.”

You smiled sleepily, not really understanding the full weight of their concern but appreciating it nonetheless. “Okay... I’ll be more careful.”

Nyen rolled his eyes, though you could see a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sure you will.”

As you turned to head back home, Nyen and Nyon flanked you, sticking close like two overprotective—and ridiculously possessive—guards. You yawned again, oblivious to the fact that they were still radiating a mix of irritation and fierce protectiveness. You didn’t fully grasp just how serious they were about keeping you safe.

“Well, that was exciting,” you mumbled sleepily, blinking at Nyen. “I didn’t know people could be so... persistent.”

Nyen huffed, clearly still annoyed. “Persistent? That guy was a total creep. If we hadn’t shown up, who knows what that asshole would’ve tried next. Probably would’ve dragged you off for your damn [F/D] without even asking.”

Nyon nodded seriously. “Да. Bad man. You not see it. You too... airheaded.”

You gave a lazy grin, still half-drifting in your own little world. “I guess I’m just too friendly for my own good, huh?”

Nyen groaned, rubbing his face in frustration. “Too friendly? No, you’re just too fucking clueless. Friendly gets you into trouble when you don’t realize some dickhead’s trying to hit on you. We can’t always be around to bail your ass out, y’know.”

Nyon added in his thick accent, “Is why you stay close. Safe inside. Outside is... shit.” He seemed satisfied with his choice of words.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound soft and airy. “You two are acting like I’m some kind of... kitten or something.”

Nyen shot you a deadpan look. “Kitten? Try more like a dumbass wandering into traffic. You don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on half the time.”

Nyon nodded, ever serious. “Yes. Like kitten. But... dumb kitten.”

You blinked, your tail twitching behind you. “A dumb kitten?”

Nyen smirked. “Yeah. A dumb kitten with no idea she’s in danger until someone’s about to kick her ass. That’s you.”

You pouted, your ears drooping. “I’m not that bad…”

“Yeah? You thought that jackass back there was just being ‘friendly,’” Nyen said, making air quotes. “Meanwhile, he’s about two seconds away from getting his teeth knocked in.”

Nyon grinned, a rare flash of amusement lighting his face. “Yes. Would’ve been... bad for him. Very bad.”

You sighed dramatically, rubbing your temples. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re both my bodyguards now. I’ll tell you next time I want to leave the house. Happy?”

Nyen shook his head, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Bodyguards? Nah. More like babysitters for a kitten who’s got no idea how much trouble she’s in half the time.”

Nyon snickered. “Yes. Babysitters. For dumb kitten.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “You two are impossible.”

Nyen smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Nah, we’re just the only thing keeping you from wandering off into more shit. You’re lucky we care enough to stick around.”

Nyon nodded seriously. “Very lucky.”

As the three of you made your way home, you couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not that much of a dumbass…”

Nyen chuckled darkly. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that, kitten.”

Nyon grinned, his broken English only making his point more cutting. “We watch over you... because you too... dumb for world.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

Nyen laughed. “Not a fucking chance, kitten. Not a fucking chance.”

[literatureloverx]

Eeeeh!!! Your writing is just! Too good! This should be your full time job. I think my brain has overloaded with request ideas. I'm sorry...I'll try and contain myself. But..if you want to please either of these...

Fyodor and bondage...please let's go there.

Fyodor general relationship headcanons (guys clearly yandere by nature..but how does that look for his darling.)

❤️

Thank you so much for the huge compliment, dear!♥️ I wish I could live off of this.

I’m so sorry it took me so long to write this. Please, please forgive me.♥️

I’d love to hear all your ideas and requests! I’m a slow writer, so it takes me some time to complete posts, but I’ll get to them eventually. Please don’t hesitate to share—though it may take a while, I’ll get there!♥️

I wrote bondage headcanons + a scenario. I’m not trying to be arrogant, but I think it might be some of my best work so far.

Mdni, yandere!Fyodor, wife!reader, sub!reader, dom!Fyodor, bondage, VERY detailed.

Note: You have a huge mirror on top of your canopy bed. Which means: you can see every single filthy thing he’s about to do to you.

The headcanons are under the first cut, the scenario is under the second cut.

Enjoy.♥️

Fyodor & Bondage

"You and me... your eyes wide open, wrists bound to the bed, and my hands marking every inch of your skin as mine."

Headcanons

Fyodor Dostoyevsky's obsession with control isn't simply a trait—it's a reflection of his very nature, an extension of the meticulous mind that crafts every move in his life like a grand game of chess.

In the bedroom, this need for control manifests in ways that blur the line between cruelty and devotion, creating a deeply intimate yet unsettling dynamic between you.

He doesn't tie you up just for the sake of it; every knot, every piece of silk that binds your wrists to the bedposts, is an act of art in itself.

He takes pleasure in the delicate balance between pain and pleasure, understanding how the tension in the bonds heightens your senses.

The way your chest rises and falls with each breath, constrained by the bindings, is a symphony to his ears—a rhythm he orchestrates with masterful precision.

Fyodor's control is not just physical; it's psychological, a deep-seated need to own not just your body but your mind.

He whispers in your ear as he works, his voice a soft, dangerous lullaby that wraps around you, lacing his words with a poison that makes you crave his touch even more.

He knows your thoughts before you do, anticipates your desires, and then dangles them just out of reach until you're nearly frantic with need.

To him, the act of binding you isn't about restraint; it's about possession.

Each time he ties you down, he's reminding you —and himself— that you are his to keep, his to protect, and his to break if he so wishes.

The marks he leaves on your skin are not just evidence of your encounters but symbols of his ownership—a canvas of bruises and bites that declare to the world that you belong to the Fyodor Dostoyevsky and no one else (though he would never allow you to flaunt them to anyone).

In these moments, as you lie there, every inch of you under his control, you understand something about him that no one else does.

He craves beauty, not just in the art he admires or the music he plays, but in the way he manipulates you, his perfect creation.

He takes you apart piece by piece, only to put you back together again, stronger, more bound to him than ever.

And then there's the mirror—his favorite tool of seduction and domination.

Positioned above your shared kingsize bed, it serves as both a reminder and a revelation.

Fyodor loves to make you watch yourself as he works, forcing you to witness the way your body responds to him.

The sight of you in the mirror, bound, gagged, vulnerable, with his hands marking your skin, is a reflection of his power over you.

He enjoys the way your eyes, those beautiful, expressive eyes he refuses to cover, reflect both your submission and your defiance, the internal battle he has mastered like a seasoned conductor.

Fyodor is not a man of brute force; his strength lies in subtlety, in the way he makes you crave the very bondage that holds you down.

It's in the way he can make a single touch linger on your skin like fire, the way he can make you beg for mercy with nothing more than a glance.

His pleasure comes not just from your surrender but from the knowledge that you choose to surrender to him, time and time again.

He has cultivated your dependence on him with a precision that rivals any strategist's plan, making sure that even in your freedom, you're never truly free.

And yet, in this dark dance of power and submission, there is an undeniable tenderness.

Fyodor cherishes you, his fragile, soft, perfect little wife.

Every time he binds you, it's not just about taking control—it's about giving you something as well.

The security of his dominance, the assurance that he knows exactly what you need, even when you don't.

He molds you, not out of cruelty, but out of love, a love so intense it manifests in ways others might find terrifying.

He knows every inch of your body, every weakness, every secret pleasure.

And he uses this knowledge to break you down, only to build you back up again, shaping you into the perfect reflection of his desires.

It's a process that's as intimate as it is intense, a bond that goes beyond mere physical connection.

In Fyodor's eyes, you are more than just his wife—you are his masterpiece, a living, breathing testament to his power, his control, and his love.

And as he watches you, bound and beautiful beneath him, he knows that this is where you belong—by his side, in his arms, forever under his control.

Scenario

Fyodor Dostoyevsky's mastery over you is a delicate art, a carefully crafted symphony where each note resonates with the tension of control and submission.

As Fyodor watches you from above, your body spread before him like an exquisite canvas, his eyes darken with a possessive intensity.

The mirror reflects every angle of your submission, every quiver of anticipation that runs through you. He revels in this moment, savoring the power he holds, not just over your body but your very soul.

He doesn't rush; every movement, every touch, is measured, as if he's composing a piece of music where you are the instrument, and your body, bound and trembling, plays the melody of his desires.

When he binds you, it's not simply to restrict your movement.

No, for Fyodor, the act of bondage is a ritual, a way to elevate your shared experience to something almost sacred.

The babypink silk ropes he uses are chosen with care, soft against your skin, yet firm enough to hold you in place.

The knots he ties are intricate, each one a reflection of his calculated mind, designed to allow just enough movement to keep you on edge, but never enough to break free.

The ropes bite into your flesh, not painfully, but just enough to remind you of your submission to him.

The tension in the ropes mirrors the tension in your body, a taut line that could snap at any moment, but never does, because Fyodor is in control, always.

Your legs are spread wide, ankles secured to the bedposts, leaving you open and vulnerable to him.

He takes his time, his gaze traveling over every inch of you, as if committing the sight to memory. There's something almost clinical about the way he studies you, but there is a dark hunger in his eyes that betrays the possessiveness underneath.

He moves with the grace of a predator, each action calculated, deliberate.

His hands glide down your sides, his touch light and teasing, sending shivers up your spine. He pauses at the curve of your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave a mark, a small, cruel smile playing on his lips as he watches your reflection flinch at the sharpness.

It's a reminder—every bruise, every bite he leaves on your pale skin is a declaration of ownership, his signature on the masterpiece that is you.

He reaches up, tangling a hand in your hair, soft strands slipping through his fingers like silk. His grip tightens, and he pulls your head back, exposing your neck, your chest, as if offering them up for him to mark.

"So fragile," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his breath hot against your skin.

There's an odd mix of reverence and cruelty in his tone, as if he's marveling at how easily he could break you, yet relishing the fact that you trust him not to. Not entirely, at least.

Fyodor leans down, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your neck, before he bites down hard enough to draw a gasp from you. The sting is sharp, sending a rush of heat straight to your core, and you feel his smirk against your skin.

He pulls back to admire the red mark blooming on your neck, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

"Perfect," he says softly, and there's something almost affectionate in his voice, a rare glimpse of the man behind the mask that you know so, so well.

But the softness is fleeting. His hand leaves your hair, trailing down your body, fingers brushing over the marks he's left, over the ropes that hold you in place. He's in no rush, savoring every moment, every reaction he pulls from you.

You feel his hands on your thighs, cool fingers tracing the sensitive skin there, and you can't help the way your breath hitches in anticipation.

His fingers dance over your skin, teasing the sensitive spot there, before moving higher, where you're already wet and aching for him.

He's not even touching you where you need him most, but that's the point, isn't it?

Fyodor revels in your desperation, in the way you squirm under his gaze, every nerve in your body alight with need.

He leans down, his breath hot against your inner thigh, and you shiver at the proximity. But instead of giving you what you crave, he moves away, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

"Patience, my love," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, the kind that sends a shiver down your spine.

Fyodor enjoys making you wait, dragging out the anticipation until it's nearly unbearable. He knows exactly what he's doing, knows that with every second he makes you wait, your desire for him only grows.

The mirror above you captures everything—the way your body arches off the bed, the way your lips part in a silent plea, the way your eyes, wide and desperate, lock onto his in the reflection. Fyodor makes sure you see it all, makes sure you understand the full extent of your submission.

You are his, bound and laid bare for his pleasure, and the sight of you like this, helpless and needy, fuels his own arousal.

He's still fully clothed, a stark contrast to your nakedness, and that only heightens the sense of power imbalance. He's in control, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

His hands move to your breasts, fingers tracing the curves, brushing over your nipples until they harden under his touch.

He takes one in his mouth, sucking gently at first, then biting down just hard enough to elicit a gasp from you. The pain mingles with pleasure, sending a jolt straight to your core, and you tug at the ropes instinctively, your body craving more.

But Fyodor isn't done teasing you yet. He lavishes attention on your other breast, leaving a trail of bruises in his wake, each mark a reminder of his possession.

When he finally, finally, moves lower, you're a trembling mess, your body practically vibrating with need.

Without warning, his fingers slide over your slick folds, parting them with ease, and he lets out a low hum of approval. Your body arches in response, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

"So wet for me, already, мышка?" he muses, his tone darkly amused.

His fingers dip inside you, curling just right, and you can't stop the moan that escapes your lips. He pumps them slowly, torturously slow, his thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to drive you mad.

"Look at yourself," he commands, and your eyes are drawn back to the mirror. The sight is overwhelming—your body laid bare, trembling under his touch, your face flushed with desire, and his reflection, calm, controlled, a stark contrast to your desperation.

He adds another finger, curling them inside you just so, hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

You can feel yourself edging closer and closer to release, but just when you think he'll let you come, he pulls away, leaving you gasping, on the brink but not quite there.

Fyodor's laugh is low, dark, vibrating through you as he watches your frustration build.

"Not yet, my love," he murmurs, his voice like velvet, wrapping around you, suffocating in its intensity.

He watches you, taking in every twitch, every whimper, as you struggle against the bonds, desperate for more. But Fyodor isn't interested in your pleasure now, not entirely.

He's interested in your submission, in the way he can bring you to the edge again and again, only to pull you back, making you beg for him, for his touch, for his mercy.

And he does make you beg. He makes you plead with those beautiful eyes of yours, makes you promise anything, everything, if he'll just let you come.

But your dear husband is disciplined, and he takes his time, drawing out your torture until you're nearly sobbing with need. He loves this—the power he holds over you, the way he can make you lose yourself so completely in him.

It's intoxicating, a heady rush that he will never tire of.

When he finally decides you've had enough, he doesn't give you what you want immediately. He teases you with his length, sliding it against your entrance, rubbing it over your swollen clit, making you writhe beneath him.

"Keep your eyes open," he whispers, his voice a dark, velvety command that sends a thrill of both fear and excitement through you.

Fyodor has no need to raise his voice; the sheer authority laced in his words is enough to ensure your obedience.

"Look at me," he commands. Your eyes flutter open and snap to his, where you see the cold, calculating gleam, before shifting to the mirror.

He wants you to see yourself as he does—beautiful, vulnerable, utterly his.

He shifts, positioning himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising force as he lines himself up with you.

But before he pushes in, he pauses, "I want you to watch," he says, his voice low, commanding, brooking no argument. "Watch how I claim what is mine, моя любимая.”

You nod softly, almost pathetically, and watch as he pushes inside you, slow and deliberate, filling you inch by inch until he's seated deep within you.

He thrusts into you, hard and deep, and you can't hold back the cry that escapes your lips. The stretch, the fullness, is overwhelming, and Fyodor doesn't give you a moment to adjust. The sensation is overwhelming as well, and you cry out, your body straining against the bonds, desperate for more.

“The gag…looks so beautiful on you, love..”~

He pulls back only to slam into you again, setting a brutal pace that has you gasping for breath, your body straining against the ropes that bind you.

The mirror reflects it all—the way your body jerks with each thrust, the way your hands clench and unclench in their bindings, the way your eyes, wide and glassy with pleasure, never leave his.

He sets a slow, torturous pace, drawing out every thrust, making sure you feel every inch of him. The pleasure is almost too much, and yet not enough, and you can't help but whimper, begging him with your eyes to go faster, to let you come. But Fyodor is in no hurry.

He watches you, watches the way your face contorts with pleasure, the way your body responds to him, and he drinks it in, savoring the power he has over you.

Fyodor watches you, his gaze never wavering, taking in every detail, every expression, as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs, his voice a harsh whisper as he leans down, his breath hot against your ear.

"Taking me so well, so beautifully."

His praise is laced with possession, a dark undercurrent that only heightens your arousal. You can feel the tension building, the coil tightening in your belly, ready to snap at any moment.

Fyodor's thrusts become more erratic, more desperate, as he nears his own release. He shifts his angle slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, driving you wild with pleasure.

You can feel yourself teetering on the brink, so close, so achingly close, and you can't help the way your body arches, seeking more, seeking him.

When he finally does let you come, it's with a rough, punishing thrust that sends you spiraling over the edge.

"Come for me," Fyodor orders, his voice rough with need, and it's all you need to push you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and overwhelming, your vision going white as wave after wave of pleasure rips through you. The orgasm rips through you, powerful and all-consuming, and he doesn't stop, prolonging your pleasure until you're a trembling, incoherent mess beneath him, tears of sheer ecstasy slipping down your cheeks.

He follows soon after, his release shuddering through him, and he holds you close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs soft, possessive words, claiming you all over again. He holds you there, his grip on your hips almost painful, burying himself deep inside you as he spills into you, a low, guttural moan escaping him as he does, grounding himself in the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him.

For a moment, the world seems to stand still, the only sound the harsh breathing of the two of you, the only movement the slight tremors that still wrack your body.

Then, slowly, Fyodor pulls out, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he takes in the sight of you—utterly spent, bound, marked, and completely his.

He takes his time untying you, his touch surprisingly gentle as he massages your wrists, soothing the marks left by the ropes. He unties you with a tenderness that's almost jarring after the intensity of what you just shared.

He rubs soothing circles into your wrists, kisses the marks he's left on your skin, and pulls you into his arms, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheeks, as he murmurs words of praise and affection, a stark contrast to the roughness from before.

In the aftermath, as you lie there in his arms, completely exhausted, you feel a strange sense of contentment wash over you.

Fyodor has pushed you to your limits, taken you apart and put you back together, and in doing so, has only strengthened the bond between you.

You are his, in every sense of the word.

Fyodor may be a man who craves control, but he's not without care. He cherishes you, his fragile little wife, and in these moments, when you're sated and secure in his embrace, you understand the depths of his love for you.

You belong to him, body and soul, and as you drift off to sleep in his arms, you know that there's no place you'd rather be.

Fyodor has claimed you, bound you to him in every way that matters, and you wouldn't change a thing.

In his arms, in his control, you are exactly where you belong.

~

FYODOR’S MASTERLIST => HERE

TO MY OTHER WORKS => HERE

[burtonsdoodles]

A super random concept that just popped into my brain and I can’t stop thinking about it:

Ianto Jones working at the Time Hotel!

Please tell someone else has already come up with this concept because I’m actually now obsessed with it. I think it’d be brilliant… and to make it all Janto-y, it would give them both a way to stay in each other’s lives. It would be like a River and the Doctor situation - where circumstance won’t allow them a happily ever after together but that doesn’t stop them making the most of it when their path do cross.

Also, to add a bit of angst in there - there’s something really interesting about the idea of ianto now being the one who watches Jack get older with each encounter while, physically, he would be the one who barely changes (in correspondence with regular human aging, I mean). Say for every year of Ianto’s life, jacks lived 20, 50, 100 years - idk.

And maybe it gets to a point where the romantic side of things fade away but they remain each others confidants, the meet ups are a way to check in with each other, process events, ground each other in the madness of their respective lives. Or maybe it gets to a point where they don’t actually interact but, like Anita in Reality War, ianto uses the master key to watch over jacks life, and sometimes Jack will spot him in the background and no matter the situation he’s in, he’ll just smile, because it keeps the memories they had together alive and reminds him that even after all this time, he still has someone watching over him…

(Also, I’m totally here for the idea of Anita and Ianto being absolute besties as they bond over their experiences with overly charismatic immoral beings and being undeniably excellent at their jobs as they flawlessly run this mad hotel!)

LB :)

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Deck the Halls 🎻

Bale!Bruce Wayne x Wife!reader

A/N: This is the ultimate crossover, Bale!Bruce and Christmas, what more could you want??? I don't know quite how I feel about it mainly because I wrote most of it at 3 am lmao. Love-hate relationship, I guess. I hope you like it, anyway!

~Fi 🐝

Fi's Christmas Market ☃️

Warnings: implied angst?? Mention of his parents' death (very briefly), so much fluff omg, starring Alfred, Selina, and Lucius, Bruce is obsessed with you <3

Word count: 3.6k

Please don't copy my work! I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

"A Gingerbread house contest?"

Bruce gave you a skeptical look as you explained your idea for the annual Wayne Yule Ball. You were sitting at the meeting table in the office of Wayne Enterprises, brain storming ideas to make this years Gala a little more interesting. The events were always quite boring, the only thing keeping your spirits up was the bar most of the time.

You'd occasionally hang around on the side lines with Alfred, people-watching Gothams wealth. This year had to be different. You were sick and tired of the fad and dragging evenings.

This was the Yule Ball, after all. The Manor would be decked in lights and ornaments, the lovely tunes of Christmas would echo through the halls and you'd actually have some fun for once.

Bruce would try to make them more bearable for you, inviting you to dance as much as he could, even if it earned him detesting looks. He wasn't a huge fan either, but it was his duty. He'd rather be curled up with you, feeling your warmth against his skin while doing your favorite festive activities.

Selina was seated next to you, twirling a pen between her fingers, looking like she was about to collapse from boredom. Alfred sat next to Bruce with a notepad, writing down any ideas that had come forth. Lucius was there too, of course, hoping to aid in any technical things.

"Yeah, why not? We need to do something interesting this year, and a making Gingerbread houses is a pretty classic activity, no?" You responded, shrugging slightly.

"I'll definitely come to the Ball if you pull through with that." Selina smirked. Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, honey? I mean, most of the people that attend aren't really ones to get their hands dirty."

"If I may, Master Bruce, I think it's a great idea." Alfred interrupted politely, making you smile. "I think it's important for the rich of Gotham to not lose touch with the average life. And, it'd be quite sweet, wouldn't it?"

Alfred grinned, proud of the pun he just made. You let put a small giggle while Selina and Lucius were smiling slightly. Bruce, on the other hand, sighed as his brows pulled together.

"Alright, so if we do this, who's going to be the judge?" He asked, finally caving in to your request.

"I knew you'd come around," you smiled, watching as a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, "I think it's pretty obvious. Alfred should judge the houses."

"Me? Miss, I'm flattered but I don't think I have the expertise to-"

"Nonesense, Alfie," Selina cut him off, "We've all seen what you can do in the kitchen. If anyone's going to judge anything, it should be you."

"I agree. He does make a mean Victoria Sponge." Luscius agreed, his reasoning strong enough to make Alfred ponder for a moment.

"It doesn't just have to be houses. We can just give them creative freedom, let them go at it." You suggested, earning nods of approval.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," Selina mumbled, inhaling a sharp breath,"What if we make it a family event? Let them bring their kids. They'd probably be more open to the whole idea that way."

"Good thinking, Miss Kyle."

Bruce chewed on his lips as he thought. This would be very different than most years. His parents had started the tradition of a yearly Yule Ball, and he was afraid to make changes. But then he thought back to how his parents always tried to keep a somewhat humble life to be able to help the people in need more efficiently. Also, he could never say no to you.

"Okay. Why not. Even if they don't enjoy it, at least we'll have a good time." He smiled softly, looking at you. You almost beamed with excitment.

"We need a price too, right? What's the point of a contest without a price." Selina intervened. A silence fell over the room as everyone was thinking of what the price coule be.

"I say we give the winner an hour with Bruce's credit card and see how much damage they can do." You snorted, meaning it as a joke but when you weren't met with disagreement a surpirsed expression took over your face.

"Fine by me." Bruce shrugged. You forgot that he was a billionaire sometimes.

"Well, I wasn't expecting that but that just upped my determination by 100%." Selina grinned, making Bruce roll his eyes.

Bruce started talking to Lucius about the organizational aspects while you discreetly high fived Selina under the table. You'd talked about this idea before, your friend mostly finding it funny that the most esteemed people of Gotham would have to struggle with sprinkles and sticky icing.

She was quite impressed you pulled through, although that Bruce agreed wasn't a surprise to her. He'd do about anything you asked, which she sometimes used to her advantage.

"You truly have him wrapped around your finger, huh?" Selina mused, sending a sly smirk your way. You leaned back in your chair, inspecting the shimmering wedding band on your hand.

"Well, he wouldn't have put a ring on it if I hadn't." You grinned, making Selina shake her head with a chuckle.

"When do I need to be there to see Gotham get down and dirty?"

"December 25th, 8:00 pm, Wayne Manor."

"See ya then." The brunette gave you one last grin before taking her leave, claiming she had some 'business' to attend to. The so called 'business' would surely end up on the front page of the Gotham Gazette tomorrow morning. She was a great friend despite her passion for her illegal hobby. You couldn't really blame her, though. She'd grown up with nothing, and had to fight to survive.

You were the last one to complain if one of Gothams renowned business men mysteriously lost a couple of million dollars, which then appeared donated to a charity the next day. She'd never steal from you, or Bruce.

That's not to say she hadn't tried, but Selina did find that Martha's necklace suited you just a tad better than her. She had quite the soft spot for you, you weren't like the rest of the wealthy people she knew. You were honest, understanding and kind. Selina put a great amount of trust in you and she knew you'd never break it. If that meant having to put up with Bruce once in a while, so be it.

Alfred slipped into the seat next to you, Bruce and Luscius still discussing the guest list, when to send the invites, and to order all the necessary things for the contest.

"Truly a marvelous idea, Mrs. Wayne. He never dared to make any changes before you came along, you know?"

You turned you head towards him, a slight blush on your cheeks. Did you really have that much of an impact on him? To think that you were the one that made the Bruce Wayne soften and be more open to change made your heart swell with pride.

"Really? I thought he just never cared that much. For the Ball, I mean." You said, intrigued of what you were about to learn from Alfred about your beloved Husband.

"No, no, not at all. It was his favorite thing as a boy. What I'd do to see him happy like that again." The older man sighed, a melancholic tint in his eyes.

You smiled at the thought of Bruce being excited for Christmas. Just being a boy. You reckoned all of that changed after his parents' death. The warm and loving holiday was now left in gray dullness and the emptiness that he felt in his heart when he'd sit under the tree, all alone, yearning for a hug from his father and the gentle touch of his mothers lips on his cheek.

You were determined to fill that void, shower him in all your love until the gaping hole in his chest was fixed. Who knew if it was possible, but you were willing to give it your all.

"You will, I promise." You replied softly, gently placing your hand on his arm. Alfred gave you an appreciative smile, the sadness in his eyes wavering slightly. He softly padded your hand, resting it on it for a moment.

"You make him so happy already, though. I suppose I can't complain too much, can I?" He joked, making you laugh softly.

"I'm just loving him, that's all."

"That's all he needed." Alfred smiled softly.

Bruce glanced over to you, his heart pouding with pure love as he saw you laughing with Alfred. His two favorite people were getting along so well, it made unbridled joy bloom in his chest. You had changed his life, only for the better, you made him feel like a person again.

For years he'd been aimlessly wandering, hoping to find himself. He was lost in the dark, going through life pretending to be someone he wasn't. Or was he? He didn't know. But you were his guiding light, your gentle flicker lighting up his path. Your soft warmth getting him through many a cold night when the thoughts of self doubt and fear were gnawing at him.

All he needed was you pressed against his chest, your soft breathing like a sweet lullaby to him as you slept peacefully in his arms.

"Mister Wayne? Mister Wayne-" Lucius voice broke him out of his daydream, his back straightend and he cleared his throat, hoping no one caught him. You were still chatting on with Alfred, so you hadn't noticed, good. But when he looked over to Lucius, there was a knowing smirk on the man's face.

"Yes, Mr. Fox? Do you have the guest list ready?" Bruce questioned, fiddling with his fingers. He looked at Lucius expectantly, trying to hide his slight embarrassment.

"I don't blame you for staring. She fills the role of Mrs. Wayne perfectly." He answered, a gentle smile on his face. Bruce's shoulders immediately dropped, the tension fading away. He let out a small huff through his nose with a tight lipped smile.

"She does, doesn't she? It's like she was made for this. Made for me." He said quietly, the adoring look in his eyes as he admired you not being missed by the Inventor. Lucius placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Why don't you spend the day together? I'll take care of everything." He said reassuringly.

Bruce's eyes widened slightly and he turned to face Lucius.

"Lucius-"

"No, I won't hear it. Go on, spend the day with her." He gave him chuckle before patting his back and gathering his things.

"We're done here, Mrs. Wayne. You can have your husband back." Lucius laughed, packing up the last of his documents. You giggled, which immediately set Bruce's heart aflame.

"How gracious of you, Mr. Fox." You teased, getting out of your chair, Alfred by your side.

"Let's go, my love. We have Christmas movies to watch and a dog to cuddle." You chirped, dragging him out of his chair.

All he could do was smile as he let himself be taken by you and wonder how he got this damn lucky.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

You were now curled up on the couch, Bruce by your side, his arm draped around you. Your dog, Rudy, was snoozing on your lap as you scratched his head. The extra weight and warmth of your pup made it hard to keep your eyes open.

You were resting comfortably against Bruce, who traced gentle patterns on your arm as he was tentatively watching the TV. A smile tugged at your lips at Bruce's soft breaths, his strong chest falling and rising, lulling you to sleep. Your smile was cut off by a yawn. You lifted your hand from Rudy's head to cover your mouth, but he let out a whine, immediately nudging at your hand.

You chuckled groggily, trying to keep the sleep at bay so you could enjoy your moment with Bruce.

"'M sorry, buddy." You cooed, going back to petting your fur baby.

"You're tired, honey, I'll take over. Go to sleep." Bruce said softly in your ear, gently moving your hand and replacing it with his, making Rudy's tail wag slightly.

"S'your fault for being so warm and comfy and- you." You mumbled, letting your head fall against his shoulder.

"I mean, I can stop." He teased, taking his arm away from around you. You caught his wrist in a surprisingly tight grip.

"Do it and see what happens." You slurred, eyes still closed. Even in your sleepy state, you were still your feisty little self.

"Alright, I'd like to keep my arm, please." He laughed, wrapping his arm around you again, just a little tighter this time. You nuzzled closer to his side, making Rudy begrudgingly adjust his position as well.

"Are you excited for the Yule Ball?" You asked quietly, looking up at your husband as best as you could with sleep tugging at your limbs.

"I am. For the first time in a while, actually. Thanks to you." He replied with a soft smile, placing a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose. A lopsided smile crept onto your face, and you stretched your neck a bit to press a sweet kiss to his lips.

"I love you." You mumbled before finally dozing off with a smile on your face.

"I love you too, honey." Bruce whispered gently, his lips pressed to the top of your head as he sunk into the couch.

He couldn't wait for the Ball. Something he loved so dearly that was tainted for him for many years was now coming back to him brighter than ever. All thanks to you, the lovely woman he chose to marry.

He'd marry you anew every single day if he could.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The day had finally come, and you were a nervous wreck. You really didn't want to mess this up. You had big shoes to fill; Martha Wayne was loved by Gotham, and now that you held the title of Mrs. Wayne, you didn't want to disappoint anyone.

Not the people of Gotham, not Martha, but most importantly, not him. You'd been running around like a headless chicken the entire day, double checking everything so nothing could go wrong.

The decorations were being set up, and you might've snapped at a poor worker for hanging one of the garlands a little too much to the right. You were stressed out of your mind, regretting ever suggesting this. Right now, you were checking if all the sheets of Gingerbread had arrived and if all the decorations were set up.

The gentle touch of Bruce's hand on your shoulder snapped you out of the frenzy in your head. He guided you to a quiet corner with a hand on the small of your back.

"Bruce, I have to get back to-"

He interrupted you with a firm kiss, cupping your cheeks.

"No. You're completely stressing yourself out, and we can't have that. I'll take care of everything. And now you need to take care of yourself. Take a bath, get ready, do whatever you need to do. Please, calm down. Everything will be perfect, I promise." He said it so softly you could feel all the anxiety and stress fall away.

You let out a deep breath as you leaned into his touch.

"Okay. Thank you." You sighed with a small smile.

"Good. You know very well that tiring you out is my job." He said lowly with a glint in his eyes. You huffed and playfully hit his arm.

"Go check on the sprinkles."

"Yes, Ma'am."

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

You did as he said, you took a bath to ease the tension in your muscles that had been building up throughout the day.

Now, you were sitting at your vanity, adding some final touches to your make-up. The guest would arrive soon, and you were glad the excitement took over the anxiety.

Bruce walked into your shared bedroom, fixing his cuffs.

"Are you almost ready?" He asked, not looking at you, still fiddling with his suit. You responded with a small 'Mhm!' and walked over to him, brushing some wrinkles out of your gown. When he did look at you, he visibly stopped in his tracks.

You were wearing a green velvet gown with lace accents, and he was completely enarmoured. When his gaze trailed upwards, he caught sight of his mothers necklace sitting around your neck. If you weren't already married, he'd would've proposed right now.

"You look stunning." He breathed out, hie pupils dilated. You chuckled softly, brushing your hand over the lapel of his jacket.

"Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself." You teased, earning a small smirk from him. His hands settled in your waist. Bruce hastily pulled you in for a passionate kiss.

The air was knocked from your lungs as his lips moved so perfectly against yours. You melted into his touch but caught yourself before you'd do something that'd make you two very late.

"Alright," you breathed heavily, steadying your hands on his chest, "that's enough, Lover boy. We have a Ball to host."

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

All the guests had arrived and Bruce stepped into the center of the room, beginning his welcoming speech.

"Welcome, Everyone, I'm very glad you could join us here today for the annual Wayne Yule Ball. This is a tradition that my parents started that I wish to keep on as long as I can."

"This year will be a little different. Courtesy of my lovely wife, Mrs. Wayne," he looked in your direction and reached out his hand for you to take with a gentle smile, which you did without hesitation,"there will be a gingerbread house contest. I see you've brought your little ones and I hope that this will be a pleasant and memorable evening for us all." He ended his speech with a soft smile.

"Feel free to take as much times as you desire. Everything you need is provided, so all you need now is your imagination and creativity." You spoke up.

"Your delicious creations will be judged and the winner gets a nice reward. I hope you have a lovely time and a Merry Christmas!"

There was a small round of applause before old and young scrambled towards the tables decked with gingerbread, sprinkles and icing, to begin their gingerbread builds. You participated too, you'd teamed up with Selina, who had been nursing a flute of champagne until now.

Bruce and Lucius decided to indulge as well, already planning out their engineered masterpiece.

"Let's show 'em our claws." Selina smiled slyly. The lights made her dark blue dress embroidered with sparkling stars stand out. She looked very good this evening.

And Bruce might've paid for that dress... unknowingly.

"You got it, kitty." You replied with a smirk.

You were going the classic route. It would be a house, but more of a whimsical cottage type. Vines if icing were woven around the gingerbread walls, blooming into blankets of Ivy. The roof would be decked in sweet snow and delicate sugar flowers.

Selina couldn't help but add a tiny cat hidden at the back of the house. The atmosphere was delightful, laughter and chatter whisked through the room accompanied by the tunes of Christmas songs.

The decorations that adorned the walls and ceilings of the Manor dipped the room in a warm glow. You decided to glance over at Bruce and Lucius, to see what they'd come up with. When your gaze met their creation the piping bag of icing slipped from your hands and your jaw slacked.

"They built the goddamn batmobile." You said in disbelief, making your partner perk up.

She scoffed and went back to, now aggressively, pushing small sugar decorations into the icing.

"Show offs." Selina grumbled.

Bruce noticed your staring and shot you a toothy grin.

"A sweet ride, don't you think?"

You groaned at his terrible joke and shook your head.

"Unbelievable." You muttered, going back to perfecting your little house.

The chattered had died down as the judging began. Everyone watched in anticipation as Alfred made his way through room, inspecting each Gingerbread sculpture carefully. He made some small comments here and there, mainly on the ones the children had made.

In the end, a little girl and her sister won- they'd built, or at least tried to, a castle. Alfred thought it was very charming, and it reminded him of home, so naturally, he picked them as winners. They were overjoyed, jumping around excitedly, gushing it about it to their parents.

The girls earned a round of applause, and an arm slipped around your waist.

"A shame we didn't win." Bruce sighed playfully.

"I can't believe you built the batmobile. I expected a lot, but not that." You laughed, the lights reflecting off of you perfectly. Or at least that's what Bruce thought.

"But it was fun, don't you think? Thank you, again, for agreeing." You said softly. Bruce smiled at you, and gentle squeezed at your side.

"Anything for you. I can't wait to see what you come up with next year." He kissed your cheek, pulling you closer as you watched the joy and holiday cheer fill the room.

He truly couldn't wait for next year, to deck the halls with you by his side.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

It didn't turn out as Christmas-y as I wanted it to, but I hope you enjoyed reading it nonetheless! <3

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Lost and Found (dp x dc)

Alfred sighed as he looked over the wide gymnasium, thinking to himself that he shouldn’t have listened to Leslie. Community service was all well and good as a way to connect with people, but overseeing an inter-school bakery-sale-and-science-fair combined event was proving to be more chaotic than anything else.

As another child dropped yet another just-bought desert on the floor, Alfred slunk into the shadows deciding to let the clean-up be someone else’s task for once. As he got further and further from the main hubbub, the ex(?)-butler arrived near a small exit door and snuck out quitely. As the fresh air hit his face, Alfred let out a breath. Seeing so many children around had him thinking of his charge and where he could possibly be.

The older man hadn’t brought a pack, since he’s been going to a school, but in the moment he wished he had. Sighing once again, Alfred shook off the craving as he took a few steps towards the communal school garden when the sight of a black-haired boy sitting with his back to him had him freezing. A second later his brain caught up to him, reminding him that this was not young master Bruce. The crushing disappointment he felt as he recognized the boy in front of him was much to small to be his little master Bruce surprised him by its intensity.

Alfred took a moment to compose himself before he cleared his throat. The noise had the figure flinching and turning their head towards the older man. Then, as the boy caught sight of the older man, he seemed to slump. Seeing that he was unlikely to speak up first, Alfred took it upon himself to start the conversation.

“Might I inquire what you are doing outside, young man?”

The boy’s shoulder slumped even more though he still answered. “Haven’t got any sweets to sell,” he mumbled.

“Oh?” Alfred sounded out. “Why is that?”

“My cookies ate my homework so I had to put them down,” said the boy as he finally raised his head, long-suffering

But Alfred could only breathe a faint “Indeed?” as the boy’s features were exposed. The resemblance with master Bruce was so uncanny that the butler had trouble looking away. But as he examined him more closely he could see some minute differences. The boy didn’t have the sharp jawline both mister Wayne and master Bruce had shared. His nose was smaller than master Bruce’s and his eyes were paler than the darker blue passed down through the Wayne line. The sight of a face so similar and yet not quite like master Bruce had his mind jumping to the portrait hung above the manor’s fireplace and the face of the toddler sitting on his mother’s lap as a slightly older child stood beside her with his father’s hand on his shoulder.

Everyone had bemoaned the two-fold tragedy of the Waynes. First to lose their youngest son at such a young age, only to be themselves brutally murdered only a few months later. All was left of the previously illustrious Waynes was a grief-stricken eight-year-old who had just lost his brother and parents in such a short period of time. Alfred sighed as he remembered how angry master Bruce was at his inability to find out to this day what had happened to his brother. The man half-suspected this was how the young man had developed such an obsession with solving mysteries.

Once again having to focus back on the boy in front of him, Alfred smiled at the boy. Then, the boy’s word registered and the man let out an amused huff. “You had no choice but to put an end to that, I suppose. Cookies as spirited as yours would sell poorly in any case.”

“Oh you’ve got no idea,” muttered the young man as he pushed himself to his feet only for his hand to slip on the wet wood surrounding the gardening plots and falling face-first onto the hard wooden surface.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Alfred as he darted to assist the boy in straightening up. The boy groaned in pain as he held his nose and Alfred could see drops of red falling down.

“Here,” said the older man as he handed the boy a fabric handkerchief.

“Thanks,” the teen croaked as he accepted it.

“Put your head between your knees,” Alfred instructed. “Breathe through your mouth.”

The boy offered a thumbs-up as he complied. Alfred waited patiently by the teen as he kept the handkerchief held against his nose. After a moment, the boy held it away experimentally and when he felt no more blood flowing he turned towards Alfred.

“Thanks,” he said before he looked down at the red-stained white fabric. “I can wash it and return it if you give me a return address.”

“It’s alright,” Alfred refused. “I don’t mind washing it.”

“Thanks,” repeated the boy as he handed the older man the handkerchief back, as he got to his feet, this time more gingerly. “I best get back before my friends start looking for me.”

“Be careful on the way back,” Alfred couldn’t help saying.

The boy hummed and as he turned around for a final wave goodbye, their eyes connected and Alfred felt a jolt travel through his body. Though the pale blue of Danny’s eyes was not the distinctive shade of the Waynes, it was however identical to the color of the late Martha Wayne’s eyes. As the boy opened the exit door and disappeared in the crowd of people, Alfred looked down at the blood-stained handkerchief.

He knew there was a less than infinitesimal chance. Still. What would it hurt to make absolutely sure?

[kanagenwrites]

Hey folks. My name is Kanagen (It's pronounced Ka-na-ngen. Kana is fine.), and I'm a writer. I mostly write sci-fi with a more or less sapphic bent, and I'm not shy about putting lewd content in what I write because fuck petty moralism.

I'm active in the Human Domestication Guide writing community, where apart from being an author (see below), I'm also a Loret, which means I help maintain and update the lore of the setting, help new creators with questions about it or how to fit a story into it, and so on. All of my publicly available fiction at the moment is HDG content, but I plan on working more on my own original settings and concepts in the future.

I have a Patreon, where I post my current long-form project's drafts chapter by chapter, once weekly. I also occasionally talk about my writing process. I'm hoping to expand content there in the future as well.

I don't use social media very much because I remember what the internet used to be like before walled gardens and techbros ruined it. (You kids really don't know what you're missing.) Nevertheless, the life of a freelance writer rather demands I put myself out there somehow, so here I am. You can also follow me on Bluesky, if you want. Ask me questions, behold the weird stuff I reblog, and try not to get too parasocial with me. I'm just a weird lady who puts words in funny shapes.

Bibliography

Long-Form Fiction

To Dine on Dust (ongoing) - A detective walks the streets of a weird, Jazz-Age Neo-Assyrian Empire that never was, trying to track down a missing goddess. A noir mystery-thriller with ancient Mesopotamian flavor, the coruscating power of divinities and the dead, and of course lesbians. Lots and lots of lesbians. This is one of my stories, after all. This is my current project, and unlike my HDG work, I won't be liveposting it publicly every week; if you want to know more about it, check out my Patreon.

Human Domestication Guide

Long-Form Fiction

No Gods, No Masters - A revolutionary leftist copes with the subtle differences between her own idea of the perfect world and the just-a-little-off version of it the Affini offer. First novel-length work in the Tillandsia Trilogy; highly suggested you read this before The Floret in the Mirror and especially Freedom's Ember.

The Floret in the Mirror - A mystery/thriller about identity, digitization, and impossible simulated lewdness. Content warning for amnesia resulting from traumatic brain injury as part of the setup. Sequel to* No Gods, No Masters*.

Freedom's Ember - Sixty years after the Affini conquered her world, a woman clings to her independence; sixty years after being frozen for cryogenic flight from the Affini, a woman struggles to discover who she really is when freed from her father's influence. What is freedom, and what does it mean in the context of the Compact? Sequel to No Gods, No Masters and The Floret in the Mirror, conclusion of the Tillandsia Trilogy.

Sui Generis - A martian attorney living on Earth finds adjusting to life with the Affini easier than most; she was already keeping her wife as a pet before they arrived. The real question is, where's that strange jealousy coming from?

Short Fiction

Mainspring - A Terran secret agent is captured by the Affini, trapped by artist for whom his body is a canvas, and she means to make of him her magnum opus. Wind-up doll content, and probably my most commonly cited story for "this rewired my brain"-style reactions.

Reading the Leaves - A tea-obsessed barista, an affini new to humanity, and a sweet (if awkward) romance culminating in a very raunchy ending. Entry for the HDG February Fluff Fic Jam 2024.

The Fifth Fundamental Force - This story is a silly joke. It should not be taken seriously, though many inevitably do.

Aftertaste (stalled) - A former quadrillionaire and epicure who just barely avoided domestication is tracked down by an affini culinary anthropologist who wants to use his brain to reconstruct a lost flavor using his long-buried memory - he was the last human to ever taste bluefin tuna. This fic is only sporadically updated because the stars must precisely align for my brain to be in a state to write boyliker fic. Sorry, I'm just really gay, y'all.

[weebsinstash]

They often say food can be a language of love, and one of the things that started driving Suguru into a deeper depression was eating curses that tasted horribly disgusting and then also not being able to eat normal food, so I was thinking about a story concept where Reader through whatever means can actually give Geto his sense of taste back and actually ease the discomfort he experiences when eating curses, and he forms a deep gratitude/obsession/love because of it

Obviously i publish yandere stuff but it doesn't mean up in Brain Land that I don't think of other ideas, action, adventure, what not, and recently I've been thinking of -also this was kind of for yandere purposes too actually lmao- Reader having a technique along the lines of "Cursed Memory Manipulation"

You can manipulate curses just like Geto, only you do it by affecting their memories into thinking you're an ally or friend or master or whatever gets them to obey. There are limits, but if it's some mindless creature, you're basically a Pokemon trainer. But I was thinking, can you imagine being his classmate who he has way too much depression to fully pay attention to, he's eating less, he's losing weight, losing sleep, and one day you're eating lunch near him and see he's struggling to keep food down, and he leaks vague details about how he keeps thinking about the taste of curses and how food doesn't taste the same.

Here you are, genuinely wanting to help him, just casually like, "well, what if I take a bite of this food, and then when you take a bite, I put my memory of what it tasted like in your head while we eat together" and it's some spur of the moment idea that he's too tired to argue against you about, so he does it to humor you and get it over with and. It works? It actually works??? He can taste and the world is beautiful again?

Oh sure, it starts off sharing lunches with him, but he's basically unable to normally eat without you, so, he all but glues himself to you at all times so you can eat all your meals together. At his worst, a yandere Geto would just immediately outright insist on if not demand marriage, because how ELSE are you two going to share every meal together? He may even force you to cook for him to make the meals you two eat all the more special. You're just his little Patron Saint of Snacks who can actually give him an appetite again

And I guess as a bonus, the idea I was originally tacking the concept of Cursed Memory Manipulation onto was, vague but, it was the idea of, what if Reader is losing a fight and is at genuine risk of being killed and you use your technique to fill your attacker with memories of you, and maybe you don't exactly have time to think and it turns out to be something really personal, something really intimate, whatever can get this person or creature or curse or whatever to stop attacking you. Sukuna suddenly remembering you as an old flame who he suddenly has too many fond memories of fucking to simply kill you. Mahito stops himself from slicing you open when he's suddenly recalling playing all kinds of games with you, running around as kids, memories of a childhood that didn't exist yet appeals to his young heart.

It's also totally different but I've also thought about 1. What if Sukuna gets in Itadori and finds out the young man isnt all there when it comes to you with Sukuna absorbing some of Yuuji's feelings for you, and then when he jumps to, his current host, HE ALSO had feelings for you, so now Sukuna is like secondhand driven mad with yandere fever and 2. What if after Kenjaku bodysnatches Geto, he runs into you again one day and all of Suguru's repressed and Strong STRONG feelings for you start surging forth and Kenjaku just HAS to keep you around as his new pet at the very least because he just can't shake all these new obsessive thoughts and the literal goosebumps he gets when he looks at you

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

What do you think of the salt fic idea that Adrien's a bad hero cause he never takes anything seriously while Marinette is the perfect hero cause she always professional? Personally like always I think that the authors crank everything up to eleven and make Marinette a humorless stick in the mud and exagerate Adrien's propensity to joke around.

I don't read most salt fics because they're all about leaning into the worst things canon had to offer us. The only time I find that cathartic is when it's aimed at Lila and even there I'm picky. At the same time, salt fics are pulling from canon. They're also not doing anything all that odd when it comes to fandom interpretations of canon. They're just a more extreme version of a very common fandom phenomena. There's an old Tumblr post that accurately describes this phenomena:

character: says "I like bread" that one time fandom: character has an obsession with bread. bread is character's true love. draws character as bread. every meta joke in fanfic is about bread. the character's room is wallpapered with bread

This bread post was an example of the benign version of the phenomena. For a Miraculous-specific benign version, I give you this one, single line from The Evillustrator:

Chloé: Ugh, my brain hurts... Huh? Hey! Cat Noir, Are you any good at particle physics? Cat Noir: Oh, this cat's got particle physics in the bag.

To my knowledge, this is the only time Adrien has ever referenced physics and it wasn't even him saying that he liked the subject. He just said that he was good at it. Edit: minor correction, in French he does say it's his favorite subject, but this is still the only time he references physics and a favorite subject isn't the same as being obsessed with physics or wanting a career in physics.

In spite of that, a ton of fanfics see him pursue a career in physics or have a physics obsession because of course it does. This is just how fandom's work. For better or for worse, many fans imprint on random lines, episodes, and characters like baby ducklings.

Salt fics are doing this same thing just with less benign moments from canon. They take questionable behavior from canon and exaggerate it to be the character's whole personality usually as a means of venting their frustration at canon's terrible writing by taking it out on the bad writing's main avatars: the characters.

That's not my particular cup of tea. When I read and write fanfic, I want to embrace the best canon had to offer, not lean into the worst elements of the writing. At the same time, I can't say that these fics are just making things up. That brings us back to your ask. We'll also be discussing my oft mentioned core character concept.

What do you think of the salt fic idea that Adrien's a bad hero cause he never takes anything seriously while Marinette is the perfect hero cause she always professional?

While I don't like this fact, I'd be lying if I said that canon has made Adrien a wonderful flawless hero. There are multiple episodes where he acts in wildly unprofessional ways, leading to all sorts of trouble. This has been going on since season one with moments like this one from Dark Cupid where he decided that an akuma attack was the perfect time to confess his love:

Cat Noir: Falling for me already, my lady? (pulls Ladybug down next to him) I need to talk to you. Ladybug: It’s gotta wait. Dark Cupi- Cat Noir: (hushes her) I swore to myself that I'd tell you as soon as I saw you. Ladybug, I-I... Look out! (Cat Noir spins around to shield Ladybug, and is struck by one of Dark Cupid's arrows.) Ladybug: (gasps) Cat Noir!

Not a great look for a hero, but this is where I get a little defensive of Adrien and blame the writers instead because they're the puppet masters here. Everything Adrien does is controlled by them and so you can't judge him like a real person. You have to judge him as a character in a story which means relying on story telling language to try to unravel what the hell the writers are trying to do here.

When you look at the way canon approaches Adrien's character, you'll find that these questionable moments are never taken all that seriously by the cast. Ladybug may get annoyed at Chat Noir, but she never asks him to quit or treats his goofing off like a deeply concerning problem. When Chat Noir does quit, Marinette is always devastated and wants him back. When the story gets serious, Chat Noir is often used to get Ladybug through her darkest hours without a hint of goofiness. When you look at these high-level story beats and choices, you quickly come to realize that the writers aren't trying to make Chat Noir a bad hero. They just seem to really suck at writing a goofy romantic character who is also heroic! Or, at least, that's my read when I look at scenes like the one above. In my eyes, this isn't the writers telling us Adrien is a bad hero. It's the writers having no clue what they're doing.

I don't know why they decided to have Chat Noir confess when he knew that an akuma was on the loose. It's so easy to rewrite this scene so that he and Ladybug are just casually meeting up for patrol and don't see the akuma until it's too late. That's all that it would take to fix this moment! It would even have better tension if the audience knew that an akuma was around and the heroes didn't, but no! We go this wacky route and make Chat Noir look like a lackluster hero for no good reason. It's aggravating and I get why someone would want to vent about it by writing a fic where Chat Noir got kicked off the team, but I don't find that fun because Chat Noir is so clearly not intended to be a bad hero. I would much rather read a fic that lets him be his best self than a fic that leans into the worst parts of canon and reminds me why this show gets under my skin.

I haven't seen as much of the serious approach to Marinette, but I've definitely seen her exaggerated, too. Either way, it's the same principle at work. People take the legitimately terrible choices canon has made and exaggerate them to be a character's whole personality, ignoring anything in canon that might mitigate the questionable moments. When fics do this, they usually apply the exact opposite treatment to the characters that the person isn't salting on. If Adrien's worst moments are embraced, then Marinette is exaggerated into a saint and vise versa.

If we're being fair, sugar fics have to do some similar trimming of the fat because the bad writing choices are pervasive for many of these character. It's just that sugar fics tend to focus on the best for every character instead of selectively sugaring and salting. For example, I basically ignore everything after season three when writing Nino and I have to pretend that the Lila plot never happened if I want to make Alya work because the writing did her so dirty there. If I tried to make my version of these characters work in the full context of canon, then they'd feel as hypocritical and aggravating as canon has made them.

In summary, I get why this happens and even understand the catharsis that comes from writing salt fics, I just rarely find it fun. The only salt fic I was ever tempted to write was a Lila takedown where the class believed her lies, but she accidentally lied herself into a corner and got Adrinette together. Never actually wrote it, but imaging it was cathartic because she gets under my skin to an absurd degree and canon is giving me no satisfaction with her.

[stereksimp]

Imagine newly turned werefox Stiles training with Derek. Masters all his senses amazingly fast and transformation. Maybe going as far as figuring out full shift as well. (I love the idea of Stiles just fully accepting his fox that he can full shift.)

However, stealth training does not go well. He doesn't understand how he is still making so much noise or how he still flails and falls with his 'super reflexes'.

Derek's patience is running thin. He can't figure out how to get Stiles to get it right.

Then Scott decides to help a little after Stiles complains to him a few too many times. He goes to Derek to tell him that Stiles needs a reason and incentive to figure stealth out. The senses came easy because they were overwhelming him, and he needed it to stop, but what does he really need stealth for. He didn't need it before as a human fighting the big bad, so why does he need it now.

Now, there are a few ways Derek could go about this, but my personal favorite is Derek sneaks into Stiles' room and lands the perfect stealth kiss. It is their first kiss, and Stiles is left stunned for a few minutes. (His scent gives him away.) When he comes back, Derek is already gone, and there is a sticky note on his forehead that says, "If you want another kiss, I can't see you coming."

Challenge accepted. Something clicks in his brain after obsessing the rest of the night on all Derek's lessons. He needs to get this because he will kiss Derek.

(Stiles is a little shit and loves to fuck with people.)

Derek expects the attempts to start at the latest the next day, and they do sort of. The first time he realizes is when at the end of their pact meeting, he puts his hands in his jacket pockets and finds a chocolate kiss and doesn't know when he put it in his pocket during the meeting. The next morning, he finds a single red rose on his nightstand and a fresh fruit salad in his fridge.

As the week goes on he gets more little presents without ever catching Stiles, and he begins to think he may have made a monster but all the little presents are so cute (he'll never admit it though). The next pack meeting is when he breaks.

Stiles walks in right on time and just tosses him a chocolate kiss. Derek growls and prowls towards him while Stiles just stands there with a smirk on his face, and everyone else is just staring. He grabs him by the face and slams their lips together in a biting kiss.

[chessboredom]

It just hit me youre the smilk vibrator person... BWAHHAA but thank you for once again reminding THEY STILL FUCK UP THE TRANSLATIONS!!!... its been over 3 years crk pleaseeeeeee get better translators. (Its yu gi oh flash backs all over again)

Ahem so i was doing my good old stimming, then ideas. We all know candy apple has a HUGE crush on smilk in cannon (why do.. people erase that part of her i get it headcannons but its WHY she acts how she does!! Its erasing HER! Aus im fine with cuz well fuckin around and having fun) we know she isnt a fan of Tr and his relation with Smilk (girl you do not want that) it makes me think how would she act if Tr was there longer? Would Tr take advantage of that? Probably. ANYWAY

BACK to uh shadowvanilla, Sm probably updates his puppets when ever hes feeling a certain way about Pv/Tr or muliple puppets. Angry? A very crude puppet of them (like scribles) When Sm is happy, a very carefully maded puppet of pv/tr very accurate! I bet Sm would have just abunch of Pv/Tr puppets hanging around somewhere. OMG! Whenever Sm is upset at Pv/Tr for something he makes puppet shows of him basically insulting them to candy apple and black sapphire. Candy apple wanting to add to the slander but Sm is the only one allowed to do that (cuz he is POSSIVE, but candy apple is happy never the less to hear pv/tr being insulted)

Man those goofy twin idea stuff is rattling in me brain. Also i heard you wanna ramble.. i shall COME CLOSERRRR!! Mwehehe! I fear NOTHING!! -signed I kinda wanna write fanfic but my laptop keyboard is missing the A key

BAHAHAHHAHAHSHAJHA. "Smilk vibrator person" funniest fucking shit to remember me by. But I'm shameless. Anything just to make people see that Korean translations are superior AND gayer. (The current cake hound in the arena actually has romantic feelings for the cream sheep. SHADOWVANILLA WIN!!)

People keep doing Candy Apple Cookie dirty frrrrrr. Her entire personality is literally being obsessed with Shadow Milk and doing everything for Shadow Milk. And oh my GOD. You have NO IDEA how excited I am to show you a comparison between En and Kr THIS line of Candy Apple right now. (I'll soon a post of this in my translations blog.)

I couldn't care less to give a transcript of this right now, but as what the english translations ALWAYS write it to make everything NUANCE amd MYSTERIOUS. For WHAT.

Right!! And did you see that he was happy when he lost the chess game? Did you see that??

I'd give up every last drop of my syrup if only Shadow Milk Cookie could smile...

If it's because of another cookie and not me, I absolutely hate it~~!!!!!!!

Shadow Milk Cookie, what do you like so much about that cooke?! Cookies that have a faint vanilla scent with nonpower at all...!!!

Of COURSE Kr translation always ON POINT. "He was happy when he lost-" (Shadow Milk smiling"-because of another cookie" "Shadow Milk Cookie, what do you like so much about that cooke?!" CLOCK HIS GAY ASS CANDY APPLE COOKIE!!!!

Now with the Candy Apple Cookie thing presented above. HAHAHA. I don't think she's going to be happy about SHADOW MILK being GENUINELY HAPPY while INSULTING TRUTHLESS RECLUSE. She'd be on her KNEES, eyes watering, shaking amd begging that he rather make up insults about HER instead. Korean Smilk literally doesn't insult anyone BUT Pure Vanilla by calling him "half a penny" meaning fool because PV is his special little guy.(We need to KILL Shadow Milk Cookie.) Black Sapphire would also be like 😐"Why are you putting so much effort on these dolls, Master Shadow Milk Cookie?" And then Smilk would come up with some excuse, that's an obvious lie AND oblivious yearning, and having to listen to it makes him homophobic by the second.(Bsc: Okay faggot.) (I headcanon that Black Sapphire is gay. And I think the ship BlackBell is SO cute wtf. Make them toxic NOWWWW.)

AUGHH I'm gonnan do the Twin Lunar and Solar cookie and SagexRecluse rambling on a different post or else I'm gonna combust and be ashes(it's already 6 am on a school day help.)(And then I'll rise again!! Because I'm STILL DRAWING THE IDEAS.)

[yellowocaballero]

reread your fox + leia fics the other day (twilight on owl creek bridge + the christmas special) and i cant stop thinking about them. do you have any thoughts you might be interested in sharing w the class,,,,

Hello my friend. Fox & Leia also haunts me and I'm still just straight up mad that I haven't written anything that good since. I hate writing anything that is too good, it ruins my life until I write something that's better.

I've honestly talked a bit about it and I don't have too much to add. Believe it or not (I also haven't been thinking about it that much, as I've been obsessing on No Chip AU Fox instead - a similarly doomed by the narrative little guy).

I will say that the Christmas special is the only time I've ever written Luke and that it's a crying shame. I really liked how he came out, it felt a lot like how I remembered him as a kid at the end of VI - solemn, wise, kind, but mischievous and irreverent. I liked the idea of Luke being very much a radical, and being unafraid of doing shit like impersonating the Sith or recruiting Dooku or unionizing the droids. His Jedi Way will be choosing to be as annoying as possible because his main exposure to the Jedi has left him convinced that's 90% of the job. I love the idea of people either a) being wowed and amazed by him for 5 seconds before they go 'wait he's annoying', b) being completely unimpressed because of the galactic amnesia about the Jedi for some reason and going straight for 'wait he's annoying' before he lifts a star fighter with his brain, or c) going 'why are you pretending to be a space wizard space wizards aren't real' and treating him like a con artist before he lifts a star fighter with his brain.

And, as was the joy of Leia and Luke in the PT, the extremely sharp contrast of all of that against Fox taking one look at him and treating him like he was Emperor fuckin Palpatine. Because that is the power that Luke holds. He's the most powerful person in his galaxy and he could be batshit terrifying. He just doesn't feel like it. But Fox, so strangely perceptive, could tell on sight. Fox wants to be his loyal minion and goon so bad and he is actively disapointed that he doesn't get a really cool evil sith lord master this time. Fox would be super down for any kind of evil fascism if Luke was involved. He's THAT cool. Leia hates this.

I also loved writing his dynamic with Leia, but I have a very big soft spot for brother-sister relationships. And the "Leia lost her best friend - he turned out to be her brother -" joke was not nearly as funny as I was convinced it was. If I DO write another Star Wars fic after all of this shit, I would really want it to be that "Mara Jade tries to convince her QPR Luke to be the father of her children just for speedruning maxxing stats purposes." fic that I started and never finished.

I suspect I'll be burned out on Star Wars after this but I really would like to write more Luke. It's hard to find a really interesting Luke these days and I would like to go against that sunshine boy grain. Childhood media heroes are kinda like parental figures. I won't explain that one.