#peyton speaks

[starkrebellion]

I'm sorry but they'd hate the fans who STILL do nothing but compare them and pit them against each other... like bro they're each others biggest supporters and protectors in season 6 can we let the arguments go already

[redladydeath]

Been thinking about my headcanons for Vox's fucked up childhood recently. Decided to write 1300 words about it because why not.

Vox was born in 1919 to stage performers Winnifred Vaughan and William Oxright. They’d struggled to have children and had him somewhat later in life, so they saw him as something of a miracle baby. However, despite how dearly they had wanted him, it didn’t take long for their attention to turn elsewhere. Vox’s mother was a singer/dancer/actress with lofty ambitions, but who had found limited success, while his father was a singer/actor who was beginning to transition into a managerial role. They were both highly invested in their careers which took up a vast majority of their time. As a result, Vox (or Vaughn at the time) was often left in the care of friends and relatives, brought along to the theater to wait backstage, or simply left alone in their Philadelphia townhouse during his early years.

Almost as soon as Vox was old enough to form memories, he learned that if he wanted his parents’ attention, he needed to work for it. Vox was a very cute child, with piercing blue eyes and a precocious demeanor, but while that may have been enough for his parents’ friends/coworkers, it clearly wasn’t for them. At the age of two, he began putting on little shows for the people backstage, using what he’d picked up from watching others perform. People found this adorable and began recommending that his parents get him involved in the industry since he showed legitimate promise. His mother began teaching him how to perform in her free time and his father enrolled him in a dance school. Vox eagerly went along with this; when he performed, people would give him attention and praise, so he’d just continue performing.

By the age of five, Vox’s parents started to get ambitious. Their son was showing a level of talent and dedication “beyond his years” and it had people enthralled. They decided that it would be best for all of their careers to have Vox start performing for real and joined a Vaudeville company. His father would handle the business side of things while his mother would continue to train him and manage his everyday life. They promised him that if he did well, he may one day be famous or even end up in the movies. Vox, not even old enough to read and feeding off the love and attention his parents were suddenly showing him, obeyed without question and threw himself into his new job.

The three of them toured the Vaudeville circuit for the next several years. Vox’s mother occasionally would perform alongside him, but usually, he was up onstage by himself or with other members of the company. It was grueling work; their troupe wasn’t particularly well-known, so they performed more shows at more locations across the country than more well-established companies. For a while, Vox convinced himself that he was happy. Even if the work was hard and they were never in one place long enough for him to make any real friends, he was pleasing his parents and helping the family make money. But as the years went on, he began to lose his enthusiasm. He was so tired all the time, but his mother would never allow him a moment’s rest. He needed to keep working and training; if he didn’t, he was being lazy and risked costing the family their place in the troupe. When he powered through the exhaustion, his parents would lavish him with praise, telling him what a hard worker and good child he was being, so that became the norm.

Despite his dedication, Vox never made it out of the mid-leagues. Audiences thought his act was charming, but no Hollywood producers ever swooped in and offered to put him in a movie. His parents still tried their best to network their way to success though. Vox often found himself brought along to some very not child-friendly industry parties, where he would sit awkwardly in a sea of drunk adults while his parents tried to schmooze with the big shots. This was the norm for a while, until one man almost succeeded in luring him into private while he was left unattended. Thankfully, his father punched the man’s lights out, and from then on Vox wasn’t allowed to come to parties anymore; after a show, his parents would drop him off at the boarding house the troupe was staying in and leave him in the locked room by himself while they went off to celebrate.

By the time he was ten, Vox fully understood that he was miserable. He was exhausted and in pain most of the time, he was socially isolated and undereducated, and he was finally wise to the manipulative praise-neglect loop his parents utilized to keep him obedient. On top of all that, his career was in more-or-less the same place as it had started. There was nothing he could do to break the loop though. This was all he’d ever known, and any time he tried to push back against his parents, his mother would blow up at him, crying about how he was ungrateful and lazy and would drive them to poverty if he quit, while his father would turn cold and harsh.

Things finally came to a head when one night, during a performance, Vox’s ankle just suddenly gave out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor in front of a packed theater. It was humiliating, and to make matters worse, he couldn’t get back up, no matter how hard he tried. His parents gave him hell for forcing the troupe to issue refunds, but they recognized that he was injured. For the first time in who-knows-how-long, Vox was allowed to rest… for a few weeks. However, as soon as he was able to (gingerly) walk again, his parents were demanding he get back onstage— they couldn’t afford to have him out of commission for an extended period of time because of something as minor as a sprain. He reluctantly went back to his usual performance schedule, in pain all the while. Then his ankle gave out again. Another few weeks of recovery time. Then back to work. When he collapsed onstage for the third time, his parents finally took him to a doctor. After examining his leg, the doctor told them that long-term damage had been done and Vox was at risk of being permanently “crippled” if he kept walking/dancing on it before it was fully healed. His parents, terrified at the concept of Vox’s career ending and them being left with a disabled child, finally relented and took him back home to Philadelphia to recover.

Vox was on crutches for months. He was finally going to a regular school, but his injury, coupled with how behind he was academically made the other students pick on him at worst, avoid him at best. Far worse than that, the year was 1929 and the Great Depression had begun. His parents were incredibly anxious for him to get better already, fearing what would happen if they all lost their jobs. However, by the time that he finished recovering, it became clear that Vox’s dance career was over for good. Vox tried his absolute best to avoid developing a limp (and succeeded, thankfully for his future career), but he simply wasn’t capable of standing for extended periods of time anymore. His parents were deeply disappointed and scrambled to try and get their old jobs back. For the rest of his adolescence, they guilted him for putting the family in such a precarious financial situation at such a dire time for the country.

After years of hard work, Vox was right back where he started: sitting alone in the family townhouse while his parents paid him no mind.

[angels-creative]

Okay, soooo,,,, Brooke and Peyton are equally pretty toxic, but gotta say; Peyton has everything that’s coming to her

[dog-violet]

couple of matching skating polly pics from last weekend

[doctorbeverlycrusher]

Stella, reading from a piece of paper: In my darkest moment, when all seems lost, you are at my side.

Mac, coming in behind her: I appreciate you too Stella

I can not with this scene. There was no reason for this other than cuteness.

[sensei-venus]

Uhh Peyton smut anyone?✨

[aardvaark]

i need a new name. the name "wren" is nice and all, but it’s from a very different period in my life, and it doesn’t really represent who i am anymore or what i now know about my own identity. it’s also something that i chose at a pretty young age and more for internet privacy than because i’m nonbinary. besides. imagine if you had to name your children the name you said you would give them when you were like 12. that’s kinda the same deal here lol.

[three-headed-monster]

how does one simply explain sabres ships to people???? like everyone thinks they have no ships when objectively they're all actually in love with each other sooooooo

[tkachukmatthew]

starter for: peyton hanscom ( @richlust )

once they're inside their home, mia's hands wander. the door is not yet fully closed and yet, the keys are dropped into the bowl and her hand is already gathering the material of peyton's dress. she bunches it up around her waist, backing her girlfriend against the wall as her free hand dips between them to caress her inner thighs. "we should've been more prepared. could've fucked you properly at the bar," she mutters, dropping her head into the crook of peyton's neck.

[agentgreenbean]

the ravi/peyton "will they won't they" slow burn is way more compelling than what liv and major had goin on

[redladydeath]

would it be too on-the-nose to give sarah a mermaid phase when she was a child?

[pey-up]

Oh my!!! I have 100 followers!!! Thanks guys!!!

[bosesmikas]

Me having Brooke Rockwell being the Haley James Scott of T7S/T9S in my verse? More likely than you think.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Playing with fire || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: inspired by a scene in one tree hill when Lindsey confronts Peyton asking her if she called her a bitch 😛

Warnings: bitchy!kook!reader

Word count: 1,153

MASTERLIST

The golden hour settles over the country club terrace, bathing the manicured lawns in a soft, amber light. You’re seated at the usual table, legs crossed elegantly, one hand wrapped around the stem of your cocktail glass while the other rests on your lap. The ice cubes in your drink clink softly as you swirl them, but you’re only half-paying attention.

Kelce is in the middle of recounting some ridiculous story, one that has Topper throwing his head back with laughter. Rafe sits beside you, slouched comfortably in his chair, his phone resting on the table with Sofia’s name occasionally lighting up the screen. You glance at it briefly, your stomach twisting in annoyance.

She’s not here yet, thankfully. You can enjoy the moment while it lasts—Rafe relaxed, laughing softly at Kelce’s story, his blue eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. He looks so good it’s almost infuriating. Every time you glance at him, the ache in your chest sharpens. Best friends. That’s all you are. But lately, it’s been harder to keep that title from feeling like a curse.

The problem isn’t just Rafe. It’s Sofia. Sweet, doe-eyed Sofia, who’s too soft-spoken and out of place to ever truly belong on Figure 8. You’d made that perfectly clear the other day over drinks with your friends, letting your thoughts spill with a sharp tongue and a sense of superiority that came as naturally to you as breathing.

You thought it was harmless, just blowing off steam. But apparently, Sofia heard. The sound of heels clicking against the terrace pulls you from your thoughts. Your eyes shift to the figure approaching your table, and your heart sinks just a little. Speak of the devil. Sofia’s making her way toward you, her expression set in a determined glare. She’s wearing a sundress—simple, feminine, and so very her.

Her gaze flickers briefly to Rafe, who hasn’t noticed her yet, then zeroes in on you. She stops at the edge of the table, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Did you call me a bitch?” she asks, her voice trembling but clear enough to cut through the chatter around you. The conversation at your table dies instantly.

Kelce and Topper glance at each other, their amusement shifting into intrigue. Rafe looks up slowly, his brows furrowing as his attention shifts from his phone to Sofia. You, however, stay perfectly composed. “Bitch?” you echo, letting the word roll off your tongue as if it’s foreign to you. A soft chuckle escapes your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, feigning innocence. “No, I didn’t call you a bitch.” Relief flickers across her face for a brief moment before you lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. “I said I didn’t like you,” you continue smoothly, your voice dropping to a low, saccharine tone as a small smile curves your lips.

Her throat bobs as she gulps, and you catch the faintest flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It’s satisfying in a way that makes your blood sing. The corners of your smile lift just a little higher. Sofia shifts uncomfortably, clearly flustered but unwilling to back down. “Why?” she asks, her voice cracking as she forces the word out.

You tilt your head, considering her for a moment. The silence is palpable now, stretching taut across the table. Kelce leans back in his chair, his gaze darting between the two of you, while Topper watches the scene unfold with poorly concealed glee. Rafe, on the other hand, sits stone-faced, his expression unreadable.

“Why don’t I like you?” you echo, tilting your head like you’re genuinely considering the question. “Where do I start?” Your tone is sharp but playful, as if you’re enjoying every second of her discomfort. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She glances at Rafe, her eyes silently pleading with him to intervene, to defend her, but he doesn’t. He just watches, his hand idly turning the glass of water in front of him.

You take her silence as permission to continue. “Look, Sofia, you’re sweet. I’ll give you that. But you’re exhausting,” you say, your words sharp but delivered with an almost playful air. “This isn’t you. You don’t fit here, no matter how hard you try. It’s like…watching someone play dress-up. Cute, but a little pathetic.”

Her face flushes bright red, her composure slipping as her nails dig into her palms. “You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps, her voice trembling. “Maybe not,” you admit with a casual shrug, leaning back in your chair. “But I know enough to see through the act. You’re trying too hard, Sofia. And honestly?” You glance at Rafe, just long enough to make her notice, before turning your gaze back to her.

“It’s painful to watch.” The tension at the table is unbearable now. Sofia’s breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to hold herself together. “Rafe,” she says finally, her voice breaking as she looks at him again. “Are you really not going to say anything?” Rafe exhales slowly, his gaze flicking to you before settling on her. “Sofia, I don’t think this is the place—”

“No,” she interrupts, her voice rising. “She’s your best friend, and she’s sitting here humiliating me, and you’re just going to let her?” The frustration and hurt in her voice make something twist in your chest, but you bury it deep, keeping your expression carefully neutral. Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

Her eyes well with tears, but she blinks them back, taking a shaky step away from the table. “You know what?” she says, her voice trembling but still sharp enough to cut. “You two deserve each other.” She turns on her heel and walks away, leaving the table in heavy silence. Kelce clears his throat awkwardly, muttering something under his breath to Topper, who smirks but says nothing.

Rafe remains silent, his eyes fixed on the spot where Sofia had been standing. You pick up your glass, swirling the liquid lazily as you glance at him. “You okay, Cameron?” you ask lightly, your voice breaking the tension. His eyes snap to you, and for a moment, you think he might actually say something. Call you out, maybe. Defend her now that she’s gone. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shakes his head. “You’re a bitch, you know that?” You grin, raising your glass in a mock toast. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

[tsuutarr]

Yandere! Doctor x Reader

If you were to ask who the best doctor in the country was, you’d undoubtedly be told that it is Dr. Asher Peyton. A brilliant mind with brilliant physical prowess simply cannot be beat. However, unfortunately, Dr. Asher Peyton is… a commoner. He’d been lucky enough to be granted the humble title of Baron due to his abilities, but it’s quite difficult for nobles to rid themselves of their prejudice about his lowly birth status. 

It’s truly ridiculous, Dr. Peyton thinks – if he cut those pesky nobles open, it’ll be quite clear that they bleed red just like he does. Societal status means little in the face of illness and death.

Despite his disdain for nobility, he has no choice but to act like an obedient dog for them. It’s the only way he’ll be able to continue being a doctor, after all. He has no choice, really, but to put on his charming smile and speak with his silver tongue.

Dr. Peyton had resigned to his unfortunate fate of being the nobility’s lapdog for the rest of his life, unable to see any way to claw out from the trenches of his low social status. However, somehow, you had managed to reach out and pull him out of his wretched fate.

You are the heir of the Arrington Estate, a ducal house that has been a long-standing ally of the king. You’re the last person Dr. Peyton had expected to reach out, but he’s very grateful you did. You saw beyond his status as a commoner, instead granting him the privilege of being the Arrington’s personal doctor. In fact, you even gave him a room just so that he could conduct his experiments! That’s a privilege he never thought he’d get. And you did this all in spite of your Father’s disagreements.

Amazing, spectacular, fantastic – oh, you’re just absolutely perfect. You believe in him, in his abilities, in his future! How could he not fall so madly in love with you?

So, when the Head Butler of the Arrington Estate, Geoffrey Cullen, had offered Dr. Peyton a way to repay you by ensuring that you’ll be the head of the Arrington Estate, of course Dr. Peyton agreed! While Dr. Peyton would prefer to have you all to himself, he knows that that isn’t possible currently – not in this current society, anyway. But at least he can be by your side, supporting you and protecting you. 

Dr. Peyton’s never been afraid to get his hands dirty. He’s had to get his hands dirty over and over again – it’s the only way he’d been able to survive thus far. So when your Father begins to grow ill due to his poisoned tea, Dr. Peyton finds it quite easy to diagnose your Father with some disease while completely ignoring any signs of poisoning. It isn’t as if anyone will be able to doubt him as long as he keeps the illusion that he’s doing everything he can to cure your Father. How fortunate, isn't it?

As Dr. Peyton mixes another dose of poison for Geoffrey to use, he can’t help but hum a little tune to himself, a smile on his face. Yes, Dr. Peyton has never been afraid of getting his hands dirty. And for you?

Oh, he’d dye his hands in the blood of your enemies over and over again.

[euphoriclusts]

"oh, i'm not attempting to get in your way, lovely." she exhales slowly, watching her student with authentic interest. "how would that benefit me in the slightest? i want you to succeed, i want you to reach the highest of heights. i know what you're capable of. i haven't seen talent like yours in a long, long while, i don't want it to go unrecognised, unnoticed." god, she hopes that she's correct, that she's the one in a billion capable of changing an industry that has been stuck in its ways for thousands of years. she won't display disbelief, it won't make her any bigger, smarter or stronger to do so. "i hope that you're right, believe me. the younger me is cheering you on, as she was unable to change anything-" she cared a great deal about all of her students, and whilst she did push them, certain they were always capable of moremoremore, that wasn't to say she wanted to break them - she wanted to make them stronger, prepare them for what she deemed the inevitable. "you're a strong woman, a capable woman. who knows - maybe one day you'll be in the history books, and i'll be sure to cheer you on once you get there, but i only know what i know, and if that's the way you feel, maybe i have shown you all i can. maybe you're treading lines that i was unable to cross."

“then let them try to break it, madame,” peyton’s voice was steady as she approached the teacher, never wavering in the confidence she exuded, filling the room whenever she was allowed. even when instructors attempted to diminish her, her flame fought harder. “far too long this sport has been run by bureaucrats that cling to outdated guidelines, desperate to dig their claws into young talent and take advantage of them. knowing my limits is a strength that few dancers believe they possess. i can be successful without bowing to their every command — the fight will just be harder.” she’d already exceeded the expectations her sister left behind for the youngest kimura, flawlessly executing variations at a faster pace than her sister had, amongst other achievements. she fought every step of the way, everyday, putting in the hours to become the brilliant dancer she fancied herself to be. peyton only saw the real world of ballet as another challenge to overcome, with or without her instructor’s private assistance. “i’ll get it because i work for it, and anyone who gets in my way will be stepped on and tossed aside if necessary. that’s a promise.” eyes narrowed up at her, making it evident who the last comment was aimed at.