#this is the main theme of if I hold you too close if you want to read more of my thoughts… next several chapters really dig into it

[bbutterflies]

I spend a lot of time thinking about what it would take to break adrien. what would it take to make him aggressive. to take someone who’s already been to hell and back, who tries so hard to be good and be kind and be patient and just shut up and deal with it. what’s his breaking point. and, honestly, if he’s scared what does he know to do? he knows to hide but what happens when there’s nowhere to hide? what happens when he’s trapped?

chat blanc, of course. it’s adrien and “I’m not a violent dog. I don’t know why I bite.” destroying the whole world out of self defense because he doesn’t know how else to keep himself safe. you see him before he’s akumatized, and right after, absolutely petrified with nowhere to run. so what does he do? he bites.

I feel like his instinct is so often to turn inwards, but if you take all his choices away – nowhere to run and nowhere to hide – he bites. of course he does. what does gabriel do when he’s angry? what does chloe do when she’s angry? what does felix do when he’s angry? (and, if we assume adrien isn’t such a reliable narrator about his mother, what did emilie do?)

he doesn’t know anything else. if you trap a scared dog, even if he’s a good dog, he’s going to bite.

and no wonder gabriel tried so hard to keep him on a leash. gabriel was literally keeping him in a muzzle. all the time. constantly. putting him in his crate. constantly. never socializing him. never letting him run around in the sun. a performance dog, all the time, and locked away at home like he can’t be trusted. (all this doubly so if you subscribe to senti-adrien)

and if you treat a good dog like a violent dog, he’s going to bite.

if you convince a good dog he’s a violent dog, if you convince him he can’t be let loose without doing harm to the people he loves, he’s going to be terrified he’s going to bite. he’ll do everything he can to be good and be kind and be patient and just shut up and deal with it. but all he knows how to do is to bite.

he’s not a violent dog. he doesn’t know why he bites. he doesn’t know that he doesn’t HAVE to bite. he doesn’t know anything else.

[ang3ltine]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝟐 𝐖𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 + 𝐌𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢 (333) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐞 𝐡𝐨 (388) 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮!!

۶ৎ 𝖥𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀- 𝖲𝖾 𝗆𝗂 (380), 𝖭𝗈 𝖾𝗎𝗅 (𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽 11), 𝖩𝗎𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖾 (222) , Hyun ju (120) , 𝖬𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗂 (333) 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝖺𝖾 𝗁𝗈 (388)

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: none except for some suggestive comments/themes by Se mi and No eul

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: this freaking app crashed while I was editing ughh!! Also check out latest fic here!

𝐍𝐨 𝐞𝐮𝐥:

- She's kind of stand off-ish at first if she doesn't know you, it'll take her a while to fully trust you.

- If you're in the games and she knows you? She's going to try every way possible to make contact with you during interactions throughout the games with secret notes.

- Sometimes she'll stuff it an a bread that's being served to you or just straight out give it in your hand when nobody is looking.

- She honestly prayed to herself that you wouldn't try to get yourself eliminated and doesn't want to be the one to kill you.

- Not really into nicknames but if you were super close to her then maybe she'd call you 'babe' or 'love.'

- Very protective and will get somewhat pissed if other participants in the games are flirting with you. Would definitely shoot them when she has the opportunity and will have no regrets.

- Lokey, she would try quickies with you in the women's washroom (if she had the chance) and would walk out like nothing ever happened. Leaving you shocked but satisfied <3

- No eul is a quiet yet assertive girlfriend who cares about you deep down but won't outwardly say it. You don't have to worry with a partner like her because you know she'll always have your back!

𝐒𝐞 𝐦𝐢:

- Oh Lord, be prepared because you're in for a bumpy ride.

- Se mi is the ideal girlfriend. She treats you like a freaking princess and would give you cute pet names like 'darling' or 'angel.'

- She looks intimidating at first but was the first to approach you with a smile and would be very attentive. If she knew you before joining the games, she'll be cross at first but will try everything to keep you safe. Will hold your hand and keep you close during mingle or when the massacre night happens.

- Would try to keep people like Thanos from interacting with you without having to resort to violence. However, if they persisted then they'd get a string of snarky remarks from her, shutting them down completely.

- This girl is major tease just to get a reaction out of you. Will whisper the most obscene things into your ear and would walk away , leaving you high and dry. Super into pda but if you're not comfortable with it then she's cool with it.

- Heated makeout sessions/quickies in the washroom stalls. Se mi doesn't really give a fuck if they get caught, she just wants to have you writhing under her grasp and would glady give whatever you wanted.

- Se mi is an amazing partner and you'd have alot of patience with this girl because of her constant teasing. But she's also very loving and caring. So expect nothing less from your raven haired girlfriend and show the same love in return ♡♡

𝐉𝐮𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐞:

- Jun hee would keep to herself at first and will seem shy and reserved. Main reason is because she doesn't want to draw too much attention to herself, since she's pregnant with a child.

- If she knew you before the games , she wouldn't want you to help her as she feels like it would be a burden to you. But you reassure her that it's ok and that you wanted to help.

- You're the first one to approach her and she couldn't be more grateful. She'd treat you so nicely and would compliment you alot. Super appreciative of your help and will try her best to make you happy despite her condition.

- You'd make sure she got all the provisions necessary for her and gave her extra food or you would offer her your pillow to her for more comfort. During the fight at night, you put Jun hee's safety before yours, not letting a single scratch land on her.

- You two are the sweetest couple in existence and the old lady that takes care of you both will treat you like her own children. Would be super proud to see that Jun hee is getting the love that she deserves.

- Jun hee has a hard time expressing her feelings but is a super kind and attentive girlfriend.

𝐇𝐲𝐮𝐧 𝐣𝐮:

- Hyun ju treats you like a trophy, someone who deserves to be treasured and well looked after.

- Tries making it up to you if she knew you outside the games and will apologise profusely for leaving you without a word.

- That's exactly what she did when you first asked her to be her partner during the 6 legged race game. She was almost brought to tears as nobody else wanted to join her.

- Will protect you with her life and also encourages you to be brave so you wouldn't have to rely on others so much. Is super proud when you overcome your fears.

- Is grateful that you're so willing to stand up for her if anybody badmouths her. Saying that you think she's really pretty and you don't want her to compare herself to other girls.

- As she's skilled with a gun, she'll have you hide behind her as you guys make your escape. Not wanting you to get hurt or injured in any way possible.

- She's the tall quiet girlfriend who likes being observant but will stand up for you no matter the circumstances. Plus she's the best cuddle buddy!!

𝐌𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢:

- Realistically, you would avoid him but he's Lee Myung gi. He's going to give you many reasons to convince you that he's not just a fraud. That he's willing to change for you.

- He would also give you the princess treatment. Treats you like glass, making sure you're safe and well protected. Will also keep you away from Thanos, especially if he tried hitting on you. (Que the brawl in the washroom)

- Is an absolute diva but you're here for it. You hype him up when he tries standing up for you or someone else , like Min su (player 125). Will roll his eyes at you if you scold him after a fight, but agrees not to do it again.

- Has a soft spot only reserved for you and wouldn't care about anyone else unless he really wanted to. Always has an eye on you, but during the mingle game. You wouldn't dare leave his side.

- During the fight at night , he would keep you close and fight off those who would try and harm you. You both would survive with only a few bumps and grazes/bruises.

- Nonetheless he's most definitely a black cat boyfriend, fiesty but overall loving.

𝐃𝐚𝐞 𝐡𝐨:

- Treats you like his equal and showers you with love!! Is very friendly and outgoing when it comes to you.

- His group would adopt you like their child lol. They accepted you straight away and lokey shipped you with Dae ho. Seeing how sweet and caring he was when it came to you.

- You help him through his panick attacks and he's super grateful for it. Would fly to the moon and back for you if he could.

- Would love it when you brush your fingers through his hair and give him cute hairstyles. Will wear them proudly with a bright smile on his face, even if he got comments for how weird he looked xd.

- If anyone tried hitting on you, he'd try his best to defend you and keep on reminding them that he's a marine so they shouldn't mess with him!

- He's a golden retriever boyfriend that is loyal and humble. Is a very giving person and if you guys survived the games, you'd both live happily together in your shared apartment.

- Loves it when you run your fingers through his hair, also when you style his hair! Will wear it proudly with a bright smile on his face, despite getting weird look from others.

- Is super grateful if you talk him through his panic attack during the shoot out when they try escaping.

- Dae ho is a golden retriever boyfriend for sure, sweet, playful and super loving!! Please treasure him and not break his heart, he deserves the world ♡

[mintyys-blog]

Mark variants x fem reader on aphrodisiac

Ovulation is beating my ass rn

HEADCANON | mark variants with s/o who took a aphrodisiac

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: sexual themes, swearing, drugging

MAIN MARK

It was supposed to be just a quiet night in—takeout, some old movies, cuddling on the couch. You had picked up something labeled as a “fun couples treat” from a sketchy-looking novelty shop, not really thinking it was real. A few drops in your tea, and you laughed, brushing it off. It was probably a gimmick.

But twenty minutes in, you started feeling warm. Way too warm.

You shifted beside Mark on the couch, trying to ignore the way your thighs were clenching or how your breathing grew a little heavier. He noticed. Of course he did.

“You okay?” he asked, concern on his face as he paused the movie.

“I… think I might’ve taken something I shouldn’t have,” you murmured, cheeks flushed. “There was this dumb bottle I thought was fake—”

Mark blinked. “Wait. What kind of bottle?”

“…It said aphrodisiac.”

There was a pause. He stared at you. You stared back, mortified. Then he smirked—really smirked—just as you buried your burning face in your hands. “You’re serious?”

“I didn’t mean to! I thought it was a joke!” you whined.

Mark’s expression softened even though his eyes darkened just a little. “Okay, okay. Don’t panic. Just… let it pass.”

You nodded, but your skin was tingling, and you were sweating even though the room was cold. You didn’t mean to grab his shirt, but you needed something to ground you. And Mark was nothing if not grounded. He let you press your face into his chest, holding you gently, rubbing soothing circles into your back.

“I’m here. You’re okay.”

“…Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“If I jump your bones, it’s the potion. Not me.”

He laughed lowly into your hair. “Noted. But for the record…” He tilted your chin up, brushing your cheek with a knuckle. “…even if it was you, I wouldn’t complain.”

Your face burned, groaning into his shirt as you smacked him with a pillow. “Not helping!” He kissed the top of your head. “Alright, alright. I’ll go make us some cold drinks and sit on the other side of the couch before you combust.”

You didn’t let go of his shirt. “…Stay, please.”

He stayed. And if you ended up straddling his lap an hour later, flushed and whimpering his name between stolen kisses—well, it was the potion. Right?

SINISTER MARK

Mark was… unsettling, even on the best of days. He didn’t do soft. He didn’t do patience. And he sure as hell didn’t do mercy. But he did do you—thoroughly, possessively, and with every ounce of calculated control he wielded like a blade.

Which is why the second he walked through the door and saw you flushed, writhing against the couch cushions, eyes glassy and breath unsteady—he knew something was wrong.

He dropped the bag of groceries without a word, his boots heavy as he crossed the room.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low, but sharp with that familiar danger.

“I-I took something,” you breathed. “I didn’t mean to—I thought it was just for fun—I didn’t know—”

“Breathe,” he interrupted, crouching in front of you. His fingers reached up to brush your cheek, cool against your burning skin. “What did you take?”

“Something from that little magic shop in town. It said aphrodisiac on the label but I thought it was a joke—Mark, I’m burning.”

His smile was slow, tight, cruelly amused.

“Oh, darling… you thought that shit was a joke?” he whispered, grabbing your jaw gently, forcing you to look him in the eye. “You never read fine print, do you?”

You shivered beneath him.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” he purred. “And now look at you. Squirming. Needy. Practically begging for someone to take care of you.”

Your lips parted in a whimper. You hadn’t even realized how close he’d gotten until you felt his breath ghosting against your cheek.

He pulled away then—just enough to keep you trembling.

“I could help,” he said, voice dipped in cruel velvet. “Could give you everything you want. Make you forget your own name.”

You let out a quiet gasp.

“But…” His fingers slid down your neck, toying with the strap of your top. “You didn’t ask nicely.”

You blinked at him, confused.

He tilted his head.

“Beg for it.”

Your pride fought it. Just for a second. But then a wave of heat washed through you and all you could think about was how badly you needed him.

“Please, Mark,” you whispered, broken. “Please fuck me.” That was all he needed.

He grabbed you by the hips and threw you over his shoulder like a man who’d waited all day for an excuse to ruin you. “You better hold on, baby,” he muttered, voice already dark and thick with hunger. “Because this ain’t wearing off anytime soon.”

MOHAWK MARK

Mohawk Mark could smell it the moment he walked in.

The air was humid. Sweet. Thick with a heady tension that clung to his skin and made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He paused, his boots thudding lightly against the floor, scanning the apartment like a predator sensing prey.

And then he heard it.

A soft whimper. Breathless. Strangled.

“Y/N?” His voice echoed low, sharp with a flicker of amusement and concern.

You were sprawled on the bed, skin flushed, pupils blown wide and body trembling. The sheets were a mess, and so were you—sweaty, needy, completely overwhelmed. When your eyes found his, they were glassy and wet, your voice weak.

“I-I drank something—this pink vial—I didn’t think it would actually work,” you stammered. “Mark, I—I can’t stop—”

He stepped into the room slowly, grinning like a wolf, the cut of his uniform clinging to him as he dropped onto the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers up your thigh. His voice dropped, low and smooth.

“So you got curious and spiked yourself with some mystery aphrodisiac,” he said, his smirk twitching wider. “You really are something else.”

You whimpered again, grabbing at his wrist.

“Please—Mark, please do something—”

He leaned down close, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “You need me to fix this, huh?” His tone was teasing, but underneath it, something protective simmered. “Of course you do.”

You nodded desperately, body aching and thrumming with want.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, kissing the side of your mouth. “You don’t gotta beg—yet.”

He stripped his jacket off, laughing to himself as he looked you over. “Damn, you look like a dream. All fucked out and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

You let out a shaky sound, burying your face in his shoulder from embarrassment.

“Stop looking at me like that…”

He cupped the back of your head, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m lookin’ at my girl,” he said smoothly, voice velvet. “What, I’m not allowed to appreciate her when she’s begging to be taken care of?”

You mumbled something incoherent, flushed to your ears. He chuckled darkly. “You started it. Guess I’ll be the one to finish it.”

PRISONER MARK

You didn’t mean to.

It was supposed to be a joke—a tiny glass vial in a velvet box, something you picked up from a black market vendor in the ruins for a laugh. You left it on the kitchen counter, unopened. But somehow… somehow, the seal cracked. Maybe the heat, maybe a faulty lid. Whatever it was, the scent was already in your bloodstream by the time Prisoner Mark returned from his run.

You were on the couch, curled up in one of his shirts, trembling. Sweat clung to your skin, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded with embarrassment and a desperate need you didn’t quite understand.

The door opened.

“Y/N?” His voice was rough, always a little gravelly from years of surviving. He froze the second he saw you, setting the cloth-wrapped bundle of stolen groceries on the table.

He took in your flushed skin, your dazed expression, the way your legs shifted like you couldn’t sit still. Slowly, cautiously, he moved toward you.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered, kneeling in front of the couch and pressing the back of his scarred hand to your cheek. “Did someone hurt you?”

You shook your head. “The vial. On the counter. I didn’t drink it. I just—breathed it in.”

His jaw clenched. “Aphrodisiac.”

You nodded.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to keep himself calm. Not because he wasn’t tempted—but because you needed comfort, not pressure.

“I can help you,” he said, brushing the hair from your face. “But only if you tell me it’s what you want.”

Your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. “I want you,” you whispered. “I just—I don’t want you to think I’m gross for needing it like this.”

His eyes softened, just a little. “You could never be gross,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t need some chemical to make me want you. You already have me.”

He climbed up beside you, pulling you into his lap, cradling you like you were made of glass. You whimpered as your skin met his, your body sensitive to every shift, every brush.

He kissed your temple, murmuring low against your hair.

“I got you, sweetheart. I’m here. Let’s take care of you.”

His fingers trailed down your back, slow and deliberate, as if grounding you to reality. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

SHIESTY MARK

It started as a joke.

Some offhand dare when you found that stupid little bottle in an abandoned underground market—dusty and labeled with crude Viltrumite script. “You wouldn’t,” he said with a smirk, leaning against the shelf.

But you did. One drop on your tongue. Just to tease him.

Big mistake.

By the time you got home, you were flushed, legs shaky, gripping the kitchen counter as you tried to catch your breath. Your skin burned, not with pain—but with want.

He was on you before you could even call for him.

“…You seriously took that sh*t?” Shiesty Mark stood in the doorway, jaw locked, fists balled like he was trying not to make this worse. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

“I thought it’d be funny,” you mumbled, gripping the countertop harder. “But now I can’t—think. I’m so—”

He was in front of you in a flash, snatching your chin in his hand, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Yeah, I know what you are.” His eyes roamed your flushed face, the tremble in your thighs. “Can feel it comin’ off you.”

You whimpered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, thumb brushing your lip. “You don’t gotta talk right now. Just breathe.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t throw you down or pin you to the wall. No, Shiesty Mark leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Just say the word, and I’ll give you every inch of what you’re beggin’ for,” he said low, voice like warm smoke. “But if you say no… I’ll sit here with you all night. Just like this. Keepin’ you company ‘til it fades.”

Your chest heaved. “Mark…”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Please.”

His mouth broke into a grin, but not his usual cocky one. This one had teeth. “You got it, mama.”

He picked you up in one smooth motion, carrying you to the bed like a man possessed—but careful. His touch was greedy and reverent, his voice a near-growl at your ear.

“You don’t play with sh*t like that,” he muttered against your neck. “But if you do… you better be ready for me to take care of it properly.”

OMNI MARK

You hadn’t meant to take it. You really hadn’t.

The label was written in a language you barely understood—something you picked up in a little trade shop, tucked into a crevice on a planet Omni Mark never liked you going to. But it was cheap, said something about “scent enhancement” and “skin purification.” You were excited. You wanted to smell nice for him. You wanted to feel soft when he kissed you goodnight.

Instead? Instead, you were burning alive from the inside out. You were pacing the room now—your room, shared with him, big enough to be a palace suite. You tugged at the sleeves of your shirt, your cheeks flushed, body hypersensitive to the faintest brush of air. It was unbearable.

“Mark…” you called, voice high and trembling. “Something’s… wrong.”

He arrived within seconds, his silhouette framed by the open door, sharp gaze scanning your frame before you even had to explain.

His nose twitched. He smelled it. Immediately.

The shift in the air. The ache. The desperation rolling off of you in waves.

His face was unreadable.

“What did you take?” he asked, calm and even, arms folded behind his back.

“I—it was a bottle. From that vendor. It said it was for skin. And scent. I thought—” you stopped when his eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know it was—”

“It’s an aphrodisiac,” he cut in coldly. “Viltrumite in composition, likely hyper-concentrated. They mislabeled it.”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, desperate. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

That simple admission stopped your spiral.

Omni Mark sighed, removing his gloves slowly, placing them on the dresser before striding toward you. He touched your forehead lightly, then your cheeks, brushing hair from your damp skin.

“Your body is reacting the way it should,” he murmured, clinically, like he was diagnosing an injury. “It’s in heat now. And your brain won’t clear up until it’s resolved.”

You blinked up at him, practically vibrating in place. “What do I do?” you asked, nearly a whisper.

He leaned down until his face was level with yours, eyes unblinking. “You will sit down,” he said softly, almost sternly. “And let me take care of you. You are not to do anything that will further distress your body. Is that understood?”

You nodded. A flush climbed your cheeks as he bent to lift you effortlessly, placing you on the bed. He knelt before you, calloused hand settling on your thigh—gentle despite the strength beneath it. “This is not how I prefer to see you,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your knee. “But if this is what you need, then I will give it to you. I will not leave you like this.”

A small noise escaped you, overwhelmed. “I just wanted to smell nice,” you whispered. At that, his eyes softened—if only a fraction. “You always do.”

MASKLESS MARK

You didn’t know what was wrong with you at first.

Your skin tingled. Your breath came out fast and shaky. The air felt too heavy, your clothes too tight. And when you looked at Maskless Mark, your body reacted like it needed him. Not wanted. Needed.

You hadn’t told him yet. You didn’t want to seem needy. Or worse—clingy. But he noticed. He always noticed.

You were pacing the hallway near the kitchen, pretending to look for something on the shelf when he stepped in behind you, quiet as a shadow. His voice was low, almost lazy.

“…What’s got you so worked up?”

You turned too fast and nearly ran into his chest. His brown eyes were half-lidded, flicking lazily over you, then stopping. Narrowing.

“You smell weird.”

You blinked up at him, confused. Embarrassed. “I—what?”

He leaned down. Inhaled. And his expression twitched—just a little.

“…Oh.”

You tried to take a step back, but he caught your chin in his fingers, his grip firm but not cruel. “What the fuck did you take?”

“I—I didn’t know, okay? It was this thing I bought from one of the vendors. They said it was perfume. It smelled nice. I thought it was just for skin but—” you swallowed, sweating now. “I think it was laced with something.”

He stared at you. Quiet. Processing. Then he huffed a breath out of his nose and dragged a hand down his face. “Of course it was.” You tried to say something else, but your voice broke—half from shame, half from how badly you were burning up inside. You turned your head, avoiding his eyes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen…” He said nothing. Not at first.

Then, he stepped closer. You flinched, but not out of fear—just raw, aching sensitivity. “…You don’t even know how you look right now,” he muttered, voice rough. “All flushed. Eyes big. Shaking.”

You looked up at him, and for a moment—just a second—you saw it. Hunger. But he didn’t touch you. Not yet. “You’re lucky it was me who found you first,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t survive five minutes around anyone else with that scent on you.”

You swallowed hard. “What… what do I do?” He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “…You let me take the edge off. Or you stay like this for hours.”

You hesitated—then nodded. And just like that, his arms were around you, pulling you in tight. But his voice, low against your ear, reminded you: “I’m not gentle. Not even when you’re like this.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

You had only been married to him for a few weeks.

Things were quiet between you and Mark—not cold, just… new. He never pressured you. Not for children, not for anything. He wasn’t the kind of man who pushed. He gave you space, time. He respected your limits.

Which was exactly why you didn’t tell him what the woman in the market gave you. “It’ll help with connection,” she had said, smiling as she placed the glass bottle in your palm. “Emotional and physical. You’re not broken. You just need a little spark.”

The scent was warm, sweet. You hadn’t even taken a full dose. Just a few drops on your skin. You thought it would help ease your nerves, maybe open you up to something more intimate with Mark.

But it wasn’t perfume.

Not even close.

Ten minutes later, you were crawling into the bathroom and locking the door, heat prickling across your skin like fire, your thighs trembling, your entire body begging—screaming—for something you couldn’t name out loud. Your breath came in shallow, fast little pants. Your mouth was dry, tongue heavy, and your hands shook violently.

You couldn’t think. Only feel.

The ache between your legs grew unbearable, your fingertips digging into your skin in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. You tried to drink from the faucet, but even that wasn’t enough.

Then there was a knock.

“Y/N?” Mark’s voice. Calm. Curious. A little confused.

You moaned—moaned—instead of answering properly. Your legs gave out beneath you, and you slumped down to the floor with your back against the tub.

Another knock. This time, firmer.

“…Are you hurt?”

“N-No—yes—I don’t know!” you choked out, voice high and hoarse.

The door clicked open.

Mark stepped in, towering, expression shifting the second his eyes landed on you.

You were flushed from head to toe, lips swollen from biting them, hands fisting the fabric of your dress. You were on the tile floor, trembling, your pupils blown wide.

His nostrils flared slightly. He could smell it now.

His jaw tensed. “What. Did. You. Take.” Your lips wobbled. “I—I thought it was perfume—I didn’t know, Mark, I swear—” He was kneeling before you before you could finish, hands cupping your face gently but firmly, golden eyes sharp, scanning you for injury. “Who gave it to you?”

You could barely remember. You mumbled the market stall’s name, and he growled low in his throat—not at you, but at the thought of someone drugging you this way. You gripped his arms, nails digging into his skin. “It hurts. I can’t—Mark, please—” He shushed you softly, stroking your cheek, trying to soothe the panic.

“I wasn’t going to rush you,” he murmured, voice low. “Wasn’t gonna touch you until you were ready.” You whimpered, eyes glassy.

“But now,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you need me to make it stop. Don’t you?” You nodded frantically, tears spilling. His thumb ran across your lower lip as he whispered: “Then I will.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, carrying you to the bed. Because Viltrumite or not, you were his wife. And no one else would ever touch you this way.

[ichorai]

tourney favor ; aemond targaryen (m).

pairing ; aemond targaryen x wife!reader

synopsis ; it was rare for knights to ask married ladies for their favors, as it was often a way to win a lady's hand in the midst of courtship. but it wasn’t improper by any means. strange, perhaps, but not improper. you glanced back at aemond. he was studying you, single eye narrowed, jaw clenched. was he jealous?

wc ; 2.1k

themes ; smut, mild fluff, established relationship (married)

warnings / includes ; jealous aemond, unprotected sex, breeding kink and brief mentions of pregnancy/children, wall sex, foul language, mentions of violence/murder

a/n ; if this fic sounds familiar, i took some lines from my far-lengthier aemond fic, balance the scales :)

main masterlist.

A grand tourney was held in honor of Jahaerys and Jahaera’s eighth nameday. 

You sat beside Helaena in the high platforms on the elongated arena, hands twisting in your lap. Tourneys usually bored you to no end—watching men hurt themselves over little else than theatrical show and bragging rights was not something you were very keen on. It felt like a waste of time to you, especially because you were already spoken for—you’d much rather be reading, or honing your needlework, or playing with the twins. To your other side was your husband, Aemond, looking equally disinterested in the event. You noticed his long fingers tapping impatiently against his knee, as if he were itching to leave. His older brother Aegon was nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere in the bowels of the Street of Silk. 

You couldn’t help but feel envious. How come the father of the children the realm was celebrating was off gallivanting through the city, probably sunken into his cups and his whores? He was free to fuck whoever and whenever he wanted. Whilst you had to sit for hours on end beside your beloved husband, with whom you wanted to do nothing more than clamber into his lap and kiss him until the two of you grew dizzy.

Perhaps a large part of your agitation was due to the fact that Aemond had sunken to his knees in your chambers only an hour before, his tongue spelling worship over your drenched core. And you’d been so close, ever so close to falling off the edge—

Until there came a knock on the door, and Criston Cole’s muffled voice echoed through the shut door. He had to urgently speak to Aemond before the tourney, apparently. 

Something akin to a growl caught in his throat as your husband reluctantly drew away from you. You moaned lowly at the loss, sitting up at the edge of the four-poster bed as you watched him wipe your arousal from his chin.

“We’ll resume this tonight,” he had whispered into your flushed ears, before whisking off to speak to Ser Criston.

Seven fucking hells.

It took several moments for you to compose yourself, before you called in one of your handmaidens to help you dress for the tourney. Redo your hairstyle, too, because Aemond had certainly mussed it beyond salvation.

And now, as you fussed with your fingers in the stands, boredly clapping whenever the crowd was, it only came as an utter surprise when you heard your name called out. You sat up straighter, eyes falling from your hands to the riding grounds down below. It didn’t slip past your notice seeing Aemond tense, his fingers curling into a pale fist over his thigh.

A handsome knight donned in black-and-yellow armor stared up at you. You faintly recalled the patterned sigil emblazoned into the shield he was holding—he was of House Darklyn. He had taken off his helmet momentarily, lodged between his waist and his free arm. Gorgeous dark locks spilled over the nape of his neck, only slightly curled. 

The olive green of his eyes gleamed boldly, full lips upturned into a charming smile. “Might I be honored with your favor, my Lady? I can certainly use the luck.” 

Your gaze flickered over to his formidable opponent, a strong and muscular man, shrouded in white. His shield bore a red lion. House Reyne.

It was rare for knights to ask married ladies for their favors, as it was often a way to win a lady's hand in the midst of courtship. But it wasn’t improper by any means. Strange, perhaps, but not improper. You glanced back at Aemond. He was studying you, single eye narrowed, jaw clenched.

Was he jealous?

You could feel the muted arousal roar back to life in your lower abdomen. 

“Of course, Ser,” you called back with a knowing smile in your husband’s direction. You grabbed a ring of woven flowers and tossed it down over the jousting lance. “Be careful.”

Off the Darklyn knight went with your favor swaying by the lance’s handle, the metal grating of his helmet pulled down over his grinning features. You weren’t even sure what his name was.

The joust began just as you sat back down beside Aemond—but you found yourself barely paying attention to what was unfolding, and rather kept your eyes trained on your husband.

“Rather improper of him to ask for your favor,” he commented snidely, voice lowered so only you could hear. “You’re my wife.”

“Perhaps you should be down there, then,” you replied lightly, offering him a cruel smile. You knew well just how little Aemond cared for all the glamor the tourneys offered. “Show them who I belong to.”

Expression hardening to stone, he suddenly gripped your arm with iron-strength, hauling you up out of your seat, despite your half-hearted protests. You wondered if the Darklyn knight would search for you once the tourney was over. You found yourself unsurprised that you couldn’t care less about him.

Especially not with Aemond leading you down the halls of the Keep, twisting several sharp turns before shoving your chamber’s entrance open. Just as quickly as you were yanked inside, the wooden door slammed shut behind you, and you were promptly shoved up against it.

His lips were angry over yours, claiming you, biting you, devouring you completely. You fell slack in his arms, one of your hands resting over his chest, almost as if you were debating between pushing him away or pulling him closer. He swallowed the noises of contentment that slipped from your throat.

“You just couldn’t wait,” he snarled, shoving you against the door harder until he was pressed flush over your body. Jealous Aemond was certainly a sight to behold. “My greedy little wife.”

You preened at his words, arching your back, desperate to reconnect your lips to his. He didn’t put up a fight, allowing you to fight for dominance, claw at his neck and chest in desperation as you kissed him as if he were the very air you needed to breathe. 

Wasting no time, he reached down to yank the bottom of your dress upwards—cursing under his breath at all the damned layers you were wearing—and hurriedly shoved away your shift so he could reach your pulsing cunt. 

You were drenched. Warm and wet and fuck, he couldn’t wait a moment longer—

Sensing this, you made quick work of his trousers, yanking them downwards before moving up to pop off his tunic’s buttons. A startled, pleasured cry—verging on a hysterical sob—tore from your lungs and rattled across the chambers when he suddenly thrusted two long fingers into you, his thumb working quick circles over your sensitive clit. You’d already been denied an orgasm once, and you found a litany of breathless pleas erupting from your lips, as if it were just second nature.

“Please, Aemond, please—” You choked on whatever else you had to say, eyes rolling back as your orgasm slammed into you far too soon for your liking. Heavy and all-consuming. 

But it wasn’t enough. You wanted more, more, you’d always want more of your husband.

“Aemond, please, I need you inside,” you croaked, letting out a sigh when he drew a few tender kisses to your forehead. A glimpse of the softer side of your husband, scarcely shown unless it was with you. You loved him like this, but you wanted—no, you needed—him to lose all abandon with you. 

“If you won’t fuck me, I’ll ask the Darklyn knight,” you growled with a serrated tone.

Aemond drew away from you, violet eye ablaze. Was it fury or was it possessiveness written so plainly over his features? Perhaps both. “What did you say?” he whispered, a hand suddenly surging up to grip your jaw.

“I said,” you huffed, staring at him with a challenging quirk of your brows, “I’ll ask another man to fuck me. If my husband won’t do so, that is.”

Silence on Aemond was scarier than anything. You wished he would speak, or scream, or call you filthy names. But no, he… he was observing you. Calculating. Like a cat would a mouse. 

Or a dragon would its kill.

With one fluid motion, he drew his length into his hand—long and hard and angrily weeping with beads of pearly precum. The other hand abruptly flipped you around with surprising strength, crowding you against the wall beside the door so your back faced him. You moaned out his name when he pushed your dress up over your hips and dragged his tip over your drenched core.

“Please,” you begged, bracing yourself against the wall and jutting your hips back. If you could hear yourself over the buzzing in your ears, you’d be absolutely mortified at how delirious you sounded.

In one quick motion, he sheathed himself into you. Your warm, pulsating cunt was gripping him like a vice, eliciting a shuddering groan from his lungs. You mirrored his reaction, squeezing your eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as he began to pound into you with no restraint. The lewd noises ricocheting in the room made your cheeks heat up until your entire face felt like it had been set aflame. With each snap of his hips into yours, you found yourself crying his name like a mantra, his hands bruising over your waist, pulling you back into him.

You were blubbering incoherently, begging for more. You just about lost it when one of his hands disappeared from your waist—only to roll over your aching clit with quick circles. A sob broke past your lips and you clenched hard around his length, feeling every hot inch of him buried deep inside you. His pace staggered with the sudden shift and he groaned out a curse, followed by your name.

“Who did you want to fuck?” he bit out, slightly breathless, words dripping with venom. “What’s his name?”

“I—” You hiccupped a cry with a particularly loud thrust. “Oh, fuck, Aemond!”

“Right,” he hissed, bending forward to bite down on your strained neck. “I’m the only one who can fuck you like this. Not pretty boys in silly costumes—mmph—not daft knights who lose tourneys. Me.”

The last word was ground out when your cunt spasmed around his girth once more, and you wailed out his name as your orgasm rolled over you. It was a wonder nobody had barged in to see if there was someone being murdered. 

“Perhaps I’d have to get you all round and swollen with my child. Show them who you belong to. Who fucked you this good. Would you like that, sweet wife?” 

“Yes, yes, Aemond, I need—I need you to come inside. Please, I need you to stuff me full.”

You reached behind you to blindly grapple for his arm and he briefly shifted the angle and began pounding into you even harder. His cock hit your sweet spot just right, and you saw stars swimming over your vision. 

A near animalistic noise tore through Aemond’s chest when you tightened around him one last time, your warm cunt fluttering around his cock. His rhythm faltered. What drove him over the edge was when he glanced down and saw the thick ring of your creamy arousal at the base of his cock. Gods, you were… beyond perfect.

With a staggered rasp of your name, he thrust into you thrice more before he spilled his seed deep in you, thick spurts of white coating your slick walls.

Heavy pants filled the room. You barely registered his lips kissing along your bare shoulder, where your dress had slipped in the midst of your heated frenzy. 

Slow, he eased himself out of you. “You did so well for me,” he murmured against your skin, smoothing his hands over your waist. “Are you alright?”

“Mmh,” you hummed, because no words would come to you at the moment.

He laughed, a wonderfully rich sound, before gently urging you towards the bed. 

“Get some rest, wife,” he told you, laying you onto the plush mattress and dipping down to kiss your forehead. He regarded you with raw adoration folded over his expression. Though, it was quick to melt into a thunderous one with his next sentence. “I have a certain knight to exchange words with.”

If you hadn’t been so high off your orgasms and exhausted with the new-found urge to sleep the whole night away, you would’ve realized that Aemond was likely going to commit manslaughter over something as trivial as a tourney favor. But you hadn’t thought about it much, not in your sex-addled haze, and promptly fell asleep with only the dream of silver-haired babes with wonderful purple eyes to accompany you. 

[cutebat]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected, but Defiant Reader

The First Page

Warning(s): Neglect, emotional abuse, physical abuse, mind break (There are no yandere themes yet, but will be in another chapter)

(This chapter is basically the first part of the prologue and some things fixed)

~~~~~

10 years old.

You were only 10 years old when the Gotham's billionaire, Bruce Wayne, entered through the doors of the orphanage that you lived under of.

You could remember the owner holding your hand as she lead you to the man who is going to be your father.

You remember when he placed his hand on your head as he introduced himself to you and promised that he'll give you a great life.

You remember when you came to the manor as he introduced you to your new family that consists of four new older brothers, one new older sister, and a butler.

You remember when everyone would talk to you and welcome you with loving embraces.

You also remember a few days foward when Bruce gave you a costume that resembled a white dress with pink details, which earned you the title of Batgirl.

And after all of that, it's like it never happened.

~~~~~

You are now being ignored by everyone.

Nobody gave you a glance, made excuses, and basically beat the shit out of you. Well, not exactly.

For example, there was one day when you came up to Bruce with a flyer in your hand.

"Um, hi, Bruce... I know you're busy right now, but... I'm going to have a school play and I got the main role. So... I hope you can stop by and watch."

You tell him in the nicest way possible.

However, Bruce was so focused on his paperwork that he didn't give you a glance. All he said was...

"Hm? Yeah, I'll go check it out if I finish all of this."

And suprise, suprise, he never showed up.

This resulted in you crying in the girl's restroom all alone in your costume.

~~~~~

There was also a time when you felt like you needed to train more, so you did it by going up to Dick who seems to be training with Damian.

"Um, guys? Can I join you two?"

You ask as you smile awkwardly as your two older brothers turned to you.

Which is why you became surprised when Dick smiles.

"Sure! But, do you mind if you wait until me and Damian are done with this sparring session? It won't take too long."

He said with a chuckle as Damian looked like he was glaring at his little sister.

You didn't want to be rude, which is why you just nodded before you went over to the corner and watched your brothers train.

As an hour passed, Dick and Damian stopped, which made you take the chance to finally train with them.

However, you seemed confused when you saw the two turning around and walking out of the batcave.

"He-Hey, Dick? I thought you and Damian were going to train with me."

You speak up in a timid tone, which the two clearly heard.

"Oh, about that. Sorry, (name), but we were already planning to go to the cafe for a break. Maybe tomorrow, okay?"

Dick said with an 'apologetic' expression before he leaves with Damian.

Because of this, you never asked him to train with you again.

~~~~~

These were all easily common, but there were some moments when it scarred you.

One time, Tim was basically forced to bring you to a mission along with his friends.

As the patrol went on, you seemed to get distracted a bit when you spotted Conner having some trouble.

Because of this, you left the scene and quickly dived in and fought alongside the teenage Kryptonian. Thanks to you, everything was handled.

Conner thanked you before someone yelled out your name. This made you jolt as you turned to see an angry Tim storming over to you.

Before you can say anything, he cuts you in.

"What on earth were you doing?! I told you to stay where you are, and you just had to ignore everything I say, don't you?!"

He yells as if someone murdered his close family member.

This made you so shocked as Conner was stunned. When Cassie and Bart came over to the spot, they were both shocked to see their friend, yelling at his little sister.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Calm down, Tim. (name) didn't do anything wrong. I was the one who called her over to help me."

Conner defends you, but of course, Tim doesn't listen.

"Don't even try to defend her! She knows what she did! Oh, I am SO going to report this to Batman, so don't even try to cover yourself up!"

Tim said in a frustrated and angry tone towards you before he used his grappling hook and swooped down, leaving you behind with his friends.

"Hey, what the hell, asshole!"

Conner shouts out at his friend as he was shocked to him this angry.

He lets out a sigh before he looks over to see Cassie and Bart, comforting you as you are crying in their arms.

~~~~~

Yelling wasn't the only thing that you had to endure.

You even went through moments when things got a little too... physical.

It all happened when you were just trying to help someone in need.

You were walking down the hallway during the night as you just wanted a cup of water. As you were wandering down the hallway, you noticed some voices from someone's bedroom.

Jason's bedroom.

This made you curious as you got close to the door to hear Jason talking amongst himself as he sat on the edge of his bed.

He kept muttering stuff out of his mouth, which made you worried.

That is when you made a mistake by going inside.

"Jason...? Are you okay?"

You ask in a timid voice.

At that moment, Jason snaps his head towards you before everything starts to go blur. All you remember is him grabbing something like a pole type object before it was brought down towards your head.

And then, you woke up in your own bedroom, except you have a bandage wrapped around your head.

When you sat up, all you saw was Alfred, the family's loyal butler. No sign of your other family around, concerning about you.

Luckily, you recovered, and the wound went away after a month.

And, of course, Jason never apologized for what he did to you.

~~~~~

A few months was in, and no improvement has been made. You were always ignored. They made excuses of not wanting to spend time with you, and some of them actually hit you a few times.

All of that happened to your ten year old self.

But, did you give up on that spot? Nope.

You discovered on the internet what you can do to please your family to gain their attention. There were a lot of results, but the one that kept popping up the most was trying to reach your best achievements, which would result in them showing you more support from them.

And that's what you did.

You started to join in many after-school activities and studied all your might. It was tiring, and you almost passed out from exhaustion, but you kept going because you wanted at least your family to notice you.

The problem is that they never did.

They never congratulated you, celebrated on your accomplishment, and most of all, they didn't even give you a glance when you showed off.

All of that for nothing. Damn.

~~~~~

The breaking point wasn't because of all that. It was when someone else entered the family.

Duke Thomas.

A metahuman teenager whose parents died from the Joker Venom.

You thought that they might treat him the same way that they had treated you.

But, nothing.

Duke was showered with love, attention, and even praise.

The things that you never got when you came here.

Whenever you pass by whatever event that they're holding, you will always see them together. Being all happy, chatting, and laughing with one another.

They never do that when they're around you. Even on your birthdays. Actually, when was the last time they all celebrated your birthday?

At that moment, something inside you just snapped. Like, a loud crack echoes through your head that makes a loud ringing sound, kind of like a wake-up call.

Then, it all clicked.

They never cared about you.

They never even liked you.

The only reason why Bruce adopted you is because nobody wanted to.

~~~~~

The thoughts kept running through your head as you walked into an alleyway with a trash bag in hand.

Earlier today at school, you dropped out the clubs that you absolutely hated and pretty much just purposely laid back in your classes.

You feel empty.

When you finally reach the dumpster, you got on top of some stacked boxes because of your height and open the large lid.

You could only stare inside that had a lot of black colored trash bags. Your eyes were blank as you stared down inside.

That's when you muttered out.

"Why even bother...?"

With that, you tossed the trash bag that you were holding on into the dumpster.

After what it felt like hours, you finally got off of the boxes that you were standing on top of before you walked out of the alleyway.

As you walked away, something fell out of the trash bag that you threw out.

It was a white bat eared helmet.

The accessory that once matched with your costume.

That's right.

You were no longer Batgirl.

You never were, anyway.

•

•

•

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[starmapz]

man's best friend - r. sukuna

❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]

❦ oneshot

❝ you know those videos of people falling in love with the pet they didn't want? yeah, turns out your husband sukuna could be the star of one of them. ❞

❦ cw ; 18+ only. mdni. sexual themes. fluff! husband!sukuna. soft!sukuna. part of the love & company series of oneshots but can be read separately.

❦ words ; 1.8k.

main masterlist || love & company masterlist

Shutting the door behind you, you kick your boots off and pad slowly into the house. “Ryo!” You call out in search of your husband, peeking into the kitchen.

He rounds the corner in only a pair of gray sweatpants, every peak and valley of his washboard abs on display. If it were any other day, you would be jumping him in a heartbeat and he knows it. So when you don’t, even as your eyes trail down his body, he approaches you suspiciously.

“Who are you n’ what did you do with my wife?” He asks, a hint of playfulness decorating his tone. He eyes your outfit, still in your riding gear aside from your boots and helmet. You haven’t taken off your leather jacket yet, which is odd.

When his gaze lands on your chest, he narrows his eyes. “You get a third tit at work today?” He asks as he realizes you have a lump hidden beneath your coat. You can’t help your giggles at his stupid joke, shaking your head. The lump shuffles beneath your coat and his eyes go wide.

“You did not,” he deadpans, searching your expression.

Oh, but you did.

“Okay listen, I know you didn’t want a pet until we got a bigger place, but hear me out!” You plead as the lump shuffles more before it finally pokes its tiny little face out from your coat.

Facing Sukuna is the tiniest, most disheveled bundle of fur he’s ever seen. The little kitten is pure black, hair sticking out in every direction and wide green eyes that take in the world as the little furball tilts its head curiously at your husband with a pathetic mewl.

“No. No way, that thing’s gotta be covered in fleas. We talked about a dog,” he shakes his head. “Where did you even find it?”

“Ryo, come on!” You pout at him with a look entirely too similar to the kitten and his glare flickers between the two of you. “I found it in the bushes outside work and my co-worker said it’d been there for a while. I couldn’t leave it!” You insist, pulling the furball gently from within your jacket to hold them tightly to your chest.

He’s probably right about the fleas, but how could you not immediately fall in love with the little kitty as it calmly abides to you holding it like a baby, chewing softly on your gloved thumb as you hold it up to Sukuna.

“We don’t even need a big place to get a cat!” You insist. The kitten stops chewing on your thumb, rounded green eyes turning to stare up at Sukuna as it mewls pleadingly. Sukuna has half a mind to wonder if the kitten can understand you because between the two of you pouting at him, he thinks you have to be conspiring specifically to get him to break.

He sighs dramatically, rubbing the crease between his brows. “Fine. But it’s your responsibility.”

And how is Sukuna ever meant to resist his beautiful wife with the way your eyes light up?

Of course, you knew from the moment you brought the bundle of soot home that Sukuna would cave. What you didn’t expect was the way their dynamic shifted.

After getting cleaned up and visiting the vet, you discovered she’s a sweet little girl and insisted on naming her Jiji, after the cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service. Your husband had more… creative name choices. Pawasaki and Yameowha were among the worst of his horrible bike-related names, but Ducati had to be the one that really took the cake for the one that made you groan the most.

… And it also happened to be the one that stuck.

“Kuna! Have you seen Cati?” At least Cati sounds close to Kitty, right? Peering into the living room, you catch a glimpse of Sukuna laid out over the couch in a black hoodie and gray sweatpants, his arms folded back behind his head and his eyes trained on the TV.

“Yeah, she’s in here,” he replies nonchalantly. Stepping into the room, you look around for her but she’s nowhere to be found. Turning to Sukuna finally, your lips purse and your heart absolutely soars at the sight of the little kitty curled right into the crook of Sukuna’s neck, almost invisible buried in his hoodie.

“Oh. My. God,” you gasp, pulling out your phone to take a photo, which quickly becomes thirty photos to Sukuna’s dismay as his smirk becomes a scowl by the fifteenth. “You two are the cutest things I’ve ever seen. This is gonna be my wallpaper.”

It doesn’t take long for the two to warm up to one another either. Ducati is like his shadow, always following right behind him even as he brushes her off. She’s constantly rubbing against his ankles and mewing for his attention. He doesn’t pay her much mind at first, but his resolve crumbles after only a few weeks.

Brushing your teeth one morning before work, Sukuna walks into the washroom in a red hoodie to grab his razor. As he slips past you, your jaw drops at the realization that Ducati’s little tail is poking out from his hood.

“No way,” you barely manage to mumble through the toothpaste and toothbrush, spitting it out and darting back to your room to grab your phone. It hardly matters that you have toothpaste on your lips still when you need a photo of this right now.

“Your camera roll must be mostly photos of her,” he chides, plugging his razor in.

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

A puff of air leaves his nose in a laugh as he watches your mirth through the mirror. Who is he to deny his wife of having a camera roll full of photos where you can barely make out where your kitten’s limbs start and end?

The day everything changed was when you woke up early enough to see their morning routine. Sukuna got up early to work out and have breakfast before work, while you would practically rush out the door, but your body had other plans today.

The sun warms your cheek as it peeks over the horizon and with a yawn you realize your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Usually you would just flip over, but a morning with your husband sounds even better.

Slowly shuffling down the hall, you blink sleep from your eyes as you make your way into the kitchen in time to see what might be the funniest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

Sukuna sits down at the table with a breakfast burrito on one plate and another smaller plate in his other hand. He sets it down at the chair beside him with some coffee and your jaw drops when you realize what’s on the smaller plate.

It’s Ducati’s fucking breakfast. He pulls the chair beside him out and pats it before pushing her plate to the edge of the table so that she can reach it.

“No fucking way,” you breathe out. Like a deer in the headlights, Sukuna’s eyes widen, before his expression hardens.

“What? She’s hungry,” he grunts like any of this is normal by any means and he isn’t the cheesiest cat dad on the planet. To think he was a dog person a few months ago.

You burst into laughter as his tough-guy persona crumbles. You may be his princess, but that cat is his queen.

“I need to get my phone, oh my god-”

“Don’t you dare!” He roars, but you’re already racing back to the bedroom in a flurry of giggles. Sukuna sighs, slumping back in the chair as he stares at the ceiling.

“You’re such a sucker,” you tease as you snap another dozen photos of the pair to add to your collection.

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, holding his hand up to block the camera’s view of him as though the tattoos on his wrist don’t spell out exactly who he is.

You found out a week later that the next step from breakfast at the table is apparently coming with you on dates.

Finishing up your makeup for your beach day with your husband, you bound over to the door with your duffle bag of towels, sunglasses, and sunscreen ready to go. Sukuna, on the other hand, packed very differently.

Kneeling on the ground, Ducati’s on her side, her fluffy black tail happily swishing back and forth as Sukuna adjusts a harness on her.

“Kuna, as cute as that is, I don’t wanna lose her,” you gently scold, deciding you have to put your foot down when it comes to your cat joining you on your beach date.

“We won’t lose her,” he gruffs, scooping her up into his arms. “She has a tracker tag. It’s connected to my phone.”

You have to stifle a laugh. “Right, of course. That’s super normal. Normal people do this with their cats.”

Sukuna glowers, heat rising from his neck up to his cheeks. To think that this is the same man who cuffed you to your bed frame last night that’s now brimming with embarrassment. “She likes being outside,” he grumbles.

“I know she does but I thought the front yard would be as far as she would go,” you sigh, unable to help your smile. “Fine, Ryo. She can join us, but you better watch her like a hawk.”

“Promise, princess,” he agrees, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Your hickeys r’ showing, by the way.”

You shrug. “My makeup would come off in the water anyway if I tried to cover them and I know you like them,” you smirk. Something dark flashes in his eyes, his free hand that isn’t supporting Ducati in his arms reaching out to rest on your waist. His fingers tighten, his grip sinking into the plush of your skin as he pulls you into him.

“I like when people know you’re mine,” he purrs, eyes lidded. 

“That’s good, because now,” you begin, a gleam in your eye that he recognizes all too well, “people will know that I’m with the big burly biker and his tiny little kitty,” you tease with a grin as you push off of his chest, adjusting your duffle bag over your shoulder. “Come on, you big sucker. Let’s go to the beach.”

Of course, you’ve seen the videos and stories of men who didn’t want a pet later becoming said pet’s best friend, but you could never have imagined that would be your hardened and often cold husband. Especially given that when you had discussed getting a pet, he wanted a big dog like a Rottweiler or a German Shepherd.

Like many other times over the course of your life, he surprises you at every turn as you find him in the kitchen pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios with Ducati atop his shoulders. Another time, you find him doing pushups in your bedroom with the cat laying on his back, earning a raised brow. On rare occasions, he even calls both of you ‘his girls’.

Turns out, Sukuna is a cat guy. And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it means you’re not Ducati’s favorite.

main masterlist || love & company masterlist

❦ a/n ; was feeling inspired since i adopted my cat a year ago tomorrow and couldn't help but think this would suit this sukuna really well <3 as always, likes, reblogs, and comments are super super appreciated <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist to be added. 18+ only, age must be visible on blog.

@toffeebrat @gojodickbig @4acoffee @billiondollarworth @qyuin

@bxnfire @jayghostedu @favvkiki

writing & format © starmapz. art © too-many-owls. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune.

[gloomwitchwrites]

What If 141 and the best enemies to lovers line of all time...

"Who did this to you?"

Cue protective instincts and sexiness

hehe I am giggling!! Okay. Listen. I am fully aware that this is an enemies to lovers trope, but I don't think it applies to all of the 141 guys in that manner. Is there protectiveness? Yes. Is there a bit of spice? Yes, if you squint really hard. Is there also some sweetness thrown in? Absolutely there is. I had lots of fun with this one. I hope you enjoy it!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x 141!Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief blood and injury, hurt/comfort, brief suggestive themes, protectiveness, light angst

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Who did this?” Kyle bends forward at the waist, pressing a bag of frozen peas to your face. His concern is genuine. You can see that, but it’s strange. The two of you get on, but this is something else.

Kyle looks…angry like your injury personally offends him.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur. “Things happen during sparing. It’s fine.”

Kyle’s frown only deepens. He doesn’t believe you. And why should he? The person you were placed with took it too far. And it was all to impress him as if putting you in your place would somehow grant his favor.

It’s clearly done the opposite. He could care less about your sparring partner.

“It was your sparring partner, wasn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Just press the peas to your forehead a little harder.

This time, Kyle’s frown turns slightly upward. “Jokes on them, ya?”

You glance at him sideways. “How so?”

Kyle is grinning. It’s stunning. All pearly white teeth.

“Because I have my eye on someone else,” he says simply, as if that answers everything.

Though you cannot see yourself, you feel your face growing hot under Kyle’s gaze.

“You shouldn’t say thing like that,” you reply.

“Why? It’s true.”

John Price

“Who did this?”

“Why do you care so much, John?”

You attempt to pull your face out of his grasp but he holds firm.

“Of course I care,” he replies. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. John is close. Too close. So close he could easily brush his lips against yours.

“I don’t know why,” you murmur.

“You do,” he affirms, authority in his tone.

Do you? Maybe. Perhaps. Deep within yourself you truly know the reason but can’t decide to speak it to the air. That would make this real. Whatever this is between the two of you.

‘Tell me who did this?”

“And do that what?”

“What the fuck I want to them, love.”

“It’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it,” you reply, again trying to escape from him.

But John isn’t having it. His other hand hooks around your upper arm, and then you’re pressed closed to him. He is so warm. All strength.

“Let go,” you say, but there is no volume behind it. It is weak. Not even a protest.

“Tell me,” he repeats, head dipping slightly.

Yes. Close enough to kiss.

“Tell me,” he says again, this time softer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon’s blood beats heavy. It is tinged with metal. A lace of fire that cannot abate.

His boots slap against the linoleum floor. The overhead lights are bright. Clinical. He is a shadow here. A dark specter.

No one stops him. No one glances his way.

And why should they?

He is a man made fury.

There were hands put upon you. A training exercise taken too far. Simon was not there. And he doesn’t know why. Not exactly. But he’s furious. Protective. The fact that he could not stop this only infuriates him further.

To him, this is a failure.

He doesn’t come to a stop. Doesn’t knock. He barges right on in.

The nurse yelps. Spins suddenly. Face red.

You glance up, eyes wide at first but soothing slightly as they land on Simon. You’re bruised. Stitched up.

Fucking hell.

“Out,” barks Simon.

The nurse leaves but stares him down the entire time. He approaches the table, and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers against the wound on your forehead.

“Who did this?” he asks.

“Simon—”

“Which fucker?” he growls, bending forward slightly to look into your eyes.

“Should see the other guy,” you joke, smiling.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. You’re not his. Even if he wishes it were so.

Every swing of his fist sends the building frustration outward, shooting into the massive boxing bag before him. It’s a poor substitute for the face he truly wants to smash. Several faces that is. Two specifically.

Who did this?

The words slipped from him unbidden. An instant anger. You had only scowled. Told him you could handle yourself. And you can. Johnny knows this. But he’s still fucking pissed about it. Still seething.

All the fucker got was a quick slap on the wrist. A promise to not do it again.

That sits sour in Johnny’s belly.

But you didn’t cave, no matter how much Johnny insisted that he’d take care of it on your behalf. So he is here, punching the shit out of something that isn’t flesh.

He wishes he could take away your pain. Take away the memory. Give it to himself to carry. You don’t turn on your own. There’s no honor in what happened.

But as much as he wants it to be true, Johnny can do nothing.

You are not his.

Even if he wants to be.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

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[bnyf]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyou ain't my boyfriend ♡

╭﹕୨୧﹒he's a good man, truly he is. diligent and hardworking, honest, sweet and dutiful. so is his son, your boyfriend. you're sweet too, honest, kind... but not hard working. and it bothered him, because women like you were only meant to be wifed up and kept as trophies. his son didn't seem to mind but he did. so he took matters into his own hands, because there's no way some silly girl was about to just get whatever she wanted from him and his son's hard work.

♡ ┊ warnings : female reader, dark content, yandere content and themes, unhealthy behaviors, unhealthy relationship and relationship dynamic, sexual content, noncon, obsession and possession, imprisonment, cheating, creampie, unprotected, forced pregnancy, rough, size difference, stomach bulge, breeding, age difference, all characters are depicted as adults

╰﹕୨୧﹒authoress note : LOL i really like this one, okay? requested by mi punani <3 also peep the title- it's inspired by ariana's song ALSO sorry if it starts boring it gets really good after the cut

yandere! boyfriend's father who immediately takes a liking to you and accepts you into the family once your boyfriend introduces you. he's so nice. so pleasant. always smiling with you, at you. you'd think he's the perfect father and family man one could ever ask for. the way he's so welcoming towards you. complimenting his son on his 'taste in women' and patting the kiddo on his back, teasing him and flustering you, the girlfriend. yet still... you can't help but feel a certain weird feeling, an uneasiness, especially when you're left alone with him.

yandere! boyfriend's father who just can take his eyes off his son's girl. he hates how captivated he is with you and loooves how pretty and perfect you'd be as a wife, so fertile and young and ready to carry beautiful children. those hips, those innocent eyes, paired with that sinfully soft little body of yours just makes him go kinda feral. he can't help but let his touch linger with you.

yandere! boyfriend's father who starts becoming obsessed with you to the point where it starts eating him alive. he's very subtle about everything, though you get a weird vibe from him, no one else would suspect a thing if he just ups and carried you away, hide you away and keep you all to himself... and that's perfect. because no one would suspect a thing, he wouldn't even really cross anyone's mind. infact, his son would be the main suspect in this. if anything had happened to you and you'd go missing, they'd immediately point fingers at your boyfriend. and he would too. his son doesn't necessarily have to go to jail since there wouldn't be any evidence, but he'd just have to be the bait in all this.

yandere! boyfriend's father who decides against that idea and goes for a more physiologically tortuous method instead. like always, he'd help you prepare dinner and clean afterwards, offering to help with anything as though you couldn't just do it yourself, he'd get way too close for your liking yet, you didn't wanna hurt his feelings so you allowed him to hover over you when stirring the pot, left him to be when he stood close to watch how you cut the veggies, feeling strange when he pushed up on you and you felt his semi hard shlong at the curve of your buttocks. at this point, it was too obvious. and you wanted to make a fuss but that tight grasp on your mouth, cover your voice and his hot breath put that to a full halt.

yandere! boyfriend's father who licks your ears and holds you down on the kitchen counter-top, watching and enjoying as you struggle against his grasp. he's a man, you can't fight him off. once that horrific reality sets in and he successfully talks you through it, guilt tripping you, telling you this is all you fault, that he'd never do such a thing to a pretty and fragile girl like you but you! you were so tempting, so impish. you were seducing him. really? he's the bad guy? and you with your flimsy short bodycon isn't to blame at all? sliding up with any little movement like you had no respect for him and his household at all. really, you're just as bad as him, worse even because you know what you're doing.

you really think he didn't notice? how you'd take extra care of yourself? your nails and your hair? of course it's because you want to impress him, right? want him to approve of you as his son's girl, i mean you are beneath his family. the family that he diligently built from scratch working as a law professor into one with some sort of status and wealth. you wouldn't be able to appreciate that. and to make sure you don't wanna marry his son for daddy's money, he'll teach you a thing or two about respect.

he'll make it clear. he isn't against the slutty outfits or the way you pamper yourself so much, nuh uh! he both expects and likes it when girls are girly. however, he's totally against teasing and cock blocking like you weren't the one leading him on.

yandere! boyfriend's father who rolls the thinly fabric of your pink body con dress up your ass and gives a good smack, leaving you to choke out muffled whelps as he scolds you like a kid. like where'd the strict and scary yet sweet quiet older man go? you knew he was harsh with his punish, you'd seen first hand how he yells at his son whenever his gpa dropped even the slightest. but you didn't expect for him to be like this did ya? and that's the thing, his son has a whole life ahead of him, that boy is going one of the most prestigious universities in the country, top of the sports club, perfect grades since he was a child, popular, talented. and you? you were just some dumb girl he managed to pick up who only cared about makeup, clothes and looking good. you didn't have much going for you except the for the fact that you're resilient and you always find ways to get what you want. you're just a distraction. but he'll allow once you don't interfere too much with the boy's success.

yandere! boyfriend's father who pushes your panties aside and fucks you silly on the kitchen counter-top, groaning in your ear and sticking those same thick digits that fingered you just previously in your mouth to shut you up. he manhandles you and practically tears off your bra to let your tits freely jingle with each thrust. he comes inside even though you desperate beg for him to not and watches as your legs give out. but! before you could collapse on the cold floor he holds you up, and pushes you into another position. this goes on until who know how long, till your in and out of consciousness and teary eyed, completely filled with his seed.

yandere! boyfriend's father who cleans up after the crime scene he's committed basically. he cleans your blanked out body and lays you to rest in his bed before cleaning himself and finishing up dinner. you wake in his bed that completely smells like him, and by now you probably wreck of that old bastard. you try to get up and walk but your legs are killing you and you're having sharps pains in your lower stomach. as though there are cameras inside the room, he enters at the perfect time when you're struggling and falling, cooing in your ears sweetly like nothing ever happened and putting you back to bed. with him, he brought dinner.

yandere! boyfriend's father who only laughs and shoves your mouth open to force fed you when you yell you'll tell your boyfriend on him. what? you think he's scared of his own son? the kiddo that he changed his diaper as a baby? LOL! bitch, you must be stupid. you're forced to chew and swallow the food. "your boyfriend dearest will be very busy with his finals right around the corner, he'll be staying in the domintary until he's finished. don't be a distraction like you already are and try to contact him. until then, you'll be left in my care, sweetheart"

yandere! boyfriend's father who basically holds you captive in his home and 'take care of you' (fucking you crazy in every position imaginable until you're weak) while your boyfriend's away. and he leaves you weakened everytime, unable to move. he already taken away your cell phone and told his son nothing but lies about how sick you were and how he was taking care of you. you spend a whole month with him like this, and he's so shameless sometimes he just wants to play with your pussy so he does just that. it usually ends with him fucking you and breaking inside your womb multiple times. "yes, she's so sick fckngh-" he whispers out the last part of his sentence, railing your poor pussy as he reassures his son on the phone. "y-yeah, i'm taking care of her now, don't worry just f- foucs on doing well, okay kiddo? dad loves you, you take care care too, and make sure you drink enough water and sleep well. uhm wha? i sound a lil weird? uhm yeah i'm fine, don't worry about me."

yandere! boyfriend's father who plays with your clit while he studies that tight, creamy pussy of yours with his huge, veiny length. he slaps your pussy and ass, pulling you back onto his cock when you try to run from the dick. he's turning you weird. making you into a cock hungry whore who won't be able to fuck and satisfy herself on her boyfriend's shrimp dick afterwards. this is bad, really bad. you know this isn't your fault but you can't help but feel unimaginable guilt towards your innocent boyfriend who has no idea what's going on. he's working so diligently to surprise and make his girl and dad proud... what would he think if he found out? by now you're probably pregnant with this man's seed. your boyfriend would be shattered and heart broken. the worst part is how good this is all feeling, your mind is twisting and contorting into what this bastards wants you to think and feel. he's turning you sick, like him.

yandere! boyfriend's father who's like a demon on your shoulder, whispering nothing but tragedies into your ear. "maybe you should tell him. tell that boy how you've been moaning while his dad drills this thick cock into you. tell him how full you are everyday of semen to the point you're probably pregnant with more than one child. don't you agree, baby? i know you feel bad, trust me you should. we're both partners in crime here, and it feels too good to stop, doesn't it? i know, baby, i know. that face you're making, it's so cute and hot at the same time. maybe we should make a few movies, you as the star actress of course. think i've probably taken a few clips here and there, a few photos just for keeps sake. you've been such a good girl for me lately, have you accepted 'us'? what we have? sooner or later, you'll be completely consumed by me. the same way i am consumed by you."

things really isn't looking bright at all. it gets to a point where the month is up and your boyfriends back, you feel better than everything's still the same. you're still receiving attention from this man, this secrete relationship you have is still going. and worst yet, you're stomach is looking noticeable round, your breast is becoming soft with milk and "your body looks too sexy not to devour even as your carrying my child."

yandere! boyfriend's father who completely and successfully physiologically breaks and baby traps you and has you as a prisoner to him, his little captive~ don't worry though, your boyfriend thinks it's his and since it's his dad's own, a male who shares the closest genetics with him, even a blood test won't give away your little secret...

[elixirfromthestars]

Crossroads

Pairing: Ex!Bucky Barnes x Neurosurgeon!Reader

Summary: On a rainy night on your way home, fate decides to cross your path with someone who used to hold the dearest place in your heart.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warning(s): ANGST / heartbreak / failed relationship / very tiny mention of a surgical procedure, not in great detail / I know I mentioned angst already, but this is all angst with maybe like a tiny sprinkle of fluff / medical career mentions (I did my research, but just in case I got anything wrong) / mentions of Bucky's trauma and hardships from his past

Prompt/Theme: chai latte (caught in the cold rain) + melancholy (write a tragic tale)

a/n: This is my submission for @the-slumberparty ‘s Winds of Autumn Challenge. Did I choose melancholy because of my name? Perhaps 🫢 In all honesty, it has been too long since I wrote a pure angst piece, so I knew I had to write something to get the heartbreak going. As a piece of advice, not everything is as it seems, so wait till the end for the whole story to come together. I would say happy reading, but instead, I'll wait here with tissues and a hug for those who need it after reading this. ( ´･･)ﾉ(._.`) Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ // main masterlist ♡

Lightning crackles across the sky as you scurry across the puddle-ridden streets of New York desperately searching for a cab. The wind had rendered your umbrella useless, so the rain fell in harsh sheets against your body—soaking you from head to toe. 

You had been performing an emergency surgery on one of your patients in a different hospital from the one you resided in. Your patient had suffered from an aneurysm brought on by a complication from a previous surgery. She couldn’t be transported across the city as immediate medical attention was needed, so you were transported to said hospital via the hospital helicopter. 

Which you obviously couldn’t use to fly back home.

The surgery took longer than anticipated—eight hours to be exact. When you were close to being done there was unexpected bleeding coming from the surgical sight and you had to go back in and reexamine everything to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, there were no more complications after that and you could focus on stabilizing your patient so she could go and recover in the intensive care unit.

The downpour had started towards the end of your surgery. You were far from home and the already unfamiliar streets had blurred together amongst the harsh streaks of water obscuring your vision. It was still the early hours of the night and you were exhausted—longing to collapse against your bedsheets and wrap yourself in their warmth. Tiredness had seeped its way into your bones faster than the rain had seeped into your coat. 

As you cross another street you spot a bus shelter nearby and make a run for it. Knowing it might be a while before you can catch a cab and at least those glass walls would be enough to protect you from the icy wind that threatened to freeze you. Once inside you try your best to warm up your hands, observing the way your breath materializes in the air. You consider ordering a rideshare, but you know the numbness in your fingertips has to go away before you can take your phone out and order it. 

Fate, however, had other plans for you. 

“Y/n?”

Your body stiffens when a voice calls your name, flinching slightly at the way the thunder that follows rattles the glass shelter. The shiver that makes its way down your spine is no longer from the chilly air. 

This can’t be happening—not after two years. Not when you had finally moved on from him. 

He calls your name again, his presence cementing itself into reality. You don’t want to face him, but there’s that small part of you—the part that will forever be his—that begs you to look. That needs to know if it's him. 

Your head turns slowly, holding your breath as you keep your emotions in check as best as you can. Hoping the universe was playing a cruel joke on you and presenting you with someone who sounded exactly like him. 

But what stranger would ever utter your name with such heart-aching familiarity?

Deep down you knew there was no mistaking it. It was him. It was Bucky. You would know the sound of his voice even in the loudest of crowds—like a language only your heart spoke. Even now when it was on the cusp of becoming a forgotten one.

Your eyes meet his as a flash of lightning illuminates you both. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the way his eyes seem stormier than the sky. Filled with as many conflicting emotions as you know are reflected in yours. 

“Bucky. Hi…”

When you find your voice it sounds foreign to you—quiet and tight. The years of rebuilding every part of yourself are on the edge of crumbling down in a simple greeting. Bucky gives you a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks between you and the bus shelter. He frowns for a moment as if having a silent debate with himself.

“Is it okay if I um…?” He nods towards the inside of the bus shelter as he trails off. This is when you finally notice the way the rain whips against his skin, soaking him where he stands, and it dawns on you what he’s asking. 

He wants to know if it’s okay for him to seek shelter from the rain with you. The man who used to insist on holding your hand wherever you went because he loved the feeling of your hand in his, the man who would hug you from behind and hide in the crook of your neck as he showered it with kisses when he missed you on the days you came home late, the man who cuddled you close every night and whispered how much he loved you between kisses that seemed to want to reach your very soul—that man was now asking for your permission to be in the same space as you. 

Oh, how cruel fate could be…

“Yes, of course. It's fine,” your response is polite—too polite, and your movements are virtually robotic as you take a few steps to your right to keep a stranger’s distance between you. He mumbles a small thanks before he steps inside, his hands firmly in his jacket pockets. Keeping to his personal space as much as possible.

Silence stretches between you—heavy with unspoken sentiments—interrupted only by the booming of thunder and the drumming of rain as it hits whatever is in its way. You try to distract yourself by counting the seconds between the stoplight changing from green to yellow to red and then green again, but it's no use when he’s but a few steps away from you. The man who you used to know like the back of your hand is now a stranger and it's causing you more distress than you’d like to admit. The inside of your cheek feels the brunt of that torment as you bite it incessantly. You have to do something about this silence before it consumes you. 

“How have you—”

“How’s it been—”

You both speak up at the same time, holding each other’s gaze for a fraction of a second before falling into an awkward laugh. He clears his throat before encouraging you to speak first. You look away, the civility of his tone crawling under your skin and unstitching mended wounds—some of which still had not fully healed yet. 

“Okay, well how have you been, Bucky?”

“Good. I’ve been good. You?”

“Oh. I’ve been good too.”

The exchange went by quickly between half-truths and hesitations. Then it crept up again—the silence. Gnawing at you both and mocking you for not being able to have a simple conversation. When words between you used to flow as freely as the rain that traps you here—really the lack of vocabulary now is laughable. Your past selves would have never been able to wrap their heads around how hard talking to one another would be. 

Your past selves would also never understand why you broke up.

Your current self still doesn’t entirely understand. 

Bucky shifts on his feet, lips in a tight line as he speaks up, “I read about your recent award. Congratulations, you deserved it,” the sincerity in his voice causes your head to snap in his direction. When you see his genuine smile, one that makes the corner of his eyes slightly crinkle, it tugs at your heartstrings in a way that threatens to pull you back to him. 

You won that award for your research achievements in neuroscience a few months ago. Which could only mean that at least until a few months ago, Bucky had been keeping up with you. A piece of information that left you speechless and with a million thoughts running through your mind.

Had he always kept up with you?

Or did he only just recently revisit a part of his past?

Were you on his mind all this time like he had been in yours?

There was so much you wanted to ask—to say—but instead, your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water until you were able to mutter a soft, “Thank you.” The sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rain. Bucky caught it, however, his body less rigid hearing the familiar cadence. He smiles a little wider, the kind of smile that chips away at the walls you built up these last two years and insists you spill a string of secrets you have locked away in the deepest depths of your heart. 

All secrets that revolve around him.

How you also kept up with him, never scrolling past a social media or news post highlighting anything that had to do with the Avengers in hopes of getting a glimpse of him. Visiting the coffee shop where you two met on occasions telling yourself it's because no other coffee tastes better, but really it's because of the memories of you two that lie in every corner of that building. The loss of him follows you even when you order takeout because you would rather deal with the lie of ordering for two rather than with the truth of ordering for one.

However, the biggest secret of them all pertains to those days when the ache, the longing, and the loneliness become a cacophony too loud to ignore, that you find yourself rummaging through your closet. Searching for the shoe box that’s tucked away amongst miscellaneous items. One that holds the pieces of your heart that shattered the day Bucky broke up with you.

A faded movie ticket from the Lord of the Rings marathon you took him to, gum wrappers folded into hearts that Bucky had a habit of doing every time you needed a new bookmark, photobooth pictures that always ended with you two kissing, a letter he wrote you on your one year anniversary where he told you he loved you for the first time, and other items you cherished with every part of you. 

Holding onto these things might seem to others like a mistake when your goal is to move on, but these were things you couldn’t find the strength to get rid of. And if that made you weak, clinging onto bits of what was the greatest love of your life, then so be it. 

You were weak—and quite frankly you didn’t give a damn.

The one thing holding you back from pouring your heart out to Bucky was how things had ended. The vagueness, the fight, the resentment and confusion. All of it took hold of you and screamed at you to be more cautious—to keep your guard up. 

Thunder snaps you out of your thoughts, grounding you in the present once more. You need answers, but you know you have to be careful about how you retrieve them. 

You cross your arms, pressing your coat tighter against your body in an attempt to comfort yourself—turning to face him only to have your heart skip a beat when you realize he is already looking at you. His gaze softens with a vulnerability that makes the words get stuck in your throat. 

You let out a shaky exhale, “I uh—I saw Sam became the new Captain America. I also saw you on the news fighting alongside him. Are you two friends now?” The question comes out innocent enough, making Bucky’s demeanor brighten as he takes it as a sign that you’re open to talking to him. Your hidden intention behind that question is a need for confirmation of something that eats away at you anytime you think about his reason for breaking up with you. 

Bucky runs a hand through his damp hair, “Yeah, sort of—it's a long story. We went on a mission together and I realized he wasn’t that annoying, so we became mission partners and I guess you could consider us friends now,” he explains to you with a fond expression, one that leaves a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Through the occasional flashes of lightning you’re able to get a better look at him and the sinking feeling is on the verge of drowning you. 

Bucky no longer had harsh dark circles under his eyes, his scruff was nicely shaven, and his posture was lighter as if the world was no longer falling heavily on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than when you last saw him, he had lost a bit of weight, and he had found a friend in Sam. Something you had encouraged him to do while you two were still together, but he refused on account of saying he only needed you. All of this verified to you the one thing you feared the most. 

Bucky had been right all along. He had been right in breaking up with you. 

Two years ago, Bucky had sat you down on his living room couch and told you he wasn’t ready for a relationship. That was it—that was his reason for ending things with you after almost two years of being together. He claimed he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment, not after everything he had gone through. And seeing him now, seeing how much better he looked was enough proof for you. No amount of your love, your support, or your companionship would have been enough to keep him in your life. 

Bucky had been right all along, and you hated how utterly bitter that made you. 

How could you accept that what tore you to pieces mended Bucky back together?

The air between you shifts, it’s thick and acrid, and your heart races in your chest with fury as loud as the thunder that rumbles in the clouds. Leaving you wondering if Bucky can differentiate which one is more turbulent. He can sense the change in you and it causes the heaviness in his shoulders to return and his body to go rigid—his own heart threatening to leap out of his chest.

Your phone rings and you use it as an excuse to turn away from Bucky. You pull it out of your bag and check the caller ID—it's Nate. Your neighbor from down the hall of your apartment complex who moved in a couple of months ago, and was now a casual hookup of yours. You weren’t one for hookups, but after years of no connection you longed to feel something—anything with anyone. 

You were only human after all. 

You answer the call, needing to put your attention elsewhere before you say anything to Bucky you might regret later. You keep your responses short, knowing Nate could only be calling you at this hour for one reason and one reason only. Bucky didn’t need to know that reason, so you decide to keep the conversation as brief as possible. 

Bucky shifts his weight on his feet as he pretends to watch the rain. Focusing on a water droplet sliding down the glass wall as it races the other droplets to the ground. He’s tempted to use his super soldier hearing to listen in on your conversation, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to. There are only bits and pieces that slip through—like the fact that you’re talking to a man—and it has one soul-crushing thought come to his mind.

You have someone. Bucky comes to the conclusion that you have moved on. 

As soon as you end the call the words slip out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop them. 

“Was that your boyfriend?” The word boyfriend tastes bitter on his tongue and he can’t help the prickly edge to his voice. You catch the way his jaw tenses and he averts your gaze—ripping the wounds of heartbreak right open. He has no right to feel any sort of way about you moving on. He knows it, you know it, and yet there he is troubled at the thought of you with someone else. 

Screw not saying something you’ll regret later. 

“Yeah. That was him,” you lie with the utmost confidence that even you believe it. A tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you for lying, but it's hard to hear it when the resentment fights its way up to the surface and wins. 

Bucky had fallen from a train, been brainwashed, tortured, beaten left and right in battles, gone to war, blipped out of existence, stabbed and shot more times than he can count and yet no physical blow could ever amount to the sheer devastating pain he was feeling right now knowing you had found someone else. Knowing there was someone else who got to see your sleepy smiles in the mornings, who got to cuddle you close to his chest on movie nights, who got to steal kisses from you while cooking dinner together, and who got to hear your laughter whenever he wanted—a sound that never failed to make Bucky all warm and fuzzy inside. 

There was someone else who now had the privilege and the honor to be loved by you, and to love you.

Bucky would never be able to recover from that.

“I’m…happy for you. I’m happy you were able to move on,” Bucky lies through his teeth as he says those words that feel like acid on his tongue. 

“It’s not like I had a choice in the matter,” you retort coldly, causing Bucky to flinch as if you had struck him. 

“Y/n I—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how you weren’t ready for a relationship. How ending it was for the best. Breaking every single promise you made to me like it meant nothing to you. You don’t tell someone you love them, that you want to move in together—you don’t talk about the future and then turn around and break up with them because you’re not ready for something long-term. Not unless…not unless it was all a lie from the start,” your voice cracks by the end and it takes everything within you to swallow the lump in your throat before it suffocates you. 

The thunder roars so loudly it shakes the glass walls around you and for a second you think they might break—but ultimately they don’t. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, taking a sharp intake of a breath before blowing out the air in what sounds like a choked sob. Every fiber of his being longs to break the distance, wrap you in his arms, and never let you go. Cradling you close to his chest like he used to whenever you were upset. 

He had lost that privilege—he’s well aware of that, and yet his wishes remain the same. 

Bucky knows there’s more he can say. Things that might not restore what was broken, but that will definitely give you answers or closure. Although, at the risk of hurting you even more he keeps them to himself and instead whispers a strained, “I’m sorry.” Letting the weight of his apology hang in the air.

Your tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away not wanting to cry in front of him. Maybe you shouldn’t be bitter and resentful—after all the man you loved with your whole heart ended up better off without you. If you truly loved him you should be happy for him. Despite that, there is no ounce of happiness that you can conjure up for him right now. At this moment, you are swimming in an ocean of negative emotions that are close to pulling you under into a very dark place. 

You can be the bigger person tomorrow—tonight you won’t be.

Bucky can hear it before it comes into view, a cab is finally making its way down the road. He steps out into the road to wave it down, the rain ricocheting off of his shoulders. Without speaking another word, he heads over to the cab and opens the door to the backseat, gesturing for you to go in. For a second, you hesitate to take the cab. You know once you do this is it—it's over. 

A beat passes until you make a decision. With a heavy heart, you force one foot in front of the other, stepping into the rain and then into the backseat. Accepting this small gesture from Bucky as a heartfelt goodbye. If you stuck around any longer that bit of animosity brewing in the pit of your stomach would’ve boiled over. 

You don’t look at Bucky as he closes the door, but you steal one last glance at him as you tell the driver your address. The sight squeezes your chest so tightly it might stop beating—Bucky is crying. He’s hiding it well with the rain and with the way he stands, but you know him better than that. At one point he was your other half and you can tell by the way his jaw trembles, his eyes narrow, and his expression molds to one of pain that he’s crying.

You hide your face from him as the dam breaks and everything you had been holding back comes flooding out.

Bucky steps back into the shelter of the glass walls and watches the cab drive off with you in it—taking his heart and his hope with you. 

Bucky tries to force the tears to stop, but he knows it's no use. Just like you, he had held back a sea of truths he wanted to confess. Truths he wasn’t sure you even wanted to hear or he even deserved to tell. 

Bucky is not doing good. He has to throw himself into work and missions every waking moment because if he doesn’t his thoughts will run straight to you. Every night he has to hold his pillow close to his chest because he got so used to sleeping with you cuddled against him, that he feels like a part of him is missing and it steals his sleep. He tosses and turns for hours and stares at the ceiling as if there he’ll find the answers on how to make the heartache go away. In the silence, he longs to hear your voice, so the radio and the tv stay on so he doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable. The food he eats lacks flavor and the world around him seems devoid of color. 

His existence feels soulless without you.

Sam is trying to get him to talk about it, but you’re the one thing Sam is not allowed to bring up. Not when Bucky is ashamed of the full story—of the truth. 

The full story—the full truth—was the one thing most of all that he wanted to get off of his chest and confess to you. Bucky didn’t break up with you because he wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship. That was the biggest lie he had ever told and one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He was ready. He was so damn ready he even bought the ring to ask you to marry him—to make forever official. That was until he noticed how his problems began to bleed into your life. So much so, that your career as a surgeon began to suffer from it. The one thing you were most passionate about—your dream—the one thing you worked blood, sweat, and tears for was in jeopardy because Bucky was still suffering from the baggage of his past as the Winter Solider.

Bucky felt like a burden. You would never call him that and he knew if you ever heard him call himself that, you would do and say everything you could to assure him he was wrong. You loved him so deeply and so selflessly that your career became an afterthought. When his nightmares plagued him, when his PTSD was triggered, when the world felt like it was closing in on him—there you were. By his side no matter the time of day to hold him close and reassure him he wasn’t alone, that he was safe, and that he was loved. Bucky had become so dependent on you he didn’t realize how it had affected you until he stumbled across the warning letters your job sent, the voicemails, and the overheard calls. The articles that came out questioning your morality for dating the Winter Solider—a cold-blooded killer.

Your reputation as a surgeon was on the line because of him.

That’s when Bucky knew he had to call it off. He had to be the one to end it and fix his own problems before his darkness ruined you. You had sacrificed so much and worked endlessly to prove yourself in your field, that there was no way he would let you risk all of that for him. He knew he couldn’t be honest with you over the real reasons—you would never accept them. So he made sure to find a reason that would lead you to hate him. 

Bucky knew he had to be the villain of the story. He was used to it, he’d be okay with it. As long as you were safe from the shadows that followed him, he would gladly be the bad guy. For some people that was all he’d ever be, at least in this case he could control the narrative and in the end it would benefit you.

Bucky couldn’t give you forever, no, but in letting you go he made sure you kept your dream—and that was enough for him. That meant everything to him. 

He had to suffer the greatest loss of his life so that the love of his life could be free. A hard truth that he would forever carry the weight of and that you would never know was done as an ultimate act of love—the selfless act of knowing when to say goodbye. 

[bunnwich]

Why Leona Gave Himself The Bad Ending

Leona Kingscholar Analysis

Usual disclaimer to say that these are just my thoughts and you don’t have to feel pressured to agree. This was my thought process as I played through the parts of Chapter 7 Parts 212-226, featuring Leona’s dream triggered by Malleus’s magic.

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I wanna start off by saying that I believe all the dreams are a mixture of Malleus’s magic and the dreamers themselves. 

Idia theorized that Malleus is sort of “setting up the parameters” in a way, then each of the dreamers' personalities and imaginations affect the dream in different ways. The emphasis of this has been brought by Idia several times that it’s the strength of imagination that determines how complex dreams are. Which is maybe why in the first years dreams seem so basic? They’re young, their magical abilities are still new, and their magic is no match for Malleus’s magic. That and, to be fair, most of the first years don’t have the same amount of angst and turmoil as some of the other second years and third years have.

With that being said, I believe that because of his high intelligence, magical prowess, and his hyper-vigilance, that is the main reason Leona’s dream was so…different than the others.

But let's get into it!

There are a lot of Lion King references in this dream, and it’s very clear the writers wanted to play around and show this off. I feel like they did a good job of integrating the themes of the movie into Leona's dream. It does give me a little validation as I feel Leona’s struggles and personality are closely linked to his great Seven Counterpart, Scar. More so than any of the other overblotters. When I analyze Leona I sometimes I do use Scar as a starting point to understand his intentions.

This is how I came to the conclusion long ago that being king would never make Leona happy because it's not what he truly wants.

We start with the dream back in the Sunset Savanna. It’s VERY interesting to see that there is hyena prejudice right off the bat as a woman flees from Ruggie while he attempts to buy food. 

Right off, everyone can tell something is…off about the city. Especially coming fresh from Ruggie’s dream where everything was idyllic and happy for hyenas BECAUSE of Leona.

Grim hits us with the: “I laugh in the face of danger!” line. We even get the three hyenas referenced and the “love for you to stick around for dinner” line. The once proud lioness-dominated palace guard has been taken over by hyena “ruffians” (interesting choice to portray a disenfranchised group being given jobs as the new guard as a negative thing, but moving on.)

The first interesting thing we get is that the palace is somewhat rundown and empty? The group makes comments of how dark and dreary it is, and how few people are around. Is there an implication that the servants fled at some point after Leona became King or did he replace them? This further shows me that Leona for whatever reason has chosen to isolate himself. To me, it's most likely that he already feels isolated by his country and those in the palace.

From the looks of it “Malleus’s magic” has given Leona the one thing he has always wanted, but has he? Leona seems less than thrilled and genuinely upset by the fact his whole family is...gone. As I mentioned in my Leona relationships post, I think that he holds a complex relationship with his family, and while he resents them, in no way can I see him wanting them to be dead. 

It’s now I started to think that Leona’s magic was overriding the simple “let them eat cake” logic of all of the happier dreams. This dream feels TOO real, dark, dreary, and…sad. Could it be Leona’s intelligence or cynicism, ruining what’s supposed to be an idyllic scenario?

Why is even in his WILDEST dreams Leona is still miserable?

Hmm.

A lot of people have talked about Kifaji and their thoughts on his presence. It’s strange to see people praise him as “a loving parental figure” as if he’s really there trying to help Leona. But, Kifaji is not there. This Kifaji is a manifestation of Leona’s mind and I’ll get to why that’s interesting and what I think he represents. Remember, that often in other dreams we’ve seen of loved ones or rivals and they can act normal, out of character, or even cruel. Vil and Neigie come to mind and Neige turned out to be the blot keeping Vil asleep.

Kifaji is a bit different. He actively tries to help the group wake Leona as opposed to encouraging the twisted dream logic. For this reason, to me, Kifaji represents Leona’s conscious and the Dream!Leona we see represents his shadow self, like the dark side of the moon. AKA, the Leona we meet in Chapter 2. In fact, this whole dream feels like a rehash of Chapter 2.

We get the outdated Leona that dumbs himself down and settles for less, cloaking himself in his pride and believing that everyone is below him. An idle king while he lets others do his dirty work. (Scar basically.)

Leona asks Kifaji to sing (another Lion King reference) and it plays out how you would think. Leona tells Kifaji that he is the only competent person in the kingdom. And he argues that the kingdom is in shambles, not because of his choices as King, but because everyone else sucks basically.

Hmm. 

Kifaji reminds Leona that while he is clever and his plans are grand, that he can not treat people like human chess pieces. (Can I just say I love when chess is brought up to us because I find that when people analyze Leona or his thoughts they often forget how much he uses chess to process his thoughts. We saw that plenty in the Tamashina Mina event!) I think it helps him sort his thoughts and emotions which he can have a hard time doing.

I think Kifaji represents Leona’s mindset post Chapter 2 and because Kifaji in his real life is one of the only people who probably stands up to Leona, he has placed him in this antagonist role in his mind. (but not really) Plus, it’s not far off from Kifaji’s actual treatment of Leona in the Tamashina Mina event.

So yeah, Leona acts more like he does in Chapter 2—he's the player or the king even and everyone else around is just lowly pieces.

Just like the scene from The Lion King, Scar and Leona are not happy. Even though they are supposedly getting their deepest desire, they remain bitter and…alone. 

When I first began to read into Leona it was quite obvious to me that the whole “I’ll never be king" thing was just a front for something else. What I think Leona truly craves is approval and acceptance.

Being king, especially of a broken kingdom that despises him, will never make him happy. But, why do the people not love him? This is supposed to be a fantasy right?

There is this interesting layer of how he became king too. Instead of Cheka or Falena simply not existing, like I thought it might be, they are dead. That is…so much more tragic than it needed to be. As if deep down Leona believes the only way he can become king (his dreams to come true) is if tragedy happens. This reminds me of his bitter view/the symbolism of his unique magic. That he can only bring misery wherever he goes—everything he touches turns to sand. 

I also think that Leona is afraid of failing and much of this dream is his anxieties and insecurities that linger from all his past failures.

Though interestingly enough, I sense that in the dream, as implied later by Idia, Leona has implemented an “over-exaggeration” of his policies and plans for the kingdom. It was almost like he purposely ran his resources dry and gave up trying to compromise with anyone for the sake of “progress.”

Why, though?

It’s very masochistic in a way. It’s almost like he wanted to prove himself right. Everything he touches will turn to sand eventually and his grand plans will fail even if he claims they are “perfect.”

That’s why this dream is probably the most masochistic and self-deprecating we have seen. I think what initially began to draw me to Leona’s character is because of the hidden pain he holds. He is by far one of the most easygoing, and lackadaisical acting of the cast, but…he cares, he cares so, so much about how he is perceived and his haunted by his hopelessness about his future and the failures of his past.

I think the pain of never feeling good enough, causes his mind to be unable to “play nice” with Malleus’s dream magic to even manifest any sort of positive future. One where he holds a position he wants AND is loved and respected. it’s just impossible that he could ever have that, even in his wildest dreams. 

He’s too much of a “realist.”

Side tangent, but a frustrating take is to see was the: “Oh yeah, see? He would have sucked as king.” tinged comments after this came out.

 I think it’s more complicated than that. 

This isn’t me trying to defend him necessarily, but to be fair, all dreams tend to be over exaggerations by the dreamer. Plus, I think the fact that Ruggie HATES Leona in this dream and is suddenly in favor of Falena, is a sign right there we can not trust Leona’s interpretation of the people he knows in his dream. He is sort of an unreliable narrator that way. 

Besides, like in The Lion King, why would all the water dry up, just because the hyenas over-hunted? 

A big theme in Lion King and even The Lion Guard TV show is "the balance of nature." The blight upon the Pridelands when Scar takes over feels more like symbolism of the “unbalance of nature” caused by the tragedy of Mufasa’s death. Which makes me again, connect that Leona feels the only way he can succeed is by inflicting misery on others. Like his magic, perhaps a part of him believes he is a curse. 

I theorized in my Tamashina Mina review, that maybe Leona feels like an outcast himself, and the separation he feels from his country is showcased in how he blames the citizens for the decline of the kingdom, rather than his plans. He feels isolated from them.

By this point, I was having flashbacks to Chapter 2, where he got a whiff of his plan failing and he still pushed through even though he knew it would fail. At first, he may have started doing okay as king, but maybe when he came upon too many obstacles or pushback, He just gave up. Because he was not instantly loved by the people, who probably already feared him, he’d rather not even try. Suddenly, they are “not worth his time”, and he can’t help them because they suck.

Leona’s problem has always been his pride. I think he has to put it aside to genuinely help people reach their potential and learn to collaborate with others more. Part of how this dream plays out, is him realizing that maybe some criticisms Kifaji had about his pride all along may be true. Leona refuses to play nice with others. 

That’s why I think Kifaji represents a more sensible and lucid Leona. He is in a sense, talking to his past self, and trying to shake himself from the dream and his outdated ideals.

Ortho even points out that Ruggie is not really the Ruggie we know but rather a part of Leona’s imagination. Again, which puts emphasis on how the characters in his dream are more indicative of his mindset as opposed to being “in character”. Maybe Ruggie hating him in his dream is his inner anxieties about him and Ruggie post Chapter 2 fallout. He feels like Ruggie could never forgive him for what he did. He let him down. And Leona being bad with people and feelings, doesn’t know the proper way to apologize.

Kifaji (woke Leona) says that the state of the kingdom is a result of him “pursuing efficiency over all things and disregarding other people's feelings.” It really feels like he is calling himself out here. Does he REALLY wanna help people? Or is it just Leona’s selfish pride who wants attention for just being smart?

Dream!Leona complains about the protesters interrupting his nap which is another sign for me of the exaggeration of the scenario of Leona being the king. Like...did he not criticize Falena for having the same carefree and laid-back attitude? And yet here he is...complacent in the same behavior he once criticized Falena of. 

Interesting.

Ortho mentions that Leona’s dream is clearly a more complex situation than the other dreams.

I think there is a key implication we are missing here too, that I haven’t seen many mention. There is a throwaway line that Jack mentions that Leona has not attended school and is king instead. And he doesn't seem to know Dream!Ruggie either. Nor Ruggie him.

There is no doubt his time at NRC has shaped him to be the Leona we know now. Someone who has at least somewhat benefited with the connections he made at school. It does seem like this Dream!Leona is regressed. And because he never attended school, he is a much colder person who has no regard for others' feelings at all. He is even more socially inept.

I feel like this is a common theme to show us that despite the independent nature of most of the students at NRC, that it can still be “the friends we made along the way.” trope.  These connections do matter and especially to Leona. He mentions this in his post-overblot monologue in the light novel. He found his pack at NRC.  This time with his dorm members affected his personality for the better. It's kinda sweet when you think about it!

Ortho mentions Dream!Leona appears DEEPLY absorbed in the delusions of his dream. This means that even though he has the lucid failsafe of Kifaji, Leona’s self-deprecation, despair, and pain are still overtaking his logic. That's what's crafted this nightmare. (And he later references it as such.) 

Everyone acknowledges that he can’t possibly be happy and looks EVEN MORE miserable than at school. It can't be a silly happy fantasy, but a grim dark reality of what he thinks of himself. 

That's why he gave himself the bad ending.

I love the double entendre of Idia saying Leona is building his dream like a “sandbox” game. Lots of Minecraft references. (Leona Minecrafter confirmed? Or hear me out…Leona playing King Crusaders or Civilization V FGHJ)

Anyways, Idia or Ortho, (I forget) suggests that perhaps he has run out of ”simulations” for his dream playthrough. And being an intelligent person his mind tends to overthink naturally and this caused his dream to have a more realistic tone. Plus, I theorize that because Leona is powerful and his intelligent, his magic and imagination was almost able to overwrite Malleus's, a standard happy dream formula.

Ortho suggests Leona chose a more “realistic mode “on purpose.” Perhaps like I theorized earlier, it is almost a masochistic test to see if he could have everything he wanted? Leona is a very analytical person who enjoys games. It makes sense, the way he often plays chess alone to practice “strategies.” But as I mentioned before, I think he just genuinely believes it's not possible. Ortho mentions he thinks Leona’s the type to understand that an “aggressive urban development” would come with risks.

Jack asks “If Leona knew this was a bad plan then why would he make the citizens suffer and be hated?”  (Sheesh, now we know Leona really is the type to play pretend and get a lil too real with it.)

Ruggie adds that Leona may be “doing something he knows he shouldn't be on purpose.” Like maybe he did it to be dastardly and maybe he just wanted to “feel the rush” of being a ruthless and hated king.

When Azul asks Ruggie if he thinks Leona takes pleasure in immoral things he says that he can't say for sure, only that he is a prince that no doubt can take pleasure in “bad things”.

To me, however, it feels like a masochistic move to prove to himself his happiness is unattainable. 

Then Sebek chimes in: “How could he go so far to kill his family only to abandon his responsibilities as a king and become a horrible one?"

No one seems to know for sure. Everyone in the group has their theories but the consensus in the group is that - nobody fuckin’ knows why this guy intricately carved himself such a miserable fantasy for himself. Very masochistic for a guy who appears to be so proud huh?

Idia continues to mention that Leona’s imagination is so vast compared to everyone else's. It fills out a whole “world” completely and the mechanics of this world must make sense. He's playing on hard mode. In Leona’s brain this seemed to manifest as if he is to “get what he wants” it can't be serendipitous or through triumph, IT MUST be through tragedy.

Can we lighten up a little?

Again, he may have started to do “good work” but quickly realized that keeping up with all to create a perfect kingdom was waaaay over his head. Maybe he was afraid to give it his all, because he knew everyone would still hate him anyway.

Another reason I think Leona thrives better as a “big fish in a small pond” so to speak. Like his dorm leader role where he can interact directly with his cute (this man used this word a lot for some reason) froshes, make tangible make things better for a small group or community. 

But as we saw, even with his dorm Leona began to feel overwhelmed with the pretty promises he made to his underclassmen in Chapter 2 about the Spelldrive tournament. He like…wants to be wanted but he’s terrified of people actually relying on him, because trying your best and then failing anyways is the most painful thing to him. His instinct when he gets too frustrated with something is to act like he never cared about it in the first place or anyone. AKA “I did everything right and it's THE REST OF YOU who are incompetent.”

That’s why I personally think that in the future Leona working within a small community might be a better fit for him, using his skills to see potential in others as a way to connect with them and teach them how to thrive. 

So yeah, needless to say the group is stumped on analyzing Leona’s intentions and Azul hilariously notes that Leona is just…a complicated person. 

What an understatement.

The group hatches a silly plan to have Ruggie puppet a Cheka hologram and yeah obviously it didn’t work.

This is where it started to get interesting again.

Dream!Kifaji said he’s been “waiting for the day Leona would wake up from his bad dream” and joins the fight against him to wake him. It’s like Leona telling himself that it's time to let his original dream go.

Ortho is surprised Kifaji is on their side, that he should be the darkness pulling Leona back in, but like I mentioned I think Kifaji is actually a “fail safe” Leona created to stay lucid or...maybe the little bit of hope he has fostered now that he has grown from Chapters 2’s events.

Since Kifaji is the one to normally call him out, maybe he's Leona’s way of processing his relationship with him. And that maybe…sometimes as annoying as Kifaji is, he has a point. Kifaji is the one who is implied to have raised him after all, so it's no surprise Leona sees him in a father-like role more than his own father.

“No one understands me, it's not my fault.”  Leona laments running away, running away from himself.

Reminds me a lot of Chapter 2 Leona where he began to feel sorry for himself instead of actually trying to fix things. It's clear that no matter how smart and mature Leona is…is that he still has a lot of growing to do. And that his relationship with his family and country are complex. There is not a black and white or good and bad with this situation and I feel like this is important when talking about him and his relationships with his family.

He was very much ostracized and probably neglected to some extent by his real parents but at a certain point, Leona decided to give up on improving himself just because he didn't achieve the results he wanted to. It's one of his biggest flaw.

His complacency is what drags him further into the darkness. Not Kifaji.

Sitting and stewing in his despair and how unfair his life has been instead of reaching out. Rehashing all thise chess strategies alone on his chess board until his brain hurts. Making grandiose plans instead of actually working hard toward a realistic goal. 

The idle king. A king with naught. (Nothing.)

I am now realizing that in a way (because Ruggie and Leona are so similar) Jack is Leona’s foil; he is the determined and earnest one who admires Leona at his best. He still holds the innocence and the idealism of working hard.

The group jumped through the darkness with Leona and we are replaying the events of Chapter 2 once again.

Ruggie and Jack watch it go down in dismay. Ruggie addresses that he once did think Leona’s way of thinking/plan was good and it’s cool to see he clearly regrets it now too.

They watch the drama play out as if Leona’s plan in Chapter 2 actually succeeded and see that he craves more. More ways for Savanaclaw to get ahead by unsavory means.

Jack says even if Leona becomes king there will be no end to his dissatisfaction. BOOM, there it is.

That is why Chapter 2 is so mind boggling.  Leona’s whole speech was about being king and second. But it’s clear now, it's not what he truly wants. I think Leona is afraid to admit what he really wants. Because that takes vulnerability and then comes the possibility of being rejected.

Jack also notes that, despite Leona getting “everything he wanted” he seems more grumpier and dissatisfied than usual.

“Leona is not your King, hes’ our Dorm Leader,” Jack growls. They fight and we get a nice callback to Lion King here. “Remember who you are.”

As Leona wakes up from his dreams he straight up says, yeah the scheme from Chapter 2 was…stupid. (Nice.)

Oh and we finally get some acknowledgement that Ruggie feels like Leona abandoned him in Chapter 2 which SHEEEEEEEESH. This is a deep cut for me, considering Ruggie’s real dad abandoned him. And it really confirms the fact he sees Leona as a father/big brother figure.

But, Leona doesn't, he sacrifices himself for Ruggie as the whole group tries to escape the crumbling dream. And while Ruggie cries out for Leona, Leona goes down smirking not knowing what will happen to him.

It’s time for him to face himself, his blot monster.

Blot!Leona wants them dead, all of them. Cheka, Falena, everyone. The real Leona finds it kind of pathetic. Because, in reality, I don't think Leona hates Cheka or Falena and he doesn't want to be alone anymore.

Leona admits to his blot that yeah, no he can’t do the job. He can’t be king. And instead of it being a negative it’s more a relief? Maybe he is incompetent too. He is addressing himself and his previous grandiose illusions. He hasn’t done anything worthy of being king.

However, he will not give up. He’s finally living up to Savanaclaw’s motto of perseverance (which he sorta laughed off in Chapter 2?)

This next part is what struck me the most because. He just lays it out so simply, finally saying it out loud.

Self awareness!! Like he finally said it!! (And I felt very vindicated in this moment, NGL) 

What he desires most is the approval of others.

Ah, and Blot!Leona responds with the fact he can't earnestly try, it's too painful to think of failing. Props for Leona acknowledging his flaws! Just like with the other overblotters. But I'm especially floored here because of how PRIDEFUL he is all the time.

In order to have better relationships with people, he has to leave that whole “they all hated me” shit behind. Because in reality, there are people who care for him despite his flaws. There are those who look up to him and admire him, for him.

But, the idea of that I think is so…crazy to him that he tends to deny its very existence. Then when he is genuinely complimented on his leadership or whatever skills he brushes it off.

He calls himself disgusting which feels kinda sad but it’s proof he has moved on from his previous way of things. What did I say earlier? Leona is afraid of failure. 

Giving being a king a earnest optimistic go is too painful for him because ultimately he is afraid of failing. Like he was happier to play the role of tyrannical king than to bother to build relations with the citizens of his kingdom.

As his blot self withers away it’s almost…sad compared to the previous blot monster showdowns we’ve seen. It mentions something about “his friends” (A reference to Scar’s final words.) like he’s reaching out for Leona so it's not alone anymore. And Leona almost embraces his monster? It’s clear he feels pity for this thing…him. His pain, his depression, his loneliness. Maybe a step in the way of self-love? He acknowledges (almost as to soothe it) that it will always be with him, clawing from inside. Except now, he won’t give up.

He vows that he will get what he wants one day, for both of them. He’ll have his “own throne and pride” instead of wanting for someone else’s. He’ll find his place to belong through his own merit.

It reminds me of that expression “find your own tribe” which is an expression that those who are not close to heirt families understand all too well.  He wants to find satisfaction outside his desire to rule and maybe because we know he prefers NRC to home, this confirms his fondness for his dorm life. (Savanaclaw found a family dorm.)

When he returns to his original dream of being king Kifaji is there as they look on at Pride Rock. The fact that it is raining is telling that hope has returned. (Just like at the end of Lion King) and that by accepting that “being king” is not what he really wants now “all things are balanced again”.

They have a nice moment here. Leona acknowledging that he has been given the tools to do good things by Kifaji’s training is a big mature moment for him. (Especially how they acted toward one another in the Tamashina Mina event)  And Kifaji praising him, since this a dream, could be a testament to what he wishes would happen between them.

AKA Leona finally feels more, “at peace” with himself.

As Leona destroys this false kingdom with his sand he seems reserved, it’s almost bittersweet as it all settles over him, his new found aspirations, letting the old ones go. He's letting the past go. A big theme in Lion King. (I really feel the writers must be fans of the movies.) 

Kifaji says: “Go to the place you really belong.”

This line kinda got me. Because the implication is that Night Raven College and his dorm is where he really belongs. Leona is confirming that his experiences at NRC have shaped who he is SO MUCH. 

For years he accepted his life as it was, a cage, and now he is acknowledging that he has the power to break that cage and do whatever he wants. It’s a great callback to the advice he gave Jamil in Chapter 6.

This is quite refreshing as he mentioned before that it was too “late for him”. Now, he realizes it isn’t.

Back with the gang, Ruggie admits his fear that Leona will abandon him again. Leona denies it, and says somewhat casually that he is in fact a true friend of his. This feels like a clever inversion of the line that Scar says to the hyenas about being his “friends.” 

But, we know now that Leona does mean it now. And this shows Leona’s desire to finally stray from the “path”  of his Great Seven counterpart and actually like…have friends?

The reunion of the Savanaclaw trio is actually really sweet. For a dorm full of cocky jocks with strong personalities they seem to be so genuinely happy to be reunited.

Jack bursting out into tears and crying got me tearing up. Like Ruggie and Leona clearly are bit more reserved in their emotions but we see Savanaclaw really are close, despite their disagreements. They care for one another as a dysfunctional little family. 

As a dorm that doesn't get much mainstream attention compared to others it was so nice to have this little moment. It's hard to tell, but I’m 99% sure there was a group hug based on how the sprites moved and the sound effects. At least a nice back pat from Leona. (Thanks, dad.) 

All in all, I really...enjoyed his dream section. As someone who is pretty hyper-critical, for the most part, it satisfied most of the things I wanted to feel. I even got emotional at a few points! Yes, it would have been nicer to spend more time with “king” Leona and dive into it more. Or get more lore about his family. But, he admitted it FINALLY, everything I have clocked about him all those years ago. It’s very satisfying to see his growth in a tangible straightforward way, instead of just me reading between the lines.

I hope we will continue to see even more growth with his character (Like we did in the Halloween event)  and I’m excited to see the role he will play in the rest of Chapter 7, even if it’s just him being a cranky old man. (What do you expect he was raised by one?)

I'd like to end this with some positivity. As someone who deep dives into character stuff a lot I know it's really comforting to see part of yourself reflected back in your favorite characters.

To anyone reading who feels they have things in common with Leona or his despair, the truth is that you should keep going, even if it's just to spite the world itself.

Your vision and presence in this world are valid all on their own and that failing is not indicative of your value as a person. It never will be.

Keep fighting to find your place, your pack and never forget who you are.💚

--

Thanks for reading!! This one took quite a bit to edit and think through so if you like my Leona analyses, I’d appreciate a reblog or even just if you wanna share it with your friends! Shoutout to the youtuber ガスマスクゲーマー whose video I pulled these screenshots from. Thank you!

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 003. the framework.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: well well well... this took a long damn time. apologies, apologies, but the science had to be figured out. these two are absolute NERDS, i fear. oblivion is absolutely delicious on those who claim to possess and pursue the knowledge of the universe. i fear you will be suffering for a WHILE if youre not into the slow burn HAAHAHAH. also,, if you guys ever want to see the actual equations and notes i took to write some of the science for this chapter, i could post it as well,, hehe,, -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Hushed voices, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted hum of thought is all that fills the air in the library. You sit at your usual table, papers strewn before you. The assignment has consumed your thoughts since it was given to you—an open-ended challenge demanding structure, logic, proof. Model something that physics refuses to acknowledge.

Your notes are chaotic, an evolving web of connections scrawled in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. A familiar frustration gnaws at you—the feeling of standing on the precipice of understanding, just shy of articulation. You run a hand through your hair and exhale sharply, staring at the mess of your own making. You need structure, a foundation to hold onto. If the soul exists, then it cannot be an anomaly—it must be governed by laws, patterns, something definable. If every human mind is unique, then what makes them so? The answer cannot be randomness. There must be an underlying form, a universal template from which all variation emerges.

You tap your pen against the page, mind turning. If identity is not a static entity but a recursive function, shaped by initial conditions and iterative transformations, then no self is ever fixed. The soul would not be a singular essence but a structure in motion, a process of becoming. And if this process holds, then consciousness cannot be isolated. The soul, then, is not merely a singular phenomenon—it is networked, existing not only within itself but through its connections. But what is it that determines it?

If this recursion is real, then it must not be a property of human existence but a fundamental principle of consciousness itself, a universal law.

It isn’t proof. It isn’t even a complete theory yet. But it is a start. A framework, a way forward. You stare at the words in front of you, pulse steady but intent.

Your fingers ache from gripping the pen too tightly, your vision blurring as you stare at the same lines of text, reading and rereading without truly absorbing them. The library’s stillness, once a comfort, has become suffocating—a static silence pressing in around you, the air too thick, the rows of bookshelves seemingly endless, as if space itself is closing in.

You lean back, dragging a hand down your face. A glance at the clock startles you. How long have you been here? Long enough that the lamps cast long, slanted shadows over your scattered notes. Long enough that exhaustion has settled into your limbs, dull and insistent.

You need air. Movement. A change in surroundings before your thoughts begin looping endlessly in place.

Gathering your papers into a loose stack, you shove them into your bag with little care for organization. You rise, stretching the stiffness from your spine before heading for the exit. The fluorescent lighting of the library hums overhead as you step out, the cooler evening air brushing against your skin like a quiet relief.

Minutes later, you find yourself at the café, drawn by the promise of warmth and caffeine. As the quiet hum of the city presses in, you click a few buttons on your phone and lift it to your ear.

–

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, grounding you. You wrap your hands around the ceramic cup, letting its heat seep into your skin. You sit near the window, coffee cup nestled between your hands, eyes skimming the notes spread haphazardly across the table. The light overhead buzzes softly—old wiring, probably—but the sound fades into the background as you focus.

You’re not here to have a breakthrough. You’re here to map the boundaries.

The problem with studying the soul—if you can even call it that—isn’t just defining it. It’s figuring out where to look. If it exists as more than a philosophical concept, then there have to be parameters. A framework.

You flip to a blank page in your notebook.

What is the soul?

A real question. Not in the poetic sense, not in the way people speak about it in hushed tones and late-night confessions, but as a function. A thing with properties.

You write:

— The soul is not isolated. If it were, it wouldn’t interact with the world. People change. Learn. Influence each other. Whatever the soul is, it isn’t locked away inside a single person.

— It has persistent traits, but it is not static. Memories shape behavior. Experience alters perception. The thing that makes you you isn’t a fixed point, but it also isn’t random. There’s continuity, even through change.

— It extends beyond individual experience. Connections leave an imprint. People carry each other—sometimes in ways they can’t explain. If the soul exists beyond metaphor, then its effects should be traceable.

You take a slow sip of coffee. These aren’t conclusions. They’re places to start.

At the very least, if you’re going to chase something this impossible, you have to know what it isn’t–

"Trial and error."

The voice is measured, almost idle, but it cuts through the noise of the café like a well-placed incision.

You jolt, pen slipping from your fingers. Anaxagoras is standing beside your table, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking over your notes with mild interest. His presence isn’t overwhelming, but it shifts the air in a way you feel immediately. Like a variable introduced into an equation.

"You can’t just—appear—like that," you say, exhaling sharply as you retrieve your pen.

He lifts a brow. "I used the door. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention." His gaze drops back to your notebook, reading without asking, though you suspect if you told him to stop, he actually would. "Trial and error," he repeats, as if the phrase itself is under scrutiny. "A method you seem to be employing."

You sit back slightly, fingers curling around your coffee cup. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Not at all," he replies, voice as even as ever. "It’s an honest approach. Just an unpolished one."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Practicality aside, it’s the only thing I can do at this stage. I'm defining parameters, not solving anything." You tap your pen against the page. "Or would you rather I skip to the part where I give you something half-formed and empirically worthless?"

His mouth curves—just slightly. "I appreciate the restraint."

"High praise."

Anaxagoras doesn’t acknowledge that, but his gaze lingers on your notes a moment longer before he straightens. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to join, but he also doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he says, "It’s getting cold."

You blink at him. "What?"

"Your coffee," he nods toward your coffee cup, still mostly full. "You’ve been holding it for minutes without drinking."

You glance down at it, then back up at him. "I didn't realize you were keeping track."

"Well, far be it from me to disrupt your... inefficiency." he remarks, stepping back.

You glance toward the door. "I'm actually waiting for someone."

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly.

"A friend," you clarify, though you're not sure why it feels necessary to do so.

He makes no move to leave, and you take another sip of coffee, not minding the silence that settles between you. It's surprisingly comfortable, even in its brevity.

Then, the door swings open.

Ilias strides in, scanning the café—then stops dead when he sees the two of you. His eyes flick between you and Anaxagoras, narrowing with immediate, delighted suspicion. And then, with exaggerated slowness, he pivots on his heel, turning straight back toward the exit.

"Oh, for—come back," you call, exasperated.

Ilias replies, raising his hands in mock surrender but grinning as he turns back around. "Please. Continue your—" he gestures vaguely, "—whatever this is."

Anaxagoras exhales, barely more than a breath, and finally steps away from your table. "I’m leaving."

Ilias watches him, expression far too entertained. He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe you invited me to your impromptu date."

You glare at him, but before you can retort, you catch the faintest shift in Anaxagoras' posture—nothing overt, no reaction beyond the briefest pause in his step. Then he continues toward the door, leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

Ilias collapses into the seat across from you like a man overcome by the sheer weight of his own amusement. "That was," he announces, "the single most deliciously awkward thing I have ever witnessed."

You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook.

"And yet," he sighs, folding his hands under his chin with a smirk, "here I am—like the universe itself has conspired to place me in this exact moment.”

Ilias is still grinning as he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You know, if you ever need a chaperone for your secret intellectual rendezvous, I’m available.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your notes with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an—” You stop yourself. There’s no point. Ilias seemingly lives for provocation, and you won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you shake your head and lean back in your chair, stretching your arms with a sigh.

Ilias, ever the dramatist, makes a show of settling in across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “You’re unusually quiet,” he muses. “Brooding, even.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger against the table. “That was an awfully long pause for a simple ‘no.’”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the people moving along the street, the steady glow of passing headlights. The café hums around you—low conversations, the occasional clatter of a cup against its saucer. It’s late, but not late enough to leave just yet.

Ilias orders something sweet, drumming his fingers absently against the table while he waits. You sip the last of your now-cold coffee, your mind still lingering elsewhere. A glance at your notes does little to pull you back. The thought won’t let go.

You don’t even realize you’re frowning at your notes until Ilias nudges your cup with his own.

"Thinking about your not-a-date?" he teases, grinning.

You glare at him half-heartedly, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Thinking,” you say simply.

Eventually, Ilias finishes his pastry, brushing crumbs from his fingers before stretching with a yawn.

The two of you step outside together, the shift from the café’s warmth to the crisp night air making you shiver. The city has quieted, the usual rush of movement settling into a steadier rhythm. You walk side by side for a while, boots clicking against the pavement, the hum of distant traffic filling the spaces between conversation. 

Even as Ilias chatters on about something inconsequential, the ideas still linger at the edge of your mind, waiting to take shape. 

By the next morning, the café is a memory drowned out by the quiet rustle of students filling the lecture hall. The usual pre-class murmur settles into a steady rhythm—books thudding against desks, the sharp clicking of laptop keys, the low hum of voices exchanging half-hearted speculations on today’s topic. 

You slide into your usual seat at the front, your notes open in front of you, though your pen remains idle between your fingers. The thoughts that have followed you since the library refuse to resolve, circling just beyond reach. There’s something missing—something foundational, yet frustratingly unformed.

At the lectern, Anaxagoras sets down his drink with practiced ease, the cup making a soft, deliberate sound against the wooden surface. The hall quiets. 

He surveys the room with that same composed intensity, his gaze flickering over the assembled students before settling briefly—too briefly—on you.

“Continuity,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly, “is a deceptively simple concept. We assume that when two systems interact, they influence each other only at the moment of contact. That once they separate, the interaction ends.”

You straighten slightly. A slow prickle of recognition runs down your spine.

Anaxagoras picks up a piece of chalk and sketches a familiar equation on the board—one you’ve seen before, but never in this exact context. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

“But,” he continues, underlining a key term, “this assumes a linear, local model of influence. What happens, then, if we acknowledge that certain interactions leave something… persistent? That even after separation, a trace remains?”

The rustling of papers around you barely registers. Your thoughts lurch forward, bridging gaps in ways they hadn’t before.

You shift, almost without realizing, and Anaxagoras glances in your direction—briefly, but with intent. He knows.

A student two seats over raises a hand. “Are you talking about quantum entanglement?”

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly. “A useful analogy, but not a perfect one. Entanglement suggests an instantaneous connection regardless of distance. What I am asking is more fundamental—does influence itself persist, even outside direct interaction?”

A murmur ripples through the hall. A few students exchange looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others frowning as they try to grasp the implications.

Your heart beats a fraction faster as the pieces align. The answer should be simple. If two variables are no longer in contact, the influence should end. The system should reset. But—

“They don’t go back to what they were before,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Anaxagoras sets the chalk down. “Louder.”

The words form before hesitation can stop them. “Even apart, they still retain the effect of their interaction. They update each other, whether they remain in proximity or not.”

The silence that follows is the kind that shifts the atmosphere of a room. Not an absence of sound, but a space filled with quiet recognition.

Anaxagoras watches you, his expression unreadable, but you swear something flickers in his gaze.

You grip your pen tighter. “There’s a kind of imprint,” you continue, voice steadier now. “An effect that doesn’t disappear even after separation. A persistence beyond time or proximity.”

He nods once, the movement precise. “Nonlinear. Nonlocal.”

A slow breath escapes you.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. A student coughs. Someone flips a page too loudly. The world presses back in, indifferent to the shape of revelation.

Anaxagoras turns away first, back to the board, where the equation remains half-finished. He picks up the chalk again, his voice returning to its usual cadence, folding the moment neatly back into lecture. 

His gaze flickers back to you for a moment—steady, contemplative, threaded with something unreadable. Interest, perhaps. Amusement, restrained but evident in the slight tilt of his head. And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

“You were closer than you thought.”

You exhale, staring at the marginalia scrawled in the edges of your notebook—sharp, decisive, yet somehow restrained. Outside the window, the campus air carries the crisp scent of rain—not quite fallen, not quite gone. And yet, the thought lingers, refusing to leave you.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @somniosu (send an ask or comment to be added!)

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ don't let go, okay? | gojo satoru

wc: 2.1k

summary: it has to be some sort of fate that you happen to be stuck with gojo on valentine's day.

contains: f!reader, slowburn, fluff, reader and gojo are 21, reader and gojo are ‘guardians’ to megumi and tsumiki but they are not romantically together, japanese valentine’s chocolate tradition, reader’s cursed technique (vaguely), kind of pining

a/n: in the 'conversations on love' universe but takes place before the main series (would be nice to read but not necessary to understand this). theme song for this is what love is by zimmer90.

part of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within 'conversations on love'. also included in how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas)

The night is crisp when you step into it, the clean cut of a cool breeze tickling your cheek; it sweeps past you in the edge of winter and spring. 

You walk along the street. 

A sort of faded, vintage hue paints Shimokitazawa, wooden boards with worn down signages holding names of antique shops in every corner. The night feels older here, retro lights tinging bars and pubs more maturely than those nearby in Shibuya. At the street across, the sign of a cafe is flipped the other way to formally open the speakeasy it transforms into. 

You’ve only been here twice before: once with Nanami and Utahime years ago, while searching for old vinyl records the three of you had gotten into, and another with Tsumiki, some time last month because she’d mentioned wanting to check the thrift shops. 

Who would have thought you’d be back so soon? With—

“Satoru,” you call out, half-giggling, “why are you sniffing?” 

Gojo trails just a few inches behind you, body bent over closely to catch a whiff but not near enough to touch. Each inhale he takes is punctuated with the sound of whizzing air, condensing to fit through his nostrils. 

“You smell like chocolate.”

Out of all the plans you’d anticipated on Valentine’s Day, being roped into a mission with Gojo at the last minute was definitely not one of them. 

You shake your head knowingly, the corners of your lips curling; Gojo can smell sweets miles away, you could honestly mistake it for his cursed technique. 

He pulls back, falling into step with you. 

“Tsumiki asked me to help make some earlier.” 

Heavy jazz floats through the air as you pass by a bar entrance, the music muffling as the doors fall shut a few seconds later. Your boots clack against the pavement. 

“Oh?” Gojo perks up, voice turning an all-too-familiar hint of nosy as he teases, “What kind?” 

You snort as you dig your hands further into your pockets. For someone who claims to be all-seeing and all-knowing, Gojo is a lot more inquisitive than he seems; his nonchalance is but an added security much like his infinity is, dissipating only in company he’s comfortable sharing that side of him with. 

It’s been a while since Gojo’s been ‘home’ in the past week, so you don’t blame him for wondering. 

“Tomo mostly,” your gaze shifts to the side, waiting for his reaction, “though I did notice her sneaking a few honmei ones when I wasn’t looking.” 

There’s a slight stagger to his step as his shoulders tense up, his sunglasses shifting higher as his ears push back. You bite down your laugh. 

For as clueless as both you and Gojo are when it comes to being guardians to Megumi and Tsumiki, you think Gojo’s grown an odd mix of semi-brotherly-kind of-fatherly-mostly-guardianly protectiveness over the both of them—to Tsumiki especially. You can tell because his reminders to Megumi are always sealed with some form of ensuring Tsumiki makes it home safely. 

‘Home’, which is where the kids stay, but it’s neither yours nor his—just a place nearby that keeps them protected and comfortable. You’re with them most days, Gojo staying when he can, but with the higher-ups assigning him on missions left and right, there’s hardly any time for him to drop by. Hell, you haven’t seen much of him either, besides the rare instances of bumping into him along the halls of Jujutsu Tech, a whine almost always drawn from his throat. 

You see his curiosity as an effort to check in.

He only hums, hollower than his usual responses. The sound of his footsteps fill the gaps of what would typically be a seamless back-and-forth with you; you try not to comment on it. 

Indinstinct chatter brings the street to life, smooth beats cascading warmth against the chilly breeze. Despite the noise, Gojo’s silence feels unsettling—as if there are words forming at the tip of his tongue, withheld for reasons you can’t quite get a read on just yet. 

So, you wait, learning more and more that he usually comes around when—

“Did you?” 

The question is half-murmured, part of it lost to the night. 

Did you what? Notice Tsumiki?

“Hm?” you tilt your head towards him, tucking strands of hair behind your ear in an attempt to hear him better. 

He doesn’t answer. 

You stop walking. 

“Did I what?” you adjust your coat before turning towards him, catching the slightest of his gaze before he looks away quickly.

(“Did you make honmei chocolate?” he means.) 

Still, no answer. 

The tips of Gojo’s ears dust pink, and you try not to comment on that too.

His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, slipping free before his Adam’s apple bobs, swallowing. 

“Wanna see something cool?” he changes the subject, removing his sunglasses and turning back to you as if none of it happened. As if he didn’t ask you anything, as if you didn’t ask what he meant—as if you didn’t just catch him at the tail end of a wistful stare. 

The shift in his tone happens so suddenly, it feels disjointed. Unnatural. But you’ve gotten used to moments like this from knowing him for so long; Gojo always says less of what he truly means. 

You focus on his face, yellow and red retro lights dancing on clear blue. He looks almost freakish this way, otherworldly—a crazed look you’ve gotten familiar with. His hands are stuffed inside his pockets when he stops, gangly long legs outstretched by the shadow beneath him. 

There’s really no time to be doing this right now, the both of you just 10 minutes away from the mission’s location—an abandoned building housing a special grade curse that lures people in with fabricated memories. Around you, the neighborhood’s nightlife has dwindled, your walk thus far having brought you farther from the heart of the place and closer to somewhere quieter, more secluded. 

Gojo looks too excited, eyes beaming wonder and mischief along with something else you can’t quite figure out yet. You purse your lips in thought. 

“C’mon, it’ll be quick.” he smirks, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he shrugs, “I’ve finally perfected it.”

A beat—skipped before your heart races. 

You wonder if he knows, if he’s using this to his advantage, because—

—when have you ever denied him when he looks at you this way? 

The higher-ups should have known better than to pair you together for a mission. Your instructions were merely ‘to assist’, but you hardly believe it considering Gojo almost always handles these things on his own. It’s more babysitting, you know, to keep the damages of his technique to a minimum. 

They shouldn’t have called on you, of all people—you’re on Gojo’s side. Always. 

A smile threatens to escape your lips, warmth spreading within your cheeks; you roll your eyes jokingly, stifling a giggle before relenting.

“Fine.” 

He guides you forward, chest bumping against your shoulder blade as he picks up pace. It’s a clear road ahead of you, the streets emptying out to more greenery; your senses are filled with the smell of the earth mixed in with the faint cotton of Gojo’s cologne. 

This is bad for your feelings. 

(Being this close to you feels like the ticklish drag of fingernails just right before it creates indents in his chest.) 

There’s something brewing between you and Gojo, neither of you have just addressed it yet. He pulls away when the moment is too close but still looks for you first after missions, an almost automatic question to either Shoko or Ijichi about your whereabouts.

You’ve been catching his stares too, almost always at the split-second before he turns away—a reaction on impulse. The silence between you feels fuller lately, as if there are words he wants to say but is choosing to withhold. 

When the space is vacant enough, he steps a few inches to your right, left hand stuffed inside his pocket as he shakes his arm hesitantly, almost awkwardly. 

“You have to hold on to me,” he instructs you. 

Your eyes widen, equally surprised and shy as you slowly take your hand out of your coat and slip it into the empty space, resting it on the crook of his elbow. Gojo freezes very slightly. 

He shakes it off just as quickly, “You might be sensitive to my domain because of your technique, so stay close just to be safe.” 

Then, his head tilts towards you, a little closer than you’re both used to. This near, his eyes hold a perfect morning sky, eyelashes hanging like wispy clouds on a clear day. 

Your gazes meet and you blink twice, goosebumps littering your skin. 

“Don’t let go, okay?”

Another beat—followed by another, and another, the sound of it growing louder. 

You almost miss the way he says it gentler than normal, how sincere it feels with his breath tickling your cheek. 

“Okay,” your fingers curl around his arm tighter. 

He lifts his other hand up, crossing his fingers as he recites the mantra to his domain. In an instant, the greenery around you disappears, stark white taking its place. 

“What do you think?” Gojo asks almost immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. Your fingers stay curled onto the crook of his elbow, sandwiched between his forearm and bicep; his other hand rests a few centimeters away from yours, nearly touching. 

You scan the space, examining its vastness. Minimalist. A blank sheet—

“It’s…” you try to find the right words, “... empty?” 

He gasps exaggeratedly, “Hey!” then pouts in fake offense, “I made it porcelain white at least. This isn’t pure white you know.” 

You eye him from the side.

He chuckles, breaking his act, “You should be honored.”

A pause—his tone shifting to something softer, more vulnerable. 

“You’re the first person I’m bringing in here.” 

His admission is unexpected, but it feels relevant, makes you feel like it, too. 

You’re touched, knowing how secretive he’s been on perfecting his domain since Toji and Geto; he only ever tells you and Ijichi about it. No one ever pressured him into achieving his perfect domain, but he feels like his existence necessitates it. 

“It’s clean,” you finally say, playing along, “I like it.” 

He eyes you this time, dimples deepening the more he attempts to poorly push down his smile. 

“Shame I can’t really do much with it, would have wanted to spice up the interiors a bit.” 

You snort, knowing full well that Gojo’s very much the type to pick one piece of furniture and anchor the entire place’s aesthetic off of that. 

“Someday,” you catch his eyes again. 

(It echoes in his ears, the quickening thump of his heartbeat—pink noise that can’t possibly be a product of your technique. 

In the silence of his domain, all he hears is that sound and you.) 

He hums before looking back to the empty space, “Acoustics would be good by then, we can try your technique in here.” 

You nod, the corners of your lips curling; his pinky presses against yours so faintly you wonder if you just imagined it—if he had meant it or not. 

. 

The special grade is dealt with within a quarter of the time it took you to travel to here, but Gojo seems to bear the consequences with another one of his migraines—a mixture of fatigue from activating his domain earlier along with sensitivity from the increased bustle in Shimokitazawa’s night life as you exit the neighborhood. 

You make a mental note to get him something that covers his eyes a little bit more than those circle frames he uses—an imbued blindfold maybe? You’ll have to think about it some more. 

(When you both get ‘home’, you set up the couch, offering him the spare bedroom so he can sleep off the headache. It’s a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water when he catches a glimpse of it—a fully decorated box of honmei chocolate partially hidden at the corner of the counter. 

The card has half of his name written in your handwriting.

You don’t end up giving it, but he does receive some chocolates from you, still. It’s a belated gift the next day, along with the ones you gift to Shoko, Yaga, and Ijichi—a tradition you’ve kept up since you were 16. 

But, his box has an extra piece, and you even tailored each one to all his favorite flavors: sakura, strawberry, zunda, and anko; his card is the same one you left half-written, just now fully spelling ‘Satoru’. 

So, he thinks his might be a bit more special, and he’s realizing that he likes it that way—he might prefer it much more, actually.)

a/n: haven't written col in a while but this is the official launch of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within the 'conversations of love' universe! there are lots of details that connect to some of the col works but this happens before all of the ones released so far (so you don't need to read the main series to understand this, but it would add to the full experience if you do!).

thank you notes: @augustinewrites love u my valentine, this fic wouldn't exist without you 🥹 + @stellamancer col couple is here!! with chocolates!! thank you for going over this for the first read 🥹 ily niku + @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat my cheerleaders!! thank you for the support always 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[pennyold]

Our little secret | c.c

Summary: after a long time holding those feelings, would you be able to resist when you are needy for your stepdaddy?

Warnings: stepdad!carlisle, corruption, manipulation, size kink, dirty talk, stepcest, p in v, cheating.

a/n: Peter is so hot, more in the Twilight Saga, and I have a serious kink w the stepdad thing, I’m into it, so maybe you would see the same theme in other actors I will post !! Enjoy !! and no proofreading, I wrote this a long time ago, if you see any mistakes, I'm sorry; my bad. Also, I'm back in college, so I lost my ideas for a new fic or blurbs, so if you have a request, leave it in my inbox!!

w.c: 1,046

main masterlist ↲

peace and love, penny ★

Midnight arrived, and you were writhing in bed, the tingling in your groin wouldn't let you be so wet in your panties, a total disaster. Your parents weren't home; your mom was out of the country, traveling, and your stepdad was working at the hospital as usual. It was the perfect time to touch yourself, but you couldn't. You desperately need more than that. Taking your blanket, you go down to the living room; you need a distraction. As you turn on the television, the front door opens, and you hear heavy footsteps; it's Carlisle. "I'm home," he says, entering the kitchen. "I'm here." After that mention, he appears behind the sofa, taking off his long black coat. "Are you awake?" he smiled. "And you so early?" he laughed. Normally, Carlisle would arrive home in the early morning after his long shift, but this time he arrived earlier. "It was quiet; there aren't many patients at this hour." It's Christmas Eve, and although doctors don't have vacations between shifts, some volunteers choose to stay longer than the scheduled shift. That's how it works at the hospital where Carlisle works.

"Do you want to sit down?" you said, choosing a movie, he agreed, sitting right next to you. You covered your small body with the blanket, you were wearing a somewhat inappropriate pajama. After a while, your hair fell over Carlisle's shoulder, sleep was overtaking you. "Can I cuddle with you?" you said, shyly but with a soft tone, you needed to be hugged even if just for a moment. "Of course, princess," that word makes you burst, he is so sweet with you, always caring and interesting, Carlisle is the perfect stepfather. The one everyone wants to have, but only you can have. 

You started to feel that heat in your stomach and groin again, with your heavy breathing and spasmodic movements, Carlisle noticed it. "Are you okay, princess?" His face showed concern, but also curiosity about the prominent heat you were producing. So hot. "Mmh," you said, and it almost sounded like a guttural moan you were suppressing.

He grabbed you by the chin while inspecting you closely. "Are you sure? You're sweaty and..." you interrupted him by kissing his lips. He stepped back, furrowing his brows, "What are you...?" you kissed him again in a messy and unkempt manner, and he followed your lead, gripping your jaw, demanding control. You moan, touching his chest, trying to unbutton his shirt. "Wait..." he says, stepping back again; his lips were swollen from the desperate kiss, pink and with ragged breathing. "We shouldn't be doing this." He grabbed his hair, resting his elbows on his knees, worried about what had happened.

He was cheating on his wife with his daughter, that's horrible, he thinks. "Carlisle... I need your help," you said, trying to convince him. Touching him gently on the shoulder, massaging him. "Jesus Christ..." he looked at you. You could feel some lust in him, you have aroused him. "I know you need it too," you kiss his neck dangerously, "you always help me..." You brush your lips against his ear, making him shiver, "Could you help me and take away this feeling?" While maintaining eye contact with him, you took off your silk shirt, leaving your chest exposed, your erect nipples screaming for attention, wanting to be touched and pinched. "I'm so horny, please," you plead, rubbing your breasts against his chest to kiss him. He hissed, grabbing your hair with his fist and pushing your lips against his, starting a session of kisses and touching your needy nipples, pinching them. "Mmh, yes, like that..." you moan, feeling the thrill from the pleasure and pain of his firm grip around your hair.

He let you go, taking you to his bedroom that he shares with your mother. He slammed the door shut, still holding you, and laid you on the bed while unbuttoning his shirt. "Take off your pajamas," he demanded, and you obeyed, doing it slowly. Now you are only wearing a tiny lingerie thong. "Take them off yourself" I nodded, biting my lower lip. "I need you to talk, darling, scream, and cry as much as you want." Before taking off his boxers, he grabbed a condom from his nightstand. "Ready, princess?" Carlisle was as excited as you, his cock ready to fuck you, hard and big. Slowly, he introduced the tip into your pussy, making you moan, he hissed, penetrating you slowly and deliciously. 

Your gummy walls welcome him eagerly, squeezing his size. He moaned again, saying some illegible words. He fucks you slowly, you were melting in his arms. You screamed his name and scratched his back with your long nails, "Oh god... so big," you moan loudly, echoing in the room. "I love those pretty sounds, princess." Carlisle kisses you, devouring your mouth. "Keep doing it" You hug him by the neck and open your mouth, letting him put his tongue in, you suck and kiss, enjoying his taste "I'm going to cum," he whispered with labored breathing "Me too, so do it faster." and he did it.

Your legs began to tremble, dripping with the juices that flowed from your tight and small pussy, his cum was expelled from his dick and ended up in the condom. Carlisle thrusts into you once more before pulling out, and as he withdraws his cock, you notice the shine on the condom from your juices. "That was so good," you exhale, "We're not done yet, princess." You lean on your elbows on the mattress, looking at him. "What…?" You say incredulously, if you felt it was too much, imagine it again. "So, turn around with your ass up," you obey, exposing your big ass, you feel him lean against your back, coming closer to your ear, "I thought you liked being my dirty little secret," he smiled, touching your hips and you nodded, "Yes, it excites me just thinking about it." he teased, moving you back close to his pelvis "That's right, princess" after that; Carlisle fucked you like a rag doll, making you scream, moan with pleasure and pain, but you liked it, of course, you did, it was what you wanted, right? Being fucked like the good whore you are.

divider: @/enchanthings-a

[lilacxquartz]

part 1 of 19 of kinktober: free use

satoru gojo x reader — suguru geto x reader

plot: you had a unique arrangement with your two roommates — themes: vaguely dub con due to the implications, smut, oral, kitchen sex, f!reader — w.c: ~1k

kinktober masterlist • main masterlist • ao3

Life spent in the apartment you shared with Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto was often peaceful enough, at least for the most part. Although unconventional, in order to keep the rent on your end free, you had a unique sort of arrangement between the two of them but then again, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

One evening in particular, you were lazily stirring away at some cookie batter for a friend’s birthday the next day, not quite hearing the featherlight footsteps that were actively closing in on you from behind.

It was sudden, but you felt a taller body pressed right up against your own, walking you straight into the counter and caging you in with firmly planted hands, anchoring themselves on parallel sides with the pushing sensation of their arousal pressing right onto you. Quickly recognising the silvery arm hair that lined up his limbs, you understood that this was Satoru—and given by just how longingly he pushed himself towards you—he must have been surely stressed.

You arched your back in heated anticipation, tiptoeing ever so slightly to give him access of what awaited just below your skirt. Albeit carefully, you swept the clutter on the counter over to the side to make room for when you would be inevitably bent over it and holding on for dear life.

Satoru’s voice was hot against your neck, rolling wisping shivers that pricked goosebumps down your flesh, “Aw, you’re so excited and I haven’t even started yet.”

You smiled a little, feeling already so needy and desperate to feel him inside of you. It didn’t take him too long for him to drop down his trousers and to hitch your skirt up before bending your body flat over the surface. Already rock hard, he guided his cock clean into your soaked entrance, groaning slightly as your core swallowed him up entirely in enveloping warmth.

Satoru’s hands locked directly onto your hips, rocking into you with a quickly increasing tempo. The speed and crashing impact combined felt so intense that your breath was lost in the moment, reducing you to a mantra of shuddering, gasping moans.

“You’re s’good for me,” he hurriedly murmured, smacking his palm against your ass, squeezing his fingers tight into the pillowy curve for almost possessive comfort.

Such enthusiastic fervour had your knees melting and weak as he continued to piston his hips away, almost violently driving himself into your hilt. His length reached deep, the tip spearing right where it hurt upon each bucking thrust. Wanting to feel you writhe and squirm, Satoru reached his hand to claw at your hair—tugging, pulling at the strands—forcing you to surrender into desperate, quivering whimpers.

“I’m close,” he warned. Satoru didn’t like to finish alone however, so he slammed himself against you with almost savage force—snaking his hand forward and propping his thumb against your clit—running hungry circles to will you to catch up.

The second that he felt you coil and clench around him, his eyes fluttered with anticipation as he too, chased his desperate release. With one final needy pump, a rolling guttural groan spilled from his lips, shuddering as he emptied himself fully into your cunt.

Pulling himself back, Satoru finally let go before taking a step aside, watching his milky release drip out of your spent hole. “You’re always so good to me,” he praised, tousling your now messed up hair before leaning back in, still not quite ready to part from you, “so fucking good.”

~~~

The following night when Satoru was fast asleep, you were up late to revise because you were pretty sure that your college had an exam tomorrow. You were however on and off falling asleep at the desk, your demeanour tense from rising stress.

In your drowsy state, you hadn’t quite noticed how Suguru had entered your room, sneaking up beside you and closing the distance. You tilted your head back to spot him looming over you with a half lidded look, his otherwise brooding demeanour betrayed by a faint blush that bled across his cheeks.

“I’m bored,” he purred, affectionately tugging at your hair to turn you to look at him. Although his tone was surely indifferent, his eyes lingered with almost possessive care.

And before you could even respond, he took a step closer towards you, reeling you inwards over his ever so slightly exposed stomach. With a needy tone, he whispered out a slight plea, wanting nothing more than your attention on him, “I want you.”

Understanding exactly what he meant, you gently nodded and relaxed your stance. Suguru began by unbuttoning and zipping down his jeans, allowing them to drop to his ankles. His arousal was already prominent enough and his cock sprung out as soon as he slid his boxers down.

“You know what to do,” he murmured in a lazy tone, his purple eyes slightly widening in heated impatience from watching your mouth part open. Suguru then slightly parted his legs, leaning closer to position the tip of his throbbing length over your lips before driving in his shaft over the slick curve of your tongue, rolling back his eyes as the head hit the back of your throat.

“God,” he hissed, choking back a grating moan as he pulled out slowly. With a greedy hand, he weaved his fingers around your hair—cupping your skull to both steady himself and to help guide your head—bobbing you along to keep up with his building need.

He could never last too long with you, but that didn’t stop him from trying to savour the moment as much as he could. His hips moved in languid thrusts, feeling the rising pleasure surface and gather, soon ready to milk himself dry.

Tensing up ever so slightly, he stiffened after one final needy push; emptying hot spurts of white ropes of his cum into your awaiting mouth. Your eyes bulged slightly from the climbing intensity, spilling tears from the rushed release.

For just a moment, Suguru stared down at you after pulling out; his face tinted cherry red at the sight of you being perfectly flustered, almost feeling the need rise within him again, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to last nearly as long—but that much was nothing new.

[yonypj]

LUX IMPERATOR X READER

SFW!

The night is cold, cold as hell as you hug the coat you are wearing, even the old thin and worn coat protecting you from getting colder and you can feel the wind blowing on your skin.

You continue walking down the empty and dark street, the streetlights illuminating the path you have in mind, the old and abandoned cinema, the huge and bright sign of the Palazzo Movie Theater and seen in the distance, looking at one of the main entrance doors you see several flowers with notes, each one for the 15 missing people who once visited this place with joy, you start to feel bad when you look at the flowers, your conscience weighs more and more, invading a place of a possible murder crime seems to be disrespectful.

In fact, you are only there for this reason, because it is abandoned and untouched, the film reels abandoned without functionality inside now that it is abandoned can be worth some money! It is indeed disrespectful but you cannot let the opportunity pass you by, getting some money with it will help you at least buy a plate of food or a cheap hotel room!

You sigh, feeling more motivated and less guilty for wanting to rob the place where there were victims, feeling less worse about yourself for being a terrible human being, the place in front of you only confirms the desperation you have to get money.

Finally managed to enter the screening room, the place dirty with dust and forgotten by time, crusts of dirt stain the red carpet only confirming that the place has not been taken care of for a long time, relaxing your muscles for fear of finding a guard since the lights are on, you walk further while inspecting the place for something valuable, walking through the space and trying to hear any sign of noise so as not to be caught. As you start to climb the stairs of the rows of chairs the lights go out, the light of a spotlight turns on and directs itself to the middle of the stage, your heart feels like it will have a heart attack as your gaze follows the light.

Something so unreal emerges from the stage curtains, smiling and starting to sing a theme song while doing a dance, your brain can't reason as you look at this thing, a cartoon, dancing and singing outside a movie screen. You blink once, twice, three times and even five times to make sure you're not hallucinating, the strange being stops and puts his hands on his waist "Oh let's see what we have here, an unexpected visitor" he says while smiling, his eyes in different directions from each other, it would be funny if it weren't scary to see something like that, "To what do I owe the honor of such a lovely visit, Sweet Pea?".

"....how?" That's all that comes out of your mouth, looking at the being before you, you just stand there looking at him "I hit my head, it can only be" the only logical conclusion you think as you see him smile even more at your confusion, "oh no no, I can tell, I'm as real as you are" he says holding the edges of his jacket, striking a pose to show himself more while giving short turns from side to side.

"That's...impossible, you're here! Like, a cartoon!" Frowning you frown at him which makes him just hum in amusement "Don't make me laugh! Honey, you look like you're seeing a ghost" he says, jumping off the stage as he approaches, climbing the stairs... with some difficulty but when he gets close to you a step away he looks like a trident "and while what does a place like this do hmmm?", you feel him poke your arm, feel the heat that he emanates in a strange way.

You pull away almost immediately, still feeling your heart almost jump out of your throat, the whole experience being too scary to bear, let alone bear something like that near you. "I... I like exploring decaying places... and... knowing what they're like inside." Your voice comes out trembling, almost like a quiet whisper. You hear your heart beating so fast in your ear that you swear it hurts.

The being before you seems to believe it enough, smiling happily as he clasps his hands together, humming in affirmation as he begins to speak excitedly. "Oh, I see, a curious and exploratory person. Did you know that curiosity killed the cat? You'd better be more careful when entering desolate places" he says, in false concern but calming your nerves for having believed it. "But it's a good thing I'm here then! I can guide you through this old cinema if that will satisfy your explorer's desire!" Before any protest or excuse to leave, he grabs your arm and drags you up, even though he's so short, he manages to have enough strength to make you trip over your own feet.

Maybe you can't refuse a free tour of this old cinema, you hope to at least get out of here soon...

So, I just posted this for fun, it might be boring or have English mistakes since it's not my native language but I hope you like it! [I'm not good at writing, my area is drawings!]

[mintyys-blog]

Hii!! I just wanted to say that you're writing is amazing and I love reading all of ur Mark fics, I wad wondering if you could be able to do some hc abt how the variants would react to Asa!Reader from chainsawman in the panel where she uses her clothes to transform it into a weapon? Then the variants r just caught off guard but are just seamlessly distracted- Keep up the good work! But don't overwork yourself pls take care and drink lots of water.🩷

HEADCANON | variants with asa! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: sexual themes

MAIN MARK

The battlefield is chaos—cracked pavement, twisted metal, and chunks of collapsed buildings surround you both. Mark’s hovering mid-air, eyes scanning for the next wave of threats when he hears your voice behind him.

“Stay close. I’m gonna make a weapon.”

Mark turns just in time to see you tug off your jacket.

“Wait, wait, wait—” he says, eyes widening as you whip your arms out of the sleeves and throw it to the ground. “Y/N, what are you—why are you—”

You kneel swiftly, hand planted over the fabric. “I told you. I’m making a weapon.”

And just like that, a glowing light pulses from your palm, crawling through the seams and threads, your jacket morphing and twisting until it reshapes—sharp, glimmering, deadly.

Mark’s mouth opens but no words come out. His face is bright red.

“You—uh—” He stammers, trying not to look directly at you. “You could’ve just—warned me or—kept it on and like—used something else?!”

You glance up, calm and unfazed, hoisting your new blade. “It needed to be something meaningful. My clothes work best.”

“Y-Yeah, I got that,” he mumbles, looking off to the side like he’s suddenly very interested in a broken lamppost.

You take a step forward. “What, are you embarrassed?”

“No!” Mark says too quickly, holding up his hands, then rethinks and covers his eyes. “Okay—yes. Kinda. I just didn’t expect you to start stripping in the middle of a fight. I mean—it’s badass! Totally badass. But also a little… distracting.” You smirk and brush past him, the newly-forged weapon resting against your shoulder. “Try to keep up, Grayson.”

He floats beside you, still red, still flustered, and muttering under his breath. “Can’t believe I blushed in the middle of a fight…”

SINISTER MARK

The fight’s been brutal—fists colliding like thunderclaps, the city below long forgotten. Blood paints your cheek. His knuckles are raw. You’re both breathing hard, standing across from one another on a shattered rooftop.

Sinister Mark grins through bloodied teeth, head cocked slightly to the side like he’s enjoying a private joke.

“You’re good,” he pants, voice low and teasing. “Better than I expected. But you’re slowing down.”

You say nothing. Just pull in a steady breath, eyes burning into him like coals.

Then you start unbuttoning your shirt.

He freezes.

“…Is this your way of surrender?”

You don’t answer. The air shifts—thick, heavy with tension. Sinister Mark watches your fingers work down the buttons with cool precision, each movement deliberate. Too smooth. Too calm.

His grin falters. “You know, if this is some ploy to throw me off—” He gestures lazily toward you with one hand. “—I gotta say, it’s working. I’m officially thrown.”

You drop the shirt.

Then you move. One hand slaps onto the fabric at your feet, and a pulse of supernatural energy rushes through the threads. The shirt writhes—glowing, contorting—and suddenly it’s not fabric anymore, it’s a weapon. Gleaming. Sharpened. Alive.

Mark blinks once.

Then a low chuckle rumbles from his chest, dark and intrigued. “Well… shit.”

You lunge, blade aimed for his neck. He jerks back, barely avoiding the strike as concrete explodes behind him.

“You turned your clothes into a weapon?” he says between dodges, a note of twisted admiration in his tone. “That’s the most reckless, insane thing I’ve seen today. I love it.”

Another swing. He ducks, grabs your wrist—but you’re faster, kicking off his chest and flipping back onto your feet. “I don’t surrender,” you say coldly. “I make others surrender.”

Mark’s tongue slides across his teeth. His eyes gleam. “I’m so glad I didn’t kill you earlier.”

MOHAWK MARK

“You seriously wanna square up with me?” Mohawk Mark cracks his neck, floating a few feet off the ground. “I ain’t gonna hold back just ‘cause you’re cute, y’know.”

You don’t respond. Your hands reach for the hem of your top layer—cool, calm, confident.

He raises a brow. “Uhhh… what are you doing?”

One arm slips out of a sleeve. Then the other. You toss the jacket to the ground with a soft fwump.

Mark’s eyes follow the motion. His smirk twitches.

“Wait—hold on—are we about to fight, or are you undressing to distract me?” He pauses, sincerely confused. “Not that I’m complaining, just—like—is this a thing? Am I supposed to do it too?”

He actually glances down at his own shirt.

You crouch, pressing your palm against the discarded garment. A ripple of light floods through it, and in seconds, the fabric morphs—twisting, stretching, forming a monstrous bladed weapon with jagged teeth and pulsing energy.

“…Oh.”

He stares.

Then bursts out laughing. “YO. Okay, that’s hard as hell—never mind what I said.”

You rise, weapon in hand, silent as ever. Your stance is steady. Deadly.

Mark runs a hand down his face, still chuckling, eyes a little wide. “Here I was thinking you were tryna get flirty, and you were just cooking up some anime-level transformation on me.”

He floats back, arms raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—you got it. You win the ‘most dramatic way to start a fight’ award. Hands down.”

He grins again, sharper this time, muscles tensing as he enters stance. “But if your shirt turns into a sword, then I gotta know what your pants do.”

You dash toward him. “Worth a shot!” he yells, laughing as he dodges the first strike.

OMNI MARK

The sky’s split open behind you—battle smoke choking the air. Debris floats like ash, the city below a graveyard of cracked steel and fallen towers.

Across from you hovers Omni Mark—arms crossed, cape torn, eyes narrowed. He watches you coldly, expression unreadable. Like a god surveying a gnat.

“You’re wasting time,” he says flatly. “Whatever trick you’re stalling with—it won’t save you.”

You exhale slowly. Then, without a word, you start to remove your coat.

His brow twitches.

“…What are you doing.”

One sleeve slips off your shoulder. Then the other.

He blinks once. His lip curls faintly. “…Is this a distraction? Are you trying to seduce me?”

You don’t answer. You drop the fabric at your feet and crouch, fingers pressed against it. It begins to pulse—light crawling like veins across the cloth.

Omni Mark’s eyes track it warily, and for the first time in the entire fight… he looks mildly unnerved.

The jacket convulses, glows—and transforms. Twisting steel-like threads sharpen into a brutal halberd, humming with power.

You rise slowly, weapon in hand. Calm. Composed.

Omni Mark tilts his head back slightly, staring down at you with a look that lands somewhere between disgust and irritation. Like you just did something deeply uncultured in front of royalty.

“I’ve fought gods,” he mutters, voice dark and slow. “And none of them ever needed to strip to be dangerous.”

His tone is laced with disdain. Not at your power. Not even your weapon. But the aesthetic choice of your transformation. You take one step forward. He doesn’t move. “If you take off anything else,” he warns in a flat monotone, “I will leave.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

The silence between you is razor-thin.

Blood drips from your lip. His knuckles are bruised and smoking. You both hover high above the wreckage of the city—everything stilled, for one breathless moment.

You stare him down. No words. No smirks.

Then your hands reach for your coat.

Viltrumite Mark’s eyes narrow. His muscles flex instinctively, ready for a feint, a blast, a sneak attack—

But instead… You peel it off and let it drop. His expression shifts ever so slightly. A barely-there twitch in his brow. His jaw tightens. “…What are you doing?” he asks, voice quiet. Controlled.

You step toward the coat, kneeling.

His gaze sharpens, but there’s something else behind his glare now. Suspicion. Distrust. Confusion.

“Are you trying to distract me?” he says, tone laced with accusation. “Trying to seduce me into dropping my guard?”

You don’t respond.

“I’m not like human men,” he continues coldly, eyes locked on yours. “Sexual gratification doesn’t affect me. I’m trained. Conditioned. Distractions like this—”

Your hand hits the cloth.

A sharp crack of light explodes outward. The fabric twitches and groans, twisting into a gleaming, monstrous blade that pulses with your will.

Viltrumite Mark goes completely still.

The words die in his throat.

“…Ah.”

For the first time in this fight, he’s speechless. His eyes dart from the weapon to your bare arms, then back to the weapon. You rise slowly, weapon resting on your shoulder, looking entirely unfazed.

“I wasn’t seducing you,” you say. “I was building a weapon.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His hands curl into fists, eyes unreadable now—somewhere between tactical recalculation and a flicker of something else.

“…Then next time,” he finally says, voice rougher than before, “say something first.”

You smirk, stepping forward. “Wouldn’t be as effective.”

He exhales harshly through his nose. His cape snaps behind him as he charges again, this time faster—but just barely missing the pink in his ears.

FULL MASK MARK

You’re both knee-deep in a cratered street, surrounded by rubble and the scent of burning ozone. The battle’s taken a turn—too many enemies, not enough time.

Full Mask Mark lands beside you hard, his boots cracking the pavement. He turns his head, masked visor glinting in the smoky dusk.

“You’re hurt,” he mutters. “You need backup.”

“I’m fine,” you reply. “I just need a stronger weapon.”

Then, without another word, you start unbuttoning your shirt.

Mark doesn’t move, but his entire presence shifts.

“…You’re stripping. Why.”

His voice is low, but there’s a definite hitch in it—confusion with a hint of something else buried underneath.

You kneel and press your hand to the cloth.

“No, seriously,” he says again, sharper this time. “Why are you taking your clothes off?”

The ground trembles as your jacket pulses, threads shifting into a jagged, curved blade bristling with otherworldly energy. The weapon rises in your grip, born from the familiar fabric.

Mark freezes for half a beat. His fists clench.

“…That’s not how weapons are supposed to work,” he mutters.

You shrug. “It works for me.”

There’s a pause. His head tilts slightly—like he’s trying to figure out if he should be impressed or mad. Then he steps forward, fast, close, the metal of his mask inches from your face.

“If you ever do that again,” he growls, “warn me first.”

“Why?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer. Just turns, storms back into battle, shoulders stiff.

But as he moves, you swear you hear him mutter under his breath:

“Freakin’ power-stripping… insane…” And later, when he helps you up from a wrecked building, he casually throws a blanket around your shoulders without saying anything.

MASKLESS MARK

The air is thick with smoke and tension—sirens wailing in the distance, wind howling through the broken skeletons of buildings. You’re both standing over a pile of corpses. His knuckles are wet with blood. Yours are shaking from fatigue.

Maskless Mark’s eyes flick lazily toward you, hair wild and face spattered with crimson. “You look like shit,” he says with a grin.

You ignore the jab. “I’m making a weapon.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, voice loose and low, a little too casual for the scene. “What’re you gonna use—pipe? Bone? Piece of that guy’s spine?” He jerks a thumb toward the mangled body behind you.

Instead, you reach for your shirt.

He goes still.

You pull it off without fanfare, dropping it in the bloodied dirt. Then you crouch and press your hand to it, aura flaring bright.

Mark watches the glow spread.

The fabric shifts, convulses, then solidifies into a warped and serrated war-scythe.

“…Huh.”

You grip the handle, rising smoothly. “Let’s go.”

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he stares. Sharp eyes raking over your weapon, then your form, then the place where the shirt used to be.

Then his head tilts.

“…Do that again.”

You blink. “What?”

“That. Strip. And make a weapon out of it.”

His voice is dark now, grating—hungry.

“I wanna see what else you can turn into something deadly.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. There’s blood on his lip. “I think it’s hot. And terrifying. Which means I like it.”

You raise the scythe in warning. He just grins wider. “I really like it.”

PRISONER MARK

The ruins echo with your footfalls—ash curling in the air, the two of you surrounded by the aftermath of something explosive and violent. Prisoner Mark, shirt torn and chain scars still red around his wrists, leans against a cracked slab of concrete.

He’s panting. Bleeding. Still smiling. “I like your style,” he grunts, voice scratchy. “You hit harder than I expected.” You roll your shoulders and start peeling off your jacket. His brows rise. “…Well I’ve never had a woman strip for me before.”

There’s a teasing lift to his voice, but also a genuine note of surprise—like he’s half-convinced you’re flirting and half-convinced you’ve finally gone crazy from radiation exposure like him. Then you crouch, palm flat against the fabric.

The glow erupts instantly—cloth twisting, mutating, pulsing with energy as it reshapes into a brutal weapon. A massive blade, jagged and gleaming, forged from nothing but what you wore. Prisoner Mark blinks. Then blinks again. “Ah,” he says slowly, pushing off the concrete and dragging a hand through his messy hair. “That makes a lot more sense.”

You hoist the weapon and look at him expectantly. “Still want to flirt?” He shrugs, a grin tugging at the corner of his busted lip. “I mean, I’m flattered either way.”

You shake your head and start walking past him, weapon balanced on your shoulder. He stares after you, then mutters to himself, amused: “She took her clothes off and made a sword out of it. Yep. Definitely my type.”

EMPIRE/TARGET! MARK

He’s standing above you on a floating slab of debris—hands behind his back, the viltrumite insignia glinting in the scorched sunlight. Mark watches you with the detached amusement of a man who thinks he’s already won.

“You came all this way just to die?” he asks. “Admirable. If not predictable.”

You don’t speak. You slip off your overshirt and let it fall to the concrete. He blinks once, then lets out a low, amused hum. “…I already have enough wives,” he says, voice smooth as polished steel, “but I wouldn’t mind taking you as well.”

You don’t look at him. You kneel and press your hand to the fallen garment. A golden ripple lights the air, twisting the fabric into a vicious blade with harsh curves and a growling hum.

Mark goes quiet.

His expression shifts—only slightly—but enough.

“…Oh,” he says, now descending to your level, eyes sharp and curious. “You weren’t stripping for me.”

The weapon hums in your grip as you rise.

“You’re not the only one who commands power,” you reply.

He smirks, watching you with something keener than lust now—interest. Amusement. Respect, maybe. The kind you give to a worthy adversary. Or a future queen.

“I see,” he murmurs, circling you like a serpent. “You make war with your clothing. How… poetic.”

He stops just behind you, voice low, breath warm at your ear.

“Still,” he adds, “if you ever decide you’d like to rule at my side, I will make room in the palace.”

You swing the weapon without warning.

He dodges, still smiling.

“Feisty,” he purrs. “You’ll fit right in.”