#Age and Language Acquisition

[theenglishnook]

The Impact of Age on Language Learning

Whether you're young or young at heart, the key to mastering a new language lies in persistence, passion, and the perfect blend of strategy and spontaneity!

Exploring Influences and Strategies Language acquisition is a complex process influenced by various factors, with age being one of the most significant. Understanding how age affects language learning can help tailor strategies for different learners, maximizing their potential for achieving proficiency. This text explores how age influences language acquisition and discusses strategies and…

[thatiranianphantom]

Look, is it sometimes inconvenient that 90% of my students don’t speak any English when they start the year with me?

Sure, sometimes.

But nearly three years after I met them, two years after they left my class, they still run up to me screaming my name with hugs and now fluent English. And that’s pretty cool.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Children's Dialogue

Language is extremely complex, yet children already know most of the grammar of their native language(s) before they are 5 years old.

BABBLING

Babbling begins at about 6 months and is considered the earliest stage of language acquisition

By 1 year babbles are composed only of the phonemes used in the language(s) they hear

Deaf babies babble with their hands like hearing babies babble using sounds

FIRST WORDS

After the age of one, children figure out that sounds are related to meanings and start to produce their first words

Usually children go through a holophrastic stage, where their one-word utterances may convey more meaning

Example: "Up" is used to indicate something in the sky or to mean “pick me up”

Most common first words (among the first 10 words uttered in many languages): “mommy,” “daddy,” “woof woof,” “no,” “bye,” “hi,” “yes,” “vroom,” “ball” and “banana”

WORD MEANINGS

When learning words, children often overextend a word’s meaning

Example: Using the word dog to refer to any furry, four-legged animal (overextensions tend to be based on shape, size, or texture, but never color)

They may also underextend a word’s meaning

Example: Using the word dog to refer only to the family pet, as if dog were a proper noun

The Whole Object Principle: When a child learns a new word, (s)he is likely to interpret the word to refer to a whole object rather than one of its parts

SYNTAX

At about two years of age, children start to put words together to form two-word utterances

The intonation contour extends over the two words as a unit, and the two-word utterances can convey a range of meanings:

Example: "mommy sock" = subject + object or possessive

NOTE: Chronological age is NOT a good measure of linguistic development due to individual differences, so instead linguists use the child’s mean length of utterance (MLU) to measure development

The telegraphic stage describes a phase when children tend to omit function morphemes such as articles, subject pronouns, auxiliaries, and verbal inflection

Examples: "He play little tune" or "Andrew want that"

Between 2;6 and 3;6 a language explosion occurs and children undergo rapid development

By the age of 3, most children consistently use function morphemes and can produce complex syntactic structures:

Examples: "He was stuck and I got him out" / "It’s too early for us to eat"

After 3;6 children can produce wh-questions, and relative pronouns

Sometime after 4;0 children have acquired most of the adult syntactic competence

PRAGMATICS

Deixis: Children often have problems with the shifting reference of pronouns

Children may refer to themselves as "you"

Problems with the context-dependent nature of deictic words: Children often assume the hearer knows who s/he is talking about

AUXILIARIES

In the telegraphic stage, children often omit auxiliaries from their speech but can form questions (with rising intonation) and negative sentences

Examples: "I ride train?" / "I not like this book"

As children acquire auxiliaries in questions and negative sentences, they generally use them correctly

SIGNED LANGUAGES

Deaf babies acquire sign language in the same way that hearing babies acquire spoken language: babbling, holophrastic stage, telegraphic stage

When deaf babies are not exposed to sign language, they will create their own signs, complete with systematic rules

IMITATION, REINFORCEMENT, ANALOGY

Children do imitate the speech heard around them to a certain extent, but language acquisition goes beyond imitation

Children produce utterances that they never hear from adults around them, such as "holded" or "tooths"

Children cannot imitate adults fully while acquiring grammar

Example:

Adult: "Where can I put them?" Child: "Where I can put them?"

Children who develop the ability to speak later in their childhood can understand the language spoken around them even if they cannot imitate it

NOTE: Children May Resist Correction

Example: Cazden (1972) (observation attributed to Jean Berko Gleason) – My teacher holded the baby rabbits and we patted them. – Did you say your teacher held the baby rabbits? – Yes. – What did you say she did? – She holded the baby rabbits and we patted them. – Did you say she held them tightly? – No, she holded them loosely.

Another theory asserts that children hear a sentence and then use it as a model to form other sentences by analogy

But while analogy may work in some situations, certainly not in all situations:

– I painted a red barn. – I painted a barn red. – I saw a red barn. – I saw a barn red.

Children never make mistakes of this kind based on analogy which shows that they understand structure dependency at a very young age

BIRTH ORDER

Children’s birth order may affect their speech.

Firstborns often speak earlier than later-born children, most likely because they get more one-on-one attention from parents.

They favor different words than their siblings. 

Whereas firstborns gabble on about animals and favorite colors, the rest of the pack cut to the chase with “brother,” “sister,” “hate” and such treats as “candy,” “popsicles” and “donuts.” 

The social dynamics of siblings, it would appear, prime their vocabularies for a reality different than the firstborns’ idyllic world of sheep, owls, the green of the earth and the blue of the sky.

MOTHER'S LEVEL OF EDUCATION

Children may adopt vocabulary quite differently depending on their mother’s level of education.

In American English, among the words disproportionately favored by the children of mothers who have not completed secondary education are: “so,” “walker,” “gum,” “candy,” “each,” “could,” “wish,” “but,” “penny” and “be” (ordered starting with the highest frequency).

The words favored by the children of mothers in the “college and above” category are: “sheep,” “giraffe,” “cockadoodledoo,” “quack quack,” the babysitter’s name, “gentle,” “owl,” “zebra,” “play dough” and “mittens.” 

BOYS / GIRLS

One area of remarkable consistency across language groups is the degree to which the language of children is gendered.

The words more likely to be used by American girls than by boys are: “dress,” “vagina,” “tights,” “doll,” “necklace,” “pretty,” “underpants,” “purse,” “girl” and “sweater.”

Whereas those favored by boys are “penis,” “vroom,” “tractor,” “truck,” “hammer,” “bat,” “dump,” “firetruck,” “police” and “motorcycle.”

Tips for Writing Children's Dialogue (compiled from various sources cited below):

Milestones - The dialogue you write should be consistent with the child's developmental milestones for their age. Of course, other factors should be considered such as if the child has any speech or intellectual difficulties. Also note that developmental milestones are not set in stone and each child is unique in their own way.

Too "Cutesy" - If your child characters are going to be cute, they must be cute naturally through the force of their personality, not because the entire purpose of their existence is to be adorable.

Too Wise - It’s true kids have the benefit of seeing some situations a little more objectively than adults. But when they start calmly and unwittingly spouting all the answers, the results often seem more clichéd and convenient than impressive or ironic.

Unintelligent - Don’t confuse a child’s lack of experience with lack of intelligence. 

Baby Talk - Don’t make a habit of letting them misuse words. Children are more intelligent than most people think.

Unique Individuals - Adults often tend to lump all children into a single category: cute, small, loud, and occasionally annoying. Look beyond the stereotype.

Personal Goals - The single ingredient that transforms someone from a static character to a dynamic character is a goal. It can be easy to forget kids also have goals. Kids are arguably even more defined by their goals than are adults. Kids want something every waking minute. Their entire existence is wrapped up in wanting something and figuring out how to get it.

Don't Forget your Character IS a Child - Most of the pitfalls in how to write child characters have to do with making them too simplistic and childish. But don’t fall into the opposite trap either: don’t create child characters who are essentially adults in little bodies.

Your Personal Observation - To write dialogue that truly sounds like it could come from a child, start by being an attentive listener. Spend time around children and observe how they interact with their peers and adults. You can also study other pieces of media that show/write about children's behaviour (e.g., documentaries, films, TV shows, even other written works like novels and scripts).

Context - The context in which children speak is crucial to creating realistic dialogue. Consider their environment, who they're speaking to, and what's happening around them. Dialogue can change drastically depending on whether a child is talking to a friend, a parent, or a teacher. Additionally, children's language can be influenced by their cultural background, family dynamics, and personal experiences. Make sure the context informs the dialogue, lending credibility to your characters' voices.

Sources and other related articles: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Writing Notes: On Children ⚜ Childhood Bilingualism More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 004. the blueprint.

-> 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: 4.3k -> 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: holyyyyy its finally here !!! this chapter was totally supposed to be the chapter that kind of puts things in perspective and establishes some world building BUT ALAS I GOT SIDETRACKED... -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

The lecture hall is silent, save for the occasional shuffle of paper and the measured rhythm of Anaxagoras’ voice. The afternoon light cuts sharp lines across the rows of desks, dust motes drifting in the air like suspended thought, catching on the edges of his words.

“A fractal begins with a base function,” he says, voice steady but threaded with something deeper—something that hums in the spaces between his syllables. “This is its essence. The foundation upon which all complexity unfolds.”

He doesn’t write an equation. Instead, his hands move through the air in clean, deliberate arcs, shaping the concept in motion.

“The Mandelbrot set,” he continues. “begins with a simple recursive function. A value is taken, transformed, then fed back into itself. Each iteration alters the outcome—but the fundamental pattern remains.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his next words settle into the quiet.

“Small differences in the starting value can lead to vastly different structures. But no matter how much it expands, the same signature is imprinted within it. Recursion does not create randomness. It does not erase its origin. Instead, it refines, elaborates, expands. The original form is never lost—only expressed in infinite variation.”

The pen in your hand is warm from where you've been holding it too tightly.

Anaxagoras moves seamlessly into the next thread of thought. “The human mind operates on patterns,” he says, underlining the phrase on the board with a slow, deliberate stroke. “Not in the sense of mindless repetition, but as a structured, evolving process. We recognize, reinforce, and refine information based on prior input.”

Something tugs at the edge of your mind.

“Consider language acquisition,” he continues. “A child is not born knowing a language, yet the structure for it already exists. Exposure, experience, and interaction shape the outcome, but the capacity is inherent. The process is iterative—the same foundation, refined through use, altered by context.”

Your pen hesitates, ink pooling in a single dot on the page.

Ilias nudges your arm. “That same page has been open for five minutes,” he mutters.

You don’t answer. 

It’s there. Right there, just beyond reach—woven between the lines of his lecture and the contours of your own thoughts.

Your gaze lifts to him.

Anaxagoras isn’t looking at you directly, but you recognize it now—the way his tone shifts when he lingers on certain ideas. His phrasing is precise, yet measured, as though anticipating the moment someone follows him past the obvious.

Anticipating you.

Ilias nudges you again. “You’re making the face.”

You blink. “What face?”

“The one where you’re about to say something wildly specific that sounds normal to you but makes the rest of us reconsider whether we know what words mean.”

You swat at him without looking, keeping your attention fixed forward.

"If individuality is a function of iteration," you say suddenly, the thought slipping free like a thread pulled from a greater weave, "then at what point does the original form stop being relevant?"

Silence.

A shift in the air—it’s subtle.

Anaxagoras pauses. The chalk in his hand stills just before it touches the board. But he doesn’t turn. Not yet.

"You assume it does," he says instead, his voice measured. "Why?"

You hesitate. "Because—" You try to grasp at the thought, but it’s slipping, unraveling. "Because if every iteration changes, then the original—"

"Changes how?"

You blink. "Through variance. Accumulated difference."

He nods, but it’s not satisfaction. It’s expectation. "And yet?"

You frown. "And yet it still carries the same process—"

"So is it severance?"

You inhale sharply. "No."

He turns now, finally, and the weight of his gaze lands fully on you. "Then what is it?"

You search for the word, the shape of the idea curling at the edge of your thoughts.

"Extension?" you murmur.

Anaxagoras watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then—so slightly you almost miss it—his fingers tighten around the chalk.

"Hm."

A pause. 

The weight of his gaze—assessing, acknowledging, remembering, as though he’s not just hearing your words but recognizing them, as though he’s tracing a pattern he’s seen before but can’t quite name.

Then, just as smoothly, he turns back to the board as if nothing happened, resuming his explanation.

You exhale sharply, pressing your lips together to stifle a grin.

You’re not sure if you should thank Anaxagoras or be absolutely, thoroughly frustrated with him.

Maybe both.

He takes a step forward, chalk tapping against the board in a series of crisp strokes as he shifts the topic. And then—

“Ilias.”

Ilias straightens instantly, caught mid-whisper.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “If a system is defined by iterative transformation, how do we distinguish between growth and replication?”

Ilias scoffs, leaning back like this is the easiest question in the world. “Obviously, if a system changes with each iteration, it’s growth. If it just repeats the same process without meaningful difference, it’s replication.”

A beat.

Anaxagoras finally glances over his shoulder. “Incorrect.”

Ilias blinks. “What.”

Anaxagoras turns fully now, expression unreadable. “Your answer assumes that change alone defines growth. It does not.”

From beside him, you let out an involuntary snort.

Ilias’ head snaps toward you. “Oh, now you have an opinion?”

You press a hand to your mouth, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed amusement.

Anaxagoras waits.

Ilias flounders for a moment, then straightens again, clearing his throat like he can salvage this. “Okay, well—uh. If the transformation process is… uhh… significant enough, then—”

A long silence.

You don’t even try to hide your giggle this time.

Ilias throws his hands up. “Why are you laughing? You got to say your freaky little statement in peace!”

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow. “Language.”

Ilias pales.

You wheeze, turning away.

Ilias exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s fighting for his life. “Alright, fine. Recursion isn’t just about repetition, but about… contextual… refinement..?”

The silence hung thick, oppressive, as Ilias struggled to string together a coherent thought. His hands fumbled with the papers in front of him, and his voice cracked under the pressure. It was clear to anyone with half a brain that his attempt to impress Anaxagoras had backfired—again.

Then, cutting through the stillness, came a voice. Quiet but firm.

"It’s not just about change. It’s about the system responding to its environment. If it doesn’t, it’s not really transformation. It’s just… repetition."

Ilias’s head snapped up. The voice had no warning, no introduction—just a cool, steady presence that seemed to effortlessly cut through the tension.

For a split second, he blinked in confusion, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened. He’d been so caught up in his own rambling, he hadn’t noticed anyone else was around. But there, seated a couple chairs over, was a girl he hadn’t seen before. Dark, hair, eyes sharp with quiet confidence, arms folded across her chest. She was a mystery—a calm, collected contrast to the chaos that he had just created.

Ilias swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "That was… uh. Really well put." His laugh was quieter this time, edged with something like genuine relief. "I was—yeah. Definitely struggling there." He hesitated, then, almost earnestly: "Thanks."

The girl didn’t say anything right away. Just tilted her head slightly, studying him with a kind of quiet amusement.

Anaxagoras’s gaze flicked between them, the silence stretching just a beat longer than comfortable. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, barely a sigh but just enough to be perceptible. His eyes landed back on Ilias.

"Struggling is a generous term," Anaxagoras said dryly.

Ilias groaned, dropping his head onto his desk with a thud.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Anaxagoras exhaled slowly, a faint, begrudging noise escaping him. His gaze flickered back to the girl for a moment, a brief acknowledgment that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Acceptable,” he said, his voice crisp and without fanfare, before his attention returned to Ilias. “This time.”

It was as close to praise as Anaxagoras was ever likely to give.

You grin. “That was impressive. Truly.”

Ilias glares. “I hate you.”

But across the room, Anaxagoras’ gaze flickers back to you for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to notice, just enough to make your pulse quicken.

And then, as always, he moves on as though nothing happened.

Yet, your thoughts linger, trailing behind you as the lecture ends, as you gather your things, as you step into the quiet corridors where the conversation still churns in your mind, unfinished.

The evening air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves as you and Ilias walk down the winding campus path, the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes the only sound for a few moments. It's a comfortable silence—both of you are still processing the mental gymnastics Anaxagoras just put the class through.

And then, of course, Ilias ruins it.

“I’m being publicly executed in that classroom,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Every. Single. Lecture.”

You glance at him, amused. “What are you even talking about?”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, I don’t know! Maybe the part where he treats me like an enrichment activity for the class while you get revered like some kind of academic deity.”

You snort. “I am not—”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he cuts in, shaking his head dramatically. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the designated clown. To live in fear of the moment he decides today is the day to obliterate me for sport.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if you stopped making questionable philosophical takes—”

“No. It’s too late for me. But you—” He points accusingly. “You get the pauses.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The pauses,” he repeats, exasperated. “You ask something, and he actually stops. Like, for a second, he’s just standing there, processing, recalibrating his entire existence before he answers like he saw it coming all along, and proceeds worships the ground you walk on. Meanwhile, I breathe wrong, and he materializes a ten-minute verbal essay on why I’m incorrect.”

“…That’s not true.”

“Oh, it is,” he deadpans. “I’m a walking rhetorical question to that man. You, on the other hand? He actually looks pleased when you speak. It’s sickening.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you,” he sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, before something catches the corner of his eye– "Hey! It’s a dog!"

You barely have time to process before he veers off-course, pointing toward a scruffy-looking mutt curled up near a campus bench. The dog lifts its head, ears perking, but doesn’t bolt. Its fur is a patchwork of colors—mostly brown, with streaks of white and black—and though it looks a little unkempt, it seems well-fed.

"Do you think it's a stray?" you ask, stepping closer.

"I mean, it’s wearing a bandana." Ilias crouches, squinting at the little fabric tied around its neck. The dog watches him, tail thumping hesitantly against the ground. "Could be a lost pet. Or maybe it just—"

The dog trots forward, sniffing at your shoes before nudging its head into Ilias’ leg. He yelps, stiffening. The dog wags its tail harder.

"Okay," he breathes, lowering his hand. "Okay. This is happening."

Just as his fingers brush the dog’s fur, a voice interrupts. "Ah—hey, hey, don't scare him!"

You turn towards the source—a striking figure with windswept white hair, piercing blue eyes, and an air of effortless charm, jogging up to you, grinning like you’ve all just been reunited after years apart. His crisp, button-down shirt is a pristine shade of ivory, tailored to fit perfectly without appearing rigid. Over it, he wears a sleek, deep-blue blazer, unbuttoned, its lapels lined with subtle gold embroidery that catches the light as he moves. The blazer is paired with well-fitted slacks of a similar navy hue, pressed yet comfortably worn. A fine gold watch glints on his wrist, peeking out whenever he gestures animatedly. His shoes—polished but practical—carry a quiet confidence, much like him.

His energy is immediate, warm and bright, like he’s been waiting all day for a reason to talk to someone. 

"Sorry about that!" He slows to a stop, catching his breath. "This little guy's not a stray—he just likes hanging around here. We feed him sometimes."

You blink. "We?" 

The dog immediately abandons Ilias and darts across, tail wagging furiously as a second man crouches, offering food from his hand—a stark contrast. This one has sharp red eyes, dusty red hair falls at his shoulders. He, in contrast, wears black. A fitted, long-sleeved dress shirt clings just right, the top few buttons left undone, exposing the faintest hint of skin. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing the inked patterns winding down his left arm. A single silver ring rests on his hand, catching the light as he idly scratches behind the stray dog’s ears. His charcoal-gray slacks fit comfortably, cinched by a belt with an unembellished black buckle. Unlike… blondie’s polished look, his ensemble leans effortlessly sharp—a perfect balance of refinement and disregard. 

"That answers that," you murmur.

The white-haired one—Phainon, judging by the way his companion sighs his name in exasperation—grins. "Sorry if he harassed you. He’s just a friendly little guy. I’m Phainon, by the way! And the one who’s pretending not to give a damn right now is Mydei."

At his name, the other man—Mydei glances up briefly, gaze flickering over you and Ilias before returning to his task. He places the container on the ground, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat.

Ilias, still kneeling awkwardly, exhales. "Okay. Not a stray. Noted."

Phainon beams. "Yeah, he just likes people! Kind of like me."

"Don’t compare yourself to a dog," Mydei mutters, scratching behind the mutt’s ears. Despite his dry tone, there’s a distinct lack of bite to it.

You exchange a glance with Ilias, who looks like he's trying to decide whether this interaction is going to be amusing or exhausting.

Mydei, meanwhile, finishes setting down the food, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat. Phainon watches with fondness before turning back to you both.

Ilias, undeterred, crouches slightly, watching as the dog happily devours its food. Then he tilts his head. "Wait, does he have a name?"

Phainon perks up. "Oh! Yeah, we call him—" but before the word fully escapes, Mydei cuts in flatly. "No, he doesn’t."

Phainon sighs, as if wounded. "Well, someone refuses to name him anything else–" 

"He doesn’t need a name," Mydei replies, scratching the dog behind the ears. "He’s fine as he is.” 

“We call him—his name is Dog." Phainon interrupts and proudly exclaims. 

Mydei exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "'Dog' is not a name."

"It's a perfectly functional name," Phainon counters, crossing his arms. "It tells you exactly what he is."

"It tells me you’re uncreative," Mydei mutters.

Ilias lets out a quiet laugh. "The dogs name is… Dog?"

Phainon nods enthusiastically. "Yes! And he responds to it! Watch—Dog!"

The dog does, in fact, lift his head, ears twitching.

Mydei gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "He also responds to literally any sound you make. You could call him ‘Toaster’ and he’d do the same thing."

Phainon gasps. "Toaster is kind of cute."

"Absolutely not."

You exchange a glance with Ilias, both of you barely holding back laughter. The dog—Dog?—wags his tail, blissfully unaware of the existential debate happening over his name.

Phainon turns his attention back to you, his grin softer now, less performative. "Anyways, you two should join us in the evenings if you’d like to befriend Dog over here! We usually hang out around here and—well, I do… and Mydei pretends he just happens to be here."

"Because I do," Mydei deadpans, but he doesn’t refute any further, turning his gaze to you instead.

Ilias glances at you. "Well, I don’t have anything better to do."

You hum, considering. The dog has finished eating and is now curled up against Mydei’s side, content. Phainon looks at you expectantly, his posture light, easy.

...That does not sound like a productive use of your time.

"... I’m in." you say. 

Phainon cheers, Ilias pats you on the back, and Mydei only shakes his head, unimpressed.

But even as laughter rings in the air, your notebook sits heavy in your bag, pressing against your side like a restless thing. The pages whisper against each other with every step, the unfinished nonsensical equations scrawled within tugging at you like a sleeve caught on a nail—persistent, insistent, refusing to be ignored.

Maybe that's what brought you here, you tell yourself.

The door to Anaxagoras’ office door creaks as you push it open, stepping into the dimly lit office. Anaxagoras looks up from his desk, dark eyes flicking to the threshold with the mild expectation of a routine interruption. But when he sees you—alone, unannounced—something in his expression shifts.

You don’t exactly wait for permission, as you cross the room, pull out the chair opposite him, and sit.

His pen hovers over the page. He does not tell you to leave, nor does he acknowledge your quiet audacity. Instead, he sets his pen down, fingers pressing lightly against the desk’s edge, and waits. A slight lift of his brow, but no verbal response. Just patience. A steady, expectant silence.

"Professor," you greet, as if a sliver of formality might excuse the sheer audacity of your unannounced arrival.

Your gaze flickers down to your notebook, its pages filled with hurried, half-formed thoughts—equations scrawled into the margins, trailing off as if they were abandoned mid-realization. You don’t need to check them. You already know they lead back to the same question.

"The base function," you begin, voice measured, "remains the same, no matter how many iterations occur. No matter how much complexity emerges, the original structure is never erased."

Anaxagoras leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with the kind of intrigue usually reserved for theorems that refuse to be solved.

"And?"

You exhale, fingertips brushing over the ink-streaked paper. "If that applies to consciousness—if the mind isn’t just pattern recognition, but recursion—then that means identity isn’t fixed. It’s an evolving expression of an underlying structure." 

Something flickers in his gaze. He rises.

Not abruptly, not impatiently, but as if drawn by the gravity of the conversation. His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he crosses the small space between you. He does not sit at the edge of the desk, does not fold his arms in some passive stance of authority.

Instead, he leans over your notebook, shoulders nearly brushing yours.

The scent of coffee lingers on his shirt, mingling with the fainter trace of old paper and ink. His gaze moves over the mess of your notes, scanning the tangled web of equations and annotations, before settling on you again.

"You're making an assumption," he says, voice lower now, more measured.

You tilt your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. "Of what nature?"

His fingers hover near the edge of the page, not quite touching, but close enough that the movement draws your attention. "You assume that the core of identity—the thing that stays the same through every iteration—is purely structural." 

The silence stretches between you, taut as a thread on the verge of snapping.

Your breath is steady, but something in your pulse betrays you. He is too close. Not inappropriately so, not in a way that crosses any boundaries—only in a way that makes the air shift. The room smaller. The moment stretched just slightly beyond its logical bounds.

It would be easy to answer. To argue, to press forward, to let the academic current carry you both into safer waters.

Instead, you only watch him. 

And for the first time, you wonder if he feels it too.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

"The base function has to be structural," you counter, though your voice is softer now, measured against the weight of the space between you. "If it weren’t—if it were mutable at its core—then what holds continuity between iterations? What prevents identity from collapsing into chaos? What keeps one’s identity from falling apart?"

Anaxagoras doesn’t move away. He studies you the way he studies difficult problems—patiently, intently, as if waiting for the answer to emerge in real time.

"And yet," he muses, "if it were purely structural, if the function was rigid rather than dynamic, then identity would be deterministic. There would be no true variation between one individual. and another"

Your breath catches—not at the words, but at the way he delivers them. Low, deliberate, as if testing their effect. 

Your eyes flicker back to your notes, searching for the answer already buried in the ink-scrawled equations.

"If recursion alone dictated identity," he continues, fingers brushing the page near a half-written derivation, "then all of our decisions would be predictable, predetermined by the constraints of that function. But something else is at play."

You glance back up at him. "Emergent complexity."

A small, almost imperceptible nod. "Iteration isn't replication. Each step in it's expansion is influenced not just by the base function, but by external conditions—context, interference, interaction. No two paths are identical. Every recursive process has the potential for divergence."

You inhale sharply, following the thought as it unfolds, as it threads itself between the logic you already understand and the realization taking shape. 

He watches the shift in your expression—sees you arrive at the same conclusion.

"If identity," you say slowly, "is shaped not just by its internal function, but by its interactions—"

"Then when two distinct but intrinsically linked patterns cross paths," he interjects, "neither walks away unchanged."

The words land too heavily.

Not just because they are true, because they make sense.

But because he isn't speaking in hypotheticals anymore.

For a moment, neither of you move. He is still leaning over your desk, too close, breath dusting lightly against your shoulder—warm, uneven, just barely there. His presence presses into the space between the pages, the margins, the frantic scrawl of your thoughts. 

Your fingers brush against the edge of your notes. "And what happens," you murmur, almost to yourself, "when two of these... structures become entangled?"

Anaxagoras holds your gaze.

"You tell me," he says.

A slow breath. Hesitation.

"...Change is inevitable," you murmur. "Not a choice, not an accident—just a consequence of proximity." 

Something flickers across his expression—too brief to name, too quick to be certain.

He should correct you. Should challenge the conclusion you’ve drawn.

Instead, he watches you, head tilting just slightly—less like a professor considering a theory, more like something else entirely.

Your breath stills. The moment lingers too long.

You shift slightly, glancing down at your notes.

"Perhaps," Anaxagoras says at last, his voice quieter than before, "but not all change is equal."

"... And what determines the difference?" you ask, softer now.

His eyes don’t leave yours. "The depth of the resonance."

The night air hums with a quiet sort of clarity as you step out of the grove, the weight of the conversation still curling around your ribs like an uncollapsed waveform. The campus pathways are near-empty at this hour, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Each footstep crunches softly against the gravel, the rhythm steady, measured—nothing like the chaotic pulse beneath your skin.

You aren’t entirely sure how long you sat there in his office. The concept of time had blurred somewhere between the pages of your notes and the weight of his gaze. Between the fractal recursion of thought and the unsettling realization that—perhaps—you weren’t just speaking of equations anymore.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you walk.

(If recursion applies not just to thought but to interaction—if the base function of identity is altered through contact—then what does it mean that his presence lingers in your mind long after the conversation has ended?)

The wind shifts, cool against your skin, but it does little to steady the unshaken cadence of your pulse.

Anaxagoras had let the silence stretch before you left. No dismissal, no final remark to wrap the conversation into something neat and containable. Just that lingering weight—his dark eyes studying you, as if waiting for you to arrive at the realization before he acknowledged it himself.

(The depth of the resonance..?)

You exhale sharply, shaking your head as if that alone could unravel the thought from your mind.

Your dormitory looms ahead, its familiar outline silhouetted against the night sky. The building is quiet when you step inside, the soft hum of distant voices muffled through the walls. You move through the dimly lit corridors with muscle memory, feet carrying you forward while your mind is still somewhere else.

Your door clicks shut behind you, shutting you into the quiet stillness of your room.

Everything here is familiar. The unmade bed, the clutter of books on your desk, the notebook you’d left open earlier with some half-scribbled thought that now feels embarrassingly simplistic. The air smells faintly of old paper and the lingering trace of coffee grounds from this morning—scents that should root you back into the present.

But they don’t.

Not when your mind is still back in that office.

Not when you can still hear the quiet cadence of his voice, the deliberate pause before he spoke—

You press your fingers to your temple, willing yourself to unspool the loop of recursion that has latched onto your thoughts.

It’s fine. This is fine.

The conversation had been an extension of an intellectual discourse, nothing more. You were both speaking in abstracts, exploring a hypothesis. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

Then why did you feel so different?

You swallow, exhaling through your nose.

Your notebook is still in your hands, the pages curled slightly from the way you’d gripped them on the walk back. Slowly, carefully, you set it down on your desk, flipping back to the last scrawled equation.

Identity = f(Iteration, Context, Interaction)

A slow inhale. Your fingers brush over the ink-streaked margin, a reflexive motion—an attempt to ground yourself.

Then, after a moment, you reach for your pen.

The ink flows smoothly as you add another line beneath the equation, hesitating for only a second before you let the words take form.

Resonance determines the rate of transformation.

You stare at it.

And then—slowly, deliberately—you close the notebook. 

-> a/n: hey, if you've made it this far i SERIOUSLY commend your strength. i had to take several breaks while proofreading this because i, the writer, myself could not process their words at one stretch... erm... so, here's a mini explanation with an analogy, if any of you are actually interested in what they were talking about. Imagine you're building a snowman. At first, it’s just a small snowball in your hands. But as you roll it, more snow sticks, and it grows bigger and bigger. You stack more snow on top, shape it, maybe add a scarf or a carrot nose. No matter how much it changes, the first snowball—the one you started with—is still there, buried inside. It never went away, it just became part of something bigger. That first snowball here is like the core of 'identity'. Everything else—your experiences, choices, and changes—builds on top of it, but it’s always there, shaping who you are.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette@hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom@yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @somniosu

[raointean]

Silmarillion Fandom Terminology Quiz

So, I'm doing a project for linguistics class and I'm studying fandom terminology in the Silmarillion fandom and whether or not demographics make a difference. The only demographics are age category, gender, continent, language background, and fandom background, after which you get into more fun questions, including but not limited to...

What is a Blorbo?

The Thorn Debate

What is "Accidental Baby Acquisition"?

Who is Crablor

What is a "PWP"

The quiz has three sections: Demographics, General Fandom Terms, and Silmarillion Specific Terms. Have fun with it, share it with your Silm friends!

Edit: Will close November 15th so I have time to process the results before presenting them.

Edit edit: Due to the sheer number of responses (I may have forgotten how... academically inclined this fandom is lol) I will be closing the survey on November 1st. Thank you all for your lovely contributions so far! I think I saw Fëanor called a "bitch-ass prescriptivist" and I think my professor will get a kick out of that 🤣

[misguidedasgardian]

GLADIATORS

CREGAN I.

MASTERLIST

Summary: You see your father’s latest acquisition in a closer way, a wild man from the North who had become one of his gladiators.  

Pairing: Slave!Gladiator!Cregan x Domina!Reader

Warnings: Ancient Rome AU, Cursing, slavery (and everything that comes with it, technically rape, forced labour, punishments), blood, guts, gladiator battles, lude language, nudity, sex and everything related is no biggie here, we’re a ‘sex positive’ Republic, mentions of sex, same sex couples, orgies, and more.

MINORS DNI + 18

Wordcount: 6,7 k

Notes: This reader is young perhaps… like 18? 20? but so is Cregan!

“Dad, he is old!”, you whined. You heard your older brother snicker by your side, as their silly wives snickered like the silly girls they were. You sighed as you popped a grape into your mouth followed closely by a piece of cheese and bread and a sip of wine. 

“He’s got money… and he is in the senate!”, he said then, signaling one of the slaves to start lighting up the oil lamps along the Triclinium, the night had fallen over King’s Landing and it was getting dark.

“I bet you could find someone who’s in the senate who’s got a wife he is willing to divorce, and he won’t die of old age before the wedding”, mocked your eldest brother, but soon got quiet as your father looked at him with severity

“Nobody should divorce their wives on my account”, you said, the notion made your stomach turn. Even though divorce was a common thing, if a man desired another, or another union would ensure more privileges, or if his woman was unfaithful or not able to give in heirs to the family, they could divorce. A woman could divorce her husband too if she had her own reasons.

You knew the dowry of your middle brother’s bride was quickly being spent on the training of the gladiators in the Ludus underneath the house, so he needed to come into some money quickly, even though he would have to pay for your dowry.

One of the greatest events of the year was coming quickly, and his Gladiators needed to be in top shape. 

“Tomorrow I want you all there, at the games of Senator Tywin”

“Have we’ve been invited to the pulvinus father?”, asked your eldest brother

“Close enough, right by it”, he said, he seemed pleased, but you had learned to read him better, there was something lurking in his eyes that betrayed a darker desire… for more power perhaps.

“I've heard that Larys Strong and therefore Alys Rivers got an invitation this year to the pulvinus, and her gladiators in the primus at sundown”, whispered Martyn

You had two oldest brothers, Alton and Martyn. 

“That Ludus stands as such because of that whore Alys Rivers”, mumbled your father

“A woman Lanista?”, you asked, “how could that be?”

“She is not, but she whispers in her half-brother's ear while he aspires to be in higher positions”, explains your father. “While his brother, first born son and heir goes around playing gladiator”

“He is a slave?”, you asked

“He volunteer himself into that life”, murmured Alton, “you had seen him fight sister, Harwin”

“Oh wow!”, you said, not really knowing what to say, but rather, sipping your wine, you did remember seeing the biggest person you had seen upon the arenas of King’s Landing’s Coliseum. 

“Anyways, Alys stands as such because she was advised many years by Daemon himself the demon of the arenas”, mumbled Martyn

“Yes, fine Daemon/Demon”, your father would repeatedly, while on his cups, tell the tale of his biggest regret, and that was not purchasing a young Daemon while he was still in training, he grew to be the greatest gladiator at the arena, so much so he won his own freedom at the games of the Vulcanalia some years ago. Daemon, as many other gladiators, came from the shadowlands of Essos, as he sported beautiful white/silver hair and violet eyes. 

You would never say this outloud, but the gladiator battles were never a thing of your interest, not really. You did not liked the bloodshed, the gutting, you had no taste for violence, and yet, there was something to admire as you saw those men fighting 

They looked like they were carved from the finest artist, they stood like they were gods above the sands. They stood as fierce representations of the god of war himself.

“Well, her reign of depravity will not last long, I heard the Northman shows great promise”, mumbled Martyn’s wife Adella 

“What about the Northman?”, Martyn asked then, you raised your head in question. Oh the Northman.

The man had your father in a lockdown, taking most of his time, money and patience. He was ‘caught wild’ in one of the last incursions of the armies of the emperor to the wild tribes of the North, hence his nickname. Purchased by your father at the slave market, and trained for the last months. With the purchase, your father was hoping to impress Tywin Lannister himself, a senator and a very wealthy man, it did not work, so far, as the man planned to visit your father’s villa upon invitation to see the Northman’s training and hopeful subjugation. So far, no luck. 

He was caught fighting, he wasn’t a stranger to it, but there was a long way from being a soldier to being a gladiator. From being… whatever he was up there, to obey command from a man that subdued you into slavery. 

But again, your father’s temper has closely returned to normal, so, you could only assume the training was becoming fruitful, even so slowly. 

“He will never be tamed”, he said curtly, “but… if we keep managing him properly, we can turn that hate of his into the arena, he shows great promise”

“Forgive me father”, you said, raising from your place in the triclinium, “I take my leave to bed”, you said with a soft smile, nodding at everyone present

“Good, I won’t have you all tired tomorrow”, he said approvingly, and you nodded, thinking for which old bat he would have you presentable tomorrow.

He was determined to get you wed before the autumn plantings at the end of the year, and he didn’t seem to care to whom as long as it brought privileges upon his house. 

It was hot, so hot, you could barely stand, you were eternally grateful to your personal slave, Anya, who stood by your side, fanning you with a soft paper fan. She leaned into you as you allowed her, to also enjoy the soft waves.

Although, they brought some stench from all the people around you.

King’s Landing, although the capital of the great republic, stood famous for its stench, having grown rapidly and unprepared for it. 

The sun cooking the viewers of the spectacle didn’t help either.

The people cheered, bringing a new wave of hodor that made you dizzy and poor Anya almost faint

“Did you see that?”, asked your elder brother to the youngest, as two gladiators fought to the death, one cutting the other’s arm. HIs screams could be heard all the way up where you stood, near the pulvinus.

You rather stare into the sun, which you did. Soon, after midday, it was going to hide behind the wooden beams supporting the canvas on top of the Arena, there you truly were going to enjoy it. being able to relish in the shadow. 

“Tywin demanded only the best this city has to offer present themselves in his games”, the comment alone made you turned your gaze upon the Arena, as people cheered again, some even pushed you in their ecstasy, to see the gladiator in shining white armor decapitate the one missing his arm

“And Cole does it again”, said Martyn. The one who had an armor so polished it was blinding was known as Cole, he stood from the Rhoynar in the south, from Dorne itself, plucked from the desert to fight in another kind of arena. 

“See her gloat”, demanded Alton, you all looked towards the Lanista herself, Alys Rivers in the pulvinus, with a smug look upon her face, she of course was the one holding the wip that trained the man in the arena.

She was of extraordinary beauty, long lustrous black hair, long to her hips, wearing a deep green stola, beautifully decorated atop a black tunic, you wondered how she did not bake wearing such dark colors. 

She was stuck to the side of her rumored half-brother, he was a.. interesting man, thin and a bit twisted, unruly hair but fine clothing adorned his weak frame. 

“People of King’s Landing…!”, presented Otto HIghtower from the pulvinus, a small but central box, where the most prominent people attending the games would sit at. He was a Senator, friend to Tywin Lannister and apparently presenter to today’s games. Maybe he was the patron of the entire occasion, your father had been paid by a HIghtower man.

But this… was far from over.

It was odd to see such a gladiator so early in the day, the sundown was reserved for the very best part of the games, the primus, between the two best and more known gladiators. 

You found yourself thinking about like four names at the time.

Harwin, Cole, Aemond, and… the Northman.

Although Harwin was disapparating from latest presentations… he still held name, but he had lost his prowess as the last time he found himself in the Arena he asked for mercy as he found himself losing, he raised his hand in the air with both index and middle finger pointing to the skies begging for mercy, and it was granted.

Against Cole himself. He got terribly injured almost a year ago, thereafter only presenting himself in fights long before midday sun.

Yes, everything you knew about gladiators and fights was learnt unwillingly. 

But the primus did not belong to your father, so the Northman was fighting early, thankfully. You might have a chance to survive this heat, by retiring back to your father’s villa early.

Although, these occasions were like the market for older unmarried men. And your father would have you giving everything to sell…  

“... I give to you, from one of the greatest Ludus of the Republic, a man, from the wild tribes North of the neck…”, your father smiled proudly as the name of the family was spoken loudly for everyone to hear. “trained to wet the sands with the blood of his enemies… I give you… CREGAN!”, people booed at his entrance, as the wild tribes of the North had been villainized by the Republic, as relentless, violent and above all, uncultured and barbaric, but you had learned to read between the lines, they were described as such because they refused to bend the knee.

The gates of the Arena opened on the west side, revealing the men ready for battle. He stood tall and broad despite his young age, his dark brown hair tied back, although hidden by a thick helmet in the shape of a wolf’s head. 

He wore nothing protecting his torso, yet a thick metal belt putting together the lower part of a tunic. He wore forearm and shin protectors, and thick leather sandals 

He had a huge sword in hand, and a shield on his other.

The sight alone took your breath away.

You had seen him only practicing, briefly, as your father did not approve of you gazing from your balcony down to the men. As they would, “get distracted”, and you didn't enjoy their eyes filled with lust either. So you refrained from doing so, but…

The mere glimpses you had gotten of the men were nothing when putting in comparison to the men upon the sand today.

In all glory, in strength, as a gladiator was the mightiest representation of a man, or that is what your father always said.

This was a rare sighting though, as he had barely been making a name for himself, this time might be the first he presents himself alone. Your father was right, taiming him was proving to be incredibly difficult, but nobody could deny that even if he presented himself a gladiator today under your father’s ludus, he was still as unruly as the first time you laid eyes upon him, as the first time you gaze down upon him, entering through the gates, kicking and screaming, hair longer than you had seen in a men, even longer than he had now. 

He fought your father’s guards and even the ones who he would call his brothers this present day.

Tywin himself called for the start of the fight, his opponent was someone of the Ludus of Larys himself, one with lesser note, his name left your ears as soon as you heard it.

But you couldn't care less, as when he started to move upon the sands, the rest of the world could crumble around you and it would not matter in the slightest.

“He stands superior in all aspects”, mumbled one of your brothers and you couldn't tell which as you were so hypnotized.

Cregan attacked first, and that was very frowned upon in the Lanistas, as the first to strike tended to have disadvantage, his opponent met him half way and the clash of gladious responded all over the coliseum. 

There were some gladiators that favored other weapons, like the spear and short shield, or the Retiarius, that were gladiators trained with a net and a trident, in a fisherman fashion. 

It sounded laughable in paper, but they were quite impressive in the arena, not this time though, both gladiators stood with a gladious, meaning a sword, and a long squared concave shield.

The fight wasn’t lengthy, the superiority of the Northman was clear since the very first movement.

Although it wasn’t less breathtaking, as each of their movements, attacks, the way they moved, and deflected, its like they were dancing, dancing in a mortal rhythm 

The crowd cheered for them, and even though they were not on the Northman’s side, suddenly, they shifted as it became clear that he was the better fighter. 

Although you did not enjoy the games, there was this moment, this exact moment in which you felt like your heart was in your throat and you could tear your eyes apart from the fight. The moment where you really cared about who won, about who survived. The Northman, even thought it was the 

But it was brief, first Cregan drew blood on the arm of his opponent, and then, after a quick movement, the man was dead, dropped in a growing pool of blood on the floor. 

The magic was gone, and the crowd erupted in cheers, applauding, screaming his name, although there were those disappointed because of the outcome.

“He will be the champion of our house!”, said Alton, “mark my words!”, he said, as your two brothers hugged each other in happiness. you turned to Anya, who had a soft smile on her face, but kept fanning the both of you 

The rest of the fights happened quickly after that, the sun hiding behind the podium of the magistrates and people of importance in the city, which gave you relief as the day turned quickly, the sun moved above the sky until it hid behind the outer walls of the coliseum. 

The last fight ended quickly as well, Aemond killing his opponent in an impressive showing of strength and blood. 

Your father was called upon another man near the pulvinus, as you tried to stand your ground as people around you were quickly to leave the arena, but you managed to stand your ground, as your siblings found friends of their own to talk to. 

Your father came back to you, rubbing his hands amongst each other with a pleased look on his face

“I must attend a meeting in the magistrate’s house”, he said happily, “He spotted me in the crowd and invited me”, you smiled at him

“I’m pleased, father”, you said with a soft smile

“See yourself to the villa, with our guards and slaves, don’t wait up”, he commanded the lot of you. 

“We have been invited to the Lannisters”, mumbled Martyn, your father’s eyes again shone with interest. So he nodded towards your brother.

“I trust you’ll be well taken care of”, he said then, turning to you, he then signaled to one of his most trusted guards and even to the Doctore himself, the trainer of the gladiators.

“Yes father”, you nodded at Anya and the both of you exited the arena, followed closely by a guard. 

You turned quickly as you heard your name being called by a familiar voice, as you were int he shade of the hallways, as you turned you found yourself with your old friend from your childhood, Alysanne Blackwood

“How long haven’t we gaze upon one another?”, she said, grabbing your forearms as you did hers, she leaned in a made attempt to kiss both your cheeks as it was accustomed

“Too long”, you said with a long sigh

“We shall remedy that immediately!”, she said then, “you didn’t mind telling me your father’s Ludus was the one who owns the Northman himself?”, she tried

“Oh well, much has happened in the last couple of years”, you said shyly, smiling softly at her.

This was hardly the time, all the people were leaving the coliseum, and pushed you who were trying to stand on the sidelines. She looked at you with those deep green eyes of hers, she was so beautiful, lean and tall, with thick black hair fixed beautifully and big green eyes, her smile was contagious. 

“Well it's been too long”, she said then, as you failed to meet what she desired, “and I will wait no longer, to get reacquainted with dear friend”, she said, grabbing your hands

“My villa, its mine for the night, as my father meets with important men”, you offered, her smile was as beautiful as the rest of her

“Perfect, Jeyne Frey is also here”, she said, “we’ll go together”.

To say you were nervous was an understatement 

The night found you and your friends in the safety of the triclinium in your family’s villa, where the soft wine flowed freely and also the dining. 

“And his cock was huge!”, she said, making you gasp

“Alyssane!”, you chided, “don’t say that!”, you said, feeling your cheeks heated

“What? Cock?”, she teased, “Cock! Cock! Cock! COCK!”

“Stop it!”, you slapped her arm playfully

“I see them all the time!”, Jeyne said then, looking sheepishly, hiding her smirk in her cup of wine. 

“Only because you like to peek as your brothers have sex with slaves!”, mocked Alyssane 

“No I don’t!”, she said, but you knew she was lying. 

“I bet that Northman’s cock is huge too”, teased Alyssane, finally revealing her true intentions behind her and Jeyne’s visit to your father’s villa. You got quiet, so did Jeyne, but the expression on her face said it all, she was as intrigued as Alyssane

“I wouldn’t know, even if I saw it”, you said

“You had never seen a man naked?”, asked Alyssane, raising one of her perfect eyebrows

“No”, you said then, well… you sort of had, men, male slaves on sale on the streets, but you had refused to look long enough to draw a complete image in your mind. What you saw in a couple of seconds did not please you at all, rather… you disliked.. something so… small and wobbly. You shaked at the very memory of it.

“You had never seen any of your gladiators in such fashion?”, asked Jeyne, ready to tease and follow Alyssane’s lead.

“No I have not!”, you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you at least a bit curious?”, asked Jeyne

“Well, of course I am”, you defended

“You are to be married before the darkest of the winter months, you should at least know what you are up against”, Alyssane said simply, “and I would not deny the sight… of such a man”

“You are here just to gaze upon naked men?”, you said playfully, although, a bitter taste in your mouth, as you were feeling clearly used, and pressured.

“No, I am here to gaze upon naked gladiators”, Jeyne said then.

But another flavor joined the others, the need deep within you impress your friends, your friends from rich houses of the capital 

“Bring me the Northman”, you said to the guard that stood in the corner watching the whole reunion, he seemed terribly nervous, but nodded and left you. You shaked with the resolution in your command, and felt a pit in your stomach in anticipation.

You knew he was going to take a while, so you turned back at your friends and smiled nervously, and they seemed terribly motivated. 

“I must say”, began Jeyne, as she saw your face filled with trepidation, “that my tongue will not be kept from wagging about your hospitality to my father”, she wanted to make sure you knew there was going to be recompense for this, and good recompense. His father, as old as time, sat in the senate, she stood the daughter of a senator.

“Thank you Jeyne”, you said with a soft smile, you took a long gulp of your cup, to try and soothe your nerves. Alyssane did the same, but with a smirk on her lips, she said nothing as she studied your form. 

Finally, they both took sit position in their triclinium as you heard movement behind you. You looked back to see their trainer Roose Bolton, following closely behind the man himself. The wildling from the tribes of the North, whose name was Cregan Stark, although everyone called him… ‘The Northman’

He stood with thick shackles around both wrists. in front of him. He was wearing nothing but a clean subligaria, and his body was like one of a god, well defined and gleamed under the light of the torches, he had recently been cleaned. The sight made your mouth dry, so you took another long sip of the mulsum in your cup. He had thick brown hair that he used tied in the back of his head, and he had sharp eyes, cold as ice and the same colour. The features of his face were soft, declaring his young age, your own, perhaps. 

“Leave us”, you demanded, but the trainer Roose Bolton looked conflicted

“Domina, I don’t think…”

“I said leave us”, you said, about to lose your courage, your friends behind you giggled, weirdly giving you confidence to commit to your own command. With a grunt, the doctore nodded and left you, with only your friends, a couple of guards standing silently in the corners of the room behind veils, and him.

The Northman

He was deadly still, looking forwards, beyond you and your friends, beyond this room, his jaw was tense, you could tell that being here, summoned by you like this… for him was humiliating, but there he stood, tense like a bow. He said nothing, he didn’t move an inch.

“Is this what all northmen look like?”, Jeyne teased, “he is more beast than man”, you didn’t know if that was a real question, but your eyes never left his form, even if it wasn’t he didn’t answer.

“You can answer”, you encouraged 

“All northmen do not look like me”, he said finally, the dark tone in his voice made the three of you gasp. “some make me look like an Andal”, Jeyne and Alyssane giggled at the prospect of finding even gruffer men than him. 

“Oh he speaks the common tongue”, Alyssane was on fire, making you more uncomfortable. His eyes finally found yours, and you couldn’t take your own out of his. 

“Yes he does”, you whispered, he indeed had a beautiful set of eyes. You then looked down at his chest, there was a red line, his injury from the battle in the Arena, it was still fresh, but you could tell it was healing properly

“I think he is handsome”, mumbled Alyssane, taking foot to walk towards him, you feared his reaction, as the guard standing in the corner of the room clenched his hand around the pommel of his sword. 

But the gladiator still didn't move as Alysanne walked around him, teasing him with a single finger, touching his skin as she walked. His eyes were still on you. 

“He stands as Mars, ready for war”, she whispered

“Alyssane seems taken by the man”, teased Jeyne in your ear

It was a curious thing, this what you were feeling, like somebody wanted to take something that belonged to you, but again, he wasn’t a thing, and you didn’t own him. Not technically at least, your father did.

“Their day starts early tomorrow”, you mumbled, making Alysane stop and look back at you with a teasing smile on her face. “his training I mean”, you said then

“Of course”, she said, you signaled the poor shaking guard and he grabbed Cregan, and took him from your side. You could swear you saw lingering eyes from him to you, but you must have imagined it.

“You should… enjoy him while you can”, said Jeyne finally, once you found yourselves alone again

“What do you mean?”, you asked her, her and Alyssane shared complicit looks

“Well, obviously, before you take an old bat as a husband, you should enjoy one of his gladiators, like that Northman for example”

“No…”, you said quickly, “I couldn’t possibly do something like that”

“Why not?”, asked Alyssane

“He is a man trained as a gladiator!”, you said, “he is a bit dirty…”, you tried, not quite convinced 

“You have him bathed and oiled before you”, said Alyssane like it was no issue 

“What if he doesn't want to?”, you tried then

“He is a slave, under your command…”, said Jeyne, “...and a man”

“What if he decided to kill me instead?”, you said then, “wrap his hands around my neck”

“I will not shame you is that is to your pleasure”, giggled Alyssane

“Aly!”, you whined, “the point is I really couldn’t, I mean, he is big and thick… and wild looking”

“Delicious then”, she offered

“Dangerous…”, you continued, although you felt your cheeks heated. 

“Well if you don't have him, maybe I could!”, she teased

“What are you talking about?!”, you asked, scandalized, “when have you heard that proper Andal women lay with their gladiators?”

“Oh I’ve heard a ludus where such things happen quite frequently”, she teased

“Where?”, you asked

“In Alys Rivers’ ludus!”, your eyes opened wide in shock

“Really?”, you asked, “the bastard sister of the Lanista Larys Strong?”, you asked 

“They say she offers her gladiators in… other manners”, she said, winking at you, “perhaps we should find ourselves at her door?”, she asked Jeyne

“Perhaps we shall”, she said back. 

“Don’t be mean!”, you teased back, she laughed, as she was clearly jesting, you hoped.

“The hour is late”, said Jeyne with a soft smile, “I should start my journey back to my villa before my father starts a search party”, she said, raising from her chair

“Yes! me as well!”, said Alyssane, “I hope I can meet you tomorrow at the market?”, she asked you, you smiled and nodded profusely, as you accompanied them to the atrium, and therefore the door

As you watched them leave, nervousness started to take a hold on you, as did the warmth of the wine consumed to hide your embarrassment 

It was not common to find yourself alone in your villa, your father had allowed it because you were in company of friends -who had influential fathers-, but now there you stood, no brothers, or sisters in law, father or friends to loom over you.

Your lower belly burned with necessity, with something you have never felt before, a longing, your body burned with anticipation and excitement. You didn’t know if it was the mulsum you had drank, or the power you just discovered, all the whole thing combined.

“Bring the Northman up here”, you said to the first guard you saw, he nodded and went to comply with your command. Your body was tingly because of the alcohol and you were excited to say the least, you didn’t even care that you had already sent the poor man down mere minutes ago, tonight, you had the power.

You shakily served yourself some more wine, back in the safety of the triclinium, the room where you ate, met with friends and family, where you were most comfortable. The man was standing right in front of you in minutes, the guards nodded at you and then left you as they had done before.

The gladiator stood there, now he seemed more surprised than before, as he found you alone, and he also seemed to be showing more of his emotions on his face.

“Northman”, you called, he turned to you quickly, anger in his eyes

“That’s not my name!”, it took you by surprise, you couldn’t deny it, the anger in his eyes, the sharpness in his tone. 

“What is your name?”, it was of no consequence to you, his domina, and you should express so, that it did not matter anymore what his real name was, but, there you were, asking him nonetheless

“My parents named me Cregan”, he said, “of House Stark”, he said sharply, “as many leaders of my house before me”

There was so much more you wanted to ask, as his words truly shocked you, but as you gazed down the street you came to your senses, realizing that you should not allow such things. As your father tended to say, “who were you before this Ludus does not matter, the only thing in your mind should be sand, and the blood of your enemies”

“That is not what you are here for”, you finally find your voice, minimizing his anger at hand, turning his attention somewhere else.

“Remove your subligaria”, you whispered the command as if you did not wish it, and his sharp eyes were trained on you

“Look at you, a little domina in the making”, he teased, his tone much changed since he let you know of his true name. The very words made your cheeks heated, and you found yourself averting his gaze, his did not stray from your face as he released himself from the only item of clothing he was wearing. Your eyes followed the trail of his perfect skin, down his toned chest to his belly and…

The sight alone made you gasp. 

This looked nothing like the ones of the male slaves in the market, if anything, those were… flacid and small, that sight brought you disgust and uneasiness, this one however, made your mouth dry and your skin tingle with desire. Desire that was pooling in your lower belly.

“You can touch me”, he said, he was being amused at your expense, only making you even more nervous, “I will not bite… much”, your hand was placed on his belly, muscles showing in beautiful shapes, you couldn't believe something could be hard but soft at the same time.

As your hand lowered, you found thick dark hairs there, making you shudder 

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen”, he whispered, so close to your face your hand stopped right before getting to his base and you looked up at him.

“I’m the daughter of your dominus”, you said, as you believed he was forced to praise you.

“Do you think that’s got something to do with what I just said?”, he asked. Your hand stopped right as the base of his cock, you shuddered, his manhood was terribly hot. 

You had never spoken to this man before today, you had barely glanced at him, and now, here he stood, under your command, looking at you with his sharp eyes, not missing a thing. 

“I’m sorry, this was a bad idea…”, you whined retrieving your hands like his skin burned you. Cregan grunted when your soft hands left his cock, and that only made you burn more heatedly

“And you are going to leave me hanging like this?”, he asked, amused, mocking you, but inside he was suffering, he was enjoying it too much, it has been so long without a woman’s touch, “you can’t do that!”

“My apologies”, you said quickly, leaving him there standing 

His doctore came to collect him, he retrieved his cloth from the ground, putting it in place

“A little tease that one”, he mumbled to the serious man

“Do not speak of domina in that way”, he growled as he pushed him 

“There is not much domina in her”, he chuckled

“That’s it, five lashes in the courtyard”, he said

“I’d think better of it doctore”, he said defiantly, taking advantage of the fact that only the two of them were present in the narrow passage that separated the villa from the training grounds of the Slaves, “the Vulcanalia is merely a fortnight away from now, and they have high hopes for me”

“Keep walking boy”, Roose Bolton threatened.

He led him downstairs and then through the big gate that separated the villa from the ludus, where the gladiators lived and trained. A guard locked it tight after they passed through it

“I advise you to keep what happened to yourself”, he said gloomly, Cregan looked back at his doctore, but nodded.

He was directed straight to a long open room, where the gladiators ate lunch and dinner. He directed himself to the cook, who gave him a clay pot with a white mush in it, just like the day before, and the night before that. 

“Here comes the whore!”, someone shouted at him, as his “brothers” started mocking him and winking at him.

It didn’t take much to guess what happened in the villa, there was only one reason you get called upon at such hours, and wearing so little

“Shut the hell up Ben”, he mumbled to his only friend he had in the Ludus, he haden’t say anything, but he was grinning at him like an idiot.

“Was it her?”, he asked him, “the daughter? the domina?”

“Yes”, he said, his friend pushed him playfully

“Did you fuck her?”, Cregan just looked at him angrily

“No”

“Was she not pleased with you then?”. he asked, frowning

“She is young, she doesn’t know what she wants”, he said simply, really not wanting to share what had happened upstairs.

It was humiliating, to say the least, to be treated like that. To be called upon to be gazed at by women who looked at him like a piece of meat, and then again to be touched.

Oh but he meant every word

You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, since the first time he saw you, standing on that balcony, looking down at him. He did not blame you for your father, for the blood that ran through your veins, for the republic that created you. You had nothing to do with any of it.

Just by looking at you he could tell the kind soul that moved your body and warmed your heart

But you were the daughter of the man who purchased him, he wasn’t the one who enslaved him, but it was the man that had condemned him to the life of a gladiator. 

“Well, maybe you can change her mind”, he teased

The only reason he was playing along with the Andals was to see how to escape them, so far, it had been easy to stay alive, he had been trained since he could pick up a sword on how to hunt, how to fight, how to survive, the North was not a place for the weak

“Father?”, you called out loud, the servants all dropped their eyes as you passed them by looking for him, but you couldn’t find him in his study, so you were on your way to his room at the other side of the villa

“What’s this ruckus?”, he asked, looking at you with sharp eyes as he went to encounter you in the atrium

“My good friend Alyssane has summoned me to go to the market at noon”, you knew he wouldn’t refuse you, not if Alyssane was involved, so he just sighed and motioned for you to follow him. You went back to his study, passing all the statues decorating the atrium. A normal Andal family would display in honor effigies of their most prominent family members, but yours displayed the most prominent gladiators and fighters that had come from this ludus.

“Here”, he passed you a small punch filled with gold coins

“Thank you father”, you said, offering a complacent smile

“Take one of my men with you”, he said then, “one of the gladiators”

“I hardly think that’s necessary, a servant and a guard would do just fine”, you said quickly, always as you were in the market you wanted to pass by as inconspicuous as you could. 

“I insist, after the games, and before the Vulcanalia, I want the people to see them, to get excited, take the Northman”, you hid your face before your father could see the embarrassment in it. 

One of the guards of the villa went to fulfill his request, and you sighed in exasperation. 

You came back to your rooms to get ready to go out, and once you were, you returned to the entrance of the house, where Cregan himself was waiting for you with a severe look on his face, this was not to his liking, he was standing right by a guard, and by Roose Bolton. 

The sight alone made you tremble

Had he told anybody what happened the day before? that you had touched him and presumed to have him?

Once his eyes found yours, he smirked. 

“If something befalls the daughter of your dominus, fate worse than death awaits you boy”, he said in his ear

“Rest assured, that I will look after her with my life”, he said with a silly little smile.

You took a long sigh, and nodded to the guards and started walking out of the villa.

The villa stood on top of a hill, you had a pretty nice view upon the city of King’s Landing, but the rest of it wasn't quite impressive, the road was made of dirt and the houses around it were less impressive than the one your father had inherited from his father. It had been in your family since the very creation of the city.

You led a small comitive, all on foot, as you bluntly refused to be carried in a cot. You, your faithful slave Anya, Cregan himself, being flanked by two guards.

The center of the city started right at the foot of the hill, so it was a short minute walk.

You reach a street made of cobblestone, one adjacent to the one that led to the main street, as it was time before you had to meet Alyssane, you started to look the small stores

“Did your father hear of the way you handled me last night?”, Cregan whispered as Anya was tending elsewhere, you look back sharply at the Northman.

“No, and he shall not!”, you said sharply

“Oh well, I guess if he had, he’d have me castrated”, he whispered for your ears only, “and I guess you don’t want that as it seems you like what you saw”, he teased

“Stop it”, you said back. Your father was a practical man, and if he had heard of what occurred last night, you would be the one at fault, as everyone involved was just following your command. “My father will never know of this”, you sentenced 

“You wanted to lay with me? A gladiator? a slave?”, he asked then

“I was mistaken”, you said, trying to gaze upon what a man was cooking on his store towards the street, it smelled delicious 

“You are mistaken”, you heard him claim, his thick accent made your thighs, “for seeking bedding before connecting, to seek sex, instead of love, to want lust before you even began to feel the fondness”, he said sincerely.

“Thinking love is something within the grasp of someone in my position is foolish, and I learned not to be blinded and distracted by foolish things”, you whispered sadly. You nodded at the man and exchanged a couple of aerus for a plate of lamb soup. “I’ll be married before the year is over”, you whispered. 

[iamgayjesus]

Hi! May I request CEO Agatha Harkness x waitress Reader fluff + smut fic where Agatha goes to the cafe and meets Reader. Agatha has a huge crush on Reader who she looks at the nearest table several times a day. Agatha tries to sneak a pic of Reader so she can see Reader's face when she's not in the cafe. What Agatha doesn't realize is that the flash is on, and Reader realizes what Agatha is doing.

Hi! Well, well. In all honestly I could not stop thinking about this for ages! Hope you enjoy it! I explored a bit of Agatha’s sub side 🤭 as always let me know what you think! -A

Masterlist

18+ MDNI

Caught in the Act📸

CEO Agatha Harkness x Waitress Reader

Words: 7939

Content Warnings:

Explicit sexual content (18+), strap-on use, suggestive language, light dom/sub themes, mild swearing, emotional vulnerability, physical touch and reader on her knees (non-degrading), light height kink, switch!agatha and switch!reader!

Reader described as taller in heels, wearing a dress with styled hair — some physical descriptors included

*

Agatha Harkness, founder and CEO of Harkness Industries, was an apex predator in the boardroom—sharp suits, sharper tongue, and an intellect that left grown men trembling. Her time was money, and her money was damn near endless.

And yet.

Every morning at 8:27, she arrived at the tiny corner café two blocks from her office and ordered the same thing: a black coffee, no sugar, no cream, and a croissant she rarely touched.

She always sat at the same table near the window.

Where she could see you.

You, the waitress with bright eyes, an easy smile, and a kindness she hadn’t seen in decades. The first time she heard you laugh—actually laugh—while balancing a tray and teasing a grumpy regular, Agatha’s usually frigid chest had clenched.

It became routine: Agatha watching you over the rim of her coffee cup like she was trying to memorize the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, or how you always added extra whipped cream to kids’ cocoa.

You greeted everyone by name.

“Morning, Mr. Avery—decaf again? I won’t judge you this time.”

“Hi, Tanya. You get that interview? You’d better have worn the blazer I told you to.”

You remembered birthdays. People’s pets. Their favorite table. You were sunshine and soft hands and tiny kindnesses that made her ache.

You never greeted Agatha by name.

Not because you didn’t know it. Her credit card said it. Her face was in Forbes. She was one of the most powerful women in the country.

But you still called her “ma’am” the first few weeks. Just “your usual?” with a lilt in your voice, head cocked, tone polite and professional.

In her world, people remembered her after ten seconds. She was the kind of woman who left boardrooms trembling and gala halls gasping. Cameras followed her. Rivals cursed her name in private conference calls. People didn’t just know her. They remembered her.

But you?

You served her three mornings a week for almost a month before you even stopped asking her name for the order.

The first time she’d said, “Agatha,” your only response was, “Pretty name. That’s A-G, right?” as you scrawled it in marker across the paper cup. Like she wasn’t—well. Agatha Harkness.

That shouldn’t have bothered her.

And yet it gnawed at her, sharp and raw and unfamiliar.

She tried subtle things first.

Changed her coat from black to dark plum, hoping you’d notice. Switched her lipstick to something just a shade bolder—rouge noir instead of her usual mauve. She wore a softer perfume one day—amber and smoke and something faintly floral—and leaned a little closer when she handed you her card.

Nothing.

You were still friendly, still sweet, still maddeningly neutral.

*

Agatha was staring at her coffee like it held state secrets.

This was ridiculous.

She had a team of analysts waiting on her signature for a major acquisition. She had three meetings this afternoon, one of them with a government official who insisted on speaking in metaphor. She had a full inbox, a full planner, and a full goddamn empire to run.

And yet here she was—twisting her earring back and forth with nervous fingers, like a schoolgirl with a hopeless crush, waiting to hear your voice again.

She didn’t even like waiting. She made other people wait.

Delays bent around her schedule. Flights held. Meetings paused. Her name didn’t show up on call screens—it rearranged people’s priorities.

But here?

In this café with its wobbly tables and too-sweet music and you, standing behind the counter—she was just another face in a sea of regulars. Watching. Hoping. Trying not to hope.

It was pathetic. And infuriating.

She should’ve stopped coming here after the third time you didn’t remember her name.

But she hadn’t.

And now it was too late.

You were too familiar—etched into her morning routine like a song she didn’t want to admit she’d memorized. The sound of your laugh when someone spilled cream. The way you tilted your head when trying to remember a regular’s order. You had nicknames for the old men who sat by the window, asked after someone’s grandmother, remembered the names of people’s dogs—

—and not hers.

Never hers.

You always smiled, always polite, sometimes even playful—but Agatha had to watch you give little pieces of that charm to everyone, and it was slowly killing her.

She wanted to be more than just another face in the crowd. To be the woman whose name you remembered without effort. To be the reason your smile held something extra.

She rehearsed in her mind how she’d catch your attention, remind you who she was—Agatha Harkness, CEO, not some background blur.

But every time she tried to speak, her voice caught. Every time she lifted her gaze, you were already looking elsewhere, laughing softly with a customer, completely unaware of her silent plea.

Her fingers twisted her earring harder. She hated how nervous she felt, how her heart hammered in her chest like a traitor’s drum.

She hated that you had this power over her. That despite all her authority, all her command, you made her feel small.

And yet, she couldn’t look away.

When you finally approached, carrying her coffee with that easy grace, her breath hitched.

She wanted to say something sharp. Something that would mark her presence like a signature.

But the words tangled in her throat.

You approached with her coffee, setting it down gently, and caught her gaze with a sly smile.

“You know,” you said, voice casual but with a spark of mischief, “most people don’t stare this hard unless they’re trying to memorize the menu. You planning to open your own café or something?”

Agatha blinked, caught off guard.

You leaned on the counter, folding your arms, eyes bright and amused.

“I gotta say, you make it hard to focus on work when you’re watching me like that,” you added, voice dropping just a bit, “But I guess it’s kinda flattering.”

Her cheeks flushed.

She hated how easily your words chipped away at her usual calm.

She was the boss. She made things happen with a glance. And yet—

Here she was, twisting her earring, feeling like a lovesick teenager.

*

Even in the sleek glass towers of her corporate empire, surrounded by the hum of power and the sharp click of heels on marble floors, Agatha Harkness found her mind drifting—again—to you.

Your face.

It was impossible to escape.

In boardrooms filled with executives and endless charts, her gaze would slip out the window, her thoughts twisting around the curve of your smile, the soft way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the laugh she heard once, light and unguarded.

At home, in the silence of her penthouse where everything gleamed with control and order, your image filled the empty spaces.

She caught herself tracing your features in her mind’s eye, fingers itching as if she could reach through the space and touch the warmth she imagined.

*

Agatha pushed open the café door just as the morning sun peeked over the city skyline, casting a golden glow through the windows. The familiar scent of roasted beans and warm pastries wrapped around her like a quiet invitation. She paused for a moment, smoothing the cuff of her sleeve, her usually unshakable composure momentarily fraying at the edges.

There you were—behind the counter, effortlessly weaving between orders and smiles. The casual grace with which you worked made Agatha’s heart tighten in a way no boardroom victory ever had.

She slipped her phone from her bag, heart hammering as she opened the camera app. The plan was simple: just one quick photo, something to carry with her when you weren’t around, something to remind her of the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed or how you tossed your hair back without a care.

Careful not to attract attention, she raised the phone just enough to frame you. But the lighting was tricky, and she hadn’t switched off the flash.

Agatha glanced around. The café was quiet—early morning lull. You were refilling the sugar caddies. Her thumb hovered over the phone camera. She just wanted one photo. Just to keep. Just to—

FLASH.

The burst of bright light shattered the moment. You looked up instantly, eyes blinking toward her table.

Agatha froze. Her soul fled her body. The actual Queen of Corporate America had just accidentally outed herself as a creep—with the flash on.

Slowly, you blinked. And then—your smile curled, lazy and knowing.

“Well… that wasn’t subtle.”

Agatha fumbled with her phone, quickly pulling it down and locking the screen like a teenager who’d just been caught snooping through someone’s stories. “It— That wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

You were already rounding the counter with your towel slung over one shoulder and coffee in hand, the steam curling up like it was enjoying the tension too.

“Are you sure?” you said as you approached, tilting your head just a little. “Because that looked exactly like you tried to sneak a picture of me. Real classic too—the flash and everything.”

Agatha opened her mouth again. Nothing came out.

You placed the coffee on her table, leaned just slightly over it, and added in a mock-conspiratorial whisper, “You know, if you were gonna make me your lockscreen, you could’ve at least waited until I smiled.”

That earned a sound—half laugh, half strangled breath—from Agatha. Her cheeks burned. Her fingers twisted her napkin. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”

You rested your elbow on the edge of her table now, clearly enjoying the reversal of power.

“I remember you now,” you said, voice rich with amusement, gaze dropping briefly to the phone still clutched in Agatha’s hand. “Black coffee. Always early. Sits in the corner like you’re watching a chessboard no one else can see.”

Agatha didn’t respond—not because she didn’t have words, but because every single one had evacuated the premises the second you leaned in.

“And if you wanted a picture of me,” you murmured, fingers resting lightly on the edge of her table, “you could’ve just asked. I do have a good side.”

You paused, tilted your head like you were thinking about something. Then:

“Actually… give me your phone for a second.”

Agatha blinked. “My—?”

You held out your hand.

Her body moved before her brain could catch up. She placed the phone in your palm.

You swiped the screen open with ease, navigating like you’d done this a hundred times. A few quick taps, the soft clack of your nails against glass—and then you handed it back, smug and sparkling.

“There,” you said, stepping away. “Now next time you want to stare at me when I’m not around…”

You flashed her a slow, deliberate smile.

“You know where to find me.”

Then you turned, apron swinging behind you, slipping back behind the counter like it was any ordinary day—like you hadn’t just undone her with one hand and a string of digits.

Agatha stared at the contact glowing on her screen.

Your name. Your number.

Right there. Right in her hand.

Her heart pounded beneath her blazer, loud and unreasonable.

*

Agatha sat at her sleek desk, city lights flickering beyond the window like distant stars. Her phone lay beside her, the screen locked but impossible to ignore. The contact photo you’d saved—a casual, radiant smile—seemed to mock her hesitation.

She’d been staring at it for what felt like forever, fingers hovering over the keyboard, heart pounding louder than the usual office buzz.

What do I say?

The fearless CEO—the woman who commanded boardrooms and controlled empires—felt suddenly small and unsure.

Too formal? Too casual?

Her thumb twitched, then paused.

Maybe a simple hello. No, too boring.

Something witty? No, too rehearsed.

She took a deep breath, surrounded by polished papers and glass towers, but none of it mattered as much as this moment.

Just be honest.

Slowly, her fingers moved:

“Hey. I’m not great at this, but would you like to have dinner with me sometime? Something tells me coffee won’t cut it.”

She read it again, a soft smile curving her lips.

Perfect.

With a decisive tap, she hit send.

*

Two hours.

Agatha’s phone had become both her lifeline and her tormentor.

She rested her chin on her palm, eyes fixed on the dark screen as if willing it to light up. Every few minutes, like clockwork, she’d unlock it, hoping to see your name blinking back at her with a new message.

Nothing.

Her usually impeccable posture slumped slightly, and if anyone had been watching, they’d have seen a faint, almost adorable pout tug at the corners of her lips—an expression that was entirely out of character.

Why am I like this? she thought bitterly. I’m supposed to be in control.

Yet here she was, feeling like a teenager waiting for a text.

Her fingers tapped nervously against the desk.

Maybe I was too forward.

Maybe I should’ve said coffee.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it.

She tried to shake it off and dive back into work, but her thoughts kept drifting back to you. To the way you looked when you handed her your number like it was no big deal. To that teasing smile.

Her phone buzzed lightly. Heart leapt. She grabbed it—only to see a routine notification.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, the pout deepening.

Seriously?

Agatha tossed the phone back onto the desk, crossing her arms.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, Agatha caught it immediately, breath hitching as she unlocked the screen.

A new message.

From you.

Her lips, still curved in a faint pout from the wait, instantly softened into a relieved, shy smile.

Finally.

She tapped it open, heart hammering as the words appeared:

“Dinner sounds perfect. When should I pencil you in?”

Agatha’s fingers trembled just slightly as she typed back:

“Tonight? I know a place you’ll love.”

She hit send and leaned back, the tension in her shoulders melting away, replaced by something warm and thrilling.

Almost instantly, your reply appeared:

“What should I wear for you?”

Agatha blinked, cheeks flushing deeper than she expected. Her usual composed self stumbled over her own thoughts.

Wear something for me? Her heart raced.

A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. Her fingers hovered before typing, each word deliberate, dripping with quiet command and invitation:

“Wear something that makes me want to take my time—slow, deliberate, and unhurried. Something that leaves me guessing… and hungry for more.”

She sent it, heart pounding beneath the calm façade.

Tonight isn’t just dinner. It’s a game, and she intends to win.

*

Agatha was standing in front of her mirror, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and jaw tight—like she was trying to intimidate her own reflection into cooperating.

She’d changed tops three times already. Now the fourth—a deep navy silk blouse with a plunging neckline and delicate gold buttons—was half-buttoned, and her hands had paused mid-motion as she scowled at herself.

“You run an empire,” she muttered under her breath. “You don’t get nervous.”

And yet her pulse was flickering at her throat, faster than she liked. Her lip had the faintest bite mark from where she’d nibbled it in thought. Her vanity table was littered with rejected jewelry—earrings too much, necklaces too little.

Her phone lit up from across the room, a soft reminder of the last thing she’d done before this chaos began.

Sent: Rooftop Garden – 8PM. Ask for the private table.

You: Ooh, fancy. Should I be nervous?

Agatha: Only if you don’t like velvet menus and an unfair view.

You: Of the city or of you?

Agatha had stared at that for too long. And now… here she was. Spiraling. Because she hadn’t wanted someone this much in years—and it wasn’t just lust. It was the way you smiled like you saw something she tried hard to keep hidden. The way your voice lingered in her head hours after you’d spoken. The way she hated how much she liked that you hadn’t texted back right away.

She exhaled sharply, rolled her shoulders back, and picked up her perfume.

One spritz. Not two. She wasn’t desperate.

She checked the time. 7:21 PM.

Then she checked her phone again. No new messages. No second thoughts from you.

Just her, this silk blouse, and the growing ache in her chest that she absolutely refused to name as hope.

She stared at the blouse a second longer, then made a low, frustrated sound in her throat.

“No,” she muttered, already moving. “Absolutely not.”

She peeled the silk top off with one fluid motion, tossing it across the bed like it had personally offended her. She wasn’t the type to fidget over cleavage and gold buttons. She needed armor.

Three minutes later, she was standing in front of the mirror again—but this time in a tailored charcoal blazer and matching trousers, the fabric smooth, pressed, sharp. The neckline of her black satin camisole dipped low enough to be suggestive without ever trying. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t overdone. It was Agatha Harkness—precise, commanding, and unmistakably intentional.

And still, her fingers hesitated when she reached for her perfume.

She dabbed it lightly at her pulse points. Nothing too bold. Just enough to leave a trace behind—like a secret, or a promise.

Her earrings were small, elegant, almost forgettable.

But you wouldn’t forget, she thought, catching her own eyes in the mirror. You’d notice.

The lipstick came next: a rich, deep wine-red that made her eyes look darker, more dangerous.

She checked her phone again. Still no reply, no final text. You’d seen the address. That was all she had.

7:39 PM.

Agatha exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the dresser.

“She’s just a girl,” she whispered to herself. “She’s just a girl. You’ve had flings, dates, disasters. This is nothing.”

And yet… it wasn’t.

This one made her stomach flutter. This one had her standing still in the hallway longer than necessary. This one made her glance at the front door like she wasn’t sure if she was going to walk out of it or pace in front of it until you texted again.

She finally grabbed her clutch, slid her phone inside, and stood up straighter.

*

The private car pulled up in front of the building just before 7:50. Agatha stepped out slowly, heels clicking sharply against the pavement, every inch of her tailored frame poised, powerful, untouchable.

She didn’t glance at the driver when he asked if he should wait.

“No need,” she murmured. “She’ll be worth the time.”

She adjusted the lapel of her blazer—just so—and slipped inside the building with a nod to the hostess who was already waiting.

The elevator ride to the rooftop was silent except for the low, ambient hum of smooth jazz bleeding faintly through the walls. It didn’t calm her.

Her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored interior—sharp cheekbones, wine-dark lips, the quiet fire in her eyes. She looked like herself. But inside?

Inside she was a little bit wrecked.

She’d hired out the entire rooftop—no reservations taken, no press, no whispers. Just soft lights, sleek black linens, and a single table tucked beneath warm overhead lanterns that glowed like floating embers.

The city glittered around the terrace in every direction. A stunning skyline. But Agatha’s eyes weren’t interested in the view.

She was waiting for you.

She sat down slowly, crossing one leg over the other. Her hand hovered near her phone on the table, but she didn’t touch it.

Let her text first, she told herself. Let her come to you. You’re not desperate.

And still…

She tilted her head toward the elevator every time it dinged, trying not to look hopeful. The rooftop staff kept their distance, well-paid and briefed that she wanted privacy. That this wasn’t just a dinner.

Agatha traced the rim of her wine glass with a fingertip, the amber candlelight catching in the rings on her hand.

She’d given you the city. Now she wanted to see what you’d give her back.

*

You’ve been standing in front of your mirror for fifteen minutes, which is fifteen minutes longer than usual. Normally, you don’t think this hard about what to wear. Normally, you’re the one making other people squirm.

But tonight isn’t normal.

Tonight, Agatha Harkness invited you to dinner. And not just dinner—a rooftop, private-reservation, probably-$300-a-bottle-wine kind of dinner. She sent you the name of a place you had to Google twice. You weren’t even sure if people like you were supposed to know about restaurants like that, let alone walk into them like you belonged.

You exhale and glance back at your reflection. The dress is form-fitting in the right places, a rich, deep burgundy that plays off your skin like it was made for you. It hugs your curves without trying too hard, silky but not clingy, with an open back and a neckline that dares without begging. Sexy, but not slutty. Sophisticated, but still you.

Your hair is blown out, loose but styled—like you stepped out of a magazine, not the back room of a café. And the perfume? Subtle and warm, like honey and something darker underneath.

But it’s the heels that are going to get you in trouble.

Tall. Sharp. They make you just taller than Agatha that you can already imagine the flicker in her expression when she notices. You’re used to being the one who makes the first move, the one who smirks and sets the pace—but she’s the one who makes you nervous. And that is dangerous.

You smooth your dress again, even though there’s not a wrinkle in sight. Your fingers feel a little jittery. It’s not the date itself—it’s the restaurant. The kind of place with velvet chairs and quiet, linen-draped tables. The kind of place where everyone assumes you belong there—unless you flinch.

And some part of you still wonders if Agatha will regret inviting you. If she’ll sit across from you tonight and realize she’s outclassed herself by reaching down.

You try to push that thought away.

Because the truth is… she blushes around you. She sneaks photos of you like a schoolgirl. 

You smirk a little at yourself in the mirror. “You’ve got her flustered. You’re fine.”

One last look. One last inhale.

Then you grab your bag, head for the door, and make your way to her—heels clicking like a promise against the pavement. 

*

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

For a heartbeat, you didn’t move. Just took in the view.

Warm lighting spilled out onto the rooftop like a glow in a dream—low-hanging lanterns, flickering candles, the dark skyline glittering behind it all like spilled stars. The restaurant had cleared the entire space for this dinner. For you.

Your heels clicked softly against the stone as you stepped out, eyes sweeping over the empty tables until—

There she was.

Sitting alone at the far end, framed by soft lights and city glass, legs crossed, a glass of wine barely touched in front of her. Agatha.

And gods, did she look like power.

Tailored charcoal blazer, satin underneath, dark lipstick, and that impossible air about her like she owned the ground you were walking on. She wasn’t smiling. Not yet.

But when she saw you—

When her eyes lifted and locked onto yours—

Something shifted in her expression.

Like the air in her lungs had caught. Like the whole rooftop narrowed down to just you.

You saw it, too. The slow drag of her gaze down your body. The way her lips parted for just a second, then closed again like she didn’t trust what might come out. And maybe, just maybe, the faintest pink at her cheeks.

You let the corner of your mouth curl into a slow, wicked smile as you made your way toward her.

Agatha stood up.

She looked taller than she did in the café. Sharper. But you could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the subtle way her hand smoothed the front of her blazer like she was trying to ground herself. She wasn’t as unaffected as she looked. Not when you were close.

“You clean up well,” you teased as you reached the table, voice low and playful.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed just slightly, amused and absolutely entranced. “So do you,” she murmured, gaze dropping to your legs, then back up to your face. 

A slow, crooked smile curved her lips as she rose gracefully to meet you.

“Well, aren’t you bold,” she said, voice low and amused. “Intimidating me by standing taller than me tonight? I’m going to have to remember not to wear flats next time.”

You grinned, letting the playful spark dance between you. “Or maybe you just need to get used to looking up more often.”

Agatha’s dark eyes glittered. “Perhaps. Though I’m not sure I’ll enjoy being overshadowed.”

You stepped closer, voice dropping just a notch. “You’ll survive. Maybe even like it.”

Her smile deepened, and for a moment, the air between you was electric—full of promises and unspoken challenges.

The private rooftop table was set perfectly—flickering candles, delicate crystal glasses. Agatha pulled out your chair with a smooth gesture that made your pulse quicken, then took her own seat with that effortless poise you’d come to obsess over.

She raised her glass, eyes sparkling. “To daring invitations and taller dates.”

You clinked your glass softly against hers. “To surprises—and the ones who know how to keep me on my toes.”

She smirked, leaning forward just enough. “So tell me—do you always show up looking like you just stepped off a runway? Or am I just lucky?”

You laughed, tracing the rim of your glass with a fingertip. “Maybe I just wanted to impress one very particular person.”

Her eyes darkened, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a slow, knowing smile. “Flattery? I might have to take that as a warning.”

You shook your head, amused. “No warnings tonight. Just promises.”

A waiter arrived with the first course, and as the evening unfolded, so did your easy banter. Every glance held an undercurrent, every word was a tease wrapped in warmth.

“You realize,” Agatha said mid-bite, “that you’re dangerously good at this—keeping me off balance.”

You smirked. “Good. I was starting to think you wanted to be bored.”

Her laugh was low and genuine. “Boredom is the enemy of power, darling.”

“And here I thought it was the enemy of romance.”

Her eyes flicked up, locking onto yours. “Maybe tonight we can settle which is truly more dangerous.”

The city lights twinkled around you, but all you saw was her—Agatha, the enigma who had somehow made you feel like the only person in the world who mattered.

*

The plates were cleared, and the candlelight flickered softly between you. Glasses of deep red wine sat half-empty, the subtle scent mingling with the night air and something electric crackling between you two.

Agatha’s dark eyes held yours across the table, that familiar smirk playing at the edges of her lips. She reached out, fingers brushing your hand lightly, sending a jolt straight through your body.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” she teased, voice low and rich. “I’m starting to think you like having me this tangled up.”

You chuckled, swirling the wine in your glass before setting it down with deliberate slowness. “Maybe I do. But I’m curious—how long before you admit you enjoy being outplayed?”

Her eyes glinted with challenge. “Outplayed? You really think you’re the one in control here?”

You stood smoothly, letting your chair scrape softly against the floor. Walking around the table, you stopped behind her chair and bent down, close enough to whisper in her ear, breath warm and teasing.

“I don’t think—I know.”

Before she could respond, your hands rested on her shoulders, sliding down slowly as you lowered yourself onto her lap. The sudden weight and warmth caught her breath.

You straddled her, dress riding up just enough to reveal the curve of your thigh against her leg. The tension tightened between you, thick and intoxicating.

Agatha’s hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, her gaze dark and hungry.

“I like this view better,” you teased, voice low and sultry.

Agatha’s eyes darkened, her hands tightening on your hips as she pulled you a fraction closer. “Careful,” she warned, her breath warm against your neck. “You might just spoil me.”

You smiled, pressing your forehead to hers, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse beneath your touch. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Her fingers slid from your hips up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “You’re dangerous,” she murmured.

Leaning in slowly, you let your lips hover just above hers, teasing the space between you both. “Only for those worth the risk.”

Agatha’s breath hitched. “And do I make the cut?”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, your lips finally met hers, soft at first, then deepening into a kiss that held the promise of more. Your hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer as the world around you faded away.

Her arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you even nearer, heat pooling low and thick between you.

Your kiss deepened, every touch and movement electric, a dance of want and control. Your hands roamed confidently over Agatha’s shoulders and back, feeling the taut strength beneath her blazer.

As you shifted, pressing closer, you suddenly felt something firm and deliberate poking between your legs—a subtle but undeniable presence.

You pulled back just enough to glance down, a slow, wicked smile curling on your lips when you realized what it was: the strap, snug and teasing right against you.

Your eyes locked onto hers, dark with mischief and challenge. “Seems I’m not the only one with a secret weapon tonight.”

Agatha’s eyes flicked down nervously to where the strap pressed firmly beneath her trousers. Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of crimson.

“I didn’t mean to give the wrong idea,” she murmured, voice shaky. “I just… I didn’t expect this. I didn’t want you to think I was expecting to sleep with you tonight.”

You smiled, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

“Well,” you said, voice low and teasing, “if I’m honest—I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you. Tonight, or whenever you’re ready.”

Her breath hitched, eyes locking with yours. The subtle pressure of the strap between you both was a delicious, silent invitation.

“Is that so?” she whispered, voice barely steady.

You leaned closer, your lips grazing her jaw.

“Yeah. But only if you want it too. No rush.”

Agatha swallowed hard, the mix of nerves and excitement swirling in her gaze. She shifted slightly, the strap nudging insistently, a physical reminder of the tension between you.

“I want it,” she finally admitted, voice soft but sure.

Her lips found yours again—hungry, demanding—while her hands roamed lower, igniting a fire that left you trembling and aching for more. The world narrowed to the heat of her touch, the slick glide of her fingers, the intoxicating promise of surrender.

Agatha brushed her thumb along your bottom lip, then hesitated. “Come home with me?”

You answered with a kiss that left no room for doubt.

*

The car ride to her penthouse was thick with tension—not silence, exactly, but something deeper. Her hand rested on your thigh, thumb rubbing small, absent circles, and she stared out the window like she was thinking through every possible outcome of the night.

Once inside, the door clicked shut behind you. She stood still for a beat too long.

You turned toward her with a teasing smirk. “You okay?”

Agatha rolled her shoulders back slightly, fingers brushing over the buttons of her blazer. “I don’t usually… do this.”

Your brow arched. “Invite girls home or let them straddle you in public?”

She gave a soft, exasperated exhale—almost a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

You stepped into her space, slipping your fingers beneath the lapels of her blazer and gently easing it off her shoulders. “And you’re stalling.”

Her breath hitched—just a flicker—and she met your gaze. “I’m not stalling.”

“Mm,” you hummed, resting your forehead against hers. “So you’re not standing here because you’re nervous?”

Her eyes flicked away, and for the first time tonight, she didn’t have a quip ready.

You softened, hands sliding down her waist. “You don’t have to be, you know. It’s just me.”

That got her attention. She looked at you again—really looked—and this time, she let the mask slip just a little. “Exactly,” she whispered. “It’s you.”

Your chest ached at the confession hidden in those two words.

“I’ve got you tonight,” you whispered, your lips brushing her cheek. “If you’ll let me.”

Agatha hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

You grinned, fingers already at her collar. “Good. Now take me to your bedroom before I make you beg.”

She let out a breathless laugh, guiding you through the apartment. “God help me.”

*

Agatha’s bedroom was everything you expected—dark wood, low lighting, subtle hints of luxury. But she, sprawled across her king-sized bed, blouse half-unbuttoned, breath uneven as she watched you crawl toward her—she was what took your breath away.

You hovered over her for a moment, savoring the shift in energy. For once, Agatha Harkness wasn’t the composed, sharp-tongued CEO. She was breathless. Waiting. Wanting.

“You’re really going to let me take care of you?” you asked softly, fingers brushing down her chest.

Her eyes met yours, heavy-lidded, glassy. “Looks like I already have.”

You smiled, leaned down to kiss her again—slow, firm, deep—and she melted into it, her hands gripping your hips like she needed grounding.

As your mouth trailed down her neck, your fingers worked at her belt, slipping it free, then unfastening her trousers with agonizing slowness. She shifted under you, hips subtly lifting as if offering herself up.

When you pulled the waistband down and revealed the strap, dark and snug against her, Agatha’s breath caught audibly.

Your hands were slow, reverent as you traced along the harness, dragging your fingers along the length of it. You could feel the tension in her legs, how she clenched her jaw like she was trying not to show how much this—you—was undoing her.

You leaned in lower, your lips brushing against her stomach, then lower, over the base of the strap. Agatha’s breath shuddered.

You knelt between her legs, eyes locked on her face as your hands slid slowly up her thighs.

Agatha tried to look composed, but her knuckles were white against the bedspread, her chest rising and falling fast with every breath.

“Y-you don’t have to—” she started, voice already shaky.

“I want to,” you murmured, fingers dragging her trousers down just enough to reveal the full length of it. “I want to see how you look when you lose control because of me.”

You looked up at her, letting your lips brush the tip of the strap. Her jaw clenched. Her knuckles went white in the sheets.

“I’m not even the one feeling it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“No,” you smiled, kissing it again, slower this time. “But you like watching me, don’t you?”

She let out a shaky exhale. “More than I should.”

Your tongue traced a path up the shaft, your lips wrapping around it in a slow, sensual rhythm—not just for her, but because you liked doing it. You liked the power in the way her breath faltered, the soft curse she whispered when your mouth moved lower, deeper.

Agatha’s hips jerked beneath you, involuntarily, and you let your hands rest there, keeping her steady as you sucked the length with deliberate care. Her head fell back, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You dipped your head and sucked the strap deeper, slower, letting your lips drag over the smooth material while your eyes never left hers.

Agatha cursed under her breath again. “You’re going to kill me.”

You pulled back just slightly, enough to speak without breaking the rhythm of your hand running up her thigh.

“You’d like that,” you teased, tongue flicking at the tip before you kissed it, slow and obscene.

Her head tipped back, a groan scraping from her throat.

You let one hand slip higher between her thighs, gently pressing over her soaked underwear. You didn’t move further—just applied the smallest bit of pressure, letting her feel the promise of your touch.

Her hips jerked.

You stilled your hand, eyes locking onto hers again. “Can I touch you?”

Agatha looked like she was about to combust. She swallowed hard, eyes heavy and unreadable for a beat—then she nodded.

“Yes,” she said, breathless. “Fuck, yes.”

You pushed her underwear aside with a slow drag of your fingers, finally touching her—wet, warm, and already trembling for you. You let your fingers tease her clit in gentle, lazy circles while your mouth returned to the strap, sucking it with deliberate, vulgar care.

Agatha’s thighs began to tremble.

“God—god—I can feel it,” she panted, hips bucking toward your hand. “I can feel you. You’re gonna—fuck—make me come like this.”

You moaned low in your throat, deliberately sending the vibration through the strap, and her whole body jolted.

“Then let go,” you whispered, pressing harder. “I’ve got you.”

Agatha made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob—head thrown back, mouth parted, hands fisting the sheets beside her as you pushed her higher, inch by inch, right to the edge—

“Fuck—”

—and over it.

Her body seized, thighs clamping tight around your shoulders as her orgasm crashed through her, wave after wave. Her voice broke on your name, and you didn’t stop—not until she trembled beneath you, soft and wrecked and boneless in the aftermath.

When you finally pulled back, lips slick, fingers trailing slowly from between her thighs, she looked down at you like you’d just torn her apart and rebuilt her all at once.

“That was…” she panted, “I didn’t expect you to—”

“Oh, I know.” You tilted your head playfully. “You didn’t expect anything. Just happened to wear a strap under your thousand-dollar suit, hmm?”

Her eyes narrowed, flushed and dazed. “You’re insufferable.”

You leaned in, kissing the inside of her thigh, then biting it lightly. “And you’re hard for me.”

She groaned, her hands twitching against the couch cushions like she was trying very hard not to grab you again. “Get up here.”

You didn’t move.

Agatha sat up, reaching for you, her voice thick with want. “—get on the bed. ”

You raised an eyebrow. “You giving orders now?”

“I’ve been trying to,” she growled, her composure cracking. “You just keep distracting me.”

You let her pull you up, straddling her lap like you’d done at dinner—but this time, with far less clothing and far more slick heat between your thighs.

She pushed her fingers through your hair and yanked gently, angling your face toward hers. “I want to fuck you.”

You licked your lips, amused and aroused. “Then lie back.”

Agatha blinked. “What?”

You gripped her shoulders and gave her a slight push, and to your surprise, she didn’t resist—just let you ease her onto her back on the bed, strap now angled perfectly upward between her thighs.

You moved on her, kneeling over her hips, the tip of her cock nudging against your entrance.

Agatha watched you, utterly captivated, pupils blown wide, jaw slack.

“You thought sucking you off was the best part?” you whispered, dragging the head through your folds, coating it slowly.

“God,” she breathed, watching. “You’re killing me.”

“Not yet.” You smirked. “But I am going to ride you until your legs go numb.”

And then you sank down, slow, torturous, letting the strap slide deep inside until you were filled and stretched and gasping.

Agatha’s hands shot to your hips. “Fucking hell—”

You rocked forward, grinding down, using her thighs for balance as you started to ride her in slow, deliberate rolls.

The drag was perfect—every stroke deep and tight, the harness pressing against her clit beneath it, your slick making it obscene, wet and loud.

Agatha cursed again, one hand gripping the couch, the other clawing at your back. “You’re—Jesus—you’re unreal.”

You didn’t even realize you were moaning that loudly.

Your rhythm had grown erratic—desperate, greedy—as the pleasure twisted tighter inside you. Each bounce sent shockwaves through your body, each grind dragged that perfect friction right along your clit, and Agatha’s strap hit deep, just right, every time.

Your moans spilled freely now, breathy and broken, hips stuttering as you rode her harder. “Fuck—fuck, Agatha—”

That name. Said like that. Her fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise.

She could feel how close you were—could see it all over your face, from the flutter of your lashes to the way your mouth opened in a gasp every time you bottomed out.

And you were so focused on chasing that edge, you didn’t notice the way her eyes darkened. Didn’t notice her shifting beneath you, bracing her legs—

Until suddenly, you were on your back.

“Wha—Agatha!”

She was over you in a flash, panting, flushed, hair a mess as she pressed you down into the mattress, strap still buried deep inside you.

“Did you really think,” she growled, voice low and trembling, “you could ride me like that, sound like that, and expect me to just lie there?”

Your breath hitched—half shocked, half so turned on you couldn’t breathe.

Agatha grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed above your head, leaning in close, her strap grinding deeper as your legs wrapped around her waist instinctively.

“Fuck—Agatha—”

“You sound so good like this,” she purred, rolling her hips slow and deep, making your back arch. “Moaning for me. Falling apart on me.”

You whimpered, eyes wide, mouth falling open as she fucked you deeper now—controlled thrusts, her pace teasing but unrelenting.

And all you could do was take it.

“You love being filled like this, don’t you?” she whispered against your jaw, breath hot. “Look at you—so cocky when you’re on top, but now… now you’re mine.”

You nodded frantically, panting, legs tightening around her as she snapped her hips harder. The sound of her strap driving into you, the squelch of your slick, the low, hungry curses leaving her lips—it was too much.

“Agatha—please—”

“What?” she teased. “You want to come again? You think you deserve it after teasing me all night?”

“Yes—please, I—fuck, please.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like your begging physically did something to her. Then she kissed you—deep, messy, possessive—before releasing your wrists and slipping a hand between your bodies.

She found your clit instantly.

One press and you were already writhing, thighs trembling as you bucked up into her, so close it hurt.

“Come for me, baby,” she whispered, stroking you faster. “Be good and come on my cock.”

You shattered beneath her.

Your cry echoed off the bedroom walls, your whole body shaking as the orgasm ripped through you, soaking the strap, your legs locked around her, pulling her impossibly close.

Agatha rode you through it—soft now, careful, holding you steady as you came down, breath ragged, mind dazed.

She pressed her forehead to yours, her voice a low rasp: “That’s my girl.”

Your body was still trembling when she slid out of you, slow and deliberate, her strap leaving you soaked and fluttering.

You whimpered softly, dazed and flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as the cool air brushed over your sweat-slick skin.

Agatha didn’t speak—not right away.

She was looking at you like she’d never seen anything so devastatingly beautiful. And maybe she hadn’t. Not like this. Not flushed and glowing and shaking with the aftershock of coming on her strap.

Then she said, quiet but aching, “You’re perfect.”

Your breath caught—just a little.

And then she lowered herself between your legs.

You tensed slightly, already sensitive, but her hands were gentle on your thighs—soft, coaxing. She kissed the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then closer—closer—until she was resting her cheek against your inner thigh, inhaling the scent of your release.

“I just want a taste,” she whispered, like it was a confession. “Let me have this.”

You nodded—already breathless.

She dipped in slow. Her tongue parted your folds with such delicate reverence, you whimpered—more from the tenderness than the sensation. Her mouth was hot and slow, tongue licking up the evidence of your climax with soft, savoring strokes.

You gasped as she licked again, gentle, barely-there pressure as she cleaned you up with a kind of quiet awe.

Not a single sound from her—except a low hum, like she was drinking from a sacred well.

Her tongue brushed your clit—just once, featherlight—and she paused, waiting for your breath to steady. When it did, she kept going, barely touching, just warm flicks and careful suckling. Just love, not hunger.

You carded your fingers through her dark hair, your thighs twitching at the edges of sensitivity, but she never pushed too far. She just licked, slow and devoted, humming softly like she needed the taste of your pleasure more than air.

“Agatha,” you whispered, voice shaky but touched with something warm, “You’re… god, you’re so—good to me.”

She pulled back for only a second, mouth glistening, eyes bright.

“You deserve to be worshipped,” she said softly. “And I wanted to know what it’s like when you fall apart on my tongue.”

She dipped back down, slower this time, and kissed you there—soft, like a thank-you.

You sighed, melted into the sheets, let her take her time.

And when she finally kissed her way back up your body, she wore the kind of smile one didn’t get from deals or domination.

*

The glow from the city lights filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting gentle shadows across the room as the two of you lay tangled together beneath the silk sheets. Your skin still tingled from every touch, every whispered promise, but now the heat had softened into a deep, comforting warmth.

Agatha’s hands were slow and careful, tracing lazy circles over your bare shoulders, as if memorizing the feel of you all over again. Her breath was steady, her heartbeat a soothing drum beneath your ear.

“You’re safe,” she murmured, voice low and steady, like a secret vow. “I’ve got you.”

You sighed, nestling closer, your head resting on her chest. You could feel the rise and fall of her breath, steady and strong, and it calmed something in you you hadn’t even realized was on edge.

Her fingers threaded through your hair, gentle and sure, brushing away stray strands from your face. “You were incredible,” she whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “I’ve never… I’ve never wanted to be closer to someone like this before.”

You lifted your head slightly, catching her gaze—soft, a little vulnerable, and filled with something fierce and protective all at once.

“Me neither,” you admitted quietly.

She smiled, small and tender. “I’m not great at this… softness. But with you, I want to be.”

You reached up to cup her cheek, thumb stroking the smooth skin, feeling the slight roughness of her stubble.

Agatha’s eyes fluttered closed, leaning into your touch. “Stay with me,” she breathed. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.

She shifted, pulling you even closer, her body curving perfectly to yours. Her arms tightened around you, a protective shield against the world outside.

And as the city hummed beneath you, the two of you finally let yourself drift, tangled in warmth, trust, and the quiet beginnings of something beautiful.

[riizegasm]

Impure Intentions || L. CY (Anton)

❀ pairing: chaebol heir!anton x rival!reader, implied fem!reader

❀ genre: enemies to lovers (but not really), fluff, suggestive

❀ word count: ~6.7k

❀ warnings: explicit language, mentions of dysfunctional families, one heated kiss scene

❀ summary: From the day you were born, all you ever heard was, “don’t fall in love with Anton Lee.” A better heir to a multimillion dollar conglomerate would follow their family’s advice. But you…not so much.

❀ a/n: sheesh, talk about writer’s block. This work has taken me so long and so much effort, but i'm very proud of how it turned out! It may have even helped me out of my slump. Also, please don’t judge me too hard. I know nothing about business and corporate families!!! As always, likes, reblogs, and replies are strongly encouraged. Happy reading!

Your head aches. The lights in the banquet hall are too bright and the clink of gilded silverware is too loud. Polite chatter buzzes around you like a pesky fly evading a swatter. The air is suffocating, overly stuffy with high end perfumes and colognes clouding the space. This is torture; the Lee family banquets always are.

It would be better if you could enjoy the food or engage with the various guests like everyone else does, but this is enemy territory. Your family had made it abundantly clear that this was not an event for fun, but rather for scoping out the competition. Lectures about a corporate acquisition going south and details about poor contracting simply entered in one ear and left via the other. You didn’t care why you had to be there. The knowledge of your forced attendance did enough to damper your mood, especially once you were hit with all of the rules around your presence.

Sit still, look pretty, smile politely, eavesdrop on any corporate plans, and don’t talk to Anton Lee.

You never understood your family’s obsession with keeping you away from him, the prized son and heir of the Lee empire. Everyone made sure to fill your mind with negative opinions and baseless rumors about the young man, as if to deter you from even giving him a chance. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, however. You’ve never even seen the man, let alone had a conversation with him. Anton Lee was much more of a mythical being than he was a person, in your eyes. He was always whispered about, but never seen.

From what you gathered, he was around your age, tall, broad, and supposedly extremely handsome. He was known for his overly harsh demeanor, rumored to command a room with a simple word. His presence apparently spoke volumes, enough to speak to his blunt nature and bad intentions. It made sense, your parents would always say. After all, he is a Lee.

“Fix your face, honey,” your mother snaps with a forced smile. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles before you turn thirty if you keep scowling like that.”

It takes everything in you to fight an eye roll, biting back the string of expletives waiting on the tip of your tongue. “Sorry. I’m going to run to the powder room.”

You don’t bother to wait for her response before excusing yourself from the cocktail table, getting lost in the crowds of people as you head towards the bathroom. Away from your family, the air feels somewhat lighter, although it still reeks of entitlement. The throb in your head is insistent now, forcing you to escape to find relief.

You find yourself heading towards a set of grandiose double doors, hoping they will lead you anywhere but here. Luckily, your prayers are answered as you step through them onto a stone balcony. The crisp nighttime air does wonders to cool your heated skin, a slight breeze ruffling the loose fabric of your dress.

This is exactly what you needed, space and solace.

“Rough night?”

A soft voice makes you jump out of your skin, whipping your head around to find the source. Its owner leans up against the exterior wall, somewhat bathed in shadow. All you can make out is a glimmer of white teeth, reflecting the moonlight.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the figure apologizes, taking a small step forward into the light.

You feel your breath stutter in your chest as you take in the man. The first thing you notice is his sheer beauty, lips enticingly full and nose broad. His beauty is complemented by his tall stature, the height difference between you two becoming increasingly apparent as he approaches. Like this, bathed in the moonlight, it’s impossible not to notice the broadness of his shoulders and how they taper into a small waist. He fills out his all black suit beautifully, the garments clearly tailored to his every curve.

“Are you alright?” The man asks, stopping only a few feet away.

The concern in his tone is just enough to snap you out of your reverie.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just, um, needed some air.”

The man nods in understanding, leaning over to place his forearms against the balcony’s railing. You struggle not to eye the way his suit jacket stretches across an impossibly wide back. Instead, you mirror his stance, looking out at the beautiful gardens below, bathed in silvery moonlight. Just beyond the seemingly endless maze of hedges, you can make out what looks like a small lake, it’s surface rippling under the nighttime breeze. 

“It can be stuffy in there,” the man says softly. 

You find yourself hanging onto his every word, shocked that such a mild tone could come from such an intimidating man. “Yeah, it really can be.”

The man lets out a small chuckle, no doubt amused by your clear annoyance. “So I take it you’re not in the business.”

“No, I’m–,” you pause for a moment, not sure how much of your identity you should reveal to the stranger. “I’m related.”

He chuckles again, this time turning to look at you. “Hm, I guess I could say the same for me, then.”

A round of applause sounds from somewhere inside, and you curse under your breath, knowing your family will kill you for your absence. The man next to you seems unphased, as if he’s used to the party going on without him.

“I think I should get back.”

The man flashes you a smile, its brightness almost blinding in the dark. “That’s okay. It was nice chatting with you…”

“Y/N. And you are?”

“Anton,” he whispers. “I hope I can see you again, Y/N.”

An icy chill travels up your spine, momentarily freezing you in place. But you force yourself to remain composed, plastering a smile on your face. You silently thank your years of etiquette training and the countless social events you have had to smile for. With a slight nod of your head, you disappear back through the double doors, instantly choking on the scent of Chanel No. 5.

.        .        .

It’s easy to believe that your first encounter with Anton Lee would be your last, especially as the weeks pass without a single sign of him. It makes sense that he wouldn’t start making regular appearances at events after attending just once. He has managed to spend twenty years staying out of the spotlight, and you can’t imagine that changing now. 

But, for some reason, you can’t help but search for him in the crowd of every gala or at the tables of any grandiose banquet.

He would be easy to spot, with his overwhelming height and dazzling smile. Maybe his honey brown hair would be slicked back off his forehead this time, or maybe it would hang in front of his eyes to conceal his bright gaze. You’re sure that he would still talk in that overly soft tone of his, somehow managing to command a room without a change in volume. 

Even his absence begins to feel like a presence in and of itself, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. You tell yourself that it’s simple intrigue and nothing more. The first time you had ever laid eyes on your supposed family nemesis had been on a balcony bathed in the moonlight. Where had he been all these years?

More importantly, why had he disappeared again?

The question runs through your mind as you accept a flute of champagne from a waiter, eyes flitting around the charity dinner in hopes of spotting a specific someone. Somewhere near the front of the banquet hall, the Lee family is seated at a table with a few other wealthy families, but their oldest son is nowhere to be found. 

You crane your neck to get a better look. Just to be sure, you tell yourself. But the contorting you force yourself to do has you leaning right back into a waiter, your elbow knocking into his empty tray. The sudden movement has your champagne flute slipping out of your grasp, icy bubbles splattering across your chest and down the front of your dress. You can practically feel the daggers that your mother is shooting you from across the table, always having scolded you about the embarrassment that comes along with being a klutz. Before she can part her lips to tell you off, you excuse yourself politely, dashing out to find a restroom to freshen up. 

You let your heeled feet carry you through a maze of hallways, side stepping waiters and party guests as you move further and further away from the event space. It’s only when you travel down a flight of stairs that you find yourself a seemingly private restroom, briefly stepping inside to clean yourself up. No matter how much you dab at the stain in the center of your bust, the wine doesn’t seem to budge. You thank the heavens that it was champagne instead of a red, saving you some degree of embarrassment.

After a few minutes in the restroom, you find yourself wandering around, ending up in a much more secluded lounge space, equipped with a couple of couches surrounding a coffee table. You immediately collapse onto one, sighing as the ache in your feet finally lifts. 

It’s only then that you feel your eyes begin to sting, a familiar rush of heat striking your face as a lump begins to form in your throat. The sticky sweet smell of champagne still clings to your body, your dress uncomfortable where the alcohol seeped into it. You’re sure that you look a mess, knowing that tear smudged makeup would be the last thing to complete your disheveled look. 

“Another rough night?”

The soft rasp of a voice instantly has you perking up, breath caught in your throat as you take in the tall figure approaching you. His crisply pressed suit hugs his broad shoulders and cinches at an impossibly small waist. His lips are quirked upwards into a small smirk, clearly teasing. Something about it is enticing, setting off a stampede in your stomach.

“How could you tell?” You mumble, trying not to stare as Anton settles into a lounge chair across from you.

The man’s smirk just deepens. “Wild guess. What happened?”

“I spilled champagne on myself and now I look a mess.”

“You don’t,” Anton states, smirk dropping from his face. “You could never look bad.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “How would you even know that? You’ve only seen me twice.”

Anton chuckles, finally relaxing into the plush of his chair. His legs separate ever so slightly at the action, allowing you to admire his mile-long legs. It’s almost frustrating, how perfect he looks. You imagine that if anyone never looks bad, it’s him.

“I’ve seen you way more than twice, Y/N.”

The simple statement has you turning your eyes away from his figure, meeting his open gaze. He seems so casual, so unbothered, as if that one sentence hasn’t turned your world upside down.

“Wait, what?” You find yourself tripping over your words in the rush to get them out. “Wh-what do you mean you’ve seen me more than twice? I only met you the first time at that contracting dinner a few weeks ago.”

Anton chuckles again, cocking his head in a puppy-like manner. “Yeah, that was the first time we’ve met, but I’ve seen you so many times. You and your family have been at every major event since we were kids. How could I not see you?”

“But, I’ve never–,”

“I know,” Anton interrupts. “I like to stay outside or in whatever lounge areas I can find. These things always make me really anxious.”

Wow, you didn’t expect such an honest admission from a man of Anton’s status. If anything, his candor makes him much more attractive, as if he could get even more perfect.

“You know we’re supposed to hate each other?” He asks, a small smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Apparently you’re my rival in the field, and I’m supposed to hate everything you say and do.”

Unfortunately, you know the feeling, causing you to let out a small giggle. “Oh trust me, I know. Do you, though?”

“Hate you?”

You nod, fighting a smile as Anton pretends to think.

“Nah,” he eventually answers. “My grandfather taught me from a very young age that I should never harbor negative feelings for beautiful women.”

The implication has heat rushing to your face, forcing you to struggle to keep your composure. “Well, my family has always told me that attractive men always have impure intentions.”

Anton chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He takes a beat before standing, letting his eyes rake over your still seated figure as he begins to retreat down the hallway. It’s impossible to decipher where the intensity of his gaze stems from. He eyes you as if he were hungry, trapping you against the couch with his stare alone.

“Then let me show you just how impure my intentions are.”

The man is gone with little more than a wink and a smile, leaving you with warm cheeks and the scent of champagne clouding your nose. 

.        .        .

You’re surprised to see Anton as soon as the next event, only three weeks later. It’s a simple charity ball for some rare disease research, but for some reason, Anton has decided not to hide in the shadows for this event. It’s interesting to watch how despite his supposed anxiety, he is clearly in his element. He greets everyone kindly, shooting various guests a charming smile as he is introduced to them. His father looks proud of him, a hand kept clapped over his shoulder the entire time. 

You wonder if he’s comfortable like this, with a blur of people and faces constantly passing by him. However, you are instantly snapped out of your wondering when a manicured hand grips your shoulder. The feeling of your mothers lips close to your ear sends a shiver down your spine, a perpetually bad omen. 

“Straighten up,” she scolds. “We’re going over to talk to the Lees. Their son is making a public appearance at an event like this for the first time. No funny business.”

You would laugh if not for the uncomfortable way her nails dig into your shoulder. It forces you to instantly fall in line behind your father, taking a deep breath as you get closer to the Lees. What is only a few seconds feels like hours until you finally stand face to face with your supposed rival. 

“Yoon Sang, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” your father greets, shaking the hands of the head of the Lee family. 

He even leans in to place a friendly kiss on Mrs. Lee’s cheek. You find yourself standing frozen in place as the parents exchange greetings, unable to do anything but stare at the man before you. He sports his signature charming smile, mouth full of perfectly white teeth on display. Not for the first time, you feel your face grow warm. 

“We thought it was about time for our Y/N to meet Anton. After all, they will be competitors when they take over the respective businesses, right?”

Your father’s comment snaps you back to attention. However, you are immediately distracted by the feeling of Anton’s large hand engulfing yours, his palm both warm and surprisingly soft to the touch. You have to glance upwards to meet his eyes, but it’s impossible to miss the amused glint in his stare. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I have heard so much about you.”

You force a smile on your face. “The pleasure is all mine.”

It’s easy to tune out the conversation after that, letting the adults blabber on while you reminisce about the feeling of Anton’s hand in yours. The man seems to be similarly distracted, clearly eyeing your figure. The silence between you speaks volumes, and you hope your parents are too deaf to hear it. 

“We would love to have Anton over at our headquarters sometime,” your mother suggests, her piercing voice rising above the noise of the ball. “I’m sure Y/N would be happy to show him around!”

You don’t even have time to process the full body panic that begins to overcome you before Anton’s family is readily agreeing. 

“I agree that it would be great for them to know the ins and outs of the business,” Mr. Lee replies with an overly saccharine smile. “We would love to have Y/N over for lunch at the estate as well. Who knows? Maybe they’ll find themselves to be friends.”

Your dad chuckles, obviously disgusted by the thought. “You’re so right. The two might even do a merger some day!”

As the group erupts into phony laughter, you feel the beginnings of a migraine tingling behind your left eye. Something about the cacophony of laughs and the dull classical music is making you ache, your stomach starting to swim with nausea. You dare a glance upward, fighting the pain that blooms in your head with the motion. 

Anton’s gaze is bright where it meets yours, a soft smile poised on his full lips. His cheeks are dusted with a slight blush, clearly flustered by the implications. There’s a slight fidget in his fingers, twirling expensive rings as a means of soothing himself. 

He’s cute, you realize, not for the first time. 

It’s only after a few more moments that the families say goodbye, the Lees promising to send a lunch invitation soon. Anton shoots you another smile before he follows behind his family, suddenly looking small despite his large stature. You can’t help but smile as you watch his departure, suddenly realizing that your migraine has disappeared. 

.         .         .

The Lee estate is just as gorgeous as you expected it to be, with tall stone gates and artfully placed landscaping. It looks impossibly large from where you’re seated in the car, causing nerves to begin to creep up your spine. You pass off the butterflies that begin to flutter in your core as obvious intimidation that comes with being on the property of your family’s biggest rivals. It surely has nothing to do with an overly soft voice, broad shoulders, and kind eyes. 

“Remember,” your mother had told you before sending you off. “This is business. Reveal nothing and absorb everything. And most importantly, remember that Anton Lee is not your friend.”

You take a step out onto the perfectly paved driveway, surprised to already see someone standing by the door. Anton seems to perk up when you lock eyes, shooting you a polite smile. His wave betrays his excitement, though. You imagine that if he were a puppy, his tail would be wagging. 

“Y/N, hey! I’m glad you actually came.”

“Please,” you shoot him a cheeky smile. “As if I could ever turn down an invitation from the Lee family.”

Anton lets out a slight groan. “Don’t remind me that this is ‘business.’”

“Well then what would you like for me to call it?”

Anton shrugs, turning to hold the front door open for you. It’s only when you pass through the threshold, Anton still standing behind you that he responds. 

“A lunch date.” Before you have the chance to respond, Anton is shutting the door behind you both. “Come this way. Food’s on the patio.”

It takes a few turns down intricate hallways to get to a set of double doors that lead to the patio. As promised, there’s an assortment of sandwiches and salad laid out on a round table, two seats set across from each other. You would be impressed, if not for the even more stunning view that lay before you. 

The patio looks out on sprawling gardens, tall bushes and blooming flowers swaying softly in the breeze. A little beyond the landscaping, a wooden dock leads out to a large pond, its greenish-blue water seemingly sparkling under the midday sun. 

“Wow, this is beautiful,” you breathe out, unable to take your eyes off the sight before you. 

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it? My parents have always had an affinity for water.”

You imagine that all of their properties have pools or lakes, much like this one. Meanwhile, your own family prefers the hustle and bustle of the concrete jungle, never expanding beyond brutalist modern penthouses in the tallest apartment buildings in the city. It must be nice, you imagine, to have a space that feels like a home and not just another office. 

Eventually, the two of you sit, settling into a comfortable silence as you distribute food amongst yourselves. It’s quite amusing to watch Anton as he eats, clearly possessing the hunger of a growing young man while forcing himself to take small bites and practice the etiquette of an heir. You wonder if you look the same, so obviously restrained while you want to let loose, if only for a bit. 

Despite the fact that you haven’t seen another person since you set foot in the Lee estate, you know that people must be somewhere. There are always eyes on you. 

“I’m surprised that your family was so adamant about having me over,” you begin, settling back in your chair. “I thought I was the enemy.”

Anton smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well you know what they say. Keep the enemy close and all that.”

“Is that what you want to do? Keep me close?”

You know you’re treading in dangerous waters. All it would take is one word about the obvious flirting to Anton’s parents for you to become your family’s disgrace. You can practically see the headline now: Conglomerate Heiress Gets Rejected By Rivals’ Son. Your family would disown you. And yet, as color begins to flood Anton’s cheeks, you can’t find it within yourself to care. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice coming out even softer than usual. “I think that is what I want to do.”

You duck your head, clearing your throat in an attempt to settle the flutter in your stomach. “I’d like that.”

A sudden interest in lunch leaves both of you munching away in silence. It’s peaceful, despite blushing cheeks and racing heartbeats. It allows you to realize that being around Anton is unlike being around anyone else in your family’s circle. Here, there’s no pressure to be prim and proper, no pressure to listen out for secret ins and outs of business. 

It’s odd to find comfort in the one person who is supposed to bring you anything but. And yet, with the warmth of the sun on your face and the pleasant fullness in your belly, you’ve never felt more at home. 

“You know,” Anton starts once you have both cleared your plates. “I think we’re supposed to be talking about business.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Can I be honest?”

Anton nods slightly, honey brown hair shifting across his forehead. 

“The business is the last thing I want to talk about.”

Anton smiles. “Trust me, I feel the same way.”

There’s a beat of silence, the two of you content to simply sit as the breeze ruffles the flowers that dot the landscape. When Anton speaks again, you watch his mouth, noting the way that his lips hold the same hue of the red tulips in the nearby flower bed. 

“Can I show you something?”

The simple question has your gaze flickering back upwards, trying to ignore the way your heart races when his eyes meet yours.

“Sure,” you whisper, words instantly carried away by the wind. 

Following behind Anton through the grass proves to be harder than you imagined, his long legs allowing him to move with a grace and speed that is difficult to match. He leads you in between a maze of flower beds, bringing you deeper into the garden until you’re surrounded by tall hedges on either side. From here, it’s impossible to see the house, so you just continue to follow behind Anton. You find yourself eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the way his shirt shifts across the muscles of his back as he walks. It’s hypnotizing, so much so that you don’t realize that you have arrived at your destination. 

“This is my thinking spot,” Anton says with a little flutter of his arms, clearly trying to present the space to you. 

The hedge maze has opened up to a small central pocket, not housing much except for a small fountain and a stone bench. Anton is quick to take a seat, motioning for you to occupy the space next to him. It’s a bit of a squeeze, putting you and Anton close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin on your own. You dig your nails into the stone of the bench, hoping that it will steel your nerves. 

“I like to come out here when my parents get in my head about the business. It’s pretty peaceful.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, despite knowing that no one is within earshot. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, it really is.”

There’s an airiness to Anton’s voice that has you turning to face him. You take in a sharp inhale when you notice that his eyes are already on you, the close proximity leaving your faces mere inches away from each other. The overwhelming rush of blood in your ears forces you to turn away, taking a deep breath to calm your thundering heartbeat. 

“You take all the girls here?” You aim for teasing, but the slight break in your voice makes it err more on the side of desperation. 

Anton shakes his head earnestly. “You’re the first person I’ve brought here who isn’t my family.”

The admission feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Except there’s no pain, just a rush of warmth that climbs up your throat like ivy. Anton is clearly surprised as well, his own words deepening the pretty flush that has taken hold on his cheeks. His bottom lip is trapped by his teeth, its plushness oh so enticing in the afternoon sun. 

“Y-you know,” you stutter out, swallowing thickly before continuing. “When you said you had impure intentions, I thought you were joking.”

“I don’t think I could joke about how bad I want you.”

It should feel like a corny line. It should feel like something he says to all the girls. After all, he’s Anton Lee. He could get anyone he wanted at the drop of a hat. So why does it feel so real when he says it to you? Why does it feel like those words are meant for you, and only you?

Anton’s gravity is pulling you closer, allowing you to lean further into his space. You’re close enough that you can feel his warm breath fanning your face, coming out in gentle puffs that reveal just how fast his heart is racing. He has released his bottom lip by now, leaving it glossy with saliva. It’s impossible not to anticipate the smooth glide of it against your own. 

A sudden vibration snaps you both out of your bubble, the two of you popping apart as if you were repelling magnets. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the vibration is coming from your own phone, buzzing incessantly. You shoot Anton an apologetic look before stepping away to take the call. 

“We need you back home,” your mother rushes from the other side of the line, not bothering to waste time greeting you. “Your father wants to hear about your business with the Lees before he heads to his strategy meeting in an hour.”

“But the Lee house is thirty minutes away!”

You can practically hear your mother’s eye roll over the phone. “Then you better get going.”

.         .         .

Business meeting, my house at 4pm?

The text comes as both a surprise and the most expected invitation in the world. In your flurry to leave his house the week before, you had made sure to leave the man with your number. In turn, he smiled wide, promising to invite you over for another “business meeting” soon. 

Before you can inquire about how much business will actually be necessary to discuss, your phone buzzed again. 

My parents just left for a business trip to Milan. 

A flutter rushes through your stomach at the implications. It’s clear what that means, that the two of you will finally have a chance to act on your chemistry without the watchful eyes of competitive families. The two of you will finally get to exist as your own people, and not as rivals and heirs of major global conglomerates. 

The thought alone has you spending extra time on your appearance as you get ready. You make sure your hair sits just right and that your lips are perfectly glossy before pulling on a swimsuit and heading over. You try your best to remain as still as possible during the entire ride there, knowing that nerves in combination with the late summer heat will be enough to set you aflame. 

Your heart is slamming in your chest by the time you finally pull into Anton’s driveway. It’s accompanied by a soft flutter of affection when you spot Anton’s figure, waving at you from the doorway. The wide smile on his face alone is enough to melt you. But the relaxed fit of his muscle tee and the way his swim shorts sit low on his hips has your face flooding with heat. 

He greets you with a tight hug when you cross the threshold into the house. You try not to swoon at the firm pressure of his arms around your torso, ignoring the heat of his bare skin on your own. Anton had never touched you before, not beyond a simple handshake exchanged in front of parents, always respectful to a fault. For the first time, you find yourself grateful for that fact, knowing that now that you’ve had a taste of his touch, you will forever be addicted. 

“I’m so happy to see you,” Anton gushes. “My parents have been really getting on my nerves about business and competition lately.”

“So you decided to invite the competition over to chill?”

Anton smiles, cocking his head in a puppy-like manner. “No, I invited the competition over to swim!”

So that’s why he reminded you to wear a bathing suit mere minutes before you left for his house. It makes sense, from the minimal texts that the two of you exchanged. Anton was always excited about the balanced heat of late summer, citing it as the perfect time for a lakeside swim. You wouldn’t know, of course, never having the luxury of having a lake in your backyard.

“What about your staff?”

“I let everyone have the afternoon off,” Anton responds proudly before letting his smile sink into something softer, more private. “I just wanted us to have some time alone.”

The simple admission rings out loudly in the otherwise quiet house. It’s clear how badly Anton wants this, how bad he wants your company despite the taboo that comes with it. Unsurprisingly, you find yourself wanting it just as bad, if not more. You’ve never craved anyone’s presence the way you have craved Anton’s, despite him being the one person in the world that you supposedly need to keep your distance from.

A small nod on your end is enough for Anton’s smile to grow once again, pearly whites on full display as his eyes wrinkle at the corners. The sight alone has your heart beating a little harder in your chest, the minor flutter in your abdomen growing into a full stampede of emotions. The feeling only intensifies as Anton engulfs your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as he leads you out into the backyard.

The late afternoon sun sparkles against the water, illuminating everything in a blue-yellow glow. It’s the most captivating sight for miles, you’re sure, until Anton begins to take his shirt off. The way his muscles shift under his unblemished skin rivals the beautiful surface of the lake, sparkling in its own way. His shoulder blades dance across his back enticingly as he leans down to remove his socks and shoes.

He shoots you a smile over his shoulder before cannonballing right into the water.

It takes only a few seconds for the man to reemerge, slicking his honey brown hair off of his forehead. His biceps bulge with the movement before waving you into the water. It’s as clear of a signal as any, but you can’t help but hesitate, suddenly shy at the thought of stripping down to your bikini in the presence of such a man. But the delicate reflection of sunlight in his eyes and the easy smile on his face is enough to draw you in.

Before you know it, you’re discarding your clothes, taking a running head start to join Anton in the water.

Your skin is submerged in an icy chill, the water surprisingly cool for so late in the day. But soon the warmth of another body is nearing, making the cold that much more bearable. You resurface with a giggle, giddy from the feeling of swimming so long. Instantly, Anton is joining in, clearly happy seeing you filled with such glee. 

“Fuck, it’s cold!” You exclaim, shrieking when Anton splashes a bit of water your way. 

“It’ll get better,” Anton grins. “You just gotta keep swimming.”

It’s easy to do as told, letting your body relax as you continue to wade in the cool water. Eventually you let yourself fall into your back, feeling the contrast between the warm sun on your face and the cool water surrounding your body. It’s serene, allowing you to let your worries quite literally float away. However, the feeling of a chilled hand grazing your hip is enough to snap you out of your relaxation, scrambling to right yourself in panic. 

“Sorry!” Anton chuckles. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just getting bored without you.”

“It’s okay,” you soothe, finding that the pace of your heart is beginning to quicken for an entirely different reason. 

Anton looks especially beautiful like this, with his damp hair splayed messily across his head and drops of water dripping down his face. The sun has just begun to set, painting Anton’s skin with a beautiful golden hue. His eyes glisten just like the water, sunlight sparkling as it dances across the reflective surfaces. Like this, Anton seems so bright, so luminous, that hating him seems impossible. 

“I’m really glad you came today,” Anton says, his voice dropping to that soft shy tone he always uses in the presence of others. “I’m glad to have someone who gets what it's like.”

You can’t resist the smile that begins to tug on the corners of your mouth. “You’re not just saying this to get my family’s business secrets?”

Anton huffs out a laugh. “No. I’m saying this because I really like you. I like spending time with you, even though I’m supposed to hate it.”

With every word, you find yourself drifting closer to the man, his hand remaining steady on your hip as you tread lightly. Despite the obvious effort to keep your head above water, you feel like you’re drowning. But the slick feeling of Anton’s skin against yours reminds you that you won’t drown. Anton won’t let you. 

“I like you, too.”

The simple admission has Anton’s face flushing, the pretty rose color glistening orange in the light. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. You hate to dull his beauty in this moment, but you have to. 

“But what about our families? It’s not like the two of us can ever be anything.”

Anton sighs, his face dropping with realization. “I know, but…is it crazy to say that I don’t care?”

The hand on your hip tightens, pulling you even closer into Anton’s space. It’s close enough that the two of you end up bumping knees every so often, constantly moving to keep yourselves afloat. Here, in his space, you can see the way that his lashes cast subtle shadows on his cheeks. It’s easy to count the few moles that pepper his face and neck, sitting stark upon unblemished skin. 

When his eyes meet yours, it becomes clear what you wish to do. No, what you need to do. 

“Anton,” you whisper. “What did you mean when you said you had impure intentions?”

The man moves to open his mouth, but before he can get the first syllable out, you cut him off. 

“Don’t tell me,” you coo. “Show me.”

You would be lying if you said you never thought about the feeling of Anton’s plush lips on yours. In reality, you spent too many nights lying awake, thinking about the slick feel of his mouth on yours, of the way his large hands would feel clutching onto your body, of the feel of his soft brown strands underneath your fingertips. 

But dreams never compare to the real thing. 

Nothing could compare to the pure bliss of having Anton’s mouth slide against your own. He moves fervently, letting the kiss carry the twinge of desperation that you both have felt since you’ve met. It’s far from the polite way that you expected Anton Lee to kiss, but that makes it that much better. 

His nose grazes your cheek as he tilts his head, angling himself to kiss you deeper. His tongue is warm as it eases its way into your mouth, the warmth a welcome contrast to the chill of the lake. The hand that was once grasping your hip travels down to your backside and thigh, lifting you up to wrap yourself around his waist. It’s improper, at the very least, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when Anton sighs softly into your mouth. 

It feels like ages before the two of you part, chests heaving where they remain pressed together. You’re so close that you imagine that even water can’t exist between you two. Anton’s abdomen is solid where your core is pressed up against him, supporting your weight so that neither of you are at risk of sinking. 

“That,” Anton whispers, “is what I meant by impure intentions. 

You can’t help but giggle at the boy’s breathless tone, suddenly feeling giddy that you were the one to make him this way. You were the one to fluster the ever-perfect Anton Lee. It was you. It’s always been you. 

“Our parents…” you mutter reflexively, your mind a war zone. 

“Hey,” Anton coos, bringing a hand under your chin. 

With just a gentle tilt, you meet his eyes, instantly getting lost in the way his gaze bores into yours. As if he can’t help himself, Anton leans in to place a quick peck on your lips. When you part, a soft whine escapes your lips, mourning the loss of your lover’s kiss. 

“Y/N, we’ll figure it out. I won’t let this go south because of our parents.”

You nod nervously, trying your hardest to believe in the reassurance that Anton is trying to provide you. As if he could sense the residual nerves, Anton presses his lips against your forehead in a soft kiss. The sensation makes your eyes flutter shut, a content smile beginning to grown on your face. After a brief moment, Anton chuckles. 

“Who knows?” He mutters. “Maybe our parents will get that merger after all.”

.         .         .

[8 years later]

BREAKING NEWS: Lee Enterprises and TOTAL, Inc. have announced a historic merger to form one mega-corporation. This announcement comes one year after CEO and President of Lee Enterprises, Anton Lee, and Chairperson of TOTAL, Inc., Y/N Y/L/N, announced their marriage. The new multinational conglomerate will be known as Lakeside, LLC, and is said to have a current stock value of over five billion dollars.

.FIN.

[uovoc]

this is the point of language learning. to me.

4 years later I have reached the level of chinese literacy needed for my purposes (reading manhua/webnovels and surfing the chinternet). consequently it's time to start on japanese

[thisiswhereikeepdcthings]

Fic things I will never have enough of/get over:

“Oh no, they’re hot.”

“Great, now there’s two of them.”

See above but with more swearing and feelings of dread and impending doom

BAMFs with swords

Old wise person causing 90% of the chaos

“They’ve never met in canon.” “Actually, they’re dating.”

“They’re mortal enemies.” “Actually, they’re married.”

The keeper of the braincell

Sharing one braincell but they lost it

The cinnamon roll goes feral

Tiny feral child and their supportive, enabling, non-parental background adults

“I’m your problem now”

“Welp, guess I’m a parent now”

Accidental world domination

Competence

Competence kink

Calmly sipping tea while everything behind them is on fire

Trying to be a good, supportive adult but you have no point of reference so you end up giving a sword to a ten-year-old

Time travel

Person A and person B start dating and when they tell everyone persons C-Q are confused because haven’t they been dating for like three years now and persons R-Z thought they were already married

*does something previously thought to be impossible* “What, like it’s hard?”

Platonic besties that will help hide the bodies

Fake dating

Accidental baby acquisition

Accidental baby acquisition but they’re a middle-aged to senior adult with like five thirty-something-year-olds that are now their children

Crossovers that shouldn’t work but do

“I need help” “I’ll grab the shovel” “Not that kind of help”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Well-written non-canon pairings for characters that have other firmly established canon pairings. Like, fully alters the entire story line non-canon pairings. But done in a way that feels like a reasonable possible outcome.

A protagonist with a million problems to solve still taking the time to be kind

Forehead kisses

Time traveller going apeshit and fixing everything preferably in as Mary-Sue a way as possible

OP character who is oblivious to the fact that they are indeed OP

Character who spouts off increasingly concerning details of their life while not realizing everyone else’s growing concern or the fact that they’re probably about to be mother-henned for the next decade

Character who chooses a parental figure and informs said parental figure of this new development with little to no forewarning

Strong, stoic character is actually the most chaotic one there

Everything in the chaotic portion of the alignment chart

Getting back at a bad guy in as petty a way as possible

Time travel with two or more time travellers who don’t realize they’re not the only time traveller

The guy everyone thinks is going to beat up all the bad guys sitting back and watching the person previously believed to be as strong as an uncooked noodle absolutely demolish them

Any situation where characters play hot potato with a position of great power. “Congrats, you’re king now.” “Not if you can’t catch me, I’m not.”

Unexpected language skills

Unexpected skills in general, particularly if they’re as niche as hell

Two extremely competent individuals who lose all brain cells when within a close proximity of each other

Fixing problems on accident

Fixing problems on accident while actively trying to cause problems on purpose

Surviving primarily due to spite

[wangxianficfinder]

No JGY Redemption

~*~

Canon Era/Setting

~*~

A Bell That Tells Us to Rise and Fight by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee (T, 120k, WangXian, ChengQing, XuanLi, SongXiao, Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Everyone Needs A Hug, Women Being Awesome, BAMF Women, Minor Character Death)

A Child’s Wish by Hauntcats (Not rated, 13k, WangXian, WWX & Wen remnants, Celestial meddling, Not JC Friendly, Fix-It, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone gets what they deserve, Age Regression/De-Aging, Child LWJ)

A Future Family In A Broken Past by Hauntcats (T, 121k, wangxian, WWX & Wen Remnants, Jiang Family & WWX, WQ/MM, JYL/NHS, LXC/NMJ, Not Jiāng Family Friendly, Not Cultivation World Friendly, WWX Needs a Hug, Family Dynamics, What is a good family?, Fear of emotions does not excuse abuse, Not Jiang Clan Friendly, Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel fix-it, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, LXC needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Not YZY Friendly)

🔒💙 A Heart Undying by NonsensicalRambling (M, 114k, WangXian, Undead WWX, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Eventual WangXian, No Yīn Tiger Seal, Morally Gray WWX, Animals Eating People, WWX’s questionable choices, Morally conflicted LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei, YLLZ WWX, Sect Leader WWX, LWJ & WQ have an Understanding)

🔒 a star called sun by thelastdboy (E, 120k, wangxian, SL/XXC, JC & JYL & WWX, JYL & LWJ, WWX & WN & WQ, JYL/JZX, Canon Divergence after Xuanwu Cave, Fall of Lotus Pier, But worse!, Power Imbalance, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Not Everyone Dies AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Sunshot Campaign, Miscommunication, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Major Character Injury, Loss of Limbs, Chronic Illness, Seizures, WWX’s Three Months in the Burial Mounds, Wēn Remnants Live, Wēn Remnants Deserve Better, WWX Creates a Sect | Yílíng Wèi Sect, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note, Hurt/Comfort, Selectively Mute LWJ, Service Animals, Crows)

An Old Cardboard Produce Box for a Cradle by julomaiboulomai, mischiefseven (T, 25k, WangXian, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Canon Divergence, Sentient Burial Mounds, Golden Core Reveal, Everyone Lives)

🔒 between the shadow and the soul by Reverie (cl410) (M, 22k, WangXian, JYL/WQ, JC/NHS, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family, Dark WWX, Feral WWX, Memory Loss, Magic, Magical Realism, Protective LWJ, Protective JC, Protective JYL, Grief, BAMF WWX, POV Alternating)

break by justdoityoufucker (orphan_account) (T, 3k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, LXC Critical, JC Critical, Canonical Character Death, Guānyīn Temple Scene, BAMF WN, Protective WN)

Chronicles of Sect Leader Wei Wuxian by Muggle_Diary (E, 85k, WIP, WangXian, XuanLi, JFM/YZY, CSSR/WCZ, LXC/LQY, NMJ/QS, WQ/OC, OFC/ OFC, JC/ OFC, Sect Leader WWX, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Different First Meeting, Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, Anal Sex, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, Sex Toys, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Rough Sex, Child Abuse, Child Death, War Hero WWX, Sunshot Campaign, No Golden Core Transfer, WWX Leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, Cultivation Sect Politics, Wen Remnants Live, Abusive YZY, Abusive Jiang Family, Bad Parents JFM and YZY, JC Bashing, JFM and YZY Bashing, Yunmeng Jiang Sect Bashing, JYL and JZX Live, Jiang Family Bashing)

💖 demons run when a good man goes to war by Miranda_Aurelia (T, 20k, wangxian, LWJ & NHS, JYL/JZX, canon divergence, angst w happy ending, NHS & LWJ friendship, not JGY friendly, dark LWJ, revenge, (presumed) major character death, not LXC friendly)

Did I Not Explain Why the Sunset Turns Red? by 3988Akasha (E, 110k, wangxian, time travel, canon divergence, Canonical Character Death, Soulmates, Demonic Cultivation, Original Female Character(s), Emotional Constipation, Minor Character Death, Hand Jobs, Sexual Content, Bathing/Washing, Idiots in Love, Poetry, Mild Gore, Anal Sex, Angst, Rimming, Blow Jobs)

Discarded by teawater (E, 187k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Dying Lan children, Hurt/Comfort, YL WWX, Golden Core Reveal, Case Fic, Depression, Family Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, and it’s not always dark, POV Multiple, BAMF WWX, dubious morals in the Lan sect Feels, Pining, Grief, Fix-It, BAMF LWJ)

🔒💖 Drag Me Into Your Coffin (I Will Drag Your Sins Into the Light) by the5leggedCricket (G, 2k, Canon Divergence, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It, BAMF LXC)

Dream a little dream of me by Moominmammashandbag (M, 60k, WangXian, SangYu, Prison, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, mentions of torture, Mention of dismemberment, Coming Out, Anxiety Disorder, Anxiety Attacks, goose!NMJ, Reincarnation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Dreamwalking, Angst with a Happy Ending, JZX Lives)

💖 Echo, Murmur, Dream, Here by bluerainmist (M, 51k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Universe Alteration, the yiling patriarch survives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catharsis, Slow Burn, Drama, Getting Together, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Melancholy, Love, Mutual Pining, Reunions, Love Confessions, Eventual Smut, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Switching, Grief/Mourning, fucking while pining, Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Harm, golden core transfer, Playing fast and loose with worldbuilding, Battle Scenes, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, implied / Referenced suicide attempt, Sect Leader WWX, YLLZ WWX, Yílíng Wèi Sect)

finding you always, all ways by BlueFrogs (T, 31k, WangXian, ChengQing, Reincarnation, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Romance, Memory Loss, Age Difference, due to reincarnation)

🧡 Ghosts Shouldn’t by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 15k, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending)

Grey Area by pearliegrimm (M, 31k, WangXian, MM/WQ, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, Found Family, Yílíng Wèi Sect, Sect Leader WWX, WWX lives, Canon Divergence, LWJ defects, married wangxian, Established Relationship, Secret Marriage, Angst, POV Multiple, Unreliable Narrator, Eloping, Reconciliation, Fix-It, Not Everyone Dies)

Having Enough (of your foolishness) by makexianxianhappytoday (T, 18k, WangXian, Hurt WWX, YLLZ WWX, BAMF WWX, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Jiang Family Bashing, Canon Divergence, CSSR and WCZ Live, Yunmeng Jiang Sect Bashing, JYL Lives, JZX Lives, (but what are the consequences), JC Bashing)

Home and the Heartland by Witch_Nova221 (T, 210k, WangXian, JYL/JZX, Burial Mounds, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, Slow Romance, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Self-Discovery, Golden Core Reveal, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, the burial mounds aren't always a happy place, but wangxian do their best)

hope dangling by a string by KouriArashi (M, 70k, WangXian, Alternate Canon, Fix-It, Everybody Lives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Psychic Bond, Telepathy, Communication, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, jiang family feels, Lan Family Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, canon typical political bullshit, improper use of sacred forehead ribbons, gratuitous hair washing)

In Exchange by FlautistsandPeonies (M, 8k, WangXian, Major Character Death, Canon Divergence, Implied WangXian Ending, The Power of Yiling Laozu Sexy, WWX Canon Memory Loss, WWX gets his original body back, Crack Treated Seriously, not for JC fans, Attractive WWX, WangXian Get a Happy Ending)

it’s a long road but we’re not alone by Stratisphyre (M, 62k, WangXian, JYL & WWX, LWJ & LJY, JL & LSZ & LJY & OYZZ, Canon Divergence, Not Everyone Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Parenthood, Grief/Mourning, Family Feels, Reunions, Golden Core Reveal, Getting Together)

Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don’t look here for bashing)

🔒❤️ kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight by AlfAlfAlfAlfAlf, tardigradeschool (T, 75k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Inspired by The Parent Trap (1998), Kid Fic, teen shenanigans, two a-yuans, Fluff and Angst)

Lay my body down by tawaen (M, 48k, WWX & WQ, WWX & WN, wangxian, WWX & JYL, Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Eventual WangXian, No Golden Core Transfer, Not Cultivation World Friendly, Canon-Typical Violence, Not JC Friendly, What if WWX saw the first siege of the burial mounds and said Nope to the war, OCs, OC point-of-view for one chapter for plot reasons)

Looked so alive, turns out i’m not real by KatAnni (M, 36k, WangXian, Temporary Character Death, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sunshot Campaign, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Necromancy, Demonic Cultivation, Hurt WWX, Hurt LWJ, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sentient Burial Mounds, WWX’s Three Months in the Burial Mounds, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies)

💖🔒 love, in fire and blood by cicer (E, 360k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, YLLZ WWX, Arranged Marriage, political scheming, Gratuitous Domesticity, Mutual Pining, EXTREME SLOWBURN, the inherent eroticism of the forehead ribbon, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, neither wwx nor lwj want to be Perceived, but sorry kids! it’s gonna happen!, rated E but the the NSFW stuff doesn’t begin until chapter 19!, bottom LWJ in chapter 20 and 27, Mojo’s post)

Meet you at a different place by tawaen (M, 57k, WQ & WN, WN & MXY & WQ, WQ & WWX & WN, Eventual WangXian, Ghost General WN, Ghost WQ, Canon Divergence, WQ comes back to haunt the cultivation world, Bad idea to kill the one person who didn’t kill anyone, Cultivation World Critical, Not JC Friendly, Wen Remnants Deserve Better, Sīsī Deserves Better, MXY Deserves Better, POV WQ)

❤️ nevermore, nevermore by agloeian (T, 120k, LSZ & WWX, LSZ & LWJ, LSZ & Wen Remnants, WangXian, LSZ & XY, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Not Everyone Dies, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Eventual Happy Ending, is this an excuse to have LSZ interact with pre-timeskip characters? yes, is he going to matchmake his parents? yes, Angst, some fluff too but yeah there's angst, Suicide Attempt, that being WWX's canon CQL suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Canon-Typical Violence, discussions of mental health, Spanish Translation, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian)

Obedient and Bellicose by thunderwear (T, 20k, Wangxian, Ella Enchanted AU, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, cursed LWJ, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good brother LXC, LQR loves his nephews you cant change my mind, LWJ crying, Protective LXC, Pining, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Brief Depictions of Violence, meaning at least one of the people you really want to get stabbed does in fact get stabbed)

🔒 Of Destruction and Rebirth by demoniqt (M, 88k, WangXian, JYL/JZX, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sex, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, God WWX, God Verse, BAMF WWX, Grieving LWJ, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Gods & Goddesses au, JC & WWX Reconciliation, Rabbits, Fix-It, Attempted Sexual Assault, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Castration, Lots of it, repeatedly, Punishment, Hell)

on restitution by glitteringmoonlight (M, 98k, LSZ & WWX, WWX & JL, WangXian, Dark JC, not JC friendly, Captivity, Angst with a Happy Ending, no reconciliation, Crossdressing, Non-Graphic Torture, Violence)

Reclamation by CordialCoroner (CordialCrow) (M, 6k, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Not JC Friendly, at all, Canon Divergence, Angst, Post-Sunshot Campaign, WQ is understandably angry, WQ gets some revenge, as a treat)

Run Off The World by Sapphire_Roses (M, 336k, WangXian, XuanLi, SongXiao, WIP, Not Everyone Dies AU, Canon Divergence, Wen Remnants Live, Flashbacks, YLLZ WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei Sect, Sect Leader WWX, Married WangXian, OCs, POV Outsider, Morally Grey Characters, (Do Take That Tag Seriously), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Developing Friendships, Fluff, Attempt at Humor, Yunmeng Siblings Feels, Gusu Siblings Feels, Sibling Bonding, Pining, Character Study, Tenderness, Mild Smut, POV Alternating, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Minor Character Death)

So You Want to Start a War by JaenysBloodcourt (T, 47k, WIP, JGY/QS, JGY/WWX, WangXian, JL & WWX, past LXC/NMJ, Reincarnation, Half-Sibling Incest Mention!, QS does the ritual instead of MXY, WWX as a woman, JGY Is His Own Warning, Canon Divergence, Impersonation, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note, Please check the notes before reading a chapter, Timeline What Timeline, WWX Has PTSD)

❤️ Somewhere Sits an Empty Throne by Siamesa (E, 19k, WangXian, Major Character Death, TGCF Fusion, Gods & Goddesses, Ghosts, Romance, vengeance, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark LWJ, Grief/Mourning, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst with a Happy Ending)

Song of Joy and Regrets by HelloKitten (Not Rated, 134k, WIP, WangXian, Angst, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Time Travel Fix-it, Characters Watching The Series, Not YZY Friendly)

the breaking of your soul (upon my lips) by sunsandships (M, 40k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Mutual Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Golden Core Reveal, Happy Ending)

The Core Issue by Hauntcats (T, 21k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Not JC Friendly)

The Cultivation World Needs a Reset by FangirlingIsLife (Not Rated, 53k, WangXian, LXC/NMJ, WIP, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Abuse, Temporary Character Death, Immortality, Time Travel Fix-It, Physical Abuse, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, The Cloud Recesses Rabbits, Abusive Jiang Family, Jiang Family Bashing, YZY Bashing, LWJ is a Little Shit)

The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou (E, 66k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Blood, Respiratory Illness, Major Illness, Fever, Grief/Mourning, Burial Mounds, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hunger and food scarcity, Surgery, Fix-It of Sorts)

🔒 the language of flowers and silent things series by Reverie (cl410) (M, 107k, WangXian, LXC/NMJ, LWJ & Madam Lan, NHS & LWJ, LWJ & LXC, LWJ & NMJ, LWJ & NHS Friendship, Developing Relationship, POV LWJ, Minor Injuries, Autistic LWJ, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, aka the YZY warning, Genius WWX, Light Angst And Hurt/Comfort, WWX Protection Squad, Gusu Lan Sect, Slow Burn, Protective LWJ, LWJ-centric, Politics, Canon Divergence, No Sunshot Campaign, Cultivation Sect Politics, Protective WWX)

the problem with authority by isabilightwood (M, 139k, WangXian, QingLi, Canon Divergence, Sacrifice Summon, only the summoner sticks around, slightly dark!JYL, WQ lives, Slow Burn for yanqing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Pain, Mild Sexual Content, Versatile | Switch WangXian)

The Trouble With Politics: a Treatise on Jiang Sect Deputies Gone Rogue by Sect Leader Wei Wuxian by stiltonbasket (G, 56k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Yílíng Wèi Sect, or: the one where yu zhenhong is a wild card, Smitten LWJ, Domestic Fluff, Politics, Happy Ending, Sect Leader WWX, Fix-It of Sorts, JZX still dies though)

❤️ Tragedy is Not the End by Hobbsy3 (T, 358k, wangxian, Time Travel, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Golden Core Reveal, Canon Divergence from Qiongqi Pass, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Yunmeng sibling bonding, good dad wwx, good dad lwj, JZX Lives, JYL Lives, Junior Quartet Dynamics)

🧡 Vow by draechaeli (E, 216k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, BeliefGod!WWX, Adoption but WWX birthed them all, Pregnancy Kink, Mpreg, minor male lactation, Consensual Non-Consent, Light Bondage, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con because JGS, Mentions Canon Typical Incest, Canon Typical Violence)

🧡 Weep You No More, Sad Fountains by athena_crikey (T, 48k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fix-it fic, Whump, Curses, Fever, Delirium, Stabbing, Loneliness, Confessions)

Wei Wuxian, Who’s That? by bumbledees (T, 48k, WangXian, Mild to Moderate Pining, lotus pier siblings quietly also have a penchant for chaos, WWX will make LQR like him whether the old man likes it or not, WWX just wants to have fun and not be killed, and also to go to his sister's wedding, Mutual Pining, Everybody Lives, "wei wuxian fools the entire cultivation world", "and kicks up drama in front of their salad", warnings for sexual harassment due to JGS, and for the canonical behavior of the jin clan, ie war crimes forced labor human trafficking etc., hello naughty jin cultivators it's revenge time :) )

we’re starting at the end by Miss_Enthusiasimal (M, 92k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Time Travel, Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Golden Core Reveal, Burial Mounds, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Starvation, emaciation, Cannibalism, Self-Harm, Amputation, Suicidal Thoughts, Sunshot Campaign, let JZX and WWX be friends club)

what else is there? by mme_anxious (T, 13k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Swan Princess AU, Everybody Lives, who isn't already dead, MagicAnimal Transformation, Curses, Angst, Humor, Happy Ending, Kissing)

refrain; a musical phrase repeating in a song or instrumental piece Series by Cerusee, Mikkeneko (T/G, 51k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, Sort Of, Memory Loss, Canon-typical dismemberment, Post-Series, but also mid-series ya feel, Changing Tenses, Protective LWJ, Everybody Lives, Confused WWX, Crack Treated Seriously)

pale shadows of forgotten names by Chrononautical (T, 56k, wangxian, Madam Lán Lives, Madam Lán Deserves Better, Good Sibling LXC, Badass LXC, He gets there in the end it just takes a while, Not particularly JGY friendly, Gūsū Lán Sect Rules, Canon-Typical Behavior, Unresolved Sexual Tension, the universal fear of growing up to become one of your parents, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives AU, Except WN but he’s very polite, Arranged Marriage, Forced Marriage, Imprisonment, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, not between wangxian, Drunk LWJ, to lighten the mood, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Traumatized WWX, though he will not admit it, Taking time to heal, canon-typical communication skills)

The Wrong Man by Remma3760 (Not Rated, 125k, WangXian, Sect Leader LWJ, Evil JGS, Canon Divergence, Golden Core Reveal, Major Character Death (not Wangxian))

By Any Other Name by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 31k, WangXian, Mix of CQL and MDZS, Identity Porn, WWX has an atypical relationship with gender)

~*~

Non-Canon Era/Setting

~*~

A Baby Dragon’s Guide To Seducing Your Huli Jing by sweetlolixo (M, 102k, WangXian, Fantasy, But still in the Cultivation World, Dragon LWJ, Fox WWX, Younger LWJ, Older WWX, Fluff, Humor, Eventual mpreg, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Boy A-Yuan)

A Blade By Your Side by athena_crikey (E, 77k, WangXian, Historical, Royalty, Forced Marriage, Bodyguard, court intrigue, falling in love with the person you're married to, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Politics, Drama, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Slow Burn)

Conquering the Emperor by catbrainedschemes (E, 21k, WangXian, Historical AU, Imperial China, Emperor WWX, General LWJ, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Historically Inaccurate, Misunderstandings, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Light Angst, Non-Graphic Violence, Getting Together, Sexual Tension, Some Plot, Slow Burn, Happy Ending)

Do You Feel What I Feel? by istartedtheapocalypse (M, 33k, WangXian, Kid Fic, wangxian in a hallmark christmas movie but hornier, and with slightly more plot and angst, background XiYao has lighter than canon levels of toxicity but it is still a lil toxic, Holidays, Christmas)

Half Agony, Half Hope by queenklu (T, 105k, WangXian, LXC/JGY, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, LXC/NMJ, Jane Austen Fusion, persuasion au, Pining, Broken Engagement, Secrets, Espionage, Child Injury, Terrible Parents (YZY & JFM), Past Child Neglect)

Keep Track of Losing Days by giraffeter (T, 74k, WangXian, Modern AU, Case Fic, Police, Missing Persons, Mystery, Getting Together, Flashbacks, Rooftop Conversations, Detective LWJ, antifa WWX, Endgame NieLan, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sharing a Bed, First Kiss, First Meetings, Seattle, Mutual Pining, nonfatal car accident, mafia wens, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers)

我的皇后是農民 | sowing seeds in the cold palace by sweetlolixo (E, 84k, WangXian, Imperial Palace, Emperor LWJ, Imperial Consort WWX, Farmer WWX, Angst, Romance, Wingman LJY, Wife-chasing-LWJ, Arranged Marriage, Best Boy A-Yuan)

🔒 the cow says moo, the chicken says squawk, and the demon beast of yiling says by Dragonskye (T, 57k, WangXian, Animal Transformation, Angst with a Happy Ending, kind of a glucose guardian vibe actually, Fairy Tale Elements, Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Falling In Love, but like… through a lot of small things, Hurt/Comfort, they're soft, Secret Identity, Canon Divergence, Here comes the, Mutual Pining, you love to see it)

Through A Looking Glass by Purplepulu (Not rated, 21k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Families of Choice, Wēn Remnants Live, Fix-It of Sorts, Creepy JGS, JZX Tries, Cultivators with One brain cell, Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, Angst w Happy Ending, Oblivious WWX, Pining LWJ, Matchmaker LXC, Mastermind NHS, Traumatized A-Yuan, Fluff, NMJ Lives, Soft NMJ, BAMF WWX, POV LXC, POV JGS, Protective JYL, JZN Being an Asshole, Everyone Lives au, Except for Jīn Zǐxūn, Good Sibling JC)

True Gold Fears No Fire by defractum (nyargles) (M, 82k, WangXian, Royalty, Ancient China, Wuxia, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Arranged Marriage, Identity Porn, Mutual Pining, Emperor LWJ, Empress WWX, Eventual Happy Ending, Misunderstandings)

Your Tragedy, Your Song by Grace_ShadowWolf (TaubeLePigeon) (T, 42k, WangXian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Characters Watching Their Series, basically they watch their future, But through songs, exposed secrets, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Songfic, Drama, POV Multiple, JGS is a shit, WRH is highkey so done with WC, let LWJ take care of WWX, mild body horror)

When the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation takes a week off by galaxy_in_your_eyes (T, 20k, WangXian, Modern Cultivation, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives, only those that deserve it, kind of fix-it, Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Attempt at Humor, POV Alternating, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Brief Mentions of Cannibalism, Zombies, We don’t see the Zombie Apocalypse, It happens behind closed doors, WWX in quarantine, Wangxian being Wangxian, Mentions of Smut, Established Relationship, Courtesy Names, local necromancer gets sick with the flu)

With No Particular Affection by Chrononautical (E, 92k, wangxian, Arranged Marriage, Modern, Kid Fic, Miscommunication, Family Drama, JFM & YZY’s A+ Parenting, Canon typical consent during sex, canon typical violence revamped for a modern setting, canon typical behavior from villains and honestly I toned it down a lot, Good Uncle JC, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Genius WWX, Street Kid WWX, Homelessness, Rich LWJ, Oblivious WWX, LWJ’s canon typical communication skills, Cinnamon Roll WN, Implied/Referenced Suicide, WWX Has a Pregnancy Kink, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst)

~*~

[morbidology]

The story of Genie is one of the most tragic cases in the study of child psychology and linguistics. Genie's life began in conditions of severe abuse and isolation that left her profoundly affected. She had been born in Arcadia, California, in 1957, and was the fourth child of Clark and Irene Wiley.

Her early life was marked by extreme abuse and neglect. Clark Wiley, her father, believed she was mentally disabled and imposed a regime of isolation and deprivation on her from a very young age. For over a decade, Genie was confined to a small room, often strapped to a child's potty chair or bound in a sleeping bag, unable to move freely. She was deprived of normal human interaction, rarely exposed to light, and subjected to severe physical punishment if she made noise.

Genie's diet was restricted to baby food and liquids, and she was denied basic medical care and personal hygiene. The isolation left her with severe physical and mental disabilities. When she was discovered in 1970 at the age of 13, she could not speak, was severely malnourished, and had the social and cognitive development of a much younger child.

Genie was discovered when her mother, who had been partially blind, finally sought help and left her abusive husband. Authorities were alerted to Genie's condition, and she was placed in the care of the state. She quickly became the subject of intense study by psychologists, linguists, and medical professionals, eager to understand the effects of her severe isolation and deprivation.

Initially, Genie made remarkable progress. She began to learn to speak, although her language development never reached normal levels. Her case provided invaluable insights into critical periods in language acquisition and the effects of extreme social isolation on cognitive development. Researchers such as Jean Butler and James Kent, along with linguist Susan Curtiss, documented her progress meticulously, offering both hope and new knowledge about human development.

However, Genie's story is also one of ethical controversy and further hardship. As she moved through various foster homes and institutions, her progress fluctuated, often hindered by the instability and further trauma she experienced. The initial optimism surrounding her rehabilitation turned into disputes among the professionals involved in her care. Questions about the ethics of the research conducted on her arose, particularly concerning the balance between scientific interest and her well-being.

Eventually, Genie was placed in a series of foster homes, some of which reportedly subjected her to further abuse and neglect. The promising advances she had made in her speech and social skills largely regressed. As of the last reports, Genie resides in a private care facility for adults with disabilities, her exact location and condition kept confidential to protect her privacy.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

After a month of Whump, it’s gonna be Fluff Time!!

Hello! This is Fluffvember, a month long event of pure fluff and comfort! This was originally an idea made by @/kjpurplepineapple, to follow a month of whump (whumptober) with a month of fluff, and I loved it so much I’ve just carried it on for the last two years. :) Figured I’d make some prompts so we could all have fun together.

RULES:

The prompts are listed in a numerical order, but they are not tied to any given day. Do whatever prompt on whatever day you like! If prompt #1 appeals to you but you don’t have time to get it done by November 1, do it any day of the month. :) You are also more than welcome to just stick to the order listed.

Writing/art can be pure unadulterated fluff, calm slice of life moments, easygoing reading… it can even be hurt/comfort! As long as the comfort heavily outweighs the hurt, all warm, fuzzy vibes are welcome. ❤️ The point of this event is to share nice vibes, both to our characters and each other. :)

You don’t have to tag me if you don’t want to, but it would be fun if you tag your writing/art with #fluffvember so I and others who want to indulge in comfort/fuzzy vibes can find it!

Without further ado, here are the prompts! Pick a theme/word prompts or a quote, or both!

Snow // “I’m stealing your blanket”

Blanket fort // “Come back to bed”

Nature walk // “I’m sorry, when did we step in paradise??”

Hot spring // “This hits the spot”

Apple picking // “Oh my gosh, you do not know how to cook”

Windy day // “Come closer, I can’t hear—ahhh too close, too close!”

Massage // “I didn’t know you could sing”

Bird watching // “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Homecoming // “I missed you”

Accommodating // “I’ve got you”

Teaching/learning // “It’s tradition”

Dog/cat/pet // “I can die happy now”

Friendly competition // “You’re going to love this”

In the rain // “Let me help you”

In the firelight/candlelight // “I love you”

Hug // “This isn’t a negotiation, friend”

Favorite book/story // “I wanted to share this with you”

Music // “I learned this from my parents”

Family time // “We’re very blessed”

Coming of age // “I’m so proud of you”

The Reluctant Softie // “UGH FINE I’LL DO IT”

Teddy bear/animal plushie // “Give [insert] a kiss for me”

Self care // “Thank you for believing in me”

Cuddle pile // “You’re not gonna let go, are you?”

Washing someone’s hair // “I can stay with you”

Infodumping // “I love hearing you talk about this”

Gift giving // “This made me think of you”

Inside joke // “I definitely missed something, didn’t I?”

Accidental acquisition // “Uh… whose kid is this?”

Cooking as a love language // “Do you like it?”

[intraterrestriall]

I think most people who have some exposition to psychology are familiar with the Critical Period Hypothesis. But just in case anyone isn’t, I’ll explain it real quick and how it connects to Cass Cain and BG2000.

Long explaination below:

The Critical Period Hypothesis (CPH) asserts that language acquisition occurs exclusively in childhood. After childhood, the brain looses the plasticity that would allow it to adapt and organize stimuli, rendering language acquisition difficult (or impossible).

The CPH states that if adequate stimulus is not provided within the first few years of life, the individual will never achieve a full command of language.

Though the CPH cannot be technically proven because of how crazy unethical it would be, proof of the CPH is seen in case studies of “wild” and deaf children who were deprived of language in early life. I’m going to refrain from mentioning any specific cases, because as you can imagine any child deprived from language for the entirety of their early childhood suffered tremendous abuse.

Here is of course, unfortunately, where we bring this back to Cass. Cass spent the first nine years of her life isolated and deprived of language (often in bg2000, Cass and others will refer to her ability to read and analyze body language as “language” but it is inherently not language in the sense we’re referring to here).

Whether Cass, at age nine, would be able to learn language following her deprivation from it is unclear. In real life cases, children who were deprived of language until the age of six years old were often able to learn language later in life, but children deprived until the age of 12-13 were often unable to learn language. Batgirl 2000’s explanation regarding Cass’s neurology suggested that the neural pathways responsible for processing spoken language were underdeveloped to allow greater development of neural pathways specialized for processing and interpreting body language. Under this assumption, we can assume that similarly to other “wild” children, Cass’s struggle and inability to learn language stems from her missing the Critical Period of language acquisition.

This explains why despite relatively frequent interactions with people, Cass never learns any language from the ages of nine to sixteen (fleeing cain to no man’s land). This also clarifies the interaction that Cass has with that Psychic in BG2000 #4. The Psychic explains this to Cass in simple terms, but he doesn’t magically transfer the knowledge of english to Cass’s brain, but instead gives Cass’s brain the ability to acquire language. Which is why Cass struggles to learn english for the rest of the run, because even after the Psychic’s intervention, she is still a seventeen year old girl who was never taught language. And even though now she has the ability to learn, she still needs to fight to learn how to speak every word.

We can also assume that the psychic changed Cass’s enlarged and shrunken neural pathways, hence why her ability to read body language suddenly declined. But that reverted following Cass’s discussion with Shiva (did we ever get an explaination for that? i don’t remember). Either way, Cass is disabled as an outcome of the abuse David Cain inflicted on her and even as her speech improved throughout comics, Cass will always be disabled.

[tropetember]

[Image description. Image reads “Tropetember Prompt List”, in the background, a picture of a mug placed on an open book in front of a blanket invokes a cozy feel. End id. Thanks to @supericelight​ for the image description!]

Enemies / Friends / Strangers To Lovers 

Case Fic // Police / Detective / (Super)Hero // Crime / Mafia / (Super)Villain

Hurt/Comfort / Sickfic / Whump

Coffee Shop / Tattoo Parlour / Flower Shop / Other Retail AU

Rockstar / Actor / Model / Famous AU / Reality TV AU / SocMed AU

High School / College / University AU / 80’s Teen Movie AU

Historical (Regency, Ancient Greece/Rome, Prehistory, etc) / Modern / Futuristic AU

Time Travel / Time Loop (eg. Groundhog Day) / Amnesia / Coma

5+1 / 3+1 (Five Times + One Time)

Accidental Confession / In Vino Veritas (Drunk Confession/Drunk Dial)

Business Partners To Friends To Lovers / Competitor Businesses / Office AU

Huddling For Warmth / Sharing A Bed / Touch Starvation

Slice Of Life / Domestic / Found Family

Monstrous (Human/Monster Romance) / Cultural Differences / Language Barrier

Marriage Of Convenience / Arranged Marriage / Matchmaking / Blind Dates

Future Fic / Reunion / Childhood Friends / Friendship Centric

Getting Together / Love Confession / First Kiss / Break Up/Make Up / Misunderstandings

Body Swap / Psychic Link / Soulmates / Bonding (eg. ABO, Sentinel AU, etc)

Apocalypse / Zombie / Locked In Together / (Natural) Disaster

Science Fiction / Fantasy / Space Opera / Horror

Genderswap / Rule 63 / De-Aging / Age Changes AU

Canon Rewrite / Fix-It / Everybody Lives / Everybody Dies / Major Character Death

Mythology / Supernatural / Fairytale / Wingfic

Accidental Baby Acquisition / (Single) Parent AU / Babysitting

Mutual Pining / Requited/Unrequited Love / Angst With A Happy Ending

Fake Dating / Didn’t Know They Were Dating / Accidental Dating / Accidental Marriage

Repression / Emotional Constipation / Sexuality Crisis (Gay Panic)

Holidays & Celebrations / Proposals / Prom / Songfic

Fusion / Crossover / Harlequin / Rom-Com (eg: Hogwarts, Pacific Rim, Daemons, Hunger Games, The Princess Bride, Pride & Prejudice, Love Actually, 10 Things I Hate About You, etc)

FREE SPACE

Link to Tropetember Welcome Post

Link to Hard Mode Prompt List

Link to Rules & FAQ

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

So, fun detail I just noticed about Megamind:

Famously, throughout the film Megamind mispronounces certain words, most notably: "hello" ("olo"), "Metro City" ("Metrocity") and "school" ("shool").

Like many fans, I'd attributed this and other oddities— like not knowing what a window is— to his unconventional upbringing and general social isolation. His speech sounds a lot like the way people pronounce words that they've only seen written down, so maybe he just hasn't had enough practice talking to other people out loud.

Lovely theory, very angsty, makes sense that this would be what the film-makers intended.

Except…

You know who doesn't seem to have this problem with pronunciation? And who in fact attempts to correct Megamind's pronunciation of various words more than any other character?

Fucking Minion.

Minion was there for literally every step of Megamind's childhood. They were raised on Earth together and went through seemingly the exact same experiences. Yet somehow Minion came out the other end knowing how to answer the phone and what a window is and why people use codes, while Megamind didn't.

And I am just so fascinated as to why.

Top three theories:

1. Megamind isn't actually mispronouncing words due to lack of practice, but rather for some other reason.

Maybe there's something up with his ability to hear certain sounds, or his alien anatomy makes it harder to pronounce them. Maybe he's neurodivergent (I mean, he definitely is, but maybe that fact is affecting his speech).

2. Megamind is mispronouncing things due to lack of practice, but there's something about Minion that makes him need less practice to pick up new languages.

Possibly as part of their protective role, his species has advanced language acquisition programmed in so they can act as translators. Else, while Minion and Megamind landed on Earth together, it's not 100% clear whether they were actually at the same age/developmental stage when that happened. If Minion was an adult (or older child) when he became fluent in English, he might have consciously focused more on accurate pronunciation than Megamind did.

3. Megamind is mispronouncing things due to lack of practice, but Minion is getting more practice than him.

This is… honestly the theory with the most evidence behind it. Like, we know that Minion isn't in jail at the start of the film, so he's clearly mot spending the same amount of time in solitary confinement that Megamind is.

He also appears to be in charge of providing Megamind with the resources needed to carry out his plans, which would presumably require him to communicate with scrap merchants, crocodile breeders and Romanian outlet store owners (among others) on the regular.

And like… if he's not getting thrown in jail whenever Megamind does, and Megamind is spending a fair amount of time on the inside, then Minion has to be doing something to pass the time. He's clearly a bit of an extrovert, and seems to take more pleasure in interacting with people than Megamind does.

It seems unlikely that he'd spend all his time sitting in the Evil Lair waiting for Megamind contact him or escape. So what does he do?

I find it both sweet and hilarious to imagine that Minion actually does have his own social circle outside of Megamind.

Minion goes to DnD on the second Tuesday of every month.

Minion gets advice on making costumes for Megamind from his weekly sewing circle.

Minion has been going to university online for the past eight years and is currently working towards his PhD in Marine Biology.

Minion is a semi-regular at Metrocity Night Clubs.

Minion does volunteer work sometimes with kids at the Metrocity hospital.

Megamind has barely any idea about any of this. Like, he knows Minion goes places at various times.

He knows that when he's rampaging through the streets Minion will sometimes stop to wave hello to various people that Megamind has never met. He's seen the half-orc paladin costume that Minion made for DnD.

But he's never really asked about it, and Minion has never seen the need to tell him. So long as Minion's happy, Megamind's happy, and so long as Megamind's happy, Minion is happy.

Meanwhile Roxanna, post-movie, has to grapple with the fact that sometimes she'll go to visit her boyfriend only for him to ask if they can go out for dinner instead because Minion's book club is meeting in the Evil Lair, and he's been gently encouraged not to come back after what he said to Helen about her (wrong) opinions on To Kill A Mockingbird.