#prelude to my next post

[celaenaeiln]

I want to talk about Dick Grayson's beauty, sex symbol status, and how it all connects for a moment.

This is a prelude to an upcoming post but I needed to include this separately because the other was getting too big.

First of all Dick Grayson is a beautiful man.

And you're probably thinking "well, no duh. Everyone knows that." but what I mean is Dick Grayson was intentionally made to be beautiful.

For a little historical context, around the late 1950s the culture in the US was changing. It was around this time, that people began exploring and accepting what they called a "feminine man".

This was really taking place in cinema and stuff where they began to show softer versions of men doing "typically female roles" as heroes.

One example is the movie "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance", a 1962 Hollywood film. In summary, it takes place in the midwest and is centered about Cowboys, gunslingers, the shebang. But the point is, there are two male leads in the movie - Ranse Stoddard (played by Jimmy Stewart) and Tom Donophon (played by John Wayne). Ranse and Tom are both the heroes in the film but with a key difference. Tom is like the sheriff of the town, loved by all and focusing his time on practicing his gun skills. The savior of women and normal people, he's the typical masculine hero. His face is rough and handsome. Ranse however was the new wave. He doesn't care about carrying the gun, he thinks it's uncouth and focuses much of his attention on sending the evil guy (Liberty Valance) to jail through laws. He doesn't want to kill and he takes a more advocative approach. He is also loved by everyone despite not being super masculine. Ranse's face is clean and almost dainty in comparison to Tom and Liberty Valance's.

Despite the complete opposites they are, both men are considered heroes. On one hand, you have the very male typical hero but on the other hand, you have the feminine male hero. At one point the evil guy laughs when Ranse walks in wearing an apron because serving tables is a "woman's job", but Ranse doesn't let it bother him.

How does this connect to Dick Grayson?

Dick Grayson is the feminine hero of DC. DC jumped on the pretty boy hero train.

That's also why in the Teen Titans (1966) comics, Dick keeps being referred to by endearingly feminine pet names by the titans which they seem to only use on him.

Standard gender roles: Men were expected to be strong, aggressive, and bold while women were expected to be polite, accommodating, and nurturing. Sound familiar about a certain duo?

But Dick? He plays both male and female gender roles in a time period where it wasn't socially acceptable to do so.

So my point is, Dick was created to blur the lines between gender and the way his character has progressed - he's meant to be the definition of a man opposite to male toxicity.

He can cook and do laundry whereas Bruce, the image of male dominance cannot.

This also falls into another role of Bruce and Dick's but it applies here as well in hindsight.

One thing people need to understand is that Dick was created to be the antithesis of Bruce Wayne. For all the gloominess that Bruce is Dick was meant to be the joy. He is the light to Bruce's darkness.

Which is why Dick often acts as the loving mother to the batfamily while Bruce acts as the stern father. Because Dick was created for the female role.

Part of the reason why I love Dick and Kory is because they do this at a time where girlbossing and malewifing wasn't a thing. Kori is consistently the dominant one when it comes to love in their relationship while Dick plays a softer, more "wife like" role. The way Kori is taller than Dick and buffer than him ✨

He is quite literally a queen consort - that is the role that Kori begs him to take after she is forced to marry someone her father picks out for her. But Dick refuses in tears because his morality cannot bear becoming a mistress and ruining someone else's marriage.

I know this is a long tangent but here's where the sex symbol comes in. Dick was created to be the most beautiful figure in DC but him being beautiful is not supposed to be confused with him being objectified.

Being beautiful is just something he was born as. What people do as a result has nothing to with DC

Take this for instance

He's literally just showering and comes out of the shower to find a random little girl singing about his and batman's identities. Creepy? Yes. Very much so. So he chases after her and finds her gone. Well there's nothing he can do now, he needs to go back and analyze what's going on and contact the other titans-

Crap.

Look at all the women that are ogling him, and even the ginger looks as if he doesn't know if he's jealous or wants to join - but there's nothing Dick did to make them do that. He's literally minding his own business and got caught outside. Did he hit on the women? Did he seduce them? Did he purposefully show off and make a loud commotion because he wanted the attention? No!

Arguing that Dick Grayson shouldn't be a sex symbol just seems wrong to me considering that it's not a fault of his.

It's like telling Kori not to have large breasts and telling Dinah not to wear fishnets.

People still ogle them regardless of how they dress because they're just that attractive. You can't tell someone to look a different way because you don't like the attention they're receiving...that's literally the opposite of everything people should be fighting for

Arguing that Dick Grayson being a sex symbol is a problem because he's too beautiful and blaming the actions of other characters for thinking so is just...

it's wrong.

He was created to be beautiful to fight male toxic masculinity. He's woman coded for a reason.

We should be embracing him. He represents everything male freedom should be about. He constantly placed in a female role, in female positions-

In queer positions-

He's acrobatic, slender, and sensual. He's gentle, loving, and beautiful.

When has the beauty of a person ever been a reflection of their character? The way fandom is going, it's implying that because female characters make sexualized comments about Dick's body, it's somehow Dick's fault for looking that way. We're blaming him for his "womanizing" ways as if he hasn't put his heart and soul into every relationship he's had. And while we're busy calling him a womanizer, we conveniently forget that the women he's in relationships with have significant personalities of their own. We inadvertently reduce their beings to plastic bags, ignoring that they have broken up with each other because of being unable to resolve conflicting beliefs, different career paths, different lifestyles, and more. It's not a one way road with our treatment of Dick. It's a two way street because we're harming both Dick and strong women like Kori, Barbara, Bea, Shawn, and Helena by pretending what they believe in and live for is unimportant in love.

Instead we should be exploring how the objectification might have an impact on Dick's mental health rather than blaming DC for using characters to describe how hot Dick is.

All the beautiful traits of Dick Grayson - his ambiguous sexuality, his overwhelming love for people, his affection for his friends, the way he cries and feels for others - all of it is beautiful, is it not?

From his very creation Dick was meant to be someone who breaks gender roles. The constant attraction he receives from both men and women in all of DC's media is evidence of that. The Grayson comics push the boundaries of his sexuality as much as DC will allow. To be queer without coming out with it. He is the feminine hero.

Everyone seems to hate that he's being called a sex symbol but why does that bother you? Dick Grayson IS the pretty girl of the comic universe. He IS the babygirl of DC.

DC has created the perfect view of what it's like to be a woman through Dick Grayson and we're spitting on the most accurate representation of a female that comics have ever created by blaming them for expressing what it's like to live as a woman.

[activatebutterflyshield]

Drew up a new ref for Prelude to Abbadon as I revisit my endless pile of abandoned characters

It gets real teef now, and will probably end up with more eyes somewhere

[ask-sarah-and-co]

Wyvern touched down just outside of Rose Tower.

Sarah checked her phone as the four dismounted, 7:30. They were right on time, then.

She patted the aerodactyl. “Rest up, buddy. We’re headed elsewhere after the party!” He trilled back, as if to say that the flight didn’t wear him out at all, before she returned Wyvern to his pokeball. She checked the clock again, for good measure. 7:31.

“Why’re we so early?” Silver glanced over her shoulder and scowled at the time. (At least, she assumed it was the time. He could be scowling at her super cute wallpaper of Sparkle.)

His boyfriend rolled his eyes. “Common wedding courtesy is arriving 15 minutes before the set time.”

Silver exchanged a look with Hugh.

“The elevator to go up also takes a while.” Sarah’s eyes trailed up the tower, the very same one where many things happened 4 years ago. Or was it 3…? She could never remember.

“Well then,” Hugh lightly shoved the two guys in the direction of the entrance, “We’ve stalled enough out here. Let’s get going.”

— 💎— 🎸—

She fidgeted, tapping her foot as the elevator slowly moved upwards. Sarah could remember going up with Hop like it was yesterday. She glanced at the other three, still thinking to herself. Would Hop be there? Would Bede and Marnie?

Sarah thought again, probably not. Galar’s hero or not, Leon probably wouldn’t want Hop going. And Piers, Marnie. Would Bede even want to go?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. She glanced at Gladion, who gestured to the standing display that signified they were near the top of the tower.

“Brace yourselves.” Hugh looked at the other three somewhat seriously, but Sarah could see the excited twinkle in his eyes. “We don’t know what we’re in for.”

— 💎— 🎸—

The first sight was a green haired man standing in front of an elegant door. Was that door there 4 years ago? She still couldn’t remember.

“So. We meet again.” The man smiled at Sarah and her boyfriend. “Hugh,” He nodded and handed him a large, crisp envelope, “And… Sarah, right?”

She nodded, and he handed her an envelope too. Her full name was inked out in a rose gold script on the front. Just above Team Rocket’s R and Marco Cosmos’ emblems.

“N!” The girl studied the man who had (inadvertently) saved them from Ghetsis. “It’s been a while!”

“Indeed it has.” 

“Is your outfit based on-?”

“Reshiram?” He smiled, “It is.” N glanced at the other two. “Names?”

Silver only stared. “If you know them, then what’re you doing working here?!”

N only smiled. “Well, officially? Chairman Rose pays well. But if you truly must know,” His expression shifted to a more serious one, “I’m keeping an eye on Ghetsis.”

“He’s here?!” Hugh’s eyes widened.

N deliberately looked away. “You two. Names.”

“Gladion.”

“Silver.”

He handed them the envelopes. “Please read through everything. The seating chart is also in there.” He gestured beyond the doors, “The ceremony will take place straight ahead, soon. Sign the guest book along the way, if you have time.”

“But-”

N ignored Hugh’s protest, opening the doors and gesturing them inside. “Please enjoy the experience!”

— 💎— 🎸—

Sarah glanced around the “chapel,” which was just a large portion of the tower’s top floor walled off. The view of Wyndon at night was beautiful. At least the two villains had taste.

She glanced at the chairs set out, not too many. She then spotted a few people she recognized, “Leon!”

Sarah noticed that he was wearing his battle tower suit instead of his champion outfit while running over to him. She glanced back at the other three, who took their assigned seats, before tackling the champion.

“Sarah!” Leon hugged her, then ruffled her hair. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was invited! As one of Galar’s heroes, of course!” She looked around for Hop.

Leon chuckled, like he could tell what she was thinking. “Oh, I wouldn’t let Hop go. Him and the other two.” Leon shook his head, “I feel like they’re up to no good, Rose and Giovanni, but I know you’ll be alright. You’re a brilliant battler, at least!”

Sarah shrugged, “Figures.” She then looked at the other man standing with him.

“Ah, so this is the protégée you’ve been speaking of, Leon?”

Sarah excitedly grinned at the Kan-Joh champion. (She noted that he chose a simple suit with darker versions of the signature dragon-type colors.) “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lance! My name’s Sarah!”

He extended his hand for a shake, which she eagerly returned, “You too, kiddo. Shame you fought the league while I was on vacation.”

“Oh yeah! I did.” Was that really 3 years ago? Or 2? “Karen’s pretty strong, though!”

“She is.”

— 💎— 🎸—

Sarah wandered back to her assigned seat, watching as guests arrived. A man, who looked like Rose, arrived with two girls- one she thought might be about her age. A man who had wild orange hair (was that the Lysandre guy from Kalos?) arrived with… Professor Sycamore? What was he doing here??

When Ghetsis arrived, she kept glancing at Hugh. He sent her a reassuring smile, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I won’t make a scene. But I still hate him.”

Giovanni’s executives arrived together. She couldn’t remember any of their names except Proton’s, who sent her a friendly wave which she returned.

She stopped really paying attention when a portal shimmered open from the floor, which Cyrus stepped out of. He took a seat, but the ghost of a chain on his ankle still shimmered in the air.

A few other people arrived, but she didn’t fully recognize them. Maybe they were from other universes, haha.

To the left of the altar, she and the others sat with Leon, Lance, and some of the people she didn’t know.

Everyone took their seats at 8:15, as the executives moved to the front. Proton stood with the blue haired guy on the left, the purple haired guy and the red haired woman on the right. (From her appearance, and the way Silver kept glaring at her, Sarah guessed that she was his mother.)

When the lights dimmed, she snapped out of her thoughts.

— 💎— 🎸—

Giovanni walked down the aisle (pre-decorated with rose petals) in a black suit and a red tie, done in Rose’s signature style.

He was soon followed by Oleana, who stood behind him. Was she really qualified to be the priest?

When Rose walked down the aisle, his suit a brilliant white and his tie matching his fiancée’s, she barely spared a glance at him. Neither did her friends. They stared at the woman walking him down the aisle. Her dress was a pale yellow with splotches of color shimmering at the bottom, and her blonde hair styled back elegantly. She walked him up to the altar, and sat down next to Cyrus.

Lusamine smiled at her niece and her son, turning back to the altar when Oleana cleared her throat.

— 💎— 🎸—

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Galar’s own Chairman Rose Azalea, and Kanto’s Giovanni Rocket.” People clapped politely, which Oleana silenced with a dramatic hand flourish.

“Gio.” Rose smiled, “We’ve known each other for quite some time…”

The chairman kept talking, but Sarah zoned out. She wondered what moments of her life led up to this moment. She really should have just not come.

Giovanni started speaking, but she didn’t listen to that either. Hugh could probably just tell her what they- oh wait, no. He was too busy glaring at Ghetsis behind her back.

When Oleana started talking again, she tuned back in.

— 💎— 🎸—

“-Rose, do you take Giovanni for your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do.”

“Giovanni, do you take Rose for your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do.”

Oleana nodded. “The rings?” Everyone turned as Giovanni’s persian confidently walked down the aisle, a pillow with the rings in his mouth, before sitting at Lusamine’s feet. (Because of course he did.)

The two each took one and placed them on each other’s hands.

Oleana smiled as she stepped to the side, “Now you may kiss the groom.”

— 💎— 🎸—

“Cocktail hour sucks.” Silver scowled at no one in particular, “We can’t even drink.”

“These hors d’oeuvres are good, at least.” Sarah plopped down her plate, which had a bunch of deviled eggs, cheese cubes, and a few sausages.

Hugh shook his head, “The limit was two per-”

“Pffft.” She popped a cheese into her mouth, “It’s the least Rose can do.”

Gladion chuckled, “Sarah-”

“Shhh, wait. This is the best part of Galarian weddings.”

They turned to the center of the room, where the center of the floor sunk in and revealed a battle court.

Giovanni and Rose walked towards the center, where they sent out their nidoking and copperajah respectively.

“What are they-”

“Part of the Galarian tradition is that the couple has their first battle at the reception!”

They kept watching as the two pokemon exchanged blows, but copperajah eventually fell.

Rose healed his pokemon as someone passed Giovanni a microphone.

Silver smirked. “Heh. Looks like it’s the Kantonian part of the wedding, then.”

“Huh-”

“My dear guests,” Giovanni grinned at everyone seated, “Let the battles commence. Whoever beats me and my husband the swiftest shall receive a… reward we’ll say.”

Sarah glanced at Hugh. “You wanna-?”

“You didn’t even have to ask.” They grinned and exchanged a fist bump.

Gladion grinned at his boyfriend, “Guess that means-”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Silver’s smile didn’t match his tone.

— 💎— 🎸—

Sarah grinned while watching the two girls fight. One had a tyrantrum and the other a sylveon. She couldn’t help but feel bad- based on type matchups alone, they were screwed. The thought must’ve jinxed something, because the second she turned back to the court, both pokemon were being returned.

“Ooh, that means it’s our turn!”

Hugh grinned in return, “We mop the floor with ‘em?”

“You know it!”

— 💎— 🎸—

“Sparkle!” Sarah then did a weird… gesture? Dance? Giovanni and Rose exchanged a look, eyes widening when energy shimmered around her. “Extreme Evoboost!”

Her eevee channeled the Z-Power, and a blue aura shimmered around her.

“Bouffalant, Psych Up!” The bovine copied Sparkle’s double omni boost.

“But that shouldn’t be possible-”

Sarah grinned proudly. “Cobalion taught him! My Cobalion!”

Giovani chuckled to himself. “Of course they did. Nidoking, Megahorn. Target the eevee.”

“Copperajah, Iron Head! Follow nidoking.”

“Sparkle, use Freezy Frost on nidoking!”

“Bouffalant, hit copperajah with your strongest Close Combat!”

— 💎— 🎸—

The two plopped back down at the table.

“That must’ve been record timing!”

The duo turned to Silver, who showed the timer on his phone- 5 minutes. “And most of that was just me dancing!”

“Speaking of time,” Silver turned to Gladion with a scowl. “Hurry up.”

“I’ve gotta pick the right disk.”

“They don’t share any weaknesses.”

“Ooh, water might be good. Resists steel.”

“Hah!” Gladion plucked the blue disk from his case, “Knew I could count on you, cuz.”

— 💎— 🎸—

“Think they’ll beat them?”

“I think they’ll take out nidoking, but I don’t know what they’ll do against Coppera-”

“Silvally, use Flamethrower!”

“Weavile, Brick Break!”

“…I stand corrected.”

— 💎— 🎸—

“Congratulations, Sarah. And your boyfriend too.” Rose handed her a 300P gift card for Smoliv Garden.

“…Thanks Rose.” She pocketed it.

“That’s Chairman Rose to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” She grinned, “Thanks Rose.”

She watched as Rose and Giovanni left the room. Likely for pictures. She checked her phone again, 10:25. Dinner was at 11. There was still a while to hang out…

— 💎— 🎸—

“Sarah.” A voice called out to her, and also patted her shoulder.

She looked up from her arms and very eloquently blinked at Hugh. “Huh.”

“Dinner.”

“It’s 11?”

“Yup. You fell asleep.”

She shook herself awake, still disoriented. “Did the others-”

“Yeah, they’re already in the dining hall.”

“Alrighty then, let’s go!”

— 💎— 🎸—

“…Serving Kantonian and Galarian food is a weird choice.”

“You’re telling me.”

Sarah and Hugh sat with the others, each picking up a menu. 

“Wow. They’re really going for legit stuff.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, “This is like, four separate caterers!”

“You gonna get ramen?” Gladion glanced at his cousin, who was going down the menu. 

“Probably.”

Gladion nodded, “Figures. I think I’ll do the same.”

“Might try the curry.” Hugh smiled at his girlfriend, “Won’t be as good as yours, though.”

She grinned proudly as Silver rolled his eyes.

“Think I’ll get seafood.”

Sarah skimmed the seafood menu. She then shook her head, she was never fond of fish and was allergic to shellfish. There was no point in even looking. About to flip back, the small logo in the corner caught her eye. She smiled slightly to herself as she realized that the caterer was the same resteraunt as the one he’d taken her and Sonia years ago.

They typed their orders into the screen on the table.

— 💎— 🎸—

When the lights dimmed and the couple strutted through the doors, sitting at the head table, Sarah knew they would start droning on again.

“My dear guests. I thank you all-”

She was close to putting her head down and falling asleep again, but decided to just zone out. She snapped back to reality when she saw Lance (who also seemed to be zoning out) peek up out of the corner of her eye.

“-and a thank you to our special guests: Champion Leon, Champion Lance, and Champion Sarah! Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here and celebrate with us!”

The three looked at each other from their respective tables, before all three grinned awkwardly at the polite applause.

“And to that, I toast you my friends!” He raised his glass of champagne and everyone followed suit. (The minors only had water in their glasses, but still obliged.)

“Cheers!”

— 💎— 🎸—

Sarah wolfed down her food when it was served.

“I didn’t starve you, did I, dear?” The other three turned to Lusamine, while Sarah kept slurping.

“She’s just like this, Mother.” Gladion frowned, “Now tell us what you’re doing here.”

She only laughed, “Rose has been a dear friend of mine for forever. Not attending his own wedding would be quite rude, especially after he attended mine.”

Before anyone could reply, Sarah dug into her bag, pulling out the envelope and two luxury balls.

“Since you’re going to the gift table, could you put these there for me?”

“I’m regretting the pokemon-as-a-gift decision,” Silver frowned. “How do we know they won’t mistreat them?”

Sarah shook her head emphatically. “They seem alright. And they’re definitely not those two.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of Cyrus and Ghetsis.

Lusamine nodded in agreement, took the three objects, and walked away.

Hugh shook his head, “What was even in that envelope anyways-”

“A check for like, a billion P, probably.” Gladion frowned as Sarah nodded.

Silver only shook his head. “Rich people.”

— 💎— 🎸—

The night commenced with dancing. A lot of dancing.

Sarah wasn’t big on dancing, but even she was dragged on the floor for one slow dance.

The finale of the event happened as the walls lowered into the floor, making the space open once again. The windowed part of the roof opened up and a corviknight taxi flew in. The couple boarded it, calling out “Arrivederci!” and “Bon voyage!” as they showered rose petals and flew off.

Sarah glanced up at the sight, “Is it finally over??”

— 💎— 🎸—

They stalled for a bit, but soon everyone cleared out. Sarah and Hugh also changed, handing their clothes back over to the Aethers. 

The quartet stood outside Rose Tower, “…Guess this is goodbye.” Hugh sadly looked at his two friends, as Sarah moved to the side slightly. They needed their own moment.

“Blueberry’s not gonna be the same without you.” Gladion smiled sadly, as Silver nodded.

“Now we might actually have to hang out with Drayton for company.” Silver mimed throwing up, as the other two chuckled.

Gladion and Silver glanced at each other, before each exchanged an arm. Hugh hugged them both tight.

Sarah smiled slightly when Hugh and Gladion extended arms to her too. The four hugged for a while, knowing that breaking apart would mean they were closer to separating.

When they separated, they stood awkwardly.

“…I’m gonna miss you, Gladdy.” She hugged him tight, which he quickly returned. 

“I’ll miss you too. I’m… I’m glad we got to spend time together this summer.”

“Me too, cuz. Me too.” If she blinked back tears, that was between her and her eyes.

“You sure you don’t need Wyvern?”

“No. We’re going back with Mother via the flying taxi.”

“And you have everything?” 

He nodded.

“Okay.” She turned to Silver, “It was nice meeting you.” She smiled genuinely at him, “You’re good for Gladdy. Thanks for keeping him company.”

He blushed and turned away, but still muttered a thank you. He awkwardly patted her on the back, too.

“Well, you guys should get going.” Hugh frowned slightly.

“Yeah… Aunt Lusamine’s waiting for you.”

They glanced back at the corviknight taxi, like they both forgot she was there.

“Right.”

“Well,” They both started jogging backwards. “Arrivederci. Or whatever.” Silver grinned.

“Well keep in touch. Promise.” Gladion and Silver fully turned and ran to the taxi.

Gladion, Silver, and Lusamine waved from the taxi as it disappeared into the night.

— 💎— 🎸—

“Sarah. Wait.” Hugh placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her from running off.

She turned to him, confused.

“I, uh.” He took out his love ball and released applin, also taking out the tart apple she’d given him months ago. “I- We talked it over.” He gestured between himself and applin, “He’s ready.”

Sarah let out an excited gasp, cupping both his hands with her own. “Really?”

He nodded, and applin trilled in agreement.

“Consider it a… a salud to new adventures, yeah?” She nodded excitedly.

Applin touched the apple and they were surrounded in a blue glow.

Flapple filed around their heads, as they each gave him a pet. Hugh returned him to his pokeball, and pocketed it.

Sarah tackled her boyfriend in a hug, “Dawww, you getting all romantic on me, Hugh?”

He laughed, “Are you tearing up again?”

“No,” She wiped her face, “I got, uh, apple. In my eye. Yeah.”

He laughed again, cupping her face. “C’mere, you dork.”

She pulled him close, kissing him.

They pulled apart, noses touching.

“You ready for whatever’s next?”

His smile was soft, “Anything.”

Prologue fin.

— 💎— 🎸—

Cameos:

Sean from @tallgrassghosts Meg and Kyo from @askthewhiterocket and finally, @kuixotic’s Cooper! (he didn’t have a blog specified lol)

Thank you for letting me grab your chars! Hope I didn’t butcher the back of their heads too bad hehe.

[scionshtola]

i should go to sleep early but. im gonna read instead 😌

[mingi-s-dimples]

Crave me - yunho

pairing: bf!yunho x gf fem!reader

rating: 18+, bdsm

genre: romance, bdsm, filthy smut (mdni ty)

summary: The bratty attitude you had with him didn't last long.. as he leaves his patience at the table and destroys you.

WC: 3.5k

warnings: rough/strict dom!yunho, bratty sub fem!reader, bdsm, choking, neck kink, sucking, blowjob, making out, tying up, pet names (darling, babe, love, pretty boy, sweetie, sweetheart), degradation kink (slut, cumslut, whore), praise kink, slapping/spanking, both vaginal and anal, use of bdsm attire (cuffs, blindfold, rope), use of toys (vibrator), sense deprivation (blindfold), little bit of hand kink, punishing, edging, creampie, ruined orgasms, multiple rounds, deals (but Yunho feels cocky and he said fuck the deal), cum cum cum a lot of cummm, squirting, mentions of safe word but never used (reader is a brat), cum eating, big dick!yunho, overstim, backshots, unprotected (REMEMBER TO WRAP UP IRL !), completely consesual !, for sure forgot something.

Author's Note: SO ! When I first started writing this fic, several day ago, I didn't intend to make it this.. filthy. But.. my lovely bestie rated the roughness in the other 3 fics I have posted an average of 8.sth/10 and I took that as a CHALLENGE. Hope you like it, Lis, love you sweetie. Another small note: WHY AREN'T THERE MORE BDSM FICS OUT THERE HELLO? I'M A SUCKER FOR THEM !

Update, Lis: okay, even though i saw some paragraphs before this was published, i was still taken off guard by this. i’m taking back my words, roughness level 10/10, WHEN I TELL YOU I HAD TO TAKE A BREAK AND BREATHE. seriously i love this fic sm and bia you are so talented, you never fail to amaze me❤️❤️ please keep going with your work, i love youu<3 ( i’m still waiting for a demon joong fic 👹👹👹 ) - my answer: the demon joong fic is alr in my drafts, halfway done.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction & does not represent in any way the reality of the member.

The grand dining hall was a symphony of opulence and elegance, its high vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork and crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over the scene. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their deep hues of burgundy and gold complementing the polished mahogany of the round, small dining tables. As the guests settled into their seats, the gentle strains of a string quartet drifted through the air, mingling with the soft clinking of fine glasses and the murmur of animated conversation.

At one end of the table you were sitting at, the host, Park Seonghwa raised his glass in a toast, his voice resonant and filled with the gravitas of tradition. Across from him, Hongjoong's laughter rang out, light and melodious, adding a delicate counterpoint to the music. The aroma of roasted meats and rich sauces wafted from the platters being served, each dish a masterpiece of culinary art. Conversations flowed like the wine, moving from the latest societal gossip to philosophical musings, as the guests, dressed in their finest evening attire, engaged in a dance of words and wit.

In this setting, every detail was meticulously curated to create an atmosphere of refined luxury and cultural sophistication. Yet, beneath the surface of this carefully constructed elegance, the undercurrents of intrigue and hidden agendas were beginning to stir, promising that the evening's conviviality was only the prelude to a much deeper story.

You, a renowed and well known supermodel, were sitting right next to your husband, Jeong Yunho. He was the CEO of the agency you were modelling at.

The thing is... besides the lovey-dovey side you and Yunho always showed to the other guests and your friends, for example Seonghwa, Hongjoong and the others, the two of you had... another side to your relationship.

Your intimate relationship dynamic was quite.. the opposite of what you were showing. From light forehead kisses, hand holding and warm hugs and kisses... to cuffs, blindfolds and degradation. No one knew the real you when in private, and it made the whole thing way better.

*several minutes later*

"Ooookay, should I ask the chef to bring us some desserts? I think the dinner went really well!" Hongjoong said smiling, watching each of his guests contently. He then hovered his eyes over the whole venue, you could see the happiness flooding over him. It was the ending dinner for a really important business plan that came to a final success.

While the others were happily celebrating with the host, you and Yunho were giving each other some stares. One of the things you loved the most to do was to annoy your man. Why? Cause you knew he'd destroy you the same night. You were never allowed to do things on your own, without his permission. Things such as touching him in public, deny his own touching, dress how you'd like without his approval, because he was really jealous of needy and hungry eyes that always wanted you. Everyone had envy for him, because you were the most beautiful model in your country, the agency itself was the best one, too. But tonight.. you decided to do.. everything that annoyed him and drove him insane. You first started with a.. really nice outfit, you'd say. It was halfway see-through, high heels and silver, bold jewelry completing the look. You were wearing two pieces, a short but flowy black skirt and a white, almost translucent shirt, an elegant one. Your hair was straightened, flowing beautifully on your bare back, as the shirt you were wearing only covered your chest. A silver chain was connecting two pieces of fabric on your back, making you flinch with every slight touch, because of the sheer coldness.

"Darling.. did I ever approve of... this outfit?" Yunho whispered, one of his hands going on your thigh. You tried to deny his touch, moving his hand away, but he only dug his nails deeper into your leg. You flinched, looking at him in the eyes, with an almost innocent look.

"Oh babe... don't you like it? Damn.. I thought it looked really nice" you said sheepishly, smiling at him.

"I didn't say I don't like it but... didn't we agree that these types of visible outfits are... only for me to see, hm?" he whispered and approached your neck with his lips, slightly biting it.

"Babe.. there's people around us. What would they think of you, seeing you kissing me like that?" you said, trying to get a reaction out of him but to your surprise, he remained calm and content, biting you harder.

"Do I look like I give a fuck? You did it to yourself, love. This is the first strike of tonight.. be careful for the rest of the time. I don't feel like destroying your beautiful body when we get back in the room." Yunho said, going in for a soft kiss on your lips.

"We'll see about that, babe." you said and got up from your seat, searching with your eyes the champagne bar.

Someone came behind your back. Of course, it was Yunho, all touchy on your bare waist, as the shirt you were wearing was pretty.. short.

"Babe.. I almost forgot" he mumbled.

"What did I tell you about denying my hand, hm?" his hands hovering your back, one of them on your ass and one on the nape of your neck, slightly squeezing it. "Hm? what did I tell you, mind sharing me your reason?"

"You told me that I should... never move your hand away from myself.." you said turning around to face him. "But... what's entirely wrong with it.. pretty boy? Don't you like it when I tease you..?" you said and gave him a kiss, your hands traveling from his neck to his collarbones, then from his chest to his belt, tugging at it for a second.

"This is.." he whispered. "Strike two.. my love." One more and we're out of here.. remember the rule?" he squeezed your ass, looking right into your eyes, seeing how eager you were to fuck him right there.

Several minutes pass and you were back to your table, sitting next to each other. He effortlessly pulled your seat closer to his, making you gulp at his power and speed. Looking him in the eyes you started being all touchy with him. Started from his hands, feeling up his slender and long fingers, then to his biceps. You stayed like that for a long minute, with your head resting on his shoulder, then one of your hands went straight for his crotch, no warning.

"Yunho, everything good? Why did you flinch, is it too cold here?" Seonghwa asked, confused.

"Ah yes, everything is fine, don't worry about it" he said smiling, squeezing your thigh, his hand going to your pussy, rubbing circles through your panties from under your skirt.

 "Babe... that's strike three, if you ask me." he said and patted you on your thigh, to make you look at him. He then looked around for the exit doors and excused himself, taking your hand into his.

"Joong, we'll be back, I need to take care of something at the agency" Yunho said and then dragged you out.

And as the two of you got out the doors, there was a long empty hall, no one was there. He slammed you to the wall, one of his hands on your throat and one lifting you up. He was going towards the elevator.

"Nh- babe, where are we going? you said through the kisses.

"Just upstairs, I reserved a room for us right here. I didn't think we'd need it but... you wanted to be a little slut so it serves us good. Aren't you my little whore, hm? All down for me, I saw you eye fucking me when you were getting champagne. You wanted me to fuck you dumb tonight, mm? he said while going in the elevator.

"What did you want me to do babe, hm? Did you miss my slaps and my cuffs? You little slut, you'll see what will happen if you're being a brat with me again" and right as he said this, he held you close as he opened the door with the keycard. He closed it and he dropped you on your bed.

Some meters from the king sized bed there was a small bag, and you knew so well what there was... cuffs, blindfolds, ropes.. everything you could think of as a sub. And yes.. the relationship between you and your husband, in private, was a dom/sub one. You found out that you were both into bdsm a while ago, when Yunho didn't resist anymore and tried something new on you. You loved it and... it became a really often practice.

"Love, spread out, now." he said as he went back to get something from the bag.

You were still dressed and he was too. But you could feel yourself leaking right on the bed. You knew you left a wet spot on the dark sheets, something that turned your man on even more.

"Told you to spread the fuck out, you brat. When did you get so naughty, hm? Want me to put you in your place? he said as he spread your legs out, tying them to the bed frame. You still had your clothes on, but the skirt was lifted up and the blouse was all messed up. He ripped of your panties and threw them on the floor.

You tried to say something but didn't have time to react. He went back to the bag and took out some cuffs, then got on the bed, his crotch, still dressed, rubbing on your folds. You could feel his bulge getting bigger, his pants getting thighter as he went further to tie your hands to the headboard.

"For all of what you did tonight.. babe, you'll get punished, you know that, right? he said as he hovered his hand over your throat and collarbones. "Stay still, I'll tie a sheer blindfold to your eyes. I want you to still be able to distinguish how I destroy your little and pretty pussy." 

"Yuyu.. please. Fuck me." you pleaded, trying to look him in the eyes. Whenever he tied a blindfold on your eyes.. it turned you on so bad. You couldn't properly see what was happening nor what he was doing, preparing what to do to you.. but it was thrilling.

"Hmm... what should I start with.. pretty slut, mm? Should I just edge you until you can't take it anymore and cum out of overstimulation and exhaustion, should I make you cry and not let you cum the whole night? Should I.... fuck you and deny your orgasm how you denied my hand? Tell me, sweetheart. I need words, not muffled sounds." he confidently said, giving you a smirk and his right hand going right to your blouse, easily unbuttoning it and throwing it away on the floor.

He hastly gets rid of your bra, his groping entirely unhelpful. Large hands, slender fingers roaming your body, sliding over your nipples, pressing and nibbling at them, cupping your breasts and hoisting your legs up and around his waist. Him, still clothed, you.. only with your skirt on, if that's even important.

"Fuck, Yuyu —" you gasp when he sucks a dark bruise into the skin of your neck, while one of his hands went to his shirt. He slowly unbuttoned it, then went for his pants. He undid them halfway and pushed towards you, getting a soft moan out of your slowly rising chest, heavy breathing from all the manhandling he did on you. He was taking his time. He absolutely loved seeing you begging for his cock, squirming and moving against his crotch in wish of friction. But.. Yunho left all his patience at the door.

"Babe, how did you get me this mad, hm? Did you even think about the consequences, you little slut? If that's what you wanted.. I'll destroy you, sweetheart."

Two of his fingers trace your hole before sinking into you, curling to find the right spot. All you can do is arch your back, your moans and cries soon muffled by one of his hands, as he chokes you.

"Is this what you wanted? rile me up so I'd fuck you hard tonight? all you needed to do is ask, sweetie." Yunho said, curling his fingers right into your sweet spot, receiving some loud moans from you.

You could ask and he'd give you the moon if he could. But he was a completely different person in bed. There's something about him taking you like this, almost feral, that makes your toes curl.. could it be his fingers and how he curls them in you so good that he makes you shiver and cum, maybe squirt all over the place? would it be... his cock and how deep you feel it in you, scared that he might destroy your insides?

He fucks his fingers into you sloppily, scissoring you open with little to no care if it hurts or not. It was clear that he only had one goal in sight, and that being stretching you out just enough to be able to take his cock.

It only takes a few more strokes before he's satisfied, the blunt head of his dick prodding at your entrance, getting loud whimpers from you.

"Use the safe word if it's too much" he said and started pounding into you, making your hands rocket to the headboard, holding on for dear life. It's the only warning he gives you but.. it's enough to get an understanding on how pissed he was. He was holding so thight onto your thighs, them around his waist, that you knew you'd have bruises the next day.

"So fucking tiny" he grunts as he watches you struggle to adjust to his size "Such a whore for my cock, mhm? You take it so well... even if it destroys you. Be my cumslut, won't you? I'll edge you until you can't take it anymore."

"Y-yunho !" you shouted as he used a vibrator on your clit, arching your back at the sensation. The puffed bud he was stimulating made you feel like you'd already come, but something else happend. Your walls clenched on his cock, receiving a low grunt and as he slowed down his thrusts, he watched you contently at how you squirted all over him and the bed.

"Oh wow, already? Lucky this is the only thing I'm letting you do, you little slut" he said as he thrusted even deeper, harder, sloppier into you.

"Babe, n-no don't do th-that I might c-cum" you said as he was giving you another round of circles on your clit, feeling how overstimulated you were.

"Nope, I won't let you" he said as he stopped, pulling out of you, your hole clenching on nothing.

He started rubbing his length lazily, looking at you squirming right in front of him. You wanted to be fucked dumb, until you couldn't walk anymore. But that wasn't his plan for tonight.

"Let's make a deal. If you make me cum only with your mouth, no hands and no sucking. Just touching, licking and nibbling, I'll let you cum. Otherwise, you'll get slapped and fucked... not in your little aching pussy, but deep down in your cute and red ass, until you cry. What do you say, babe, a pretty good deal, I'd say?" he said as he uncuffed your hands, lifting you on your knees.

The thing is... you weren't quite.. on your knees. You were spread out, your aching hole rubbing on the wet and sloppy linen underneath you. You started humping it slowly, not knowing if you were allowed to, but he somehow didn't mind it. He knew you weren't able to cum only from humping on a cloth so he let you do your thing.

"Now.. be my little cumslut and get on licking." he said guiding your head to his dick, throbbing on your lips. You had your hands cuffed at your back, not being able to move them. You started kissing, nibling at the tip, getting some nice groans out of him. Then you started licking the slit, putting pressure with your tongue and licking his length all down to the base of it. The circles you always make on the tip get him from being silent to being louder, as the sloppy sounds of your tongue turns him on more.

"Yes, just like that, sweetie. A liiiittle bit more and you're getting me closer."

You started nibbling, almost like sucking on his tip.

"Yuh, mhm. Go on, make me cum, you little whore" he said as his breath started getting faster, heavier, your licks getting sloppier as he tried so hard not to cum but... you did the deal. He came all over your face, as you were not allowed to suck it.

"Good girl, such a good girl you are" he said as he wiped off his load from your face with one hand and with the other one opening your mouth, his thumb on your bottom lip. He let his cum drip onto your tongue, signaling you by raising his brows to swallow. You did as he wanted, soon sucking his fingers to get every drop of his load.

"Y'know babe.. I kinda changed my mind in between your little nibbles." he said as he turned you over, on your belly, one of his hands on the back of your throat. "You're gonna take me so well, I will make sure of it." he said as two of his fingers went in your other hole, no warnings. You moaned at the feeling of his fingers curling up inside you. The same as before, his goal was to make your hole be able to engulf his length, but this time his goal was to bottom down entirely.

"Thought you could just leave me like that?" he wraps a hand around your waist, the other one on your neck, "leave me high and dry without any repercussions? You're lucky I'll keep my promise and let you cum so... cum, you little slut." as he started pounding heavily and deeply into you.

The hand he had on your waist goes to your pussy, curling them inside you and rubbing your clit.

You shake your head at his words, the coil in your tummy tightening with every word he hisses into your ear, wetness dripping down his balls and coating them as he pounds into your ass.

Yunho could feel you clenching around his cock, knows you're close by the familiar rhythm and your muffled whines rising in pitch. He removes his thight hold on your neck, letting you turn your head around, gasping for air.

"'m so close, fuck, yunho, gonna cum —"

Your entire body tenses then slumps down against the mattress, only held up by his strong arm around your waist. Yunho fucks you through your orgasm, through the oversensitivity and the chants of your little whimpers and words.

"too much, 's too much, please, s-stop" but you never use your safe word. You whine and you cry until your limp body is pushed over the edge again, eyes rolling back while you cream his cock, the 2nd time in a short time.

"c-can't," you whimper weakly, "please cum, please — Yunho, please-"

You're begging him so sweetly, voice cracking and body at his mercy. Yunho's hips stutter and his load spills deep inside of you. Your knees buckle under his waist and you whine when the two of you stumble back, his arms wrapped around your chest, all touchy on your breasts.

"You're gonna take my cum all, you little whore. Remember what I said, being my cumslut? Now, take it" he said as he continued pounding into you, getting you over the edge. He didn't lie when he said he'd destroy you, your knees trembling as he closed the gap between the two of you. He then pulled out, pumping his length and his other hand going to your clit over your thigh, sending you shivers down your spine as you squirt once again for the night, now your body being only handled by the hand he used on you.

"What a good whore I have, mm" he mumbled as he came on your back, slowing down his pumps as he slowly puts you down on the mattress.

"See babe? What happens if you're a fucking brat?" he said as he undid the blindfold, looking at your teary eyes.

"What, by the look you have, you want more, you little slut? Is that right?" he said as he slapped your ass.

"Don't worry, I wasn't even close to being done tonight, turn around, I want you to see me fucking you this time."

[valalice]

PRELUDE: POPULARITY CONTEST

punk rockstar!vi 𝑥 fem!popstar!reader

summary. label mandated events. everyone dreads them, but social networking is a must; an art form managers have mastered and a sport to artists in order to thrive in the competitiveness that is the music industry. and it’s here where the two of you were closer than you had even thought.

warnings. it's just the prelude, so no major warnings. angst a little bit. industry parties. mentions of alcohol and drugs. original non-canon characters. mentions of not so great friends (surround yourself with people you love). not much more i can think of, if i missed any, please lmk.

wc. 1553

a speaks. well! here she is! the first chapter of the series. i'm not completely satisfied with it, but it's just the prelude, a little teaser for what's to come, she is on the shorter side because it is a prelude, regular chapters will be longer! and with that i have to plug my ao3, i will be dully posting her on tumblr and on ao3, so if you prefer the formatting of ao3 over tumblr's then feel free to head over there! there will be no explicit of vi within the prelude *wink* but the next chapters y'all will be fed, i promise! and lastly thank you so much from just the amount of sweet comments saying how excited you are for the series, it not only motivates me but also warms my heart. i love you guys, thank you for the support. happy reading <3

series masterlist | read it in ao3 | series playlist

YOU STARE STUNNED at your manager. Mouth agape, skin drained of all its color, and eyes wide, bulging even, to the point where if you even tried to widen your eyes further they’d pop out of your sockets and roll onto the floor ridden with fallen confetti.

“And you chose to tell me this now?” you questioned, voice fluctuating to a pitched shrill. Out of the frustrated and impending heavy stress-ridden weights you already feel stacking on your shoulders and in hopes that your manager could hear your distaste for the delivery of this news over the bumping music.

“I didn’t know when to tell you.”

There wasn’t enough restraint nor care to hold the scoff that bubbled up in your chest, up to your throat, and out your mouth. “So, here was the perfect place, Corinne?” quirking an eyebrow.

“I knew the news would get you,” pausing to look down the length of your antsy figure, a clear standout in the sea of swaying people against each other. Trying to gather the right words that won’t send you off your rocker, further. “wound up. And I was right. But you’re at a party, the environment is fun, loose, and light. Enjoy it, you’re with friends.” she eases, inching closer towards you, knowing what works with you in the near decade of being your manager.

Your eyes bore into Corinne's, squinting at her just before dropping to eye at the little glittery clutch in your hand that matches your skirt. Flicking at a few of the glitter specs on the clutch with a manicured nail before huffing, shoulders deflating upon the exhale from the involuntary hunch you had them in seconds before. 

Corinne’s words soak past surface level for a moment, absorbing, and trying to understand that, while unideal, being in an uppity environment could busy your racing mind from running laps around any and all possibilities on why your boss urgently wants a meeting with you. Yet, still, you would’ve much preferred this news in private. Wrapping your arms around yourself, looking over your shoulders to the people in the room—some faces you knew, whether they're fellow artists, celebrities of varying lists, or casual socialites who find their way into parties like these often, but most of whom you don't know, that's how it's always been; being in a room full of people who you have no idea who they are, yet they know everything about you. Turning back around to Corinne, “None of these people are my friends.”

“Then, colleagues.” she fixes, raising her voice when the music starts to roar.

Instead of scoffing a humble chuckle takes its place. “Colleagues who want to see me crash and burn into the Bermuda Triangle to never be seen again. Then, yes, they are.”

Corinne gives you a look you know all too well, a disciplinary look when the older woman thinks whatever you’d just said was inappropriate. Her head drops and a hand finds home on her waist as her body slants. “Morbid. These colleagues who ‘want to see you crash and burn’ are also fighting with each other to get a feature.” 

“There won’t be much to feature on if I get fired.” you gloom, grey, thundering clouds of pessimism altering your mood.

“You’re the label’s darling, no one’s getting fired.” she comforts, or tries. Even after all these years, it’s still foreign to her to properly comfort you in moments like these, but she does her best as the arm against her side raises. The coldness of her hand on your upper arm startles you, an icy comfort soothes over your burning skin, relaxing into her touch. ‘You’re the label’s darling’ runs on repeat like a record on a record player, the only thought that occupies the dark space of your mind right now, attempting to stomach the words in hopes that you’d digest them and be able to believe that Corinne is right.

The pressure of her hand leaves your arm, the pads of her fingers wisping down your upper arm as she catchers her arm to lay at her side once again, taking a step back from you with a click of her heels. Now, it’s Corinne’s turn to look beyond her shoulders to observe the room, everyone’s in their own fantasy land—maybe that’s due to the boos and drugs making their rounds through the room for each guest to get their desired fix—yet, she digress when she focuses attention to the younger in front of her. The pesky grey clouds persisting overtop of your head, your slumped figure reminding her nothing less than a kicked puppy; she pitties you.

“I’m going to network. I think I spotted that one videographer you’ve been wanting to work with.” She hoped that with this mention you’d perk up, but she got nothing more than a tight-lipped smile followed by a weak nod.

“It would be pretty cool if we got him to work on the new album visuals.”

Corinne shares her own tight-lipped smile with you. “Atta girl. Try to loosen up, yeah? You’re going to get more knots if you stay tense.”

A feathery light laugh falls from your lips that she turns her worries to the hypothetical knots you’ll develop. “Noted. I’ll see if I can find my friends.” contradictory to your earlier statement, but it’s a win-some-lose-some situation when all you’ve got is a small pool of people to refer to as a friend. Never genuine a friend, no, but you do develop a bond when mutual use of each other is used to forget the loneliness that is guaranteed with fame.

“You mean colleagues?” she quips, testing you on your past ideology.

There was a space that became as the two of you began to drift apart. “They’re starting to overlap for me.” you shrug, already knowing that both wish to see the same thing happen to you. Leaving Corinne to watch as you disappear into the abyss, pleased that you’ve regained even just a bit of pep in your step—she knows you too well to not know how to get your spirits back on track.

Working your way through the crowd you shout your fair share of “Excuse me’s” and “Right behind you’s”, refraining the best you can from elbowing your way through after a few shoves to yourself; although you’re almost positive that most deserve the elbow. 

Balling your fists up, still grasping your clutch in your grasp, as you bring your hands up to your chest, thinking you’ll move fast through the crowd without your arms at your sides. Just when you’re near the other side of the room you hear the shouts of your name—stage name, but name nonetheless—through the music, certain that when you exit the building your ears will be ringing and your heart still vibrating in your chest cavity from the blaring music the DJ is mixing up. Whipping around you squint, attempting to see the caller of your name past the blinding light effects. With defeat, you shuffle through the crowd, following the indicator of the person’s arm flailing in the air every so often.

Not knowing what happened next, if your foot got caught or if someone had shoved you again, but you end up bracing onto someone’s back. Taking a hold of their broad shoulders the best you can, cringing when the blunt sound of your clutch meets the person’s back in the abrupt moment, while your other hand desperately tries to get a grasp on them, but you end up just missing the mark as your sweaty hand (courtesy of the cramped space) slides down the leathery smoothness of their jacket.

It’s a blur when you crane your neck to look out to the crowd once more upon the call of your name, a hand snapping around your wrist and pulling you into their grasp—it’s Gwen, her model legs reaching you quicker than you would’ve ever been able to. Before you can process an apology for bracing on the random person, Gwen is already whisking you through the congested room. Too preoccupied with trying to catch a glimpse over your shoulder from where you previously were to pay attention clearly to whatever she’s rambling about, not that you could hear her anyway over the DJ’s newest mix. But as you move further along, you can no longer spot the mystery person, or well their back, who had generously been in the right spot at the right time for you to catch yourself on them. Not that you’d be able to know what they looked like, just going off of the fact that they’d be wearing a leather jacket—though who would wear a leather jacket in here?

The question would linger in your mind for the rest of the night, scoping through the crowd for anyone who had on anything eerily similar to a leather jacket. And when the night rounds out to an end you’re left with an irk buried deep beneath your skin that the question is left unanswered, with no real reason on why you’re bothered by this.

Yet, this incident out of many—the countless right times, right places missed—unknowingly brings you one step closer to the meeting that’s always been bound to occur.

thank you for reading <3 remember to comment and reblog!

for the fame series masterlist | next chapter (coming february 14th!)

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[kittenan]

i’m loving all your contents but i hope you post a joon fic next (i’m sorry i’m just starved for a joon fic lately i’ve been reading the same fics every other day🫠)

Seduced and Saved

Pairing: Mafia's Right-Hand Namjoon x Kidnapped Reader Genre: Dark Romance | Mafia AU | Smut | Forbidden Lust | Rescue Mission | Seduction Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, violence, kidnapping, non-con elements (coercion), power dynamics, possessive behavior, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, oral sex, wall sex, desk sex, intense make-out sessions, angst, betrayal, gun violence, emotional manipulation, torture (graphic but non-excessive), aftercare. Word Count: ~9k

The world was a blur of chloroform and rough hands when you were taken. Now, the haze had cleared, leaving you in a suffocating underground suite, all velvet and gold but reeking of cigar smoke and bourbon.

Your wrists burned, bound behind your back with coarse rope, but you stood defiant, chin high, refusing to let fear seep into your bones.

Viktor Drae, the mafia lord who’d orchestrated your kidnapping, lounged on a chaise, his tailored suit a mockery of elegance. His eyes, dark and predatory, glinted under the chandelier as he twirled a dagger between his fingers. “On your knees, pet,” he purred, voice smooth as poison.

You spat at his polished shoes, the glob landing with a wet splat. “I’d rather choke.”

His laugh was sharp, a blade slicing the air. “Oh, I like you. You’ll be fun to break.” He waved a hand toward the shadowed corner. “Namjoon, keep an eye on her.”

A figure emerged from the darkness, broad shoulders cutting through the haze like a storm. Kim Namjoon, Viktor’s right-hand, was a paradox—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes colder than a winter grave.

His black suit hugged his frame, every movement precise, lethal. He didn’t spare you a glance, his expression carved from stone.

“Not my job,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, already turning toward the door.

Viktor’s smile faltered, a crack in his facade. “Don’t test me, Joon.”

Namjoon paused, jaw tight, his hand twitching toward the gun at his hip. Then, without a word, he strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You smirked despite the ropes cutting into your skin. If Viktor’s attack dog wasn’t interested, maybe you had a chance to claw your way out of this hell.

But deep down, you knew: Namjoon’s indifference was a lie. You’d seen the flicker in his eyes when Viktor called you pet. A spark of something—anger, maybe, or something darker. You filed it away, a weapon for later.

Days bled into nights, the opulent suite a suffocating cage of crimson velvet and gilded mirrors. Viktor’s obsession with you grew sharper, a blade honed with every defiance you threw at him.

He didn’t just want your body—he craved your submission, your spirit shattered at his feet. Each morning, he’d slink into your room, his cologne a sickly prelude to his games.

“You’ll beg for me, pet,” he’d murmur, his fingers bruising your wrists as he pinned you to the wall, his lips grazing your ear. When you spat in his face, he laughed, but his punishments were swift.

The first time, he locked you in a windowless closet for hours, the air stale, your screams swallowed by darkness.

The second, he forced you to kneel on rice grains scattered across the marble floor, your knees bleeding as he watched, sipping bourbon. “Pretty when you hurt,” he said, tilting your chin up with his dagger’s tip, a thin cut blooming on your jaw when you jerked away.

You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but your body trembled from the strain.

Later that night, you found a first aid kit on your bedside table—bandages, antiseptic, a small roll of gauze. No note, but you knew. Namjoon. His silent act of care, hidden from Viktor’s eyes, was a crack in his icy facade.

Namjoon was always there, a silent specter in the shadows. Unlike Viktor’s other “toys”—women who’d crumbled under his cruelty, their eyes vacant as they trailed him like broken dolls—Namjoon had never spared them a glance.

You’d overheard the guards whispering about it: how he’d walk past Viktor’s parade of captives, his face a mask of indifference, as if they were furniture. “Kim doesn’t care,” one guard sneered.

“He’s got no heart, just a brain for the boss’s dirty work.”

But with you, it was different. You noticed it first in the security room, where Namjoon monitored the feeds. His eyes lingered on you—not with the lustful hunger of Viktor’s men, but with a quiet intensity, like he was solving a puzzle.

When Viktor pinned you during one of his “lessons,” Namjoon’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around a glass until it shattered, blood dripping onto the floor. He didn’t flinch, just left, but you saw the storm in his eyes.

Why you? You pieced it together slowly. The other women had begged or bargained, their spirits snuffed out by fear.

But you fought—clawing, spitting, cursing Viktor even as he hurt you. Namjoon, a man who thrived on control, was drawn to your fire, the unyielding spark that refused to dim.

You caught him watching you in the dining hall, where you’d thrown a glass of wine at Viktor’s face, the red staining his shirt. Namjoon’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he turned away. It was your defiance, your refusal to break, that unraveled him—a challenge to the cold, calculated world he ruled.

You also learned his power by observing. Viktor was the face of the empire, but Namjoon was its spine. Guards straightened when he passed, their banter dying.

Once, you overheard a phone call through a cracked door—Namjoon barking orders in clipped tones, rerouting shipments, silencing a traitor with a single command.

“Without Kim, Drae’s just a loudmouth with a gun,” a guard muttered later, unaware you were listening. Namjoon held the keys to Viktor’s trafficking networks, his smuggling routes, his blackmail files. He wasn’t just the right-hand; he was the mind that kept the machine running.

Namjoon’s hidden anger at Viktor’s cruelty fueled your plan. You saw it in the way his fists balled when Viktor cut your jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you limped from the rice punishment.

He never intervened, but his silence screamed louder than words. He hated this—hated you being the target. That was your leverage. If you could break through his icy facade, you could use him to escape this hell.

One morning, Namjoon brought your breakfast tray, a rare task he’d taken from the guards. You decided to test him, leaning against the table, your voice low and teasing.

“You know, Joon, you’re not as scary as you think,” you purred, brushing your fingers lightly over his arm, your eyes locked on his. “Bet you’d be fun if you let that ice melt a little.”

His eyes narrowed, cold and unyielding, and he jerked his arm away, his voice sharp with disdain. “Don’t waste your breath. I don’t care about you or your games.”

His words cut, his rudeness a slap to your pride, and you hated him in that moment—his arrogance, his detachment, the way he made you feel small.

“Liar,” you snapped, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. “I know you put that med kit in my room every time Viktor hurts me. You’re not as heartless as you pretend.”

He froze, his jaw ticking, but his eyes remained glacial. “You’re delusional,” he muttered, turning away, but the slight hitch in his breath betrayed him.

You smirked, your hatred simmering, but you saw your opening. If he could lie to himself, you’d use that against him.

Later, you stood before the mirror, your hair damp from the shower, clad only in a thin robe.

When Namjoon returned to collect the tray, you let the robe slip, “accidentally” dropping it to the floor, revealing your bare skin.

His eyes widened, pupils swallowing the brown, his throat bobbing as he froze. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning sharply, but not before you saw the bulge straining his slacks.

He slammed the door behind him, but you smirked, heart racing. He was affected—deeply. Seduction was your weapon, and Namjoon was your target. You’d play his desire like a blade, cutting your way to freedom.

You needed to push harder, to chip away at Namjoon’s icy control until he shattered. One night, you faked a nightmare, sobbing loud enough for the guards to fetch him.

He stormed into your room, gun drawn, his shirt half-unbuttoned from being roused from sleep, revealing a sliver of toned chest.

His eyes scanned the room, then landed on you—curled on the bed, trembling in a sheer nightgown that clung to your curves, the fabric slipping to reveal the swell of your breast.

“Please… stay,” you whispered, eyes wide and pleading, a tear streaking down your cheek for effect. You sat up, letting the strap of your nightgown slide down your shoulder, your voice soft but teasing. “Unless you’re scared of a girl’s bad dreams, tough guy.”

He sighed, holstering his gun and dragging a chair to the bedside, his jaw tight. “Five minutes,” he grunted, sitting stiffly, his gaze fixed on the wall. But you saw his eyes flicker to your exposed skin, his fingers digging into his thighs.

You shifted, the nightgown riding up your thigh, and leaned closer, your breath warm against his ear. “You don’t strike me as the babysitting type, Namjoon,” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “What’s it take to get under that cold skin of yours? Or are you just Viktor’s robot?”

His eyes snapped to yours, a storm brewing in their depths. “Don’t play games with fire, girl,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel, but you caught the hitch in his breath, the way his gaze lingered on your lips.

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your hair fall seductively over one eye. “Fire? Oh, I think you’re the one burning, big guy. Your eyes are practically begging to touch me.” You stretched, arching your back just enough to make the nightgown strain against your chest. “Or are you afraid you’ll like it too much?”

His jaw ticked, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair. “You talk too much,” he muttered, but his voice was strained, and you saw the bulge in his slacks growing.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his earlobe as you whispered, “Then why are your pupils blown wide? Bet you’re imagining all the ways I could make you lose control.”

He shot to his feet, towering over you, his chest heaving. For a moment, you thought he’d snap—grab you, pin you, do something.

His eyes burned with a mix of anger and desire, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “You’re fucking trouble,” he snarled, adjusting his slacks with a curse, and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

You flopped back on the bed, grinning, your heart pounding. The ice wasn’t just cracking—it was melting. You’d seen the hunger in his eyes, the way his control frayed at your teasing.

Namjoon was yours to unravel, and with every taunt, you’d pull him closer to breaking. Soon, he’d be your key out of this cage.

You couldn’t wait anymore. Next night, Victor wasn't there. You slipped into Namjoon’s quarters, the door clicking shut behind you.

He was at his desk, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of toned chest, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes snapped to you, narrowing as you stepped into the dim light, your silk robe barely tied, the fabric clinging to your curves.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled, setting the glass down with a clink.

You stepped closer, hips swaying, letting the robe slip open to reveal lace panties and nothing else. “I can’t sleep,” you purred, voice low and sultry. “Thought you could… help.”

He stood, towering over you, and grabbed your throat, pinning you to the wall with a thud. His grip was firm but not cruel, his thumb brushing your racing pulse. “You want me to lose control?” he snarled, his breath hot on your lips. “Fine.”

His mouth crashed into yours, a bruising kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. You moaned, tugging his hair, and he growled, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth with fierce possession.

You bit his lip, drawing blood, and he hissed, pulling back to glare at you, his eyes black with desire, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his gaze raking over your body as he ripped your robe open, the silk tearing slightly under his urgency.

The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you bare except for the lace panties, your skin prickling under his intense stare.

He spun you, bending you over the desk, your chest pressing into the cold wood, the edge biting into your hips. You gasped as cold metal grazed your wrists—handcuffs clicking into place, securing your hands behind your back.

“No,” you snapped, twisting against the restraints, your voice sharp with panic, your heart racing. “I hate this thing. I’m not a toy, Namjoon. Don’t make me feel like one.”

His hands froze, his breath ragged, his body tense behind you. For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours over your shoulder, conflict raging in their depths.

“You’re different,” you whispered, voice softening but firm, your gaze pleading. “You’re not him. Don’t do this.”

He cursed under his breath, his fingers trembling as he unlocked the cuffs, tossing them aside with a clatter that echoed in the room.

The moment they fell, something shifted—his gaze softened, his touch gentler as he cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that stole your breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, and you both froze.

That apology, that vulnerability—it was more than lust. You meant something to him, and the realization hit you both like a tidal wave, raw and overwhelming.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less desperate, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that felt like he was trying to memorize you.

His hands slid to your hips, lifting you onto the desk with ease, the wood cool against your bare thighs. He slid your panties down, leaving them dangling around your thighs, and you felt his fingers tease your entrance, finding you soaked, your arousal coating his fingertips.

“Already dripping?” he taunted, circling your clit with agonizing slowness, his voice a low growl laced with dark amusement.

“Shut up and fuck me,” you snapped, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more, your core throbbing with need.

He chuckled, dark and dangerous, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and challenge. Then you felt him—thick, hot, stretching you as he thrust in with one brutal stroke, filling you so completely you cried out, your nails scraping the desk, the pain melting into pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to you.

Each thrust was punishing, the desk creaking violently, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic flurry. His pace was relentless, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow, like this was the last time he’d ever get to claim you like this.

His hips snapped against yours with a ferocity that made your breath hitch, each deep thrust hitting a spot inside you that sent sparks through your veins.

His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, his cock driving into you with a desperate urgency, as if he was afraid you’d slip away, as if he needed to mark you as his before the world tore you apart.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice raw, almost breaking, his breath hot against your ear. “No one else gets this—fuck, no one else ever will.”

You clenched around him, your walls fluttering, smirking despite the intensity, your voice taunting through gasps. “Harder, Namjoon.”

He snarled, a primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and obliged, slamming into you with a force that made you see stars, the desk shuddering beneath you, threatening to collapse.

His rhythm was merciless, each thrust deeper, harder, his cock stretching you to your limits, the pleasure bordering on pain. He fucked you like he was chasing something—redemption, oblivion, you—his hips pistoning with a desperation that made your heart race, your body trembling as you teetered on the edge.

His hand slid up your spine, fisting your hair to pull your head back, exposing your throat, his lips grazing your skin. “Look at you, taking me so fucking well,” he growled, his voice a intoxicating mix of degradation and awe, his breath ragged. “Perfect—made for me.”

The coil in your core tightened, your body quaking as the pleasure built, overwhelming, unstoppable. “Come for me,” he commanded, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that pushed you over the edge.

You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with a scream, your walls pulsing around him, milking him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, your vision blurring, your body shaking.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts erratic, his own release chasing yours. His grip on your hips tightened, bruising, as he pounded into you with a final, desperate frenzy, his cock throbbing inside you.

“Fuck, I’m—,” he groaned, his voice breaking, and he spilled inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering, his forehead pressed to your back as he rode out his climax, his breaths harsh and uneven. Each pulse of his release felt like a claim, a vow, his warmth filling you, grounding you in the moment.

For a moment, you both stilled, panting, the air heavy with the scent of sex, whiskey, and sweat. Then, he kissed your temple—a soft, reverent press of lips that made your heart stutter, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before.

He froze, as if realizing the tenderness of his action, and pulled away, his hands shaking as he helped you sit up, his touch now gentle, almost hesitant.

“Get out,” he muttered, voice hoarse, turning his back to you, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides.

You smirked, pulling your robe on, your legs still trembling, your core aching deliciously from his intensity. “You’ll beg for me again.”

He didn’t respond, but you saw the tension in his posture, the way his hands flexed, fighting the urge to reach for you. You’d cracked the beast, and there was no going back.

Namjoon avoided you for days, his presence a ghost in the halls. You didn’t let up. One evening, you snuck into his office, leaning against his desk in a tight skirt that rode up your thighs, revealing lace garters. When he walked in, his eyes darkened, his jaw tight, but he kept his distance, warring with himself.

“Did I feel like a mistake?” you purred, sliding closer, your fingers trailing along the desk’s edge. “Or are you just scared to admit you’re hooked, big guy?”

He growled, stepping closer but stopping short, his hands fisted at his sides. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, voice low, but his eyes betrayed him—hungry, conflicted, desperate to touch you but holding back.

You tilted your head, smirking, your voice teasing. “Dangerous? Oh, I think you like it. Why else do you keep staring like I’m your last meal?” You hopped onto the desk, crossing your legs slowly, letting the skirt ride higher. “Come on, admit it—you’re dying to taste me again.”

His breath hitched, but he turned his head, avoiding your lips, and the rejection stung more than it should have. You were using him, weren’t you? Just a means to escape.

So why did his refusal to kiss you hurt, a sharp ache in your chest? You pushed the feeling down, focusing on the game. “What’s wrong, Joon? Scared you’ll fall for me?” you taunted, poking his chest.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but careful. “Stop,” he snapped, but his voice was strained, his eyes flickering with torment. He wanted you—badly—but he was fighting it, and that hurt more than you cared to admit.

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive strength, pushing them apart with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath catch. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he growled, his voice rough, almost pleading, as he buried his face between your legs.

His lips found your core, hot and insistent, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, tasting your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your skin, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your spine.

You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively, but his hands held you firm, fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.

His tongue was relentless, swirling around your clit with precise, teasing flicks that made your toes curl, each movement calculated to drive you wild.

He sucked your clit gently at first, then harder, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud, pulling a cry from your throat as your head fell back, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard.

His moans hummed against you, deep and primal, like he was savoring every drop of you, drinking you in like a man starved for weeks.

His tongue dipped lower, plunging into your entrance, fucking you with slow, deep strokes that had you trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

He alternated between lapping at your folds and sucking your clit, his pace maddening, building you up only to slow down just as you neared the edge, making you whimper with need.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped against your core, his voice muffled, his breath hot and tickling your oversensitive skin. His lips grazed your inner thigh, nipping lightly before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit with a rhythm that felt like worship, each stroke sending sparks through your body.

Your thighs quaked, trying to close around his head, but he growled, prying them wider, his fingers bruising as he held you open, exposing every inch of you to his relentless assault.

He licked you like he was memorizing your taste, like he’d never get enough, his moans vibrating through you, amplifying every sensation until you were a writhing mess, your hips grinding against his face, chasing the release he kept teasing.

“Namjoon,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling until he groaned, the sound raw and hungry. He doubled down, sucking your clit with a pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes, his tongue flicking in tight, rapid circles, pushing you closer, closer.

Your body tensed, the coil in your core snapping as pleasure crashed over you, a keening cry ripping from your throat as you came, your thighs trembling, your hips bucking against his mouth.

He didn’t stop, lapping at you through your orgasm, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, whimpering, tugging his hair to pull him away.

He stood, wiping his glistening lips with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and wild, his chest heaving. He freed himself from his slacks, his cock hard and heavy, and fucked you slow, his hands gripping your waist, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re not just a game to me,” he whispered, his voice raw with confession. You both froze, the weight of his words hanging between you.

He avoided your lips, his forehead pressing to your shoulder instead, and the ache in your chest deepened. Why did you care? Why did you want his kiss, his heart, when all you needed was his help to escape?

He pulled out, tucking himself away, his hands shaking. “This can’t happen again,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

You smirked, adjusting your skirt, hiding the hurt. “Liar.”

Viktor’s suspicions festered, his touches growing bolder, his gaze dissecting. One night, he summoned you and Namjoon to his office, the air thick with cigar smoke and malice.

He leaned back in his chair, a cruel smile curling his lips as he beckoned you closer. “Come here, pet,” he purred, his voice dripping with possession.

You stiffened, your stomach churning, but you didn't move, every muscle tense. Viktor’s hand snaked around your waist, pulling you against his side, and he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering, wet and invasive.

You flinched, a shudder rippling through you, your skin crawling as you fought the urge to shove him away. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms, and you bit your lip hard, tasting blood to keep from gagging.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed under your breath, but Viktor only chuckled, his grip tightening, a silent threat.

Namjoon stood across the room, his posture rigid, but his reaction was a storm barely leashed. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked, veins pulsing in his forearms.

His jaw locked, a muscle twitching furiously, and his eyes—dark, lethal—burned with a rage that could’ve set the room ablaze. When Viktor’s lips lingered on your cheek, Namjoon’s hand jerked toward his gun, his fingers curling around the grip before he forced it away, his breath ragged.

His chest heaved, his gaze locked on you, not Viktor, as if memorizing every flinch, every tremble, every mark of your disgust. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the air around him vibrated with violence, a promise of retribution he couldn’t yet deliver.

Viktor released you, his eyes flicking to Namjoon, a taunting glint in them. “Loyalty test passed,” he said, waving you both out, but his smile was a blade, cutting deeper than his dagger ever could.

That night, Namjoon didn’t come to your room as a lover. Instead, he slipped in silently, his gun still holstered, and sank to the floor beside your bed, his back against the frame.

He didn’t speak at first, his head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but you felt his presence like a shield. “Why are you here?” you whispered, sitting up, your voice soft in the dark.

He didn’t look at you, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and guilt. “Because I can’t trust him tonight. Not with you.” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “One more day. Just give me one day more.”

His words were a vow, a cryptic promise. You’d overheard him earlier, arguing with a contact about “finalizing the files”—evidence of Viktor’s crimes, enough to bring him down.

One more day meant he was close to dismantling the empire, to freeing you, but he couldn’t risk Viktor’s wrath until then. Sleeping on the floor was his way of guarding you, of keeping you close while he wrestled with the fear of losing you and the love he couldn’t admit.

You leaned over the edge of the bed, your voice barely a breath, heavy with guilt. “Namjoon… I’m sorry. I seduced you to get out of here. I used you.”

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light, soft but piercing. “I know,” he said, his voice steady, no trace of anger or betrayal. “I’ve always known.”

The weight of his words hung between you, a quiet acknowledgment of your game and his choice to play it anyway. His gaze held yours, raw and unguarded, revealing a man who saw through your plan but couldn’t walk away.

You reached down, touching his hand. “I’m not afraid of him, when you are beside me,” you said, and for the first time, you meant it.

His fingers curled around yours, a fleeting squeeze, and he stayed there, silent, your protector in the dark.

A guard betrayed Namjoon, a hidden camera catching you slipping into Namjoon’s quarters. Viktor’s rage was apocalyptic, a tempest born of wounded pride and shattered control.

He never knew that the day he brought Namjoon into this hell, a boy barely out of his teens, was the day he began writing his own destruction. Namjoon had been a shadow then, sharp-minded and fiercely loyal, molded by a promise to his father to serve the man whose own father had saved their family from ruin.

But that loyalty was a chain, one that had stolen Namjoon’s childhood, his youth, every dream he might have had, chaining him to Viktor’s cruel empire. Namjoon despised it—the blood, the betrayal, the endless cycle of violence that defined Viktor’s world. Yet he stayed, bound by duty, his hatred simmering beneath a mask of obedience, waiting for the moment to break free.

Viktor dragged you both to a warehouse, the air thick with dust and gasoline, his men tying Namjoon to a chair, ropes biting into his wrists but leaving him largely unharmed—Viktor needed his mind intact, his right-hand functional.

Viktor knew Namjoon was indispensable; without him, the empire would crumble, a truth that made him untouchable, a fact Namjoon wielded like a blade.

You, however, were Viktor’s target, the focus of his wrath. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back with a vicious jerk, his nails scraping your scalp raw, making you cry out as pain seared through your skull.

“You think you can play me?” he snarled, backhanding you across the face. The slap was a bone-rattling crack, your cheek splitting open, blood streaming down your jaw, your vision swimming.

He tore the strap of your dress, the fabric ripping to expose your shoulder and neck, and pressed his knife to your throat, a shallow cut deepening, blood dripping to your collarbone, your body trembling from the pain.

Namjoon’s reaction was a storm unleashed, a raw, primal fury that shook the warehouse. His eyes widened with anguish, his body jerking against the ropes, the chair scraping the concrete as he roared, a guttural sound of pure, helpless rage.

His veins pulsed in his neck, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, and his eyes—black with fury, glistening with unshed tears—locked onto your bloodied face, every drop of your pain carving into his soul. His hands strained, ropes fraying under his strength, his breaths ragged, as if he could tear the world apart to reach you.

Viktor had never thought Namjoon would betray him, especially not for a woman. Namjoon, who’d never shown interest in any woman his entire life, who’d walked past Viktor’s broken “toys” without a glance, was now unraveling, his loyalty shattered by you—by your fire, your defiance, the way you’d claimed his heart without even trying.

“Since you’re so interested in her,” Viktor sneered, his voice dripping with malice, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement at Namjoon’s torment.

Namjoon’s eyes burned, but he forced his voice to a desperate lie, his voice cracking with the effort. “I don’t care about her. I’m not interested in her.”

His words hit you like a punch, betrayal slicing through your chest. You froze, your eyes locked on his, searching for the man who’d left med kits, who’d kissed your temple, who’d called you more than a game.

Your heart splintered, a silent sob choking you, but you bit it back, your bloodied lips trembling. The pain in your chest rivaled the sting of your wounds, a raw ache of abandonment, as if the fragile trust you’d built had crumbled under his cold denial.

You wanted to scream, to call him a liar again, but the knife at your throat kept you silent, your eyes pleading for the truth he’d buried.

Viktor’s laugh was sharp, cruel, his confidence unshaken.

“Is that so? Let me strip her in front of you. And let all other men enjoy the show too.” He yanked your dress harder, the fabric tearing further, exposing more of your skin, and gestured to his leering men, their eyes hungry, their laughter a sickening chorus that echoed in the warehouse.

Namjoon’s rage exploded, a primal roar ripping from his throat as he surged against the ropes, the chair splintering beneath him, wood cracking under his strength.

“Touch her again, and I’ll rip your fucking heart out!” His gaze locked on Viktor, promising death, then flicked to you, softening for a split second with guilt and desperation, as if begging you to forgive his lie.

His eyes screamed what his words couldn’t: you were everything, the reason he’d endured this hell, the spark that had ignited his rebellion.

Your eyes locked on Namjoon’s, silent, desperate, pleading. Tears welled but didn’t fall, your gaze screaming for him to stop this, to save you, to be the man you’d glimpsed in his tender touches.

Your lips trembled, your body shaking, but you didn’t speak, your eyes conveying every ounce of fear and trust you placed in him.

He snapped, his voice a deadly growl, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Untie me. Let’s see who survives.”

He knew exactly what he was doing, choosing words that stabbed at Viktor’s ego, knowing Viktor’s pride couldn’t resist a challenge to his power. Viktor, predictable in his arrogance, would take the bait, blind to the trap Namjoon was setting.

“You think you’re untouchable, Viktor? Cut these ropes and prove it. Or are you too weak to face me without your little games?”

Viktor’s ego couldn’t resist the challenge, his laughter taunting but his eyes betraying a flicker of unease.

He knew Namjoon’s power, knew that without him, he was nothing—a loudmouth with a gun, as the guards had whispered.

He cut the ropes, sneering as Namjoon lunged, grabbing a gun from the desk with lethal precision. Viktor aimed at you, his finger twitching on the trigger, but Namjoon pressed the barrel to his own temple, his hand steady, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“If she dies, I die with her,” he said, voice deadly calm, a vow that carried the weight of his entire existence. “You know what that means. Even if I die, I have enough ways to ruin you.”

Viktor’s face crumpled, panic flickering in his eyes. Namjoon was his mind, his shield, the architect of his empire.

Without him, Viktor was nothing but a hollow king, his power a facade. “Fine!” he screamed, lowering the gun, his voice shaking with fury and fear. “She walks free.”

You staggered to Namjoon, his arms crushing you to his chest, his heart pounding against yours despite his own minimal injuries. “You're mine now,” he growled, his voice low and fierce, his eyes locked on Viktor, a brazen claim that rang through the warehouse.

He knew Viktor wouldn’t touch him—couldn’t touch him—because Namjoon was the foundation of everything Viktor had built. With you in his arms, he stood taller, his claim a defiant proclamation to Viktor and his men, a vow that he’d burn it all down for you. “I don’t care if I burn the world.”

Viktor laughed, a hollow, bitter sound, his eyes dark with defeat. “You’ll regret this, Joon.”

Namjoon’s grip on you tightened, his voice a low, lethal promise. “Try me.”

After the warehouse showdown, Viktor’s grip on his crumbling empire tightened, his paranoia festering into desperation. In a final bid to keep Namjoon in line, Viktor summoned him to his office, the air thick with the stench of bourbon and cigar smoke.

His eyes, bloodshot and calculating, bore into Namjoon as he leaned back in his chair, twirling his dagger with a smirk that barely masked his fear. “I’ll let your little pet go,” Viktor said, his voice low, dripping with false magnanimity.

“She walks free from this hell, Joon, but only if you swear on your father’s grave you’ll never betray me. No exposing my operations, no playing hero. You keep my secrets buried, and she’s yours to take her away.”

Namjoon stood rigid, his face an unreadable mask, but his mind was a cold fire. He’d had enough of Viktor’s games—the blood-soaked deals, the broken lives, the endless cycle of cruelty that had chained him to this hell since he was a boy.

He’d already decided to expose Viktor, his plan set in motion weeks ago: files copied, evidence of Viktor’s trafficking and smuggling networks ready to leak to Interpol.

But he knew if Viktor even suspected his intentions, you’d be the one to pay—his wrath would hunt you down, no matter where he hid you.

Namjoon had already moved you to a secret safehouse, a quiet apartment he’d bought in the city’s underbelly for both of you, its walls bare but safe, a sanctuary he’d built to shield you from the chaos to come.

He met Viktor’s gaze, his eyes cold, unyielding, and lied with a curt nod. “I swear it,” he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the fire burning inside him.

Viktor’s smirk widened, believing he’d won, but Namjoon’s mind was already on you—safe, alive, waiting for him in the safehouse, your heart the only thing tethering him to this fight.

He left Viktor’s office, his jaw clenched, knowing every word was a step closer to dismantling the empire and keeping you out of Viktor’s reach forever.

Viktor had let you go, but Namjoon knew better than to trust him. Viktor’s pride was wounded, his empire threatened, and men like him didn’t forgive.

To protect you from his inevitable retaliation, Namjoon faked your death—a staged car explosion, a charred body too mangled to identify. The news spread, and Viktor’s men stopped hunting you.

He spent nights hacking Viktor’s files, exposing his trafficking and smuggling networks, his hands flying over the keyboard.

One night, after a close call with Viktor’s men, you found Namjoon in the safehouse’s tiny bathroom, blood and dirt smearing his face, his shirt torn.

You stripped bare, your clothes falling to the floor, and joined him under the shower’s spray, your heart aching at the sight of him—so strong, yet breaking under the weight of keeping you safe. “You’re a mess,” you whispered, grabbing a cloth to clean his wounds.

He caught your wrist, his eyes dark, raw. “I won’t let anything hurt you again,” he vowed, pulling you close. His lips crashed into yours, a desperate, hungry kiss that stole your breath. You moaned, your hands fisting his shirt, tugging it off as he backed you against the wall, the cold tiles biting your skin.

His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming every inch, his kisses fierce, unrelenting, like he was pouring every fear, every promise into you.

You bit his lip, drawing a growl from him, and he deepened the kiss, his hands roaming your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You felt him hard against your thigh, the evidence of his desire making you dizzy, but he kept it slow, deliberate, savoring every second.

You broke away, gasping, but he didn’t stop, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point.

“Namjoon,” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body arching into him. He groaned, his lips finding yours again, softer this time, but no less intense, each kiss a confession of everything he couldn’t say.

His hands slid over your wet skin, calloused fingers grazing your curves, sending shivers through you. He lifted you onto the shower ledge, stepping between your thighs, his kisses growing frantic, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, breaking. You kissed him back, matching his desperation, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

You lost track of time, lost in the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way his hands held you like you were his lifeline. He pulled back, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You cupped his face, kissing him softly, your lips lingering. “You won’t,” you promised, and he kissed you again, slow and deep, sealing the vow.

After, he wrapped you in a towel, cleaning your face with gentle hands, his touch soft. He kissed your forehead, pulling you to his chest, and you stayed there, listening to his heartbeat, knowing you’d face the world together.

Namjoon sent Viktor’s files to Interpol, every dirty secret laid bare. The final showdown came in a burning warehouse, Viktor’s empire crumbling around him. Flames licked the walls, smoke curling thick and black as Namjoon faced Viktor, gun in hand, his eyes cold, but his heart a furnace of obsession for you.

Viktor stood amidst the chaos, a gun trained on Namjoon, his smirk twisted. “You think you are something different from me, Namjoon. And you can claim one of my pets as yours.”

Namjoon’s grip on the gun tightened, his voice low, lethal, dripping with possessive fury. “She’s mine, Viktor. You touched what’s mine, and that was your first mistake.”

His eyes burned, every word laced with the weight of his devotion, his need to protect you, to claim you. “I’ve spent years cleaning up your messes, hiding your crimes. But you crossed a line when you hurt her.”

Viktor laughed, but it was shaky, his eyes darting to the flames. “You’re nothing without me. You need me as much as I need you.”

Namjoon stepped closer, his gun steady, his voice a growl. “I built your empire. I kept you alive. But I don’t need you anymore.” He glanced at you, standing behind him, your presence fueling his resolve. “She’s my reason now. You’ll never touch her again.”

Viktor’s smirk faltered. “You’re bluffing. You won’t kill me. You can’t.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his voice a whisper of finality. “You shouldn’t have touched her.” He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing as Viktor collapsed, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide with shock.

The warehouse burned, and you pulled Namjoon away, his hand tight in yours. “It’s over,” you whispered, your voice trembling with relief.

He looked at you, his face softening, his obsession laid bare in his gaze. “No. We’re just beginning.”

You and Namjoon had carved out a quiet life off-grid, in a cozy safehouse by the sea, the world felt softer, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting silver glows across the bedroom.

The ocean’s gentle waves whispered outside, a lullaby to your new beginning. You lay curled against Namjoon on the bed, your head nestled in the crook of his neck, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his breath steady, content, a far cry from the cold beast you’d first met.

You tilted your head, your lips brushing his jaw, your voice a soft murmur. “Thank you for freeing me from becoming his pet.”

Namjoon’s eyes sparkled with warmth, his hand sliding to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with reverence. “You’re not a pet. You’re my queen.” He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, his mouth soft and warm, tasting faintly of the peppermint tea you’d shared earlier. The kiss was a promise, a vow of forever, and you melted into it, your heart fluttering.

You pulled back, grinning, your fingers poking his chest playfully. “Queen, huh? So you’re my loyal knight now, ready to fetch my coffee and fluff my pillows?”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your toes curl, and he rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Knight? Baby, I’m your hopeless servant, but don’t ask me to cook something. I’d burn the house down trying.”

You giggled, swatting his shoulder, your eyes dancing with delight. “Hopeless is right. Last week, you broke the toaster trying to ‘fix’ it. My queenly standards are slipping with you around.”

“Slipping?” he gasped, feigning offense, his hands sliding to your waist, tickling you lightly until you squirmed, laughing breathlessly. “I’m a masterpiece, Your Majesty. Brains, brawn, and a knack for breaking appliances.”

“Masterpiece, my foot,” you teased, tugging at his shirt, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his chest. “Lucky I love you for your cuddles and not your handyman skills.”

“Cuddles?” he purred, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, my queen, I’m about to give you the royal treatment.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing yours in a slow, languid dance that made your heart race. His hands roamed, gentle but deliberate, slipping under your oversized sleep shirt—a stolen tee of his that smelled faintly of his cologne.

He tugged it off, revealing your bare skin, and his breath hitched, his eyes raking over you with adoration. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts.

You blushed, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, pulling his shirt off, your fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the faint scars that told stories of battles fought for you.

You leaned up, kissing his jaw, his neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe, earning a soft groan that made you grin. “Weak for me already?”

“Always,” he whispered, his lips finding yours, the kiss slow and sweet, each brush of his mouth a declaration of love. He trailed kisses down your throat, lingering at your pulse point, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, making you whimper.

His hands caressed your sides, sliding over your hips, your thighs, his touch reverent, like he was worshiping every inch of you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing your nipple, teasing it with a gentle suck that sent heat pooling between your legs.

You arched into him, your breath hitching, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Namjoon,” you sighed, your voice a soft plea, and he smiled against your skin, his hands guiding your legs around his waist.

He tugged off his sweatpants, revealing himself, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush, his movements deliberate, savoring the moment. He kissed his way back up, his lips finding yours, his tongue exploring your mouth with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself, his tip brushing your entrance, teasing you with agonizing slowness. “Tell me you want this, my queen.”

“Want you,” you gasped, your hips lifting, urging him closer. “Always, Joon.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with a delicious fullness that made you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breaths ragged as he moved, each thrust slow and deep, a connection that went beyond flesh. “God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion, his hands sliding to your hips, guiding you in a gentle rhythm.

You laughed softly, breathless, your lips brushing his. “Heaven? Thought you were the devil.”

“Only for you,” he teased, kissing you deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, sensual pace of his thrusts. Your bodies moved together, lazy and intimate, the heat building in soft waves, every touch laced with love.

His hands roamed, one sliding to cup your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer for a kiss that stole your breath.

“Joon,” you whimpered, your climax building, a warm, pulsing tide that made your toes curl. He sensed it, his movements steady but tender, his lips trailing to your ear, whispering, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shattered, your orgasm washing over you in a soft, shuddering wave, your moans muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him.

He followed, his release a low groan, his body trembling as he spilled inside you, his lips finding yours in a messy, perfect kiss. He stayed inside you, rolling you both to your sides, your legs tangled, his arms wrapping you tight against his chest.

You lay there, panting, his fingers tracing lazy hearts on your back, his lips brushing your forehead. “You’re stuck with me now, queen,” he murmured, his voice playful but thick with love.

“Good,” you whispered, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed to his heart. “But you’re doing the dishes tomorrow. Non-negotiable. And don't you dare to break them.”

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “Deal. But only if you keep stealing my shirts. You look too cute in them.”

You laughed, kissing him hard, your heart full. You’d both survived. You’d both sinned. And you’d do it all again, together.

A/n: Was planning to post it on another account but since I got this Namjoon fic request here, so posting on this main account.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[dolphin-diaries]

Death Of The Woman

Originally posted on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

The following essay is not my usual fare. It’s my personal story as a detrans woman, and as such, it will lack in abstracted theory or argumentation. After this I will be publishing a special interview, and then I’ll return to my usual programming.

For now though, be advised this isn’t quite light reading material. There is some cursory description of sexual violence. If you do not feel like you can engage with that, skip from the paragraph beginning “At one point, …” to the next titled section.

Girl/Flesh

Before there is an adult, there is first a child—a not-so-blank slate, a state of being with an expiration date. Boys must be made men; girls must be made women. To the end of that becoming, childhood is a prelude and adolescence a ritual.

Contemplate for a moment, without any input from me: how is a girl made a woman?

My upbringing was rather feminist, compared to the average for my country. My mother did not take my father’s name; she earned more; they had a whole and loving marriage. A husband-and-kids were expected of me eventually, but ever nebulously and not quite yet; my own family’s example seemed perfectly encouraging. For the time being, the biggest expectation placed on me was intellectual accomplishment. You might think a boy child would be preferable to such an endeavour, but it was quite the opposite. Boys will be boys, after all: rowdy, willful, lascivious, ever in need of someone else’s care. Handed gently from the mother’s hand to a wife’s, they’re basically eternal children. But girls? Girls are born older. Mature faster—biologically, essentially, fundamentally. Girls listen. Girls obey.

By all accounts I was a fantastic foundation for such a purpose. Tallest, strongest, bursting with curly dark hair. You couldn’t possibly mistake me for a fragile doll, no, not like some other, more childish girls; I was obviously ready for responsibility. And not just in superficial appearance. Speech came to me quickly and easily; writing flowed from my fingertips with perfect calligraphy; I made art worthy of fridges and walls; I took to learning with all the energy of an insomniac puppy.

Did other kids like a fat, moustachioed girl that beat them at everything, and after class also won at arm-wrestling? Fuck no! But that was alright. I was born into intelligentsia, and envy was our natural curse, one to be proud of. At any rate, someday puberty would come. A body-shedding into something physically desirable; combined with all this accrued talent, it would ensure I’d have the pick of good men. Though I didn’t yet know men, only the irksome boys from whom they hatched. I lived for the attention of adults and for making other girls laugh—if clever ogres are good for nothing else, it’s humour. There was something transcendent in seeing someone fae-pretty and so unreachable be made happy by my effort. Even if they bullied me after. Of course, that meant I was too rowdy—oh, and too stubborn. Girls are supposed to understand the rules of the world exist for a reason; I didn’t. I needed things explained before I obeyed.

The rule I didn’t understand most of all was touch. I was brutish, and my brutishness marked me for disgust—and yet, I was constantly touched, even as I was told I’d never be touchable. My body burgeoned with entirely too much flesh, and every hand was drawn to grab it, to pinch and assess it in some unannounced Try-Before-You-Buy. Teachers, children, family members. It would not stop and it made my skin crawl, but it was also normal. The adults I liked did it. My peers did it. No one remarked on it.

When womanhood was yet a distant prospect, I dreamt of something ethereal. Power-suited. Someone that looked like mother, or like Barbie. Someone untouchable. Because surely this was all a growing pain. I was a girl, and that meant all the things that made me revolting, naive, and unruly would be purged by shed blood.

That’s not how that goes, though. How is a girl made a woman?

When adolescence finally arrived, it was rather early, eleven or so. I always was an overachiever. And I discovered I was not yet becoming something better. I was just myself, but more. More flesh. More hair, in all the wrong places. Same moustache, same swollen face, same ungainly buffoon demeanour, only now with hips bursting through trousers and a boyish deep voice.

The leering and touching did not cease—they got worse. The older I grew, the older my mother dressed me, dolling me up in heels and arse-hugging skirts with the vicarious glee of someone who got another chance at making a woman, and who was emboldened by the powerlessness of my ‘no.’ The dress-up had a goal in mind, of course. Same as my obligation to intellectual accomplishment; the only difference was, I was now failing, while the prospect of adulthood loomed ever closer. So I had it spelled out to me: it was all to ensure I could return to my family the debt I incurred with the costs of my existence. To birth them a child and uphold their reputation. If I was unfeminine, untouchable, unfuckable, they would not get a return on their investment. If I preferred girls—which, big surprise, I did—that would invite untold humiliation on the family name. That I was given to choose my would-be boyfriends, nudged to enjoy the makeup and skirts, was a just bit of carrot to the whip. If I sneered too much at the carrot, I’d get the whip.

So on I wobbled, a fleshy, moustachioed doll. Every new softness and curve invited a groping hand or a disgusting comment. Every fault of my body was bared as proof I should be happy to get this much at all. In old deformity and in newfangled woman-ness, I was just a girl.

I sought other ways of being. An escape from the barbed chain link of The Family. I had limited recourse in my small town, but the internet is a wide-reaching thing. No lesbian community existed for miles, but I could still read about the ring and the hanky code and whatever else. I could look at pictures.

(Although those were at times alarming, because all these lesbian women I glimpsed looked rather like me—whereas I had hoped that, by the time I grew up, I’d be something better.)

Regardless, I tried the codes and the cargo trousers, as much as I could—which wasn’t much. I stoked fascination in my classmates with giddy and secretive coming-outs. Only some showed me compassion and dignity, but I was even happy enough to be seen as a weirdo monster. At least they saw me. Worse was their dissecting vigilance. Their attention to the way I moved or spoke. The moment I’d do something girly, they’d cry, they knew it! I was just a girl. I did have a boy crush, and I should admit it; I was surely—as they put it—a faggot. Yes, really, literally ‘faggot,’ that word precisely. Even when I flicked my wrist like so while all dolled-up from head to toe, no one seemed to quite stomach believing me a real woman.

Giddiness over coming out doesn’t last. Disobedience brooks punishment. Through the listicles of lesbian identities and vocabulary, you dig through to testimonies. To rape. To abjected and dysphoric butches. To abuse at school, university, work, home. To the loss of all those things. To death. Elsewhere lesbians sometimes got their happily-ever-afters, loving families and the luxury of walking free, but here, we have not earned it. Visa-barred from leaving, doomed to die fighting for a future we would never live—even as far away, someone already got it just for having been born.

When I Saw The TV Glow

2011. A documentary, in all the glory of 480p. I’d heard of trans women before in concept—dear, some men just become women, it happens, okay?—but I’d never heard of trans men before. Never conceived of it.

I watched the screen like it was a revelation. A man in a white tee tucked into light jeans, cut like a Ken doll, strutting down a springtime street in low resolution.

Before then, I’d accepted that the burgeoning breasts and hips was simply something I had to contend with. That the way the boys around me were growing stronger while I was ever-groped was simply nature asserting itself. My body was proof of my place in the world.

I looked at the screen and thought, So that was a big fat lie.

The moment I knew it was possible, I wanted it like nothing else. The broad shoulders, the muscles, the dapper swagger. I wished for my body to take the shape of my being, instead of my being contorting to the body’s mould. Perhaps I could be loved for all the things that made me a deformed monster. Perhaps I didn’t need to watch every step to prove I wasn’t just a girl. Here was a place already in the shape of me, rather than a stifling lot I had to constantly fight against.

How could one go about changing sex? According to the documentary, it started with a psychiatric assessment—and so, my little twelve-year-old self took to studying the DSM. As I scoured it, I learned I could not be described by its standards as a true transsexual. I’d never before thought of myself as a boy nor had wanted to be one. Yet in the same breath, the DSM claimed no girl could ever desire physical masculinity beyond what came naturally to her. It was either transsexualism or some fetish or self-harming disorder. I had neither of the latter. My desire to inhabit masculinity was undeniable and crystal-clear, and the only kind of person that could’ve felt this way was a transsexual man—so that meant I must’ve simply remembered my life wrong. Or interpreted it wrong. If I twisted my memories this way or that, discarded one as an anomaly and repainted another in baby-boy blue, it would all make sense. It had to. Trans people online talked about a sense of mis-belonging, and I did feel like an outsider among the girls—what did it mean to feel like a gender, at any rate? I only knew what I felt like. And I felt like something sorry and misshapen.

Somewhat later, circa 2013, I did hear of weirder gender concepts in the distant West, mostly as just definitions of words. Genderqueer, nonbinary, et cetera. I comprehended them rationally but I did not understand or relate to them. Wherever I read about it, genderqueerness was described in a manner parallel to transsexuality—the sex-changing—or else as an exotic alternative to hormones and scalpels. But I desired body change so desperately, and regardless, I could not envision living as a nonbinary gender in my own country. Maybe in the West that was possible, but here nothing but derision would entail. It just wasn’t for me.

Naturally, trans men’s testimonies of hardship met and rivalled those of cis lesbian women. But the vast majority of them were concentrated on the times before and during transition. After that—sure, all of medicine reviles you and you’re at risk of a heinous hate crime. But the same has been true before; now though, when you walk down the street or meet a new friend, when you live, you’re just some guy. Your life is tinted by your queerness as much as any other sex/gender-deviant, but that constant, unabating struggle against a blistering torrent of humiliation, of being forced into the place of a woman? That seemed to end. Eventually. And then—who knows? Move to a new town, a new country even. No one need ever know who you had once been.

At that time though, I was still very young, and the thing about discovering a solution to a problem you thought inescapable is that it makes the problem itself feel that much more acute. So I did the stupidest thing imaginable: come out.

Dear reader, it wasn’t a good idea.

It is, after all, rather trivial to exact whatever punishment one desires upon one’s queer children, for children are parents’ property. It is true everywhere, but if ‘in some fucking America’ there is something called ‘child-protective services,’ here nothing short of murder, starvation, or exceptionally unsubtle and repeated rape could possibly broker an outside intervention. The debt you incurred to your parents for being born still holds, and you’ve just betrayed its very foundation. A woman still needs to be made of you. And anyway, who are you gonna call? The police? For what, total social isolation? For derision and humiliation? For the hours spent unmaking all your agency, all your desire as nothing more than delusion brought on by that damned internet? For total control over you, over every movement, every manner, every gesture, every word? For what you claim was assault? For what you claim was an attempted murder? I mean, it’s all rather sad, but it’s not a crime; not provably. Not against faggots.

I Win, Bitch

I am first and foremost a problem-solver. Even in total solitude, without access to the internet or to kindred spirits, there are plans to be made. I did not want to die, and I was still in the questionable position of being my family’s pride. Had to be. My parents couldn’t have any more children; they had to get it right with me.

So of course, if I got free admission to a prestigious university many kilometres away, and if I proved I’d learned my lesson enough to be trusted with leaving—who was to gainsay me?

Getting out was a decision I made almost the moment my abuse took on a corrective and violent turn. I knew what I had to do, even if it cost me immeasurably. Overnight I had to call quits on any remnant of childhood and learn to steal money to ensure future independence. Had to play my woman’s part convincingly. Had to look as if I’m enjoying it, convincingly. If I’d found the role stifling before, now it was as razors under my skin. Everything that ‘woman’ encompassed had been weaponised for my constant abuse, and I could not stomach a second of it—but I had to. Until I broke free.

Besides the severance of any familial support, financial or otherwise, my psyche was thoroughly shattered. All the times I’d been told, at length and for hours, that I was suffering a dangerous delusion, that I had to be forced to conform to my true nature—every single time, I knew that it was wrong. Even when I was as young as twelve, I knew I deserved none of it. I knew it was abuse and injustice. All the same it broke me. There was no pride and no resilience strong enough in me to withstand years and years of it. For a while I could barely look at women that whatsoever resembled me; the very concept, the very idea was a trigger. When it came to my own mind, I struggled to tell what was real, what I did and did not feel. Everything laid under panes and panes of ice, and that disassociation was the only way I could maintain a grip—or else everything erupted in screams.

The worst of my C-PTSD would be dealt with in the ensuing years thanks to NGO-sponsored therapy for queer patients. Unpacking pane after pane, unwinding coil after coil of the rage I had to swallow, piecing together shards of abandoned and dissociated memories. But I’d be paying mental dividends on my damage for longer still, and in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

For now though: I won.

Social transition was easy for me. It took little more than cutting my hair and swapping out wardrobes to pass as a man pretty reliably—well, a teenage boy, but I was only seventeen, so it didn’t raise eyebrows. I felt freed. Like I could walk and speak and make friends without chains attached to me. Only the softness of my shape gnawed at me, how it had shifted from despicable womanly maturity to boyish youth. I hated not having my coming adulthood recognised. Hated that other young men got to grow stronger and larger while I was stuck in perpetual pseudo-adolescence. I was free, I was no child, no property of adults; I wanted to be seen.

But it was also the first time I discovered queer spaces in person. Mixed and trans ones—especially trans ones. For the first time, I walked among people who understood. Really understood, the dysphoria and the otherness and the abuse and the whole lot. I’d found my home amongst the gender criminals; we talked feminism and activism; we braved protests despite threats of alt-right retaliation; we stumbled through relationships. Like most trans people, I harbour no nostalgia for my childhood or early youth—but for that time, I do. Not because it didn’t have its share of struggle, but because of my then-partner A. and my friends. Because it was the first time I felt the mutability of sex/gender, and breathed the freedom that entailed.

Things don’t last though, especially not in youth. Relationships fall apart; social circles reshuffle. I was leaving university to pursue a career—after all, I could not afford to be on HRT without income.

Moreover I felt… insecure, you could call it. Most of my social connections were to trans people and/or women. But I was a man. Shouldn’t I—commit? Make an effort? If cisgender men did not accept me as one of theirs, didn’t that make me a kind of impostor? I chafed in the body of an eternal adolescent, and the rift I felt between myself and cis men salted the wound.

Brain/Worms

The first problem was easily addressed with exogenous testosterone. Starting it was a euphoric experience—the rapid swelling of muscle, the spike in energy and hunger and libido. I loved the changes to my body, and I wished all traces of insidious womanhood would wilt from me.

The second issue was more difficult. I’d always felt at an arm’s length from cis heterosexual men, and never got much closer. No matter what, I simply felt other. That made sense, though. Once I re-conceptualised my gender as male, I did not identify as straight. I didn’t feel so sure anymore I was solely attracted to women, and that feeling only solidified the more I transitioned. If gender and sex were uncertain, how could I be so sure? I had no genital preference. What did it mean to be attracted to a ‘man’ or a ‘woman’ anyway? Some men could be as pretty as women. Wouldn’t giving a definitive answer be a little bioessentialist? Aren’t we all, as they say, a little bisexual?

Yes, I thought, it made perfect sense that I, a bisexual man, would find no belonging among cishet men. And the more I thought about the sort of relationships I desired, the more I realised I could not possibly be fulfilled in a straight relationship. I attempted facsimiles of a straight man’s role, and they all left me feeling hollowed. The attraction and relationship calculus of straight women was an arcane language to me. The sorts of women I liked were distinctly dyke-y; sure, some of those happen to be bisexual, but if they were to date me, they’d still be dating a man. I’d hate that as much as I’d hate not having my manhood acknowledged or recognised. And that’s to say nothing of how sleazy and dishonest it felt to intrude on queer women’s dating scene as a man. Now that I lived as a man, what made me so different from cis men? Innate birth-assigned woman-ness? Misogyny-flavoured childhood trauma? The vagina? All excuses felt like pathetic, opportunistic self-humiliation. Debasing myself by appealing to someone else’s cissexism so I could appear like something I wasn’t.

So naturally, I pursued community and companionship with gay men. As any gay trans man will tell you, it is usually a thankless and annoying task; transphobia is insidious and oft-unchallenged in gay male circles. The way they treat trans men ranges from hostile to patronising to weird. But overall I had a better time of it than most, and cultivated a few long-lasting friendships. The gay men around me had more class consciousness than average. They were not shy about liking me, even after apologising for speaking ill of vaginas. It was ego-boosting. But I was still afraid that when we took our shirts off, they’d stop seeing me and find a woman in me. Fuck me like one. Erase me.

A new ghost began to haunt me. It’d coalesced from pieces that already existed within me, but never before had this shape. What were fragments of my desires and thoughts coalesced into a singular fixation that constricted all of my libido, all of my sexual being. Fantasies of being fucked into womanhood invaded my mind and would not let go of it. In them, men were personless and barely corporeal, but the women existed in graphic detail. I myself was either completely disembodied and not present, not even as a voyeur—or else oddly, vaguely within the woman, both me and not-me at once.

I was horrified. Not even by the fantasy itself; its contents were murky and not particularly original. By my singular lust for it. I felt as though I’d discovered a monster within. A violent misogynist puppeteering the woman’s image to quench a fetish for sexist humiliation. A depraved and lowly creature fed on my own abuse.

But it made a kind of sense, I thought, the horror aside. I’d experienced plenty of misogynistic violence, the sexual kind included, and I guessed I’d sublimated it. Except—

There was a problem with that interpretation. That coercive return to womanhood, what I feared men might do to me—it was not the same as what aroused me. In the fantasy, I was not returning or reverting; I was not giving in to transphobic violence, which these scenarios notably lacked; I just was.

Despite all my efforts, this creature within responded to no self-insight, no cross-examination, no rationalisation. Everything I learned from the handbooks of either trauma therapy or kink-positive thinking failed utterly. I could not unlearn shame. I could not arrive at an epiphany. Like a hungry tapeworm, the unnameable thing inside me gnawed and gnawed, and any attempts to understand my desire, to make it less dissociative, only caused it to mutate to something more esoteric. The images morphed from banal patriarchal brutality to anonymous men forcibly feminised via sex by domineering, ultra-feminine women. Once my mind arrived at image, it sank its teeth into it so completely that it began to hollow my waking life, which now paled by comparison to the fantasy. And yet the thing still resisted knowledge even as it drained blood from me. I could not comprehend what pleasure I derived from this, what desire this fulfilled. When looked upon in the light of day, beyond the haze of arousal, the monster within me became only fear, a terrifying and nameless anxiety that liquefied all efforts to understand it.

In any case, the only ‘gay man’ I ended up dating long-term was a severely closeted trans woman. I failed thoroughly at sourcing validity from gay male partners as I realised I never wanted them in the first place; it’d all been a self-delusional charade whose only purpose was to forestall loneliness and to quench the thing within. So I settled on helping a girl find her gender. My perversion remained my little secret. No one in the world could’ve possibly shared it, and if they did, it was probably for the best that I did not know them.

A strange and nameless discontent festered. Past the initial joy in well-sculpted shoulders, the more virilised my body became, the more difficult it was to differentiate myself from the Average Cishetero Man, or even the Average Gay Man (which do not, in the end, look that different)—and it felt existentially important to be differentiated somehow. Looking like that made me feel dead. Whatever ‘that’ was. I found myself confusedly wishing for jewellery and makeup and feminine fashion—things that were once violently forced upon me. So the desire itself made me squirm. At the same time though, it’d been a while since my abuse. Years. Therapy, time, et cetera. I knew it was normal enough for someone later in transition to mellow out on strict gender expression, now that doing it ‘incorrectly’ no longer threatened misgendering. I’d met plenty of people with that exact experience. So, I thought, maybe that was my damage. Desire for gender-nonconformity, which I’d repressed in a bizarre manner.

Of course, experimenting with being a feminine man in public would get my head kicked in; discovering a craving for femininity was very inconvenient for me. I wasn’t pleased to regress back to stifling my gender presentation for social security. But no one could stop me from crossdressing in private—so, bit by bit, I tried.

When I finally built up the courage to order proper womenswear and put it on, I looked in the mirror and saw a man in a dress. I did exactly as I wanted and achieved exactly what I thought I would. Except, instead of relief or joy, a wave of such profound disappointment hit me that I could neither understand nor describe its nature. I could only comprehend it as a compulsion to tear my skin off. As dysphoria.

Well, duh. I was a trans man. Of course dolling up would make me dysphoric. Especially after all that’d happened to me. What did I expect? This had all been a waste of fucking time. There was nothing to discover behind my desires. I abandoned my pursuit, resigned to the daily kaleidoscope of sexual depravity that I couldn’t stop my mind from spinning; I’d given up on understanding the source or goal of any of it; I would simply entertain it in the privacy of my head and carry it to my grave.

Or at least, I’d try.

At one point, a cis woman took an interest in me. That interest was not reciprocated; something about her person was off-putting to me. She acted towards my friends with extreme jealousy, and even though I rejected her advances in no uncertain terms multiple times, she would not stop offering. At the same time though, now that I realised I did not belong among gay men, I felt extremely alone. And revolting. How many women were out there that’d even want to touch me? I really shouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.

We were drunk, and I a complete mess. I’d bristled before when she pointedly asked if I knew she was bisexual—the implication being, she wasn’t afraid of vagina—because there was nothing un-straight about a woman wanting a trans man. But with so much wine in my veins—you know, maybe I wasn’t such a trans man after all? Maybe I was—I dunno. Like a girl—like, only for sex, though. I had stockings and lingerie in my bedside drawers and shit. If you squint and turn off the light.

I remember a shift in her gaze, once it finally sank in. From giggling and alcohol-addled to something sharper. Not quite homicidally disgusted, but still vicious; like I’d been made a thing. I didn’t know what I did wrong; I didn’t tell her about any of the truly despicable things—I was still me! Wasn’t she bisexual? Wasn’t she queer? We don’t have to do it, I said, forget it.

The next thing I remember is a body forcing me down. Vicious, gleeful lust. “Oh, you’ll be a girl, alright.”

My whole body stiffened. I snapped at her to stop, tried to push her away, but she only pressed down harder, fingers sinking into flesh.

When I threw her off me to the floor, blood split her lip. She cried and shrieked. So much for a feminist man! How dared I hit her! She just did as I asked!

I yelled at her to get out, but once the door slammed shut, I thought of the unending parade of rapacious fetish in my head. Of how well I knew this woman didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and how I caved to her anyway. And, well, I couldn’t help feeling like—

Didn’t I ask for it?

Unmoored

A few years later, I found myself abroad. Far from family, and from most friends—except one. Shortly before I moved, I had met my once-partner A. from my university days and felt drawn to her all over again. Our relationship rekindled, and hand in hand, we flew westward. It was a dark time for unrelated reasons, but in a twisted way, it granted me as much of a ‘clean start’ as I could’ve ever hoped for. I was untethered from traces of growing pains I left all over the city I once called home, from the messy parts of transition—it’d been, at that point, well over five years since I started.

No one here needed to know who I’d been.

I’d never doubted it. In fact, I was then in the process of fighting bureaucracy to re-ensure my access to hormones. They were the only way I could ever hope to rid myself of that bodily displacement I’d been feeling. That was how it went with trans men; it helped them, so it should help me.

Only I’d already been on T for a while then. Whatever ‘feminine curves’ I had left, had melted away; a beard had sprouted from my face, which now increasingly resembled my father’s. Even if I stripped naked, I looked more like an intersex man than anything else. That was basically what I’d expected. I’d always been rather cold-blooded about my transition expectations and proud of that fact; I’d sourced my information from many sources and first-hand accounts, and I neither underestimated the changes nor hoped for the impossible. All in all, I got what I sought. The thing I kept waiting for had already happened.

And I felt nothing. The disappearance of features I used to despise evoked naught more than a quiet oh well. My photos seemed oddly unfamiliar. A numbness had subsumed me, as if I’d been encased in wax.

But I had more pressing problems. Relocation, unemployment, the lot. Dealing with a subtle and unnameable depression seemed like a waste of time. Perhaps there was just something broken about me—that much had been clear for a while now. If I just kept a lid on it, I could live a happy enough life. On and on years went.

Lesbians In My Phone

What to do, when you’re hopelessly unemployed and feeling like there’s a black hole inside you threatening to swallow it all? Try to find a Discord to distract yourself, of course.

E.: mostly girlies in here so I hope you won't feel too out of place! we do strive to be an inclusive place

Me: haha i hope i got here thanks to a diversity and inclusion programme

My excuse for entering a transfem-majority space was an invitation thanks to my writing and editing. I’d put out a short story myself, and I was eager to help fellow authors. Of course, I was still a community outsider on the gender side of it, so I didn’t expect to get much out of that space personally. It just felt good to be involved in something, anything.

But, it turned out, many of the women on that server were good and easy company regardless. Unfamiliar subcultures are easily learned when its members are not hostile to you; they seemed to like me.

Most of the server members were transfem lesbians writing and reading sexually explicit fiction—some of which resembled my personal nonsense kaleidoscope, if… unpacked, let’s say. It was rather surreal to see the sorts of things my mind inflicted upon me being discussed in jest or dissected for the purposes of creating more elevated, self-conscious art. When I thought about it from the perspective of a trans woman, escapism via fancies of forced feminisation only made sense. Trans women internalise what society deems to be the place of women as much as anyone else, but also, trans womanhood is violently flagellated for existing in any way whatsoever. The fantasy would then revolve around removing the element of choice from it—so you could not be punished for wanting it.

Intellectually fascinating, but why it appealed to me made no more sense than it ever had. I wasn’t a trans woman—quite the opposite. They just wanted to be women; what the fuck was my problem? Although it calmed me somewhat to see normal people have experiences so similar to mine, I still felt like an intruder, stealing away pieces of someone else’s intimate life for my own shallow pleasure. I spoke nothing of it. No one would take kindly to me skin-walking their innermost desires this way.

As I spent my time in the company of trans lesbians, silent or not, I was still exposed to a stream of art and stories and images. Their depictions of women differed drastically from what I’d seen before. Two metres tall, or tiny as a gnome, or more muscular than a Greek god, or more voluptuous than a fertility idol, or werewolf-hairy, or covered in scales, or made completely of metal. A thousand melodies in fractal variations of flesh, all desired and lauded. I was no stranger to ideas of body positivity or ‘celebrating queerness’, but that all came wrapped in stipulations and activism. Always a statement, a process of battling or quieting shame. Never before have I experienced such utterly shameless, sincere, and carnal fanfare for everyone and anyone who claimed the space of ‘woman,’ in such a way that ‘woman’ meant nothing more and nothing less than simply ‘human.’ Not for statements. Just because it made them happy.

It was as alien as it was beautiful.

It’s not that I felt like I was missing out. Or that I wasn’t sufficiently fanfared. There were other spaces that did the same for men, run chiefly by gay transmasculine people, and they seemed to be having a great time of it. I just didn’t personally care for them one bit. I wanted this.

Naturally, it was all only fantasy. Art and books. That’s great, but that’s not real. In reality I was a twink with a receding hairline. It seemed prudent to know my limits rather than get too hung up on the fact I couldn’t be a two-metre-tall lesbian cyborg.

Except that some of it is real. Not the cyborgs and werewolves, but the diversity of body; the desire for its freedom and customisation. Women discontent with taking simply what they’re given. Through acquaintance and anecdote, I met lesbians with the same ‘unnatural’ desire I’d had. Lesbians on testosterone, desiring embodiments which, according to all I’d ever known, were never meant to be. Lesbians who wished for phalloplasty or for top surgery or both; lesbians that went on T temporarily to drop their voices and grow more muscle and body hair. Lesbians that weren’t women at all. Only there was no DSM attached. No packaged deal of ‘total’ transition, no script, no chain of demands that followed one to another.

No requirement of man.

It felt like anathema—and like a revelation. Whereas before genderqueerness seemed hypothetical and divorced from my reality, now I suddenly understood it. Now that I saw it, I knew it.

And I felt only directionless, ennui-steeped anger. As if someone stole the last ticket to a train that would never again leave my station. I didn’t know—how could I have known? No shit the things that helped trans men didn’t help me. I looked at all the past incongruences I’d revised and sanded over to fit the fucking DSM transsexualism diagnosis, and found only someone groping in the dark for a path they couldn’t even imagine existed. Except this realisation was arriving some fifteen years too late. Had I been younger or born elsewhere, then sure, I could’ve been one of those lesbians middle-fingering gender and microdosing T. But I wasn’t. I was a man. And when I dared think of relinquishing my grip on manhood, memory clawed at me. The assault. The humiliation. The un-personing. What would I be asking for? And what would that even yield? Look in the mirror, idiot. You are a man.

It wasn’t a rational calculus of consequences. It was a buzzing storm inside my head, pitch-black, impenetrable. I’d long stopped seeing women in their totality as my conversion-therapy prison, but even still—to see myself attached to ‘woman’ even slightly, even tangentially, even if I wanted it—this all evoked visceral, horrible fear.

But: knowing that a problem has a solution only makes it that much more impossible to ignore. My off-handed remarks and jokes about my miseries had my transfem friends looking funny at me. As if they recognised something.

T.: do you mind if I ask what you conceptualize your specific gendered deal as, or is that invasive?

Me: great question, i’ll get back to you in 5 to 10 business years.

Although I still loved the early changes I received from my HRT, everything I’d accrued since then was undeniably eating me alive. It was becoming difficult to dismiss dysphoria as mere vanity or body image issues; through all my attempts to make peace with my flesh, nothing helped even slightly. When I stopped binding, that felt better. When I lowered my T dose, that accomplished nothing in particular, but it felt comforting in a placebo sort of way. I tried to schedule laser hair removal—and that was too much. I panicked. Too obvious. What if someone noticed? What if someone asked why? I couldn’t deal with it. What if my partner noticed? She didn’t sign up for this shit. She was dating a man. What if—

No, it couldn’t go that badly. My partner wasn’t like that. Still, I felt paralysed. If I just did nothing, it couldn’t get worse. No one needed to know.

T.: hey, what’s up with the depression beard? do we need to get you laser?

Fuck it. I understood what my friends were seeing in me now. At first I thought myself definitionally far-removed from any transfeminine experience, but now that I’d met trans lesbians in truth, I couldn’t stop noticing patterns. And I wouldn’t have treated a transfem friend with the same denial or nihilistic abjection that I reserved for myself. She would’ve deserved help. A way out.

Didn’t I, too?

Detransition, Lady

The date I mark as the start of my detransition is April 16th, 2024, although I wouldn’t be calling it that for a few months yet. It was the first time I told anyone I was not a man, and that I was a lesbian, even though I didn’t exactly feel like a woman. On the surface it seemed a small thing. I had not yet decided on any particular body modifications (except laser—god, someone flay that thing off my face), and I felt deeply uncomfortable changing my gender presentation too much. So it seemed almost a question of semantics alone. Inside me though, it was a titanic shift: I allowed myself to name that which I’d been avoiding at all cost. To voice a desire I thought would brook only disgust, humiliation, and exile.

It did not.

The reaction of my partner and friends was, across the board, positive—none of my worst fears came to pass. Apparently I’d been far too obviously depressed, despite my best efforts to hide it—and now, I was far too obviously happy and, as some put it, ‘unclenched.’ Nothing in my loved ones’ behaviour should’ve led me to believe they would ridicule and hate me; still, it felt monumentally difficult to stop seeing myself as uniquely undeserving and pathetic.

I pursued my detransition incrementally. I pinpointed sources of dysphoria and addressed them. Laser, first. When my droning bass baritone started getting on my nerves, ensuring as it was that I’d always be gendered male—voice training. Soon I discovered that, despite the kinship I felt with transmasculine lesbians, I did not quite belong with them; whereas they relished the virilisation they’d carved out for themselves, my situation was different. I’d lived as a man for far too long to experience the world the same way they did. Most of them did not share my degree of distaste and distress at getting dude’d and he/him’d; they did not quite match my flavour of alienation from ‘woman.’ They usually strove to distinguish themselves from the category that would have them stifled and consumed—whereas that category now repelled me almost definitionally, whether I liked it or not. When I braved the outside world, there was no amount of social signalling that would make strange cis women see me as akin to them, or at least as not akin to men. Often not even lesbian cis women. Markers of an androgenic puberty singled me out as something categorically Other, and I’d not yet been in detransition long enough to change that.

Only among the transfeminine was I witnessed. Trans women I didn’t know loudly and protectively she/her’d me. The pronouns I actually used at the time were they/them, and my internal gender was nil with a side of ‘dyke,’ yet I found myself unwilling to correct anyone who decided I was a woman. Trans women that did know me playfully teased me for being ‘transfem-coded.’ Beyond initial recognition of repeating patterns, I’d started to realise that of all the people I knew, I belonged with them the most.

It was… confounding. In a way, it made no sense at all. And there were clear lines that delineated us: they would not relate to my visceral hatred of my first puberty, and I would not relate to theirs; I did not share their childhood of a girl trapped among boys. My ever-unchanged legal sex now granted me a degree of protection they could never take for granted. My birth sex gave me leverage to sacrifice trans women for a shred of acceptance—to shriek that I, unlike them, was a real woman. Even when no one but them saw me as one.

But in my daily existence and in much of my psychology, I was indistinguishable from my transfem peers. I’d transitioned a decade ago, right out of school; socially, I’d once been a girl a long time ago, but never a woman. Now I danced a dance I’d only before witnessed as an outsider; longed for and imagined, never performed. I had not the same continuity of belonging that cis women did, and nor did cis women know what it was like to walk among men, a secret alien, slowly realising every step you take is wrong.

I supposed, it made an intuitive kind of sense. Transition works. Not my now-distant history, not my birth, and certainly not my chromosomes or genitals had made me somehow more innately or inexorably woman. As all transsexuals learn sooner or later, lived experiences and hormones trump the rest of sex/gender with ease. So, although I wasn’t a trans woman, when I applied the same logics to myself, it simply worked. Despite the imperfect match, all my current problems had answers from the same solution sheet, from the way I treated myself to the way others treated me.

Well, almost all my problems.

Now that I compared myself to women and not to men, body insecurity cut much deeper and bloodier. I despaired no one would ever believe I was anything woman-shaped; they barely did before I took testosterone. Which I was still taking. I looked at the small dose of T gel I’d been applying, then at the finasteride pills I’d been chasing that with. And I thought, What does this even do? What is this even for anymore?

Stasis. It was for stasis, and a little placebo. I feared that if I stopped T, I’d tumble all the way back into the spiral of dysphoria I felt as a teen and young adult. That my body—for all its flaws still mine, still fought-for, still tailor-made—would dissolve again into an adolescent blob hatefully sculpted by others into the image of a future child-bearer. Only now I hated most of my virilisation and would claw at walls if I received any more of it—and my fear was not exactly rational, was it?

I breathed out. The testosterone wasn’t going to spoil the moment I put it away. I could try, and if it didn’t work out—a short period of a second-and-a-half puberty could not be that extreme. Whatever new changes I’d cause would likely revert fast.

For a while, nothing much happened. Nothing dissolved or melted. But little by little, my skin smoothed; my face softened; my wiry limbs lost their mesh of veins. My hips and breasts, once so maligned, swelled and enveloped muscle. I didn’t look the way I used to—of course not. I was stronger and a decade older; all the things I’d done to build my own self did not vanish, but merely, well—feminised.

I’d never met myself in an adult woman’s body before. In a self-made body. Although this flesh too did not feel mine, but for a different reason; I felt as if the moment I looked away, it’d all be gone. It wasn’t mine because it couldn’t possibly be. I wasn’t allowed this, I was never allowed this—the only shape of woman allowed to me was future-husband’s broodmare, mummy’s doll. I wasn’t allowed this.

But I did want it. And now I knew I could have it. Now, that gnawing monster inside my head had dissolved like it was never there at all. No disassociation, no torment, no total death of all other desire, no compulsion to retreat from the real world into a singular fantasy. Just… me.

At almost midnight I walked into mine and A.’s bedroom rambling. What does it fucking mean to feel like something, like a category; I only ever feel like me; what does it mean when you’re a forever-outsider; what does it mean when it’s been used to fucking hurt you, how can you then feel like anything at all; but what if I want it, what if I want it anyway. What if I want to be a woman anyway, the way my friends are women. The way lesbians are women. What if I want to belong among them? How do I know if I feel it? How do I know I’m real? How do I know I deserve—

In a space where freedom is possible, how is anyone made a woman?

Blearily, A. looked up from her Crusader Kings and said, “Look, uh—it doesn’t have to be that deep. If you want to be a woman, you can just do that.”

Could I?

I knew my transfem friends could. They built new shapes of ‘woman’ to their liking, in spite of all outside insistence they cannot. I had no reason nor unkindness to believe that their efforts amounted to less or more than mine. If they could, so could I. If I saw them, they would see me. They already did.

Perhaps sometimes, what makes a woman is who she calls a sister.

Recommended Reading

On embracing the constructed nature of one’s sex/gender: Susan Stryker, My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix: Performing Transgender Rage.

On the asymmetric forces behind patriarchal gender enforcement: Talia Bhatt, Degendering and Regendering.

[arcadia-of-pluto]

LADS! Idol Group AU — The Boys

(art by @/AngyFdez on X and the idea was partially inspired by this post)

Hey guys! So this idea suddenly came to me because I realized I've been using "OT4/5" for the male leads in my works, and I noticed that no one else does that. I, then, realized why because they're not a k-pop group (I'm not sure if OT– is a k-pop only thing, but I've always seen it when I read bts fics). So, I thought "why don't I make them an idol group and continue using OT5 on all of my fics!" It's honestly so much easier than writing out ____ X _____ X reader.

First and foremost, a bit of backstory before I get into their character sheets!

Their company is called UNICORNS INC and Miss Grey is their manager. Sylus joined first, then Zayne, Rafayel came next followed by Xavier, and lastly Caleb was added! Zayne was 22, Sylus was 23, Caleb was 20, Rafayel was 19, and Xavier was 18. The next drabbles, besides the prelude, will be based five years after they've been a group and grew in popularity.

Each of their Y/n's will have a different name along with the Poly Y/n (who is their manager).

Zayne's Y/n — Petal

Sylus's Y/n — Kitten

Caleb's Y/n — Pipsqueak

Rafayel's Y/n — Cutie

Xavier's Y/n — Starlight

Manager Y/n — Grey

(In their respective drabbles, I will use Y/n, however these placeholder names will be used outside of that or the non-love interests will use she/her.)

Now, onto the boys;

⛄️❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️⛄️

Zayne Li

Stage name — Zayne // He has no need for special names or anything. He'll just stick with his own.

Fan-given nicknames — Z, Zaynie, Snowy,

Age — 27

Hair / Eye colour —He has hazel eyes and black hair. He will sometimes wear clear contacts during performances, so his prescription glasses don't get broken or lost. 

Evol — Ice

Position in the Group — He is the Leader, Sub-Rapper, Sub-Vocalist, and he produces and writes a majority of their songs. He can't dance and doesn't bother trying. (He will attempt the simplest of dances on stage for the fans, but he does best with a partner.) 

Sub-units — Snow Crow ⛄️🐦‍⬛(aka the Two-left-feet unit); This duo, while the eldest of the group, is somehow the most clumsy. Separately, it's not that bad. But when they're together, it's absolute chaos. They have to be choreographed far from each other or else they'll trip over each other's feet. 

Emojis — 🐻‍❄⛄️❄️

Before Joining — Zayne graduated highschool at 16 and was the valedictorian. Before joining LADS, he was 22 and had been in medical school for 5 years, so he had a year left until he graduated. He thought being a doctor would be something he would enjoy, but all these years of school while watching his retired parents travel the world…It really tore him down. He realized he didn't want to be stuck inside a hospital for the rest of his life, working day in and day out. Yes, the thought of saving someone with his own hands did appeal to him, but it just didn't feel right anymore. The moment he was scouted, he jumped at the chance and dropped out without a second thought. He already had debt accumulated, so what harm would it do to add more to it? 

Fun facts — He has a pet flying squirrel named Clopidogrel. If he overuses his Evol, it hurts himself, but he tries to hide this from fans and his bandmates.

Personality — He is usually calm, cool, and collected. He always cares about others more than himself, and puts others first. He keeps a close eye on his bandmates and makes sure no one is over exhausting themselves. He only ever loses his cool whenever Caleb or Rafayel willingly throw a challenge (on a show they're on) when they're on his team – just so Zayne is forced to take a punishment as well. 

🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤🐦‍⬛🖤❤️🐦‍��❤️🖤🐦‍⬛🖤❤️🐦‍⬛

Sylus Qin

Stage name — Sy // He would prefer Sylus, but it's honestly the fans’ choice

Fan-given nicknames — Sylie, Sy, 

Age — 28

Hair / Eye colour — His hair is dyed white and he occasionally has his natural black roots showing whenever he forgets to touch them up. He has cognac brown eyes (brown eyes that are warm in colour with varying shades of orange and red mixed in – or simply amber eyes), he'll sometimes wear red contacts on stage.

Evol — Energy manipulation 

Position in the Group —He is the Lead Rapper, Sub Vocalist, and The Center, He can't dance but will try regardless of if he gets laughed at or not.

Sub-units — Snow Crow ⛄️🐦‍⬛(aka the Two-left-feet unit)

Emojis — 🐦‍⬛❤️🖤

Before Joining — When Sylus was younger, he was rather sickly. He was born with a heart condition and so, to have a successor to his company if something were to happen to Sylus, his father adopted Luke and Kieran. Shortly after the twins were adopted, Sylus had open heart surgery and miraculously recovered. However, he didn't want to succeed his father, he'd rather the twins do so. In fact, Sylus has always wanted to be on stage – to see the world. After recovering from his injuries, he discovered an underground club, called The N109 Zone, and eventually became the leader of a rap group, Onychinus. With this experience under his belt, Sylus went to an agency and at 23, he pitched the idea of a band that used their Evols while performing. He originally wanted this group to be solely a rap group, but…plans changed. 

Fun facts — He has a pet crow named Mephisto. He has to wear prescription contacts on stage, but otherwise, he rarely has any lenses on. He can still see fairly well, but he does wear his glasses whenever he reads. He has a scar on his chest. 

Personality — He's another calm member. He tends to sleep more during the day and stay up late, so he's always a bit more quiet and sluggish on the days they have to record early. However, he also has a somewhat sassy and teasing side that always comes out whenever the younger members of the group try to pick on him. He's always down to do anything for the bit (for the joke), even if he ends up getting laughed at. He's an animal lover at heart and if he had his way, the LADS dorm would be filled with stray animals, so instead he makes constant donations to shelters.

🍎🐶🍏🐶🍎🐶🍏🐶🍎🐶🍏🐶🍎🐶

Caleb Xia

Stage name — Tango // He wants to choose a name that's more sentimental to him, something he was called in the past.

Fan-given nicknames — Cal, puppy 

Age — 25

Hair / Eye colour — He has dark brown hair and has central heterochromia. His iris is lined with a darker blue ring, mostly a lighter shade of blue, with a thin yellow-green ring around his pupil. 

Evol — Gravity manipulation

Position in the Group — He is the Lead Vocalist, Main Dancer, and Sub-Rapper.

Sub-units — Apple Fish 🍎🐠(also known as the Party Unit); Rafayel and Caleb are the hyperactive duo of the group. They're always seen playing around, pranking the other members, but when they're together on stage…They both captivate and amuse their fans. 

Emojis — 🐶🍎🍏

Before Joining — He was a pilot at 20. He loved to take to the skies and feel so free in his plane. Since he reminded most of his co-workers of a dog, they would usually call him Tango – jokingly calling him to and fro like a dog, to which he'd happily go along with it. There was unfortunately an issue nine months prior to him being scouted. He had been flying for two years now, had more than enough experience, but he had his first critical malfunction. Doing some routine maintenance on one of the ships, something must've gone wrong and triggered an explosion. By the time Caleb woke up, he was already in the hospital and his right arm was gone. He got a hefty sum of worker's comp and more money on top of that to get himself a nice new arm. And while he was in his final stage of recovery, that’s when he was scouted. His childhood friend pulled a few strings, called in a few favours, and just asked the agency to try and scout Caleb out. That it would definitely be worth it in the end. And that’s how Caleb joined as the final member of LADS. 

Fun facts — He lost his right arm in an accidental explosion that happened at his previous job. He wears contacts on stage that are purple. Only his right eye's contact is prescription since the blast that blew off his arm, slightly affected his eyesight. He had a malinois named Twix when he was younger (and he hopes to get another dog soon). 

Personality — He's always been an easy-going, lovable person. He gives off “boy-next-door” vibes. He's hyperactive and teasing, and he's almost always seen smiling. Though, he does have his bad days…reminiscing on when he still had his right arm, annoyed by the phantom pains he feels. But, for the most part, he's a mischievous duo with Rafayel and especially so on stage. Never missing a chance to play with the confetti cannons or throw water into the crowd.

🌊🐱🐠🌊🐠🐱🌊🐱🐠🌊🐠🐱🌊🐱

Rafayel Qi

Stage name — Fay // Since he's one for dramatics, he wanted multiple stage names, but the company said no. So unfortunately, he can only have one. He really wanted to use Mango, thinking it would be comical to rhyme with Caleb's, but Mangos don't fit him…Then he thought of Durango, but again…it just didn't feel like him. Eventually he decides to just use his name, but only a part of his name. He settles on Fay, another variation of the word fae. As a Lemurian, any way to slot his culture (or anything similar to his culture, seeing as mermaids and fae are in the same realm) into his work is a win in his eyes. 

Fan-given nicknames — Raf, Raffie, Fishie

Age — 24

Hair / Eye colour — Rafayel has dyed purple hair (that oftentimes has his light brown roots peeking out) and he has sectoral heterochromia. His eyes are half blue, half green. 

Evol — Fire

Position in the Group —He is the Main Vocalist, and The Visual, The face of the group, He can't dance because of a previous leg injury, but still tries his best.

Sub-units — Apple Fish 🍎🐠 (also known as the Party Unit)

Before Joining — Rafayel was an avid painter, a well-known artist within the community. He went by the name, Tidus, and would often show up to his own exhibits in disguise to hear what people really thought of him. He was scouted by his agent Thomas and his main reason for joining was Zayne. He was curious as to why a budding doctor would leave five years of college behind to join an idol group and honestly – he also loved the attention. Sylus might've felt a little bit of panic whenever he saw pretty boy Rafayel waltz through the doors. Especially since he was a good singer. (Sylus was spiraling, at this point. “We're turning into an idol group, Zayne — why do they keep recruiting singers?”) 

Emojis — 🐱🐠🌊

Fun facts — He has a pet super red half-moon betta fish named Reddie. He wears contacts on stage that are pinkish blue, they aren't prescription – he just loves the attention he gets while wearing them. His aunt, Thalia, is an extremely popular soloist. He originally wanted his official emoji to be a fish, however once the fans learnt of his aversion to cats...His emoji was already decided by the majority. 🐱

Personality — He's always been eccentric. He's energetic but laid back, domineering yet pouty. His emotions are constantly all over the place, but that's just something you'll have to get used to since this is just how Rafayel is. He'll stop mid-practice to paint, if he is hit with a burst of inspiration. He'll run around, demanding piggyback rides from everyone. He won't hesitate to take a photo or sign an autograph while out and about. He's always buying or wearing luxury brands and doing modeling deals. 

🐥☁️🌟🌔🌓🌒🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌟☁️🐥

Xavier Shen

Stage name — XV (fifteen) // He honestly doesn't care for stage names. He wouldn't have chosen one if the agency didn't pester him until he finally did. XV means nothing to him, it just sounded better than any of the cheesy names the company tried to come up with. (Which was “starboy”)

Fan-given nicknames — Xav, Xavi, Starlight

Age — 23

Hair / Eye colour — Xavier has blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. 

Evol — Light

Position in the Group —He is the Sub Vocalist, Main Rapper, Lead Dancer, and The Maknae/Youngest.

Sub-units — Star Fish Apple 🌟🐠🍎 (aka the troublesome trio); While Xavier is usually laid back and sleepy, whenever he gets around Caleb and Rafayel - and is in the mood for mischief - these three are an unstoppable trio who will stop at nothing to annoy their, usually calm and collected, eldest band mates. 

Emojis — 🐥🌟👾 (I know 🐰 is the obvious emoji for Xavier, but hear me out —)

Before Joining — He was the valedictorian of his class so many had high expectations of him. This would be a good thing since he passed all of his classes with flying colours and was on the track of being the val in college as well – but, his biggest problem was that classes were so boring. They were too easy for him, so he'd usually finish his work and nap until class was over. Or even nap during testing. It got so bad that he was eventually expelled and decided to just do part time jobs for money so he could rest more at home. He was scouted in a surprising way. The talent agents were off duty, just hanging out together, and they suddenly stopped at a café in confusion. The employee behind the counter had a long line, but it showed no signs of moving. They could hear the complaints from all the way outside, so whenever they entered the café, they had to do a double take. The negligent employee that was napping on the job looked ethereal. With the sun shining on his face, the talent agents bypassed the crowd, woke Xavier up, and gave him a business card so that he could call them later. Weeks passed with no answer, the agents go back to the café, learn Xavier was fired, and eventually find him selling flowers on the sidewalk for a nearby florist who was taking advantage of Xavier's good looks. That's when he finally gets scouted. Sylus is, again, distraught. Thinking “oh no…we were supposed to be a rap group”, but as fate would have it, Xavier was an excellent rapper. 

Fun facts — He originally wanted a pet cat but, since Rafayel is afraid of cats, he settled on a turtle named Fluffball. He doesn't need contacts, his eyes are perfect and he loves to rub this fact in. The fact that every other member needs contacts besides him — until Rafayel smacks him on the back of the head, reminding Xavier that his contacts are also non-prescription.

Personality — While you'd expect the youngest member to be expression and bouncy, Xavier is quite the opposite. Though he has his spikes of high energy, he's usually very calm and sleepy. He naps while getting his hair and makeup done, during concert breaks, and he'll even sometimes fall asleep mid-interview. However, he doesn't have any medical condition, he's just sleepy all the time and there's nothing he can do about it. But when he's hyper, there's no stopping him. Whether he's hopping around like a bunny, peeking over his bandmates shoulders during interviews, putting his hand in anyone's pockets – he's just LADS’ clingy, sleepy, youngest member. But also, whenever he's happy, he literally glows (and the fans adore this).

That's all I've got so far!

I'm still coming up with more as I go along so let me know if y'all have any more nicknames ideas and the like! Oh, and the name of their fans! I was contemplating on using "Lovers", but I'm still not 100% certain on what to name their fanbase.

I have Caleb and Rafayel's Y/ns pretty much conceptualized since they were the easiest to come up with, however I'm still struggling a bit for the other three, along with the Poly Y/n. (This is going to be a drabble type of series, so nothing too intense or detailed.)

Also! Nobody come at me for changing three of their eye colours. This is an au and I think it makes sense for them to wear their specifically in-game eye colours as contacts since a lot of idols wear contacts on stage! Since irl Sylus wouldn't have red eyes unless he had albinism while Caleb and Rafayel would have to have some form of heterochromia to have their original eye colours.

I'm going to add this here as well, but this is an AU. Evols are present, but there is no threat of Wanderers. Only criminals who misuse their Evols, similar to the world of My Hero Academia and the like.

<3 I'll be back whenever to post the prelude! And also, if you're here for ToF, Divisa, or Inertia — I'll try to post on ToF and Inertia soon!

[angelhyun]

when in milan - jjh

[a/n]: this is my first ever fic/drabble + first ever post on here so i don't really know what I'm doing, but i hope u enjoy nonetheless :) stay tuned for more (whenever boredom strikes me again)

pairing: jeong jaehyun x afab!reader

[wc]: 1.1k

- cw: fluff, slightly suggestive, sexual themes, 18+

prelude: Travelling alone wasn’t something you often did, but it was late spring and you had just finished a long year of university, so what better way was there for you to unwind than to spend your time in Italy. You, as a lover of fashion, had to add Milan to your itinerary. The city of rich culture and beautiful sights has been calling your name for some time, so finally being here felt like a dream. Little did you know, you'd meet a man who would make you feel the same way this city could.

 ˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Lounging in a local jazz bar with a booth to yourself was your ideal way of relaxing after walking across a vast chunk of the city. Visiting the Duomo was an unforgettable experience you were grateful for, but choosing walking as your mode of transportation in the kitten heels you just insisted on wearing was nothing less than painful. Sipping your espresso martini, you lean your head back against the plush material of the seat, truly basking in the essence of the incredible day you had. Suddenly, a deep voice that makes you open your eyes in an instant speaks up.  

“Excuse me,” he starts. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here. I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise.” he finishes with a cheeky grin, showcasing two adorable dimples. Oh, how you wish he wouldn’t shut that mouth. His calming voice was a juxtaposition against his striking visuals, face sculpted to perfection with an outfit as sharp as his jawline. 

“Please,” you beckon with your hand to the seat across from you. Your attempt at being nonchalant was stifled by the liquid courage you’ve gained from smooth sipping on the aforementioned cocktail. “And there’s no need for silence, I like to chat.” you finish, almost beaming at the man as he sits down, placing his jacket on the space next to him. 

He lets out a soft chuckle at that. “Really? You don’t strike me as a woman of many words. You have an unapproachable energy. I was kind of intimidated to approach you, honestly.” he rambles, shamelessly. You were immediately attracted to the authenticity and confidence he seemed to possess. Deciding to break the ice, you feed into that perception “Oh, I’m actually judging you extremely hard right now. How dare you have the balls to approach me?” you sarcastically muse, feeling at ease when it pulls a laugh out of him.

Over more drinks and shared laughs, you learn the man’s name is Jaehyun. He says he’s here in Milan for business, but you didn’t pester for more information since it seemed like he didn’t want to talk about his career much. He’s 28 and single, which you didn’t even have to ask due to his generous act of offering the information up on his own. You discussed that you were here on vacation and told him about the incredible day you had, grateful you got to share the experience with someone else. 

You weren’t sure if it were the smooth jazz playing in the back, the dimmed lighting, the alcohol running through your bloodstream, or the ethereal man sitting in front of you that made you begin to feel needy. You could tell he was feeling it too judging by how he’d not so subtly scoot closer to you over the course of your conversation, or how his eyes darkened and parted from yours whenever you’d lean over to laugh at his dry yet well-thought out jokes, giving him a nice peak at the lace under your top. Conveniently, as if reading you like his favourite novel, he makes the first move. 

“Hey, did you want to continue chatting back at my suite? I know it’s still pretty early in the evening, but I have an early start tomorrow morning, and I’m sure you will have a packed day with your tourist activities and whatnot.” Jaehyun says smoothly, almost calculated. With a nod of your head and a shared smile, the two of you pay for your drinks—him covering yours, of course—as you make your way across the street to where his hotel was conveniently placed. You guessed that’s where he came from prior to meeting him at the jazz bar. He insisted on holding your bag for you, ever the gentleman, as he draped his jacket over your shoulders with care despite the walk being so short. 

The ride up to his elevator was nothing short of steamy, his hands on your hips as soon as the elegant doors shut. He gently backed you up to the wall, his jacket on your back shielding you from the cool surface as he rasps into your ear. “I really want to kiss you.” he says breathily, licking his lips in anticipation. “Please do.” you reply, almost wrecked for the charming man. Your lips collide rather clumsily out of drunken anticipation, each craving one another’s touch. It’s messy but addicting, leaving you pulling back for air as you hear the elevator ding, staring at the stain your rouge lipstick left on his pouty lips. He takes your hand and gently leads you into the long hallway, fishing for his room card in his jeans pocket with his free hand. 

You can’t help but notice the bulge straining against the denim, immediately salivating upon first glance knowing what’s to come. He catches your shameless staring, letting out a huff of amusement which you found more attractive than you should’ve. Jaehyun places his hand on the small of your back, guiding you into the room. You heard him mention he was staying in a suite, but this was just beautiful. His job must be paying him really well, you thought as you slipped off your shoes, immediately sighing in relief as your bare feet touched the carpeting. 

This goes unnoticed by Jaehyun as he smiles, placing your purse on the bedside table, then gently taking his jacket off your back to hang up in the large walk-in closet. “Need me to carry you to bed, princess?” he teases, but you could pick up on the genuine tone in his question. “I’m sure I could manage, but if you’re offering…” you cheekily muse, giggling once he bends to pick you up bridal style. Turns out those muscles weren’t just for show. He looked down at you and all you saw was a prince looking back, as handsome as ever. An unforgettable smile, perfect hair falling over his forehead, and the clearest skin you’ve ever seen. Is he even real? you thought to yourself, grateful you didn’t accidentally whisper that out loud. 

He gently tosses you onto the king-sized bed, hovering over you. You cup his face in one hand as you gently guide him downwards to your lips, this kiss more gentle than the one you shared in the elevator. His tongue finds its way into your mouth and you let him, french kissing as his hands wander up under your shirt, resting on your side. His big hand continues its journey up, stopping as soon as he feels the material of your bra. “May I do the honours?” he asks. “You’re such a dork!” you joke, as he smiles, dimples on display once more. “Forgive me for being chivalrous. Is that a yes?” he asks once more, truly wanting your consent. You nod eagerly, answering with a cheesy “When in Milan.” to which he furrows his brows in playful confusion. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s Rome.”

[ghostpoetics]

Queer Indie Horror and Dark Fantasy Romances

I currently have seven books out! Signed copies are available on Etsy. They are a mix of Gothic lit, horror romance, and dark fantasy romance.

Some of these books are very dark. Be sure to check out my author site for content warnings on every book page.

A FLAME IN THE NIGHT: Or—Marriage: Two people and their silver-haired vampire. An MMF vampire romance that takes place in 1924 Paris. Burlesque clubs, Twenties stag films, decadent parties, a blond waifish man who is totally straight, and bloody eroticism.

WITCH SOUL: M/F witch x vampire continuation of A FLAME IN THE NIGHT, prelude to MFMF. Millie, a strong-willed and disabled witch, meets Leon in less than favorable circumstances and works to gain control of her witch soul, the fallen angel stuck inside her.

PROVIDENCE GIRLS: A sapphic cosmic horror romance that takes place in Great Depression New England. After Vin escapes from being sacrificed in her hilly, isolated town of Dunwich, she’s saved and taken in by Azzie, a reclusive and aloof clerk at East Providence’s city hall. The two women bond and share their strange and harrowing past experiences, but Azzie has a secret: She’s from a hamlet called Innsmouth, and she’s changing into a Deep One.

KING OF HELL: M/M vampire x demon romance and revenge road trip. Laurențiu, one of the favourites of the hedonistic King Paimon, asks him to help him get revenge on the man who betrayed him a long time ago. What ensues is a road trip through post-apocalyptic Atlanta and abandoned Dollywood.

UNHOLY WITH EYES LIKE WOLVES: Carmilla x FMC x Erzsébet Báthory. Noémie, a dishonored and widowed noblewoman in early 17th century Hungary, finds herself in an unenviable position: After grievous trauma and loss, her last chance to regain her honor comes when she must serve as Lady Erzsébet Báthory’s handmaiden. Báthory is stoic and imperious, and as Noémie struggles to acclimate and accept her present and future, she begins to have dreams about a mysterious woman. Worse, there are stories of disappearances and deaths in the castle, and Noémie might be next.

THE SAINT OF HEARTBREAK: Two of the Bible's greatest villains... After his betrayal with a kiss, Judas Iscariot dies in despair and goes to Hell. When Christ saves other souls during the Harrowing of Hell, he leaves Judas behind—but not alone in the ninth circle, where the most detestable traitors go. Callous, resigned, and abandoned by God long ago, the Devil sees Judas as a pathetic wretch, but he soon finds a kindred spirit. As the centuries pass, they struggle to find even a sliver of happiness in Hell. Doomed by the narrative, will they find happiness, or will their story continue to be a tragedy?

SACRAMENT: SACRAMENT is a dark Gothic romance that follows Maël, a man who makes a deal to be the human familiar to a peevish vampire lord named Sebestyen. Besides dealing with Sebestyen’s demands, he also contends with his burgeoning feelings for Alain, his closest friend, all while faced with the looming threat of Sebestyen’s twin vampiric masters.

[oikarma]

terrible things

pairing: max verstappen x reader

summary: people like to say love is a static thing-it sparks at first sight and never fizzes out. but maybe it just takes on a different feeling, quite like the ever-changing colors of a flame.

a/n: new month new ending! this is the last part to the number one girl series. hope you enjoy <3

part one / part two / part three

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

liked by 703,924 others

f1gossipofficial: Max Verstappen was spotted walking Y/N L/N to dinner from electric lady studios! Two things are on our mind: new music and an old flame.

tagged: yourinstagram, maxverstappen

view all 53,681 comments

user1: i feel like this is going to get messy real quick..

user2: MY YNMAX HEART 🥺 ARE THEY FINALLY TOGETHER

user3: hello? what about lewis FREAKING hamilton?

user4: not y/n in her homewrecker era

user5: woah woah she was there WAY before kelly user6: kelly and max announced their split months ago user7: ikr how are people defending her

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

@/charmschoolgirl She is definitely releasing new music. So happy! I hope the Grammy's don't snub her this year.

@/its2ayem freak bro 😭 she just said that her and lewis have never agreed to anything beyond friends & he is one of her closest friends

@/genericuser5 who is this diva 💜

@/bananas I lowk felt bad when the interviewer asked about Max. You could like...see it on her face. How she didn't want to talk about it.

@/charlesdannate but!! she said they were on talking terms again!! and they'd reconciled and also that photo of them leaving els!!!!!!! YN LOVE SONG ABOUT MAX?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

liked by lando, jennierubyjane and 3,910,514 others

yourinstagram: TOO MUCH TO LOSE / FEB 2

view all 702,193 comments

francolapinto: mother 🛐

user1: oh next year is going to be HELL for him user2: @/lewishamilton @/maxverstappen idek which one of you she's dating but DO SOMETHING yourinstagram: oh franco...don't you think i'm a bit too old for you? user3: @/yourinstagram y/n bae he dated a mother of like 3 kids or something age is nothing LMAOAOAO user4: franco's mommy kink allegations r never going away

user5: red is SO your color!!

user6: i love how even her looks r maturing? like on burnout it was all schoolgirl, teen, naive and this album is SERVING.

luxurylaw: pleasure to style you !!

yourinstagram: nono it was MY honor

user7: time to wager. is this a baddie (i eat men) album or a breakup (???) album

user8: well she's all cozy w max now so maybe something happened with lewis? user9: @/user8 WHYYY I LOVED THEM TOGETHER

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

r/popheads · 1 wk. ago jammies_on_all_night

Y/N L/N - TOO MUCH TO LOSE [MEGATHREAD]

This megathread is to be used for discussion regarding Y/N L/N's second album, as well as articles and reviews of the album. The album, Too Much to Lose, comes out at midnight in PST.

Please keep all reviews to the megathread - I will attempt to keep the post updated with reviews, please feel free to DM me if I've missed any.

Links to any leaks, as well as asking for any, will not be allowed in this megathread.

Album Links:

Spotify

Apple Music

TIDAL

Amazon Music

Tracklist:

we can't be friends (wait for your love)

prelude in e minor

cornerstone

tis the damn season

i love you, i'm sorry

heavenly

terrible things

don't look back in anger

This thread will be updated with important links for release day events, reviews of the album, etc.

ynsgirlfriend: I was expecting another pop-y album but this was so much more heartfelt. WCBF eats so hard. SO HARD.

↳ dannyric03: Love her growth. Also, the way the album goes from distancing herself (we can't be friends, duh) until the time is right and finding so much beauty in what time you have (terrible things). I don't even want to speculate who the album is about. It's...beautiful. ↳ User5: calling it rn. wcbf (wfyl) is going to be a smash hit on the radio

CharliesPrelude2: literally came up w my user after charlie's prelude (based off of chopin's prelude in e minor) SO Y/N ACKNOWLEDGED ME

↳ SalsaBird: LOL. Loved her on that track. Didn't expect them but they were haunting. Honestly, I'm surprised at how insane her vocals are.

Sharks1039: Trying to decode this. bear with me. [1/2] 1. we can't be friends (wait for your love) - i feel like this is pretty obviously about max. not exactly, bcs i think we've garnered it was y/n who left him first after THAT night (thanks burnout!!) but the fact that she's learning to live without him. even though she still wishes they could be friends. just my interpretation. 2. prelude in e minor - i don't know. it's beautiful. it's chopin. it's y/n. it's just there and a good transition into the rest of the album? it really cleared up my mind and helped me appreciate the other songs. 3. cornerstone - seeing that person in every place. "thought i saw you at the X, but it was only a lookalike." idk who's perspective this is supposed to be from. the message is imo such longing you look for it everywhere. 4. tis the damn season - i feel like the lyrics point toward max (hometown, etc.) but i also feel like we've never really seen anything in the last 4 years indicating a reunion like that. after we stopped seeing her and lewis (we saw them SM last year) i thought something might've gone wrong? i'm p sure they're still on friendly terms, they comment on each other's posts, etc. but less close. maybe some regret from her side?

↳ ApplestoApples: I KNEW I wasn't the only one who thought "tis the damn season" gave Lewis. They hinted at a sort of romance. Especially when Lewis visited Y/N in her hometown (they took a few pictures with fans who'd spotted them). "It always leads to you, in my hometown" is probably about her thinking a lot about that. Sad they didn't work out. Loved how well he treated her and how happy they seemed. ↳ Sharks1039: @/ApplestoApples how did i not know that. omfg it's so about lewis. ↳ Shakes1039: anyway part two of my yap. [2/2] 5. i love you i'm sorry - "you were the best but you were the worst, as sick as it sounds i loved you first" ??? i don't even know what this means but damn girl i hope you're ok now. 6. heavenly - this is such a love song. lowkey found it a TINY bit jarring when we went from ilyis to heavenly but it's more like. i love you (im sorry) to i love you (i'm not)? that's the only explanation i can think of. banger, though. 7. terrible things - MY FAVORITE SONG. ALSO SHOULD BE YOURS. "i can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me" hello. i bawled hearing this. i'm so glad she's found love because it seemed like the max thing shook her up so bad. "don't fall in love, there's just too much to lose ... i beg you to choose to walk away" oh my god. she still sounds pretty worried about how strong love is and how losing a loved one will hurt... 8. don't look back in anger - oasis cover. live. i feel like given the previous song (terrible things) it's like when you walk away to protect yourself from love, don't look back in anger. and at the end of the day, i think this is an album about max. some people talk about how she has growth through the album but honestly idrk about that. it's just her coming to terms with her actions. it's an album about being in love and all the bad things that happen when you're in love. it's an album about deciding to walk away to not hurt yourself. but at the end of the day, people are overcoming that desire to protect themselves. they want to love, even if it hurts.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

liked by lewishamilton and 1,203,864 others

yourinstagram: hello everyone! happy valentine's ♡ i just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for the support you have shown my music. everyone says this, but the songs i put out are pieces of my heart. they are lessons i have learned and stories i want to tell. some of you have already figured this out, but a little piece of advice:

don't be afraid to love. there are much more terrible things to experience.

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yourinstagram: i mean don't be afraid to love in reasonable circumstances!! 😭 don't be afraid to love if people discourage it, if your heart truly wants it. pls be afraid to love if you're being forced against your will. love you all so much, take care and make good decisions!

user1: she's so real for freaking out over misinterpretation user2: sorry ma'am reading fics of your man as a mafia boss has stopped me from mafia reasonable decisions

lewishamilton: happy valentine's, y/n

yourinstagram: hope the grapes did something for you user3: roman empire unlocked. user4: omfg 😭 not the grapes

user5: hold up. why is no one talking about that photo. it's not in any of her music videos?? she's in that dress in the dlbia live performance but WHEN WAS IT TAKEN

user6: i bet it's max. user7: it's totally max. user8: RELATIONSHIP UPDATE PLS @/yourinstagram

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maxverstappen: Home is where the heart is.

tagged: yourinstagram

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user1: HARD LAUNCH HARD LAUNCH

user2: it's real omg!!

user3: haven't seen y/n in ages THANK U FOR THE CRUMBS MAX

user4: the way he looks at her...

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f1gossipofficial: Max Verstappen spotted crying after last Dutch GP. All our hearts are equally as heavy.

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user1: poor man. last year of zandvoort. i'll miss it too

user2: i'm sure y/n will cheer him up! missed seeing her at the last few races

user3: omg what if she's pregnant... user4: girl 😭 i like to think max would've learned from kelly and put a ring on her BEFORE the baby user5: @/user3 yea the last photo we saw of her was like months ago and she was wearing a fur around her waist so we couldn't see much

user5: rip dutch gp.

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maxverstappen: Life can do terrible things. But you are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.

tagged: yourinstagram

Comments on this post have been limited.

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BREAKING: Max Verstappen has retired from racing. He has reportedly moved back to the Netherlands with remaining family.

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INTERVIEW WITH HUGH L/N-VERSTAPPEN

...

INTERVIEWER: Moving on, congratulations on the Best Actor award!

HUGH gives the interviewer a shy smile. He takes a sip of the coffee in his hands: Thanks. I was so surprised. I didn't think people enjoyed my performance that much.

INTERVIEWER: Well I guess you were proven wrong. How do you feel about following in your mother's footsteps, instead of racing like your father?

HUGH pauses before speaking: I suppose...I sometimes wonder if I would be suited for it. If I could've done more. At the end of the day, acting feels like keeping my mother's legacy. Many people remember her as my dad's wife, or just a songwriter. She went into acting because she loved it. I just wish she was more recognized for it.

[ There is a moment of silence as Hugh plays with the cup in his hands. ]

INTERVIEWER: I know your acceptance speech brought quite a few people to tears. It was very moving.

HUGH nods: I didn't mean to. I just wanted to thank my mom one more time. And my dad, too.

INTERVIEWER: It was a good kind of tears, I'm sure.

HUGH laughs.

INTERVIEWER: Which of your mother's songs is your favorite?

HUGH: Well, my dad used to try singing "terrible things" to me. He's not a great singer, so emphasis on the try.

INTERVIEWER: If I'm not wrong, the song does say "now son, I'm only telling you this because life does terrible things." Is it like a message to you?

HUGH: Yeah. I know the song is about how hard love is and how painful it is. But she did it anyway. What's my excuse? Life is short and there's so much to experience.

INTERVIEWER is handed a note. THEIR eyebrows furrow, looking at HUGH: Sorry, would you be comfortable answering a question about your dad? I know you only agreed to talking about Y/N. We can cut this part out if you mind.

HUGH shakes his head: No, it's quite alright. What was the question?

INTERVIEWER: Well, your father hasn't made any public appearances save for your Academy Award win. It's been many years...would he like to pass on a message?

HUGH: Oh, my dad loves to talk. Let me think. He's old, you know that. I think he enjoys the quiet life. He wouldn't survive in an F1 car nowadays, but he still enjoys driving.

[ HUGH thinks. The INTERVIEWER doesn't prompt him. ]

HUGH smiles to himself: I don't think he'll be showing up at any of my future premieres. Don't expect that. It's been a while, yeah. But he's happy with his years. He said he's close to seeing her again.

INTERVIEWER only nods. There are tears in both their eyes.

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a/n: it's over! lowk felt bad for the ending. but i think i like it this way. sorry ynlewis stans. i just think. at the end of the day they would find their way back to each other.

[ssa-dado]

The Ship of Theseus (prelude)

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort (?), pining - I really do suck at tagging Summary: Never fuck your boss. Never fuck your best friend. And definitely never fuck Aaron Hotchner. But you did anyways. And now you’re left with the post-coital edition of Mr. Practical and all the messy aftermath that came with it. And a makeout too. Apparently the big scary man fell asleep right into your arms. Warnings: It's mentioned that they fucked. Whoops. IDK. In doubt - +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. No actual smut, but it's STEAMYYYYY... way too suggestive. Also, some cuss words here and there. Hotch being a softie. Word Count: 4.1k Dado's Corner: It’s a Chekhov’s gun of Ethics but without the actual gun… unless, of course, we’re talking about Aaron’s GUNSHOTS - oh, wait, there it is! The gun! Aaron’s thick, throbbing GUNSHOTS - oh shit, that’s so cool

masterlist

If there was ever an Olympic event for post-coital efficiency, your dearest friend – and funnily enough – your boss Aaron Hotchner would be taking home the gold.

Truly, what a sight to behold.

One moment, he was wrecking you within an inch of your sanity, and the next - barely a minute later - him and his ridiculously long legs were back in your bedroom, carrying a towel in one hand, a damp washcloth in the other, like the world’s most disciplined housekeeper.

So proper, so effortlessly composed, even now.

Because of course Aaron Hotchner - former prosecutor, Unit Chief, insufferable neat freak - would handle post-coital cleanup like it was just another task on meticulously organized, color-coded to-do list.

Sex: Completed (highly successful, performance rating: exemplary)

Orgasm(s): Confirmed (3, official review pending, though “best orgasm of my life” was strongly implied)

Post-coital hydration: Pending (but water bottle is within retrieval distance)

Aftercare protocol: Initiated (warm washcloth acquired, towel deployment imminent)

Debriefing & emotional processing: Ongoing (mission parameters unclear, subject remains evasive yet sarcastic)

Sheets: Ruined (replacement required, but can be postponed in favor of further activity)

Boss/subordinate ethical violation acknowledgment: Not yet addressed, deliberately ignored

Cuddling: Proposal under review (high-risk scenario)

Exit strategy: TBD (complications may include the inability to leave this bed for the foreseeable future)

And, obviously, you could not let him get away with that.

"Look at you, being all domesticated," you teased, propping yourself up slightly as he walked over.

"Someone has to take care of you," he shot back smoothly, dropping the towel onto the bed and kneeling beside you like this was normal.

Like you weren’t both still bare, still caught in the strange, floating space that existed after.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

The teasing - the constant, insufferable push and pull - was easy. That was your rhythm. That was safe. But this was something else entirely.

Something that left you both a little flustered, a little unsteady.

Even you - you, who could talk your way out of anything, who thrived on throwing him off - found yourself at a loss, your mouth opening, reaching for something to say, for anything that would keep this from feeling like more than what it was.

But then he touched you.

Pressed the warm cloth to your skin with so much care, with so much intent, and whatever sarcastic remark had been forming on your tongue just evaporated.

It wasn’t fair how tender he could be, how his hands - capable of so much control, so much discipline - could be this gentle, this careful. On you.

"You don’t have to do that," you murmured, breathless and barely audible.

"I know," he said simply, his gaze flicking up just long enough to see you before returning to his task. "But I want to."

So you let him. Let him take care of you.

Let yourself watch him, tracing the way his thick brows furrowed with concentration because he wanted to get it just right, the way his jaw tensed and relaxed as he worked, annoyingly meticulous, like this was just as important as everything that had come before it.

Gentle. Steady. Intimate. Intentional.

In a way that made your chest ache.

In a way that made you terrified of what it meant - now that the lust had passed, now that you were both just... here, bare, with nothing but each other.

And especially when he started pressing slow, lazy kisses along your knee, your already-marked thigh, your hip - like he needed to, like he couldn’t help himself, like he wanted to remind you that he had been there, that you were safe with him, even now.

Every second was more devastating than the last.

When he finished, he set the towel aside and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a beat, then another, then another, until he could hear how fast your heart was pounding.

"There," he murmured, lips still brushing against your skin. "All set."

You shook your head, forcing a smile, forcing yourself back to safer ground. "So thorough, Hotchner. Truly, I’m impressed."

His mouth quirked, but apparently, he wasn’t done being insufferably tender, kissing your cheek up next. Wasn’t he just adorable?!

"I aim to please," it was so utterly him it made your stomach flip, but not even more Aaron Hotchner than when, suddenly, he was back to bossing you around in your own home.

"Now, we change the bedsheets, take a shower, and then I’ll see you back here so we-"

And then he stopped. Oh no. Cat got your tongue, bossman?

"We what?" you prompted, raising an eyebrow, watching with unholy satisfaction as the tips of his ears turned red.

He cleared his throat, hesitated in a way that was so unlike him it almost hurt to witness."We… could cuddle. If you want. Or talk. Or whatever you want to do, really. No pressure. I can leave, all you have to do is tell me."

The longer he spoke, the redder he got, his words tripping over themselves, and honestly, it was taking everything in you not to burst out laughing right in front of him.

"You’re adorable, you know that?" you said instead, leaning in to press a kiss to his flushed cheek, hopefully to calm him down – or at least that was your excuse. "Big, scary Aaron Hotchner, suggesting cuddling in the same breath as ‘no pressure.’"

You mocked him, because humbling him was your second nature, and judging by the glare he was giving you, you were winning yet another round. Still, you didn’t want him to just leave. That much was obvious.

He exhaled slowly, gaze steady. "So… what do you want?"

You pretended to think about it, dragging it out just to see that little furrow in his brow deepen.

"Well, I suppose I could settle for cuddling… " you mused, letting your fingers ghost along his shoulders, "but only if you’re the little spoon."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Little spoon?"

Oh, wasn’t it just glorious. 2-0

"My house, my rules," you said smugly. "If you don’t like it, next time we’ll do it at your place, and you can do whatever you want."

And the second the words left your mouth, you definitely wanted to die.

Next time.

As if this was a thing. As if you had even talked about what it was, what this meant. As if you had acknowledged that what you’d just done was completely, wildly, against every rule in the protocol - and common sense as well.

Especially because he was your boss.

"I’m joking, of course," you backtracked quickly, though you felt the heat creeping up your neck.

"Of course," he echoed, but there was something in his expression, something behind his eyes that said he wasn’t entirely convinced, probably because he caught you with your hands in the cookie jar. "This was…"

Great. The talk.

"An accident," you supplied.

"Against protocol," he continued.

No shit, Sherlock.

"Because you’re my boss-"

"We work together," he chimed in, but his voice was softer now, trailing.

"Could cost us our careers," you pointed out, waiting for him to acknowledge it, to confirm the obvious.

"When there’s a pattern of offending behavior," he murmured, almost to himself, slipping into technicalities - because of course he would.

But then - he smirked. Just the slightest tilt of his lips, still – he smirked.

Oh.

And that could only mean one thing.

"A pattern," you echoed, watching him carefully.

And just like that, because he was only a man - logical, brilliant, but still just a man - he reached the same inevitable conclusion you had, just a breath later.

His fingers found yours, intertwining, and it was stupid how calming that simple gesture was.

Or maybe it wasn’t the touch itself but the truth laced between your hands.

Or maybe both.

Or maybe it was just this - how the whole conversation had shifted without either of you stopping it.

It didn’t mean you wouldn’t push and pull anymore. Didn’t mean you wouldn’t still play cat and mouse. You would. Just differently now. With your lips on the other’s skin instead of just grazing the air.

"We’re very good at patterns," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, pressing a kiss there.

"At recognizing patterns," you corrected, your breath hitching as you tilted your head, catching the corner of his mouth with yours.

"What is a pattern, after all?" His lips moved along your cheek, his hands sliding up your spine, settling against your back.

"A repetition," you answered, barely above a whisper, pressing a kiss just beneath his ear.

"A repetition," he echoed, voice rasping, pressing one to the curve of your jaw.

"Exactly that." You murmured as your fingers traced patterns over his bare shoulders.

"Depending on a series of factors," he continued, shifting slightly, pressing another kiss to your collarbone.

"Such as…?" You exhaled against the bruise you left on his throat.

"Subjects involved," he murmured.

"Location," you supplied.

"A very important factor," he agreed, flashing his intoxicating dimples, nudging his nose against yours.

"Fundamental in analysis," you teased, smiling against his lips.

"If the location changes," he murmured, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, "the recognition of the pattern could be…"

You barely heard him, too focused on the way his breath ghosted over your skin, but still - hearing him talk like that, with his voice all low and thoughtful and dangerous, made you shiver.

"Devious," you countered, barely referring to legal theory anymore.

No, he was devious - the way his mouth was just barely touching yours, his hands skimming your sides like he wanted to devour you but was forcing himself to behave.

You've had enough. You tilted your head, catching his lips in a kiss, cutting off whatever legal analysis he thought he was about to give.

"Faulted," he corrected, the words slipping straight into your mouth, delivered onto your tongue by his, deepening the kiss without hesitation.

"You can never be sure…" your voice faltered, swallowed by the way he pulled you flush against his bare body, his fingers digging into the skin of your lower back.

"…if it’s the same pattern," he finished for you, just before his teeth caught your bottom lip, just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Or a copycat," you murmured, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, feeling completely dizzy, straight-up autopilot - you barely even knew what you’d just said.

Judging by the way he chuckled, though, it was probably nonsense.

No, definitely ridiculous, because now he was repeating it back to you, still grinning, "…A copycat? You’re crazy."

Still, he never looked away.

Right… you definitely weren’t exactly talking about unsubs now.

"So one single act can still be admissible?" you asked, fingers idly tracing over his cheek.

"It was just a little lapse in judgment," he chuckled, but you could already feel the gears turning in that brilliant lawyer’s mind, already bending the rules in real time, looking for the inevitable loophole in the very system you both swore by.

"...At your place," he added, like that alone made all the difference. "And that’s just one location."

You smirked. "Not your apartment."

"To be precise," he murmured, his mouth brushing over yours, "it was just your bed… which means that technically-"

"Technically", you could still fuck each other everywhere else.

"Oh, I love the way your brain works…" you hummed, punctuating your words with another kiss, this time against the sharp line of his jaw. "So… not the shower."

And just like that, it became a game.

A list. A reckless, bucket list.

"The desk," he murmured, and fuck, you had to squeeze your thighs together at that one, trying so hard not to let your brain go there - not to picture which specific desk you wanted him to bend you over, not to imagine the feel of his hands gripping your hips, his voice low in your ear, telling you to keep quiet.

Definitely not the one in his office. No. That would be unethical.

"The kitchen counter," you whispered, voice already a little breathless.

"The floor," he added, lips dragging just beneath your ear, voice husky, teasing, unfair.

"Of all the rooms in this apartment…" you trailed off, tilting his chin just slightly so you could press a slow kiss right between his brows, smoothing away the tiny crease there.

"The couch," he murmured. Low blow.

You bit your lip, because that wasn’t fair, because now all you could think about was straddling his lap, sinking down onto him, rolling your hips while his hands dug into the flesh of your thighs, holding you in place, watching you come undone.

You had never wanted to ride a man so badly in your life.

"Against the front door," you suggested next

“The armchair” he added, and okay - so he really wanted you to ride him. Noted.

"The stairs," you countered, throwing something ridiculous just to regain some control.

"We don’t have stairs," he said, lips curving against your skin.

"Fine," you huffed. "The car."

"Backseat or front?" he asked, way too inclined to indulge in your proposal.

"Front if I’m driving," you mused.

He groaned at that, and you took the opportunity to press your advantage, brushing your lips over his throat, smirking against his skin as you felt something become quite… hard.

"My bed," he rasped suddenly, and damn, you knew you were done for the second those words left his mouth.

Because that - that was dangerous. The thought of being wrapped in sheets that smelled like him, tangled up in his warmth, surrounded by the scent of sex and sweat and that insufferable, frustratingly attractive man…

You would not survive it.

"The elevator," you rasped before you could stop yourself.

And that was when he froze - for half a second, you thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. And then-

"Jesus Christ."

"I don’t think that one’s possible, Hotchner.."

Still, his mouth parted, his pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left, and for a second, you genuinely thought he was about to die right then and there. Would’ve been tragic, really - death by horny legal loopholes debate.

Explain that to Erin Strauss...

But then he groaned, deep and wrecked, dropping his face into your neck like he needed a moment to recover. Maybe he wasn’t going to die just yet.

"The elevator?" he muttered against your skin, muffled, bewildered, like he couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation.

"The elevator," you confirmed, absolutely shameless.

"Jesus."

"I’d prefer it be just the two of us, if that’s not a problem for you," you deadpanned.

He let out a deep, suffering sigh against your neck, like he was physically restraining himself from debating elevator logistics.

"I don’t even know what to do with you," he muttered.

"I have some ideas."

He exhaled, then lifted his head just enough to look you dead in the eye. "We are never having sex in an elevator."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"That sounds like a lawsuit," he corrected, still so visibly distressed that you could not stop laughing.

"Thought you used to be a good lawyer, Hotchner," you teased, your fingers dragging lazily along his spine. "Wouldn't you know your way around a legal loophole?"

"Oh, I do," he sighed. "I also know how to avoid federal charges."

"You’re truly a prude."

"You're truly reckless," he shot back, eyes closed, mentally revisiting every questionable decision he’d made in the last hour… or maybe the last two…

Honestly, who was even keeping track at this point?

You smirked, shifting until you were draped half over his chest, resting your chin on your folded arms as you gazed at him. "Oh, c'mon, Hotchner, live a little."

His eyes opened just enough to give you a look.

You huffed. "Okay, okay, fine. No elevators. If you really wanna be lame about it."

"Thank you," he said flatly.

A pause. Then, you couldn’t help it. "The jet."

His entire body went rigid. You swore you felt his soul attempt to leave his body.

"The jet?" he repeated, voice hoarse.

You nodded sagely. "The jet."

"Oh my God."

You grinned, slow and so wicked. "Can you imagine it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Small, enclosed space-" you started.

"Oh my God."

"-turbulence, you pinning me against the-"

"No." He cut you off.

You cackled, absolutely delighted by his suffering.

"The team is on that jet," he tried to argue.

"Not always," you countered, “sometimes Strauss is there too.”

His entire face drained of color. For a solid three seconds, he just stared at you, mouth slightly parted, horror creeping into his very being.

"Get out."

You wheezed, collapsing against his chest, “Of my bedroom?! You can’t really dismiss me here unfortunately for you.”

"I don’t ever want to hear the words sex and Strauss in the same sentence again," he grumbled.

"I believe you just said them yourself, Hotchner"

A slow blink. A deep sigh. He was so close to reconsidering every single choice that had led him to this moment.

And yet-

Instead of answering, he just exhaled, letting his weight sink into you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder like admitting defeat.

Because you both knew exactly what this was.

A game.

A flimsy, shameless, beautiful excuse to keep doing this - to keep falling into each other, to keep breaking rules and bending logic, to keep pretending it wasn’t something more.

But neither of you said that.

Neither of you needed to.

Instead, you simply thrived in the ineffable, in the space where words didn’t need to be spoken. In the way his body melted on top of yours, drawn to you despite himself, despite the attitude, despite everything.

Because with you, he could just be.

Simply, truly, exist in his truth.

Not Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. Not the unshakable leader, not the man who carried the weight of everyone else’s burdens on his back, never allowing himself to falter.

Just Aaron.

The six-foot-two little spoon who swore he wouldn’t be, yet here he was, folded into you like he’d never belonged anywhere else, all because you’d jokingly set it as a condition for him to breathe this close to you.

At least, that’s what you told him.

But in reality a part of you wanted this.

A part of you wanted the man who always stayed close – from the victims, to the UnSubs, and everyone he cared about, always making sure he was the one who bore the weight so no one else had to - to have someone stay close for him.

To let him know what it felt like to be held.

Because the thought had been lingering at the edges of your mind for far too long now - unwelcome, unavoidable -

If he was there to protect everyone, who was there to protect him?

Not that you were volunteering. Not like that.

Actually if you said it out loud, he’d probably just laugh at you, and use that damned dry humor of his and tell you “How can you protect me if you can barely shoot?”

And you’d laugh, you’d tease him right back - and nothing would change.

But you knew the truth - you’d been his anchor for the past decade.

And so your fingers traced idle patterns along his back, thoughtlessly, feeling the tension unwind from his muscles, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You’re warm," he murmured after a while, rasping at the edges, making your heart ache in a way you didn’t want to think too hard about.

"You’re a bit heavy," you murmured, lips quirking slightly.

"Mhm." But he didn’t move, didn’t even try.

You smiled to yourself, dragging your fingers gently through his short hair, feeling the strands slip between them, coarse and slightly mussed.

"You don’t have to do that," he said softly against your skin.

"I know," you whispered, your hand still smoothing over his back, still holding him close, like you weren’t fooling either of you. "But I want to."

A pause. A deep breath.

Then-

"Thank you," he sighed, pressing a barely-there kiss to your shoulder, too tired to move, too tired to do anything but exist against you.

Just holding each other.

Just existing in the same space, in the same breath, with no expectations, no pressure, no future to consider beyond the feel of his heartbeat against yours.

"You know, there’s a philosophical dilemma called the Ship of Theseus-" you started, your voice a gentle hum in the quiet, earning a small huff from him in response.

"It questions whether an object remains fundamentally the same if all of its components are replaced over time. If every original part is gone, is it still the same thing? Because technically, it’s not… if identity is tied to its physical components and not something more abstract, like function or form."

You felt the slow, subtle curve of his lips against your shoulder.

"Which brings us to," you added, lips curving now too, " is this even the same bed if we just change the sheets? On some criteria, following this logic… it isn’t."

A beat.

No reply.

Just the steady, even sound of his breathing.

And - oh.

Oh.

He’d fallen asleep on you. Mid-philosophy. Unbelievable.

Great. So apparently, you were the boring one now. Perfect.

But before you could dwell too much on your bruised ego, he stirred, mumbling something barely coherent against your skin.

"Mmmh… we change the sheets… shower… come back here and-"

“’And’ what?” You sighed, your fingers still lazily running through his hair.  “Aaron, you sound like a low-battery version of yourself.” You huffed a laugh, shaking your head.

"M'practical," he slurred, as if that was a valid argument.

"You’re half-asleep."

"Still practical," he muttered.

"If you move, I’ll take care of the sheets. You go shower," you offered, voice quiet, fond.

He barely responded, just a low, unintelligible grumble against your collarbone before-

"Mm-mm… we don’t… shower together?”

You sighed. Of course that was where his sleepy brain went.

"Will we just shower?" you asked, knowing full well he wouldn’t have the energy for anything else.

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice barely above a whisper-

"What if we don’t?" he muttered, already half-asleep. "S’not against the rules…"

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Aaron-"

"The ship… applies to your shower too…" his words trailed off lazily, completely nonsense, but you could hear the hint of a smile in them. "If you replace the soap… ‘s a different shower…"

Well, at least even in his on-the-brink-of-unconsciousness state, he was committed to following through with your logic...

"I’m saying this for your own good, Hotchner, because you really don’t have the energy for another round."

"I do," he grumbled, shifting, his arms tightening around you like you had to believe him.

"Sure," you murmured, kissing his forehead. "I’ll believe that when you make it to the bathroom without falling asleep in the doorway."

He made a low, unintelligible noise, like he wanted to argue, but his body had already betrayed him, too heavy, too settled against you.

"Go," you whispered, nudging him gently.

A deep sigh. Then-

"Fine."

He peeled himself off you with the effort of a man being dragged out of bed by force, his body moving like it was actively resisting him.

You bit back another laugh as he stumbled toward the bathroom, catching himself on the doorframe for just a second before disappearing inside.

And, of course-

When you finished your own shower and stepped quietly back into the bedroom, he was already collapsed against the bed, completely dead to the world.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you eased yourself into bed, trying your best to be quiet, he shifted -

One sleepy, instinctive movement.

And suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you without thinking, his body curling into yours, his head tucking against the crook of your neck, snuggling.

Clingy.

"Annoying little spoon," you muttered.

You felt a muffled hum against your skin. "Next time… we switch."

You sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, letting your fingers drift through his hair one more time. "Go to sleep, Aaron."

He sighed against your skin, warm and content, the weight of him only settling deeper into you.

"Mmm. ‘M already sleepin’…" he murmured, words barely holding together.

A beat.

Then, even softer-

"You should too… two hours ‘til work."

Oh, he just could not help himself - spent a full minute reminding you, over and over, that you just fucked your boss.

Damn it, Aaron. At least he could try to pretend...

"Actually, it’s one and a half." you bit back.

A pause.

Then-

"Shit."

Shit indeed.

Phi's Corner: BOTTOM HOTCH RIGHTS!!!!!!!! Also don't worry filthy goyals, you will be fed with some actual smut tomorrow. And probably some context too... maybe?!?! hope you enjoyed this anyways...

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[rafaron1223]

I'M BACK FOR MORE SXF CONTENT!

To preface, a month ago, I learned about an interview with Tatsuya Endo on Spy x Family on a magazine that came out in 2020. Well, today I finally got it!

There were a lot of cool illustrations and drafts from the early days of Spy x Family that I don't think have reached a lot of the fans in the West due to this being a JP magazine.

The article is a whopping 8 pages! 6/8 of them is the actual interview, but there's so much text in here that it'll take me a while to translate the whole thing.

And before I forget, I present this Anya doodle by Endo for the interview.

I'll be gradually sharing my first impressions about the contents of this interview, but I'd like to dedicate this post to this particular section featuring the initial cover designs!

We'll start backwards with the one that stands out the most: Franky on Volume 4. This is just a speculation, but it seems like he was still planned to be the uncle at the time of this drawing. You can also see him sitting on an LC7 Swivel Chair, which is designed by the same person who designed the Grand Confort LC2 Petit Modèle armchair that we see Loid sitting on in Volume 1. And if Endo taught us anything about characters sitting on different chairs made by the same designer, they're pretty good friends.

In our current day, I think it's really funny that it took Franky four more volumes to finally get his own cover. God bless him.

Next is Yor on Volume 3, who, interestingly enough, is sitting on the sitting on a Heart Cone Chair, which is currently used by Fiona on the Volume 6 cover. Compared to the current version, Yor appears to have a more serene look, and the poses are quite similar. You can also see the aspect of blood stains on the floor remaining in the current version of Volume 3.

As for Anya on Volume 2, compared to the final version, she's dressed in her regular clothes rather than her Eden Academy uniform, and Mr. Chimera is seated at her right instead of her left. The pose is also different too, with Anya sitting with spread legs with her hands in front of her.

Also, it was stated by Endo before in the Eyes Only fanbook that the colors on the Marshmallow Sofa in Volume 2 are an original addition, so it's interesting to see the actual black and white colors used in this draft.

And last but not least, we have Loid. I saved him for last since his cover had a lot of versions that I think are worth looking at.

A lot of things are pretty similar here, with Loid sitting on a Grand Confort LC2 Petit Modèle armchair with a gun in his right hand (the pic quality doesn't show it, but trust me, he is) while staring forward. As for differences, Loid starts off in a pose with open legs while holding a mask in his left hand. Also, something that should be mentioned is that the detail of the characters hiding items under their chair seems to be absent.

Below is the process of how Endo-sensei got to Volume 1's final design. The first draft had Loid crossing his legs while holding his face with his hand. In the second, he's spreading his legs and holding a hat this time. You can also see the bullet casings at his feet. Maybe a prelude to the "under the chair" aspects of the volume covers? According to the captions, Endo drew these drafts on Clip Studio Paint. These drafts got rejected and we end up getting Loid in his iconic pose, which was developed into what we see now.

can't believe we lost manspreading Loid but oh well

As for the bottom half, these are other considered designs during the draft. The first and third covers look pretty plain and generic, but the second one is pretty reminiscent of the Forger's family portrait while the fourth reminds me of this extra page from Volume 4. But I can see why these designs were scrapped by Endo. Though I can see the second cover getting a cover near the end of the manga in the future, or something like that.

Overall, these images were really interesting to look at! I love looking at the drafts of Spy x Family and seeing where things could have gone. Though I'm pretty bugged that this magazine came out 5 years ago and I'm only learning about it now.

The next post will be about Endo's initial plot for Spy x Family! Look forward to it!

[gracieheartspedro]

Your Needs, My Needs

I : Strawberry Wine

a masterlist of how you can help gaza

the prelude to this series

pairing: cowboy!joel x f!reader (no outbreak)

description: joel fixes your toilet but you can't help but yearn for more time with him. so you invite him to dinner and try to win his stomach? aka love?

word count: 3.2k words

warnings: there is no smut in this part. still MINORS DNI! no use of y/n! vague talk of reader's old life before texas, no real description of the reader, reader does have anxiety/mental illness that is not fully recognized/diagnosed, mentions of eating food, reader lives alone, reader got MONEYYYY, mentions of joel's ex wife (gasp), alcohol consumption, smoking cigarettes, kissing, flirting. all the fluffy stuff <3

author's note: hey...hey.... how y'all doing?? i'm so so so sorry this has taken so long. my life has been crazy for the last like 4 months and I'm finally getting settled into my life again. I miss y'all and I miss writing, so HERE I AM! I'm hoping everyone who wanted me to tag them months ago is still cool with me tagging them 4 months later lol. okay, lemme know what you think xoxo

Joel comes and goes for days. The first day he returns, he inspects your toilet again and tells you he has the wrong tools. You discuss a game plan and by his initial projections, your toilet should be fixed the next day. But when he fails to come by in the morning, you decide to call the phone number on the post-it note he left for you the day before. 

The phone rings and you get an answering machine of a younger girl telling you to leave her and Dad a message after the beep. When the line lets out a long ding, you breathe out the random croak in your throat. 

“Uh, hey, Joel, it’s me. Just seeing if you’re stopping by today. If not, that’s fine, I’ll be home all day today and tomorrow. Okay, uh, bye.”

Hours go by and you find yourself pacing, regretting your decision to leave him a message. What if he gets it and thinks that you’re crazy? 

Ever since you had made his acquaintance, you felt completely reliant on interacting with him. It may be due to the fact that you haven’t socialized with anyone else in months. You were very good at isolating yourself, but lately, it’s been eating you alive being so alone. Now that you had this big house, the silence felt almost too quiet. Joel’s southern drawl and straightforward responses gave a bit of light back to your life. 

Around dinner time, your landline rings. You practically fall over your couch racing to pick it up, hoping it was him. 

“Howdy neighbor,” He grunts through the phone, “Sorry I didn’t come by today, hope ya didn’t miss me too much.”

You let out a dry laugh, trying not to sound too giddy about him following up with you. You were borderline pathetic. 

“No, I just wanted to make sure you were still alive,” You manage to get out, “You are still alive right?”

“Still kickin’, just busy as all get out. ‘M fixin’ to head to your place now if you’re not busy.”

You look down at your pajamas and start to nod. It’s not like he can see you through the phone, but you are reacting to his words like he’s right in front of you. 

“Sure thing, I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

-

“So… It’s really just you here? All by your lonesome?”

He’s messing with his toolbox, searching for the one tool he needs to fix the toilet. You stir your fresh brewed tea, ensuring none of the sugar clumps up at the bottom of the mug. You had offered him some, but he politely declined, telling you that he had a big dinner.

You take a sip, testing the sweetness. “Just me. How about you? Just you and your daughter, right?”

He laughs heartedly, turning towards you from where he’s squatted. You look at him with curious eyes, unsure if you asked the wrong question. He stands up, a wrench in his hand, a smile still spread across his face. 

“Her mama left town with her new boyfriend about 5 years ago. Wanted the city life, not the life I gave her. It’s been just me and her ever since.”

So he’s single. You think to yourself. 

You realize the laugh was probably because of how absurd and new it must be for someone to ask him about his life. He grew up here and you are positive everyone here already knew all about his business. You are a breath of fresh air for him. 

Before the silence becomes awkward, you speak up. “City life ain’t worth a shit.”

“Yeah, she’s different. Won’t speak ill of her ‘cause that’s my bosses’ mama. She sees her now and again. They are just very different.” 

The conversation comes easy with Joel. While the first couple of interactions you two shared were a bit strained, after days of small talk, you realize he’s the truest Southern gentleman you’ve ever interacted with. Polite with a little bite. He never speaks ill of others, except his brother. He loves to pick on Tommy. He seems like an attentive father. He loves to pick at you, always pointing out your Northern tendencies. Your horrible driving. Your accent and your speech patterns. But he’s also very complimentary. A couple of days ago, he remarked how nice your perfume was when you were standing close to him. It made your heart skip a beat. 

And on top of all of those things, he’s very easy on the eyes. 

“That’s mighty fine of you not speaking ill of your ex,” You try to drag out the silly Southern saying, which causes him to chuckle again. You smack your lips before continuing, “Wish I could do the same.”

You are not sure what he’s doing to the tank of your toilet, but you watch him strain to get a piece out of the corner with the wrench he has. He clenches his teeth, turning the piece to the left to loosen it. 

“Exes are exes for a reason,” He grunts, fiddling with some more things in the tank, “I ain’t too hung up on datin’ right now. I got my girl and my horses.”

“And now you got me, your annoying neighbor who almost crashes into your horses and asks you to fix toilets.”

He breathes out loudly, “Yeah, ‘nother pain in my ass. Just what a man needs.”

-

The toilet is fixed too quickly. You had busied yourself with other small cleaning tasks that when Joel finds you in the kitchen doing dishes, he startles you. It took him about 15 minutes to finish the job and you had thought you could at least finish up the dishes you made from dinner. 

“‘M all finished up. Gotta get back home to do some rounds at the stables,” He says as he waltzes over to your paper towel holder. He grabs a sheet and begins to wipe his damp hands, “Anythin’ else for me today?”

You turn off the running water, going down a list of fixes you could ask him to do. You decide it’s probably best to just ask him to swing by another day to help you with other things. 

“No, thank you though, Joel. I am sure I’ll be by to ask for more help,” You chuckle, shaking your hands dry, “I owe you dinner or something.”

As you say it, it feels like all the air leaves your lungs. He’s staring at you and there’s a glint in his eyes. You are not that good at reading people, mostly because you are deathly afraid of being wrong. His eyebrows raise as he leans against the counter near you. He’s so close and in your space, but you try to push the thought of him coming onto you out of your mind. 

“What’do you got on the menu tomorrow?”

His voice is kind of husky which makes your brain draw a blank. You wipe your hands on your pants before crossing the kitchen to check your fridge. You glance through your ingredients, settling for the only dinner item you can conjure up that his southern palette may like. 

“Baked chicken and vegetables?”

He nods, tossing his paper towel into the bin beside you. “Yeah, I've been needing a home-cooked meal. Think I could come over at like 5? Tomorrow?”

You recollect a time when a guy showed interest in wanting to hang out with you outside of work. It had been years and he was not nearly as attractive as the man in front of you. 

You nod slowly, trying not to look too robotic due to your nerves. “Sure thing, cowboy.”

-

You did not know what to wear. You contemplated going into town to see what the local boutiques had but you ran the risk of Joel seeing you out. You didn’t even know if this was a date. 

You settle on a sundress you have owned since high school. It’s the perfect length and while your mind goes to wanting to impress Joel, you also need to be comfortable. 

You cleaned your house, adding some new decorations to your living room walls. You even clean your sheets and make sure your bedroom is vacuumed. 

When the time comes for Joel to arrive, you pace the kitchen anticipating the doorbell. You already had all the food prepped and ready to put in the oven. The vegetables have been cut and seasoned. Everything was just the way you needed it to be. 

Joel gets there 5 after your scheduled time. When you welcome him at the door, his hair is styled and you can tell he put on his “fancy jeans”. 

What you didn’t expect was the bouquet of flowers he had in his hands. 

“Afternoon, neighbor,” He begins before extending the floral arrangement towards you, “My girl said I had to bring you something nice. Somethin’ bout being a gentleman.”

You smile widely, giving flowers all your attention. Even with the fragrant bouquet, you get a whiff of his sandalwood cologne. 

“Nice to see you cleaned up for me, cowboy. Come on in, dinner is about to get put in the oven.”

-

You catch him scanning you up and down when you place the spread of chicken and vegetables on the table. He was in the midst of talking about his daughter and her band fundraiser, but he completely halted when you took notice of his staring. 

You settle into the dining room chair across from him, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“She needs more sponsors?” You break the silence, wanting to move away from the sudden awkwardness. 

He swallows, reaching for the serving fork, “Oh, yeah. She needs to reach a certain goal to go on her senior band trip.”

You try to avoid his wandering gaze again, focusing on organizing your plate of vegetables. “Where are they going?”

“Disney. She ain’t never been out of Texas, so she really wants to go.”

You remember all the trips your family said they’d go on to Disney, but they never did. Your father could not stand being around his own children, let alone other people’s children. You think about how he used to complain about your constant questions, all the times he completely ignored you for your brother. You start to spiral, the anxiety creeping up in the back of your throat. You push your chair out from under the table, excusing yourself for a moment. You go to the bar you have set up in the living room and grab the only sweet wine you have. Strawberry. You grab two glasses from the top of the setup and walk back to Joel. 

“Forgot wine,” you mumble, setting a glass in front of him, “You want some?”

He is already picking at his chicken, “Yeah, I’ll take some.”

You are quiet as you uncork it expertly, pouring it into each of the glasses. Joel watches you like a hawk. You can tell he’s trying to read your expression, so you try your best to remain neutral even though your hands are shaking. 

You place the bottle in the middle of the table, making sure it’s easily reachable. 

You finally sit back down, sipping the red liquid. The strawberry flavor isn’t very strong, it’s more like a hint of the berry. You had gotten the bottle from a roadside stand in Kentucky. An older lady who must have owned a vineyard nearby was selling them for $5 each. You told yourself you would only use it for a special occasion. This event seemed fitting. 

Wine always makes you flushed, but you are always a bit flushed around Joel. Even more so when he’s watching you so intently. 

After a couple of sips, you finally rest your shoulders and begin to eat your dinner. 

“I could sponsor her,” you finally say, returning to the previous conversation. For some reason, you felt obligated. Joel quickly retaliates, shaking his head as he chewed on your roasted veggies. 

“You ain’t gotta do that, doll.” 

The nickname rings in your ears. You take another sip of wine. You can tell Joel notices your reaction because he smirks with his mouth full. 

“But I want to, Joel. I’m sure she has worked hard her high school career, she deserves to have fun.”

He hums, but still shakes his head negatively, “I can’t let you just pay for-”

“You can and you will,” You enjoy another bite, smirking at your defiance towards him. He looks perplexed. “So when is this fundraiser? Is there like a dinner or something?”

He finally caves, “This Friday at the school. It’s a dinner and auction. I guess if the kids don’t find their sponsors, some local businesses are willing to sponsor them.”

“Are you going?”

“Yeah,” He cuts up his chicken, “I guess you’re gonna come along, too, if you’re givin’ my girl all that money.”

“Does a check work?”

He sits back in his chair, already finishing off his wine, “You seriously don’t have to-”

“What are neighbors for, Joel?”

He nods, “You mean friends.”

You furrow your brows, trying to let your hazy mind find a time when you called him your friend. This was a new development.

“Friends, huh?”

He pours more in his glass, “Well, I’d like to think so.”

The wine is hitting your system and you realize your arms feel lighter. You grab the stem of your glass and tip it up to down the rest of the alcohol. Joel’s eyes are trained on you, waiting for a snarky response. 

“Do friends stare at other friends like that?” You pour more wine for yourself. You realize he’s done eating so before he can respond to your flirtation, you speak up again, “You done with that?”

He looks down at his empty plate, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes friends look at other friends like that, or you’re done eating.”

He grins, “‘m done eating, doll.”

-

You two find your way out to the rocking chairs. They were left there by the previous owners and you could tell they were probably as old as you. 

You had another full glass of wine, sipping it as Joel lit up a cigarette. He admitted it was only a bad habit when he was drinking, which was rare. “Sarah gets onto me when I have even one beer. So this has gotta be between us two.”

You swirl the crystal, watching him carefully take a drag of the stick. “Your secret is safe with me, cowboy.”

He giggles as he lets out a huff of smoke. “I haven’t had secrets in a long time. Guess I’m lucky it’s with the town stranger.”

The statement hits you in the very pit of your settling tummy. You furrow your eyebrows, leaning forward towards him. Your chairs are not that far away from one another, so this is probably the closest you have ever been to him except for that one moment in the kitchen. 

“Luckiest man in Texas that’s for sure,” You muster, averting your eyes. You could not stare into his beautiful brown eyes for too long. “Having the privilege of getting me out of my head. No man has done that in years.”

“What? You not good at letting loose?”

You shake your head, knowing that he did not understand what you meant. You take a moment to inhale, finally glancing up at him again. “I think I may just be cursed.”

“Now, why do you say that?”

You contemplate spilling the beans. Letting your heart fall onto your sleeve after years of shielding it from anyone who looks your way. Your lips part, but no words come out. It’s just the sounds of the cicadas. 

“As soon as something is good, it gets bad somehow. I don’t even get a moment to savor it.”

You feel the statement down to your bones. The last time you felt settled in your own life, the rug got pulled out from under you. You cannot remember a time when you truly felt present in a special moment. You always felt like you were floating outside of your body, watching things happen and never really truly feeling anything. 

You don’t expect him to lean closer to you, “Whatever happened before you got here, you ain’t gotta worry about it anymore. You obviously put distance between you and what happened for a reason. Let this little side of the world be your home now.”

You push your spiraling thoughts away, letting him be right. 

“I’m workin’ on getting settled. It’s easy when you have a handsome cowboy to help along the way.”

It comes out like word vomit. Between the wine and the nerves coursing through your entire being, you can’t help but admit your little crush on the man. You slap your free hand over your forehead, admitting defeat before he can even respond. You knew he would take the comment and run with it.

“You always flirt with your friends, sweetheart?” He was toying with you, which was a good sign. If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t call you such a thing. 

You smile, releasing your face from your hand. His eyes are tracing every curve of your face, a subtle pass that you did not capture quickly enough. 

“Only ones that fix my toilets.”

And then, he kisses you. It happens so quickly, that you don’t fully grasp that it’s happening until you're molding your lips into his. Once your buzzed brain picks up the fact that the man you have been crushing on is kissing you, he pulls away. Your eyes are still closed, your hands still gripping onto your wine glass. 

He huffs loudly and stands up quickly. Once you place your eyes on him, he’s pacing around the back deck stairs, not too far from where you’re sitting. You instantly bite back the urge to ask him what’s wrong, because there’s always something wrong. 

“‘M sorry, sweetheart. I should’na done that.”

He instantly regretted it. The thought made your throat tighten. He continues to walk back and forth, causing a draft. 

“It’s fine, Joel. I’m n-not mad.”

He shakes his head, halting his robot-like movements. He finally looks at your pitiful expression and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t think I’m much of a gentleman, kissing you on the first date.”

You watch as he places his hands on his hips, contemplating his whole life right before your eyes. You realize he is too traditional to see that nowadays, people are sleeping together on the first date. First base is nothing. You rest your glass on a decrepit table next to you and stand up. 

You slowly approach him, trying to catch a glance from him, but he continues to avert his eyes. You grow bold enough to tilt his chin towards you, letting your guard down for a moment. 

“You’re such a gentleman, it hurts,” you whisper, slowly letting a smirk grow across your face. The comment makes his shoulders lower, finally relaxing from such a heated moment. 

“Just don’t wanna mess this up with ya,” He murmurs, only letting you and the nearby fireflies hear you, “I enjoy spending time with you.”

You slowly lower your hand to your side, trying to act casually about the confession. But the truth is you want to run and wake up every cow and horse within a 10-mile radius with a squeal of delight. 

“I like spending time with you, too, Joel.”

He takes your hand as you say it, bringing your knuckles up to his lips. His breath is hot on the back of your hand before he says, “Well now, I quite like the sound of that."

taglist (some of y'all can't be tagged, I tried lol)

@midnightdragonzero @casssiopeia @anoverwhelmingdin @notsosecretspy @raindrcpsangel @art-estrange @misstokyo7love @lizzie-cakes @d1lf-loverrr @ashleyfilm 

@blckbrrybasket @cande-beggins @gloryekaterina @lilyevanstan1325 @frogtape @jamesdeerest @mellymbee @arrowsandanchor @polishedtaylor @harrieandharassed @ranahx @youwouldntdownloadapizza @jmillersgirl @wintersquirrel @stefanibear003 @joliettes @startsm00n @abbsfrommars @76bookworm76 @youotterbekiddingme @jodiswiftle

[bruhstation]

hello tumbled er

greetings and salutation. it is I, senja heterocaine, speaking to you through your favorite home screens. now you might be wondering: where on earth has senja heterocaine disappeared to these past 5 months? well the answer is as simple as it gets

I focused on my studies.

well yes that is the main reason. but that's like the nerd "obvious" answer. there’s other reasons too. some of which includes me getting into new interests, revisiting my old, hibernating interests, getting involved in university organizations and events, getting more involved in big family stuff since I'm the oldest and the only of-age grandchild of grandma from mom's side.... lots of stuff

so I just finished the third semester of premed school right. honestly speaking, with how I was losing motivation on drawing, the art block post-art fight, and lack of time, I decided to well, take a break. and it’s pretty convenient too since it was early on in the third semester. during the entirety of it I was feeling pretty proud of myself like "oh I've been studying a lot. I've taken a break from drawing and blog stuff. surely things will get better" and it did! not immensely but it's significant enough that for once I don't feel an indescribable sense of terror after the semester ends. the focus of this semester was about reproduction systems and growth and development which is pretty fun? we get to use models and medical phantoms hands-on and poke them with needles and other rube goldberg contraptions. I did miss breeding bacterias in petri dishes and seeing my friends burn the microbiology lab’s ceiling like last semester though. my grades are also improving… slowly but surely

(aftermath not pictured: me lounging on the couch scrolling through quora to see if there are people currently in college wanting to drop out)

maybe I was aiming too high. at least my grades are better than the previous two semesters and my social life is much better than it was back in high school. speaking of exams -- I went through my first osce exam around a week ago (practical exam to see if you can actually perform the skills labs lessons from the entire semester like you're a real physician). it was the most terrifying day of the month. my dentist said I have a big tongue and that’s why I can’t speak properly if I’m being too fast. ntm I WAS NERVOUS!!! MY FIRST OSCE!!! with how I memorized everything I needed, I was pretty confident that I'd pass, though. I didn't and retook the exam the next day. the prelude was the worst crash out ever

ah ptooey. I'll just take it like a champ. my tutor who's 3 years older than me and currently in the anesthetic rotation of co-ass told me that things will get easier but that's very subjective. he's a medical olympiad student after all. my parents are pretty happy though with how my academic life is becoming better so that's that

LETS MOVE ON TO SOMETHING LIGHTER. section B: what I've been getting into ever since bruhstation was put on cryostasis

you know Transformers One (2024)? the transformers movie directed by josh cooley? based on the Transformers(tm) franchise by Takara Tomy and Hasbro? most tragic break up movie of the decade? I watched it twice, squealed once, and left me broken and inconsolable for weeks on end. it made me revisit my dormant transformers interest after 5 years. I've reread the idw comics (mtmte, LL, taao, main transformers comic), and is currently checking out more (reading the wreckers saga right now). god it made me miss rodimus and friends' zany space opera adventures. I've always envisioned casa tidmouth to have the same tone as mtmte... the oftentimes dark humor, fridge horror stuff, weird magic/science, the roller coaster of emotions, confronting the past... its crazy good.

stories where misfits and knuckleheads band together in a confined space while having crazy doctor who-like adventures am I right. like I want casa tidmouth to be like that. remind me to thank 14 year old me for this trip down memory lane. and as usual, I tend to make self-indulgent crossovers of any interest I'm thinking about at the moment with casa tidmouth

a terrifying sneak peak on what's to come.

I've been working on my oc projects too. you may have seen some of them on artfight (graciela, saudade, altair, etc) but I've been focusing the most on graciela and saudade's universe, children's heterotopia. it has the largest amount of characters in any story I've created (not counting casa tidmouth), the most effort put into planning the stories and weaving in its themes about capitalism, patriarchy, period-typical bigotry, etc. there's human experimentation and they're given powers that range from punching super hard to time and space displacement. I also inserted whatever I wanted into the story. sure, yes, there's a lesbians-only organization of which its members are named off the knights of the round table, theres a mafia that focuses more on the family drama and attempted parricide from all angles, and tragic assassin maids of which their names are wuthering heights references. also if you've been following my main tumblr hajimedics for a while, you might've seen my three fairly oddparents ocs. well I've given them the tezuka star system treatment and inserted them into children's heterotopia as well.

I've also gotten into UTAU production! I've made a number of UTAU covers but haven't uploaded them to youtube. only shared them around with my friends on priv twitter. a good friend of mine assisted in the creation of my own UTAU voicebank! their name is TORKA (like "torque"), their voice bank has a slight accent when singing in japanese (because I'm their voice lol) and CV-only, their in-universe lore is that they're an intergalactic train conductor picking up wayfarers and outcasts trying to find a place in the vast universe, and I love them dearly

moving on! this is a thomas the engine and company blog THIS IS A LIFE UPDATE POST

I'd rather not discuss about how I'm doing mentally in deep detail BUT what I'll say is that I can't confidently say "I'm doing better" or "I'm doing worse" because it always depends on the days. things are okay-ish nowadays. some days are scary. some days are boring. I still experience delusions, (ironically) worried about my anhedonia, and believe that certain bouts of confidence will trigger a jinx, but I think I've been controlling myself well? at least? I keep internalizing the belief that I'm an adult. 20 years old. I have to act accordingly and my life in real life is ten times more important than the internet. things are going to change more and more once I graduate premed and began the co-ass program. I have to think 10 steps into the future. building successful connections before you turn 30. sigma grindset and all that. sorry that was my father using my body as a spirit medium

AND ALSO. ALSO. BACK TO THE BLOG DO YOU GUYS REMEMBER THAT ONE TIME I PROMISED TO MAKE A COMIC BASED ON THE RESULTS OF THE 1000 FOLLOWERS POLL AND NEVER DID UNTIL NOW. I'm terribly sorry. I promise I will get into it I SWEAR procrastination is kicking my ass. I have to plan the dialogue and script and stuff AND DRAW BUT

BUT HERE’S THE FUNNY THING

THE BLOG REACHED 2000+ FOLLOWERS A FEW MONTHS AGO

NOW WHAT DO I DO TO CELEBRATE?

I don’t know honestly. I haven’t done the 1000+ followers celebratory comic, and NOW I HAVE 2000+ FOLLOWERS. THERES 2000+ OF YOU NOW!!!!! THAT’S CRAZY (IN A GOOD WAY)!!!! I thank you all for sticking with bruhstation through thick and thin for around 2 and a half years. I’m glad for all your support, fanarts, asks, and such truly. like wow. 2k. in such a short time too! thanks guys. admittedly, I feel kind of guilty to leave everyone hanging for months with nothing to give, especially with such a high follower number. and realistically? I don’t think I’ll be able to draw as much as I used to. like I’ve said earlier, I’ve been busy with my personal life and oc projects. it’s not like I’m abandoning this blog any time soon? I’m just speaking from a logical perspective, given my status as a student and (possibly, hopefully) future doctor too. I don't want to burn myself out posting like thrice a week, answering asks daily, I want to take things slow. at my own pace. maybe I'll focus on designing side characters as well and thinking about their roles in the story! but that's for another day. I’m just glad everyone’s still sticking around and enjoying my silly stuff

I do want to draw more for this blog! I want to put thomas and co. in more situations. make them dance for all our entertainments. but when you’re an adult, you realize that you have your own priorities. you can’t always do the things you wanna do. you can’t just drop something you don’t like out of the blue. sometimes you have to sigh, scratch the back of your neck, and brave it while saying “I sure am getting old”

oh and also I'm a butch lesbian now. still he/they (heavy preference on he/him), still preferring masculine terms like "mr", "sir", "guy", still as crazy as ever. still aroace too and not interested in dating, something that's been a constant in my identity ever since I'm in early high school. little have changed I can assure you this. I am still senja. senja heterocaine from the net.

and thus concludes senja’s life update post! what will the next post after this be about? something gordon-centric again? serious colored art? old men yaoi? silent hill UK localization? place your bets. everyone loves a good laugh