lixii00

[lixii00]

Chapter 4: A Journey to the White Queen

Tarrant Hightopp x y/n female reader

word count: 2,690

A/n hey..... hey.... how y'all doin?

The lingering warmth of the Hatter’s touch on Y/N’s cheek, the whispered words of belonging — “perhaps you’ve finally found your way home” — settled deep within her, a quiet counterpoint to the cheerful chaos of the tea party. The March Hare was now attempting to butter his ear with a biscuit, and the Dormouse had curled up in a teapot, snoring lightly. The air still hummed with the vibrant, slightly off-key energy of the Hatter’s world.

He still held her hands, his bright green eyes, usually dancing with mischief, having a softer, almost vulnerable light. The noise of the party seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them in a bubble of shared understanding. Y/N felt a deep sense of recognition, a feeling that had been building since she inhaled the scent of his domain, a feelingconfirmed by his uncanny perception of her own… hat-ness.

Then, with a sudden, theatrical flourish that broke the intimate moment, the Hatter clapped his hands together, his usual exuberance flooding back, though now tinged with a new, directed purpose.

“Right! Splendid! Utterly, magnificently splendid!” he declared, releasing her hands but leaving a lingering warmth different from the afternoon sun. He hopped up, straightening his impossibly tall hat, which seemed to settle back onto his head with a sigh of relief. “We simply must! There’s no two ways about it! It’s imperative, monumentally important, perhaps even… hat-aclysmic!”

Y/N blinked, pulling herself back from the quiet depth of the moment. “Must… must what?”

The Hatter spun around, pointing a finger towards a direction Y/N hadn’t paid much attention to – a path winding through the peculiar, oversized flowers and chattering shrubs. “Journey! Venture! Embark! To the White Queen, of course!”

“The White Queen?” Y/N repeated, the name unfamiliar yet carrying a certain weight. She remembered Alice mentioning the Queen of Hearts, but not another queen.

“Yes, yes, the White Queen!” the Hatter affirmed, already bustling about the table, tidying up in a whirlwind of misplaced enthusiasm – stacking teacups into precarious towers, stuffing biscuits into coat pockets, and somehow managing to tie a Dormouse’s tail to a sugar bowl. “A dear, forgetful soul, but with a remarkable understanding of… well, of things one forgets! Which can be frightfully useful when you’ve misplaced your entire Tuesday!”

The March Hare looked up from his buttering endeavor, grunting something that sounded suspiciously like, “Forgetful? More like fearfully absent-minded! Lost her tiara and her train of thought in the same teacup last week!”

The Hatter waved a dismissive hand. “Poppycock, my dear Hare! A touch of absent-mindedness is merely the brain taking a small holiday! Quite healthy, I assure you. But,” he turned back to Y/N, his eyes sparkling with renewed urgency, “she has a predicament! A most peculiar predicament! One that involves… a hat!”

Y/N felt a jolt of interest. “A hat predicament?”

“Precisely!” the Hatter exclaimed, pulling a slightly squashed cupcake from his pocket and offering it to a nearby robin, which promptly pecked it into dust. “A rather magnificent hat, you see. Or rather, it was magnificent. Belonged to her, you know. A coronation hat, I believe, or perhaps a hat for a particularly important game of chess. Made of starlight and silkworm sighs, they say. But… it’s gone! Not just lost, mind you, but… unmade! As if the very threads decided they’dhad enough of being a hat and wandered off for a cup of tea themselves!”

Y/N frowned. An unmade hat? That sounded… impossible, even for Wonderland. “How could a hat become… unmade?”

The Hatter leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Ah, well, that’s the peculiar part! Some say it was a magical unraveling. Some say it simply got bored. Some say it was the unfortunate result of trying to use it as a temporary teacup during a sudden shower. The details are… fuzzy, like a well-loved felt. But the point remains! The hat, or what was the hat, is now a pile of confused materials, and the White Queen is in a frightful muddle about it!”

He straightened up again, his theatrical energy returning in full force. “And who better to help a hat in distress than a hatter of unparalleled skill and an aroma of lavender and madness? Why, it’s destiny! It’s kismet! It’s… hat-tacularintervention!” He took her hand again, pulling her gently but firmly from the chair upholstered in playing cards. “Come! The day is un-young, and a hat awaits assistance!”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. The idea of an ‘unmade’ hat, the glimpse she’d had into the Hatter’s deeper feelings, the undeniable pull she felt towards this strange, vibrant world and the even stranger, more vibrant man beside her – it all spurred her forward. “Alright,” she said, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Let’s go help the hat.”

The Hatter beamed, a genuinely happy, slightly manic expression. “Capital! Excellent! To the White Queen! And mind the singing nettles, they’re terribly opinionated about the weather!”

Their journey was a kaleidoscope of Wonderlandian oddities. They didn’t follow a paved path but wound their way through forests where trees whispered secrets they didn't quite understand and roots occasionally tripped them with playful intent. They skirted a river of shimmering, constantly changing liquid that smelled like possibilities and disappointment. They passed fields of flowers that rearranged themselves as they walked past, spelling out nonsensical phrases like "Beware the Jabberwocky's Tuesday!" and "Butterflies prefer marmalade!"

The Hatter was an irrepressible guide. He chattered constantly, pointing out fascinating, terrifying, or simply bewildering sights. He sang snippets of songs that seemed to have no beginning or end. He skipped, he danced. And he occasionally ran ahead only to double back, claiming he’d forgotten where his feet were going.

But amidst the madness, there were moments of quiet connection. When they paused by a mossy rock that hummed a low, contented tune, he sat beside her, not talking, simply watching the light filter through the canopy of impossible leaves. His presence was comforting, grounding her in the delightful instability of this world. He asked her more about her ownworld, not about its logic or rules, but about its colours, its sounds, the feeling of it. And he listened, truly listened, his eyes holding that same intense, searching gaze that had captured her attention at the tea party.

Y/N found herself opening up, talking about her life before Wonderland. The feeling of being slightly out of step, the passion she felt for hat-making that sometimes felt too big for her old world, the quiet yearning for something… more. The Hatter nodded, his understanding presence a balm to the old, unvoiced feelings.

“It’s like trying to fit a rainbow into a shoebox, isn’t it?” he said softly at one point, plucking a glowing mushroom from the ground and examining its luminous cap. “You know the colours are meant to spread across the sky, but the box insists they stay put. And eventually, the colours fade, feeling cramped and… un-colourful.”

“Yes,” Y/N murmured, recognizing the feeling perfectly. “Like that.”

“Here,” he said, handing her the glowing mushroom. It pulsed with a soft light in her hand. “Here, the sky is wide enough for all the rainbows. And the boxes… well, the boxes are probably wearing hats anyway.” He grinned, the familiar spark returning to his eyes, but the moment of quiet understanding remained, a secret shared between them.

As they journeyed further, the landscape subtly shifted. The colours became softer, more pastel. The air grew gentler, carrying the scent of lavender and forget-me-nots. Even the chattering shrubs seemed to quiet down, their pronouncements becoming less demanding and more… introspective. This, the Hatter announced, was the border of the White Queen’s domain.

The White Queen’s castle wasn’t a towering fortress like the Queen of Hearts’ (which Y/N had only heard about, but the descriptions were vivid enough). Instead, it seemed to rise organically from the landscape, a structure of pearlescent stone and shimmering, ephemeral towers. It felt less built and more… remembered into existence. There were gardens filled with flowers that changed colour based on the thoughts of whoever looked at them and fountains that spilled liquid light instead of water.

They were met at the gate, not by stern guards, but by a line of small, polite squirrels wearing tiny spectacles and carrying scrolls. One of them, with particularly large spectacles, read from his scroll in a high, squeaky voice.

“Her Serene Forgetfulness, the White Queen, welcomes the Mad Hatter and his… ah… ‘highly recommended hat-person’… to her most luminous, though sometimes misplaced, abode.” The squirrel peered over his spectacles. “Are you the hat-person?”

“I believe so,” Y/N said, suppressing a smile.

“Splendid!” chirped another squirrel, leading them forward. “Mind the steps, they occasionally rearrange themselves alphabetically.”

Inside, the castle was airy and bright, filled with soft light and the faint, sweet scent of honey and old books. Everything seemed a little hazy, like a pleasant dream. They were led through corridors where paintings on the walls shifted and changed, depicting scenes that might have happened, or might happen, or perhaps never happened at all.

Finally, they were ushered into a large, sunlit chamber filled with comfortable chairs and stacks of parchment tied with ribbons. The White Queen sat on a simple, elegant throne that looked like it might float away if you weren’t careful. She was a gentle-looking woman with kind eyes and hair that seemed to flow like moonlight. She wore a simple white gown, and indeed, her head was bare.

She looked up as they entered and smiled serenely. “Ah, Hatter. And… oh dear, have I met you before? You look awfully… present. Like you belong here. Where were you yesterday?”

The Hatter bowed with a flourish, though a more restrained one than Y/N was used to. “Your Forgetful Majesty, it is I, the Hatter, and this is Y/N, the most exquisite of hatters, recently arrived from… well, from ‘Not Here’.”

The White Queen tilted her head, considering Y/N with a soft gaze. “Not Here,” she mused. “Yes, I remember Not Here. Terrible place for losing one’s hat. Or finding one’s hat. Or finding one’s… self, perhaps? Though I’m sure I put it down somewhere.” She looked around the room vaguely.

“Your Majesty,” the Hatter prompted gently, “the predicament with the Coronation Hat? The unmade one?”

“Ah, yes! The hat!” Her eyes brightened, becoming clearer for a moment. “The hat that became… undone! Quite vexing. One moment it was perfectly hat-shaped, full of starlight and important thoughts, and the next… well, it wasn’t. It was merely… starlight and thoughtful threads lying about looking bewildered.” She sighed softly. “And I simply don’t know how to put it back together. It seems to require a certain kind of… knowing. A knowing of how things fit, even when they don’t entirely remember they should.”

She looked at Y/N again, her gaze sharpening slightly, losing some of its fogginess. “Hatter says you know about such things. Putting things together. Making things from… confusion.”

Y/N stepped forward, feeling a sense of purpose bloom within her. This was something she understood. The challenge oftaking disparate materials and coaxing them into form, into purpose, into a hat. “I do, Your Majesty,” she said respectfully. “I work with materials, with shapes. I… I understand how things are meant to hold together.”

The White Queen smiled, a genuinely warm, hopeful smile. “Excellent! Just excellent. It’s over there.” She vaguely gestured towards a corner of the room where, indeed, lay a shimmering, confused pile of what looked like silver threads, tiny scattered stars, and gossamer silk that seemed to sigh when the light hit it. “It needs someone who can speak its language, perhaps. The language of… hat-ness.”

The Hatter looked at Y/N, his eyes full of encouragement. “See? I told you! Hat-aclysmic, but also… hat-portunate!”

They spent some time in the White Queen’s castle. Y/N examined the pile of unmade hat, feeling a strange connection to the bewildered materials. The White Queen spoke softly of the hat’s history, its importance, her fondness for the feel of the starlight against her brow. The Hatter mostly bounced around, offering tangential commentary, occasionally attempting to help by trying to tie the threads into knots, which the White Queen gently dissuaded him from.

Y/N didn’t manage to remake the hat in the short time they were there – it was a task that would require patience and a deep understanding of Wonderland’s unique properties. But she felt the connection, she saw the potential, and the White Queen seemed reassured by her presence, by her quiet competence and her understanding gaze. The Queen gave Y/N a small, iridescent stone that hummed faintly, saying it might help the threads remember what they were supposed to be.

As the sun began to set, casting long, stretching shadows unique to Wonderland, the Hatter announced it was time to depart. “One mustn’t overstay one’s welcome, even if one can’t quite remember where one is welcomed!” he chirped, bowing to the White Queen.

The White Queen gave Y/N a soft, grateful look. “Come back, dear Hat-Person,” she said gently. “The hat… and perhaps I… would like to remember things with you.”

They left the serene, slightly hazy domain of the White Queen, the iridescent stone warm in Y/N’s pocket. The journey back felt different now. Y/N carried not just the memory of the tea party, but the quiet depth of the Hatter’s conversation and the gentle wisdom of the White Queen. She felt more grounded, more deeply a part of this strange, wonderful reality.The Hatter, too, seemed a little quieter, though his energy was never truly diminished. He hummed a low tune that sounded like starlight and tangled threads.

As they approached the area near the tea party garden, the familiar scent of mismatched teas and slightly burnt biscuits drifted on the air. The Hatter sped up, eager, Y/N suspected, to see if the March Hare had managed to butter his other ear.

But as they rounded a particularly large, striped mushroom, they stopped.

Standing amidst the oversized flowers, looking lost and slightly frantic, was Alice. Her dress was dusty, her hair a little dishevelled, and the look on her face was one of confusion and mounting worry. She was peering around, wringing her hands, muttering to herself.

Y/N’s breath hitched. Alice. Seeing her here, now,It's Like a vibrant reality she was just beginning to embrace.

The Hatter saw her too. His perpetual grin faltered for just a moment, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Well, I’ll be buttered and bewildered,” he murmured, mostly to himself. Then, he took a step forward, his voice returning to its usual, albeit slightly sharper, pitch. “You! What are you doing here?” he demanded, addressing Alice with the bluntness of someone encountering an unexpected obstacle, or perhaps a particularly dull spoon.

Alice jumped, clearly startled, and turned to face them. Her eyes widened in surprise, then relief, when she saw Y/N. "Oh, Y/N! Where were you? I waited by the rabbit hole for such a long time… I thought maybe you’d come back, or maybe you’d gotten lost on the way. I didn’t know what to do, so I finally came down after you, but when I got here, you weren’t anywhere! I called out, I looked all around, and everything felt strange without you. I was starting to think I’d never find you again…"

(She rushes forward, eyes wide with relief.)

"Thank goodness you’re alright—I was so worried!" But before she could reach her, the Hatter stepped between them, his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of curiosity and something akin to mild irritation.

"She was with me actually,"The Hatter stated, his voice carrying an unusual emphasis. “We had a most important hat-related errand with the White Queen. Quite vital. Couldn’t have possibly accomplished it without her.” He gestured possessively towards Y/N with a flourish of his hand.

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[lixii00]

Welcome to my blog

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her/she ( eh get it) | 18 | bi |

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[lixii00]

Empire's Siren

Lucious Lyon x f!reader

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings:-DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! explicit smut, size kink? (he's huge ) sexual banter & sexual , pet names, slight jealousy/possessiveness, semi-public horniness (some sexy pool action), praise, mentions of f!masturbation, dirty talk (we love filthy Lucious ), fingering, implied sex.

summary: Ambitious (Y/N) becomes assistant to music mogul Lucious Lyon, navigating power plays and undeniable attraction at Empire Entertainment. Intense sexual tension simmers beneath their professional facade, culminating in a forbidden dance of desire where the lines between boss and subordinate blur, and passion threatens to consume them both.

The glass doors of Empire Entertainment hissed open, and (Y/N) stepped into the polished lobby, the cacophony of New York fading behind her. She clutched her portfolio, the leather cool against her sweaty palms. Today was the day. Assistant to Lucious Lyon. It still sounded surreal.

(Y/N) was twenty-six, a recent MBA graduate with a sharp mind and a fire in her belly. She’d always been drawn to the music industry, and Empire was the pinnacle. Lucious Lyon was a legend, a titan, a lyrical genius who’d built an empire from the ground up. And, admittedly, she found him devastatingly attractive. The way he moved, the commanding presence, the gravelly voice that sounded like velvet over steel – it was magnetic.

The elevator whisked her to the executive floor. As she approached his office, the low thrum of bass vibrated through the walls. A new track, probably. She took a deep breath and straightened her skirt. 

The door was ajar. She knocked softly. “Mr. Lyon?”

A voice, deep and resonant, rumbled from within. “Come in.”

Lucious was sitting at his expansive desk, surrounded by monitors displaying waveforms and lyrics. He was even more imposing in person. His dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, flicked up to meet hers.

“Ms. (Y/LN), right? Welcome to the jungle.” He leaned back, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Hope you’re ready to work.”

The next few weeks were a blur of meetings, calls, and paperwork. (Y/N) was constantly on her toes, anticipating Lucious's needs, managing his schedule, and learning the intricate workings of Empire. He was demanding, expecting perfection, but he also possessed a shrewd wit and a surprising generosity.

He’d often call her into his office just to bounce ideas off her, seeking her opinion on everything from album art to marketing strategies. Their conversations would often veer off track, touching on everything from their favorite artists to the state of the music industry. (Y/N) found herself drawn to his intelligence, his passion, and the vulnerability that occasionally peeked through his hardened exterior.

The sexual tension was palpable. It was in the way he’d hold her gaze a beat too long, the subtle brush of his hand against hers when he handed her a file, the low, teasing comments he’d murmur under his breath.

One evening, as (Y/N) was organizing his schedule for a charity gala, Lucious leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You know, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a low rumble, “you have a way of making even the most mundane tasks…interesting.”

(Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat. She met his gaze, a nervous smile playing on her lips. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Lyon?”

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. “Take it any way you want, baby girl.”

He called her "baby girl" often. It shouldn't have thrilled her as much as it did.

The gala was a whirlwind of flashing lights, champagne, and forced smiles. (Y/N) stayed close to Lucious, navigating the crowded ballroom, deflecting unwanted attention, and ensuring everything ran smoothly.

Later, as the party began to wind down, they found themselves by the pool, the city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds. Lucious had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

He took a sip of his whiskey. “Tired, (Y/N)?”

“A little,” she admitted, feeling the weight of the evening settle on her shoulders.

He stepped closer, his presence radiating heat. “You did good tonight. Real good.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. “You’re a natural, baby girl. You know that?”

Her breath caught in her throat. The proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his gaze burning into her, stripping away her composure.

Suddenly, a reporter approached, camera flashing. Lucious immediately straightened, his expression hardening. He pulled away from (Y/N), the moment broken.

Jealousy, a sharp and unfamiliar pang, stabbed through her. She knew he was a public figure, but seeing him compartmentalize her, dismiss her so easily in front of others, stung.

Back in the office, the tension only amplified. Lucious seemed to be testing her, pushing her buttons, his comments laced with double entendres.

One afternoon, he was working on a new track, a raw, gritty anthem about power and desire. He called (Y/N) in to get her opinion.

The lyrics were explicit, the beat pulsing with a primal energy. As Lucious rapped, his voice dripping with sensuality, (Y/N) felt a flush creep up her neck. The words were aimed at her, she knew it.

“She walks in the room, head held high, Eyes like fire, burning in the sky. She thinks she can handle the heat, the game, But I’m about to whisper her goddamn name…

…And show her what it means to be owned, consumed, By a king who knows exactly what he’ll do…”

He stopped, his gaze locking with hers. “What do you think, (Y/N)? Does it resonate?”

She swallowed, her throat dry. “It’s…powerful, Mr. Lyon.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Powerful enough to make you wet, baby girl?”

She gasped, her cheeks burning. He had no right to speak to her like that. But a part of her, a secret, shameful part, thrilled at his audacity.

(Y/N) started avoiding him. She made excuses to be out of the office, burying herself in work, desperate to regain control. But Lucious wouldn’t let her escape. He’d find her in the conference room, corner her by the water cooler, his presence a constant reminder of the simmering desire between them.

One evening, she was working late, the only light in the office coming from her computer screen. She was exhausted, frustrated, and desperately horny. The memory of Lucious’s lyrics, his voice, his gaze, kept replaying in her mind.

She closed her laptop, her body aching with need. She ran a hand down her body, over her breasts, down past her stomach. She imagined Lucious's hands there, his long fingers spreading her open, exploring her.

She reached for the vibrator in her purse…

The door clicked open.

Lucious stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light. His eyes raked over her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the flush on her cheeks.

“Working late, (Y/N)?” His voice was dangerously low.

She quickly turned away, embarrassed. “Just finishing up some things.”

He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. The click echoed in the silence. He walked towards her, his movements deliberate, predatory.

“Don’t lie to me, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice husky. “I can smell your arousal from across the room.”

He reached out, grabbing her hand. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through her. His hands were large, calloused, infinitely capable.

He pulled her closer, his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the hardness pressing against her thigh.

“Tell me what you were thinking about,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

(Y/N) froze, her mind racing. She knew she should stop this. She knew it was wrong. He was her boss, decades older than her. 

But God, she wanted him.

“I…” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

He tightened his grip on her hand, his gaze intense. “Tell me, (Y/N). Tell me what your body craves.”

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the desire that had been building between them for weeks.

“You,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “I want you.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Now, let's see if you can handle what you asked for."

He kissed her then, a deep, possessive kiss that stole her breath away. His tongue plunged into her mouth, exploring every corner, claiming her as his own. She moaned softly, surrendering to the pleasure.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, (Y/N).” He trailed kisses down her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin. “A long goddamn time.”

He lifted her onto his desk, his hands roaming over her body, exploring her curves, teasing her nipples through her blouse. She arched her back, moaning, her body begging for release.

He unbuttoned her blouse, his gaze burning into her as he revealed her lacy bra. He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of her breasts, teasing her nipples until they were hard and erect.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “You are so goddamn beautiful.”

He leaned in, sucking one nipple through the lace, his tongue teasing and tormenting her until she cried out. He moved to the other breast, repeating the torture until she was writhing on the desk, begging for more.

He pulled back, his eyes dark with desire. He reached down, unzipping her skirt, his fingers brushing against her skin. She gasped, her body trembling with anticipation.

He slid her skirt down her legs, revealing her silk panties. He reached down, his fingers tracing the curve of her hips, teasing the edge of her panties.

“You’re wet, baby girl,” he whispered, his voice husky. “So wet for me.”

He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic, parting her lips, exploring her with slow, deliberate strokes. She moaned, her body arching against his touch. She was so sensitive, so close to the edge.

He continued to tease her, his fingers working their magic until she was on the verge of orgasm. She cried out, her body shaking with pleasure.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes burning into hers. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Not until I’m inside you.”

He stepped back, unbuckling his belt, his gaze never leaving hers. He pulled out his cock, his size making her gasp, her mind reeling. It was thick, long, and throbbing with desire.

He reached for her again, guiding her hand to his cock. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating from him, the pulsing of his veins.

“You like that, baby girl?” he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

She nodded, her throat dry.

He guided her hand up and down, his cock growing harder with each stroke. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the pleasure.

He pulled her hand away, his eyes burning into hers. He reached for her panties, tearing them off in one swift motion. He lifted her legs, placing them on his shoulders.

He positioned himself between her legs, his cock throbbing against her entrance. He paused, his eyes searching hers.

“Ready, (Y/N)?” he murmured.

She nodded, her body trembling with anticipation.

He pushed into her, slowly, deliberately, filling her with his size. She gasped, her body arching against his.

He continued to push deeper, until he was completely inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him tight.

He began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She moaned, her body writhing against his.

He gripped her hips, driving into her with a primal force. She cried out, her body shaking with pleasure.

He continued to fuck her, harder and harder, until she was on the verge of orgasm. She cried out his name, her body convulsing with pleasure.

He thrust into her one last time, his body exploding with release. He collapsed on top of her, his breath ragged.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat.

Finally, he pulled back, his eyes searching hers.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” he murmured.

She nodded, her body still trembling.

He smiled, a slow, satisfied smile.

“Good girl,” he said. “You were amazing.”

He kissed her again, a soft, tender kiss.

“But this doesn't change anything,” he said, pulling away. “This stays between us. Understand?”

She nodded, her heart sinking. She knew he was right. This was a mistake.

But God, it was a beautiful mistake.

The following days were fraught with a new kind of tension. The air crackled with unspoken desires, with the memory of their forbidden encounter. (Y/N) was torn between wanting to run and wanting to fall into his arms again. Lucious, meanwhile, seemed to revel in the power he held over her, his gaze lingering, his touch electric, always just a hair's breadth away from escalating. The slow burn was agonizing, and she knew, deep down, that this couldn't last. Something had to break and soon.

A/n my first empire story!

© 𝐓𝐎𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 2024 : all designs made are original, the names are also original. they can only be used under rightful credits given to owner. for both light and dark mode use. they can used in anything as long as it’s on tumblr. all rights reserved

[lixii00]

Thank you @sheepishv and everyone who got me to 5 reblogs!💕💕💕I love y'all so much !

Chapter 3: A Mad Tea Party and Madder Hatter

word count:1772

Y/N grinned, the White Rabbit’s frantic farewell echoing in her ears like a delightfully absurd melody. “Path of mismatched teacups,” she murmured, turning to survey her surroundings. It didn’t take long to spot them. A chipped porcelain cup painted with roses that seemed to bloom and wilt in the blink of an eye lay nestled amidst a patch of luminous bluebell-like flowers. A few steps further a stout earthenware mug inexplicably adorned with miniature clock faces leaned against the trunk of a tree that appeared to be made entirely of candy canes spiralling together.

Following the quirky trail felt like stepping deeper into a whimsical dream. The teacups, each more outlandish than the last led her through a landscape that shifted and shimmered like a kaleidoscope. Giant, grinning Cheshire Cat flowers winked from the branches of trees that dripped lemonade. Caterpillars clad in tiny smoking jackets puffed rainbow-coloured smoke rings that dissolved into giggles. The air hummed with a strange, vibrant energy, a symphony of the nonsensical that resonated strangely with something deep within Y/N. It was chaos yes but a beautifully orchestrated chaos, a rebellion against the mundane order of her own world.

The path wound upwards, leading her to a slightly raised area, bathed in the golden light filtering through the peculiar flora. And there, amidst a riot of colour and improbable furniture, was the tea party.

It was in a word magnificent Or maybe ‘madnificent’ would be more fitting. A long, impossibly laden table stretched beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree whose leaves were actually tiny playing cards. Teapots of all shapes and sizes perched precariously on stacks of books. Cakes with candied eyes stared back at her. Sandwiches formed themselves into miniature castles. And around this chaotic feast sat three figures who could only be the inhabitants of this delightful madness.

First, she saw him. The Mad Hatter. Or, at least, she presumed it was him. Alice’s descriptions, though whimsical, hadn’t quite prepared her for the sheer spectacle of the man. He was a whirlwind of vibrant colours and mismatched patterns. His coat, a patchwork of velvets and silks in hues she couldn’t even name, seemed to defy gravity, swirling around him even in the still air. A cascade of fiery orange hair, untamed and glorious, sprung from beneath a hat that was… well, it was truly something. Towering, tilted at a precarious angle, adorned with ribbons, feathers, playing cards, and what looked suspiciously like a sleeping dormouse tucked into the brim, it was a masterpiece of madcap millinery.

Beside him sat a large hare, twitching its nose incessantly and drumming its long fingers on the table. This had to be the March Hare. He poured tea with a frantic, almost violent, energy, splashing it far more onto the tablecloth than into the waiting cups. And between them, nestled amongst a pile of cushions and dozing peacefully, was a small, furry creature, likely the Dormouse, judging by the way the Hatter occasionally nudged it with a sugar cube.

The Hatter was in the midst of some theatrical pronouncement as Y/N approached, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice a melodic, slightly off-key song. “…and therefore, I say, the answer to why a raven is like a writing desk is obviously… because it simply is!” He punctuated this earth-shattering revelation with a flourish of his teapot, nearly knocking over a tower of teacups.

He noticed her then. His head, already at a comical tilt, tilted further, his bright green eyes widening behind their ridiculously long lashes. Everything about him seemed exaggerated, amplified, as if he existed in a world set to a slightly faster, more vibrant tempo than reality. He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity that made her stomach flip-flop in a most peculiar, and not unpleasant, way.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, his voice a warm, slightly gravelly tenor. “What have we here? Another lost soul tumbled down the rabbit hole? Or perhaps a particularly well-dressed mushroom come to join our… elevated discourse?” He hopped up from his chair, a movement as graceful as it was sudden, and swept into a flamboyant bow, his preposterous hat threatening to topple.

“Neither, I assure you,” Y/N replied, a smile playing on her lips. “I am Y/N. And I believe I was directed this way… by a rather frantic white rabbit.”

“Ah, the White Rabbit!” the Hatter chuckled, straightening up with a flourish and clapping his hands together. “Always in a terrible flap, that one. Thinks punctuality is the highest virtue, bless his cotton tail! But,” he leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with curiosity, “a friend of the White Rabbit, are you? Or something… more… intriguing?”

“Intriguing, perhaps,” Y/N considered, enjoying the playful interrogation. “He seemed to think I might be able to assist with… hats.”

The Hatter’s eyes widened further, if that were even possible. “Hats!” he echoed, his voice rising in pitch. “Did you say… hats?” He spun around, dramatically, and pointed a finger laden with rings at her. “But… but you smell of them! A delightful aroma of silk linings and steam-pressed felt and… is that a hint of… lavender and madness?” He inhaled deeply, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. “Good heavens! You’re a… a hatter!”

“Indeed, I am,” Y/N confirmed, feeling a thrill of recognition at his words. He saw it. He understood. In this mad, wonderful place, her craft wasn’t just a profession, it was… a scent. A presence.

“A hatter!” the Hatter repeated, his voice filled with a sudden, almost reverent awe. He rushed towards her, grabbing her hands in his, his touch surprisingly warm and firm despite the flurry of his movements. “Oh, this is simply splendid! Magnificent! Utterly… hat-tastic!” He beamed at her, his grin wide and genuine, radiating an infectious enthusiasm.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to our most un-birthday tea party, fellow artisan of the crown!” he declared, pulling her towards the table. “Join us! Join us! We have tea that changes colour, cakes that sing off-key, and riddles that have no answers! And now,” he squeezed her hands, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “we have a real hatter amongst us! Oh, the possibilities!”

He gestured to a chair, a velvet monstrosity upholstered in patchwork playing cards, nestled between himself and the March Hare. Y/N settled into it, feeling a strange sense of belonging, of rightness, that had been absent from her life for far too long.

The March Hare shoved a teacup into her hand, sloshing the contents over the rim. “Tea?” he grunted, his ears twitching more rapidly than ever.

“Thank you,” Y/N said, accepting the cup, the liquid inside shimmering with an iridescent sheen. She cautiously took a sip. It tasted… like blueberries and sunshine and a hint of something utterly indescribable.

“So, a hatter, you say?” the Mad Hatter leaned forward, his elbows on the cluttered table, his gaze intense and curious. “From… well, from somewhere not… here, I presume?”

Y/N nodded. “From another… world, I suppose you could say.” She hesitated. How much to explain? How much would even make sense in this realm of delightful absurdity?

“Another world!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands again. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it!

The March Hare, in the process of aggressively buttering a slice of bread with a jam-covered knife, simply grunted in agreement.

“Tell me,” the Hatter urged, leaning even closer. "Tell me everything! What are hats like in your… other world? Are they properly mad? Do they sing opera? Do they occasionally attempt world domination?”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and free, echoing through the bizarre garden. “Well, no world domination attempts, thankfully. But they can be quite… creative. And sometimes, yes, a little mad.”

“A little mad!” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Only a little mad? My dear girl, in Wonderland, hats are required to be excessively, gloriously, unapologetically mad! It’s practically the law! Isn’t it, Hare?”

Another grunt from the Hare, accompanied by a shower of crumbs.

“But tell me more,” the Hatter pressed, his enthusiasm bubbling over. “What sort of hats do you make? Show me! Oh, to see hats from another world! It’s simply… astronomically exciting!”

Y/N hesitated. She hadn’t brought any tools, any materials. She hadn’t expected to… well, to fall down a rabbit hole and land in a tea party with a mad hatter. But then, expectations seemed to have little place in Wonderland.

“I don’t… I don’t have anything with me right now,” she admitted, feeling a flicker of disappointment.

The Hatter waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense, nonsense! We have everything we need right here!” He gestured to the chaotic table, piled high with an impossible array of objects. “Ribbons, feathers, playing cards, jam, marmalade, sleeping dormice… the possibilities are endless!” He grabbed a stray feather, a vibrant purple one, and tucked it behind her ear. “See? Instantaneously more hat-like!”

He watched her, his gaze intense and searching, and Y/N felt a strange pull towards him, a sense of recognition that echoed the White Rabbit’s words. It wasn’t just curiosity in his eyes, it was something deeper, something… familiar. As if, somehow, impossibly, they had met before. Or were meant to meet.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its theatricality, becoming quieter, more intimate. “Do you ever feel… like you’re not quite in the right world? Like there’s a piece of you missing, a part of your soul that sings to a different tune?”

His words resonated within her, striking a chord deep in her heart. She had felt that for as long as she could remember, a vague sense of displacement, of yearning for something more, something… madder.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Yes, I do.”

A slow, understanding smile spread across the Hatter’s face, a smile that reached his sparkling green eyes. “Then perhaps,” he said, his voice gentle now, “perhaps you’ve finally found your way home.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine. And in that moment, amidst the madness of the tea party, the chaos of Wonderland, and the strangely familiar gaze of the Mad Hatter, Y/N felt a spark ignite within her, a flicker of something that felt very much like… hope. And perhaps, just perhaps, something even more extraordinary.

[lixii00]

Possession - Zak Bagans x Fem Reader

Word Count: 3105

MY MAN MY MAN MY MANNNNNNNN

You chewed on your lip, the flickering flashlight beam dancing across the peeling wallpaper. It was your first official ghost hunt with the Ghost Adventures crew, and nerves buzzed beneath your skin like static electricity. You’d been obsessed with the paranormal since you were a kid, glued to every episode of the show, and now you were here, boots on the ground, ready to investigate.

Zak Bagans, the enigmatic and intense leader, stood beside you, his own flashlight cutting through the oppressive darkness of the abandoned Crestwood Sanatorium. The air hung thick, heavy with the weight of years of suffering and decay. The stench of mildew and something vaguely metallic tickled your nose, making you wrinkle it slightly.

“Alright, Y/N,” Zak’s voice, usually booming on TV, was quieter here, more focused. “Ready to get your hands dirty?”

You swallowed, forcing a confident nod. “Born ready.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, and then turned his attention back to the room. Aaron Goodwin, Billy Tolley, and Jay Wasley were fanning out, setting up equipment – cameras, EMF readers, spirit boxes. The familiar hum of their tech filled the silent space, a strange contrast to the unsettling stillness.

This was it. You were officially part of the Ghost Adventures team, even if just in a ‘trial by fire’ sort of way. Zak had reached out after seeing your online paranormal investigations, impressed by your meticulous research and – as he put it – your “unflinching approach to the unknown.” You still felt a thrill course through you remembering that email.

“We’re in the main patient ward,” Zak explained, gesturing around the cavernous room. Rows of empty beds, their metal frames rusted and skeletal, lined the space. Paint peeled from the high ceilings like sunburnt skin, and the floorboards groaned underfoot with each step. “High reports of residual energy and… something darker here. Nurse’s station over there,” he pointed with his chin, “that’s where we’re going to start.”

You nodded, heart pounding a rhythm against your ribs. You’d done your research on Crestwood. It had a grim history, rife with mistreatment and experimental procedures. Stories of patient deaths, whispered screams, and lingering despair clung to the very fabric of the building like cobwebs.

As you followed Zak to the nurse’s station, you pulled out your digital recorder, switching it on. “Testing, testing. Location: Crestwood Sanatorium, Main Patient Ward. Date and time…” You rattled off the details, your voice a little shaky.

Zak watched you, his intense blue eyes assessing. “Enthusiasm is good, Y/N, but don’t let it cloud your senses. Stay grounded, stay alert.”

“I will,” you promised, feeling a surge of determination. You wouldn’t let nerves get the best of you. You were here to prove yourself.

The nurse’s station was surprisingly intact, a small counter with drawers and cabinets behind. Dust coated everything, thick and undisturbed. Zak pulled out his EMF reader, the needle jumping immediately.

“Baseline is already high,” he muttered, frowning. “Okay, team. Let’s spread out, start our initial sweeps. Y/N, stay with me for now.”

You felt a small thrill at being chosen to stick with Zak. You tried to play it cool, nodding and focusing on your equipment. You pulled out your own EMF reader, mirroring Zak’s movements, watching the needle dance erratically.

“Anything?” Zak asked, his voice low.

“Yeah, definitely elevated,” you confirmed, noting the readings on your recorder too. “Inconsistent pulses, though.”

Zak nodded, his gaze sweeping over the room, sharp and focused. “Let’s try the spirit box.”

Billy set up the spirit box on the counter, the rapid-fire static hiss filling the silence. Zak began his questioning, his voice resonating with authority.

“Is there anyone here with us? Can you speak to us? Tell us your name.”

Static crackled, then fragmented words flickered through the noise. “…help…” “…pain…” “…dark…”

Goosebumps erupted on your arms. You exchanged a wide-eyed look with Zak. This was faster, more intense, than anything you’d experienced on your solo investigations.

“Can you tell us why you are in pain?” Zak pressed, his voice unwavering.

More static, then a clearer voice, deeper, guttural. “Leave.”

The air in the room seemed to physically constrict. A sudden chill ran down your spine, so intense it made your teeth chatter. You gripped your EMF reader tighter, your knuckles white.

“Did you hear that?” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

Zak stared at the spirit box, his jaw tight. “Yeah. That was… hostile.”

Suddenly, the temperature plummeted. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and dimmed erratically. You felt a prickling sensation on your skin, like tiny needles. You were picking up on something, something strong.

Aaron, who was in a corner of the ward, called out, his voice laced with apprehension. “Guys, my camera just cut out. And my batteries are fully charged.”

Billy’s spirit box sputtered and died, the static abruptly ceasing. Jay’s flashlight beam wavered, then flickered off completely, plunging his section into near darkness.

A wave of unease washed over you, stronger than anything you’d felt before. It wasn’t just a ghostly presence; it felt… malevolent. You took a step closer to Zak instinctively, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Okay, team,” Zak said sharply, his voice cutting through the growing tension. “Power fluctuations. Could be environmental, could be… something else. Stay together, eyes open. Y/N, stick close.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You felt a primal fear rising in your throat, but also a strange, morbid fascination. This was what you were here for, wasn't it? To face the darkness, to understand the unknown.

Zak moved slowly, cautiously, deeper into the ward. You followed, your flashlight beam trembling slightly. The silence was deafening now, the hum of the equipment gone, replaced by an oppressive stillness. You could feel the weight of unseen eyes on you, a sense of being watched, scrutinized.

Then, it happened.

A whisper, right in your ear, so close it sent shivers down your spine. It wasn’t audible, not exactly. It was more like a thought, planted directly in your mind, cold and insidious.

You are weak.

You gasped, stumbling back, your hand flying to your ear.

“Y/N?” Zak’s voice was instantly sharp with concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t articulate it, couldn’t explain the icy intrusion in your thoughts. “I… I heard something. Whispering.”

“Where?” Zak scanned the room, his flashlight beam sweeping around.

“Right here,” you pointed to your ear, your hand trembling. “In my head… it felt like… a thought.”

Zak’s brow furrowed. He placed a hand on your arm, his touch surprisingly firm and grounding. “Describe it. What did it say?”

You hesitated, the words feeling foolish, insignificant in the face of the overwhelming dread that was building. “It… it said I was weak.”

Zak’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his gaze intense. “Don’t listen to it, Y/N. It’s trying to get inside your head. Don’t let it.”

He was right. You knew he was right. Fear was a weapon for these entities, a way to manipulate and control. You had to fight back. You took a deep breath, trying to center yourself.

“Okay,” you said, your voice firmer now, despite the tremor of fear still running through you. “Okay, I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

Zak studied your face for a moment, his expression still concerned, but he nodded. “Alright. But you tell me immediately if you feel anything else, understand?”

“Absolutely.”

You continued deeper into the ward, the sense of dread growing with each step. The air grew colder, heavier, and the silence was more profound, more unsettling. You felt a palpable shift in the energy of the room, a drawing in, a focusing. It felt like something was gathering, concentrating its power.

Then, everything went to hell.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the silence, shattering the oppressive stillness. It was Aaron’s voice, raw with terror.

“Zak! Something’s got me!”

You whirled around, flashlight beam frantically searching. Aaron was slumped against a bed frame, his body rigid, eyes wide and staring, unfocused. He was making choking, gasping sounds, struggling for breath.

“Aaron!” Zak yelled, rushing towards him. Billy and Jay scrambled to Aaron’s side too, their flashlights converging on the scene.

As you moved closer, you saw it. It wasn’t visible, not in a way you could see with your eyes, but you felt it. A dark, oppressive presence clinging to Aaron, like a shroud. The air around him shimmered, distorted, as if heat was rising off asphalt on a summer day, but this was cold heat, a chilling distortion.

“Get it off him!” Zak yelled, grabbing Aaron’s shoulders, trying to pull him away from the bed frame. But Aaron was rigid, locked in place. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites.

“Aaron, can you hear me?” Zak shouted, shaking him. “Aaron, fight it! Fight it!”

Suddenly, Aaron’s head snapped up, his body convulsing violently. His eyes, when they focused again, were no longer Aaron’s. They were dark, malevolent, filled with an inhuman rage. His mouth opened, and a voice, deeper, harsher, utterly terrifying, erupted from his throat.

“You cannot stop me!”

The voice was not Aaron’s. It was guttural, monstrous, echoing in the ward, vibrating in your bones. Fear turned into icy terror, paralyzing you. You stumbled back, your flashlight falling from your numb fingers, clattering to the floor and plunging you into near darkness.

You could only watch, frozen, as Aaron – as whatever was possessing Aaron – thrashed wildly, his body slamming against the bed frame, the metal groaning under the force. Zak and Billy struggled to restrain him, but it was like trying to hold down a force of nature.

“Holy shit!” Jay yelled, his voice cracking with fear. “It’s a full-blown possession!”

Possession. The word hit you like a physical blow, solidifying the horrifying reality of what you were witnessing. This wasn’t residual energy, this wasn’t a fleeting encounter. This was something ancient, something evil, taking hold.

And then, it turned its attention on you.

The possessed Aaron’s head snapped in your direction, those terrifying eyes locking onto yours in the dim light. A cruel, twisted smile stretched his lips, a smile that was utterly alien, utterly wrong on Aaron’s face.

"You are the weak one," the monstrous voice hissed, directed solely at you. "You are the one I will break."

The words were like a physical assault, ripping through your defenses, amplifying the fear that was already consuming you. It felt like the entity was reaching out, not just with its voice, but with its very essence, probing, invading. You felt a cold tendril of something dark brush against your mind, and you recoiled instinctively.

But it was too late.

The coldness intensified, spreading through you like ice water. Your breath hitched in your throat. Your vision swam, blurring around the edges. Your limbs felt heavy,leaden, unresponsive. The room seemed to tilt, to spin around you.

You were falling.

You crumpled to the floor, your body hitting the cold, hard wood with a jarring thud. Darkness closed in around you, suffocating crushing. You could hear muffled shouts the frantic scrambling of footsteps, but they sounded distant unreal.

You tried to move, to breathe, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your lungs burned gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The coldness seeped deeper into your bones into your soul. You felt yourself drifting slipping away into the darkness.

This was it. This was how it ended. Not valiantly fighting ghosts, not uncovering secrets of the paranormal but dying on the cold floor of an abandoned asylum consumed by fear and… something else. Something evil.

Just as the darkness threatened to engulf you completely, a voice cut through the haze, sharp, insistent, filled with a desperate urgency.

“Y/N! Y/N, can you hear me? Stay with me!  Stay with me!”

It was Zak. His voice, raw with fear and something more… something that sounded like pain. His hands were shaking you gently but firmly. You felt a faint warmth a flicker of light in the encroaching darkness.

You forced your eyes open, struggling to focus. Zak’s face swam into view, inches from yours pale and strained in the dim light. His blue eyes, usually so intense were wide with fear but also… something else. Relief? Panic? Both?

“Y/N, you’re fading!” he yelled his voice tight with desperation. “Fight it! You have to fight it!”

Fight what? You were too weak too tired,The darkness was so inviting, so… peaceful.

But then, you saw his eyes. Zak’s eyes, locked on yours, pleading, urging you to fight. And in that moment something sparked within you. A flicker of defiance a refusal to surrender. You wouldn’t let this darkness win. Not here. Not now. Not while Zak was… looking at you like that.

You focused on his face on the intensity in his eyes, drawing strength from his desperation. You took a shallow shuddering breath, then another. Slowly agonizingly, sensation began to return to your limbs. The oppressive coldness began to recede, replaced by a faint, fragile warmth.

You coughed, a weak rattling sound. Zak’s grip on your shoulders tightened, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“That’s it,” he whispered his voice hoarse with emotion. “Come on, Y/N. You’re stronger than it.  You’re stronger than it!”

His words were like a lifeline, pulling you back from the abyss. You focused on them, on his voice, on the warmth of his hands on your shoulders. Slowly painstakingly you pushed yourself up sitting, then kneeling.

The room swam back into focus, hazy at first, then clearing. You saw Aaron still thrashing Billy and Jay struggling to restrain him. But the dark, oppressive presence that had clung to him that had reached for you… it seemed to have lessened, to have weakened.

Zak helped you to your feet, his hands still gripping your arms tightly, as if afraid you would slip away again. He scanned your face his eyes searching assessing.

“You’re back,” he breathed, his voice thick with relief. “You’re really back.”

You nodded your legs still shaky your chest still tight but you were back. You were alive You had faced the darkness and you had survived.

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, almost desperate hug. It was the first time he’d ever touched you, and the physical contact the warmth of his body against yours, sent a jolt of something unexpected through you something that wasn’t fear.

“You scared the absolute shit out of me,” he muttered into your hair, his voice muffled but raw with emotion. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He pulled back slightly, holding you at arm’s length, his blue eyes boring into yours intense searching, and… something else. Something softer, something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“What… what happened?” you whispered, your voice still weak and shaky. “What was that?”

Zak’s jaw tightened. He glanced back at Aaron, who was still struggling, but the demonic voice seemed to have subsided, replaced by pained, desperate moans.

“It was demonic,” Zak said grimly, his voice low. “A powerful entity. It sensed your sensitivity, your… your openness. It tried to exploit it, to break you, to take you.”

His words sent another chill down your spine, but this time it wasn’t fear. It was a strange mix of fear and awe a dawning realization of the true power of the forces they were dealing with. And a strange sense of gratitude for being pulled back from the brink.

He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek his thumb gently stroking your skin. His touch was surprisingly tender contrasting sharply with his usual intensity. You looked up at him, your gaze locking with his and in that moment something shifted. The fear the adrenaline the near-death experience… it all coalesced into something else entirely.

He leaned down slowly hesitantly his eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitched in your throat You knew what was coming, and you didn’t resist. You couldn’t resist.

His lips met yours, tentatively at first, then with a surprising urgency. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, not in the romantic sense. It was… something else. A kiss of relief of gratitude and… connection. A silent acknowledgment of shared fear shared vulnerability and shared survival.

When he pulled back, he kept his hand on your cheek, his thumb still stroking your skin His eyes were searching yours still filled with a mixture of relief and concern.

“You need to be more careful,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. The words were a reprimand but they were laced with an undercurrent of something else something deeper something that resonated in your chest. “You can’t just… throw yourself into the deep end like that. You understand?”

You nodded, your heart still pounding, your lips still tingling from his touch. You understood You’d been reckless too eager to prove yourself. You’d almost paid the ultimate price for that recklessness.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice still shaky. “I understand.”

He stared at you for another moment, his expression unreadable, then he let out a breath, a long, shaky exhale. He dropped his hand from your cheek, stepping back slightly, creating a small space between you again. The moment of intimacy, of vulnerability, seemed to recede replaced by the familiar professional intensity.

“Okay,” he said, his voice regaining its usual authority. “Aaron, Billy, Jay, let’s get Aaron out of here. We need to regroup, cleanse him, and then… we need to re-evaluate our approach here.”

He turned away, barking orders to the others, taking charge again, the leader, the protector, the intense and driven Zak Bagans you knew from TV. But something had shifted, something had changed. You had seen a glimpse behind the mask a flicker of vulnerability a flash of raw emotion and he had kissed you.

As you watched him directing the team helping to support a still-weak Aaron towards the exit, you touched your fingers to your lips, the ghost of his kiss still lingering there. You knew one thing for sure: your first ghost hunt with Ghost Adventures had been anything but ordinary. It had been terrifying, exhilarating, and… strangely, unexpectedly, intimate. And you had a feeling a deep unsettling thrilling feeling that this was just the beginning. You were officially in the deep end now and Zak Bagans was right there with you.

A/n let me know if you want more zak bagans storyyy!

[lixii00]

Chapter 3: A Mad Tea Party and Madder Hatter

word count:1772

Y/N grinned, the White Rabbit’s frantic farewell echoing in her ears like a delightfully absurd melody. “Path of mismatched teacups,” she murmured, turning to survey her surroundings. It didn’t take long to spot them. A chipped porcelain cup painted with roses that seemed to bloom and wilt in the blink of an eye lay nestled amidst a patch of luminous bluebell-like flowers. A few steps further a stout earthenware mug inexplicably adorned with miniature clock faces leaned against the trunk of a tree that appeared to be made entirely of candy canes spiralling together.

Following the quirky trail felt like stepping deeper into a whimsical dream. The teacups, each more outlandish than the last led her through a landscape that shifted and shimmered like a kaleidoscope. Giant, grinning Cheshire Cat flowers winked from the branches of trees that dripped lemonade. Caterpillars clad in tiny smoking jackets puffed rainbow-coloured smoke rings that dissolved into giggles. The air hummed with a strange, vibrant energy, a symphony of the nonsensical that resonated strangely with something deep within Y/N. It was chaos yes but a beautifully orchestrated chaos, a rebellion against the mundane order of her own world.

The path wound upwards, leading her to a slightly raised area, bathed in the golden light filtering through the peculiar flora. And there, amidst a riot of colour and improbable furniture, was the tea party.

It was in a word magnificent Or maybe ‘madnificent’ would be more fitting. A long, impossibly laden table stretched beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree whose leaves were actually tiny playing cards. Teapots of all shapes and sizes perched precariously on stacks of books. Cakes with candied eyes stared back at her. Sandwiches formed themselves into miniature castles. And around this chaotic feast sat three figures who could only be the inhabitants of this delightful madness.

First, she saw him. The Mad Hatter. Or, at least, she presumed it was him. Alice’s descriptions, though whimsical, hadn’t quite prepared her for the sheer spectacle of the man. He was a whirlwind of vibrant colours and mismatched patterns. His coat, a patchwork of velvets and silks in hues she couldn’t even name, seemed to defy gravity, swirling around him even in the still air. A cascade of fiery orange hair, untamed and glorious, sprung from beneath a hat that was… well, it was truly something. Towering, tilted at a precarious angle, adorned with ribbons, feathers, playing cards, and what looked suspiciously like a sleeping dormouse tucked into the brim, it was a masterpiece of madcap millinery.

Beside him sat a large hare, twitching its nose incessantly and drumming its long fingers on the table. This had to be the March Hare. He poured tea with a frantic, almost violent, energy, splashing it far more onto the tablecloth than into the waiting cups. And between them, nestled amongst a pile of cushions and dozing peacefully, was a small, furry creature, likely the Dormouse, judging by the way the Hatter occasionally nudged it with a sugar cube.

The Hatter was in the midst of some theatrical pronouncement as Y/N approached, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice a melodic, slightly off-key song. “…and therefore, I say, the answer to why a raven is like a writing desk is obviously… because it simply is!” He punctuated this earth-shattering revelation with a flourish of his teapot, nearly knocking over a tower of teacups.

He noticed her then. His head, already at a comical tilt, tilted further, his bright green eyes widening behind their ridiculously long lashes. Everything about him seemed exaggerated, amplified, as if he existed in a world set to a slightly faster, more vibrant tempo than reality. He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity that made her stomach flip-flop in a most peculiar, and not unpleasant, way.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, his voice a warm, slightly gravelly tenor. “What have we here? Another lost soul tumbled down the rabbit hole? Or perhaps a particularly well-dressed mushroom come to join our… elevated discourse?” He hopped up from his chair, a movement as graceful as it was sudden, and swept into a flamboyant bow, his preposterous hat threatening to topple.

“Neither, I assure you,” Y/N replied, a smile playing on her lips. “I am Y/N. And I believe I was directed this way… by a rather frantic white rabbit.”

“Ah, the White Rabbit!” the Hatter chuckled, straightening up with a flourish and clapping his hands together. “Always in a terrible flap, that one. Thinks punctuality is the highest virtue, bless his cotton tail! But,” he leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with curiosity, “a friend of the White Rabbit, are you? Or something… more… intriguing?”

“Intriguing, perhaps,” Y/N considered, enjoying the playful interrogation. “He seemed to think I might be able to assist with… hats.”

The Hatter’s eyes widened further, if that were even possible. “Hats!” he echoed, his voice rising in pitch. “Did you say… hats?” He spun around, dramatically, and pointed a finger laden with rings at her. “But… but you smell of them! A delightful aroma of silk linings and steam-pressed felt and… is that a hint of… lavender and madness?” He inhaled deeply, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. “Good heavens! You’re a… a hatter!”

“Indeed, I am,” Y/N confirmed, feeling a thrill of recognition at his words. He saw it. He understood. In this mad, wonderful place, her craft wasn’t just a profession, it was… a scent. A presence.

“A hatter!” the Hatter repeated, his voice filled with a sudden, almost reverent awe. He rushed towards her, grabbing her hands in his, his touch surprisingly warm and firm despite the flurry of his movements. “Oh, this is simply splendid! Magnificent! Utterly… hat-tastic!” He beamed at her, his grin wide and genuine, radiating an infectious enthusiasm.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to our most un-birthday tea party, fellow artisan of the crown!” he declared, pulling her towards the table. “Join us! Join us! We have tea that changes colour, cakes that sing off-key, and riddles that have no answers! And now,” he squeezed her hands, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “we have a real hatter amongst us! Oh, the possibilities!”

He gestured to a chair, a velvet monstrosity upholstered in patchwork playing cards, nestled between himself and the March Hare. Y/N settled into it, feeling a strange sense of belonging, of rightness, that had been absent from her life for far too long.

The March Hare shoved a teacup into her hand, sloshing the contents over the rim. “Tea?” he grunted, his ears twitching more rapidly than ever.

“Thank you,” Y/N said, accepting the cup, the liquid inside shimmering with an iridescent sheen. She cautiously took a sip. It tasted… like blueberries and sunshine and a hint of something utterly indescribable.

“So, a hatter, you say?” the Mad Hatter leaned forward, his elbows on the cluttered table, his gaze intense and curious. “From… well, from somewhere not… here, I presume?”

Y/N nodded. “From another… world, I suppose you could say.” She hesitated. How much to explain? How much would even make sense in this realm of delightful absurdity?

“Another world!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands again. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it!

The March Hare, in the process of aggressively buttering a slice of bread with a jam-covered knife, simply grunted in agreement.

“Tell me,” the Hatter urged, leaning even closer. "Tell me everything! What are hats like in your… other world? Are they properly mad? Do they sing opera? Do they occasionally attempt world domination?”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and free, echoing through the bizarre garden. “Well, no world domination attempts, thankfully. But they can be quite… creative. And sometimes, yes, a little mad.”

“A little mad!” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Only a little mad? My dear girl, in Wonderland, hats are required to be excessively, gloriously, unapologetically mad! It’s practically the law! Isn’t it, Hare?”

Another grunt from the Hare, accompanied by a shower of crumbs.

“But tell me more,” the Hatter pressed, his enthusiasm bubbling over. “What sort of hats do you make? Show me! Oh, to see hats from another world! It’s simply… astronomically exciting!”

Y/N hesitated. She hadn’t brought any tools, any materials. She hadn’t expected to… well, to fall down a rabbit hole and land in a tea party with a mad hatter. But then, expectations seemed to have little place in Wonderland.

“I don’t… I don’t have anything with me right now,” she admitted, feeling a flicker of disappointment.

The Hatter waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense, nonsense! We have everything we need right here!” He gestured to the chaotic table, piled high with an impossible array of objects. “Ribbons, feathers, playing cards, jam, marmalade, sleeping dormice… the possibilities are endless!” He grabbed a stray feather, a vibrant purple one, and tucked it behind her ear. “See? Instantaneously more hat-like!”

He watched her, his gaze intense and searching, and Y/N felt a strange pull towards him, a sense of recognition that echoed the White Rabbit’s words. It wasn’t just curiosity in his eyes, it was something deeper, something… familiar. As if, somehow, impossibly, they had met before. Or were meant to meet.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its theatricality, becoming quieter, more intimate. “Do you ever feel… like you’re not quite in the right world? Like there’s a piece of you missing, a part of your soul that sings to a different tune?”

His words resonated within her, striking a chord deep in her heart. She had felt that for as long as she could remember, a vague sense of displacement, of yearning for something more, something… madder.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Yes, I do.”

A slow, understanding smile spread across the Hatter’s face, a smile that reached his sparkling green eyes. “Then perhaps,” he said, his voice gentle now, “perhaps you’ve finally found your way home.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine. And in that moment, amidst the madness of the tea party, the chaos of Wonderland, and the strangely familiar gaze of the Mad Hatter, Y/N felt a spark ignite within her, a flicker of something that felt very much like… hope. And perhaps, just perhaps, something even more extraordinary.

[lixii00]

Chapter 2:The Hatter's Descent

word count:1747

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat. Show her where she fell. The words echoed in her own ears, sounding suddenly reckless and utterly unlike herself. But the thought, once voiced, took root and blossomed with an unnerving speed. A spark of that reckless curiosity ignited into a flickering flame of desire to see, to know, to experience even a fraction of what Alice claimed. Was it possible? Could there truly be a world beyond the veil of reality, a world of talking rabbits and mad tea parties?

Reason screamed in her head. Nonsense! Ridiculous! It was Alice’s overactive imagination, fuelled by too many storybooks and perhaps a touch too much sun. Y/N was a practical woman, a hatter in a world that demanded practicality, even if her own creations leaned towards the whimsical. She dealt in felt, silk, feathers, and form, not fantastical realms.

And yet… Alice’s unwavering conviction, the genuine wonder in her eyes as she recounted her adventure, it had chipped away at Y/N’s skepticism, leaving a raw edge of… something else. Something that whispered promises of the extraordinary.

Before her rational mind could fully reassert control, before she could list out the dozens of reasons why this was a foolish, impulsive idea, Y/N made a decision. A decision as sudden and unexpected as a downpour on a summer’s day.

“Alright, Alice,” she said, surprising even herself. Her voice was a little shaky, but laced with a newfound resolve. “Show me.”

Alice’s face lit up, pure, unadulterated joy radiating from her. “Really? You mean it?”

Y/N nodded, a small, determined nod. “Yes. I… I want to see. I want to understand.” Understand what? She wasn't entirely sure. Madness? Imagination? Or something far, far stranger?

Without another word, and before the creeping tendrils of doubt could fully bind her, Y/N sat down on the worn patch of grass, right where Alice had indicated. She took one last glance at Alice, whose eyes were shining with excitement, then another at the ordinary world around them – the familiar garden, the weeping willow, the soft afternoon light. It was a world of order, of logic, of predictable rhythms.

Then, she looked down into the rabbit hole.

It was still just a hole. Dark, earthy, ordinary. But now, it held a different kind of allure. It was a doorway, perhaps, to the unknown. And Y/N, in that impulsive, exhilarating moment, decided to step through it.

Taking a deep breath that did little to calm the frantic flutter in her chest, Y/N tipped forward. She meant to peer further, to get a better look, to maybe even lower herself gingerly into the entrance. But the edge crumbled beneath her weight.

One moment she was kneeling on the familiar earth, the next she was tumbling downwards, a surprised yelp escaping her lips.

The fall was nothing like she expected. It wasn't a clean, downward drop. It was a chaotic tumble, a dizzying swirl of darkness and disoriented senses. The earthy walls of the rabbit hole rushed past in a blur of browns and greys. She caught glimpses of strange things flashing by – shelves laden with jars and bottles labeled with indecipherable scripts, grandfather clocks ticking backwards, framed paintings that seemed to shift and change as she fell.

The air grew thick and heavy, the scent of damp earth giving way to something sweeter, something almost… sugary. The sensation of falling stretched on, becoming strangely elastic, time losing all meaning. Was it seconds? Minutes? Hours? Y/N had no idea. She tumbled and spun, the ground above receding into a pinprick of light, swallowed by the engulfing darkness.

Her hat, her favourite creation of deep midnight blue velvet adorned with iridescent beetle wings, flew off her head, swirling away into the gloom like a lost butterfly. Y/N instinctively reached out, but it was gone. She was alone, adrift in this bizarre, endless descent.

Just when she thought she would fall forever, the dizzying tumble abruptly ceased. With a jarring thud that knocked the air from her lungs, Y/N landed. Not on solid ground, but on something surprisingly soft and yielding. She gasped, blinking against the sudden change in light.

It wasn’t darkness anymore. It was… light, but not the warm, gentle light of the afternoon sun. It was a peculiar, almost luminous glow, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once, bathing the world in a strange, unreal luminescence.

She pushed herself up, her limbs feeling slightly numb and strangely tingly. Looking around, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat again, this time not in fear, but in utter, bewildered astonishment.

She wasn’t in a hole anymore. She was… somewhere else entirely.

The ground beneath her was a carpet of vibrant, emerald green grass, softer than any lawn she’d ever encountered. Towering above her were trees, but not trees like any she knew. Their bark shimmered with an almost metallic sheen, their leaves a kaleidoscope of colours – crimson, sapphire, gold, and violet, all shimmering and rustling in a breeze she couldn’t feel.

And the air… the air hummed with an energy, a vibrant, almost palpable magic that tickled her skin and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It was filled with a dizzying array of scents – the sweet perfume of exotic blooms she couldn’t name, the spicy tang of something earthy and unknown, and a faint, underlying aroma of… tea and sugar?

Y/N turned in a slow circle, her eyes wide, taking in the impossible landscape. Giant, luminous mushrooms dotted the grass, their caps glowing with soft, internal light. Strange, fantastical flowers, shaped like trumpets and bells, swayed gently, their petals unfurling in slow, graceful motions. In the distance, she could see hills that rolled like waves, painted in stripes of pink and orange.

This wasn’t just different. It was… impossible. Utterly, gloriously, beautifully impossible.

Could this be… Wonderland? Alice’s Wonderland?

A rustle in the undergrowth startled her. Y/N jumped, her hand flying to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. She peered into the shadows beneath a giant, luminous mushroom, her senses on high alert.

A pair of luminous, ruby-red eyes blinked back at her.

Then, with a twitch of a fluffy white nose, a rabbit emerged from the shadows. But this wasn’t just any rabbit. This rabbit was dressed.

It wore a waistcoat of faded velvet, adorned with tarnished gold buttons, and perched precariously on its head was a ridiculously small top hat, askew and slightly battered-looking. In its paws, it clutched a pocket watch, frantically checking the time, its whiskers twitching with agitation.

It was the White Rabbit. Alice’s White Rabbit.

The rabbit hopped closer, its red eyes fixing on Y/N with an almost frantic intensity. “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be dreadfully late!” it muttered, its voice high-pitched and flustered. It glanced at its pocket watch again, then seemed to notice Y/N for the first time, its eyes widening further.

“Well, really!” it exclaimed, its voice rising in pitch. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

Y/N stared at the talking, waistcoat-wearing rabbit, a giddy laugh bubbling up inside her. It was real. All of it. Alice hadn't been mad.  She was the one who had been blind.

“I… I’m Y/N,” she managed to stammer, still trying to process the sheer absurdity and wonder of it all. “And I… I think I fell down a rabbit hole.”

The White Rabbit’s ears twitched. “A rabbit hole? Fell? Oh, this is just perfectly dreadful! First Alice, and now… another one! The Queen will have my head!” He wrung his paws, his agitation escalating. “This is all terribly inconvenient! Terribly, terribly inconvenient!”

“The Queen?” Y/N asked, her brow furrowing. “The Queen of Hearts?”

The rabbit’s eyes widened even further. “You know the Queen? But… but how? You’re not… you’re not Alice, are you? You’re… different.” He hopped closer, circling her cautiously, sniffing the air. “You smell… of hats.”

Y/N blinked. “I am a hatter,” she confirmed, a small smile curving her lips. “In my world, at least.”

“A hatter!” the rabbit exclaimed, stopping abruptly. He seemed to consider this for a moment, his whiskers twitching thoughtfully. “Hmm. Perhaps… perhaps this isn’t entirely dreadful after all.” He tapped his foot, his pocket watch swinging against his waistcoat. “A new hatter! Perhaps you can… you can help with the hats!”

“Help with hats?” Y/N echoed, intrigued.

“Yes, yes! The Mad Hatter’s hats are always… well, mad! And the March Hare’s are simply dreadful! And Dormouse… well, Dormouse just sleeps on them!” The rabbit shuddered. “Utter chaos! Perhaps a properhatter is just what Wonderland needs!”

Mad Hatter. The words resonated within Y/N, a strange sense of familiarity stirring within her. Alice had spoken of him, of his nonsensical riddles and his perpetually mad tea party. And yet, something in the way the White Rabbit spoke of him, with exasperated fondness, sparked a flicker of… curiosity. More than curiosity. Something akin to… recognition? An echo of something she couldn't quite grasp.

“Where is this Mad Hatter?” Y/N asked, her voice suddenly eager.

The White Rabbit glanced at his pocket watch again, his fluster returning. “Oh, no time for that now! Late, late, terribly late! But… but perhaps you can find him at the… at the tea party! Always the tea party! Just follow… follow the path of mismatched teacups!”

He gestured vaguely with a paw, then with a flurry of white fur and frantic hops, he was gone, disappearing into the colourful, chaotic undergrowth, muttering about being dreadfully late.

Y/N watched him go, a smile spreading across her face. A path of mismatched teacups. Of course. In Wonderland, nothing was simple, nothing was ordinary. And everything, somehow, felt strangely right.

She turned, her gaze sweeping across the fantastical landscape once more. A path of mismatched teacups. It sounded like just the kind of delightfully mad direction she needed. And somewhere, at the end of that path, perhaps she would find this Mad Hatter. And maybe, just maybe, she would find something even more extraordinary than Wonderland itself. A thrill coursed through her, a heady mix of excitement and anticipation. Her adventure in Wonderland had just begun. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt utterly, wonderfully, thrillingly… alive.

A/n I love this movie

[lixii00]

Chapter 1: Tea and Tall Tales

Tarrant Hightopp x y/n female reader

word count:2347

The bell above the door of ‘The Curious Canopy’ chimed a merry little tune announcing Alice’s arrival like a fanfare for a very important person – which, in Y/N’s world she absolutely was. Y/N, perched on a stool behind the counter amidst a chaotic symphony of ribbons, feathers, and half-finished hats, grinned, her heart instantly lifting at the sight of her best friend.

“Alice! You’re just in time, I was about to brew a fresh pot of Earl Grey,” Y/N declared, hopping down and brushing stray threads of emerald green velvet from her apron. Her fingers, usually stained with dye and pricked with needle marks, danced over the teacups already laid out, mismatched and whimsical as always.

Alice, with her perpetually wind-blown blonde hair and eyes that held a constant glint of something unnameable – perhaps mischief, perhaps wonder – beamed back. “Perfect timing indeed! Anything to escape the drudgery of embroidery practice with Mother.” She shuddered dramatically, collapsing onto the plush velvet armchair tucked in the corner, amidst a mountain of hatboxes.

Y/N chuckled, stepping behind the counter again, a well-worn kettle already whistling on the small burner. “Embroidery again? Really, Alice, must you suffer so? Come, tell me all about it while I pour.”

The Curious Canopy was Y/N’s kingdom. It wasn’t a grand, gilded palace, but rather a wonderfully cluttered shop that smelled perpetually of tea and fabric dye. Hats overflowed from every surface – towering top hats adorned with peacock feathers, delicate bonnets veiled in lace, jaunty boaters perched precariously on shelves, and fezzes in vibrant hues. Each one was a testament to Y/N's boundless imagination, a miniature world crafted from felt, silk, and pure, unadulterated creativity. Like Y/N herself, the shop was a delightful explosion of colour and eccentricity, a haven from the more mundane corners of their world.

As the fragrant steam of Earl Grey filled the air, Y/N joined Alice, settling onto a stool opposite her, a steaming cup in hand for each of them. Alice took a grateful sip, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips.

“Embroidery of roses this time,” Alice groaned, rolling her eyes. “Red roses, naturally. As if there aren’t more interesting flowers in the world!”

Y/N laughed. “Roses are classic, Alice. Romantic, even.” She winked, nudging Alice playfully with her elbow.

Alice wrinkled her nose. “Romantic? More like… predictable. Don't you ever just crave something… unexpected? Something… more?” Her eyes, usually bright with amusement, took on a faraway, almost wistful quality.

Y/N paused, studying her friend. Alice had been… different lately. More prone to staring into space, more easily distracted, and strangely fixated on rabbits. “More than what, Alice?” she asked gently, her voice laced with concern. “More than tea and hats and escaping embroidery?”

Alice swirled the tea in her cup, her gaze fixed on the amber liquid. “More than this world, perhaps.” She said it softly, almost a whisper, and Y/N had to strain to hear her.

Y/N raised a brow, intrigued. “Oh? And what world is grander than one filled with hats, my dear?” she teased, but a flicker of genuine curiosity sparked within her.

Alice leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “I told you about it before, Y/N, remember? Wonderland?”

Y/N’s smile faltered slightly. Wonderland. Oh, that again. Alice had been captivated by this imaginary place for months, ever since she claimed to have… well, fallen down a rabbit hole. Y/N, ever the supportive friend, had listened patiently to tales of talking rabbits, mad tea parties, and a tyrannical Queen of Hearts. She’d even indulged Alice in a few rather fantastical games of ‘Wonderland Tea Party’ in the garden, complete with miniature hats for the porcelain dolls.

But Wonderland, of course, was just that – a fantastical story spun from Alice’s wonderfully wandering imagination. Y/N loved Alice’s imagination, cherished it even. It was part of what made her so… Alice. But she couldn’t possibly believe it was real.

“Wonderland,” Y/N repeated slowly, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “Yes, I remember. The place with… white rabbits and disappearing cats?”

Alice nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling again. “Cheshire Cats! And mad hatters, and playing cards that are alive, and… and everything is just… different, Y/N. It’s beautiful and strange and… well, it’s Wonderland.”

Y/N took a sip of her tea, stalling for time. “And you… you actually went there, Alice?” she asked, the question laced with gentle doubt.

Alice puffed out her cheeks. “I did! I fell down a rabbit hole, right in my garden, and I landed in Wonderland! I met all sorts of incredible people – creatures, really – and I had the most extraordinary adventures.” Her voice was brimming with fervent conviction.

Y/N set her teacup down carefully, trying to choose her words delicately. She didn’t want to hurt Alice, but she also couldn’t encourage what she considered to be, well, a rather elaborate fantasy. “Alice, darling,” she began softly, “you know I adore your stories. You have such a vivid imagination. But… rabbit holes don’t lead to magical worlds. They just… lead to rabbit burrows, usually.”

Alice’s face fell slightly, a shadow of disappointment crossing her features. “But I did, Y/N! I promise you, it’s real. I saw it with my own eyes! I drank tea with the Mad Hatter, I played croquet with the Queen of Hearts – she’s truly dreadful, by the way, always shouting ‘Off with their heads!’” Alice shuddered dramatically again.

Y/N smiled sadly. “I’m sure in your… dream… she was very dreadful.”

“It wasn’t a dream!” Alice insisted, her voice rising slightly. “It was real! And you don’t believe me, do you?” Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of hurt and frustration.

Y/N reached out and took Alice’s hand, her own fingers calloused but warm against Alice’s delicate skin. “Of course, I believe you, Alice. I believe that you believe it. But… Wonderland, as you describe it… it sounds like a wonderful story, a beautiful escape. But stories aren’t reality, my dear.”

Alice pulled her hand back, her expression hardening slightly. “So, you think I’m… making it up?”

“No, no, not at all!” Y/N said quickly, horrified at the thought. “I think you have a remarkable imagination, the most wonderful imagination I know. And sometimes, imaginations can feel very, very real.” She tried to soften her words, to convey her affection and understanding.

But Alice was unconvinced. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Fine,” she said, her voice tight. “If you don’t believe me, then… then I’ll show you.”

Y/N blinked, taken aback by Alice’s sudden shift in mood. “Show me what, Alice?”

“The rabbit hole,” Alice declared, her chin held high. “I’ll show you the very rabbit hole that leads to Wonderland. Then you’ll believe me.”

Y/N hesitated. She really didn’t want to indulge this further. Traipsing off to Alice’s garden to look at a rabbit hole seemed like a rather pointless exercise. But seeing the determined glint in Alice’s eyes, the unwavering conviction in her stance, Y/N knew that arguing would be futile. And perhaps, just perhaps, humoring Alice might help her move past this Wonderland obsession.

“Alright,” Y/N conceded with a sigh, pushing herself up from the stool. “Let’s go see this… rabbit hole.” She grabbed her shawl from a nearby hook, slinging it around her shoulders. “But if we don’t find any talking rabbits or mad hatters, you owe me a new spool of silk ribbon.”

Alice’s face brightened instantly, her previous frustration vanishing as quickly as a Cheshire Cat’s grin. “Oh, you will believe, Y/N! You’ll see! Come on!” She grabbed Y/N’s hand again, pulling her towards the door with an almost frantic energy.

Leaving the half-filled teacups and the comforting aroma of Earl Grey behind, Y/N allowed herself to be dragged out of the warm embrace of The Curious Canopy and into the crisp afternoon air. As they walked briskly through the cobbled streets, heading towards Alice’s grand manor house nestled on the outskirts of town, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being swept along on a rather peculiar escapade.

Alice chattered excitedly as they walked, recounting snippets of her ‘adventures’ in Wonderland – her encounter with a grinning Cheshire Cat, the impossible riddles of the March Hare, the chaotic tea party with the Hatter. Y/N listened with a bemused smile, occasionally interjecting with a gentle question to keep Alice’s narrative flowing. She found herself almost enjoying the fantastical tales, even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Alice’s enthusiasm was infectious, and her descriptions were so vivid, so creatively outlandish, that it was like listening to a particularly captivating storybook being read aloud.

They reached Alice’s garden, a sprawling expanse of meticulously manicured lawns, vibrant flowerbeds, and neatly trimmed hedges. Alice led Y/N through a maze of rose bushes, their thorns catching slightly on Y/N’s shawl, until they reached a secluded corner, tucked away behind a weeping willow tree.

“Here it is!” Alice announced triumphantly, pointing to a rather unassuming hole in the ground at the base of the willow.

Y/N approached cautiously, peering down at the opening. It was, indeed, a rabbit hole. A perfectly ordinary rabbit hole, just like any other rabbit hole she had ever seen. It was round, earthy, and led downwards into darkness. Certainly not the glistening gateway to a fantastical realm.

“Well?” Alice asked, her voice brimming with anticipation. “What do you think?”

Y/N straightened up, forcing a neutral expression. “It’s… a rabbit hole, Alice. A rather deep one, I’ll grant you that.”

Alice’s face fell again. “But… don’t you feel anything? Isn’t there something… different about it?” She gestured wildly at the hole, her eyes pleading.

Y/N peered into the hole again, trying to see it through Alice’s eyes, to imagine the fantastical world she claimed lay beyond. She saw only darkness, earthy walls, and the faint scent of damp soil. “It just looks like a hole, Alice. A quite normal, if somewhat larger than average, rabbit hole.”

Alice sighed, her shoulders slumping. “But… I fell down it! I landed in Wonderland! Don’t you believe me at all?” Her voice was tinged with a heartbreaking mix of desperation and disappointment.

Y/N felt a pang of guilt. She hated to see Alice so upset. She knelt down beside the rabbit hole, reaching out to touch the soft earth around the rim. “Tell me again, Alice,” she said softly, her voice gentle. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

Alice hesitated for a moment, then sat down cross-legged beside the hole, her gaze fixed on the dark maw opening before them. And she began to speak. She recounted her tale once more, her voice gaining strength and animation as she relived her supposed journey into Wonderland. She described the White Rabbit frantically checking his pocket watch, the Cheshire Cat’s enigmatic grin, the Mad Hatter’s nonsensical riddles, the Queen of Hearts’ terrifying temper. She painted a world of vibrant colours, bizarre creatures, and illogical rules, a world that was both wonderfully whimsical and strangely unsettling.

As Alice spoke, Y/N listened intently, her gaze drifting back to the rabbit hole. The afternoon sun dappled through the willow leaves, casting shifting shadows around them. The air was still, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. And as Alice’s words filled the quiet garden, weaving a tapestry of fantastical images, a strange sensation began to creep over Y/N.

A chilling breeze seemed to emanate from the rabbit hole, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. The darkness within seemed deeper, more profound than just an ordinary hole in the ground. And for a fleeting moment, just a whisper of a thought, Y/N wondered… what if?

What if Alice wasn't just imagining things? What if, just maybe, there was something more to this rabbit hole than met the eye? What if Wonderland, this fantastical realm of mad tea parties and talking rabbits, actually existed?

She shook her head slightly, dismissing the thought as utter nonsense. But still, as Alice continued her tale, her voice filled with such unwavering conviction, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a flicker of… something. Not belief, not exactly. But… curiosity. And perhaps, just a tiny, hesitant whisper of… possibility.

Alice finished her story, her voice trailing off, expectantly watching Y/N's face. Y/N looked down at the rabbit hole again, this time with a different kind of gaze. She leaned closer, peering into the inky blackness. It was still just a hole. But somehow, now, it felt… different.

“Alice,” Y/N said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper, “show me. Show me where you fell.”

Alice’s eyes widened, hope flickering within them once more. She pointed to a slightly worn patch of grass right at the edge of the rabbit hole. “Right here,” she breathed. “Right here, I tumbled right down.”

Y/N reached out and touched the worn grass, her fingers brushing against the soft earth. She looked at Alice, then back at the rabbit hole, a strange mix of apprehension and intrigue swirling within her. Perhaps… perhaps it was just a fleeting whim, a moment of madness brought on by Alice’s infectious imagination. But something, a tiny spark of something utterly illogical and undeniably tempting, urged her forward.

Swallowing her hesitation, Y/N took a deep breath and leaned closer to the rabbit hole, peering down into its depths. The darkness seemed to beckon, whispering secrets she couldn't quite decipher. And for the first time, a tiny seed of doubt began to sprout in the fertile ground of her skepticism. Could it be possible? Could Wonderland… actually be real?

The thought was ludicrous, utterly absurd. And yet… a strange, unsettling thrill coursed through her veins. And as she gazed into the dark abyss of the rabbit hole, Y/N knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that her life was about to become very, very interesting indeed.

[lixii00]

Daddy's Got a Surprise

Please be advised that the following story contains mature themes.

Dead dove Do not Eat

Tw. For noncon, MDNI

The velvet ropes of the club felt cool against your clammy palms as Rio led you inside. Bass throbbed through the floor, vibrating up your spine and setting your teeth on edge. You weren't dressed for this. Your jeans and worn t-shirt screamed ‘soccer mom on a rushed errand’ compared to the glittering, skin-baring ensembles around you. But Rio, in his usual crisp white shirt and dark trousers, looked perfectly at home, a predator in his natural habitat.

He guided you through the throng of bodies, his hand a firm, possessive grip on your lower back. “Relax, mamita,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble only you could hear over the music. “Just a quick chat. Then we can go… celebrate.”

Celebrate. That’s what he called it. Celebrating getting deeper into whatever the hell he was involved in, celebrating your increasing complicity, celebrating the way you seemed to be slowly unraveling under his gaze. You swallowed, the knot in your stomach tightening. You were doing this for Lily, for her future. You repeated it like a mantra in your head, trying to drown out the rising tide of anxiety.

He led you to a quieter corner booth, dimly lit and tucked away from the main floor. He slid in opposite you, those dark, intense eyes never leaving your face. “You look… tense,” he observed, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely a whisper.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. “Don’t lie to me, chiquita. I can see it all over you.” He reached across the table, his calloused fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “You’re wound up tighter than a clock spring. Let’s fix that, hmm?”

His touch sent shivers down your spine, a mixture of fear and something else you didn’t dare name. He had this effect on you, this unsettling blend of menace and allure that kept you off balance, constantly teetering on the edge.

“Everything went smoothly,” you said, changing the subject, desperate to steer away from the dangerous territory of his touch. “Like you planned.”

He nodded, his eyes still holding yours captive. “Of course. I always plan ahead, mamita. Especially when it comes to you.”

The air in the booth suddenly felt thick, suffocating. You averted your gaze, focusing on the swirling patterns of the tablecloth. “So… what now?”

“Now,” he said, leaning closer, his breath ghosting over your ear, “we go somewhere private.”

You knew what he meant. You’d been here before, danced this dance with him, this dangerous, exhilarating, terrifying dance. He wanted you. He made it abundantly clear in every look, every touch, every whispered word. And despite the fear, the guilt, despite everything you knew was wrong, a treacherous part of you, a needy, desperate part of you, wanted him too.

He stood, pulling you up with him, his hand lingering on your hip. “Come on, baby girl. Daddy’s got a surprise for you.”

The pet name, dripping with possessiveness and something deeper, something that resonated with a buried part of you, made your breath hitch. Daddy. It was just a word, a game, you told yourself. But the way he said it, the way his eyes darkened when he called you that, it stirred something primal within you.

He led you out of the club, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the humid interior. He guided you to a sleek black car parked nearby, opening the door for you with a silent command. You slipped inside, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The drive was short, silent except for the low hum of the engine and the frantic beat of your own pulse. He parked in front of a discreet, unmarked building. He unlocked the door, his eyes meeting yours again in the dim light. “Upstairs,” he instructed, and you followed him, your legs feeling strangely heavy.

The apartment was sparsely decorated, all clean lines and dark, expensive furniture. It was impersonal, a space clearly designed for… transactions. Like you were.

He led you into the bedroom, the only light coming from the city glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He turned to face you, his gaze intense, predatory.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded, his voice rough, low.

Your breath hitched again. You hesitated, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your t-shirt. He watched you, patient but unwavering. Slowly, shakily, you pulled the shirt over your head, then unbuttoned your jeans. He didn’t move, didn’t help, just observed, his gaze stripping you bare long before your clothes hit the floor.

Standing before him in just your worn bra and panties, you felt exposed, vulnerable, and yet… undeniably aroused. Shame burned hot on your cheeks, but it was mixed with a dizzying thrill.

He stepped closer, his fingers tracing the strap of your bra, then dipping lower, grazing the curve of your breast. “You’re beautiful, muñeca,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite decipher. Lust? Possession? Something deeper?

He unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor, then reached for the waistband of your panties, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic. You sucked in a breath, the anticipation coiling tight in your stomach.

He pushed your panties down, stepping back to admire you again. “Look at you,” he breathed, his eyes raking over your body, lingering on your breasts, your hips, the triangle of hair between your legs. “Such a good girl, doing what you’re told.”

The praise, laced with that dominant edge, sent a jolt of electricity through you. You bit your lip, trying to contain the moan that threatened to escape.

He reached out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “You’re going to be a very good girl for Daddy tonight, aren’t you?”

The word again, Daddy. It unlocked something within you, a forbidden door swinging open. "Yes," you whispered, the word caught in your throat.

He smirked, a predatory, satisfied expression. “That’s my girl.”

He pushed you gently back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. He leaned down, his lips nuzzling your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, sending shivers of pleasure mixed with fear rippling through you.

He moved lower, his tongue tracing the curve of your breast, circling your nipple, sending a jolt of sensation straight to your core. You gasped, arching into him, your hands gripping his shoulders.

Then he was lower still, his lips at the juncture of your thighs, breathing hot air against your core. “You smell so good, mi amor,” he murmured, before his mouth closed over you.

His tongue was hot, insistent, teasing and demanding, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. You moaned, your hips bucking against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, urging him closer, deeper.

He ate you like he owned you, his tongue and lips relentless, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You cried out, your body convulsing, your orgasm ripping through you in hot, shuddering waves.

He continued to lick and suck even after you came, teasing, pleasuring, pushing you further into a state of raw, sensual overload. You were panting, whimpering, begging him to stop, then begging him to continue, lost in the chaotic symphony of pleasure and submission.

Finally, he pulled back, his eyes dark and glittering, his lips wet and swollen. “You like that, don’t you?” he breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction.

You could only nod, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He chuckled, a low, pleased sound. “Good. Because we’re just getting started.”

He moved up your body, straddling you, his knees pressing into your thighs. He reached down, his fingers sliding inside you, stretching you open, teasing your sensitive flesh. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat.

“Just lemme know if it’s too much, yeah?” he murmured, his eyes locking with yours, a hint of something dangerous flickering in their depths.

You nodded again, your mind hazy, your body still humming with arousal.

He pushed inside you then, slowly at first, stretching you, filling you, his gaze never leaving yours. It felt good, incredibly good, that deep, stretching fullness. You moaned, your hips arching up to meet his.

But then he started to move, faster, harder, pounding into you, and it was suddenly… too much. The initial pleasure morphed into something overwhelming, bordering on painful. Your breath hitched, and you whimpered, “Too… too much…”

He didn’t stop. He kept pounding, his rhythm relentless, his eyes fixed on yours, a predatory gleam in their depths. You gasped again, louder this time, “Rio… stop… it’s too much!”

Panic clawed at your throat, your body tensing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the sheer force of him inside you. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring his face. “Please… stop… please…”

He ignored your pleas, his pace only intensifying, his grip on your hips tightening, holding you captive beneath him. He was lost in his own rhythm, his own pleasure, oblivious or perhaps deliberately indifferent to your distress.

You cried out, a sob escaping your lips, hot tears streaming down your face. “Stop… please… it hurts… I can’t…”

He grunted, his face contorted in a mask of pleasure and exertion. “Almost there, baby girl,” he breathed, his voice strained. “Almost there for Daddy.”

The pet name, in this moment of overwhelming discomfort, of near-panic, twisted something inside you. It was no longer a thrill, but a brand, a mark of his ownership.

He thrust harder, deeper, and then with a guttural cry, he came, his body shuddering against yours, his seed spilling deep inside you.

He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy, his breath ragged. You lay beneath him, trapped, tears silently streaming down your face, your body trembling, not from pleasure, but from the aftermath of something that had felt less like intimacy and more like… violation.

He rolled off you after a moment, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. His expression was unreadable, his eyes still dark and intense. “You okay, mamita?” he asked, his voice softer now, but still laced with that undercurrent of command.

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t meet his gaze. You just lay there, exposed, vulnerable, the tears still flowing silently.

He reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, almost… concerned? “Hey, look at me.”

You slowly lifted your gaze, your eyes swollen and red. He saw your tears, saw the raw vulnerability in your face, and something shifted in his expression. The predatory gleam softened, replaced by something… else.

“You’re crying, chiquita,” he observed, his voice softer still. “Why are you crying?”

You shook your head, unable to articulate the jumble of emotions swirling inside you – the remnants of arousal mixed with fear, confusion, and a deep, aching vulnerability.

He traced the line of your jaw again, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Was it… too much?” he asked, the question almost hesitant.

Too much? Understatement of the year. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, to voice the sheer emotional and physical overwhelm you had just experienced.

You just nodded, a small, barely perceptible movement of your head.

He sighed, a low, almost defeated sound. He slid off the bed, reaching for a tissue box on the nightstand. He handed you a tissue, then another.

“Here,” he said, his voice low. “Wipe your face, baby girl.”

You took the tissues, dabbing at your eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure. He watched you, silent for a moment.

Then, to your surprise, he sat down beside you on the bed, pulling you gently against his side. He wrapped an arm around you, holding you close, his touch strangely comforting.

“Hey,” he murmured again, his voice soft, soothing. “It’s okay. It’s okay, mamita.”

He held you in silence for a long moment, just holding you, his hand stroking your hair. The tension in his body seemed to ease, replaced by a different kind of energy, a quieter, more… tender energy.

“You’re a lot sometimes, you know that?” he said finally, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re… sensitive.”

Sensitive? Was that what he thought you were? Just sensitive?

He shifted, pulling you closer, his hand sliding down your back, settling on your bare hip. He squeezed gently. “But that’s okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “Daddy likes sensitive girls.”

The pet name again, but this time, it didn’t feel like a brand, a mark of ownership. This time, in the aftermath of the storm, in the quiet understanding of his embrace, it felt… different. Almost… comforting.

You leaned into him, burying your face in his chest, letting the tears finally subside. He held you tighter, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.

“You’re safe now, baby girl,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Daddy’s got you.”

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, in the aftermath of the chaos, in the quiet intimacy of his embrace, you almost believed him. Almost believed that maybe, just maybe, beneath the danger, beneath the control, there was something else there too. Something… tender. Something… real. And that thought, terrifying and exhilarating all at once, made your heart ache in a way you couldn’t quite understand.

He continued to hold you, stroking your hair, murmuring soft, meaningless words, until your trembling subsided and your breathing evened out. Then, slowly, gently, he started to kiss you again, soft, tender kisses, a world away from the rough, demanding passion that had come before. And this time, you kissed him back.

A/n ._.

[lixii00]

Rockstar Reformation

Please be advised that the following story contains explicit and mature themes.

The air backstage thrummed with the aftershocks of the Yungblud concert. Dominic, still buzzing with adrenaline and the roar of the crowd, a chaotic whirlwind of energy even post-performance. He was stripped down to his ripped fishnets and a strategically placed bit of black tape – his usual stage attire – sweat slicking his skin and his grin wide as a Cheshire cat's.

And then there was you. (M/N). Leaning against the dressing room doorframe, arms crossed, a study in cool, collected observation amidst the vibrant mess that was Dominic's world. At 33, you carried an air of quiet authority that Dominic, despite his public bravado, found utterly, thrillingly captivating. Especially when that gaze, sharp and assessing, roamed over his barely-covered body.

"Show's over, rockstar," you drawled, your voice a low rumble that cut through the lingering noise. Dominic’s grin widened further, if that was even possible.

“Is it?” he purred, taking a step closer, his usual playful defiance sparking in his eyes. “Thought the real show was just about to begin.”

You pushed off the doorframe, moving with a languid grace that belied your size. You were taller than him, broader, your presence filling the small space, making Dominic feel deliciously…contained.

“Oh, is it now?” you murmured, stepping into his space. Your fingers, calloused and strong, reached out and trailed along the edge of the tape holding his meager covering in place. “And what makes you think that, little rockstar?” The ‘little’ was laced with something…possessive.

Dominic shivered, a genuine shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air conditioning and everything to do with the way your eyes darkened, the way your touch lingered. "Because you're here, Daddy," he breathed, the word slipping out almost involuntarily, a test, a dare, a plea. He watched your reaction, breath held.

A flicker of something dangerous, something intensely pleasurable, sparked in your gaze. “Daddy?” you repeated, the word rolling off your tongue like a command. You stepped even closer, backing him against the wall, your body a warm, solid barrier. “You think I’m your Daddy, Dom?”

Dominic swallowed, his bravado suddenly feeling thin, fragile under your intense gaze. But he wasn’t scared. Excited? Absolutely. Terrified? Maybe a little. Turned on? Fucking unbelievably.

He nodded, just a small jerk of his head, his eyes locked on yours. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the promise of something potent, something rough.

Your hand, the one that had been teasing his tape, now moved to his throat, your thumb tracing the pulse point there. “And what does Daddy do with a naughty little rockstar who puts on such a good show?” you whispered, your voice rougher now, laced with a delicious edge of…what? Anger? Lust? Domination?

“P-punish him?” Dominic managed, his voice cracking slightly. He was playing a game he wasn’t sure he could win, but the thrill of it was intoxicating.

You chuckled, a low, guttural sound that resonated in his chest. “Punishment is definitely on the menu, little one. But before that…” Your other hand snaked around to his backside, cupping his exposed ass cheek, fingers kneading firmly. “Daddy likes to admire his prize.”

Dominic gasped, the unexpected contact sending a jolt of electricity through him. He arched into your touch, whimpering softly. “Please, Daddy…”

“Please what, Dom?” you pressed, your fingers squeezing harder, making him moan. “Please what does little boy want?”

“P-please…touch me, Daddy,” he choked out, his carefully constructed rockstar persona dissolving under the weight of your dominance. He wanted to beg, to plead, to surrender completely.

“Already am, aren’t I?” you murmured, your lips now hovering inches from his ear. You nipped at his lobe, making him gasp again. “But you want more, don’t you? always craving attention.”

He did. He craved it. He wanted you to look, to touch, to own him. “Yes, Daddy,” he whimpered, his hands going to your chest, gripping your shirt, desperate for purchase.

“Good boy,” you praised, the words like a brand, searing into his skin. “Now, let’s give the crew a little show, shall we?”

Dominic’s eyes widened. You were serious. He glanced around the dressing room. The door was slightly ajar, the muffled sounds of the crew packing up filtering through. He could hear voices, movement. Anyone could walk in.

The thought, instead of scaring him, ignited a fire in his belly. The risk, the thrill of being caught, amplified the desire burning within him tenfold.

“Daddy…” he breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement.

You smirked, seeing the burgeoning excitement in his eyes. “That’s my good little boy. Always eager to please.” You released his ass cheek and, with a deliberate, slow motion, peeled the tape away from his crotch.

Dominic sucked in a breath, a sharp, audible gasp. He was completely exposed now, his dick twitching and hardening instantly in the cool air. He was mortified, exhilarated, utterly at your mercy.

You didn’t hesitate. Your hand closed around his already hard cock, your fingers firm, possessive. You squeezed, making him groan, his head falling back against the wall.

“Look at you,” you murmured, your voice low and husky. “So eager for Daddy. Begging for it.” You started stroking him, your hand slow, deliberate, teasing him right at the edge of pleasure.

Dominic moaned, his hips bucking against your hand. “Daddy…please…more…”

“More?” you echoed, your voice laced with a hint of cruelty. “You think you deserve more, little boy?” You stopped stroking him, your hand tightening, cutting off his air.

He gasped, his eyes widening again. Just like that You were a master of this game.

“You’re being a very naughty boy, Dom,” you said, your thumb tracing the head of his cock. “Getting all excited, showing off for Daddy and everyone else who might be listening outside.”

“S-sorry, Daddy,” he stammered, hating how weak he sounded, but also loving it. Loving the humiliation, the vulnerability.

“Sorry isn’t good enough, is it?” you mused, your fingers flexing, making him whimper. “Daddy needs to punish you. Teach you some manners.”

You released him suddenly, and Dominic sagged against the wall, panting, disoriented. He looked up at you, eyes wide and pleading.

“On your knees, Dom,” you commanded, your voice leaving no room for argument.

He didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees, his gaze fixed on you, begging for…something. He wasn’t even sure what. Just you.

You stepped back, your eyes raking over him, taking in his kneeling form, his naked body, the frantic need in his eyes. “Spread your legs, little slut,” you ordered, your voice harsh, degrading, and oh-so-arousing.

He obeyed instantly, his thighs trembling with anticipation. He knew what was coming. He’d craved it, fantasized about it. And now it was finally happening.

You moved closer again, kneeling in front of him. Your eyes locked with his, a silent, intense conversation passing between you. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, you reached out and slid two fingers inside him.

Dominic cried out, a strangled sound that was half pleasure, half pain. He wasn’t lubed, and your fingers were rough, but it was exactly what he wanted. Needed.

You started moving your fingers, slowly at first, then faster, deeper. He moaned, his head thrashing back and forth, his hands clutching at your shoulders, digging into your shirt.

“Daddy…fuck…” he gasped, the words tumbling out in a desperate plea.

“Fuck?” you echoed, your fingers still working him mercilessly. “Is that what you want, little boy? You want Daddy to fuck you?”

“Y-yes…please, Daddy…fuck me…” he begged, tears pricking at his eyes. He was so close, so desperate.

You pulled your fingers out, leaving him aching and throbbing. He whimpered, a sound of pure frustration.

“Not yet,” you said, your voice cold. “Daddy hasn’t punished you properly yet.”

Dominic’s heart sank. Punishment. Right. He’d forgotten, lost in the haze of lust and submission.

You stood up, pulling him to his feet. You turned him around, pushing him against the wall again, his ass presented to you. He knew what was coming now. He braced himself.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear again. “You’re a dirty little slut, aren’t you, Dom?” you whispered, your breath hot against his skin. “Always showing off, always wanting attention. You’re pathetic.”

Each word was like a lash, stinging and arousing at the same time. He whimpered again, tears now freely flowing down his cheeks.

“Yes, Daddy,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m a dirty slut. Pathetic.”

You chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. “That’s my good little boy. Knowing his place.” You gripped his hips, holding him firmly against the wall. “Now, Daddy’s going to take what he wants.”

You didn’t say anything else. You just pushed into him, hard and fast, without any warning. Dominic screamed, the raw, primal sound echoing in the small room. It was rough, brutal, unprotected. Exactly what he’d craved.

You pounded into him, your movements relentless, unforgiving. He bucked and writhed against you, his moans and cries mixing with your harsh breaths. Every thrust was a new wave of pleasure and pain, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

He was so close, so agonizingly close. He could feel his orgasm building, a tight coil in his belly, threatening to explode. He gripped your shoulders, his nails digging into your skin, trying to hold on, trying to ride the wave.

“Daddy…” he gasped, his body convulsing. “I’m gonna…Daddy…”

You didn’t answer. You just kept fucking him, harder and faster, driving him over the edge. He came in a rush, a shattering orgasm that ripped through him, leaving him weak and trembling.

You didn’t stop. You kept thrusting, even as he shuddered and cried out, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. Finally, when you felt your own orgasm building, you pulled out, coming onto his back with a guttural roar.

Dominic slumped against the wall, gasping for breath, his body slick with sweat and your cum. He felt raw, used, utterly spent. And incredibly satisfied.

You stepped back, watching him, your chest heaving. “There,” you said, your voice still rough, but laced with a hint of something softer. “Daddy’s done with you. For now.”

Dominic slowly slid down the wall, ending up sitting on the floor, still panting. He looked up at you, his eyes glazed with afterglow. A small, shaky smile touched his lips.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “That was…perfect.”

You just smirked, your eyes still holding that dangerous glint. “Don’t get too comfortable, little boy. Daddy always comes back for more.”

And Dominic knew, with a thrill that ran cold and hot through his veins, that you were absolutely right. He was yours now, completely and utterly. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[lixii00]

Between the Shelves

Please be advised that this story contains explicit and mature themes . Reader discretion is strongly advised.

The hushed quiet of the university library was a stark contrast to the riotous energy Dominic usually embodied. But tonight, quiet was the point. Quiet and just a little bit forbidden. He shifted nervously, the worn leather of the armchair creaking under him. He watched as you, M/n, navigated the towering shelves, your long legs eating up the distance between them. Even amongst the muted colors of academia, you stood out. Your dark clothes, the way you moved with a controlled power, it all hummed with an intensity that both terrified and thrilled him.

You paused at a shelf, running a finger along the spines, feigning interest in dusty tomes. Dominic knew you weren't reading. You were watching him, even with your back turned, he could feel your eyes boring into him. A shiver danced down his spine, a mixture of anticipation and dread.

“Come here, pup,” you murmured, your voice low and husky, barely audible above the rustle of pages. The nickname, pup. It was new, but it settled deep in his gut, a pleasing ache. He obeyed instantly, pushing himself out of the chair and padding towards you, a little too eager, he knew.

You didn't turn to face him until he was close enough to smell the faint, masculine scent of your cologne. Your eyes, dark and sharp, raked over him, lingering on the messy blond spikes of his hair, the ripped knees of his jeans, the slight tremble in his hands.

“Nervous, little shit?” you asked, a smirk playing on your lips. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Dominic swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“No,” he lied, the word barely a whisper.

You chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through him. “Don’t lie to Daddy, Dom.”  Daddy. There it was again. That word, loaded with a power that made his insides flutter. He hated it, and he craved it, all at once.

“I’m not,” he insisted, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“Really? Because you’re shaking like a leaf, and your cheeks are pink. Look at you, a pathetic little thing.” Your words were laced with disdain, but your hand, when it reached out, was warm as it cupped his jaw, fingers digging in just enough to sting. He leaned into the pressure, his breath catching in his throat.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, his voice weak.

“Good boy,” you purred, the praise laced with a bite that made his stomach clench. “Honesty becomes you, pup.” You released his jaw, letting your hand trail down his throat, tracing the curve of his collarbone. “Tonight, we’re going to have a little fun. Public fun. Does that excite you?”

Dominic’s pulse hammered in his ears. Public. Here? In the library? The thought sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. He nodded, his eyes wide, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

"Good Because I like a boy who knows how to please". You led him deeper into the stacks, the air growing cooler, the scent of aged paper and ink thickening around them. Rows upon rows of books loomed, creating a maze of shadows and whispers. He followed you blindly, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

You stopped in a secluded alcove, bookshelves rising on either side, creating a small, enclosed space, hidden from casual passersby. But still, public. Anyone could stumble upon them. The thrill of it was almost unbearable.

“Kneel,” you commanded, your voice dropping an octave, the dominance in it making his knees weak. He obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees on the cool floor.

You stood over him, your shadow falling across his face, your presence radiating power. You unbuckled your belt slowly, the sound echoing unnervingly in the quiet space. Dominic's breath hitched in his chest. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, shame and a strange, burning excitement mixing in his gut.

“Look at me, Dom,” you ordered, and he dared to lift his gaze. Your eyes were dark, intense, blazing with a predatory hunger that made him tremble. Your cock, thick and hard, was already pushing against your unzipped trousers.

“You like this, don’t you, you little slut?” you growled, your hand snaking out to grab a fistful of his already messy hair, pulling his head back. “You’re pathetic, begging for it, aren’t you?”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, not from pain, but from the raw, brutal edge in your voice. “Yes,” he choked out, the word thick with shame and something else, something he couldn’t name, but it felt like… surrender.

You tightened your grip on his hair, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Beg for it, then. Beg Daddy to fuck you right here, in front of all these stuffy books, like the dirty little whore you are.”

The degradation was sharp, cutting, but it sparked something within him. He hated the words, hated the feeling of being reduced to nothing, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something hot and shameful, a desire to be broken, to be used.

“Please, Daddy,” he whispered, the words catching, “please fuck me.”

You released his hair abruptly, letting his head drop forward. You stepped closer, your knees nudging his apart. He felt the cold air on his exposed skin as you pulled down his jeans and boxers in one swift movement, leaving him bare and vulnerable kneeling at your feet.

“Such a pathetic little thing,” you repeated, but there was a different note in your voice now, a hint of something… pleased. You reached down and grasped his cock, stroking it roughly, your thumb teasing the sensitive head. He gasped, a moan escaping his lips.

“Beg for it, baby,” you urged, your fingers working him mercilessly, edging him closer and closer to the brink. “Beg Daddy to let you cum.”

“Please, Daddy, please, I… I want to…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, his body arching, his cock throbbing with desperate need.

“Not yet, you little whore,” you spat, your fingers suddenly stilling. Orgasm denial. Just the thought of it made him writhe. “Daddy hasn’t had his fun yet.”

You unzipped your trousers fully, freeing your hard cock. The sight of it, thick and veined, made his breath catch again. You grabbed his wrists, pulling his arms above his head, and pinned them against the bookshelf behind him. He was completely exposed, helpless, at your mercy.

And you knew it. You reveled in it.

You positioned yourself behind him, your hard cock pressing against his bare ass. He whimpered, a mix of fear and anticipation. You didn’t use lube, didn’t bother with any pretense of gentleness. You just pushed inside him, hard and fast.

He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound that was swallowed by the absorbent walls of books. It hurt, a raw, stretching pain, but beneath it, the forbidden thrill of being taken like this, here, in public, was intoxicating.

“Fucking pathetic,” you snarled in his ear, your voice rough with exertion. “Begging for it. You’re nothing but a hole for Daddy to use.” You gripped his hips, holding him in place as you drove into him again and again, each thrust rougher, deeper than the last.

He bit his lip, trying to stifle his whimpers, but his body was betraying him, arching into your every thrust, his hips swaying in a desperate rhythm. He could feel himself getting close, too close, on the edge of losing control.

“Don’t you dare cum yet, you hear me?” you growled, your voice laced with menace. “Daddy hasn’t said you can.”

The command, the denial, it pushed him further, hotter, closer to the edge. He cried out again, a choked sound that was half pleasure, half pain. You kept pounding into him, relentless, forceful, the friction building until he thought he would shatter.

You reached around, your fingers digging into his chest, pinching his nipples roughly. He gasped, his body convulsing, his orgasm clawing its way up his spine.

“Beg for it, pup,” you commanded again, even as you ground into him harder, faster.

“Please, Daddy, please, I… I can’t… please let me…” He couldn’t form words, just desperate sounds, begging for release.

And then, finally, you relented, just slightly. You slowed your pace, drawing out the agony, the pleasure, the exquisite torture. You let him ride the edge, teetering on the brink, for what felt like an eternity.

“Daddy’s going to let you cum,” you breathed, your voice suddenly softer, deeper, a terrifying kind of tenderness that made his heart ache. “But you’re going to remember this, pup. Remember who’s in charge. Remember who owns you.”

And then you thrust into him one last time, deep and hard, and he finally broke. His orgasm ripped through him, a raw, shuddering wave of sensation that stole his breath and left him weak and trembling. He cried out, a long, guttural moan that echoed in the silent stacks.

You kept fucking him even as he came, your thrusts slow and deep, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. When he finally stilled, panting and shaking, you withdrew slowly, leaving him feeling emptied and raw.

You stepped back, watching him, your chest heaving slightly. He knelt there, naked and exposed, his head hanging low, shame and a strange, dizzying mix of pleasure swirling within him.

“Pathetic,” you said again, but this time, there was a different inflection in your voice, something almost… fond. You reached down and roughly cupped his chin, lifting his face to yours. “But you were a good little whore for Daddy, weren’t you?”

Dominic looked up at you, his eyes still glazed with afterglow, tears blurring his vision. He nodded dumbly, unable to speak.

You smirked, a flicker of something sharp and possessive in your eyes. “Get dressed, pup. We’re leaving.”

He scrambled to obey, pulling up his jeans and boxers, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. He felt exposed and raw, not just physically, but emotionally too. You had stripped him bare, not just of his clothes, but of his defenses, his pride.

As he stood, you reached out and ran a hand through his messy hair, tugging on it gently. “Daddy’s proud of you, pup. You took your punishment like a good boy.”

Punishment? He wasn’t sure what to call it. Pleasure? Degradation? Shame? Thrill? It was all tangled up together, a messy, confusing knot of feelings. But one thing was clear: he would do it again. He would kneel for you again, beg for you again, let you use him again, in the hushed quiet of the library, or anywhere else you commanded. Because somewhere in the humiliation, in the degradation, he had found something… intoxicating. He had found himself, in your control. And that, he realized with a jolt, was exactly what he wanted.

[lixii00]

Comfort, Confidence, Comedy...and Troy

The air in ‘The Chuckle Hut’ was thick with anticipation, a humid haze of cheap beer and nervous energy. Backstage, Y/N paced, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, trying to sound calm while simultaneously bouncing on the balls of her feet like she was powered by jitterbug juice.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m about to go on. No, I haven’t seen who’s in the audience yet. Just… you know, typical Tuesday night crowd. Probably. Okay, love you too, bye!” She hung up, the phone slipping from her damp palm. “Typical Tuesday night crowd,” she scoffed at her reflection in the dusty mirror. Tonight felt different. Tonight felt charged, like static clinging before a storm.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N smoothed down her slightly-too-tight black dress, tugged at the hem, and wished she’d worn something, anything, else. It wasn’t like she ever particularly cared what she wore on stage. Comfort, confidence, comedy – those were her holy trinity. But tonight… Tonight, for some reason she couldn’t quite articulate, she wanted to look… good. Not just ‘funny-female-comedian-who-can-rock-sweatpants’ good. Good-good.

The MC’s booming voice vibrated through the thin walls. “Alright, folks, give it up for… next up on our stage… she’s hilarious, she’s sharp, she once debated a squirrel for an hour and won… give it up for… Y/NNNNN!”

Y/N plastered on her ‘game face’ – a wide, slightly manic grin that promised wit and possibly mild chaos – and strode out onto the stage. The spotlight hit her, momentarily blinding, then her eyes adjusted. And that’s when she saw him.

Troy Bond.

Troy. Freaking. Bond.

Sitting smack-dab in the front row, sunglasses perched atop his head, that infuriatingly perfect jawline relaxed in what she could only interpret as… amusement? His gaze was fixed on the stage, and oh god, was that… was that her he was looking at?

Y/N’s carefully rehearsed opening line about the existential dread of mismatched socks completely evaporated. Instead, a strangled squeak escaped her lips. She coughed, loudly, and prayed it sounded like she was warming up her vocal cords.

“Uh,” she started, her voice cracking slightly higher than she intended. “Hi everyone! Welcome… to… Tuesday.” Smooth. Real smooth, Y/N. She could practically hear the imaginary record scratch in her head.

Troy Bond was still watching, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It wasn’t mocking, she didn’t think. It looked… interested. No, no, comedians weren’t interesting to Troy Bond-types. They dated supermodels, not women who made jokes about period pain and accidentally setting their toaster oven on fire trying to make s’mores.

But then, something shifted. The crowd started chuckling at her awkward opening. Maybe it was relatable. Maybe they, too, felt the weight of Tuesday. Y/N, fueled by a bizarre cocktail of panic and adrenaline, leaned into the awkwardness.

“So,” she continued, recovering slightly, “Tuesday, right? It’s like Monday’s ugly, slightly less ambitious cousin. It’s the participation trophy of the day. You made it to Tuesday! Congratulations, you’re halfway to hump day and… still haven’t done your laundry.”

She gestured to the crowd, her gaze inadvertently flickering back to Troy. He was laughing now, a genuine, deep chuckle that rumbled through the room. And, oh my god, was he… was he looking at her like… like she was funny? And… maybe… something else?

Buoyed by the laughter and the sheer improbable presence of Troy Bond in her audience, Y/N found her rhythm. She launched into her set, a whirlwind of observational humor, self-deprecating anecdotes, and slightly raunchy takes on modern dating. She talked about her dating app disasters, her disastrous attempts at healthy eating, and the ongoing war she waged against her Roomba.

With every joke, she risked a glance at Troy. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, completely captivated. His head was thrown back in laughter at her bit about accidentally sending a voice note to her boss confessing her undying love for her dog, who was, in fact, a golden retriever and not her manager.

As she moved into her crowd work segment, a dangerous, usually avoided zone for Y/N on a Tuesday night at The Chuckle Hut, an idea sparked in her brain, fueled by equal parts audacity and sheer madness.

“So,” she said, scanning the front row – and deliberately stopping when her eyes met Troy’s. “Anyone doing anything… exciting… tonight?”

A few scattered murmurs from the crowd. Someone was going to bingo night. Another was catching up on ‘The Bachelor’. Riveting stuff.

Then, Y/N’s gaze landed squarely back on Troy. “And you, sir,” she said, pointing directly at him. “Anything exciting happening in your world tonight?”

The room hushed. Everyone knew, or suspected, who he was. It was like pointing a laser pointer at a celebrity cat.

Troy raised an eyebrow, a slow, charming smirk spreading across his face. “Well,” he drawled, his voice surprisingly smooth and low, “I was just enjoying a surprisingly hilarious Tuesday night comedy show.”

The crowd ‘oooohed’. Y/N felt her cheeks flush. “Oh, were you now?” she quipped back, trying to sound casual when her heart was doing a frantic tap dance against her ribs. “And what, pray tell, is so surprisingly hilarious about it?”

“The comedian, for starters,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “She’s… captivating.”

‘Captivating’? Troy Bond just called her, Y/N, the comedian who once wore mismatched shoes on stage because she was too tired to find the right pair, ‘captivating’. Someone pinch her.

“Captivating, huh?” Y/N repeated, playing it cool, even though internally she was doing cartwheels. “Is that comedian perhaps… single and ready to mingle?”

The crowd roared with laughter. Troy Bond’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise – and something else, something brighter, something… interested – in their depths.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he said, leaning closer to the stage, his voice dropping even lower, almost conspiratorial, “If this ‘captivating’ comedian were single and ready to mingle… and was maybe, just maybe, interested in mingling with, say…” He paused, letting the tension build. “…a slightly less captivating, but still reasonably charming, audience member…”

The audience was practically vibrating with excitement. Y/N’s brain was short-circuiting. Was this really happening? Was Troy Bond, Troy Bond, flirting with her, on stage, in front of a packed Tuesday night crowd at The Chuckle Hut?

“Hypothetically speaking,” Y/N echoed, her voice a little breathy, “This ‘captivating’ comedian might just be… intrigued. Intrigued enough to maybe… grab a drink after the show and discuss… the captivating nature of Tuesdays in more detail?”

Troy Bond’s smile widened, revealing a flash of perfect white teeth. “Hypothetically speaking,” he said, his voice laced with amusement and something undeniably flirty, “That sounds like a hypothetically excellent plan.”

The crowd erupted in applause. Y/N grinned, her heart doing a full-on salsa dance now. She finished her set with a renewed energy, the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Every joke landed harder, every delivery was sharper, fueled by the sheer, unbelievable fact that Troy Bond was flirting with her.

After her set, backstage was a blur of congratulations and back-pats. But Y/N's focus was laser-locked on the stage door. She caught sight of him through the peep hole, leaning against the wall, talking to the club owner, but his eyes kept flicking towards the backstage entrance.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N straightened her dress (again), smoothed her hair (again), and walked out. Troy Bond turned, his gaze instantly locking onto hers. The noise of the club seemed to fade away, leaving only them in a bubble of – dare she hope? – flirty anticipation.

“You were… incredible,” he said, his voice genuine, the charming smile back in place. “Seriously, I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.”

“Thanks,” Y/N managed, her voice still a little shaky. “You… you liked it?” God, she sounded like a starstruck teenager. Smooth, Y/N, real smooth.

Troy chuckled. “Liked it? I was… captivated,” he repeated, that word again, sending a little shiver down her spine. He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne – and something else, something warm and slightly spicy – filling her senses. “So, about that hypothetically excellent plan…”

Y/N grinned, a genuine, wide smile that reached her eyes. “Hypothetically speaking,” she said, matching his playful tone, “I believe that ‘captivating’ comedian is free for a drink. Just gotta warn you, though. My hypothetically excellent plans usually involve pizza and questionable dance moves.”

Troy Bond laughed again, a sound that made her stomach do a little flip. “Pizza and questionable dance moves? Hypothetically speaking, that’s exactly my kind of night.” He held out his hand. “Troy.”

“Y/N,” she replied, taking his hand. His grip was warm and firm, sending another unexpected jolt through her. “And just to be clear, Troy… I fully intend to win at the questionable dance moves.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of letting you have all the fun,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement and something else, something undeniably… flirty. “Shall we?” He gestured towards the exit.

As they walked out of The Chuckle Hut, the Tuesday night air suddenly felt a whole lot less typical. It felt… charged. It felt… exciting. It felt, just maybe, like the start of something hilariously, hypothetically, and perhaps, unexpectedly, amazing. And Y/N, comedian extraordinaire who debated squirrels and accidentally set toaster ovens on fire, couldn't help but smile. Tonight, Tuesday was officially her favorite night of the week. And it was all thanks to a certain charming, slightly flirty, and definitely captivated, audience member named Troy Bond.

[lixii00]

Setting the Stage Ablaze

The air in “The Chuckle Hut” was thick with anticipation, stale beer, and that specific nervous energy that clung to the back of your throat before you went on stage. y/n, adjusting the mic stand for the third time, tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach. Headlining tonight was Troy Bond, a name that crackled with a certain electricity even in the dingy green room. He was known for his observational humor, his easy charm, and, according to more than a few online forums, his undeniable attractiveness. y/n had seen clips; he was undeniably charismatic, but she was more focused on not bombing her own set before him.

“You’re looking a little tense, firecracker,” a voice drawled, warm and smooth like aged whiskey.

y/n jumped, spinning around to see Troy Bond leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile playing on his lips. He was even more… present in person. Tall, with eyes the colour of melted chocolate and a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. And, oh god, he was looking right at her.

“Just, uh, pre-show jitters,” y/n stammered, suddenly feeling acutely aware of her slightly-too-big sweater and the fact she’d probably forgotten lipstick.

Troy pushed himself off the doorframe and strolled towards her, a predator circling his prey, albeit a very charming predator. “Jitters are a waste of good energy, darlin’. Especially when you’re about to light up this stage.” His eyes swept over her, lingering just a second too long on her face, and y/n felt a blush creep up her neck. God, he was flirting. Already.

“Right, well, I intend to, uh, set it ablaze. Metaphorically speaking,” y/n managed, trying for a casual tone that definitely sounded like she was trying too hard.

Troy chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the small room. “Metaphorically it is good. Unless you’ve got some pyrotechnics I haven’t heard about.” He winked, and y/n swore she felt a physical jolt. This was… unexpected. And a little distracting. And… okay, maybe a little thrilling.

“Just my killer wit,” she retorted, finally finding her footing. “That’s usually enough to start a few fires.”

“Killer wit, huh?” Troy raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I like a woman with weapons-grade humour. Maybe we should test out those weapons sometime. Onstage. Together.”

y/n brain short-circuited for a moment. Onstage? With Troy Bond? Flirting? This was definitely not in the pre-show plan.

“I… I think I can handle my own set,” she said, trying to sound firm, but her voice came out a little breathier than she intended.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Troy said smoothly, stepping closer. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and something pleasantly citrusy. “But collaboration can be… explosive.” He paused again, letting the innuendo hang in the air, his gaze locking onto hers. y/n  could feel the heat radiating off him, a tangible presence in the small room.

“I…” y/n swallowed. “Maybe after the shows?” she suggested weakly, suddenly finding it difficult to remember her own name, let alone her carefully crafted set list.

“After the shows, darlin’,” Troy agreed, his smile widening. “After the shows, anything could happen.” He winked again, then turned and sauntered out of the green room, leaving y/n  staring after him, a mixture of confusion, fluster, and a surprising amount of excitement swirling within her.

By the time y/n  was announced onstage, she’d managed to wrestle her nerves back into some semblance of order. She launched into her set, a mix of self-deprecating anecdotes about online dating and observational humour about the absurdity of modern life. The audience was good, laughing in the right places, and y/n was starting to feel like she was finding her groove.

Then, mid-joke about the existential dread of choosing which streaming service to binge, she saw him. Troy Bond was standing in the wings, leaning against the curtain, watching her. And he was smiling. Not just a polite, comedian-supporting-comedian smile, but a genuine, appreciative, slightly… predatory smile. y/n  faltered, momentarily losing her train of thought.

“Uh… so, yeah,” she stumbled, trying to recover. “Streaming services… they’re like modern-day purgatory, right? Except instead of eternal damnation, it’s just endless scrolling…” She felt her cheeks flush again, and she knew her delivery was getting shaky. Damn it, Troy Bond was throwing her completely off her game.

She glanced back at him, almost involuntarily, and he winked.  Again. And then, he mouthed something. y/n couldn’t quite make it out, but she was pretty sure it was “Looking good.”

Her carefully constructed set threatened to crumble around her. She powered through the rest of her time, but her jokes felt rushed, her transitions clunky. She could feel Troy’s eyes on her, a constant, warm pressure, and it was both incredibly distracting and… strangely motivating. She wanted to impress him. Damn it all.

Finally, mercifully, her time was up. She bowed to polite applause, her mind still buzzing with Troy’s presence, and practically fled backstage. She was met with a cacophony of chatter from the MC and the other comedians, but Troy was nowhere to be seen.

Disappointment flickered within her, quickly replaced by relief. Maybe it was just a bit of pre-show flirting, showmanship even. Maybe he did that with all the opening acts. Maybe she was reading too much into it.

Then, the MC announced Troy Bond. The applause was deafening, the energy in the room shifting palpably. y/n peeked from backstage, watching as Troy strolled confidently onto the stage, bathed in the spotlight. He was magnetic. He was captivating. He was… looking straight at her.

He hadn't even reached the mic stand before he spoke. “Wow, what a warm-up act, huh?” he said, his voice smooth and amplified, reaching every corner of the club. “Give it up one more time for y/n!”

The audience applauded again, and y/n ducked her head, feeling her cheeks burn anew. This was mortifying. And… kind of thrilling.

“You know,” Troy continued, leaning into the mic conspiratorially, “I was backstage, watching y/n’s set, and I gotta be honest… I was a little distracted.” He paused, letting the laughter ripple through the room. “Not distracted in a bad way! Distracted in a… ‘wow, that woman is funny and incredibly easy on the eyes’ kind of way.”

y/n  froze, her eyes widening. He was talking about her. Onstage. Right now. In front of everyone.

“Seriously,” Troy went on, his gaze seemingly sweeping the room, but y/n knew, knew, he was still aware of her presence backstage. “I haven’t been this captivated by an opening act since… well, never, actually.” He chuckled, and the audience laughed with him, caught up in his charming self-deprecation.

“Now, I usually start my set with something a little less… personal,” Troy said, “but after seeing y/n up here, all that witty brilliance and… let’s just say, vibrant energy, I feel like I need to adjust my material.” He paused again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Because, folks, I think I might be developing a little… comedian crush.”

The audience erupted in cheers and whistles. y/n  wanted to disappear. This was escalating rapidly. She peeked out again, and this time, Troy was looking directly at her, a playful smirk on his face.

“y/n, if you’re still back there,” Troy called out, his voice laced with playful invitation, “are you hearing this? Because I think we need to discuss… comedic chemistry. After the show, of course.” He winked, and the audience went wild.

y/n, completely mortified and utterly exhilarated, couldn’t help but laugh. He was outrageous. He was bold. He was… undeniably funny. And undeniably flirting with her on stage. In front of everyone.

She took a deep breath and stepped out from backstage, into the wings  making sure she was visible. She raised an eyebrow at Troy, a playful smirk mirroring his own starting to form on her lips.

“Comedic chemistry, Mr. Bond?” she called out, her voice echoing surprisingly well in the hushed, expectant silence. “Are you suggesting we need… lab coats? Beakers? Perhaps a Bunsen burner for particularly heated jokes?”

The audience roared with laughter and applause. Troy’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, then a grin spread across his face, even wider than before.

“Lab coats optional, Ms… uh…” he paused dramatically, looking out into the audience as if appealing to a higher power. “What is your last name, anyway? Besides ‘irresistible’?”

The audience collectively groaned and laughed at the cheesy line, but they were loving it. y/n rolled her eyes, but she was grinning now, a real, genuine grin that reached her eyes.

“It’s… y/n,” she called back, deciding to play along, because, well, why not? This was definitely more entertaining than sitting backstage in a state of panicked embarrassment. “Just y/n. No lab coat required. But maybe a fire extinguisher. For all that ‘explosive’ chemistry you were talking about.”

Troy threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, booming laugh that filled the club. “A fire extinguisher, huh? Always prepared. I like that, y/n. I like that a lot.” He looked back at the audience, still grinning. “See folks? Killer wit. Told you.”

He launched into his actual set then, but every few jokes, he’d weave in a little playful jab at y/n, a flirty comment, a wink in her general direction. He joked about their potential “comedy power couple” status, about her “dangerous level of charisma,” and even about how he was suddenly considering adding “dating advice” to his repertoire just to impress her.

y/n stayed in the wings, watching his set unfold, laughing along with the audience, her heart pounding a ridiculous rhythm against her ribs. He was brilliant. He was charming. And he was making her feel things she hadn’t felt in a long time.

After his set, the applause was thunderous. Troy took a final bow, then, instead of exiting stage right, he walked directly towards the wings, towards y/n. The audience, sensing something was about to happen, went even quieter, their eyes fixed on the unfolding drama.

Troy stopped in front of y/n, his smile warm and genuine, the stage persona momentarily dropped, replaced by something softer, more… real.

“So, y/n,” he said, his voice lower now, just for her. “About that comedic chemistry… and that fire extinguisher…” He tilted his head, his melted chocolate eyes twinkling. “Drinks? After the… explosive… success of our impromptu collaboration?”

y/n  laughed, a light, genuine sound. “Drinks, Mr. Bond,” she agreed, her own eyes sparkling with amusement and something else… something that felt a little like fire. “But you’re buying. After all, you did just use my name for half your set.”

Troy chuckled, his grin widening again. “Fair enough. But consider it an investment. In our… comedic future.” He offered her his arm, a playful but undeniably chivalrous gesture.

y/n took it, feeling a thrill course through her as their hands touched. “Only if that future involves less onstage humiliation and more… actual chemistry,” she teased, falling into step beside him as they walked offstage, into the roar of applause and the promise of a surprisingly hilarious, and potentially quite hot, evening. The Chuckle Hut had certainly lived up to its name tonight, in more ways than one.

[lixii00]

Below the Spotlight

The air in ‘The Chuckle Hut’ was thick with anticipation, a heady mix of cheap beer fumes and nervous laughter bubbling under the surface. You fidgeted in your seat, the sticky vinyl clinging uncomfortably to your jeans. You’d been dragged here by your friend, Liam, who swore Troy Bond was the next comedic sensation. You were more of a Netflix-and-chill kind of person but, hey, Liam had promised nachos afterwards, so here you were.

The opening acts were… Well, they were acts. One juggled flaming torches (impressive, if slightly terrifying in a dimly lit basement club), another told dad jokes with the enthusiasm of a sloth in a heatwave, and the third was so aggressively edgy you spent most of their set wondering if anyone had checked on their therapist recently.

Liam, oblivious to your internal monologue which was rapidly devolving into a detailed fantasy about the nacho platter to come, elbowed you excitedly. “He’s on next! Troy Bond! Get ready to laugh your socks off!”

You raised an eyebrow, “My socks are securely fastened inside my shoes, Liam. But I’m open to being pleasantly surprised.”

The lights dimmed further, a spotlight illuminating the small stage like a beacon of questionable entertainment. The MC, a woman with a voice like gravel and a smile like sunshine, bounded onto the stage.

“Alright, Chuckleheads, are you ready for the main event?” she yelled into the mic, and a smattering of cheers and whistles erupted from the crowd. “Give it up for a man who’s funnier than your uncle at Thanksgiving after three too many eggnogs, give it up for… Troy Bond!”

The crowd roared, and a figure bounded onto the stage. Troy Bond. And… wow. Okay, Liam might have a point.

Troy was… well, he was distracting. He was taller than you’d expected, all long limbs and a mischievous grin that seemed permanently etched onto his face. He had dark, rumpled hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times (in a good way) and bright, intelligent eyes that scanned the audience, sharp and engaging. He was dressed casually in a fitted black t-shirt that showed off the kind of arms you wouldn’t mind being accidentally bumped into in a crowded space, and jeans that hugged him in all the right places.

“Woah, woah, settle down, you’re making me blush under all these stage lights,” Troy joked, holding up a hand in mock protest. His voice was smooth, confident, with a slight rasp that sent a little shiver down your spine. You immediately regretted wearing a slightly-too-high-necked sweater.

He launched into his set, a rapid-fire mix of observational humor and self-deprecating anecdotes that had the audience roaring with laughter. He was genuinely funny, clever and quick-witted. You found yourself actually laughing, real honest-to-goodness laughter that made your cheeks hurt and tears prick at your eyes.

Then, about ten minutes into his set, it happened. He was in the middle of a bit about the existential dread of mismatched socks when his eyes landed on you. And not just a casual glance, but a full-on, laser-focused stare.

Your stomach did a weird little flip-flop. You were pretty sure you weren’t imagining it. He was looking right at you. And he was… smirking. A slow, deliberate, slightly cocky smirk that made your heart rate pick up a notch.

He paused mid-sentence, his eyes still locked on yours. The room went a little quieter, the laughter fading slightly as everyone seemed to notice his sudden shift in focus.

“Whoa,” Troy said into the microphone, his voice dropping a register, becoming warmer, more intimate. “Hold on a second. Did anyone else just see that?”

He gestured vaguely in your direction, his eyes still glued to yours. You felt your cheeks flush, a hot wave creeping up your neck. You shifted uncomfortably in your sticky seat, suddenly very aware of the hole in your jeans knee and the slightly-too-enthusiastic application of lip balm you’d applied beforehand.

The audience murmured, heads turning to follow his gaze, and you realized with a jolt that yes, he was definitely talking about you.

“Because,” Troy continued, a slow smile spreading across his face, “unless I’m hallucinating from pre-show jitters, there is a… radiant… being in the audience tonight. And wow. Just… wow.”

The spotlight seemed to swing fractionally in your direction, making you feel like you were suddenly on trial under the harsh glare of the stage lights. You wanted to disappear, to melt into the sticky vinyl and become one with the uncomfortable seating. Liam was nudging you, his eyes wide with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

“He’s talking about you!” he hissed, barely containing his giggles.

You smacked his arm lightly, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “Shut up, he’s

probably talking about someone behind me.”

But deep down, a little voice, a very insistent and slightly giddy little voice, was whispering, No, he’s definitely talking about you.

Troy chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that resonated through the microphone. “Okay, okay, maybe ‘being’ is a bit much. But seriously, you, in the… uh… yeah, you, in the… is that… is that cerulean? Is that sweater cerulean? Because cerulean is definitely your color.”

Cerulean? You blinked. He was calling your slightly-off-blue sweater cerulean? This guy was laying it on thick. But… It was kind of working. Damn it.

“Anyway,” Troy continued, still smiling directly at you, “where was I? Oh right, mismatched socks. You know what else is mismatched? Me, on this stage, and you, out there, looking like you should be gracing the cover of a magazine and not subjected to my questionable sock humor. But hey, opposites attract, right?”

The audience erupted in laughter, a mix of amused groans and appreciative whistles. You could feel your face burning. You were mortified. And… strangely, a little bit flattered.

Liam was practically vibrating with glee beside you. “Cerulean! He said cerulean! Oh my god, this is amazing!”

You glared daggers at him, but even you couldn’t suppress the tiny smile that was tugging at the corners of your lips.

Troy continued with his set, but it was like the entire show had subtly shifted. Every joke now seemed to have a double meaning, every pause seemed charged with unspoken flirtation. He kept glancing in your direction, winking, raising an eyebrow, making eye contact that felt like a physical touch. He even incorporated you into his bits.

“You know,” he said, leaning closer to the microphone, “I was thinking about the dating app scene these days. It’s brutal, right? Swipe left, swipe right, hoping to find someone who doesn’t just want to talk about cryptocurrency and their collection of porcelain cats. But then, sometimes, just sometimes, you walk into a room, or onto a stage, and you see someone… someone in cerulean… and you think, ‘Okay, dating apps are cancelled. I’m just gonna walk up to that person after the show and… and offer them nachos. Because who can say no to nachos, especially if they’re covered in extra cheese and jalapenos? Right, cerulean?”

He directed the last part of his question directly at you, his grin widening, a playful glint in his eyes. The audience laughed again, louder this time, and you could feel everyone’s gaze collectively landing on you.

You managed a weak smile and a small nod. Nachos did sound pretty good.

“See?” Troy exclaimed triumphantly, “Proof! Nachos are the universal language of love. Or at least, the universal language of ‘hey, you’re really hot, and I’d like to get to know you better.’ Which, you know, is the same difference.”

The heat rising in your cheeks was now reaching a dangerous level. You could feel the blood pounding in your ears. This was… intense. And incredibly embarrassing. And undeniably thrilling.

He continued his set, weaving in more and more references to you, to “cerulean,” to “nachos,” to “potentially awkward but hopefully charming after-show conversations.” He was like a comedic missile, specifically targeting you with a barrage of flirtatious jokes.

At one point, he even pretended to forget his next joke, dramatically putting his hand to his forehead. “Oh dear, brain freeze. Must be because I’m… distracted. By… something… or someone… out there. Anyone got any suggestions for a good joke? Preferably one about beautiful people in blue sweaters?”

Someone from the audience yelled out, “Ask her if she likes cheesy jokes!”

Troy grinned. “Excellent suggestion, random helpful audience member! Hey, cerulean! Do you like cheesy jokes? Because if you do, I’ve got a whole platter full of them, just like those nachos I was talking about.”

You actually laughed out loud this time, a genuine, uninhibited laugh that surprised even yourself. You shook your head, still smiling, and mouthed, “Maybe.”

Troy pointed at you, a look of mock triumph on his face. “’Maybe’! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a ‘maybe’! That’s practically a yes in comedy club flirting terms! We’re making progress, people! We’re making progress!”

The rest of his set flew by in a blur of laughter, blushing, and increasingly outrageous flirting. He even started improvising, throwing out lines that were clearly made up on the spot, all aimed in your direction.

“You know,” he said, leaning conspiratorially into the mic, “I’ve been told I have a really great impression of a squirrel… but maybe, just maybe, tonight, I should try to impress a different kind of… nut.” He winked, and the audience roared. You buried your face in your hands, giggling uncontrollably.

Liam was practically rolling in his seat, tears streaming down his face. “This is insane! This is the best comedy show ever! He’s totally obsessed with you!”

After what felt like both five minutes and five hours, Troy finished his set to thunderous applause. He took a bow, still grinning, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he disappeared backstage.

The lights came up, and the room buzzed with excited chatter. You felt strangely drained and exhilarated all at once. You’d just been publicly flirted with by a comedian on stage. It was… surreal.

Liam was still buzzing. “Okay, we have to meet him! We have to! This is fate! This is like a rom-com waiting to happen!”

You rolled your eyes, but a secret part of you, the part that had secretly enjoyed the attention, the part that thought Troy Bond was actually kind of cute and definitely funny, was starting to think maybe Liam was right.

“Calm down, rom-com enthusiast,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice was still slightly breathless. “He’s probably got a girlfriend. Or ten. Comedians are probably dating machines.”

Liam scoffed. “Please. He was practically serenading you with sock jokes and nacho metaphors. He’s totally single and totally smitten. Let’s go find him.”

Before you could protest further, Liam grabbed your arm and started dragging you towards the back of the club, towards a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY – COMEDIANS ONLY – SERIOUSLY, JUST COMEDIANS.’

You hesitated, suddenly feeling a wave of nervousness crash over you. This had all been fun and games when it was happening on stage, under the safety of the spotlight and the roar of the crowd. But now… now you were actually considering meeting him. Face-to-face. In real life. Outside of the cerulean sweater spotlight.

“Liam, wait, maybe we shouldn’t…” you began, but he was already knocking enthusiastically on the door.

The door swung open, and there he was. Troy Bond, still slightly flushed from his performance, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, a water bottle in his other hand. He looked up, and his eyes instantly locked on yours.

His grin widened, even brighter than it had been on stage. “Cerulean!” he exclaimed, as if he’d been expecting you. “You came! I was wondering if you were going to run for the hills after all that… uh… ‘intense’ flirting.”

You managed a shy smile. “Intense is… one word for it.”

He chuckled, that low, rumbling sound that still sent a little shiver down your spine. “Yeah, well, I tend to go big or go home. And honestly, you were… Well, you were distracting. In the best possible way.” He gestured to Liam. “And… friend?”

“Liam,” Liam supplied, beaming. “And I am fully on board with this whole ‘cerulean and the comedian’ thing. This is epic.”

Troy laughed again. “Glad to have your support, Liam. So, cerulean… or, uh… do you have a name? Cerulean is lovely, but maybe a tad formal for a post-comedy-show nacho run.”

“y/n” you said, your voice a little shaky. ‘y/n”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful… person,” Troy said, his eyes sparkling. “It suits you. So, y/n, about those nachos… are you free to be dramatically swept off your feet by a moderately funny comedian and a large plate of cheesy goodness?”

You laughed, a real laugh, the kind that bubbled up from your chest and made your eyes crinkle at the corners. “Are you always this… forward?”

Troy grinned, that mischievous, irresistible grin. “Only when I see someone in cerulean who looks like they might just say yes to nachos. So, what do you say? Destiny awaits. And probably heartburn, but hey, that’s the price of passion, right?”

You looked at Liam, who was practically jumping up and down with excitement. You looked back at Troy, at his bright eyes and that hopeful, slightly goofy grin. And you knew, with a certainty that surprised even yourself, that you were going to say yes.

“Okay, Troy Bond,” you said, a playful smile spreading across your face. “Lead the way to the nachos.”

And as Troy Bond, the comedian who flirted from the stage, led you and Liam out of the Chucklehut and into the night, you had a feeling this was just the beginning of a very funny, and possibly very cheesy, story. And you were definitely ready to laugh your way through every single page.

A/n more troy books coming!

[lixii00]

Behind the Screen

markiplier x y/n You're the significant other (and editor) of Markiplier, rough sex,YouTuber, p in v sex, cream-pie, choking, degrading sex, a bit of arguing in the beginning, reader is referred to as y/n !

The soft glow of the computer screen illuminated the room as Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mess of cables, snacks, and empty energy drink cans. The familiar sounds of laughter and the occasional scream echoed from the headphones she wore. Markiplier, her boyfriend and the love of her life, was in the zone, filming another gameplay video. She couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, even if it meant their evening plans had been tossed aside once again.

“Mark,” she called, voice laced with a mix of frustration and affection. “Can we please take a break? You promised we’d have some time together tonight.”

He turned to her briefly, adjusting his headset. “Just a few more minutes, Y/N. This level is really intense!”

“It’s always ‘just a few more minutes’ with you,” she shot back, her irritation bubbling. “You have to prioritize us too, you know?”

Mark sighed, his brow furrowing as he focused back on the screen. “You know how important this is to me. I’m trying to make this work for both of us.”

The air between them thickened with tension. Y/N felt a sting of disappointment in her chest. She loved Mark and admired his passion, but sometimes it felt like she was competing with a screen for his attention.

“Maybe you should just... do it alone then,” she muttered, bitterness creeping into her tone.

That got his attention. He paused the game, spinning around in his chair to face her fully. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I want to do this alone?”

“Sometimes it feels like it!” she shot back, standing up. “I’m here to support you, but I can’t help but feel like I’m just a background character in your life!”

Silence hung heavily between them. Mark’s expression shifted from frustration to something darker, something more primal. His gaze locked onto her, and Y/N felt her breath catch. She wasn’t sure if it was the argument or something else, but she felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks.

“Fine,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “If you want me to show you just how much I need you...”

Before she could respond, Mark was out of his chair, closing the distance between them in an instant. He crushed his lips against hers in a heated kiss, the kind that stole the air from her lungs. It was passionate, filled with an urgency that rivaled the gameplay moments he left behind.

“Mark…” she breathed as he pulled away, his hands gripping her arms tightly, likely leaving marks of his possession.

“Shut up, Y/N,” he commanded, eyes darkening with a mixture of frustration and desire. “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.”

Y/N's heart raced as he pushed her back against the wall, claiming her space as his own. There was something thrilling about his dominance, and a part of her relished the shift in power dynamics. She wanted to fight him, but all she could do was respond to his touch.

“Mark, wait…” she gasped, only to be silenced as he pressed his body against hers, already moving lower, his mouth trailing down her neck, leaving fire in its wake. 

“I’m going to show you just how much I want you,” he growled, his breath hot against her skin. “You’re going to feel every second of this.”

With a sudden move, he lifted her effortlessly, pinning her against the wall. He kissed her fiercely, hands gripping her thighs to keep her steady. “You think I don’t need you? You think I’d rather be alone?” His voice was a mix of anger and desperation, a raw declaration of his need for her.

“No, I just—” she started, but her words were cut off as he kissed her again, his hands moving to her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her heart race in both fear and excitement. She felt a rush of adrenaline, the thrill of danger mixing with the undeniable chemistry they shared.

“Admit it,” he urged, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. “You love this. You need me too.”

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling the heat rising within her. “Yes, I do.”

With that, he crushed his mouth against hers again, their bodies moving together in a flurry of passion. Clothes were shed in a frenzy, leaving them exposed and breathless. The heated friction between them ignited a fire that neither could control.

“Tell me what you want, Y/N,” Mark commanded, his voice thick with desire.

“I want you,” she gasped, reveling in the sweet ache of his grip while also relishing the degradation. “Please, Mark.”

He granted her wish, entering her roughly, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her. The world around them faded as they became lost in each other, every thrust a heated reminder of their connection—passionate, wild, and a little bit reckless.

“Look at what you do to me,” he breathed, his voice a mix of lust and a hint of something darker. “You make me lose control. You’re so fucking perfect.”

The raw honesty of his words sent shivers down her spine. The intensity of their connection made every heartbeat resonate with need. He drove deeper, relentless, claiming her in every way imaginable. The roughness of their intimacy was electrifying, a dance of power and vulnerability that left them both breathless.

As they neared climax, Y/N felt herself teetering on the edge, her body responding eagerly to Mark’s every move. “Mark, I’m—” she gasped, but he silenced her again with a brutal kiss, choking back her words as he quickened his pace, driving her toward ecstasy.

“Can’t hold back now,” he growled against her lips. “Not after all that.”

With one final thrust, they both unraveled together, cries of pleasure mixing as they found release. The world burst into colors behind her closed eyes, and for a moment, it felt like everything else faded into oblivion.

Panting and spent, they pulled away, the reality of their earlier argument creeping back in. The thrill subsided, leaving behind a slight heaviness in the air.

Y/N glanced at Mark, feeling a mix of satisfaction and unease. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” she confessed softly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just... sometimes it feels like I’m not enough.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, frustration returning to his features. “Y/N, you are enough. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise. I get lost in this world I’ve built, and I never want you to feel like you’re anything less than my everything.”

She nodded, the weight of their earlier words hanging between them. It was all too easy to slip into misunderstandings, especially with the chaotic world of YouTube swirling around them. But as they lay amidst the remnants of their passion, one thing was clear—no matter the arguments or challenges, their bond was unbreakable.

“Let’s work on this,” Y/N said, reaching out to place her fingers through his. “Together.”

Mark looked at her, a mix of relief and determination in his gaze. “Together.”

In that moment, they both knew that love, no matter how intense or chaotic, was worth fighting for.

A/n this is my Second book I post on here let me know if I should make more mark books !

[lixii00]

Forbidden Tides

warnings: brother's best friend, 5 years age gap, jeongin calls Mn "hyung" during sex, size kink , choking, hard sex , lube,reader big dick 

Yang Jeongin x Male Reader

The air in the Yang family home was thick with the scent of spicy kimchi and unspoken tension. (M/N), 28, leaned against the kitchen counter, a wry smile playing on his lips as he watched Jeongin, 23, wrestle with a particularly recalcitrant jar of pickles. He'd known Jeongin since he was a gangly teenager, the younger brother of his best friend, and while he'd always considered him off-limits, something had shifted in recent years. The boy was now a man, his eyes holding a spark of something that made (M/N)'s pulse quicken. 

"(M/N) hyung, can you help?" Jeongin asked, his forehead creased with effort. His voice, though deeper than it used to be, still retained a hint of the boyish sweetness that (M/N) found so alluring.

(M/N) pushed off the counter, the distance between them feeling charged. “Of course, Innie,” he said, the nickname slipping off his tongue with practiced ease. He took the jar, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he twisted the lid open effortlessly. Jeongin watched, his gaze lingering on (M/N)’s arms before flickering up to meet his eyes, a flicker that felt both challenging and vulnerable.

Dinner passed with a comfortable murmur of conversation, although (M/N) couldn't shake the feeling that Jeongin was watching him, analyzing him. There was a heat in those dark eyes that belied his usual shyness.

Later that night, after Jeongin’s brother had gone out, (M/N) found himself drawn to the living room. Jeongin was there, sprawled across the sofa, the glow of his phone illuminating his face.

“Hey,” (M/N) said, his voice barely a whisper.

Jeongin looked up, his eyes widening slightly. He didn't say anything, just patted the cushion beside him. (M/N) took the silent invitation, sitting close enough that their thighs brushed. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through him.

The silence stretched, charged like a storm cloud. Then, without warning, Jeongin leaned in, his hand lightly brushing (M/N)’s arm. It was the smallest touch, but it felt like a brand.

"Hyung…" Jeongin murmured, his voice low and husky, "You're… you're different when my brother isn't here.”

(M/N)'s breath hitched. "Different how?" he asked, his voice rough.

Jeongin's eyes darkened. "You look… at me… like you want me."

(M/N) knew he should stop it, that this was a line he shouldn't cross. But the way Jeongin was looking at him, a mixture of hesitancy and desire, was intoxicating. He closed the distance, his lips finding Jeongin’s, the kiss tentative at first, then desperate.

They tumbled onto the floor, the soft rug cushioning their fall. (M/N)'s hands roamed, exploring the contours of Jeongin's body, his touch becoming more demanding. He felt Jeongin tremble beneath him, a small moan escaping his lips.

"Hyung…" Jeongin gasped, his hands gripping (M/N)’s shirt, "It's… it's okay… right?" The question was laced with uncertainty, a vulnerability that made something clench in (M/N)'s chest. He should stop, he knew he should. But he didn’t.

(M/N) pushed the doubt aside, his need overwhelming him. He moved lower, kissing a trail down Jeongin's neck, his teeth nipping at the tender skin. He was aware of the size difference, the way the muscles of his body dwarfed Jeongin’s, and the knowledge fuelled him. He reached for his pants, quickly freeing himself from their hold. Lubricant, smooth and cool on his fingers, prepped Jeongin's entrance.

"Hyung," Jeongin whimpered again, his voice breathless as (M/N) pushed into him, the first inch tight, the next few following with a slight tear. He was small, so small and tight.

(M/N) moved slowly at first, getting a feel for Jeongin, knowing he hadn’t had someone so... big before. He held a hand against Jeongin's throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to control and ground him. It was a power play, and Jeongin responded with a soft moan.

"Hyung…" Jeongin gasped, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and pleasure, “Fuck… hyung…" 

(M/N) picked up the pace, moving faster and deeper, the sounds echoing around the room. He watched as Jeongin’s control started to slip, his muscles tensing with each thrust. He was pushing the boundaries, and the edge was dangerously close. He tightened his hand on Jeongin’s throat, just a bit, a reminder of the power he held.

“Tell me you like it, Innie,” (M/N) murmured, his voice husky, “Beg for it.”

Jeongin’s breath hitched, a small whimper escaping his lips. “Please… Hyung… harder…"

The world narrowed to just them, the intensity of the moment consuming them. When (M/N) finally came, he was lost in the sound of Jeongin's frantic moans, the way his own body pulsed against Jeongin’s.

The aftermath was a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing. The air hung thick with the residue of their passion. (M/N) knew he had crossed a line. He also knew that he had irrevocably changed the dynamic of their relationship. He looked at Jeongin, his eyes filled with a mixture of possessiveness and a touch of something that could almost be guilt. He hoped that their forbidden tides wouldn't drown them both.

The next morning, they were different, a silent understanding passing between them. They hadn’t spoken of what happened, and (M/N) didn't know if they ever would. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was not the end. This was just the beginning of a very dangerous game.

A/n if you want to be tag let me know!