#acknowledging you've seen something

[usagifuyusummer]

Best friends or something...

Feeling so much like a dead corpse lately. It's probably the stress of the semester... and being mistreated/ underappreciated a lot. Still, I'll manage.

Happy Valentine's Day to those who celebrate it, by the way! It's a coincidence that I drew something mildly mushy on the occasion, lol. It wasn't really my intention. Just gotta let these thoughts (Toxic YAOI LMAO) about them out, and then I can get back to business. If you're confused, that's just how I draw younger Jimmy and Curly. What an odd pair of friends(?)...

[tearlessrain]

please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

[meownotgood]

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?" 

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes. 

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat. 

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions. 

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest. 

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face. 

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers. 

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register. 

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug. 

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks. 

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone. 

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-" 

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy. 

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus. 

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this." 

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?" 

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins. 

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop." 

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?" 

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath. 

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh. 

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this. 

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose. 

"That's when you find it." 

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right. 

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside. 

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze. 

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles. 

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest. 

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days." 

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration." 

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again." 

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you. 

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to." 

"I am not-" 

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down. 

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count." 

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-" 

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that." 

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach. 

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-" 

"It is a necessary risk." 

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.  

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…" 

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going. 

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his. 

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him. 

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was. 

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn. 

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together. 

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background. 

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear." 

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal. 

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron. 

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula. 

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away." 

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on." 

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity. 

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again. 

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy. 

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles. 

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning. 

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams. 

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-" 

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet — 

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back. 

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving." 

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately. 

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale. 

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-" 

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me." 

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones. 

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion? 

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench. 

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please." 

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?" 

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears. 

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die." 

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears. 

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness. 

It's a reminder that you're right. 

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time. 

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions. 

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him. 

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands. 

He knows this body is… wilting. 

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him. 

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last? 

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted. 

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped. 

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology. 

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do. 

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus. 

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying. 

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to. 

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once. 

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful. 

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change. 

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline. 

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him. 

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you. 

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can. 

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral. 

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice. 

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned. 

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring. 

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him. 

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop. 

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt. 

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it. 

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before. 

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth. 

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it. 

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull. 

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve. 

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead. 

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back. 

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special? 

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck. 

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone. 

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks. 

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand. 

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you. 

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens. 

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his. 

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration. 

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead. 

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like. 

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone. 

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together. 

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat. 

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair. 

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold. 

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight. 

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation. 

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun. 

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his. 

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things." 

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids. 

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway. 

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different. 

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough. 

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to." 

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?" 

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired. 

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…" 

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting? 

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw. 

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?" 

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap. 

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession." 

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his. 

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression. 

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate." 

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears. 

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late." 

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?" 

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance." 

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate. 

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious." 

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day. 

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly. 

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you. 

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe." 

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress. 

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you. 

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd. 

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'" 

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums. 

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time. 

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional. 

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene." 

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you. 

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget. 

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm — 

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-" 

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you." 

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open. 

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking — 

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please." 

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it. 

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you." 

Viktor softens. 

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you. 

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark." 

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close. 

[differenteagletragedy]

On domesticating Simon Riley.

Simon knows people, knows how to read them and how to get what he wants out of them, in a general sense. He also knows women, their bodies and how to handle them. How to pick one out that wants the same thing he wants, how to approach them and then how to cut and run.

What he doesn't know is how to stay. How to let someone else know him, even see him. What makes a home.

So you're going to have to teach him.

He has the most minimal wardrobe you've ever seen -- a few pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, a couple of hoodies and one pair of boots. After a few weeks of watching him lace up those boots every time he takes out the trash, you check them for his shoe size then order him a pair of crocs to wear around the house and when they arrive, you leave them by the door, where he keeps his boots.

"The fuck are these?" he grumbles that evening when he goes to grab the boots while you're cleaning up after dinner. They're too big to be yours, but he knows they're not his.

"I got them for you," you answer, coming to stand beside him. "Just something to wear when you need to step outside for a minute or if your little feet get cold and you wanna wear something around inside."

"I don't have ... fucking hell," he says, pointing down to the shoes. "They've got holes all in them."

"That's so you can accessorize!" you say proudly, pulling out a little bag full of charms that you picked out for him.

It's ridiculous. It looks absolutely absurd. But he wears them anyway, because he's learning that when people care about each other, they make little gestures like this, and if there's a way that he can wear your love for him around like a badge of honor, then no matter how goofy it looks, he'll be proud to do it.

Simon chews his fingernails down to the quick, a nervous habit that he's had for as long as he can remember. After catching him with a couple of bloody fingers after one particularly bad evening, you tenderly pull him into the kitchen, wash his hands and dry them, then sit him down at the kitchen table and leave for a moment, only to come back with nail polish.

"Really, love?" he asks, looking up at you with a smirk. "Gonna give me a manicure?"

You roll your eyes, pulling one of the chairs closer to him and reaching out for his hands, replying, "What, too manly to have your nails done?"

"Yeah, that's what it is," he smirks, all sarcasm, then says, "Why though?"

"It's the taste," you explain, shaking a bottle of black polish before taking the cap off and carefully leaning in to start on his right thumbnail. "The idea is that when you go to bite your nails, the polish will make it taste bitter so you stop."

He can't help but smile a little to himself as he watches you work. He doesn't care one way or the other about his nails, but it's cute, watching you so focused on him. Still, something about it nags at him, because while it feels good, having you care, it doesn't quite feel right, not all the way. Not just yet.

"Not hurting anyone with biting them," he says quietly, his eyes on his hands as you finish up.

You give a little sigh, capping the bottle before meeting his eyes, and you tell him, "You're hurting yourself. And that's not ok, not with me."

He doesn't do birthdays, not his anyway. Not in a dramatic "I hate my birthday" way, it's just not something of note to him. He knows the date, acknowledges it to himself when it comes just as a reminder that he's 40 now, not 39, nothing more. The first birthday he has with you comes after you've been together for several months, and you only hear about it after the fact.

"My sweet boyfriend," you coo at him one night in bed, a little tipsy from the wine you'd had with dinner. "My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend."

He chuckles, still marveling at how much you seem to marvel at him. Your hands are on him, gentle and doting, and he hears you giggle as you ramble on.

"Sweet and kind and handsome and strong," you say, running a hand through his hair. "He always watches out for me. He always takes care of me. My favorite person."

"You're drunk," he points out, smiling softly, cheeks red.

"Am not," you reply. "Even if I am, the truth is the truth."

You go on, praising him for everything you can think of. Pretty blonde hair, pretty smatterings of freckles, pretty dimples that only you ever get to see. It's almost unbearable, hearing how much you adore him, but in a good way. Like it's stretching something in him that's been closed for far too long.

You're breaking him in, slowly and carefully.

"Have you ever," you ask him at one point, "ever in your entire 39 years, thought that you'd get a girlfriend as thoughtful and loving as me?"

It's a playful question, but of course he's never thought that. His chest aches at the thought of just how much you've given him, and how much you let him give you in return. So instead, he dodges it.

"Not 39 anymore, sweetheart," he says softly.

Your brow furrows immediately, not understanding, and he laughs quietly, his hand on your stomach under the blankets sliding to your side to pull you closer.

"A few weeks ago," he explains.

"Your birthday was a few weeks ago?"

"It was."

"And you just ... didn't think to say anything?"

You're serious now, almost concerned, and he can't stand it.

"It's not a big deal, love," he says, leaning in to press kisses against your forehead and temple. "Just another day."

"It is a big deal," you argue, pulling back to look at him. "I would have ... I don't know, I would have gotten you something. Treated you special. Thrown a party, something."

"One, I don't like parties. Two, you treat me special everyday. Three, you've already given me more than you know, I don't need anything else."

All those things are true, but it still takes much longer than he'd like to get the frown off your face.

The next day, you ask him to run some errands for you. You need the oil changed in your car, some things from the big grocery store on the other side of town, but you need to stay home and take care of some things that need done around the house. He agrees easily. He likes taking care of you.

When he comes back later that afternoon, he goes for the kitchen, ready to put up the groceries he'd picked up, and there you are, leaning against the counter and smiling at him like you were waiting for him.

The homemade cake on the counter beside you, with candles sticking out and "Happy Birthday Simon" written in icing on top, tells him that you were.

Every time you do something like this, perform some little act of kindness that comes so naturally to you, it feels like something gets unlocked inside him. Like there have always been chains wrapped around his mind and his heart, keeping him tight and cold and alone, padlocks piling on top year after year, keeping all the hurt secure inside. But somehow you have the key, and you take your time, undoing them all.

Undoing him, completely and thoroughly, until he's open for the first time. And it's raw and new, and it hurts, but something in him knows that the pain will give way to something beautiful.

He watches as you step up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his chest.

"Happy birthday, Simon," you say softly.

He can't say anything, not now, so he pulls you closer to him, strong arms cradling you against him, and you're close enough that he can feel when the corner of your mouth turns up into a smile

Another lock coming off. Another piece of proof that he can be something different, something better, with you.

[immortal-in-their-way]

Okay, I understand the purpose of and how to apply creative language but I 100% agree with Sherlock here. That was lying, John. You lied to that guy. Stop lying and either avoid the topic or tell him he's bad in a way that won't offend him if you think he's bad. Don't just lie to his face. If you do that you've done him a disservice. At the same time, wow John, good lying. Great way to insure he'll work with you guys!

[clawsdevour]

session one

wc: 0.8k content warning: smut, trainer iwaizumi x reader, basically a bj, not proofread

note: holy shit has this been at the back of my mind...... likeee anything with the words iwaizumi hajime (27) atheletic trainer: SIGN ME TF UP NOW.

𝜗ৎ◌˚⠀｡

fuck, your new fitness trainer was so hot.

peeking in glances at iwaizumi's well-built figure, you can't help but feel all nervous that you're gonna slip up under his gaze. his sharp eyes tail you, making sure your form is impeccable and hits the right points, even though his broad and tender arms are always there for you if you struggle. at some point, you thought about playing the struggling, unfit student just to see iwaizumi catch you and feel his muscles beneath you. course, you needed to stand up and make sure you're getting all the benefits from every single penny you pay him.... butttt that's also technically part of the session, right?

after a quick break for some refreshing water, eyes still locked onto iwaizumi in the corner of the room. he's taking off his fitted jacket, showing off his toned biceps that flexed in the light covered in a thin sheen of sweat. shit.... this guy might just be the real deal. who needed the old trainer anyway now that you've got iwaizumi.

meeting his eyes with yours, immediately you can't help but look away to which he does as well. though, your eyes just happened to land on the tent emerging in the middle of his crotch, to which he tries to hide when he realizes you may have seen something that wasn't part of the training plan.

continuing with your paid session, you can't help but feel the intimate tension rise when you're put into these more constricting poses that make you feel closer to him than you were before. well.. especially after that little moment. though it does seem like you're not the only one who acknowledged the incident since his tent keeps growing beneath you.

the position you were in didn't help much either. overall, this "stretch" seemed more sexual than to improve your flexibility, but you didn't really mind since the view was much to your standards with that face and body of his. the intensity is driving him crazy, the sentences he spoke turned into quiet stutters while you lay underneath his big body that was engulfed in the heat.

"let me help you.. you're feeling this more than i am," getting on your knees, you looking up at him with the more innocent but seductive look in your eyes.

shit, did that turn iwaizumi a bright red.

putting a fist to his pressed lips, he cleared his throat.

"if you insist."

gently, you pushed him back to where he sat on the bench. unzipping his shorts, his cock sprang up from its compressed little tent. iwaizumi's cock was huge, you didn't even know if it'll all fit in your mouth, much rather your pussy that has been gushing with juices the moment you saw him walk in.

palm at the base of his cock that twitched with your gentle touch, precum already on the tip of his cock, you stroked. his intense eyes bored into your scalped while watching you pump his cock to the max. iwaizumi's beyond red at this point trying to resist the urge to already reach his climax. fuck he was so glad you asked to help him, if not he probably wouldn't exploded in his shorts by now seeing you under him in that pose, "stretch" his ass. he just wanted to see you with your legs behind your head.

the continuous pumping's getting him so riled up he just can't watch this anymore. it's like a fantasy come true fucking on the job. iwaizumi wanted to watch you take all of him in your small little mouth as your plump lips wrap around him.

"can you suck already.. our time for our session is almost up" iwazumi's voice is husky and breathy as he tries his best to hold back.

following his request, you slowly teased him by licking the precum that overflowed from his tip as he gazed. before you could even go down on his whole cock, mouth wide about to go down, his large hand pushed you to the base of his cock. your nose basically at his trimmed hairs. iwaizumi's grunting in satisfaction of your soft and hot plush mouth surrounds his cock in pure euphoria.

fuck... you couldn't even breathe but damn was this all you ever wanted.

tears started to swell at the corner of your eyes from the sudden and sharp movement. the pain of his tip hitting the back of your throat in one big move hissed at you, but you couldn't care less. you're spending every penny worth for every session you pay iwaizumi for, and he knows what you want every time now.

masterlist here

[invoncible]

HII!!! YOU HAVE SUCH AN UNIQUE STYLE OF WRITING, I LOVE IT!!! :D

Could you perhaps.... write some jealous Invincible Variants scenarios???? :3

MARK GRAYSON (& VARIANTS) being jealous ✧˚. ft. og!mark, mohawk!mark, nogoggles!mark, viltrumite!mark, sinister!mark w/ gn!reader cw. canon typical violence

— oh yes anon. yes. come here lemme kiss ur brain. — yippeeeee one more variant added to the roster!

OG!MARK

out of all the marks, he's the most boyfriend out of them all. if that even makes sense.

he's just happy to be by your side.

he knows you attract attention—why wouldn't you? you're smart, funny, and gorgeous. but he's secure in your relationship.

when mark is jealous, it's like.... he just doesn't understand why people would make moves on you when they know you're taken. if they try something in front of him he'll straight up ask, "...why?"

like he genuinely cannot comprehend the notion of going for someone who is so clearly in a relationship??

and he makes your relationship pretty clear so he knows there's no excuse

sometimes he just gets so pissed off he does things impulsively. punching someone, for example.

"i have a boyfriend." you denied the guy in front of you, sharing a look with mark.

"who's standing right here." mark added, hand possessively squeezing your waist. "for the third time," he muttered under his breath.

"okay, but if things fall through, though." the guy pressed, offering his phone to you. "you might like—"

the guy couldn't even extend his arm all the way before mark snatched the device from his hand and chucked it to... who knows where.

the guy spluttered angrily, grabbing his head as he watched his phone drift away into the blue sky. mark smiled as he watched it get smaller, and smaller, and even smaller... ah, justice was sweet.

"that was my phone?!"

"this is my partner?!" mark mocked his incredulous tone, rolling his eyes before, nudging you. "come on."

he shoved past your unwanted suitor, perhaps using a bit more force than needed.

"mark." you couldn't hide your smile.

"what?" he said, suddenly the picture of innocence. but that glint in his eye told you he knew better. you just shook your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he preened under your attention.

MOHAWK!MARK

this man is sooo problematic. i don't know if you've seen that comic panel of him and his entourage of scantily-clad girls, but yeah. he can be a flirt but you can't.

anyone who tries anything with you is getting killed! dead and buried.

he likes to play with his food first, though.

"i'm gonna take that one home before the night ends," he heard someone hiccup, drunk on booze as their wobbly finger pointed you out in the crowd.

mark raised his eyebrow, his calculating eyes drifting between you and the guy who was trying to put moves on you. he smiled to himself as he walked up to him.

"cute, huh?" mark's eyes were intensely trained on you, watching you over the rim of his glass.

the guy lazily acknowledged him. "huh? oh, yeah. real cute."

"did you know they're taken?" he chirped happily, his voice and face betraying the bubbling annoyance he felt inside.

"wha—"

"did you know," mark repeated, snatching the cup of alcohol from the guy and pushing himself into his space menacingly. "they're taken?"

"i—"

"i—i—i—" mark taunted, twisting up his face as he ridiculed the guy. "yeah. taken. by me, dumbass. get the fuck out of my place."

the guy scrambled past him to run out the exit, suddenly aware enough to realize who he was hitting on and who they belonged to.

mark watched him scramble across the shiny floors like a deer on ice, chuckling to himself before flying towards him, grabbing him by the back of his shirt. he soared higher and higher before he just... let go.

the guy's screams were music to his hears all the way down. mark returned to his party, giddy.

"where did you go?" you pouted as you walked up to him. he took you in his arms, squeezing you tight to his chest. he rested his cheek on the top of your head, rubbing your back.

"nowhere."

"i just saw you."

"shh, pretty girl, i'm back now, aren't i?" he tilted your head upwards and pressed a kiss on your pursed lips. "come dance with me, seems we gotta remind people that you're mine."

NOGOGGLES!MARK

they're also dead. LMAO don't try anything with this one. he's the definition of loose cannon

he'd be insulted if the person trying to hit on you was weaker than him, because... why do they think they have a chance 🤨

"aw, come on. on your feet." mark swiped at his nose, a deep frown on his lips.

"who are you talking to?" you sighed, arms crossed over your chest as you stared at the body on the ground. "you punched his brains out."

"nah, he's got some fight left in him." mark bent over and hoisted the guy back up by his shirt, trying to get him to balance on his own two feet. "oh, shit."

the second he let go, the unfortunate person who tried to hit on you wobbled back onto the floor.

mark kicked the guy's head like a football, sending his body crashing into a nearby wall. "fuck, that was lame."

you rolled your eyes and pulled him away from the pool of blood on the ground. "one normal date. just one, that's all i ask for."

he grinned at you, pulling you close, uncaring of his bloodied hands. "he had no chance, huh?"

"no chance." you agreed, smiling when he peppered your face with kisses. "mark—!" you giggled.

"you know i'd do anything for you, right?" he hummed, holding you tight and pressing a big fat kiss to your cheek. "i'd kill for you."

"i know," you answered. yes, you knew very well.

VILTRUMITE!MARK

this one isn't popping a sweat in some elaborate fight with someone that dared to push themselves between you.

everyone else was wrong for you. he was the only one deserving to be by your side and he's gonna let people know

i.e. he's gonna let people know exactly how and why they're beneath him and thus, undeserving of your affection

"maybe i could... i dunno, maybe we could go out sometime." the guy across from you shrugged.

you raised your eyebrow, barely sparing him a glance over your book. "no."

"not even gonna give it a try?" he pressed, scooting closer to you. "hmm?"

you grimaced and shifted away from him. "i have a boyfriend."

"he's not here, is he? we can have a little affair going on, it'd be exciting."

you scoffed, half-laughing at the audacity. "you think i'd cheat with you? have you seen my boyfriend? in what world would i ever leave him for you?"

the guy huffed a short breath, brows furrowing in offense. "how fucking dare you. here i am, being nice and the first thing you do is insult me? your man is probably just as chopped as you are—"

"ermmm, no, i would not say that." you rolled your eyes, uncaring if you antagonized him further.

"—yeah well, i am saying that, so—"

"what's going on here?" mark floated from above, a bewildered look on his face. he grabbed the guy by his throat and squeezed, lifting him off the floor and enjoying the way he gasped and choked for air.

"was he bothering you, love?" mark asked you softly. sweetly, even.

you smiled and nodded. "bugging me for a date."

mark turned his attention back to the red-faced guy squirming in his hand. he clicked his tongue in disappointment as he scanned the man's figure. "this... this unsightly specimen thought they had a chance with you?"

"looks that way." you hummed, turning a page in your book.

mark scoffed to himself, dropping the guy to the ground. he gracefully lowered himself as well, staring down the unwanted suitor. "unbelievable. weak and whiny." mark shook his head, bringing his foot down on the guy's chest to prevent him from squirming away. “pathetic.”

mark studied the guy as he begged and begged, crying tears and apologies before he finished the job with a sickening crrrrack.

mark sighed and dropped into the seat next to you. he leaned over and rested his head in your lap without another word, eyes fluttering shut as you threaded your fingers through his hair.

SINISTER!MARK

that unlucky bitch is getting their ass ate. in the bad way. simple as that. mark might even try to serve them to you for dinner.

[bunni-v1]

May we get some crk thoughts, my liege? I too have a hyperfixation—

Shadow Milk Cookie Headcannons (SFW & NSFW)

🍓Thank you for the excuse to write this shit, I feel less insane being asked to do it lol. I still think this might taint my public image, so lets hope none of my future employers fuck with tumblr. Anyway only smc since he's who I'm obsessing over. I was gonna add pv, but I write wayyyy too much to include both of them on one post. Maybe I'll do him if someone asks nicely. I'll have a mix of both sfw and nsfw so beware lol.

MDNI (I'll find u)

TW: Shadow Milk Cookie; Obsessive behaviors; Stalking mentioned; Nsfw under the cut; unedited

Info: Shadow Milk Cookie x Reader; Sfw & Nsfw headcannons

Credit for Beast Bite Idea: @rollingeevee (go give them love I adore this AU)

-To start I'm gonna say, he's insane, like genuinely. He leans into a lot of yandere-esque behaviors, but I firmly believe he's not a full-on yandere, just really fucked up in the head (trauma and such, poor thing, wah wah wah.)

-Pre-Corruption Shadow Milk surely had a lot of admirers, but admiration is very different from genuine love and connection. He was, in a very literal sense, on a different level than all the cookies on earthbread. He's immortal, a god meant to care for all cookies, romantic relationships with cookies (other than the other heroes) just aren't an option in his mind. (For the sake of these, none of the beasts have had any romantic interaction with him, because I don't wanna deal with that can of worms rn.)

-All that to say, it's highly unlikely he has much experience in relationships. Maybe he's had flings, and some sexual encounters, but I doubt he would commit to someone he would inevitably lose to time. And, sure, he certainly could artificially extend their lifetime... but that's unethical and unfair to his partner. The burden of immortality is not one a regular cookie is baked to bear.

-So when he is inevitably corrupted and sealed away, romance isn't really a thought on his mind. He's very fixated on escaping that stupid tree and enacting his revenge. Which he does, at least in part, and with his freedom comes half of his powers and ensuing chaos.

-There are not many ways he could meet you if I'm quite honest, so I'll leave that up to personal interpretation. However you do meet him, though, you have to be intriguing. He gets bored of people easily, so you have to stand out -- be that in your demeanor or the way you speak or how you challenge him, it just has to be interesting. Once he's interested he's hooked.

-He's rather... mmm... obsessive? He likely stalks you for a while before he makes any moves. He wants to learn your patterns, the cookies you surround yourself with, the things you like, your job, your favorite foods, what flowers you like, and how do you feel about his chaos? He'll even manipulate things around you, just to see how you might react. (Is it fucked up? Yeah, lol! But isn't it equally endearing? He seems to think so.)

-You have frequent reoccurring dreams about him in this period of time. You've only seen him from a distance at this point, but you can't quite shake him from your thoughts. What's very important here is that you realize that your thoughts are not your own. Acknowledge that he's watching, and make sure that he's aware you're aware. Be that by purposefully doing something he could recognize as acknowledgment, or outright saying that you're aware he's messing with you. He values curiosity and intelligence in a person, if you can break yourself out of his cycle he's 100% sold on you.

-It doesn't take much longer after that for him to make his first official appearance. Bowing gracefully in front of you as he materializes from thin air, smiling like a man driven mad by infatuation.

-Believe it or not, he's really not all that creepy or pushy. He's very playful and charming, and while you have the knowledge he'd been watching you for a long time at this point, it's hard not to fall for him. He flirts with an ease that no other cookie really has, and he's so very funny never failing to get a smile out of you at his jokes.

-Now, this may go against what others characterize him as a lot, but I don't believe he's the type to steal you away and lock you up. Shadow Milk is a cookie who wants to be wanted, he doesn't want his feelings to be entirely one-sided, it would really hurt him to pour himself into someone who does not want to reciprocate his passions.

-He's unbelievably patient with you. Despite what the mental manipulation from earlier implies, he allows you to set the pace and make the moves, mostly nudging you gently in the direction he wants you to go now that he has your attention. Again, he wants you to choose him. He wants you to love him, so he will happily wait as long as it takes for you to realize and accept your longing for him.

-He gives you the flowers you like, and listens to you talk about your exceedingly boring days (with rapt attention, of course, he loves listening to you talk as much as he loves talking). If you ask, he'll take you anywhere you'd like to go on earthbread with a snap of his fingers, showing you sights you'd only dreamed of seeing. (Whether or not these are illusions are still up for debate).

-It's very hard not to fall for him with all this considered, and he knows that of course. He was just waiting for you to confess, and you have to confess. He won't do it even if you make it clear you want him to. It's not something he'd ever admit to you -- or himself -- but he doesn't want to risk even the slightest bit of rejection. It would break him more than he's already been broken, so you'll have to do it for our poor little jester.

-When you do though? Oh, he's over the moon! Practically swooning as he scoops you up and spins you around in celebration. He's so overjoyed. He is wanted, there is someone in this world who loves him genuinely. There's no false platitudes or any worshipping done, just raw affection between the two of you. (Just the tiniest bit of manipulation at the start, but obviously you've dismissed and forgiven that at this point).

-Again, he doesn't immediately take you away from your life if you don't wish to be. He does heavily encourage you to come spend your days with him, though. He can take care of you, he's literally a god, you'll never ever want for anything so long as he can control it (which he can, duh).

-I feel it very important to emphasize that in a relationship with him, you are equal. Even if you literally cannot be equal in stature and power, you are equal in the relationship -- if anything you have more sway over him than he does over you. He's very, very in love with you, and he will do just about anything you ask of him so long as it doesn't interfere with obtaining his souljam.

-Having established that, let's get to the fun stuff.

-Shadow Milk Cookie is very physically and verbally affectionate. If you are around him it's likely he's touching you in some way. Whether that's him literally hanging off you like a baby monkey or just a hand on your arm, he likes to have a physical tether to you.

-Plenty of messy wet kisses all over your cute little face, he loves seeing you get all flustered and feeling your dough burn up from his barrage of affections.

-It's also very common for him to carry you around in various different styles. Over the shoulder, piggback, princess style, like a sack of potatoes... doesn't really matter. It's also a regular occurrence that you fall asleep as he floats around the spire of all knowledge. He doesn't need sleep, and he does not sleep often, but he likes holding you while you do so. It's proof of your trust in him, and he usually uses the time you are sleeping to be more genuinely affectionate. Soft words whispered in your ears bringing you sweet dreams as he runs his hands up and down your back, kissing the crown of your head with such love it would make a grown man blush.

-He calls you cute little nicknames, like shortcake or sweet thing. The most common, and his favorites, are doll/dolly and little star. (Little star is something he hums with such affection it makes you weak in the knees. You know he's feeling more adoring when he uses it.) Talks about how cute you are, how pretty you are, how desirable you are. How any cookie would be so lucky to have you -- too bad they could never compete with him!

-That being said, most of his affections are pretty surface-level stuff at the start of the relationship. At least, what you get to see. He has a hard time opening up to others, he's a very sensitive cookie deep down in his dough. It takes quite a while to get him out of his shell and start showing you who he is as himself.

-Who he is, is a very aching cookie. He lost so much, struggled with his own corruption, and still hasn't fully accepted it himself. He feels as though he has been betrayed and discarded by everything he once loved, it's no wonder he has a hard time showing you such ugly sides of himself.

-You warm him up, melt him slowly, and you get to see peaks of genuine love and adoration behind those heterochromatic eyes. He may never allow you to see all of him at once, but you do get to know him. If you continue to love him despite seeing the uglier side of things, there is a distinct shift in the way he showers you in affection.

-Initially, he's very showy with everything, his love is a spectacle for the two of you to watch. It's almost like he's put himself outside of the relationship rather than in it. After he opens up, it's quieter, more intimate. He's more involved in it, like it's less about showing you how much he loves you, and more about sharing that mutual feeling between the two of you.

-You didn't have much room to show him how much you cared for him, but now you do. He allows you to initiate physical affection and doesn't flinch away at the touch. He accepts your words of admiration for what they are, not questioning your intentions for any reason.

-Kisses are softer, more full of emotion. Less like he's drowning you and more like he's trying to swallow you up. Desperation to have you as close to him as possible can take him over quite frequently during make-out sessions, and they leave you breathless and fuzzy rather than burning and flustered.

-Now, you can't write Shadow Milk without acknowledging how fucking jealous he is all the time. Now, I believe it's less of a jealousy thing (though, that really is something that is frequent), and more of a possessive/protective thing.

-He doesn't get jealous of the average cookie, alright, not unless you show interest for whatever reason. They're not really a threat to him, and why would they be? He's secure enough to know that you wouldn't leave him for some random half-baked simpleton. HOWEVER, he DOES get jealous of the other beasts and especially Pure Vanilla Cookie.

-The other beasts aren't as powerful as him, but they're still powerful and cunning (some of them at least). Truly, on a level of divinity and ability to care for you, they are his closest competition. Even still, he only gets jealous if one of them seems to want to stake a claim on you, or you become too fascinated with one of them.

-If neither is the case, he highly encourages you to form relationships with them. They are cookies that, seemingly, he cares for. While they can be difficult to get along with, if you are someone Shadow Milk deems worth his time, you are someone they will also deem worth their time.

-Ah, I should also mention he gets... pouty about Black Sapphire and Candy Apple. He doesn't see either of them as a threat, so I couldn't say he's jealous... he just gets annoyed when you're being attentive to them when he's around. Black Sapphire is smart enough to set hard boundaries with you to start, for both of your sakes, but your relationship with him is very positive. You are Shadow Milk Cookies partner, after all, you're a very important Cookie and Black Sapphire has no reason to be unkind to you.

-Candy Apple Cookie on the other hand is the one who's jealous here. You find her positively adorable and her little crush on Shadow Milk is nothing but endearing in your eyes, but she very much is huffy about your relationship with him. Of course, she can't do anything to you, that would only turn against her in the end so she just pouts. You can win her over slowly, though, just by being sweet to her and comforting her when Shadow Milk rejects her once again.

-Your relationship with them seemingly pleases Shadow Milk, though you can't really tell if he's happy or not. Sometimes he seems pleased, other times he's pouty, so who really knows other than him.

-However, the cookie that really seriously gets under his skin the most is Pure Vanilla. He does everything in his power to keep the two of you as far away from one another as possible, but it's almost inevitable that you meet PV, especially when he becomes Truthless Recluse.

-Pure Vanilla is everything Shadow Milk is not. Kind, gentle, patient, soft-spoken, and of course truthful. He's very afraid you may meet PV and realize that you do not want to be with him anymore. You would rather have someone like Pure Vanilla Cookie to dote on you in a fashion that he cannot bring himself to do openly yet.

-Of course, you don't, but that doesn't stop the fear from seeping into his dough. The only way to ease him is by being patient and displaying your loyalty through and through. He won't really be calm until Pure Vanilla is take care of, but you can assure him that you won't be leaving him for his other half anytime soon.

-Circling back to his possessive and protective tendencies, Shadow Milk does see you as an object of his affection. He is fully aware you are your own cookie, you are not something he ever wishes to control entirely and remove autonomy from, but you are his. His to keep and love and protect.

-He's very obsessive about your well-being and happiness. If something hurts you (alive or not), it's gone, destroyed. He won't even make a show of it, it just disappears. If you are upset, he is there doing everything to make you feel better. Whatever you want, whatever you need! He's here for you, please rely on him (he needs you to rely on him).

-If you are out and about he keeps an eye on you, which you are aware of. It's rather obvious, so even if he doesn't tell you, you can feel him watching you. Ignoring it becomes easier with time, but if anything happens to you he wastes no time in popping up and taking care of whatever happens.

-This leads into my next headcanon (inspired by the ever-talented @rollingeevee go check them out!), he has a bite of sorts that he uses as a means of monitoring you. It's something he uses to pinpoint where you are at all times, even when he's not monitoring you actively. The bite acts as a connection between you and him, emotionally and physically tying the two of you together.

-You can feel what he feels through the bite, anger, sadness, joy, pretty much anything he feels you can feel. It also acts as a reminder to you that you should not stray too far from where he is, sending an uncomfortably heavy feeling through your dough. (This is a manifestation of his worry, and it only really happens when he notices you've gone somewhere a little too far from the safety of the spire).

-However, this goes both ways. He can also feel what you feel at the same intensity that you feel it. You can, likely less so, also tell where he is. There is a pull in the back of your mind from the magic telling you where to find him at all times, and it only lets go when you are in proximity of him. If you miss him, he feels the same heavy feeling in his dough reminding him that you would like him by your side.

-Now, finally, we have to address the topic of mortality. Shadow Milk is likely more aware than you ever will be of how mortal you really are. This is why he's so very protective and possessive of you, he doesn't want to lose you prematurely.

-However, if you are okay with it, he is completely fine with artificially extending your life span. In fact, he does it happily. He might even start doing it without asking if the topic hasn't been broached in a certain amount of time. He wants to spend as long as you'll allow him by your side, and if that means breaking a few rules of magic and cookie society then so be it. He's a god after all, he doesn't have to answer to anyone (other than the witches).

-Anyway, let's get to the shit you freaks are really here for. (Me, I'm freaks.)

-I don't really think sexual intimacy is something Shadow Milk desires all that much, but he more so likes it because it's... interesting? I'm sure he derives physical pleasure from sexual intercourse, but less so than the average cookie might. Most of his enjoyment comes from seeing you enjoy yourself.

-It goes without saying, but Shadow Milk Cookie is a freak. He's into pretty much anything under the sun (except maybe one thing...), and so long as you're down to try something he's happy to oblige you.

-He is a switch, but he leans dom most of the time, and you won't get him to sub early on in your relationship. That requires a bit too much trust for him, so he'll need time to be cool with giving you that kind of control over him. But he will bottom for you as your relationship progresses, and that's a whole different side to him.

-Lets start with him in a dominant role, though, since it's more common to get from him.

-Obviously, he's a tease, through and through. He loves to watch you squirm and react to the things he does. Tantalizingly light touches drawn over your dough, teeth grazing your soft body almost piercing but never quite getting deep enough, heated breath blown over your most sensitive spots but never relieving you with his mouth as you so desperately need.

-Truthfully he could spend another thousand years just tracing over you, committing each inch to memory until he's satisfied in knowing every inch of you. Unfortunately, (or fortunately), he's not nearly as patient in the bedroom as he is outside of it. Not with all of you on display for him, so trusting and open, ready for him to defile you. Oh, his sweet, sweet little dolly~

-Even with his impatience, his teasing does not stop. His hands continue to ghost over you, making sure you're still squirming even as he succumbs to his need to taste you.

-Oh, and tastes you he does. He doesn't have to subscribe to regular cookie physical limitations, so he somehow manages to swallow you whole. Jaw unhinging so he can get as much as he needs from you, tongue splitting itself to give you attention everywhere, and god is it long and dexterous. He can reach so very deep and it moves with such precision, it makes you cum embarrassingly fast.

-That is if he allows you to cum in the first place. He's a big fan of edging, which shouldn't be a surprise. He likes to get you so close, then deny you of your pleasure. Your whining and grumbling is the cutest thing on all of earthbread, don't you know? He can't help but edge you when you're so damn cute every time.

-Your pleasure is in his hands, and it requires such relinquishing of power and trust. In a weird way it makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside, especially when you thank him over and over once he finally allows you to come undone after hours of teasing.

-Speaking of, he is a big fan of being praised for the work he does on you. Your moans and pleas are reward enough, but if you mumble out about how good you feel, how much you love him, how amazing he is he'll become drunk on your praise. Chasing after it with fervor, meaning he's going down on you with so much more excitement somehow.

-He's into blood (jam?) play. He likes leaving physical reminders of your relationship all over your body (yes, even ur vag/dick if you let him). With how sharp his teeth are, it's impossible for you not to bleed when he does so, and he does really like the sight of your jam. It's so pretty and so different from his own, another reminder of how different you are, and how much you trust him. (He'll lick it up and purr at the taste.)

-Bruises are also littered about your dough, his grip on you is tight, like you might slip away from him. The treatment is rough and harsh, but it feels so nice to be manhandled by him. The bruises are just nice little reminders of who you belong to. (He gets all proud when other cookies worry about them, like he's done something worthy of praise).

-He likes watching, he's very much a voyeur. Occasionally requests that you pleasure yourself for him so he can watch you struggle to get off, and he'll only help you out when you're near tears begging him.

-He prefers coming across you by himself, without having to request it. Or just feeling waves of pleasure through your bite. He'll watch you quietly fuck yourself without letting you know he's there. (Though, you most certainly can feel his eyes on you, that's what makes it so fun right?) Sometimes he'll join you after, and other and times he'll leave you be, it's 50/50 either way and regardless you still end up happy.

-If anyone else walks in on you when you're alone, he's very unpleasant. Accident or not they'll learn to be more aware of their surroundings next time.

-That doesn't mean he's against being watched though. Actually, he finds the idea of someone else seeing how well he treats you enticing (especially if it's someone like Pure Vanilla hehe). If you are together and someone walks in (or spots you in public), he won't stop. Instead, he'll lock eyes with them and smile big and wide, showing off his favorite little dolly for them.

-He's just so proud of you, and you're so very pretty beneath him, the whole world should get to see how you fall apart for him. He'll even make you look at them just to see how you fluster.

-If the offender tries to do anything other than watch, though, well... I really hope they didn't want to live for much longer. He's very much not a sharer, at all. The idea of anyone even thinking they could touch you and make you feel good both makes him laugh and want to tear them apart at once.

-He's very much into roleplaying and can get really into it. To the point, it loses the sexiness and is just the two of you playing around, which can be a bummer but is usually really fun. He likes things that lean into power dynamics but explicitly avoids god/king and worshipper/subject. A little too close to home for him, and would honestly be too boring and basic for him.

-He loves it when you dress up for him in pretty little outfits, be it lingerie or something more cutesy, he adores it regardless. Going out of your way to pretty up for him is a huge turn-on. He also loves it when you let him dress you up how he likes. Regardless of what you're wearing, it's not coming off the whole night. It will get ruined and he won't apologize for it. Besides, he can just replace it, right?

-Sex is more fun for him, but he can be intimate when he wants to be. Usually, when you're in control, he is at his most gentle. Yes, he's a brat when he bottoms and he'll fight you tooth and nail, but once you get him to submit he's the softest and sweetest you've ever seen him.

-He looks at you like you're the god, wide eyes taking in everything you do with such admiration it might make you crumble on the spot.

-He's much quieter, treating it less like a spectacle. Moans soft and squeaky, like he's not used to using his voice in such a way. He clings to you like a vice at each little movement, almost afraid you might disappear if he lets you go.

-Oh, and he praises you so much. 'So good', 'Thank you', 'You're perfect', and 'I love you' all tumble from him with such genuine gratitude.

-Being allowed to let his guard down and have you take control is cathartic for him, which is why it's so uncommon to have it happen. It's why he fights you for control so hard because this is an intimacy he isn't used to. It is hard for him to allow you to see him so weak, but you never use it against him. You're so very sweet and loving, and it makes him melt like butter in your grasp.

-If you have the bite I mentioned earlier, it only makes things so much more intense. Both of you can feel the raw emotion connecting the two of you, making the pleasure heighten further.

-In fact, when he gives you the bite it's the first time he allows you to top him. To connect you to him makes him very vulnerable, so he would naturally have to be in a vulnerable state already when he does so.

-It's unlike any of his other bites, it's far more painful when he initially bites down, but when his magic flows through it your body feels light and airy. The pleasurable feeling wrapping itself around your spine, and you feel what he's feeling. All that adoration pours into your being at once, and it's overwhelming to really feel how much he loves you.

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 25th. tom — anal sex / sexual punishment.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: basically how i see a tom riddle punishment playing out. biblical tom of sorts. so self assured its impossible to piss him off so you go to lengths some may consider extreme but…eh. he knows you’re his.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, UNI hogwarts (obvs but just a reminder) reader and tom have an…interesting dynamic, toxic but also not toxic because it works for them, anal sex (obvs), sexual punishment, brief fingering, copious amounts of dirty talk, i once again utilize my favourite place in the school (the library).

"Tom—"

With a hand raised, he cuts you off. "Don't."

You blink. Swallow. Blink again. He's mad—oh, yes, he's mad—more than you've ever seen him and you once watched Abraxas Malfoy knock over his potion during a heavily-weighted exam.

That, in currency to this, is pennies.

You breathe in, try again. "Look, I can explain—"

He doesn't let you. Within a second his wand is out and with a flick of his wrist the room shifts to static—the glimmer from the silencing charm he just cast settles over your corner of the library, and you feel your fingers go numb—

"Why'd you stop?" He cocks his head, brow raised. His jaw is tight, the tension there burning into the space between you. His fingers flex. You can feel how much he's holding back. "If there's an explanation, by all means. I'd love to hear it."

Right—yeah, an explanation. That should help. Certainly, the man staring at you like he has bullets for eyes and knives for fingers will understand—he'll be completely calm once you explain to him you kissed someone else in retribution—because you wanted to get back at him.

"Well, I—" you push up from the desk, desperate to feel bigger, to level with him somehow. Tom thrives in this—having the upper hand, knowing all he has to do is stare at you, all stillness and quiet fury. He knows you hate it, that you'll spiral under it until you break and present him your neck on a silver platter. Until you hand him the knife and beg him to cut. "We had that argument, and I thought—I thought, maybe—you didn't—"

He moves closer. The air thickens. You're too focused on the fire in his eyes to acknowledge the sound of his wand clattering onto the desk—

"You thought?" His voice is something almost bored, like this is a trivial exercise for him—you can barely hear him over the roar of your pulse in your throat.

"—that you didn't want me anymore!"

You force the words out in a desperate rush, and the silence that follows feels like a goddamn canyon—you're just staring at each other, scowling in the wake of what you just said because you both know how utterly foolish it sounds. The only person Tom Riddle has and will ever allow himself to be vulnerable in front of—and you thought he'd leave after a silly argument.

No. You never thought that for a second.

And so, you try to save yourself. "Tom—I-I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, I know I fucked up—but, it's not just me—I mean, you could have communicated better—"

He takes another step toward you, nodding along as if he's humoring you. "Right."

You step back—you don't mean to but the depleted space between you feels dangerous and your body reacts before you can stop it.

"Maybe—maybe we can learn from this? Right? A lesson for—for us both?" You keep talking. You don't know why, but you do. "And, maybe you could, uh, learn to talk about your feelings better?"

You wince as his eyebrows shoot up, mocking you without saying a word. Tom Riddle, talking about his fucking feelings? Right.

"I mean—you're just—" you hesitate because you know you're digging your own grave, yet he's still staring, daring you to finish. "—you're just so hard to read, you know?"

Another bored nod, another step closer. "Of course."

You swallow, stumbling back—of course Tom knows he's hard to read, that's the point. Every word out of your mouth is a wasted effort, a desperate attempt to reason with someone who's beyond it. Your ass collides with the desk behind you, boxing you in—and suddenly, he's there, right in front of you, all of his typical Tom intensity pouring into the limited space between you.

His breath brushes against your cheek, close enough that his lips could meet yours. But you know they won't. He'd never make it that easy. You can't tell if it's fear or something more wicked that twists in your chest. Dread, excitement—God, maybe both—

"You tried to provoke me."

Your throat tightens around a swallow. He isn’t asking.

"Maybe."

He doesn't blink. "You tried to see if I'd care."

You open your mouth, only to close it just as quickly. What can you say that he doesn't already know? You're as transparent as glass to him, and even that is a goddamn understatement. All you offer is a slow nod, unsure but weighted—he wasn't looking for an answer, he was looking for submission.

"And you thought, maybe, that I would come to you. That I would react. That l'd be angry." His fingers brush up your cheek, slipping into your hair with the kind of intimacy that feels out of place given the circumstances. And, inevitably, when the pull comes biting at your scalp, it's a burn you enjoy more than you should. "Were you hoping I'd punish you?"

"Well—I-"

"You know, don't you," he tugs your hair again to quiet you. Every question he's asking is rhetorical. "You know that trying to provoke me is dangerous."

You nod, fast. "I know."

"You know that I don't like to be provoked."

"I know, I know, I-"

"Shh." His lips brush over your neck, just once—a soft, fleeting thing that promises everything and nothing at once. You can't help the way you lean into him. "You're just making this worse for yourself. No more talking."

You choke on your stupid ego, but force a nod. You asked for this. You won't fight him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Good." He hums, and you feel your heart dance, stomach leap at the barest flicker of approval in his tone. His breath skates over your jaw, and you try not to shake. "You want to show me how sorry you are, don't you?"

You nod again.

"Good." He tugs at your bottom lip and something curls at the corners of his own that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. "Turn around."

With your heart on the floor beneath your feet, you nod for a final time before doing as he asked. You find that turning is a difficult task, though not due to resistance—your body just won't cooperate—a mess of weak knees and shallow breaths and tingling skin. You do it, though, with his hand on your hip, guiding you, directing you, pushing you over the desk until you're bent at the waist, positioned just how he wants.

It's merely a moment before you feel him pressed against your back, feel his belt buckle digging into your ass—

"What do you think I should do to you?" His breath grazes the nape of your neck and reflexively, you arch into him—his hands slide up your thighs, hips, finding your waist and the band of your skirt—he tugs at your zipper, you remain quiet. You know he doesn't want you to answer. "I'm sure you had your hopes. Your assumptions."

Tom Riddle, you've determined, is a torturous lover—a slow hand, a tease until you're in tears from the overstimulation. A sort of devotee to fulfilling your needs while simultaneously tempering his own. He's so very restrained, in everything he does—not fervent, not right away, anyway—

"Maybe you hoped I'd degrade you. Remind you of your place." He tugs down the zipper, letting the fabric fall to the ground at your feet—you shudder and pull your lips tight, willing yourself to stay silent as the cool air hits you. Tom's hand roams over one of your asscheeks, pawing lazily before tapping his palm against it. “Maybe you wanted me to make you feel it."

—he only rushes—he's only careless when he's angry.

And god, he's angry now.

"Maybe." You force the reply through the sting he left on your skin. It's past midnight—quiet is everything but you two, and you're almost certain he locked the door behind him on the way in. You let your head bow, eyes fixed on the wood under your palms. "Maybe I do."

"Of course you do. You've never been subtle." His foot nudges yours further apart, his fingers trailing up your thigh, finding the damp ache between your legs. Your breath catches but you hold still, biting your tongue as he teases—digits gliding through your slit, swirling your clit. "I know you thought about it."

"About what?" You try, though the question barely gets out before his other hand smacks the thick of your ass again, harder this time. "Shit—"

"About what I'd do to you." The hand on your clit shifts to smooth over the sting, rubbing slow, while the other works the buckle of his belt. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I—" you pause, steadying, gathering yourself. You know you have to give him something, but it's hard to think when he's like this. "I—I wanted you to be...careless."

"Careless." He says it like he's savouring it, rolling it over his tongue like candy. It's not a word that suits him; you're not convinced he even knows how. "You want me to be rough—to be selfish. Like you were."

The moment his belt is loose you feel those slender fingers dip back into your slit, two of them pushing inside your cunt without warning, stretching you open as his trousers slip down his thighs— he grunts low, a sound that cuts into the quiet as his cock springs free and he presses it against you, unoccupied hand slipping back into your hair, pulling you up until you're flush with him.

"Yes." You're not sure who sounds more hollow for it—your voice for asking, his for granting it. "I want that. I deserve it. Please. Please—"

"Please. It's always please with you," he mocks, the words a hiss that burn your cheeks. "Yet, I don't get to be selfish like you, do I? I still have to show restraint."

"I mean—oh—fu—" you choke as his lips find your neck, muttering something against your skin before you feel the sudden cool slip of a lubing charm coating your asshole and cunt. "Tom-"

"Despite what you might believe, I've never had much in the way of patience," he breathes, a confession almost, something deeper—something that feels like it costs him. "Not when it comes to you."

"Tom—" you fucking gasp his name as he pulls his fingers from your cunt—only to drag them higher until they find your asshole. Despite his haste he's still at ease, massaging, pressing one finger against it until you let him in. He sinks slowly, curling slightly, and your thighs shake—lungs deflate. "Oh—oh, fuck, Tom—it's been—"

"A while, hasn't it?" He finishes, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his finger sliding all the way in. "So tight for me. So—tight—"

"Tom—" a repetition of the last one, his name spilling from you like it’s the only goddamn word you know how to say. "Please, Tom. Oh god—"

"Shhh." He shushes, but it's not to quiet you; you know that. He's savouring this. He slips in a second finger, stretching you wider, working you open, and you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. "This isn't about you."

"You—" your voice breaks on another gasp, hands clutching at the desk. "—you think this is punishment."

"Partially." His muses as his fingers scissor, filling you with the most delicious ache. You're so slick, arousal running down your thighs, and that—oh no, that does not escape his notice. "Look at you, dripping for me. And yet,"

"Oh god." The realization crashes over you—it’s punishment as in orgasm denial. "That's—that's not—"

"Not fair?" There's a smirk in his voice, and though he doesn't say it, you hear the word that lingers beneath it: pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He pulls his fingers out and you whine, feeling empty for half a second before the head of his cock glides against your slit, gathering your juices before finding its way up to the throbbing ring of muscle. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to be selfish?"

"I just—" words scatter, useless, because you're trembling, breathing hard, and then he's pressing in, slow enough to save you pain but fevered enough to make you feel him. "Oh—oh—"

"Oh fuck." He says it breathless, as if it's an agony to fit himself inside of you. "Oh yes."

And it is an agony—for both of you, though for very different reasons. Tom is huge, and even on a good day, it's a struggle to take him. He's so deep, filling you in ways you'd forgot were possible. You struggle to hold yourself upright—legs visibly shaking, teeth gritting. He sinks all the way in, and in your mind, you can almost see the look on his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his head tips back—

"Ah—“ he groans, a rough sound that's followed by a huff and a slight roll of his hips, like he's holding back, like he can't bring himself to move just yet. He yanks you up against him by your hair. "That's fucking tight, isn't it? This must be hell for you."

He's not wrong, it is. But it's hellish for Tom too, the type of hell the two of you inflict on eachother that is as fucking addicting as it is anything else—

"Just—" you manage to bite out breathlessly, but it's a struggle to make the words. "Move—"

"Make me," he grits, jerking your head to the side until your foreheads press together. "Convince me to use you. Tell me how badly you want it. How much of a whore you are for it."

Merlin help you, you moan at his words. It's that thing inside you—the needy, desperate part that's dying at his feet. You don't know what it is or why it's there; it just is, and it's greedy. It's not something you'd give into normally—your ego is far too big to give him the satisfaction of begging, not aloud—never in words that he could use against you later—but in these moments, you both learn to make exceptions.

"Dear god, Tom—please, just use me-" you push your hips back against him, one of his hands slide up your stomach, cupping your tits. "Please, l'm—I'm a pathetic, begging whore for you. God, I know you're pissed—I feel it—just take it out on me—l want it—"

He moans—a soft, almost gentle sound—and you know you've struck a nerve, the part of him that's equally as weak in the moment—the part of him that makes it all too easy for things to spiral like this.

"Goddamn you." Something inside him snaps, something that's been frayed, just waiting for a pull—and you've pulled it now, and oh you want, no, you need him to make you pay for it, to make it hurt. "You just—you always-"

He grunts, cutting himself off and in a way, it's almost like he's thanking you because you're giving him an outlet, something to take it out on. You test each other, push and pull and let the other break, because, at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. The two of you. Like this.

A sharp inhale, and he starts to thrust.

"Fuck!" it's all you manage, it's all you can manage, because it—just like that—feels the way you wanted it to feel but it also feels so much more intense, so intense that your brain can't keep up. "Oh god—oh fuck-"

"Fucking hell," he spits, like you're the worst thing in his world and the best thing all at once, and somehow, that makes perfect sense. He lets go of your hair, and you slump forward onto the desk, elbows barely holding you up as his hand smacks your ass, fingers spreading you apart. "So—so tight—“

You're a shuddering mess, helpless to it; all you can do is remember to breathe through it.

"That's it." Another smack to your ass, thrusts quick and deep. "Fuck. The things you drive me to do."

You know him so well—and he knows you just as damn well, and that's the point, isn't it? That's what this is all about. You're the perfect mix of wrong, a match that burns too hot it hurts but the ache makes him feel alive.

"I want to cum—" your neglected clit is begging for it, you’re fucking begging for it. "Tom please—"

At that, he laughs and it's mean and it's condescending and you love—God—how you love it and want it and can't get enough of it. His hips snap forward a little bit rougher and you lose a bit more of your sanity—

"You think you deserve to come, after what you did?" Another smack to your ass.

You don't know how to answer, and he doesn't wait for one anyway. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you—everything is so calculated and calculated and calculated. You've never once seen him falter, and you don't expect to see it now. You don't know if you'd survive it if you did.

"No." He answers for you. "You don't."

His fingers trace around your thigh, grazing your mound and finding your needy clit, your sopping slit, gliding through it—you moan louder than you should as he gathers your slick on his fingers, humming at what he finds there before retreating—bringing them up to your mouth.

"Open."

You open your mouth and he feeds you your need—the result of his selfishness. You love him for what he is and you love him for what he isn’t too. How he tries to be both, only when you ask.

"Taste that?" It's a whisper, something he's telling you.

You sob around his fingers as he fucks your ass deep—he pulls them out to let you respond. You nod. "Yes."

"Taste how much you want this?"

"Yes." A pathetic moan. The perfect response.

"Good girl." He presses the words into your hair, the back of your neck, along your spine. He sucks in a breath as he fucks like he needs it just to speak. "You're going to remember this the next time you think about doing something just to spite me, I hope you know that."

Of course you will. He knows it, you know it—there's no doubt in your mind that you'll remember this the next time you toy with his patience; the next time you give him a reason to discipline you again. And what's worse is: you'll do it anyway.

It's a battle you two will fight for eternity.

But you don't get a chance to respond, not that you'd have one anyways—because his hand is on your throat and his lips are at your ear and he's sucking in air through his teeth and then—

"I'm going to cum." He whispers and you hear the pain in it. "Fuck."

You shiver in reply; a whine of a whimper coming from the back of your throat. “Tom—“

"Shh." He shushes you with his free hand, gripping your jaw as his thrusts turn sloppy, erratic. "Fucking take it.”

God—you’ll take it. Of course you will. You asked for this, drove him to this point. You're both sick, but this is the kind that doesn't have a cure.

One of his hands moves to his own hair, tugging at the back of his head; it's the only hint you've had this whole time of how much he's affected by this, how much it's driven him mad. He's doing his best to keep control, to maintain composure and make sure you feel it—but it's the way his hand squeezes your hip when he lets go of your throat that gives him away.

It gives in to what he's been repressing.

"Ohhh—fuck—yes—" and then you feel it, feel him, hot and sticky and warm, filling your ass and holding you there until he’s finished. His body collapses against the back of yours, hips slow rolling until he's drained—until you’ve taken all of him, all of his anger and frustration and restraint along with it. He’s sweaty, exhausted, spent—forehead pressed to your hair. "You feel that?"

"You know I do." You're not allowed to sound so smug, not while you're in the position you're in, but you are. It’s why he loves you. "That's what you were looking for."

"No, that's what you were looking for." He nips your ear, and you hear the smile in his voice when he bites down on it and murmurs a, "and that's why you're my favourite," into it.

"And you mine, Tommy."

[pretty-little-mind33]

Sergei Kravinoff x waitress fem!reader

Summary: Sergei takes you home after an incident at your work.

Genre: hurt and comfort, SMUT (mdni)

Warnings: the beginning is very hurt and comfort and then end is filthy smut, sexual harassment, creepy men, pinv, unprotected sex, kinda dubious consent bc reader is in an emotional state (there is still consent but yk), fingering, biting, bruising and marking, blood, hint to animalistic/rough sex, size kink, cum play, breast play/sucking, hint of a pain kink, overstimulation

~ inspired by this and similar asks! thank you dear anon <3 and thank you @lady-jane3 for the translations! ~

SERGEI KRAVINOFF MASTERLIST

You're the prettiest woman he has ever seen. You're so gorgeous he's almost convinced he's made you up as some form of torture: a fantasy he knows he can't have, and still, whenever he opens his eyes you're there in front of him in your sheer tights and that mid-length skirt that hugs your ass so nicely.

It's almost criminal.

He's already in deep and he hasn't even spoken a word to you. 

You have always been intrigued by the group of rugged looking men who walk into the club, especially the ones who speak in a language you don't understand. You've grown accustomed to their orders and you know that the one with the scar on his upper lip reaches for your ass whenever he can, so you've learned to avoid serving near him, and you know one of the younger ones—the one with the ocean blue eyes and dark chestnut curls, always tips you the best. 

And yet, he's never spoken a word to you outside of a grunt of acknowledgment. 

He just stares from afar, as if calculating your moves, like he's a predator ready to pounce on his prey. It's intimidating. 

The first time he'd come around alone, you nearly asked your friend to cover his table, but curiosity had won you over and you'd learned his name. You also learned that his voice is gruff and that he holds incredibly good eye contact when he speaks. He'd tipped you more than necessary that night, sending you a little smile as he left, the innocent flirting you had both been guilty of lingering in the air. 

By the sixth time he comes in, you're more comfortable around him. Even when you see he's with the other men, you can't help the smile that illuminates your features as he walks in. You almost bounce over, composing your excitement as you stand beside him. "Hi, Sergei," you say, fumbling for your little notepad (not that you need it anymore, you're just nervous).

The men snicker, mumbling something in what you learned to recognize is Russian. They nudge Sergei's arm, leering at you. Your expression falls a little, holding your breath as you keep your eyes on him. 

"Hi, зайка (bunny)," Sergei grumbles, ignoring the laughing. "Our usual—please."

You nod, walking to punch in their orders. Sergei's jaw tightens as the men around him start making unnecessary comments on your behalf, and he's happy you're too far away to hear them.

He's never wanted to hurt anyone as bad as he does these men right now. The way they speak about you makes his stomach churn, which says everything considering he's used to this behavior from the men his father associates with. God, he's really regretting coming to the city even more than he already was.

He watches, making sure you're still preoccupied, before he leaves for the bathroom. He's only supposed to be gone for a few minutes so he's back when you return but, unbeknownst to him, you return earlier.

You walk over, carrying the tray of drinks in one hand. You hesitate when you see that Sergei isn't sitting there anymore and the men seemed to have suspiciously quieted down upon your appearance. 

You shake away the nerves and plaster on your best fake smile and avoid the man with the scar on his lip as you bend over to place the drinks down. You can hear them chuckle, talking in Russian, and suddenly you feel someone else's hand on your ass, grabbing at you. 

You're used to the groping around here. Rich, powerful men think they can have whatever they want and you're taught to just turn away and ignore them. Keep your head down, as your boss says, so you angle yourself differently, reaching over to put Sergei's drink in front of his seat. 

When you do, you feel an arm purposefully skim your shirt over where your nipples are under your bra and you jolt up in surprise. After another short round of laughter, a hand on your arm to prevent you from turning away, and then a harsh slap to your ass, all the remaining drinks fall from the tray and spill all over them and your uniform. 

You hold your breath, immediately crouching down to gather the broken glass, but as soon the shards puncture your skin and the men begin to shout in anger, insulting you, you feel threatened.

You stand, yanking your arm away from one of the men's grip before he can grab you and force you closer to him. You run into the girls bathroom, slamming the door behind you and fumbling with the lock, your vision blurry from your tears. 

When Sergei comes back, he narrows his eyes as he sees the broken glass on the table and on the ground. His eyes narrow on the blood from where you'd hurt yourself, smelling it instantly. "What happened?" he asks, standing in front of the table.

He can't help but look around, looking for you. 

"Your woman is difficult, boy, you should consider whipping her into shape," one of the men chuckles, sniffling. He's half joking, teasing Sergei over his obvious affections for you, but Sergei's eyebrows scrunch in disapproval. 

"What did you do to her?" he growls, grabbing the man by his collar and lifting him so he's standing. His gaze is murderous. The older man barks out a laugh. 

"What did I do? You mean what did we do?" He smirks, clearly taunting, "We all wanted a feel—" The man doesn't finish his sentence because Sergei punches him, blood splattering across another man's cheeks, as the man he punches stumbles back into the bench. 

"какого хрена (What the fuck)?!" The man groans, blood falling from his nose. 

Sergei's jaw tightens and he leans forward, grabbing one of the forks, and stabs it into the man's hand before he can lift himself up. The man scream of pain, eyes clamped shut. The other men pause. They remain sitting because of the anger in his eyes as he twists the fork. He doesn't speak, which is possibly more intimidating than if he was to say anything. 

He pulls the fork out, letting the man's hand bleed freely, and he doesn't stick around to hear the whining as he turns to find you. He can smell you, your faint perfume, the smell of your blood from a wound, and worst of all he can almost sense your fear. Without hesitation, he's forcing the one-room bathroom door open. 

You gasp and stand straighter, instinctively throwing a roll of toilet paper at the intruder.

Sergei dodges the hit easily and stares at you in shock. "Did you just throw toilet paper at me?" He asks, bewildered. You're standing by the tiny sink now, hands gripping the ends as blood pours from your fingers and tears well in your eyes as you look at him. 

He can hear your rapid heartbeat.

"You broke in!" You whimper, the tears overwhelming you as they fall. You break and Sergei's gaze softens.

He walks over, taking your hand gently, pulling you into his chest as he leans against the fancy bathroom's wall. His hands find your hair and he holds you close. You sob into him and you whine your words: "I'm sorry I dropped all the drinks!"

Sergei couldn't care less about the drinks and pulls away, his large hand cupping your damp cheek as he takes your hand in his other one and examines the cuts. He runs your hand under water, testing the depth of your injury. They aren't very deep.

  "Did they touch you?" Is all he asks, his gaze hard. 

You hesitate and he moves his other hand so he's gripping your chin now. "зайка (bunny), did those men put their hands on you?" 

He swipes his thumb over your skin. You nod, looking so beautifully broken and Sergei's heart squeezes. He can only imagine what they did for you to be crying. He presses a quick kiss to your forehead and looks down at the cuts on your hand again. His jaw tightens again and he wraps them up with paper towel, stopping the bleeding. They should heal quickly.  

"They shouldn't even be allowed to breathe in your presence and yet they have the audacity to touch you?" He grumbles, his voice hoarse. "I'm going to kill them."

You shake your head, holding onto his sleeve once he turns to leave the bathroom and beat his father's associates to a pulp. You stop him, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Please, stay with me. I- I feel safe with you." You say it so quietly but he hears you plainly. He looks at you, all the desire for revenge that was poisoning his blood replaced by the need to hold you close. To promise that no man will ever hurt you like that again. 

"Shh, I'm here," he whispers slowly, pulling you in again and holding behind your head. Your nose collides with his chest and you inhale his scent. His arms tighten around you, fingers in your hair as he twirls the strands. He inhales the scent of your shampoo, wishing he could nuzzle his head into your neck to smell your natural scent. He holds in a grunt and simply tightens his hold on you. He'll hold you as long as you need it.  

"Can you take me home?" you ask and he can't think of anything more he'd like to do then make sure you're home safe. 

Your apartment smells like you. He notices all the little things about you from the way you keep your apartment and he smiles. You sniffle, sliding off your shoes and throwing your keys onto the entrance table. You pause, looking at the bloodied paper towel wrapped around your hand and you open it. You see that the cuts have stopped bleeding and you throw away the makeshift bandage. 

"Do you want a drink?"

Sergei turns, a little surprised you would ask. He shakes his head. "I should go home," he says and you grab his arm, shaking your head. You look up at him, touching his cheek and the prickles of his beard. You shake your head. "No?" he asks, confused. 

He can see the tears in your eyes and he tenses. 

You lean up, whispering, "No. I want you. Make me forget about them," I say, no hesitation in your voice. You can still feel the other men's hands on you, their cruel voices ringing in your ear, and you hate it.

You've wanted Sergei for so long now. You yearn for him to make this situation better.

Sergei's blue eyes burn into yours. He can't smell any alcohol on you but he's a little hesitant. "What are you asking for, зайка (bunny)?" he whispers to you, his large hand running up and down your sides, squeezing your hip. 

You kiss him, hoping to answer his question that way. You expected a little hesitation, but the moment you kiss him, Sergei's lifting you up into his arms, wrapping your legs around his torso, as he deepens the kiss. His hand finds your hair, tugging on the strands, as you try and catch your breath from the kiss. 

"Are you sure?" he grunts into your neck, licking a strip up to your jaw as he nibbles on your skin. "You have no clue what you're asking of me. I'm going to ruin you." He means it too, you can tell, and he finds his way to your bedroom in no time. 

As soon as he drops you to the bed, you look up at him. You already look like a mess and his cock twitches in his pants. He growls, teeth flashing as his eyes turn yellow for a split second, and you scramble up to the headboard, your chest rising and falling. 

"What are you?" you ask. You feel like prey and arousal pools in your stomach. 

You don't receive an answer as he practically tears his shirt with one hand, climbing onto the mattress and pinning your hands to your sides. You're breathing heavily but you aren't scared. He looks almost animalistic now but you still feel safer with him than any man you've met at that club. He kisses you again, pushing you down further into the mattress. 

"I can smell you, little one," he laughs, kissing behind your ear as he inhales your scent. "Everywhere," he laughs, one of his hands releases your wrist and skims down your stomach with his knuckles. He presses a palm over your skirt and you catch his gaze. 

You nod, using your free hand now to touch his cheek as if to convey your trust. You can't pretend this isn't exactly what you've dreamed of for months. 

"You're mine," he growls, ripping your skirt and biting down on your skin. You gasp, wrapping your leg around his hip as his hand pulls down your panties. "After tonight, all you'll feel is me."

You moan, feeling the light sting on your shoulder from where he'd bit you. You know that you'll be covered in bruises and marks once he's finished with you but you don't complain, instead losing yourself in the way he feels; his his fingers open you up for his cock, the grunts and groans he's making in your ear as his lips explore your skin. Everything that had happened before this moment is a now lost memory and all you can think of is him. 

You feel him against your thigh once you realize he's removed his trousers and he's as big as you imagined. "You won't fit," you warn him, breathlessly as you pull up his face and look into his eyes. He just smirks and kisses your lips almost sweetly. 

"I will," he says and nuzzles his nose into your neck. He gently spreads your legs wider and you let him. You relax onto the pillow, your eyes locked onto his. You watch him, nails digging into his shoulders as you draw blood the moment his cock breaches your entrance and you let out a pained whine. 

"Shhh, зайка (bunny)," he says, going slower so you can take him all. You're so wet but it isn't enough. Sergei spits on his fingers, bringing them down to add more wetness and help him ease inside you. "I got you," he promises and you nod, focusing on the future pleasure instead of the pain. 

You lift up as he bottoms out, and you bite into him, making him in return as you muffle the cry of pain. Sergei hisses, moaning as he stills inside you for a moment. He waits patiently until you're ready for more. He's used to being patient.

All great hunters are. 

"Okay, move," you almost demand, relaxing again and he smirks. 

"Impatient little thing," he teases under his breath, rocking his hips forward. It's still a little painful, but in a way that draws moans and whines from your lips. You arch your back, the buttons of your shirt straining against your breasts. Sergei grunts and moves the hand that was on your hip to rip your shirt open, taking your bra with it. His mouth attaches to your nipples, teeth grazing them so you moan. 

He's marking your breasts now, hips slamming into yours. He was right, are are taking him all in. "Sergei," you moan, head falling back as your eyes flutter shut. You're breathless and already exhausted as he draws an orgasm from you. 

"Mhm, you feel so good around me." Is all he says, still fucking into you. He bites and sucks at your breasts, his large hand palming against your hip bones as he holds you down. You keep your eyes half-open, looking into his as he fucks you again and again and takes another orgasm from you. 

By the third, he's flipped you over onto your stomach, hips up, as he pounds into you with no mercy. The only sound now is your whimpered moans and the creak of the bed. "Please," you whine and you can barely keep your eyes open anymore. You have no clue how longs it's been.

"Please what, зайка (bunny)?" Sergei grunts. He's close. He can tell you're at your limit and he doesn't want to push you. He slows his thrust, focusing on the pleasure as he reaches his high.

You whimper into the pillow as he fills you up, his cock slipping out and spilling more cum onto your back. You whine, eyes fluttering shut at the empty sensation. 

Sergei catches his breath, pausing to rub the cum into your skin as he slides his hand up to your hair and leans over your back. He pulls you up, turning your head and kissing your cheek gently. His beard scratches against your cheek. "Hi, little one," he smiles and gently strokes your hair now. "Are you okay?"

You hum, letting him guide you onto your back as he rests his head between your breasts, right over your thumping heart. He slides his calloused hands over your sides and presses kisses on your bare skin. You smile, eyes fluttering. He's as rough a lover as he is a gentle one. 

"Dove, are you okay?" he repeats, slotting his thigh between yours as he takes a breath. It's late now, exhaustion overtaking you as you rest your cheek on his head. You lift your hand, gently scratching your fingers in his hair. Sergei smiles and kisses your stomach again. 

"'M okay," you say happily, "better than okay. I just wanna lay here. With you." 

Sergei nods, tightening his hands around your waist. He soothes you, his voice low. "Go to sleep, зайка (bunny), nothing can hurt you when I'm here. я обещаю (I promise)." 

You nod, feeling safe as his breath mixes with yours. It doesn't take you long to fall asleep knowing he's there. Knowing that now that he's around you don't have to worry about any sleazy men or unwanted touches.

He'll protect you, you're damn sure of it.

[milatiny-xx]

promise | k.ys

pairing: kang yeosang x gn!reader summary: your childhood best friend accidentally admits that he's been secretly in love with you for many years and just recently got over it. at least, he thinks so. you want to put that theory to the test. warnings: best friends to loversss, mutual pining, fluff, make out!! make out!!, fade to black!! wc: 2.1k a/n: yeosang's biceps. send post. x

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

You giggle as you throw back another shot of soju, wincing when you put the glass down.

"Ach, this stuff is terrible," you whine. "Next time, I'll buy the booze."

Yeosang laughs, placing the bottle back on the coffee table.

"Be my guest," he replies. "That one was expensive."

You're both sitting on the floor with a box of half-eaten pizza beside you and a mostly empty bottle of soju. Having been best friends since childhood, you and Yeosang try to meet up at least once every two weeks to hang out. You order food, get drinks, and watch a terrible drama neither of you have seen before. You have to give Sangie a lot of credit—despite his crazy busy schedule with ATEEZ, he always shows up to your friend dates and never, ever cancels.

"What are you complaining about? Surely, you can afford it."

"Ah, right. Because I'm a big time idol."

You nod, pursing your lips at him to say duh.

"Yeah, exactly. Even though you don't act like it."

He reaches for the bottle to pour you both another drink.

"What do you mean?"

"You're sitting here with me devouring greasy pizza and throwing back liquor while we watch one of the most horrendous movies I've ever seen in my life. It's just not how I imagine idols acting."

He hums in acknowledgement. His eyes slide from side to side as if he were looking for spies before he leans in toward you. You raise your eyebrows but follow his lead.

"You do know we're still humans, right?" he says, voice low. You scoff, playfully slapping his arm. "Besides, I would never give up this time with you."

Your heart lurches, his sweet words dripping like honey. On the one hand you love when he says things like that to you—it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, like you're special to him. On the other hand, it's usually followed with the most intense emotional pain you've ever experienced when you remember that he's saying it to you as a friend.

"Give me that," you gesture to the soju. "And tell me something."

"Tell you what?"

"I don't know. Something personal, something secret, something nobody else knows. Here, I'll go first. Ummmm," you study the ceiling as you think. "Ah, I know! When we were in third grade and that stapler disappeared from Mr. Wan's desk, Ha-joon got in trouble for it. But it was really me, and I let him take the blame because I didn't want them to call my mom."

Yeosang's mouth drops open, amusement flooding across his handsome face. He laughs, covering his mouth with his hand—an adorable habit that you've noticed he has.

"Ha-joon wasn't allowed to go to recess for three months after that. How can you live with yourself?"

You shrug, slightly embarrassed.

"It's not easy. Your turn."

He hums to himself as he thinks. His eyes catch yours for a fleeting second, and you can tell that he's got an idea.

"Well...there's one thing I can think of."

You tilt your head, interest piqued.

"Yeah? What's that?"

Yeosang's eyes sparkle. A sweet grin spreads across his face as he drops his head sheepishly. He chuckles, a deep rumbling noise that raises goosebumps on your arms. You can't help but giggle.

"What?" you ask, playfully smacking his arm. "What are you laughing about?"

He shakes his head, his long bangs falling into his eyes. Your heart flutters as you appreciate how gorgeous he is. A slight pink flush spreads across his sharp cheekbones.

"It's...ahh, no, it's too embarrassing."

"Oh no. No, you can't do that, Sangie. Now you have to tell me."

He hesitates for another moment. You bend forward to lean your head on his shoulder and wrap your hands around his bicep. Ignoring the sensation of your stomach flipping, you peer up at him with your best puppy dog eyes.

"Pleaaaaaase," you whine. "Tell meeee."

He laughs again and drops his head toward you.

"You're gonna think I'm pathetic, but I sort of...well, I used to sort of be in love with you a little."

You cackle, assuming he's playing a joke on you.

"Yeah...right."

"No, I'm serious."

You quirk an eyebrow.

"Mhm, this coming from the same boy who refused to kiss me when I asked him to on the playground. You remember, don't you?"

His eyes go wide, and he points accusingly at you.

"You mean when you assaulted me?"

You gasp, shrieking and grabbing onto his hand.

"I did not! I did not assault you. We were playing tag, and you got me out. And I was sooo mad. I hugged you tight and said I wouldn't let you go until you made up for it by giving me a kiss."

"Yeah...and then you physically grabbed my face and made me do it."

"You still did it!"

"Of course I did it. I wanted to kiss you, I was just embarrassed."

You shake your head, folding your arms over your chest to fake pout. A few moments of comfortable silence pass, during which you decide to poke the bear a little more.

"I don't appreciate you making fun of me, though," you say. "I thought you had something serious to share."

He looks at you, smile dropping.

"Oh, I am serious."

Your grin falters, and you sit up straighter.

"What?"

"I wasn't joking, Y/N. I was being serious. I think I was sort of in love with you. For a long time, actually."

You can't help yourself—a laugh slips from your lips. A second after, you gasp and cover your mouth with your hand. You can feel burning spreading through your face and neck.

"See! I knew you would laugh! This is why I didn't wanna tell you."

"That's because it's ridiculous," you say, unsure if you're trying to convince him or yourself.

"Well, don't even worry about it," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm not anymore, so we're all good."

Your heart drops. Why did you say that? Why did you make fun of him? He gave you the absolute perfect opportunity to tell him how you really feel, how you've really felt all these years. And you absolutely threw it away like trash. Then again, he just admitted he's not in love with you anymore...you wonder what happened to change his mind. Maybe it's for the best that you don't say anything.

"Why would you be in love with me, anyway?" you reply. "I'm just a regular person."

"What? What do you mean? Why wouldn't I? It makes perfect sense when you think about it."

"How so?"

"We've been friends for so many years. We understand each other better than anyone. We make each other laugh. Besides that, you're kind and funny and smart. And, of course, you're beautiful."

Your heart is pounding in your chest now. Hearing him call you all of those wonderful things and the way he thinks of you, how much you mean to him—you've been dreaming of hearing that for years. But you want him to mean it. You need him to mean it.

"Oh...I guess it does kind of make sense."

The corner of Yeosang's mouth quirks up but flattens back down a moment later. You both drop your heads and silence settles between you. The tension and awkwardness grow with every passing second. You gulp and sneak a peek at him. He's absentmindedly playing with his fingers. The veins in his hands flex with every movement, and your stomach churns in response.

"A you sure?" you blurt, pasting a mischievous smirk on your face.

"Hm?"

"Are you absolutely, positively sure that you're over me?"

He looks at you, eyes widened. He hesitates for a moment, his gaze searching yours.

"Yeah, I-I think so."

"Hmmm, I'm not convinced. Maybe we should...I don't know...test it?"

Yeosang straightens, tossing his head to shake his hair from his eyes. His stare is glued to you.

"How would we do that?"

"Oh, I have an idea."

Your heart races as you position yourself across from him. You sit on your knees, your gaze flicking between Yeosang's eyes and lips. You start to shift forward, bracing yourself by putting your hands on his thighs. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Gulping, you tilt your head.

You pause right in front of him, your eyes rolling to the side to meet his. Your breath shakes. Under the soft glow of the lamp, you can see that his eyes are dilated. You drop your stare down to his parted lips and lean forward slowly.

Yeosang remains still as a statue when you press your mouth to his. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, the muffled sound of your racing heart echoing in your ears. When you pull back, your gaze returns to his. He holds your stare for a moment and then it all moves so fast.

His eyes drop to your lips, his hand slides across your neck and onto the back of your head, and the next thing you know, he's pulling your mouth to him.

He kisses you. Hard.

Your fingers dig into his strong thighs as you teeter forward. He angles his head to reach you deeper, his lips slipping between yours over and over and over again. Carried away by the moment, you swipe your tongue over his lower lip. He chuckles into your mouth, the sound low and gravelly. Goosebumps raise on your skin. He opens his mouth for you, and his free hand wraps around your arm.

You yelp when he jerks you forward. Your chest hits his with a thud. His hands are quick to curve around the backs of your thighs, maneuvering you onto his lap. Now straddling him, you wrap your greedy little fingers around his biceps.

He tilts his head back, giving you a different angle to taste him. You drop your hips, sitting yourself on top of his body. His fingertips dig into your thighs, creeping closer and closer to your ass.

You slide your hands under the hem of his shirt, frantically tugging it upward. He lifts his arms, and you pull it off. You bite your lip at the sight of him, skin smooth and muscled. Your hands move to his body like a magnet, and you whimper as you run your touch over his chest and stomach.

His lips attach to your jaw, trailing down to your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Your head falls back, mouth dropping open shamelessly. One of his hands slides onto your back to support you while he attacks your throat. His tongue licks stripes over your skin. He pulls at the hem of your shirt, shoving it aside to reveal part of your shoulder. A moan escapes your lips as he sucks on the sensitive spot where your neck and shoulder meet. You can't help your hips as they shift on him. He grunts, his lips slipping from your neck.

Your eyes flash open, meeting his immediately. His chest heaves as he looks up at you, eyes blown wide.

"I thought I was over this—over you,” Yeosang says, voice rasped. He smirks. "But I'm not."

He surges forward, flipping you so that you're on your back on the floor with him on top of you. You instinctually wrap your legs around his waist to draw him closer. He responds by resuming his work on your neck.

You obediently tilt your head to the side to give him unrestricted access to your skin. Your touch snakes onto his back, fingertips tracing the chords of his muscles as his body expertly shifts above you. One of his hands slips onto the outside of your thigh, holding your leg against his hip.

"I'm in love with you, too," you blurt, out of breath. "I think I've always loved you. When I made you kiss me on the playground...since then. Every hour of every day."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating with heat against your neck.

"The kiss was that good, huh?"

You giggle, punching his arm, but inhale sharply when he catches your skin between his teeth. Your palms greedily slide over his skin in response.

"You've gotten a little better since then," you say teasingly. "And bigger."

He laughs again, freeing your neck. He braces himself on one arm as he looks down at you. You squirm underneath him as his glazed-over eyes size you up.

"Is this real?" he mutters.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I've dreamed about this for years, wondering what it would feel like."

"What what would feel like?"

"Loving you fully. Having you love me back. It doesn't feel possible."

Your heart aches, swelling with affection. You reach up to cup his cheek, tucking his hair behind his ear.

"It's real, Sangie. From now on, as long as you love me, I'll love you back. I promise. Do you promise, too?"

You hold your hand out, pinky outstretched. He chuckles but hooks his finger in yours. You curl your digits together, interlocking them firmly.

"Promise."

taglist: //

[ram-bles]

a crumb of nsfw daisuke?

daisuke x reader | headcanons

requests/inbox: open

[ 🔞 minors dni ]

woah. from sweet to spicy. ill give this a try!

wrote this on mobile, sorry for the fuckass formatting.

gender neutral reader. sillies. lots of sillies. weed mention (like once).

🌺 c'mon, he somehow sneaked in some of his secret stash'a magazines. he's still a guy after all.

"Dai?" "Yeah?" He's busy on his Gameboy, but he acknowledges you, tilting his body to show his face but his eyes were glued to the screen. "Did you steal these porn mags from Jimmy or someth—" A pink blur suddenly pushes you away, using his feet to kick it back under his bed. "DUDE. PRIVACY. C'MON NOW."

🌺 You've probably caught him once or twice even before you two were a thing. It wasn't hard to, after all, you both shared a room.

Too lost in the sauce to even notice you, so you had to clear your throat. You've never seen someone so shocked to the point he doesn't know whether to shove his dick back in his pants, hide under the blankets, or try to do both at the same time but completely failing. He's stuttering your name out along with strings of apologies. Don't get your dick caught in your zipper now, Daisuke. "I didn't know you were there! Shitshitshit- I'm so so sorry- Aghhhh." He felt pathetic, whining in embarrassment. Daisuke ends up just pulling the blanket over the entirety of him. "You could've just asked me for help, y'know." He stares at you, scandalized as if he wasn't rubbing one off just moments ago. "How the fuck was I s'posed to know?!" You shrug, amused. "Dunno." "Man, fuck youuuu." "Happily." "Get over here already, please!"

🌺 Outside internship though? Weed before sex seems like something he'd do. I can't explain why.

🌺 Feeling his rings on you... in many ways.

🌺 Pretty sure we all agree that he's into praising. Both giving and receiving.

🌺 You know he's having lots of fun when the pitch of his voice goes high. Squeaking, voice cracking, whining.

🌺 Speaking of how vocal he is, he's probably loud too. But, since you're in the ship now, he'll try his best to keep it down, either on the pillow or you. He'll also be rambling about random things just so he doesn't finish early.

🌺 Dirty talking? ❌ He'll be cringing like there's no tomorrow. He'll make a discord (or whatever equivalent) kitten joke about it if he does.

🌺 Unintentional dirty talking though... That's another story. Or should I rephrase, more-so leaning towards cussing.

"Fuck— you're sosososo pretty..." His hands were pressing the back of your knees, folding and spreading your legs for him. He whines your name out, resting his length on your abdomen while he impatiently waits for your permission. "C'mon, pretty. I'll be this deep inside you." - "Feels good. Feels so good." He's panting and rutting into you like a dog. "You should- nh- loosen up a little- shit- if you get any tighter I think I'll cum..."

🌺 Quickies galore. Sure, it's less risky, but with his libido? Anyways, he's pretty easy to please anyways. A round or two would probably be enough for him.

🌺 Wearing his clothes while at it? Mega turn on for him.

🌺 Well, yes his libido is high, but you still need to be straightforward with him. He can't take hints...

"Want head?" "?!? Who's head?!" "YOUR DICK." "YOU'RE CUTTING IT OFF?" "WHAT? NO, I MEANT SUCKING YOUR—" "Good morning to you both too." "CAPTAIN?"

🌺 He loves giving and receiving hickeys. You would have to remind him everytime not to mark too high on your neck.

🌺 His aftercare involves lots of cuddling and lots of smooching.

🌺 Ending with a silly note. The first time you've done it with him, he ended up saying thank you since he didn't know what to do.

[nerdygirlramblings]

omegaverse 141

previous

The following morning, after formation, you have your squad follow you onto the trail that runs around base. The same one Soap had seen you running a few weeks back.

"You didn't tell us we be runnin' today, Sarge," Geoffrey says, barely concealing a whine.

You chuckle to yourself and roll your eyes. Glancing over your shoulder you ask, "When have I led ya wrong?" Your squad is quiet behind you. They may not want to socialize with you as an omega, but there's no denying you've been getting the job done. "Brought ya out here cuz I wanted to talk. And to do it without any alphas or other CO's around."

There's some muttering behind you, not loud enough to make anything out, but not quiet enough to dismiss either. You notice a change in the air around you. Though they're betas and have learned how to project their calming scent, most are still working on controlling their fear and distress. You can smell the slightly sour milk and rush to allay their worries.

You turn to face them and say, "You're not in trouble! We are not in trouble." You face the trail again and resume your walk, talking as you go, "But something's come up, and it impacts everyone." You pick up your pace ever so slightly . You're looking for the clearing you'd passed the first time you ran here. It's a little space set off from the main trail, big enough for a few people to camp or for a squad to meet. You want to get there quickly to have this whole conversation out rather than dropping breadcrumbs. Your squad deserves that.

Once everyone is off the trail and standing around you, you tell them about the offer you've received from the 141. "Oh my God," Molly whispers, awe in her voice. "There, like, the best!"

You bob your head in acknowledgment and respond, "Some of, yes." It's clear that your squad doesn't understand the full implications of you joining the 141. So you lay it out for them. "If I take this opportunity, they'll pull me as your CO. Captain Price said -"

A voice interrupts, "You mean you actually talked to Captain Price?!?" You smile self-indulgently remembering how awed you were when the man first approached you.

"Yes, and 'e said that it's too disruptive for any of the 141 to have a squad of their own. Apparently, we can be called out at any point, and be gone for weeks. It would leave ya without a commanding officer." You look at each member of your squad, meeting everyone's eyes. "If I do this, you'll have a new CO. I don't know who it would be, and I don't know what that would mean for your trainin'. 'At's why I brought ya out here. Wanted to get yer honest take on what this means fer ya." There's some uneasy shuffling as it seems no one wants to quite be honest about their feelings. You remind them that you're not like other COs, and that you're an omega. Not that they need the reminder about either, but it seems to help settle some nerves. "I know it's hard fer ya having an omega as a CO. I know the stigma it carries. While this decision is mine and mine alone, yer time here is impacted by it, so I wanted to know what ya think."

It finally occurs to some members of your squad that they can be honest with you. "Yeah, 's tough around base having you as our CO. There're still a lot of alphas who won't want us on their team because you're the one who is trained us," Connor says.

One by one, your squad shares how they feel about you joining the 141. Some are like Connor and recognize the strain it puts on their careers to have you as their CO. Some are like Molly, excited for your opportunity regardless of what it does for them. Some are like Geoffrey, recognizing how they've struggled and realizing that a different CO, a beta or an alpha who is harsher, will make their time in the military much more difficult.

You get the sense - from what they say and how they smell - that most of your squad have already accepted that you'll leave them. Some may be happy about this because of the way it might benefit them while others simply seem happy for you. You close by telling them to make their way to the shooting range to practice on the Glock 17s. You remind them that after range practice is lunch with the promise of a decision for them by the time you see them in the mess.

"An' I promise, if I do take Captain Price up on his offer, I'll still keep tabs on you. Gotta make sure you all make it through basic as brilliantly as I know you can," you say with a rueful grin.

Your squad disperses from the clearing, making their way in twos and threes back to base, but you hang back. You pull your phone out and call home, finally ready with a decision.

This time it's Mum who answers. She takes one look at your face and shouts off screen to Mama and Dad "We've got a decision!" There's commotion on the other end as Mama and Dad come into frame.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," you say apologetically.

Dad reminds you he's on glorified bedrest, "So either yer Mum or yer Mama is always home. This morning I've got both." He smiles, "But a call from you is never an interruption. Or, if it is, it's the best kind."

Mama nods and leans close to the screen. "So, what did you decide?"

You take a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, and release it slowly. Before you can tell them, Mum says, "Good fer you, love."

"But," you sputter, "Mum...I didn't even tell you-"

"You don't have to, dear," she interrupts. "I can see the decision in your eyes. You're gonna join the task force." You hear the price, and fear, in her voice.

Beside her, Mama nods and tries to hide her emotions. "We're proud of whatever decision you make. And while I'm not happy with how much more dangerous this is, I think it's the right thing for you."

Dad is beaming, but you see the tears caught in his lashes. "Pretty girl, we love you so much! This is such an amazing opportunity for you. And if it feels right, if your omega feels safe, this might be the best thing for you."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

[ellewritesx]

incidental charges

(part four of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: He takes what he wants. You give what's left.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex, degradation, slutshaming, mild discomfort/pain, Harry's really mean, this is an angsty one i'm sorry

A/N: i'm lowkey very proud of this one but oh boy you guys are going to hateee me. i listened to ''i wanna be yours'' by arctic monkeys on repeat while writing this part so i'd 100% recommend listening to that while reading this if you'd enjoy that. let me know your thoughts when you're finished. enjoy (and good luck) x

Word Count: 3,585

...

You know something's wrong the second your phone buzzes. Come over. Now.

Not because the message itself says it, but because of everything it doesn't say. No teasing command. No filthy promise. Not even the ghost of a smiley face, like he sometimes uses when he's feeling particularly cruel. Just three words. Brutal. Unforgiving. Final.

You haven't heard from him in days, and this is how he chooses to reach out?

You shouldn't be this easy. Shouldn't feel your pulse quicken at the first sharp order he throws your way. But you're already tugging on the tightest, prettiest dress you own, already slipping into the shoes you know he likes for some reason, already rushing out the door like he's got a leash around your throat and a hand fisted in it.

You're already thinking about what you can give him, what you can do for him, to make whatever anger is coiled tight in his chest a little easier to bear.

When he opens the door, he barely looks at you.

No greeting. No dragging gaze over your body the way he usually does, savoring the little effort you make just for him. He just steps aside without a word, or even a simple acknowledgement, letting you pass like your presence is something he merely tolerates.

Your stomach drops, but you bite it down. You can handle this. You want to handle this.

Inside, the air feels electric, charged with something hot and volatile. His jacket is already off, thrown carelessly over a chair, like he hadn't even had the patience to put it away properly.

You frown. If there's anything you've learned about Harry since your arrangement started (which isn't much, honestly), it's that he's a very neat person. Never once have you seen his shirts wrinkled, or his tie crooked, or yesterday's clothes still on the floor. Never once have you seen dirty dishes in the sink, or crumbs on the kitchen counter, or even so much as a crinkle in his satin bedsheets.

His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, veins bulging along the strong lines of his tattooed forearms. His jaw ticks once, twice, when he shuts the door behind you with a sharp, echoing click.

You turn to him instinctively, waiting for instruction, heart hammering against your ribs. But he doesn't say anything. He just stalks toward you with a hunger that's almost violent, yanks the strap of your dress down your shoulder, watches it slip halfway off your chest without even a flicker of appreciation.

It's not about how you look tonight. It's not about playing games. It's about need. About taking. About burning something off before it destroys him from the inside out.

You shiver under his hands but don't resist when he manhandles you backwards, walking you clumsily through the apartment toward the bedroom. You nearly trip over yourself, but he doesn't let you fall, just catches your hips in a bruising grip and drags you after him like he can't bear to waste a second more.

Still, you're so good. So desperate to soothe whatever anger he won't name. You don't even speak, just let yourself be pushed down onto the bed, legs falling open when he shoves at your thighs.

You want him to use you. You want to give him something real to anchor himself to.

Even if tonight, he's not reaching for you like a man reaching for salvation. Tonight, he's reaching like he wants to destroy something. And the worst part is, you want to let him.

You don't get a chance to breathe before he's crowding you on the mattress, pulling your dress up to your hips, baring your soaked underwear to his furious gaze.

''Course you're fucking wet,'' he mutters darkly, more to himself than to you, voice a low snarl. ''Knew you'd like being treated like this.''

Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him, let him strip you without so much as a whimper, watch your panties join the discarded pile of clothing on the floor. You spread your thighs wider when he forces your knees apart, giving him whatever he wants to take.

He doesn't even bother teasing you.

Two thick fingers shove inside you, rough and unforgiving, a guttural noise ripping from his throat when he feels how tight you clench down around him. You jolt with a soft cry, hips trying to squirm back from the abrupt stretch, but he's already got a bruising grip on your thigh, holding you down, open, forcing you to take it.

"Stay fucking still," he growls, curling his fingers viciously, seeking out that devastating spot inside you without an ounce of tenderness.

It hurts. It burns. But you take it, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, the sheer need to give him what he needs. Your hands clutch at the sheets, but you don't make a sound except the broken little gasps that slip from your throat when he pumps his hand faster, meaner, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit like he's trying to knock something loose inside you.

"You like that?" he sneers, watching your pretty face contort in helpless pleasure. "Like when I use you like a fuckin' toy?"

"Yes." You take a shaky breath, blinking up at him like he's the only thing that matters.

Something flashes behind his eyes, something sharp and vulnerable, but it's gone before you can catch it.

He pulls his fingers out roughly, shoving them into your mouth without warning, smearing your own slick over your tongue.

"You taste that?" he snaps. "That's what you're good for. The only thing you're good for."

The words land like a punch to the gut. You flinch, just barely, but he sees it. Sees the way your lashes flutter, the way hurt flashes in your eyes before you try to tamp it down.

He knows you don't like being talked to like that. He remembers. Knows exactly how much the insult must burn, sharp and humiliating on your tongue alongside the taste of yourself.

He wants it to hurt. Wants you to push him away, to finally shove him off and tell him to go fuck himself. Wants you to be angry with him, to look at him like he's the piece of shit he feels like tonight. It would be easier if you hated him. It would be safer.

But you don't.

You just suck his fingers obediently into your mouth, wide-eyed and willing, even as your throat tightens against the sting of his words. You take it, not because you don't feel it, but because you choose to stay anyway.

And that... that ruins him in a way he isn't prepared for.

Something almost like shame sparks behind his ribs, fast and unwelcome, but he smothers it down with the same furious instinct that made him lash out in the first place.

You don't fight him. You don't pull away, even when he fists your hair and drags you down to your knees on the floor at the edge of the bed.

"Open up," he orders, shrugging his pants and briefs off and tapping the thick head of his cock against your lips.

You do, without hesitation.

He groans brokenly under his breath as he drives himself into your mouth, too deep, too fast. Your throat strains around him, gagging, tears spilling hot and immediate down your cheeks, but you don't fight him. You dig your nails into his thighs and take it, blinking up at him through the wet haze clouding your vision, hollowing your cheeks even when you're fighting not to choke.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out, hips snapping hard enough to make you whimper around him. "Good little slut, lettin' me ruin you however I want. Aren't you, hm?"

The word slut cracks across your mind like a whip. You feel it hit, low and sharp, like scraping across an old bruise he promised he wouldn't touch. You'd told him. That night at the bar, when you first met, so many lifetimes ago, you'd told him that you don't like to be called names. That you take offense to it.

It makes something in your chest lurch, a bitter twist of hurt, betrayal, humiliation, and for one savage second you genuinely consider violently sinking your teeth into him.

You don't.

You dig your nails into your own palms instead, grounding yourself in the sting. You keep your jaw slack, let him fuck your throat, let him call you names you hate, because some wounded, stubborn part of you knows that's what he's trying to make you do. Trying to make you angry enough to leave. Trying to push you away.

He's picking a fight you refuse to give him.

And the longer you stay, the softer you look at him, tears slipping from your lashes, tongue still willing under the ugly words, the harder he fucks into you, like he can beat the tenderness out of you.

It hurts. It's messy and unrelenting and mean, but still, you look up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. You want him to know that you're here. That he can show you this side of himself. That you can be whatever outlet he needs you to be tonight.

You reach up, fingers mindlessly rubbing slow circles on the skin of his thighs, something to ground yourself, and him, while he uses your mouth like it's nothing but a hole to fuck.

And he feels it, the softness, the care threading through every touch. He jerks away suddenly, pulling out of your mouth with a wet, brutal pop, staring down at you like he doesn't understand you at all.

Then he's hauling you back onto the bed, shoving you down on your back so hard the air punches from your lungs. You barely catch your breath before he's wedging himself between your thighs, lining himself up, no teasing now, no patience.

"You want it?" he rasps, voice low and raw.

"Yes," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck instinctively, letting your legs fall open wider to invite him in.

He snarls under his breath like he hates how sweet you are to him. Then he drives into you with one savage thrust.

You cry out, back arching off the bed, hands clinging to him for dear life. He's huge, stretching you painfully wide, filling every inch like he wants to break you in half. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping into you again and again, every thrust shoving you further up the mattress.

You cling to him anyway, one hand splaying against the sweaty plane of his back, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex with every furious movement.

You whisper to him between gasps, between whimpers. "It's okay, Harry. You can let go. I've got you. I'm here."

He groans low and vicious in your ear, fucking you harder to shut you up, but you swear you feel the tiniest shudder run through him.

You cradle his head to your shoulder, scratching your nails lightly over the short hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring soft praises between each wrecked moan.

"So good to me," you pant, kissing the shell of his ear, tightening your thighs around his hips. "You're perfect. Always so perfect."

His rhythm stutters.

Just for a second. Just a beat of hesitation. But you feel it. He buries his face in your neck like he can hide from it, from you, like if he just fucks you harder, he can fuck the weakness out of himself.

But it's too late.

You feel the anger melt into something messier, something achingly close to desperation, to want. You don't comment on it.

He slams into you harder, rougher, chasing his own release now, trying to outrun the gnawing ache swelling in his chest.

You don't stop touching him.

You don't stop whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

You just hold him, even when it hurts, even when your body is shaking from the force of his thrusts, even when you're barely holding yourself together at the seams.

And maybe that's what finally breaks him.

Because when he comes, buried deep inside you with a feral, broken sound, he doesn't even look at you.

And it stings.

It stings more than the bruising grip he's left on your hips, more than the ache between your legs where he's used you so carelessly.

Because Harry is always big on eye contact, he demands it. "Look at me, baby. Need to see you." "Eyes on me when you come." ''Show me those pretty eyes. There you are.''

He always wants you look at him. Needs you to, like the tether between you would snap otherwise.

But now, when you're lying underneath him trembling and cracked open, when you've given him every piece of yourself, he twists his head away, toward the wall, eyes screwed tight like he can't even stand the sight of you.

It guts you. Leaves you hollow and shaking, your orgasm wilting quietly inside you.

And somewhere, deep down, though he won't let himself feel it, it guts him too. Because he knows if he looks, if he really looks at the way you're still holding him, still whispering broken little praises under your breath despite your own pleasure fading, still caressing his skin like something sacred despite your own body tensing up.

So he looks away.

And it feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to you.

He pulls out while you're still gasping for breath, yanks his pants up without a word, and disappears into the bathroom with the door slamming shut behind him.

The emptiness he leaves behind feels colder than any punishment he's ever given you. You blink up at the ceiling, heart splintering slowly in your chest, the mess between your thighs a humiliating, aching reminder that whatever has cracked open between you, he wants no part of it.

...

When he comes back, he doesn't say a word.

The bathroom light is still on behind him, casting a clinical glow across the floorboards, and his hair is a mess, cheeks blotchy from scrubbing. He won't meet your eyes.

He walks back into the bedroom like it doesn't belong to either of you, like it's a hotel room he's just checked into and you're the unfortunate occupant they forgot to remove first.

The air goes stiff.

You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, heart thudding unevenly. You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe a quiet, reluctant, apology, maybe an awkward attempt at a joke, maybe just for him to lie back down and act like it never happened, but none of it comes.

Instead, he leans down to grab his phone off the nightstand. His screen lights up his face in a wash of cold blue, making him look even more unreadable, if that's possible. You watch the way his jaw tightens. His shoulders twitch like he's chewing back something awful. He doesn't look at you once.

''Are you coming back to bed?'' you ask, voice hesitant and small, and you immediately hate yourself for how it sounds. Like you're begging.

The silence that follows is thick and sour. It curls between your ribs and settles there, anchoring itself to your shame. He doesn't even glance at you. Doesn't ask if he hurt you, physically or otherwise, doesn't acknowledge the way your hands tremble slightly as you pull the blanket up to your chest, covering yourself like you can shield yourself from whatever's happening between you right now.

''Did I do something wrong?'' you whisper nervously. You wish you didn't care. You wish you could swing your legs out of bed and leave first, say fuck you and mean it. But instead you just sit there, quiet and insecure and hurting.

He finally looks at you, just a flicker, a glance, eyes dark and unreadable.

''No,'' he says after a beat, and it's somehow worse than if he'd said yes.

Because if you'd done something wrong, at least there'd be a reason. A fix. A way back.

''No,'' he repeats, turning away, ''You were perfect.''

It should be comforting, but it sounds like an accusation.

You watch him tug on a hoodie from the floor, and you notice his fingers are shaking slightly, though he hides it well. Everything about him is tight, movements too stiff, face too blank, like he's holding himself together by force.

''Harry…''

''I think you should go,'' he says, and it's sharp. Clipped. Dismissive. And it hurts. So much.

You blink. ''What?''

He doesn't repeat it. Just tosses your clothes at you, like throwing you out after fucking you raw is part of the routine. Like your heart isn't currently trying to crawl out of your chest and disappear under the floorboards.

''You said I should stay,'' you remind him, because that's all you can cling to now, his own words, said so easily just days ago when his hands were still gentle and his voice was still kind. ''You said I should always stay after a night together. That it's the respectable thing to do. That you don't want to worry about me out alone at night.''

''I changed my mind.''

He still won't look at you. Like looking at you would make this real. Like your presence is something he has to ignore completely to make this easier on himself. Like he's already rehearsed this moment and now he's just waiting for it to be over.

You try again, your voice cracking, soft. ''Harry, please—''

''I'm not in the mood,'' he cuts in, leaving no room for discussion. ''Just go. I got you an Uber. Don't make this harder than it has to be.''

Panic flares under your skin. Instinct more than reason, you move without thinking, pulling your dress up your body in hurried motions, struggling to zip yourself up. It's something Harry usually does for you, always making a show of it, always making sure to kiss your shoulder before stepping away.

You give up on the zipper halfway. You just want to fix this, want to make it better, the way you always do.

Before he can tell you to leave again, you step forward, reaching for him, sliding your arms gently around his waist from behind. You press your cheek to the broad curve of his back, kiss the spot between his shoulder blades the way you always do when he's upset, when he's stressed, when he's somewhere you can't reach with words alone.

For a second, you think he might let you. But then his body stiffens under your touch, breath hitching, shallow in his chest.

And he flinches.

He jerks away from you like you've burned him, shoulder twisting sharply out of your grasp, shrugging you off like you're something repulsive he can't stand to have near him. You stumble back a step, arms falling uselessly to your sides, blinking at him in shock.

''Don't,'' he says, voice low and vicious. ''Just... don't touch me.''

The words taste like blood in his mouth. Everything inside him screams at him to take them back, to reach for you, to apologize, to fall into your arms the way he always, always, wants to when it's you. But his walls are up now, higher than ever, and he doesn't know how to tear them down without destroying himself in the process.

So he stands there, rigid and silent, forcing himself to feel nothing as he watches the hurt bloom raw across your face.

It's not just the words. It's the way he spits them out, like your touch is something filthy. Like you're some desperate, clingy thing he can't shake fast enough.

Your chest caves in on itself. You nod, even though it feels like your heart is physically tearing apart. You don't try again. You don't say anything at all.

He doesn't either.

There's something feral in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like desperate frustration. Like he's trying to get you to hate him. Like he needs to burn this bridge before you get any closer to the parts of him he can't control.

He sees the heartbreak behind your eyes. You know he does. You see the flicker of guilt, tiny, barely there, before he crushes it down and tosses another dagger instead.

''You should be used to this by now,'' he mutters. ''Not like this is anything serious.''

It's the worst thing he could've said. And you know he knows it. You know because he still doesn't look at you. Because he throws the words like knives and doesn't wait to see where they land.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, nod slowly, eyes burning. Your body still aches, slick between your thighs, bruises blooming from where he held you down, and now he's pretending you're no one. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn't try to hold him together while he was falling apart inside of you.

You grab your phone without another word.

Your look for your bag, but you don't ask for help, don't let him see you search for it. You keep your head up. Refuse to cry in front of him. Not now. Not after this.

And when you walk out, heart in your throat, clutching your bag, you don't look back.

He doesn't either.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc

...

[suiana]

yandere! mimic and reader who does NOT give a shit. you've seen them on tiktok, seen how they copy people's voices and use it to do some freaky shit.

you just never expected it to happen to you.

"come over. come over. come over."

unfortunately this mimic copied YOUR voice. and what? you're expected to be scared of it?? scared of your voice???

fuck no.

you know you're not supposed to respond, not supposed to acknowledge them at all. but how can you not when your voice is literally coming from behind that door??

also have i mentioned that it's been weeks? yes, weeks since you started hearing your own voice ask for you to acknowledge it. what the hell is this mimic doing?

today you've finally had enough.

"bro if you're gonna use my voice that's fine. but at least pay rent if you're staying in my house."

a beat.

"𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮."

"excuse me?"

um... what the hell just happened? did this... entity literally tell you... fuck you???

you... can't believe you're about to start beefing with something that could ruin your life in seconds. but it must be done. so you decide to square up... in your bed. yes, you've adopted the optimal position to get back at this thing. that is to lay on your side while hugging your plushie with one leg propped up.

"okay rude, no fuck you."

"𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮."

"fuck YOU."

"𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐞."

"what?"

okay erm... well at least you know this thing isn't going to kill you now..? nevermind, you think you'd rather have that because why do you feel an ominous presence nearing your bedroom? uh... ahaha...

"𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐞."

there, in front of you, is a near identical version of yourself staring down at you with the freakiest expression you could ever think of. in the same voice, it's asking you to fuck it. everything down to the smallest details is the same. the curve of your cheek, the messy hair... wait you lowkey look kind of good...?

is this... selfcest?

"you know i lowkey wanna try fucking myself..."

"𝐨𝐡…"

and then the picture of beauty is washed away by some ghostly looking man that does NOT seem pleased with your answer. okay, maybe if he didn't talk with times new roman font size 12 you wouldn't give a shit.

"𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝."

"bro you were asking to be fucked by me wdym scared"

"𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄."

and now he's... thrashing your room??? wtf dude at least pay rent first???

"𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞! 𝐧𝐨𝐭… 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬! 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞!"

"boy if you don't stop making my room messy i'll do more than just fuck my reflection."

that gets his attention. he pauses, eyes wide before he lets out a growl. woah boy! you roll your eyes at him, rolling onto your other side for maximum comfort.

"if you wanted me to fall for you, you should've chose a different form man. weirdo."

and then you start gooning everywhere #massivedih #dontneedamantogoon

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Since you've mentioned Scarlet Lady in one of your posts, what's your opinion on it?

I've mentioned before that I'm a big Scarlet Lady fan, which is the only reason that I'm comfortable answering asks like this one. I don't publicly criticize the content of hobby creators. That's wildly inappropriate! Punch up, not down.

The linked post was a general discussion of the adaptation process and how @zoe-oneesama did a fantastic job, so for this one, I'm just going to do some general gushing because I do actually like praising and enjoying things!

Scarlet Lady's chosen format (comic) allows it to have this wonderful conversation with canon where it can rely on the framework of canon to tell it's own story while also using canon for jokes and meta commentary. This means that Scarlet Lady is about as close as fan content can get to a direct reboot because it's able to have moments like this one from the comic's first post:

[Image description: Adrien standing in his room after transforming into Chat Noir for the first time. He is beaming and his eyes are shining with excitement as he exclaims, "This is gonna be awesome!"]

A single picture that communicates everything we need to know about Adrien getting his miraculous. When I've done this same thing in fanfic, I had to write out the full scene because that's how novels work. You have to give the full picture. With a comic, you can just quickly acknowledge this thing that we all already know and then move on to the new stuff. A picture really is worth a thousand words! (Or, in my case, more like two thousand...)

This allows Zoe to keep the same akumas that we get in canon without her story feeling like a boring rehash because she can focus on what's different in her version. A novelization of the same content would have to show both the stuff that stays the same and the stuff that changes for it to be coherent. That's a lot less fun to read and write. It's why I basically never revisit canon akumas in my own stuff. It's just too derivative for the written word.

This is one of the big reasons that I loved Scarlet Lady. Because it was able to have that more directly conversation with canon, it was able to take canon and say, "hey, why don't we embrace the tone that you established in season one and retell the story with that vibe?" That's something that I desperately wanted to see, but that is totally unsuited to my chosen artistic form. It couldn't be a novel. It had to be a comic.

If you want to know what a true formula show version of Miraculous would look like, Scarlet Lady is it. It does everything that Miraculous should have done:

Sticks to a lighthearted tone where nothing is ever super serious

Keeps Gabriel entirely unsympathetic

Has slow character development and background hints at a bigger plot as the only serial elements, allowing the individual episodes to be their own story while never feeling incomplete or rushed

Allows characters other than Marinette to shine while keeping Marinette as the clear main character

Makes Adrien narratively important

MAKES THE LOVE SQUARE CUTE SO I CAN ACTUALLY SHIP IT

Understands that Lila and Chloe can't coexist as antagonists

Reverses the love square, which is the best way to tell their story. Yes, I will die on my "love diamond" hill. It's a good hill. Come join me. I'll bring cookies.

I could keep going, but you hopefully get my point. While Scarlet Lady is certainly not the only way to do a formula version of canon, it's proof that a formula version does work! You don't have to go the serious route for Miraculous to be successful.

I want to take some time to gush about the ending, but I don't want to spoil it, so I'll put that gushing under a "read more" in case anyone hasn't seen it. I'll finish out this less spoilerish section with this:

I feel like some people are surprised when they learn that I love Scarlet Lady because - as some of you have probably picked up - it is quite different from my ideal version of canon. I'm not sure why that would stop me from enjoying a thing, though. It's important to remember that our personal ideals are not the only way to tell a good story. There are lots of ways to take what canon gave us and make something wonderful! It's part of the reason that I enjoy being in a fandom.

If I only wanted to see my ideal take on canon, then I'd stick to writing/imagining my own stories. But I don't want that! I like seeing alternate takes, too. Scarlet Lady is one of my personal favorites. It's completely different from anything that I'd ever think to write and that's why I'm so glad that it exists! I like being entertained just as much as I like creating my own entertainment and I don't want to only read stories that look like something I'd write. That's boring!

Spoilers below:

I've mentioned before that there are many, many ways to properly handle Chloe's character and Zoe did such a good job with her take on that! Chloe isn't absolved of all the things she did wrong, but she's also treated as a young woman with the ability to change.

While the comic bares the name of Chloe's alter ego, she was the never the main character. She never went on a journey. The story kept her to her shallow season-one self: a petty brat who just wanted attention. It did this because that's who Chloe was in canon and who Chloe needed to be for the comic to work.

The first time we see any complexity from Chloe is in the comic's final few episodes, which was absolutely the right call for Zoe to make! In a recent post, I talked about how the end of a formula show is the only time when you can break the formula in catastrophic ways and that's what Zoe did. She kept Chloe static until it was time to end the story and that's when the formula breaks. That's when Chloe gets depth because, once she has depth, the formula doesn't work.

That depth is not used to redeem Chloe, but to show us that there's hope for Chloe. That this petty brat who we've been dealing with has some serious issues and needs help. Help that she's going to get far away from the people that she's hurt because her issues aren't an excuse for what she's done. They don't erase the harm that she caused. At the same time, understanding her issues makes us hope that she can be better now and Scarlet Lady took a moment to give us that hope. To show us the START of Chloe's true story.

That is the kind of ending that I have wanted to see in so many properties!!! It was so wonderful to finally get one that did this right. A story that understood that full redemption to the team and damnation to death/suffering are extremes on a scale of possibilities. You don't have to go to extremes! You can fall in the middle and the middle is a perfect, natural place for Chloe to land in this kind of story. Fully redeeming or even fully damning Chloe simply doesn't work in lighthearted formula content. It's too big a lift as canon has already demonstrated.

I also loved Zoe's take on Emilie. I've mentioned that I don't like evil Emilie in part because it makes her revival feel like the start of a new story. She's back and she'd bad, so we have to take her down now! But I don't want that. I want the story to end when Gabriel is stopped. Zoe does this by giving us an Emilie that is another perfect middle ground. She matches canon's uncomfortable implications without feeling like a true villain who is a threat to society.