#but maybe it's less projection and more reflection)

[bravevolunteer-a]

ngl every time i see the "cis" in michael's bio it feels. Wrong. like i see it and i go "i'm probably gonna non conform his gender one of these days"

[undercoverxs]

[non-un-topo]

I have roughly 9 assignments due in the next 4 weeks, why am I not losing my mind?

[teaboot]

"I don't believe Tarot is real, but it does work"

Expand on that, king (genuinely curious)

I feel like…

okay, so it’s a lot like conceptual art, or like introspective meditation, at the risk of sounding pretentious

Like. It’s not so much about “the cards are a portal to a higher wisdom that knows more than me” thing- it’s more of a, “given the symbols drawn, could I interpret them posing a question or possibility or suggestion?” Followed by, “is this applicable to my current context? COULD it be?”

Like.

I don’t lay out á tarot hand and say “ah yes, the devil and the tower, I am about to be betrayed”

But I MAY lay out a hand and say, “okay, devil and the tower. Something treacherous and danger. Am I approaching a treacherous or risky situation in my life? What might be a tipping factor? Am I being deliberately reckless? Maybe I should spend some more time working on X project I’ e been thinking of before spending money on it” or “you know what, I HAVE been kind of uncomfortable with X thing, I should say something” or “yeah okay I KNOW Tom from work sucks to work with, I KNOW, yeah maybe I should consider ways of handling that”

Less of a magic oracle, more of a tool for doing literary analysis on real life. Like simplifying everything and laying it out flat so I can gain some distance to untangle my problems without in-your-head crap like projected feelings and social obligation getting in the way and muddying the waters.

So like. I don’t think tarot cards can legit tell the future, but I DO think that self-reflection, mindfulness, and consideration sometimes allow us to predict and calculate our own circumstances.

So, IMO- It’s not real. But it works

If that makes sense

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown 🌑 Lilith in the Houses

There’s a part of you that doesn’t ask for permission. A part that remembers what it felt like to be silenced, shamed, exiled, for simply being whole. That part has a name: Lilith.

In your birth chart, Lilith shows where you’ve been told your power is “too much.” Too loud. Too angry. Too sensual. Too intuitive. It’s where you carry a refusal to shrink, even when doing so would make you easier to love.

1st House

They noticed you before you had the chance to know who you were. You were named, labeled, sexualized, misunderstood, before you even chose your own reflection. People projected onto you what they feared or wanted. You learned to either shrink or fight back, but either way, you were never neutral. Lilith here isn’t asking for softness, she’s asking for ownership. You don’t have to be likeable to be real.

2nd House

You were told to want less. Need less. Be grateful. You learned that wanting more made you selfish. That pleasure had a price, and value had to be earned. So you kept shrinking your needs until they looked polite enough to keep. Lilith here is done with that. Your body knows what it’s worth. Your hunger is not a flaw, it’s a compass.

3rd House

You learned to bite your tongue before your words ever found their edge. Maybe you spoke up too soon. Or too much. Maybe you were told to keep the peace. Or stay small. Lilith here holds the grief of being silenced before your truth could bloom. But that truth? It's still there. And it doesn’t need permission to be said anymore. You don’t have to be digestible to be understood.

4th House

You made yourself quiet to be loved. Love came with rules: be good, be still, don’t ask for too much. Lilith here carries the ache of inherited shame, the kind that gets passed through generations like china: fragile, silent, sacred. But you weren’t born to carry your lineage’s guilt. You were born to end it. You are allowed to be safe without being small.

5th House

You learned to edit your joy. You turned the volume down on your radiance. Because someone said it made you “too much,” “too loud,” “too visible.” Lilith in the 5th remembers a time when being seen was dangerous. But she’s also the voice that says: Be bright anyway. Be messy, be wild, be luminous. And stop apologizing for the art of simply being alive.

6th House

You were taught to disappear into service. Your usefulness became your identity. You overperformed. Overextended. Overgave. And somewhere in the repetition, you forgot what it felt like to just exist. Lilith here is tired of being a machine. She demands that you stop calling self-sacrifice love. You don’t owe anyone your depletion.

7th House

You kept abandoning yourself for love that didn’t know how to stay. You played roles, softened edges, dimmed your truth to stay chosen. But Lilith in the 7th house holds a mirror to every relationship that asked you to disappear. She doesn’t want revenge. She wants recognition. Love doesn’t mean losing yourself. You can be chosen without being edited.

8th House

You were taught that power lives in secrecy. But secrets become cages. You’ve seen how intimacy turns to control. How sex can become currency. How silence can rot you from the inside. Lilith in the 8th wants the whole truth. Even if it shatters the illusion. You’re not here to perform closeness. You’re here to reclaim it.

9th House

You were told what to believe. Who to be. What to worship. But your soul doesn’t follow rules, it follows resonance. Lilith here sets fire to false teachers, empty doctrines, and the quiet ways belief has been weaponized. You don’t want to rebel. You want to be free. And freedom starts with trusting your own questions more than their answers.

10th House

You’ve been punished for your ambition. Or worse, praised for it in ways that felt like control. You’ve been told to behave. To lead politely. To climb without taking up space. Lilith in the 10th house isn’t interested in pleasing the system. She wants to dismantle it. You don’t owe the world a sanitized version of success. You’re allowed to lead in a way that doesn’t leave you empty.

11th House

You’ve learned what it means to be tolerated instead of truly seen. Lilith here has been exiled from the group. Not because she was wrong, but because she was inconvenient. Your vision makes people uncomfortable. Your truth challenges the collective script. Good. This is where you stop trying to fit in. And start building spaces where you never have to ask if you belong.

12th House

You’ve hidden so much of yourself you forgot what was yours. Lilith in the 12th house is a quiet scream. She’s the part of you that still flinches when you feel too much, want too much, remember too deeply. But she doesn’t want to be healed. She wants to be held. This is where you stop exiling your shadow. And finally let the unseen be sacred again.

🌙 Your birth chart holds more than traits — it holds truth. 📖 Decode it with my book, step by step.

[dollfacefantasy]

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL ♡

pairing: homelander x fem!reader

summary: homelander has taken an interest in you, vought's new intern. no matter how you look at it, as a good or bad thing, it ends the same way: him getting what he wants.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, dubcon, p in v, oral (m receiving), body worship, sir kink, obsessive behavior, manipulation/coercion, age gap (reader in early 20s)

wc: 7.7k (oops lol)

a/n: hehe. never thought i would write for this man but it was pretty fun :) comm for my sweet beloved @gor3-hound love you so very much mwah mwah <33

At the junction of the V-shaped table, Homelander sat. With his back to the skyline and his gloved hands folded in front of him, he held the posture of a statue. Ashley had been rambling on and on and fucking on for the past five minutes about shit he couldn't care less about. Her nasally voice bounced off the tile floors and painted ceiling, ricocheting around him like a rogue bullet. Only his impregnable skin didn't protect him from the discomfort of this situation.

It was moments like these that really made him regret killing Stillwell.

That woman knew how to handle things. As manipulative as she could be, at least she wasn't absolutely insufferable. How could Stan let Ashley replace her? She was a poor excuse of just about everything. Absolutely spineless, unintelligent, reactionary, and opportunistic. He really couldn't picture any person on this Earth genuinely liking her.

However in the midst of his mental complaints, he realized that the annoying sound of her speaking was directed at him. All the other stares in the room were zeroed in on him too. A-Train observed in cautious silence. Noir's goggles reflected Homelander's own image right back at him. Maeve judged with a sideways glance. And Starlight prepared for the worst.

He tore his own bright blue eyes from the door opposite the table and refocused them on Ashley. They scanned over her thinning ginger locks down to her gaudy outfit - a piss poor attempt at imitating power.

"What?" he asked, his voice cutting through the air with a force similar to one of Maeve's swords.

Ashley blinked in return. Fear swirled in her wide eyes. She tried to maintain that empowered appearance she so desperately wished was real, but he could see the innate urge to cower bubbling within her.

"Was that lineup for the funeral ok with you, Homelander? A-Train and Noir open, Starlight sings, and then you close?" she repeated.

Now it was his turn to blink. Like he could actually give a shit about the order of segments for Translucent's funeral. He swallowed hard. While she projected a mirage of power, he had to do the same with level-headedness.

"That's fine, Ashley. Have those two go first, and Starlight can follow up with Amazing Grace or whatever shitty hymns they teach in that hick town she's from, and then I can finish us out," he responded.

He could see how her knuckles were going white around the edge of her clipboard. She gripped it for comfort, as if that could save her from his potential wrath. It only irritated him more. If he wanted her dead, he would turn her to ashes where she stood. How hard she braced herself in advance wouldn't matter in the slightest. But people could be so foolish in moments of terror.

"Well speaking of that," she said before clearing her throat, an attempt at a natural transition, "We were trying to decide what song she would sing. Maybe one of our originals? Or do you think it would be more tasteful to go with something from an outside source?"

Gritting his teeth, he buried the urge to unleash the bright beams of red from his sockets. His hands slid off one another and pressed down onto the cool table.

"Do you really need me to decide what song is going to send Translucent to the grave?" he replied, "I don't care what you play, and no one else attending will either. They'll be focused on working up some tears for the useless dipshit they never had the displeasure of knowing. Instead of trying to gain their approval, we should be working on finding the next member of the Seven who can replace him. There's no use dwelling on the past. We need to be preparing for the future."

He paused to let his words permeate the room, giving everyone a chance to absorb the sentiment and adapt accordingly. With his pupils still trained on Ashley, he planned on continuing his tirade, but his train of thought came to an abrupt halt.

Soft pitter-patters of footsteps clacked down the hall outside this room. They sounded in a delicate rhythm, only audible to him. As they grew louder, he caught the scent of the source too. Airy and light. A stark contrast to the brash perfume Ashley doused herself in.

The doors at the front of the room slid apart to reveal you.

You stood there for a moment. The realization that you'd interrupted something was visible in your eyes. The small spheres cast down as you wobbled in like a fawn that sensed wolves watching from nearby.

Ashley turned to face you, a glower already set on her features. The resentment she held for everyone else in this building awoke from its usual dormant slumber because there was finally someone weaker she could take it out on.

Once you reached her, your hand rose and gave her a thin stack of papers. 

"I'm sorry for interrupting. It's a memo from 82. They made it sound urgent," you explained, everything about your temperament meek and timid.

After a brief pause to let you marinate in the few moments before your inevitable humiliation, she snatched the papers from you. Her eyes roamed over the page with disinterest. Even if the information conveyed by the small black letters was important, he doubted she would give it any reaction. She wanted to lash out, and she was going to, whether it was justified or not.

"They couldn't have emailed me this?" she snapped, as if that was something you could control.

"I don't know. I'm sorry. I'll check next time," you offered.

"You better or you'll run out of next times," she threatened, "Incompetence like this won't fly here. You're in the big leagues now, so act like it. Think before you do something instead of taking commands like a lap dog."

"I'm sorry," you replied, ducking your head again.

"Don't be sorry, just do better," she commanded.

"I will," you agreed.

"Good. Just get out of here now. Go pick up my lunch," she told you.

His lips curled into a scowl as he watched the scene play out. It was pathetic - not you, but Ashley. He hated seeing the fucking smirk on her face as you walked away. She had nothing to be smug about. She was nothing more than a feral coyote going after the scraps the other predators didn't take.

To make matters worse, when she returned her attention to the group at the table, she saw the look on his face. She saw the disdain, but instead of striking regret into her, it only deepened her sense of self-satisfaction.

She thought the look was for you. That he was disgusted with your mistake. Annoyed with your intrusion.

He couldn't have that. Not when that assumption was the farthest thing from the truth. Honestly, he didn't know if he was even capable of feeling such ire towards you. Not his precious little fawn.

Rising from his seat, his glare remained on Ashley. She did show a little fear then.

"You know, I don't have all day, Ashley. I'll open Translucent's funeral, Starlight will follow up with a song, and that will be it. A-Train and Noir can have the day off, because let's be honest, nobody will give shit either way," he mocked.

"But, sir-" she said, clearly confused by his sudden impending departure.

"I have more important things to deal with. If you need anything else, I'm sure one of the others can help you," he dismissed.

With that, he stepped back from the table and began heading to the doors. He hoped if he was fast enough he could still catch you. Even in a building as sleek and modern as this one, the elevators could be quite slow.

Walking out into the hall, his head swiveled in the direction you would have gone. For once, his own portrait didn't catch his eye. He didn't even think about stopping by Stillwell's office to reminisce. Instead, he just headed down towards the elevator. His red boots thudded across smooth tile in rapid succession, covering the path you'd just taken.

Finally, after a few feet, he spotted you. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Eyes glossy with embarrassment. Tip of your polished shoe tapping against the ground. You startled when his voice boomed across the space, calling out your name. So cute.

You looked at him with fear in your eyes, but disgust didn't fester in the pit of his stomach like it did when others gave him that anxious stare. Another feeling bloomed inside him, one he couldn't really place. It was just that the nervous gleam over your pupils didn't make him hate himself and all the circumstances of his life that put him in his position.

Instead, your wide eyes and pouty lips made him feel strong. You made him feel like a hero. A real one, not the artificial caricature that Vought projected to the world. With you nearby, he felt like the kind of guy who deserved the American flag blowing off his back with a pretty girl cradled in his arms and a dead enemy at his feet. When you gazed up at him, he could only imagine that the pride rushing through his chest and confidence pooling between his hips was the feeling his creators intended for him.

"Did you need something from me, sir?" you asked, reminding him that he actually had to provide a reason to talk to you. Just wanting to stare at you like a psychopath would not suffice unfortunately.

"Oh no," he waved off, "The meeting just finished up. I was heading out too. I saw you, and I realized I haven't really taken the time to get to know you yet, which is unfortunate because I usually like to be familiar with the newer people we have working with us."

A complete lie. Before you, he didn't remember ever giving any of the interns a second glance. They were true nuisances. They were Ashleys.

"Oh... well I'm around whenever you wanna talk. Ashley keeps me busy, but I'm sure I could make an exception for you," you replied.

"You absolutely can make an exception for me," he chuckled, "If Ashley gives you any trouble, just let me know, and I'll make sure she remembers who's really in charge around here."

It wasn't until he heard your heart rate increase that he realized those words probably came off as threatening. Well, they were threatening, but you weren't supposed to see him that way.

"I'm kidding," he forced out with a laugh, "Just joking around like I do... I just don't want you to worry about getting in some kind of trouble for me sniffing around you."

You huffed out an awkward laugh of your own and nodded.  "I'll be sure to make some time for you in the future then and let Ashley know it was at your direction."

"Great," he said with probably too much enthusiasm. 

His jaw clenched into one of his usual tight smiles. He averted his eyes from you and looked towards the numbers on the elevator. Fuck, it was reaching the bottom. He didn't want to let you go, but it wasn't like he could just stroll down the street with you to go get Ashley's lunch. His mind scrambled to come up with a solution.

But like your earlier intrusion into the meeting, your gentle voice cuts through the hurricane forming in his head.

"Are you alright, sir?" you ask, anxious concern written all over your features.

He refocused on you and nodded. His arm extended out behind you, his palm landing against the elevator wall. As he leaned in, he could smell your adrenaline spiking. He could hear the shift of your shoe against the ground. If only he possessed a sixth sense for the mind, so he could know what little thoughts about him were flitting through your head.

"I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me," he answered. He smiled down at you, observing the slight nod you gave him in return.

"Of course not. It probably seems silly coming from me," you said.

His brows raised in amusement. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

He saw the flash of regret in your eyes. The one people always gave him when he asked a question in that tone. The one that came from the panic of realizing they may have said something that offended Homelander.

You suppressed it pretty well though and brought out a smile that gave the impression that you hoped he was messing with you instead.

"Well you know... because you're you," you said and tilted your head in an innocent way that made his chest ache.

He chuckled that charming, prepackaged laugh that had been trained into him. "Even I can appreciate someone taking an interest in checking on me," he replied.

It was maddening, how bad he wanted you. He wasn't even sure when this craving had sprouted inside him. He had been so preoccupied with his affinity for Stillwell that his fixation with you struck him like a glass window in front of a flying bird. But no matter the timeframe in which it blossomed, it had taken root by now and wasn't going to go away on its own.

When he looked at you like this - staring up at him with earnest fascination - his mind drifted to darker places all on its own. He couldn't stop it if he wanted to (and really, he didn't want to). It's just how was he not supposed to be aware of the fact that it would be all too easy to take you back to his room? How could he not think about what it would feel like to have your fragile body beneath his own in private? How could he not wonder what you'd sound like crying out in a sinful mix of pleasure and pain?

Hell, how was he supposed to pretend like he couldn't just bend you over and fuck you dumb right here in the middle of this elevator if he wanted to? No one would be able to stop him. There wouldn't be a thing they could do other than watch. They could stare in horror as he used you like he deserved, as he pounded into your warm, soft, dripping hole like he needed...

Unfortunately, painting that picture in his head had his blood rushing South. He felt the subtle simmer of desire in his pelvis, and he knew in no time his length would be filling out. This suit gave him no way of hiding it either. Clearly, whoever made it hadn't anticipated the Homelander popping a boner on the job.

But luckily for him, the elevator chimed with its arrival at the bottom floor. He straightened out as you looked ahead in preparation of your departure. But before you could go, he grabbed your arm. His touch was tender, holding the same force he'd use when cradling a baby at a photo-op.

"Maybe later tonight you'd like to take me up on one of those talks? After you're done for the day, you could stop by my place. The sooner the better, right?" he asked.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly, but you still nodded. "Um... sure thing. I'll head up once I've finished all my work. It should be around six if that's ok?" you offered.

"Yeah, that works for me. I'll be waiting," he said in an attempt to be playful.

You smiled once more and then headed out of the elevator. His fingertips dragged down your arm to your wrist as you walked away before you finally slipped from his grasp. He could hear your heart pounding faster than your footsteps as you headed towards the exit of the building.

At six o'clock sharp, a knock sounded through his penthouse. And it only took him a few seconds to swing the door open and greet you.

"There she is," he beamed with exaggerated politeness.

You smiled modestly in return, shrugging and smoothing out a crease in your blouse. "I couldn't let the leader of the seven down," you joked.

He scoffed but opened the door wider, beckoning you into his place. You took the invitation and crossed the threshold. Your eyes glanced around the place, taking note of all the things in the apartment that housed the most powerful man on Earth.

The American flag taking up an entire wall almost stopped you in your tracks. It would've been funny if it was someone else, but because it belonged to him, it stood there like a warning. You tried not to show how daunting you found it. Average people could be touchy about that famous piece of cloth. You didn't want to find out if the strongest supe felt the same through means of offending him. 

In place of letting that bother you, you shifted your attention over to all the historical pictures hanging on the walls and the sleek surfaces and drawers filled with things you couldn't begin to imagine. Your eyes casted over the statues accenting the space as well. It was all so very polished. It looked like what you'd expect the Homelander entry in an Ikea catalog to be.

"So what do you think?" he asked. He knew his words came off as stiff. Probably a little stilted sounding. He just couldn't help it. For the first time, he couldn't get a read on how you felt through physical signs alone. And right now, he really really wanted you to like him.

"It's... impressive," you answered.

But he could hear the hesitation in your voice. In each word, there was the same wavering quality to it that you get when Ashley grilled you in front of an audience. It wasn't the precious reverence that he saw in the elevator. The nervous kind of admiration you held for someone above your standing. This was just plain anxiety, and that served no purpose to him. 

Despite your trepidation however, you walked forward to the window at the back of the place. You looked out over the city in awe.

"I would love to live somewhere high up like this," you said.

He came up from behind to stand next to you in front of the glass panes. His eyes landed on your face. You stared out the window, wonder twinkling in your eyes. Your voice sounded almost breathless. It was adorable.

"No fear of heights?" he asked.

"Not when it comes to being inside. Maybe I'd be nervous if we were on a balcony or something," you replied.

"Oh come on. You'd have nothing to worry about if you were with me. I'd never let you fall," he said, dropping his voice a few octaves.

You made that cute little face again when those words hit your ears. Your eyes widened before they fell to look at your shoes. So modest, the way you shied away. He wondered if you were always so timid or if it was only when a god amongst men like himself flirted with you.

He chuckled and reached out, tilting your chin back up to look at him. "You don't need to be nervous," he soothed, "There's no safer place to be than with the Homelander, right?"

You nodded right along. His words left no room for objection.

"Good girl," he smirked and dragged a gloved thumb over your cheek. He pulled his hand back and stepped in the direction of the brown leather sectional that sat in the middle of the room.

"Come over here and sit down. We can talk," he directed.

Following him to the large couch, you took your seat near the corner. You assumed he'd sit at the other end or at least towards the middle of the perpendicular cushions, but no. He sat down in the corner with you. His body was at most a foot away.

He continued to smile at you though he didn't speak. It felt odd, sitting there in silence across from him. He wasn't doing anything overtly threatening, yet you still felt at his mercy.

"So, do you like it here so far? Do you feel like you're fitting into the Vought family?" he asked with a bit of an edge to that second word.

You nodded again. A relieved breath seeped from your lungs as the tense void in conversation came to an end. "Yeah, it's nice here. I feel like I'm learning a lot."

He chuckled and leaned back against the stiff backing of the sofa. His muscular arm draped along the top. Though it wasn't his intention to draw your focus there, he caught the way your eyes dragged over his bicep.

"That's good," he said, "It can be a lot when you're new. I wouldn't want you feeling overwhelmed."

"That's nice of you. I appreciate it, but I'm used to a busy schedule," you replied.

"You're freshly graduated, aren't you?" he checked.

"Yeah," you said, your lips quirking upwards at his guess.

"I thought so. You have that cute, wide-eyed, optimistic thing going for you."

A small laugh leaves your lips. "I know. Ashley said I'll grow out of it by the end of this quarter."

His face dropped, and he almost abandoned the prince charming act he was attempting to pull off for you. The mere mention of Ashley was enough to irk him, but the thought that she was trying to change you? Not only change you but jade you. To strip away the soft and sweet qualities that hooked him on you in the first place. It was criminal. He couldn't hide his disdain.

"You shouldn't listen to her," he said. He wasn't angry, but his cadence held intensity. "Ashley's problem is Ashley. To be honest, I don't even know why they gave her an intern. It's not like she'd be good at teaching anything when she still doesn't understand most things about our business herself."

Your fingers dug into the edge of your seat. It wouldn't have been significant in a normal conversation, but when speaking with a man who could hear a pin drop forty stories down, he noticed.

"You're still nervous," he observed.

In an instant, your hands flew to your lap, like you knew what gave your anxiety away. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt and shrugged.

"A little," you admitted.

"Are you scared of me?" he asked.

You shook your head without even thinking about the question.

"No, it's not that. I swear," you reassured, "It's just that this is a big deal for me. I'm really honored you want to get to know me, and I just want to make a good impression."

"You don't need to worry about that. I wouldn't have invited you here if I didn't have a good impression of you," he said.

You sighed slightly, letting out a bit of tension, but he could still smell that boosted cortisol running through your blood.

"Come here," he ordered, his voice soft but undeniably firm.

"What?" you asked.

A puff of amused air blew from his nostrils. "Come here," he repeated, "Sit closer."

As if you needed the guidance, he patted the space directly beside his hip. He could see the uncertainty in your eyes even after the gesture. The lack of understanding toward his reasoning persisted. Regardless of your skepticism however, you scooted in his direction and ended up where he wanted you.

"That's better," he said.

With careful fingers, he slipped the glove off his right hand. Your eyes locked on it in subtle awe. You'd seen this man on billboards and commercials for years. His face dominated newscasts. His voice broadcast over the radio on a weekly basis. Still, you had never seen such a human part of him. Five fingers and a palm reaching for your own.

They clasped around your hand. His skin was smooth. The gloves preserved them from any marks of experience.

"Did Ashley warn you about me?" he asked, drawing your eyes back to his own.

Your heart thundered, but you couldn't lie. Never had Vought bragged about Homelander being a human lie detector, but in this moment, you felt like that was the case.

"Yes," you responded.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You didn't believe her, did you?" he asked.

You could tell he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear it.

"Yes," you whispered again.

"What did she tell you?"

It was hard to remember that conversation you'd had a few weeks ago with Ashley. Feeling like you were two seconds away from having lasers beamed through your skull made minute details fuzzy and distant, but you manage to choke a few out anyways.

"She said that you have a very specific vision for the Seven, and that you'll do anything to make your dreams reality. She was just saying you're ambitious. That you care about the greater good," you summarized.

"I have a feeling you're saying it a lot nicer than she did," he teased. He could feel the fear rolling off of you in waves, and in a moment, he would rectify that. But for right now, he didn't mind letting his precious little fawn tremble in terror for a few moments more.

"Yeah, she can be kind of blunt," you said with a shaky laugh.

"That's one word for it," he said.

"She's not gonna get in trouble because of what I said, is she?" you asked.

He couldn't help laughing at that. The sound came out low and throaty. You were just so fucking pure. Worried about protecting someone who wouldn't hesitate for a second to sell you out if it meant she could climb up another rung on the corporate ladder.

His exposed thumb rubbed back and forth over your knuckles. "No. Of course not. We're just talking," he said.

He leaned in closer to you, positioning his mouth in close proximity to your ear. His free hand came up to cup your jaw.

"I appreciate your honesty though. Ashley probably couldn't tell you this, but I appreciate a loyal girl like you," he murmured.

On both your hand and through his glove in contact with your chin, he could feel your skin heat up.

"Oh... thank you, sir," you said.

He chuckled. His fingers squished into the flesh of your cheeks, making your lips puff out as though they were seeking a kiss.

"So polite, but I like that. We need more people here who understand their place," he said.

At this point, the gravity of your circumstances began to settle on you. Your fear had worn off a bit, and you realized what a compromising position he had you in. With one tight squeeze, he could crush every bone in your face.

Out of instinct, you tried pulling back a little. You didn't make it obvious, only attempting to gain a few inches of space.

That was a few inches too many though. He tightened his grip and kept you where he wanted you.

"Ah ah," he tutted, "How many times do I have to tell you that you don't need to be scared? I'm not going to hurt you."

You dropped the resistance right then and there. It wasn't worth pursuing. If he didn't want you getting away, you weren't getting away.

He took a few more seconds to study your face, taking in every minutiae of your expressions. Then, his hands dropped to your waist, and he pulled you into his lap. His thighs were firm against your ass, both rigid in how he carried himself and defined from the pure muscle that made them up.

His hands smoothed up and down your sides, coasting over each crease in your blouse. He massaged your soft tissue with gentle squeezes from the beginning of your bra down to the swell of your hips.

"God, you're beautiful," he muttered, "You fit here like you were made for me."

You vibrated in his grasp. He could feel the way you quivered with the urge to pull away.

"Thank you, s-sir," you stammered, "I really appreciate it but-"

"But nothing," he cut you off.

"But I don't think we should be... doing this," you tried to continue anyway.

"Why not?" he asked. Though his tone made it obvious that no matter what reason you provided, it wouldn't change his mind.

"Because you're like my boss, y'know? And I worked really hard to get my spot here, and I don't want people thinking I slept my way to where I am," you explained, "You're really nice, and I admire you a lot, but it wouldn't be right."

He didn't respond immediately. He paused and let your words hang in the air for a few moments.

"You know," he finally spoke, "I don't think you understand how things work around here. It doesn't matter what anyone else in this building thinks. Only me."

You blinked at him, unsure of how to respond to such an assertion. It didn't matter though. He continued without your input.

"What I do with you, how I feel about you - no one else will know about it unless you tell them. But even if you do and even if they care, there isn't a thing they'll do about it. There's not a thing they can do about it," he continued.

"I still don't think it's a good idea," you maintained.

"Good thing this isn't for you to think about then," he mocked, "You're a fast learner. You'll figure it out soon enough. I am God in this tower. And a god doesn't listen to his subjects. He guides them. He knows best."

One of his hands slid up your tummy and over your chest onto your throat. He cupped your jaw and swiped his thumb back and forth across your bottom lip.

"What did Ashley tell you about me?" he asked.

"That no one gets in your way."

"Good. And she was right. No one gets in my way. Nothing stops me from getting what I want. And I've wanted you for too fucking long not to try you out."

That set of fingers on your chin pulled your face towards his and brought you into a kiss. You froze against his lips. It felt as though all of time stopped. This high up, you couldn't hear the sounds of the city outside the penthouse. No one existed in this moment but you and him.

Unlike you, he melted into the exchange. He sighed against your skin and pulled you flush against his toned body. After a second to let you come to terms with what was happening, he kissed you again. His lips sucked on yours gently, attempting to coax you into returning the affection.

The most he got is you puckering them up ever so slightly.

He pulled away with frustration in his eyes and grabbed your face, jerking you a little to look at him.

"Don't act like you don't want this. I know you do," he said, "You're scared, but you don't need to be. Relax and let yourself enjoy this. It's not everyday that the most powerful man on earth wants to fuck you."

Your eyes blew up like little saucers, but before you could really process the directness of what he'd said, he was kissing you again. This time it wasn't as nerve wracking. You softened up a little and kissed back.

You didn't put much effort into it. Your lips responded like this was a juvenile first date. But he didn't let up. He didn't let you give him anything less than your best. His hands roamed across your body. They groped and fondled your breasts and then migrated South to feel up your ass through your pencil skirt.

Your muscles started to loosen up after a minute or so. You told yourself this wasn't so bad. He was being gentle so far, and for someone with his abilities, you wanted it to stay that way. You brought your hand up to his face and cupped his cheek. With that as leverage, you deepened the kiss.

He groaned as soon as you started to give in. His hands fell to your hips and tugged you so that you were straddling him. He smacked your ass, the sound echoing around his apartment. You could tell he held back. A real spank from Homelander could shatter your hip, but this one barely even stung. Maybe he did like you.

His fingers came up and with a sharp tug, he popped the front of your top loose. The column of buttons sprung free. The strips of cloth fell away to each of your sides, exposing a sliver of your skin. He furthered it by pulling off the garment entirely. His eyes trailed along your bare shoulders to your collar bone before finally landing on your breasts. He gave them a firm squeeze, kneading them through the barrier of your bra.

Meanwhile you rolled your hips down on his lap. Immediately, you felt his bulge that had risen to attention between your thighs. You did it again and then again. Each time you ground yourself against him with more pressure.

He grunted, and his eyes fluttered. His hands returned to your waist and gripped you hard, guiding your movements. He seemed transfixed for a few moments, as if he couldn't decide his next move.

After a few seconds though, he got his momentum back. He yanked you off his lap and flipped over so that you were seated on the couch again.

He rose to his feet before you. There your eyes scanned over his body from his tousled blond hair and his kiss-swollen red lips to his sculpted abdomen and his swelling erection. You reached out to touch him, but he stopped your hand mid-air.

Once your arm was limp on the couch again, he removed his other glove. He dropped it to the floor before bringing his right boot to the spot on the sofa next to you. He unzipped the red shoe and then discarded it like he had with the other item. The other boot followed the same routine.

"I don't let just anyone see me like this," he told you as his fingers began to undo his collar, "You should feel lucky."

Lucky wasn't the word you would use to describe your feelings in this situation. Maybe special. Or distinct. Individual. Either way, you continued to watch. Your eyes glided over his figure as he pulled away the tight blue costume that seemed like a second-skin for how much he wore it.

His defined chest came into view. Your reluctance hadn't vanished all together just yet, but at this point, it was fading fast. Pale hair dusted the muscular expanse and trailed down his stomach to the waistband of the bottoms. The waistband he soon hooked his fingers over and peeled down.

He dropped the scaled navy fabric to the ground before kicking it away, leaving himself in just a small pair of boxers. His hand came down and rubbed the swollen tent at the front while his eyes lingered on you.

"Do you want to touch?" he asked.

You nodded. It wasn't a hard decision. This was still a bad idea. You hadn't changed your mind on that. But at this point, what else was there to do? Defying Homelander wasn't an option for anyone on this planet ever. You were no different.

"Ask," he commanded.

"Please can I touch you?" you said.

"Please what?"

"Please, sir. Can I touch you?"

"Good girl," he praised before nodding, "Go for it."

You reached out, this time successfully. Your palm landed flat on his stomach. You held it there for a moment, just feeling his skin. In a way, it was unreal. To feel that someone propped up on the world's pedestal was flesh and blood like you.

Rubbing up and down, you continued getting a feel for his body. He smirked at your wonder before guiding you up by the elbow.

"Stand up and do it right," he said.

"Sorry."

The word came from your mouth automatically. You brought your other hand up to his chest and felt the muscles in his chest. Everything was so built. You expected that, but it was still odd to feel beneath your fingertips. He felt like a living ken doll. You almost didn't believe if he dropped his boxers there would be a real cock there.

Your hands traced up to his shoulders with precision. They explored down his biceps and forearms. And then finally, you brought your lips into his chest. He sighed and tilted his head back, relishing the feeling.

You kissed all over, swirling your tongue and tracing shapes onto his skin. It was almost entrancing, to be so focused on someone like this. You barely noticed as he turned the two of you and sat himself down on the couch, lowering you to your knees.

You worked your mouth down his abs, licking and kissing the twitching muscles. Your fingernails scraped up his sides and then down onto his thighs. When your lips reached the waistband of his boxers, your eyes glanced up at him.

"Can I take them off, sir?" you asked.

He smirked at the title. Only one word of correction and he'd trained that phrase into you.

"Yes," he answered. It was a simple answer. All that was required for someone so naturally obedient.

You took it in stride, tucking your fingers over the elastic and tearing them down. His hard cock popped up and slapped against his pelvis. You couldn't have been happier about your earlier ken doll theory being proven wrong. The sight of his dick was enough to make you drool. It was better than any work of art out there.

It rested against his body at the perfect length, the perfect girth. The tip flushed beautiful red and pearly white beads of precum smeared at the top. Your fingers wrapped around it and gave it a few strokes, testing the waters.

His hand came down and petted your head. He watched as you studied the appendage, as you experimented with your own touch. It was so fucking cute he thought he might cum right then and there. Fuck, he thought you were sweet every moment he had eyes on you, but right now, you were darling. You were doing as he said. Accepting your place at the feet of a superior being.

"Put it in your mouth," he said from above, "I want you to taste it."

There was no hesitation on your end this time around.

"Yes sir," you responded before leaning forward and wrapping your lips around his cock.

He groaned and let his chest hollow out with a harsh exhale. Your mouth was so warm and wet, nice and snug around his length. He rocked his hips up, pushing it further into your throat. He expected a small gag or sputter, but instead you moaned. You shut your eyes and flattened your tongue against his shaft before beginning to bob your head.

"Fuck," he hissed. His legs tensed up, and he pressed down on your head. That did get a tiny gag out of you. You gripped his hips to stabilize yourself though and stayed in place. Your nose nestled against the darker curls of hair that sat at the base of his cock.

Spit leaked from your mouth and dribbled onto his skin below. He took a few moments to just enjoy the feeling of his dick down your throat. The sight of his sweet, innocent girl choking on his cock. Then he let you pull off and catch your breath. 

You took a few deep puffs, letting the spots clear from your vision before you dove back in for more. Your hand stroked the lower part of him your mouth didn't cover in its shallow sucks while your other set of fingers caressed his balls tenderly.

He'd never experienced devotion. As much as it pained him to ever acknowledge, his sexual experiences had been lackluster up until now. There were the times with Maeve, but they always left something to be desired for him. Then there was the time with Stillwell that ended before it really started. In either case, no one had ever put all of themselves into pleasuring him like you were doing right now. It drove him wild. He could feel his sac tightening up, and he knew he had to get you off.

Planting one hand on each side of your head, he tugged you back. You looked up at him with glossy, cock-drunk eyes and saliva-coated lips. He swiped some of the mess away before addressing you.

"You're doing so good for me, but I think you're ready for more, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," you agreed.

"My perfect pet," he crooned and pulled you up onto the couch.

He laid you flat on your back and ripped your skirt and panties off in one go. His eyes drank in the sight of your nude lower half, but he didn't spend much time savoring it. He spread you out, slotting himself against your center.

With a few rocks of his hips, he dragged his length through your wetness. He let the sticky fluid coat his shaft, and then he sunk in. His tip bullied its way into your entrance and the rest of him followed. You whined at the stretch. Your walls clamped around him, eager to accept the intrusion.

"Atta girl," he grunted as he worked himself all the way in.

His hips connected with your ass, but he still bucked them, trying to get more. You yelped at the force. He was already buried inside you. Anymore and his tip would be nudging the entrance to your womb.

Fortunately for you, he pulled his hips back, giving you a short break from feeling so full. It was short lived though. Seconds later he snapped back in. That began the quick rhythm he set into. It was desperate and needy, emotions he'd tried to hide until this point.

You whimpered as your body bobbed with the momentum. His thrusts bounced you back and forth. The sounds of his body smacking against yours filled the room. His fingers dug into your waist hard enough to bruise. You didn't complain about the minor pain though because you could tell he was holding back in every other regard. If a few marks on your side kept you from being pulverized by a super cock, then that was a burden you were willing to carry.

Above you, he starts to pant. His breaths leave him raggedly huffing, sucking down what oxygen he can get in the midst of rutting into you. He tilts his head down at you and gazes at your blissed out face with lidded eyes.

"I could have anyone. Any person on this Earth would be mine if I wanted them to be. But the only one I want is you. Doesn't that feel good?" he breathed.

"Yes!" you cried out. Your back arched up off the couch. "Feels so fucking good, sir."

He leaned into you more, squishing your body into the surface below. Your thighs pressed against your tummy as he bent you.

"Yeah, it does," he grunted, "It's all there is. It's all you need to think about. How you're all mine."

"Mhm," you whined with a lazy nod. You were getting closer to cumming and responding to his words was taking a lower priority in your mind.

"And to think you tried to deny yourself of it," he mocked. He clenched his jaw and slammed into you harder.

You shrieked and clutched his shoulders. In the back of your mind, you hoped his penthouse was sound proofed or at least enough distance from the nearest one. Otherwise you wouldn't have to tell anyone about this incident for it to spread throughout the tower.

"I knew better, didn't I? I knew this is what you needed," he said.

Again, you nodded. You felt the heat in your belly reaching the boiling point.

"Say it," he huffed.

You tried to force it out, but your own hiccuped sob of pleasure cut you off. He didn't give you a break though. He stared down at you with expectation, so you continued.

"You know best- uh, fuck- you know best, sir," you whined.

"Good fucking girl," he growled on top of you.

He was already close from the blowjob you'd given him. Only a few strokes more, and he was ready to explode. He swiveled his hips, angling them upwards to pound into that special spot that would make you see stars and stripes.

You mewled when you came. Your body trembled harder than it did when you were scared. Arousal gushed out of you and coated his skin. He huffed and buried his face in your neck before letting go.

Everything faded into the background as you laid underneath him in the haze that came after the absolute high of pleasure. Now you could feel his heartbeat too. The organ thundered against his chest over and over as he came down.

Minutes later he pulled back. His knuckles caressed down your jawline before he climbed off of you entirely. He sat back on the couch and let out a deep breath. You weren't sure whether you were supposed to pick up your stuff and leave or follow along with him and stay close to his side. There was no real indication of what he wanted in this moment, but he turned to smile at you and huffed out a laugh.

"I think I'll keep you with me more often now. Really show you the ropes of fitting in around here."

You sat up and nodded awkwardly. He leaned toward you, cupping your cheek.

"I'll be a much better teacher than Ashley ever was," he said. His arm snaked around you and pulled you to his chest again. "No more errands or coffee runs. I'll show you things you need. Things that you'll enjoy."

He ran his fingers over your face and kissed your temple. The touches were tender against your skin. They would have been romantic if your mind wasn't racing with what this all meant in terms of your job and the grand scheme of your future.

Looking at him though, he wasn't worried at all. He smiled down at you before whispering once more.

"My sweet little pet. All mine now."

[comicaurora]

hi, you seem to be drawing a lot. can you please tell me, will drawing ever become easy? or is it always a struggle?

(because for me, drawing seems like a neverending fight against artblock, and at this point, i start wondering if it's not really artblock, but instead it's just the reality of art making)

It's not so much that it becomes easy. It's more that you'll find new things about it that are hard.

Art will never become effortless because you will start finding new challenges to wrangle with, but the act of wrangling them is a good part of the fun. Finding new visual effects you struggle to capture or comprehend the shape of, let alone put down on paper. You might start off struggling to render shadows on a figure, and then as you progress you start wondering how to do shadows of foliage, or caustics of light projected through water, or how glowing eyes would cast shadows on a face, etc. New complexities reveal themselves as old struggles are mastered.

If you're struggling with something that feels like artblock, the problem might not be in your hands, but in your eyes. What to draw is at least as much of a challenge as how to draw it. If you notice your eyes snagging on small details or vistas and you catch yourself trying to work out how to capture that effect, that's your artist eyes at work, and the better you get, the weirder your artist eyes will make you.

There's an exercise my mom recommends that she got from her old teacher: three life drawings a day. Of anything - a chair, a glass of water, a tree, someone's dog, your own hand. I think this is less about honing your techniques and more about honing your eyes, training them to snag on everyday things and observe their complexities, the nuances, the way they really look, not just the way you think of them looking.

When you're a kid and you're drawing your first landscape, it's probably a house and a tree under a yellow sun in a blue sky. The tree looks like a lollipop, the house looks like a box with a hat, the sun is an egg yolk surrounded by lines, the sky is the bluest crayon you have. Maybe it has fluffy clouds in it if you were thinking ahead, cuz it's hard to draw white crayon or pencil over already blue drawings. This hypothetical drawing is a pure manifestation of art without artist's eyes; it is made entirely of what you understand things to look like, not how you see them. No real tree looks like a green lollipop. The sun is a blazing white ball that shades half of the dome of the sky in painfully bright white, and the sky is only blue in the loosest sense - even without clouds or sunsets confusing things, the sky will always fade to a lighter shade closer to the horizon. It is never uniform blue. Clouds usually look like shredded cottonballs around the edges, not fluffy rounded boubas.

This awareness extends to more complicated things. We know glass is clear. When we draw something made of glass, how can we capture that clarity? Do we just draw the outline, maybe some token specular highlights to show that it's catching the light? Or do we render the way it bends and distorts the image passing through it? We know gold is yellow and shiny; do we draw it as a yellow sparkly thing, or do we capture how it reflects the space around it? We know that water is blue and reflective. Do we draw it like we would draw a shiny blue car? Do we render a glass of water like a blue raspberry icee?

Actively perceiving the world as it is takes work and practice, but it's a vital component in all art - even completely fantastical art that is not at all drawn from life references. Skin has a particular luminosity to it, subcutaneous scattering of light that is inobvious if you just know that Skin Looks Like A Color. Even if you're painting a goblin or a mermaid or a centaur, capturing how the light hits their skin can make the difference between them looking like an action figure and looking like a living thing. If you're painting a landscape that isn't earth, it helps to have observed what earth's clouds and atmosphere really look like, how they catch and scatter the light. You have to know the rules in order to break the rules.

I can honestly say it never gets easy, but it does become a lot of fun, and if you're currently struggling to find the fun of it, it will get better the more you hone your eyes.

[vultursvolans]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄: OCT 3RD

— ♤ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yandere!dottore x assistant!fem reader

— ♤ 𝐜𝐰: obsessive yandere behaviour, emotional manipulation, psychological manipulation, stalking, build up to smut is longish sorry, reader is gullible, dubcon, no preparation, pussy slapping (once), he calls you sweetheart, pet, pup, unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, power imbalance, biting, 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It started with curiosity.

Maybe it was the softness in your voice as you confidently sat in his office, explaining why you would be perfect for the job, or perhaps the way you held onto the belief that he was a good person. But once Dottore saw how much you lit up when he offered you a position on the spot, he knew right then he needed to keep you close. 

This new revelation almost terrified him. 

Your voice was so innocent, clinging to him like honeysuckle, and that warmth behind your smile—it was too pure, too untainted. It had to be locked away before the world could tarnish it.

If you had paid attention, you would’ve noticed how his gaze lingered a little too long when you spoke; how his questions would dive deeper the more you got to know him.

You were ignorant of how much Dottore had deeply ingrained himself into every facet of your life, playing the role of the emotionally distant boss who eventually found comfort in your company. He saw that flicker of trust in your eyes and allowed you to believe you were the only person who could see the real him: the man behind the mask who bled his heart and soul to you when nobody else was looking.

Everything was calculated. Subtle. You had become his latest obsession—a sweet, little experiment where the only result he deemed acceptable would be having you wrapped around his finger. So he made sure he was the first you turned to when things went wrong, planting seeds of doubts about everyone you knew. 

“Forgive me but your friends don’t seem to understand you.”

At first, you dismissed his comments but over time his critiques took root. You saw flaws in people that seemingly weren’t there before which made you wonder if it was truly only Dottore who had your best interest at heart. Gradually, you began to rely on him as your only confidant. Your rock. But it didn’t stop at just your relationships. Dottore had inserted himself into your daily routine, providing solutions for problems you hadn’t realised he created. After minor inconveniences and projects falling through, he was always there to pick up the pieces.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

And every time he did, you felt more indebted to him.

Dottore strung you along for years, feeding you enough affection to have you tethered with him while subtly isolating you from others. And when he finally made you his girlfriend, it was less a declaration of love and more of a confirmation of his control over you.

But you didn’t need to know that. 

You are his precious masterpiece, sculpted into the ideal partner, no longer the person you once were but a reflection of his twisted desires. 

When calling him “Doctor” transitioned from a professional title to something you moaned whenever he plowed you with his cock, it was difficult for him not to start touching himself at random hours of the day. 

Fortunately for him, he could simply just find you while you were working and suddenly, there was something hard pressed against your ass! It always satisfied him a great deal knowing how willing you were to please him, no matter the time of day.  

Sometimes he pitied you for never catching on so the first time you went astray, he was somewhat glad that his little darling wasn’t so dense.

“Dottore, I’m finding it difficult to get through to you. I feel suffocated. I’m worried about us.”

He glanced up from his notebook, almost affectionately, “You’re overthinking it, my dear.”

“I think we need some time apart," your words tasted bitter. "I just… need to clear my head. I’m sorry,” you felt guilty for even suggesting it.

“Time apart?” he repeated with a false frown, dropping his book to look at you wholly. “For how long?’

“I’m not sure.”

A tense silence hung between you, and you tried to steady your breath.

“Darling, you’re not making any sense,” he blinked.

“It makes sense to me,” you protested, “I wasn’t asking.”

Truth be told, he was more amused than angered. Although, he wondered what it was that finally provoked your sudden notion. Sure, disagreements were more frequent but it had been so long since this all began. He thought his tactics would be something you were used to by now. Perhaps you were starting to see everything for what it truly was.

Perhaps not.

Your voice was trembling but you were firm in your resolve. Dottore liked that you thought you had a choice, so he entertained you by letting the last of his smile fade from his lips, eyes narrowing in your direction. 

“So a break, then? If you think that will benefit us, I understand. But I’m not a mind reader. If something bothers you, you have to tell me, okay?”

His words seemed to melt some of your worries away so you couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Could you really doubt someone so patient, so willing to give you space when you needed it? 

“Really?”

“Of course," the lie effortlessly slipped between his teeth, "I respect your boundaries."

You nodded as you squeezed his hand and before you could turn away, his grip tightened. “Before you go, let me remind you that I love you, so very much.” 

And without warning, he kissed you. It was lingering, with no remorse, disguised as a parting gift—as if to say he knew you’d be back.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” you said, feeling conflicted. 

“Doing what?” He questioned.

Dottore knew exactly what he was doing. 

———

Weeks had passed but your time away from him was restless. Days felt semi-wakeful and what emerged was not clarity but the creeping sense that the world was conspiring against you.

It was like your life had taken an irreparable turn. Work became a constant setback, and friends you thought you had made you feel isolated and adrift. Even your home, which once felt cozy and safe, was starting to feel clinical and cold. 

And who would be the one to orchestrate your misery other than the Doctor himself? That vendor who suddenly couldn’t get your orders right? A bribe from Dottore. The neighbours who started fighting at all hours? A couple he had manipulated into conflict. Even your small office, a place that once made you feel so productive, now felt claustrophobic and stifling thanks to subtle changes he made while you were away.

Each of these inconveniences wore you down, making you long for the comfort and stability that only Dottore had ever provided. 

So when you received a short and carefully worded letter from him, asking how you were, you felt a surge of relief. You didn’t hesitate to see him that very evening, desperate to talk in person.

Before you knew it, you were falling right into his hands.

On your feet, you headed straight to the entrance of his lab and stared at the door before you gave a knock.

“Come in,” he said from inside.

The moment you saw him, he greeted you with that charming smile, and suddenly all the frustration from the past weeks melted away. You rushed into his arms, burying your face into his chest, “I missed you.”

He held you close, stroking the back of your head with practiced gentleness, “Ah! You’re finally back. I can’t say I’ve been happy without you.” 

If he was beaming out of satisfaction, you were blind to it. You were too distracted by the need to hear him say it back, to say that he missed you. But instead of the words you longed to hear, he merely held you tighter.

Looking up at him, your eyes searched for reassurance, “Did you miss me?”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss on your forehead, “Of course.”

“Everything’s been so hard,” tears began to well up, “I can’t believe I distanced myself when I needed you the most.” 

He was always enthralled whenever he was right.

“Let’s not dwell on that, shall we? I’m here now so don’t fret.”

His words felt like a balm to your wounded soul and you clutched onto his coat as if he might vanish if you let go. You could not refuse him and he wouldn’t allow that option to exist. Dottore watched you, elated with himself, “Come,” he said, taking your hand towards his familiar private quarters, “I have something for you.” 

After closing the door behind him, his gaze remained on you, “I was hoping you would see me sooner rather than later,” he started, guiding you to the couch where the two of you sat. “We have much to catch up on.”

Dottore wore his grief convincingly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate crystal necklace that flickered like ice in the light, “I don’t want to lose you again.” Your heart skipped a beat as he put it on for you, the weight of it cold against your skin. When you relaxed your guard, he leaned in and whispered in your ear, “I can’t lose you. I won’t.” 

You thanked him for the gift but felt him craning your head to the side.

“It’s ice quartz," he purred, "For the pure love I have for you. For the healing that I hope it brings to your troubled heart. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, a thoughtful stillness, and without another word, he kissed the exposed skin of your neck as if you beckoned him to. 

His lips were impossible to resist, each kiss slowly claiming you as he trailed his way to your mouth. You allowed your hands to explore his hair, messing up the neatness that once was.

Dottore wasted no time, the moment his lips met yours, you felt his hungry tongue and how it tasted of false apologies and something sickeningly sweet. He kissed you like he was starved—like he'd wanted his mouth on yours for weeks.

"Do you still—" he lightly pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, "—feel suffocated?"

Yes, you wanted to say. But for an entirely different reason now. This type of suffocation made your head spin and left something tingling between your legs.

"No," you finally answered against him. A string of saliva connected the small space between your lips. You relaxed under him and he took it as a chance to shuffle himself between your thighs.

"Hmm, I'm glad," he smirked before forcing another kiss out of you. Between gasps for air, his impatient hands found the hem of your blouse, unbuttoning it as he pushed you on your back. You pulled him down with you because you refused to part from the sinful way his lips collided with yours.

Piece by piece, layers of clothes began to disappear until you were left with nothing except the necklace he had given you. 

Spread out like this, you were ravishing, like a fine piece of art and the sight of you went straight to his cock. It throbbed in his slacks and you could hear his breathing growing uneven. At that moment, he could’ve taken you like an animal but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Mmh!” you moaned in surprise as he cupped your breast, fondling your sensitive nipples and practically anywhere else that was available to him. He was so precise in everything he did, it was no wonder he was in his profession. 

The time you spent apart had left you already aching for him so when he dipped his fingers between your quivering thighs, he felt your arousal. You were hot and puffy and embarrassingly wet.

Dottore began to toy with your clit and it pulsed under the pads of his fingers. You moaned instantly. But he was excruciatingly light with his touch which only made you desperate for more friction. You whined and even though the sound of it made his heart beat quickly, his face was unreadable.

“Patience,” he urged. Dottore waited for you for weeks and you had the nerve to whine? At the very least you could have made up for the time you robbed from him. 

You intended to listen. You really did! But when his fingers teased the entrance of your hole, your body acted before you could think and suddenly, your hips rolled towards him. He had barely even touched you before he stopped. 

Tsk, you heard from him, clearly disappointed by your lack of control.

Instead of continuing, he gave your pussy a sudden slap which left you whimpering. 

“Why—!” You trembled, feeling its stinging aftermath.

Why?

Simply put, he decided he wasn’t going to bother with what you wanted. 

In exchange for running away from him, he would show you that not everything was served on a silver platter. Seeing you go from distressed to dependent on him only excited him more. No one riles him up in the way that you do so he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer. 

“Stay like this,” there was something deranged about the smile that appeared on his face. The clinical white glow of his quarters dulled his pale skin yet his teeth glistened through his lips. You felt a chill and it wasn't because of the cold air.

He pulled away and you were immediately drawn to the tight bulge pressing against his pants. Dottore noticed. He knew you were watching.

"Now open your legs for me," he said, breaking you out of your daze. You shifted pathetically under him so it was ultimately his large hand, splayed across your thigh that held you in place. You saw his erection twitch when his eyes fell on your hole, drenched for him and all.

After quickly undoing his trousers, he pushed his throbbing length inside you in one, deep stroke. Your hands curled into the cushions and you were prepared to scream—

"Perfect," he breathed. You didn't need proper preparation. He knew your body better than you did.  

Your voice was lodged in your throat as his girth stretched you apart and Dottore couldn’t help throwing his head back, curses falling from his lips at how well you hugged him. You were so beautiful like this. He couldn’t wait to fuck you back into obedience. It was your fault for being this way, really. You were just so malleable, so easy.

“Ah, look at you. So wet already, my little pup. Did you miss me that much?” 

“Yes, I did. Yes, I did, Doctor!” you whimpered, and he began thrusting as if rewarding you for your response. His hips slammed mercilessly into yours at an unexpected pace, and you couldn’t even think about any of your frustrations anymore. Each time he slid in and out was like erasing all the concerns you had before this. 

“Dottore,” he corrected you. “You call me by my name today.” There was a slight strain in his voice as he fucked you but that was better than what was going on with you. With each thrust bucking into your sweet spot, you could hardly talk. 

The coat on his back ruffled behind him with each erratic movement. It was almost humiliating how he remained entirely clothed as he rammed into you. Your bare skin was on display yet not so much as a zipper and his disheveled hair was out of place for him.

Maybe he was too eager, you thought. Or maybe it was because he wouldn’t strip himself for the likes of you. Not when he was trying to remind you that being with him was a luxury. What he needed to etch into your subconscious was: 

You could get whatever you want as long as you stay and listen. 

Huffing at the sensation of being balls deep inside your pussy, he held you with a bruising grip on your waist, fucking you in a way that had you drooling. You were trying to remember a time when he wasn’t the one making you happy or giving you pleasure—but you couldn’t. Because it didn’t exist. 

“Dott…ore,” you called breathlessly, your voice mixing with the sound of your necklace clinking against your chest. He knew you very well, you had more to say than just the spilling of his name. He could see it in your damn eyes. 

Lowering himself to your neck, he rutted you even further into the couch, “What is it, my dear?” He asked, biting into you, feeling his hot and heavy breath fanning your skin. You yelped as his teeth clenched, knowing there was going to be a mark later. 

“I… love… you…” The words came out in a broken whisper, the sincerity of your confession made his cock twitch inside of you, precum already painting the insides of your hole. 

His tongue began to trace a slow and deliberate path from your neck to your ear, keeping his relentless rhythm as he did. “Is that right?” There was a cruel edge to his voice when he spoke. And you nodded back at him, feebly. Truthfully. 

“Then act like it,” he hissed, grip tightening as he thrusted sharply.

You shuddered underneath him—out of fear or pleasure, you weren’t sure but you knew you didn’t want it to end. You pulled him closer, winding your hands around his neck while he was deep inside you. “I’m— sorry!” you moaned, an apology slipping out in a haze. 

He almost growled at the sensation of you trembling around him, his crimson eyes searing into you, “No, it’s not your fault. I should have paid better attention to you.”

Another lie but exactly what you needed to hear to keep you going.

Lewd squelching sounds filled the room as he reduced you to a filthy mess. Even in your years of being with him, you had never seen him so untamed. Your juices were getting all over his trousers and if you knew any better, you would've seen how he got off on that.

You had almost forgotten where you were, though, at that point, you didn’t care about whether anybody else in the building heard. He fucked you hard and desperately, whatever he needed to do to keep his darling at bay, and you shamelessly cried out his name over and again. It was adorable.

“Dottore… I’m close—! Fuck. Fuck!” You swallowed your words as he pounded you. 

"Dirty mouth," he grunted, "Who taught you how to speak like that?"

He hovered above you, so close you could almost feel his hair tickling your face. "Nobody," you moaned quietly this time, feeling ashamed.

Every veiny inch of him was inside you and the more you felt of it, the less you thought. You just wanted to snap, to cum on him while he drove into you.

“Oh my, you're getting tighter,” he cooed, his voice deceptively gentle as he neared his own release. “Feeling good, sweetheart? Finish with me then…” 

Fortunately—or unfortunately, his pace became rougher, like a repeated reminder of who he was to you and his hand traveled to your jaw, tipping your head to meet his gaze. Amid your bodies thrashing, he could barely keep up with his own voice,

“No one will ever love you like me

or care about you like me

or fuck you like me. Do you understand, pet?” 

“Yes—! Yes, I do,” you panted as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling his hips further into your sloppy cunt. In your lust-clouded daze, you were too weak to register the weight of his words. His sultry voice did a great job at masking the fact that he meant every single thing he said. 

Dottore’s face twisted into a more sadistic smile, letting his thoughts get the best of him. He relished in how little and helpless you sounded, how utterly pliant you were to his will. Everything felt right again and you were back to where he had woven you. With a final, brutal snap of his hips, he spilled his seed inside you, locking himself against you. 

You arched your back as your orgasm crashed simultaneously—you moaned collectively, and your walls pulsed around his cock like you were milking every drop he’s got. His hips stuttered, not giving a damn about the way your nails bit into his skin. Instead, he slammed his lips onto yours, devouring you in a messy, filthy kiss—a perfect match for the way he had just fucked you senseless.

Still panting, he clutched the side of your face, only gentler now. His thumb stroked your cheek as if savouring the moment of seeing you act the way you should.

“I love you,” he hummed, the words slipped from his lips like it was so natural to him. "I love you."

Of course, he loved you. Everything he has done for you was for himself. Everything has been catered to him. 

His sweat-speckled forehead shimmered in the dim light and as you looked up at him, your heart softened. The weight of him on top of you and the comfort in his embrace made you forget everything, lulling you into a peaceful state. 

You sighed, feeling a bit foolish for even creating a wall between you. In front of you, he seemed so fragile, like you were the only thing holding him together. How could you have thought he was anything but honest with you all along?

Now, everything felt perfect—perfect in a way that left no room for anything else. 

No room for doubt or escape.

a/n: imagine at the end of this you think it's over and suddenly his segments walk in

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

dividers by @/astrumaur

[sungiescheotluv]

kiss it better ⭑.ᐟ na jaemin

pairing: na jaemin x gender neutral reader

word count: 2.5k

tags/warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, crack (if you squint), swearing, you're mark's long-time friend

summary: jaemin's been lucky enough to get everything he wants, all except you. at this point, it may take a christmas miracle for you to look his way. or something else festive-related.

notes: i do realize it is (checks calendar) 25 days after christmas, but after i came across this prompt list, i couldn't say no. thank you so much to @dumplingsjinson for the prompt and the following swooning i did while writing this. i hope you enjoy a bit of jaemin's charm in this fic. hope to post soon, hope you have a great day! much love <3

Jaemin is a natural flirt.

Blessed with looks that warrant more than a double take, doubled with an ever so kind personality, it’s no wonder he leaves a trail of fawning hearts in his wake. Honestly, it amazes you every time, how people bend over backwards to make his life simpler. He’s lost? He’s personally escorted to his destinations, sometimes even given money for an Uber. He’s a few pennies short for his coffee order? It’s on the house, served with a complimentary pastry. He’s picking up rubbish in his local community? He’s scouted by SM entertainment.

Moral of the story is, he’s very lucky. You guess, it’s a reflection of his goodwill. How pure and kind-hearted he is, reflecting back at him in the real world. It’s a side he doesn’t allow many people to see: discreet donations made in other’s names, disappearing on his days off to help uplift marginalised communities. Heck, he’s been the one to pay for people’s Ubers when they’re lost, cold or drunk. He’s never once accepted anybody else’s efforts to do the same for him.

It’s a side of him you like seeing, more often than not, witnessing the image he projects for others. Charming and quirky, maybe even a bit weird by other’s standards. It’s like he’s wears his idol persona even after he’s off work, and since you’ve met him through Mark - someone he works with - maybe that’s why he’s this way with you. You’re unsure. All that you know is that in any other case, he’s usually successful with getting what he wants out of this world.

Except for you.

Ever since Mark, your long-time friend, introduced you to the group a few years ago, Jaemin’s not let up on pursuing you. Thinking a few innuendo compliments and acts of service would have you wrapped around his finger. How wrong he is, because even after two years, he’s still more or less in the same place - close enough to text you on days off, but not enough to call you his. Honestly, you kind of admire how laser-focused his interest is, no whispers of him looking any other way since the day you met. Mark even made a comment about it, that he’s been in multiple scenarios where Jaemin politely refuses a confession or advance, stating, “I have someone I’m interested in. They’re the only person I want to focus on. I’m sorry.”

Is it bad that when you heard this, your heart fluttered? It’s like a light switched and you were seeing Jaemin in a new light, how earnest his efforts to be with you were. How his compliments, while some based on your appearance, were more heartfelt - more personable. How at any point to be chivalrous, he was - carrying your heavy belongings, giving you his jacket when you shivered, walked on the outer side of the pavement and all the likes. There was one incident where you were helping prepare vegetables for a hotpot you and the guys were making, and Jaemin guided you aside by your waist to chop the rest. Said the knife was too sharp and worried you’d get hurt, chopping the spring onions like he was a world-renowned chef. If you weren’t braced against the counter, you’re pretty sure your knees would’ve given out.

Why you were unable to take that last leap, you don’t know. Your feelings for him were growing, less platonic as you interacted, but maybe it was because he hadn’t asked like before. When you’d first met, every time you’d come face to face, he’d propose dinner and for you to be his, which you denied with a laugh. Now, you didn’t bat an eyelash when it was only you two at a restaurant table, and he’d stopped asking. Maybe because he thought the door had closed, like after all this, you still only wanted to be friends. 

If only he knew.

Christmas brings a chill to Seoul like no other, snowflakes floating down to the heaps of snow you trudge through to get to the lobby of Mark’s apartment building. This could be worse than the cold sting against your cheeks, you could’ve walked here like you initially were going to do. When Jaemin caught wind of it, he simply texted you:

pain in my ass?: Uber will be there in three. Hope you’re ready.

Unlike before, you’re grateful for the gesture and now as you walk through Mark’s doorway, Jaemin welcoming you, you can’t help the warm bundles of nerves building in your stomach as he helps take off your coat and hang it. 

“If you eat another jelly bean, we’re going to have problems.” Haechan sighs. 

What you’ve walked into, is best described as chaos. There’s flour. Everywhere. On the counter tops, on the ceiling and even on Jisung’s cheek who you heard later on didn’t have a hand in baking because of a fork-in-microwave incident that happened years before that kept him permanently out of the kitchen. Alongside the sugary scent of cookies and spice of gingerbread, another hearty meal wafts in the air. Your Christmas dinner, you assume. After all, it’s the very reason you’re here, a dinner hosted by your long-time friend to celebrate the rare day off and the good year that’s quickly coming to a close. 

If you remember correctly, it was around Christmas two years ago that you’d first met Jaemin, the flirtatious raise of his eyebrows amusing you more than wooing you. 

Oh, how time flies. 

“What the fuck, you decorated the tree without me?” you curse, footsteps thumping against the heated floors as you approach the Christmas tree, mostly dazzled with ornaments and lights.

“I told them to wait for you,” Jaemin raises his hands in surrender, closer to you than you thought he’d be.

“Naked Christmas trees make me uncomfortable,” Mark remarks, compiling pieces of his gingerbread house with Chenle beside him. “Should’ve come sooner, like the agreed meetup time.”

“You know I’ve been trying.”

“Try harder,” Mark laughs, snickers filtering around the dining table covered in gingerbread crumbs and frosting. “Maybe showing up on time can be your new year’s resolution.”

“Maybe not being lame can be yours,” you roll your eyes, catching the top of the Christmas tree and how bare it is. “No star this year?”

“We at least saved that for you,” Haechan murmurs, hand swatting Jisung’s mid jelly-bean snatch. “Though you’ll have to find another way to get in on. Renjun’s using it so he can be a few centimetres above the stove.”

“I heard that, asshole,” Renjun curses from the kitchen opposite the dining room, Jeno laughing beside him. “He’s just covering up for the fact that he broke it. And probably his tailbone too.”

“What were you doing?” you laugh.

“Just some manly repairs around the house - you know how helpless Mark is,” Haechan has the audacity to puff out his chest, hands behind his head in a not so subtle way to flex.

“Bro literally couldn’t reach the medicine cabinet because he got a paper cut and then broke his tailbone.” Jeno chirps, a chorus of loud laughter echoing throughout the apartment as Haechan sighs in defeat, having the decency to look sheepish.

“If not healed in time, papercuts can be deadly. Get infected and stuff,” Haechan retorts, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky I’m alive to tell this story.”

“Sure you are,” Mark pats his back, a smirk that has Haechan rolling his eyes. “Anyways, you’ll have to find something else to help you. You’re welcome to use something less deadly than a step-ladder.”

“I’ve got it,” Jaemin says and suddenly his warm hands are on either side of his hips, star shaking in your hand as you’re hoisted up like you’re nothing. “The star.”

It’s like he’s speaking another language. The star, of all things, that’s what he’s focusing on? Not that he’s lifting you like you’re weightless in front of your friends, who might you add, are smirking and high-fiving in your direction? If your brain wasn’t busy short-circuiting, you’d give Jaemin and your friends a piece of your mind, but your face’s entirely too hot and the lights from the Christmas tree twinkle in Jaemin’s adoring eyes and you’re at a loss what’s happening in your chest. How fast your heart can possibly rabbit in your chest, especially when he gives you an easy, heartfelt smile and nod as if to say, go on. So, you do go on, placing the star on as best as you can and are only let down when you’re satisfied with its position. Jaemin lets you down easily, no huff or puff and admires your work, like you’d decorated the big tree all yourself. And when his eyes flicker to yours, laser-focused on him, his hand gives your lower back a pat, voice low and entirely too intimate as he says,

“You did well.”

You excuse yourself to the bathroom soon after. Or right after, really because what was that? When did he become less cheesy, and so swoon-worthy? When couldn’t you pry your eyes from him and long for him at your side when he stood elsewhere? Perhaps, your life isn’t busy enough for you to be entertaining such thoughts, but what remains true for here and now is that this Christmas dinner is going to be a lot different from years past.

After you’ve returned, you’re conveniently paired up with Jaemin to build your gingerbread house. He asks if you’re ok, if you needed any painkillers or wanted to lie down, all which you dismiss more flustered than you usually do and try to get to work, scowling when you catch Jeno and Mark snickering to themselves. In usual, tender-hearted Jaemin style, he specifically bought your favourite candy to decorate the gingerbread house, an assortment of candy you both share a love for too. You keep your cool. He laughs, like he adores you when you put some icing on the tip of his nose - you keep your cool. He only encourages you when the house comes tumbling down in your hands, the two of you working together to build a stronger, better house - you keep your cool. However, what really sends you over the edge is when in a rotation of jokes, Jaemin snags some icing from Renjun and Jeno’s serving, a cheeky lift of the eyebrows as he licks three fingertips of icing off his hand. 

It’s when you and Mark manage to make eye contact immediately afterwards that you know you’re screwed, an amused shake of the head coming from him as you turn away, the smile on your face too obvious. 

You take another bathroom break after you’re finished building your houses, another tagline of ‘nice work’ thrown your way before you go. Were you not complimented enough throughout your life or were you developing a praise kink? Because, your reactions to his words are amateurish to say the least. Bracing your hands against the basin, you collect and expel breaths, somehow in your reflection deciding that if the opportunity came about, you’d accept Jaemin’s advances. Christmas is the season for giving, after all. Not that you saying yes is a gift, but he sure made it out to be, and who knew, maybe being with him would be a treat to yourself. Only time would tell.

Exiting the bathroom, your eyes are downcast, obscuring your peripheral which would’ve caught the body breezing past, except it’s your body that catches the body, two figures colliding into one. The slippery surface of the floor makes you spin on your socks, secured by your waist as your hands brace against the back of biceps. Very hard biceps, might you add. You’re about to thank Jeno, except you’re not met with a cat-like smile as you peer upwards, only pouty lips and puppy-dog brown eyes.

“You alright?” Jaemin asks, like he’s almost out of breath.

You nod rigidly, hands hesitating between letting go and looking suspicious or indulging and looking even more suspicious. “Y-yeah, yeah. I’m fine. All good.”

Jaemin gives you an unconvinced look, pink lips puckered with a crease in between his eyebrows. Fuck, you’re really losing your barings if all you could think is kissing him silly right now. 

“You’ve been skittish all day, you sure?” he asks.

So, he’s noticed. Great.

“Positive,” you confirm, not meeting his eyes. When did he get so muscular? Under the soft lighting of Mark’s apartment, his chest looks broad and sturdy through his black sweatshirt, and he feels firm. Rigid. Like someone you can rely on. “You know what they say, gatherings make everyone nervous.”

That’s definitely not what they say. Whoever they are. 

“We’ve been doing these dinners for ages, I’m not so sure about th-” he goes to say, but something grabs his attention. Makes him extend his neck and from your view, it makes you gulp. Several times. “Oh.”

Oh? What could get such a reaction?

You follow his gaze, finding a nicely tied mistletoe hovering above the two of you. One of the few strung around because Mark gets a kick out of his friends begrudgingly peck either’s cheek or bicker incessantly. It was funny to watch, and watch only. Now, you stand below one with the one man you’d love nothing more to kiss, if only he’d let you. Ask you if he could be yours again.

A gift or curse, you’d soon see what this would be.

“Oh,” you echo.

“Is your heart beating as fast as mine?”

You chuckle, half of out of habit and the other out of nerves. If he was any closer (which he couldn’t have possibly been), then he’d be able to hear how nervous you are. You cover up the skipped beat your heart does with a lame cough when his gaze falls back to you, smugness curving his lips.

“You wish.”

“I don’t think I have to wish,” he chuckles, then doing something out of your worst nightmare. Craning downwards to hear your heart better, forgetting he can feel your pulse that fights against your neck. He’s doing this to mess with you - there’s no other reason why. “Let’s hear your heartbeat.”

Suddenly, you’re downward spiralling, realising the gravity of your situation, how completely too close your bodies are and how, for some reason, in the face of someone who’s made their attraction to you known, you’re acting like you have the crush now. 

“Too close,” you stutter out, hands finally leaving his biceps and wanting to separate but he’s been going to the gym, getting stronger and so, it’s no use escaping his grasp.

Especially when he holds you firm, brown eyes intent as he stares down at you, flickering between your eyes and lips. You swear your heart’s going to beat out your chest.

“Not close enough,” he murmurs, so close, practically sharing the same breath as you. “Can I?”

To drive home his point, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, holding you even closer as he shares a question between just the two of you, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod, rigid and awkward, like you’re resigned to your fate and when Jaemin’s face flickers with concern, you find yourself leaning in first. Initiating the kiss.

Huh, who would’ve thought?

In any case, your hands are migrating from his sturdy biceps to his handsome face, melting into him as you kiss to become one. So deprived, so peaceful. United as one, lips moving as you taste vanilla icing and the beginnings of forever on his lips.

“Thank fuck,” you hear behind you, the moment gone in an instant as your head swivels behind you, finding each and every one of your friends peering over a wall at you. Having watched you and Jaemin kiss. “Jisung, you owe me pork belly when we’re next out.”

And so, that’s how you spend your Christmas dinner. Mercilessly teased by your friends who fake-kiss each other, burying your face in a hearty meal while Jaemin and you hold hands under the table. Lucky, in a way, that you’re shouldering your embarrassment together.

[kuntprodukt]

WHERE YOU START THAT'S WHERE I BEGIN

Leon S. Kennedy x reader | 18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBIOUS CONSENT, reader is captive, SMUT, female reader, age gap, implied alcoholism, BIG stockholm syndrome, toxic relationship, abuse, light physical violence(he hit her only once anyway), light hint of misogyny??, bruises, begging, masturbation(fantasy), vaginal sex, reader has masochistic tendencies i guess, creampie, unprotected sex, dirty talk.

summary: Blonde hair rarely stays the same, but this feels like a clear reminder there is little to nothing remained of the past rookie - innocence is gone with the clear, light wheat color. He wishes it was possible to start everything from scratch - maybe excessive drinking will black him out, memory loss or whatever just to be given a chance to create new him. Probably wouldn't work, everyone would still remember him. And you would still be here. 

notes: i didnt proofread if you see mistakes then you are wrong and ignore them, english isnt my first language. reblogs, asks or comments and any kind of interractions are really appreciated!

tags: @melanchol1cs

“Top ten bruises on my body!”

Your fingers stretch the skin of your thighs, presenting as a group project. You tilt your head to the side, staring back at your reflection in the mirror. Not only a mirror, right now not for you at least. More like a camera, pretending to be one of celebs having an interview - you’ve always watched before getting locked here. You don’t have rights to watch TV unless with Leon, Tarantino shit or similar to his style. You find them boring at this point, at first they are nice with cool shots, but after two movies they become repetitive and even dull. With a clear fetishistic content, the same violence you can find in other films. A naive eye would think Boondock saints is Tarantino’s child, maybe Leon is a victim of that too. Don't tell this to him though, at drinking hours Leon would only roll his eyes at your possible statement or give you a slap - a man knows better than some young woman. Do you know many good female directors? Leon doesn't, unlikely there are anyway.

“First place! This is my favorite” A reddish patch similar to nebulas. The shape isn’t even linear, slowly forming, but even a blind would see it looks like a heart. If he hits it means he loves, right? Your finger traces around it, emphasizing the shape. “It looks like a heart, I love it”

“Heart shaped cause he loves me”

Your fingers slowly trace up to the straps of your dress. You pull them lower, they are loose cause you never bothered to adjust that - no one other than you and Leon will see. There are different sized bruises; some are already blooming on your skin like the prettiest flower, slowly descending to your stomach which is covered with the fabric of your silky dress. “He said my tits are the prettiest, prettier than porn stars’”

Your eyes drift across the reflection of your neck, covered with hickeys - a minute pause to think. Are hickeys bruises? Hickeys do look like bruises, but does the act behind them matter? Do they become less violent when his lips suck on your sensitive skin, breaking vessels to coax them to bloom on your neck?

“What the fuck are you doing?” A new reflection appears behind you, a hoarse voice after no consecutive dry days pulls you to the earth. Leon is back. Leon is back home! His face is confused and tired - not because of your stupid antics, no-no. You are the best part of his life, unlikely Leon will ever admit that, still the thought lives in your mind rent free - maybe coping with the lack of freedom. 

“Nothing!” Your hand creeped to his, pulling closer so it'd lay on your waist. You lean in to kiss his cheek, the stubble grazes your soft lips. Leon doesn't comment on this. “I’ve missed you”

He hums, making a bad choice to let his eyes drift across your skin. Not looking into your face though, his mom has always said they are mirrors of the soul. No way you will catch his guilt. Bruises, hickeys and they look pretty on you - something he’d define as a guilty pleasure to observe. Blooming slowly like it’s a spring season, warm, full of love. Love is the warmth, like the inside of your mouth. And every single proof of his love that covers your flesh is full of turbulent emotions - those violent delights have violent ends. Shamefully or not, this gets him harder every time.

“Would you kiss me better?” Of course you notice him staring at your body. Good fucking job, Leon Scott Kennedy.

It is hard to meet your gaze, he always tries to hold it more than a second. As his mom said once, keeping eye contact is the key to success - a lie, if it was true then he’d have already become the next president. Soberness is not for the weak and he needs a sip, to drink away his building shame. It snakes around his neck like the worst tie in the world before an important meeting, slowly tightening just to add another one - guilt. Whiskey calms down this, then your pussy removes it completely. 2 months have probably passed after bringing you here - against your will, now Leon is not so sure if the idea was a good one. Alcohol never encourages good deeds, but his life goal isn’t to become another Saint, not anymore. His addiction kicks out any hope, pushing him to drown himself in the guilt even more - full of whiskey, full of guilt, there is no space for anything else other than your presence. And kidnapping you only strengthened it furthermore. 

“You don't look wounded” he brushes off, out of habit untapping the flask to bring it closer to his lips. The rich taste of bitter liquor burns any remains of taste buds. Leon knows a lot about injuries, hell, not better than Rebecca - she is a doctor, while he is just an unfortunate government agent with a lot of experience. Maybe too much. Your eyes follow, lingering on the bead of whiskey there while pressing harder into his side. 

He misses your thrashing, biting his hand to silence you while he slips cock inside your pussy, kicking him just just you to end up with your body painted with bruises, forcing you to stare at him - now all you do is cling to him even worse than a leech after a day on the swamps. Staring at him willingly, an idiot struck in love, even dogs don't have that look, like the best thing in the whole world is in front of you. Before he had a reason to be angry, now you are just the proof of his failure in life. Your behavior changed steadily, so naturally it felt surreal to realize, in his mind a young girl with a bright future wouldn't settle on being kidnapped by a 40 years old alcoholic so quickly, crawling to him in the evening to suck his cock. 

You both stand in front of the mirror, but your gaze isn't focused on it - forgot about the glass reflecting your frame and dreamily blinking at him because the world stops on Leon. While all he can see is his washed look, exhaustion doesn't suit anyone, but it is the biggest gift his job has given him that he can't even brush it off. Blonde hair rarely stays the same, but this feels like a clear sign there is nothing remained from the past rookie cop - innocence is gone with the clear, light wheat color. He wishes it was possible to start everything from scratch - maybe excessive drinking will black him out, memory loss or whatever just to be given a chance to create new him. Probably wouldn't work, he is too old and everyone would still remember him. And you would still be here, he’d be forced to remember everything. 

While you had everything, all the time in the world before he got you stuck here. Even now, your appearance didn't get worse, at least in his eyes you are still perfect; the short gown clings to your thighs, emphasizing them as a quick reminder you are his. No way for you to escape because you cling to him even worse than any sugar baby would to a rich man. You like him, his grumpy expression wearing it like a coat, you like and pity him. So much it hurts from the inside - tearing your heart apart, not realizing how humiliating it is to cling to his leg almost every evening just for an ounce of affection. Maybe a little bit crazier, but four walls without alcohol or any other ways to escape are suffocating even for him - no wonder Leon became your favorite person to bother, an unusual way to find escapism. 

“You look like black cat!! I love cats!” and he’d shrug it off, while putting a black cat on his phone wallpaper. It is flattering after all.

You’d try to do everything together too, like a couple while you are not actually. But it warms his heart to find a warm body next to him, rambling into his ears while he drinks his brain out before his fingers would slip under your underwear to part your cunt . And you don't seem to mind his trouble with the boner that whiskey has given him. Together, no matter if one of you is miserable. 

Leon presses you against the mirror, his chest is pressed against your back. Your tits are squeezed against the cold surface, easily can be felt through the thin fabric of the dress, not only this but also his cock strained against his jeans - you can feel it too, he is so close to the point that if you had the urge to escape you wouldn't have any way to exit. His hand crawls up to grip your jaw, forcing this time not to face him directly - but your own and his reflections. It is much easier to handle your gaze like that. He is not drunk enough, nor is he sober enough to drown himself in shame and you are here to center him with your pussy. One believed the sun moved around the earth, for you Leon is the center of your Universe. Not so far away.

“Keep your eyes on me” He shakes your head slightly, your eyes widen before darting at his reflection and teeth sink into your lower lip. “You didn't lie, right?”

You nod, at least try with the lack of movement right now nor you know what he meant. Leon clicks with his tongue. 

“Missed me… have you thought about me?” his hand unbuttons his jeans to free his hard cock, it twitches briefly in the air, he grips it before giving a slow stroke - a soft grunt escapes from his lips, brushing against your ear and you get wetter like on command. Ears are sensitive, after all. “Did you touch yourself while I was out?”

You squeeze your thighs together, a silence is enough to confirm. Leon hit the nail on the head, - of course you did, but there is more for that too; his shirt is one of many comfort items that you snatched two weeks ago, his smell is still there or it is already engraved in your brain like some kind of drug. Burying your nose against the fabric while your fingers play with your slick folds, thinking about him. Even better, imagining him being in front of you, while you are dripping wet, probably leaking on the bed you both sleep on, he’d be watching your fingers part your cunt, exposing those sweet, slick folds to him before your fingers would slide across your clit and the mound of it swallowing your fingers coaxing wet with obscene shlicking sounds as their pace would quicken. 

What Leon doesn't know (or he does?), you like to press on one of your bruises if there are any - that pain feels too good, sweet and only intensifies your crushing orgasm. It was a weird discovery, accidental and now there are two things that can get you off - Leon, of course, and pain from bruises. You have been imagining this over and over, like good food never gets old. Your fantasies come to nothing as his hand shakes your head roughly. Earth is calling, darling.

“Tsk, stop looking so dumb” His voice is loud in your ears, reflections of your figures doesn't try to veil anything - maybe at the edge of high arousal it looks even better in his eyes - gown rose, its folds cling to your hips and hugs your curves in a soft embrace while not hiding different little to medium sized bruises. And your face? Pretty, flushed with teeth sunk into the plush skin of your lip with the eyes full of need and affection - your entire body begs him to fuck you. Again, even dogs don't have this look.

This time your sweet inseparable fingers are not the ones to part your cunt, but his cock. It slides against your folds coaxing out wet noises after every drag - his cock head bumps against your clit, making your flinch and his grip on your jaw gets tighter; don't forget you need to focus on his reflection. Your cunt gushes at every little bump across your aching nub, sick coats his flesh, lubing his length in it before he pushes his cock into you with a grunt - Leon is not really a patient man. You arch into him, like a piece of puzzle made for him - perfectly settled in the curve of your bodies, leaving no free spaces all skin-to-skin. 

Your velvety walls easily swallow his cock, stretching inch by inch at every unevenness of its hard flesh with pleasant pain and letting it slide until his cock got buried deep inside you. His presence, cologne and cock overwhelms you per se - there is no space, if you try to turn, to face Leon and confront him directly, not to stare at his reflection like he isn't here, all your body would have felt would be him. Balls pressed against your flesh, while you can’t help, but tightly clench around him. His cock drags out, your walls cling to the prominent vein of his cock, the one that pulses hard before cumming inside you almost every night. Pulling out until only a tip remains inside, the base of his cock is glistening with your slick, easily slamming it back - relishing how tight and warm your pussy is, the best and most calming feeling for Leon. His hips start pounding into you, falling deep into the pleasure connecting your bodies, more wet and flesh-hitting sounds slip out of you. His hand forces your head to roll back while his free hand rests on your stomach, like the snake keeping hold and not letting any other movement - try and get bit. 

“Feel better than those fingers?” Leon grunts, every man's weakness is their ego - it is hungry for satisfaction and needier than you after denying your orgasm on one of nights. 

“Yes - yes! Much better!” 

“Of course, dummy,” Leon shakes your head again and your eyes are unfocused for a moment - blurred, looking at the tip of your nose as you try to recompose. His hips slam harder against yours, burying his cock deep to the hilt and another squeal.  Amusing. “What can you know about pleasing a woman?”

Leon doesn't know much either. Women lie, even in bed - they fake their orgasms, but he refuses to believe you are the only girl that he was able to make cum. 

His hand brushes slightly across one of the bruises. Fuck, a hint of sweet pain and your body flinches. Your cunt gushes more, feeling the stickiness of your slick cling to your thighs now too, his nose brushes behind your ear before nibbling on the soft cartilage. Your walls clench harder around him with a light moan escaping out of you, the tightness of them almost makes him cum. Your expression tells him everything, hell, even body language is enough to confirm that you get off of that - not sure why, maybe younger girl thing or you just got crazier than before with him. He doesn't even know what’s better, but not like it matters right now cause your little kink is beneficial for Leon. 

Will you cum if he presses intentionally? God, his cock throbs inside you even harder at the thought. Those marks were made by him, in big percentage of situations he was drunk to the point he didn’t even remember them, or maybe too ashamed to confront he messed up, other ones were hickeys - they don't count, those are evidence of him fucking you dumbless. He is not shy to play with you. Now particularly. 

“What? Are you getting off of this?” You can see him in the mirror and hear him. Omnipresent. his voice caresses your ear with his lips, brushing across the sensitive cartilage and your insides flutter. You can bet those veins and other imperfections are imprinted in your pussy after this. “Freak.”

“No, hell! Ugh– Waitt!” You can explain! Or can you? Your words get thrown out of your brain after another thrust, knocking so sweetly your spongy spot. His cock doesn’t stop pounding, grinding its tip inside you every time he buries it deep to the hilt - you can feel it almost into your stomach at this point. That’s for the better anyway, your open mouth would only end up confirming his words. Freak, dumb freak. Mindless cunt. 

His finger presses on the red spot on your side, a light pressure, just a try - an investigation, just to see if it wasn’t an illusion and quickly a moan follows after, even better your pussy flutters, unclenching just to grip harder than you’ve ever been while cumming on his cock. Wow. “Sure”

And you didn’t cum yet. Will you if he presses harder? Your body is in front of him, the mirror doesn’t hide all the blooming colors on your skin. Hickeys don't count, bruises from his biting neither - those born with violence are the ones. To apply pressure on a violet one? They are the most mature. 

His balls slap your skin after every thrust, keeping the rhythm to his taste - rough, quick with the result of leaving you sore and full. And you are sucking in his cock so good, a greedy thing not wanting to feel emptiness again - after all he is the only one that can fill you, fingers aren’t enough without him. His eyes focus on his hand, caressing your curves before finally getting to the sweet bruise on your thigh - heart shaped one, the one you were so excited about because the proof of his affection is in the most popular shape. Marked down on you. He loves you. Pareidolia twisted by Stockholm syndrome, still he likes you cause you too. His finger traces the shape, watching you flinch at the contact with the sensitive patch. It is hard for you to keep attention on that, while his cock drags so sweetly inside you - fits so nice, easing your body with pleasure. Something is missing still, not for too long he presses his finger on your bruise. Now nothing is missing.

Your face twists in pleasure, your teeth sink into the soft plush of your lower lip to the point he can notice light beads of blood forming - clearly would be sore and sensitive to kiss later. Your eyebrows furrow, creating a light cease in between them, the one he usually pokes to ease. If not for Leon, he believes you’d be already wrinkled. This sight is almost better than alcohol, drinking into it as your cunt clenched tight around him - pulsing so sweetly as the hard feeling of orgasm hits you, pleasant shockwaves dumb every bad thought in the head. His cock throbbed, letting a loud groan and finally spurting ropes of cum into you. His sperm fills you, grinding his hips against you as your mind is all focused on the warmth of his cum - settling inside you, while his slowly softening cock tries to prevent the leak - doesn't work well, it drips slowly, sticking to your thighs and now not so warm. 

“You love me, right?” Leon’s voice comes out breathy, brushing against your ear shell. It is a plea to hear your confession, that someone can love him even in the most wrong way. You like him, love him. There are no other words that can explain - in the hell you’d crawl to him, you would not turn to look upon if that meant you would not see him anymore and if he ever dies you would mourn him to your death - you are tearing apart every time you see him, touch him and kiss him. His calloused fingers creep down to your clit, flicking and rubbing it roughly just to prolong your orgasm - to see more those mindless eyes directed to him. Trying to keep the feeling of that warm tightness sucking in his cock. 

“I looove love love you!” Your voice is weak, hoarse from moans and sounds like a mewl. To prove you mean it, to shove out of your chest everything he makes you feel so he’d validate your needs. Leon isn’t deaf or stupid, the clear intention behind them is clear, you are genuine and transparent - more transparent than see through lingeries, he can see your thoughts in that dumb head of yours. And this fed into his ego better than anything. 

Your body drops down as his grip lets go of you. Like a corpse, god, no – wrong thought, Leon. His fingers are wet, sticky with your slick. Everything clings to him, he isn't sure if he sobered up or it is just sweat. Untapping the flask to take a sip. Bitter liquid burns in the back of his throat, slowly reaching his stomach just to heat him up. And whiskey numbs everything, it cradles him in the almost mother-like embrace. Then he’d need you to coddle in your arms like a child, to feel your chest against his face.  “I need to shower”

“... Can I join?” Your head flicks to him, trying to stand up but for his luck you are still recovering from your orgasm. Weak in knees, still full of urge with the need to leech at his side. 

“No” And you beg and cling, reaching to grab his shirt just to loom in front of him, reminding what he has done - to confront his deeds, shame is sticky like oil, damp and cold - he knows this too well, it washes over him with soberness. His ruffled expression covers with sweat, wide pupils cause everything feels like a joke. Crude one. 

“Please, Leon! I’d be good” Your thighs clench around nothing, as his cum oozes out to cling to the inner side of your plush skin. “Don’t leave me here, please, I love yo—“

Loud slap. His hand connects with your cheek. Actually, it is a first - to hit a woman in the face is too much and he can’t fall so low. Your expression dries his sweaty face, confused and surprised. Thank god your grip lessens, he slaps it away too. His wide eyes stare at you - he can’t believe what he has done, well, he can but to face it in a half-clear mind is not his best way. Red mark on your cheek that is going to bloom into something more violet, Leon has never given you flowers, but bruises look like ones enough. 

His hand burns from the slap, still can’t let it fall to his side like nothing happened. And you like this, thriving into this more than he has ever expected you. Your eyes glimpse with more affection, like a stubborn dog not knowing any better. 

What do you even know?

You are the shame that washes down on his frame, you are the guilt tie on his neck. Your entire existence warms him, but at the same time Leon needs to wash you off of him. 

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 002. the assignment.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.9k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: chapter twooooo oh my god im so excited for this chapter AUGH IT FELT SO GOOD writing this !! this is when things get GOOOODDDD and im ao HUHUHUHUHU to hear yalls thoughts!! hehe. i hope you like it! <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

You don’t expect to see him here.

The planetarium is dimly lit, the soft glow of projected constellations swirling lazily across the domed ceiling. You hadn’t planned on coming—it was a last-minute decision. Yet, the vastness of space, even simulated, has always steadied you.

But then—

"Of course."

The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement, is unmistakable.

You turn.

Anaxagoras is standing just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes reflecting the cosmic sprawl above. He isn’t wearing his usual academic robes—just a simple, well-fitted dark tunic beneath a long coat, the fabric settling neatly against his frame. He looks different like this. Less like a scholar. More like—

Well. More like a man. 

"I didn’t take you for a stargazer," he says, voice measured, gaze still fixed on the cosmos above.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, professor."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I do prefer the certainties of physics over the whims of celestial bodies."

"Ah," you hum. "So no fate, no destiny. Just equations and probability."

"Precisely." His gaze flickers up, tracking the slow rotation of the star map. "Though I will admit, there’s a certain poetry to the illusion of it all."

You glance up as well. Orion looms overhead, his belt gleaming sharp and clear. "Illusion?"

"These constellations," Anaxagoras murmurs. "They don't exist as we see them. Stars scattered across thousands of light-years, their arrangement nothing but a trick of perspective. We only think they belong together because of our vantage point." He says, after a pause, “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.”

Your lips curl. "That’s kind of sad."

He tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Yeah," you say, watching the artificial night swirl overhead. "Thinking you're part of something greater, only to realize it's all a trick of perspective."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, thoughtful. Then—

"Perhaps," he concedes. "But perspective is all we have."

You glance at him again, but his expression is unreadable. 

There’s always been a distance to him that he maintains… almost religiously.

The hush of the planetarium stretches between you, the weight of his regard heavy. You’re not sure what it is that makes your skin feel so warm, your breath so shallow.

So you do what you do best. You challenge him.

"If constellations are an illusion," you say, "then what of all the truths we believe to perceive?"

His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

You don’t look away.

"We only think things are connected because of our vantage point," you continue, your voice quieter now. "So how do we know if any of it actually means anything?"

Another beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he says—

"We don’t."

Your chest tightens, though you don’t know why.

For a moment, it feels like that’s the end of it. Like you’ll both turn away and let the conversation dissolve into the simulated cosmos above.

But then—

Anaxagoras steps closer.

Not much. Barely enough to notice. But enough that when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Measured.

"We don’t," he repeats, as if the weight of it matters. "But sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

You don’t know what to say to that.

You’re early to class.

Not by much, but enough to claim your usual seat and settle in before the lecture hall fills. Enough to shake off the strange tension that’s been humming beneath your skin since the planetarium.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor, just another verbal sparring match. Anaxagoras challenged you. That’s all.

But it lingers.

It lingers in the way your heartbeat picked up when he stepped closer. In the way his words—so measured, so precise—felt heavier than they should have. In the way his gaze held yours just a fraction too long, as if entertaining the illusion wasn’t just about the stars.

You exhale, flipping open your notebook. Focus.

The room fills, a murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then, just as the hour strikes, he enters.

Anaxagoras walks with the same deliberate grace he always does, his robes sweeping behind him. But today, as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly.

On you.

Something flickers across his expression—gone before you can name it. Then he looks away, moving towards the podium.

"Good morning," he says, voice smooth, effortlessly commanding. "Let’s begin."

You should be taking notes. You should be focused on the equations he’s sketching onto the board, the elegant arc of chalk gliding across the surface. Instead, you remember his voice in the dark, low and certain—

"Sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

Damn him.

You press your pen to the paper, forcing your attention forward.

"Consider the nature of causality," Anaxagoras continues, turning back to face the class. "An event—any event—can be traced backward through a series of causes. But the perception of these events is often subject to our vantage point."

A pause. Then his gaze flickers to you, deliberate.

"One might argue that meaning is an emergent property. That cause and effect are simply the mind’s way of drawing constellations between unrelated points."

Your fingers tighten around your pen.

Is he—?

No. No, you’re imagining things. He’s lecturing. That’s all.

And yet.

His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, continuing as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just lace the entire moment with subtext so thick it might as well be its own theorem.

Your pulse is ridiculous. You need to get a grip.

The lecture moves on, but now you’re watching him differently. Not just listening, but observing. The way he gestures, the way his mind moves faster than his words, the way his lips quirk slightly when a student offers an answer that surprises him.

You’ve spent weeks admiring Anaxagoras for his intellect. Respecting him as a professor. Arguing with him for the sake of curiosity.

And...

Well, there'a no point dwelling on it, is there?

By the time the lecture is nearing its end, you’ve barely written anything coherent.

Your notes are a scattered mess—half physics, half what the hell is going on? The worst part? Anaxagoras knows. He hasn’t called on you once today, which is unusual. He always prods, always challenges. But today, he’s let you stew in your thoughts, like he’s letting you chase your own tail. 

Infuriating man.

"Before we conclude," he says, dusting chalk from his fingertips, "your next individual assignment."

The room collectively stiffens.

Anaxagoras turns from the board, his gaze sweeping over the lecture hall. Ilias straightens immediately, feigning deep intellectual engagement. You suppress a smile.

"As we’ve explored, physics attempts to model reality through observable forces," Anaxagoras continues. "But what of the forces we cannot measure? What of the unseen variables?"

Ilias perks up at that, intrigued. "Is he finally acknowledging my suffering?"

You elbow him. "Shut up, he’s setting up the assignment."

"Your task," he continues, "is to examine a concept often deemed metaphysical—fate, intuition, divine intervention—" He lifts his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle. "And construct a framework to explain its existence. Or—" his voice sharpens— "prove its impossibility."

A murmur ripples through the students. Anaxagoras doesn’t tolerate pseudo-science in his lectures, so the fact that he’s even entertaining this angle is unexpected.

It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense.

You listen, absorbed—until Ilias leans in again, whispering, "If I were to quantify the force that compels me to sleep in class instead of studying, do you think he’d accept it?"

You stifle a laugh. "I think he’d call it laziness and fail you on principle."

"Damn. Guess I’ll have to go with my second option."

"Which is?"

He grins. "Manifesting an equation that proves I am, in fact, always right."

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. "I’d pay to see you argue that with him."

As if on cue, Anaxagoras glances your way, sharp-eyed.

"Would either of you care to share your insights with the class?"

Ilias, ever the survivalist, doesn’t miss a beat. "We are discussing emergent properties of intelligence, professor."

Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."

The class chuckles. You shoot Ilias a look.

"Walked right into that one," you murmur.

Ilias sighs. "Yeah. That’s on me."

His gaze sweeps the class. "You may choose any concept, but your reasoning must be sound. Sentimentality will not be rewarded."

A collective groan. Someone mutters something about dropping the course.

You, however, are too focused on the way he’s looking at you.

He knows you’ll take this further than anyone else. He wants you to.

Then—

"Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing. "I need a word."

You feel the shift immediately. A few students glance between you and him, intrigued. You school your expression, pretending it doesn’t affect you.

"Yes, professor." you say.

He nods, then dismisses the class.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Students file out, some grumbling about the assignment, others already debating what concept they’ll choose. Someone lingers near the door for a second too long, clearly hoping to eavesdrop, before sighing and leaving.

Then it’s just you and him.

Anaxagoras exhales softly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders before turning to face you fully.

"I’m altering your assignment," he says.

You blink. "What? Why?"

His lips quirk slightly, but there’s something intent in his eyes. "Because the standard prompt is beneath your abilities."

You swallow. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s been paying attention.

"Your mind doesn’t just follow logic," he continues. "It challenges it. So I’m giving you something worthy of that."

You exhale, half-exasperated. "Fine. What’s the twist?"

Instead of answering right away, he steps past you, picks up a book from his desk, and flips it open. When he finds the page he’s looking for, he turns it toward you.

It’s a diagram. A branching structure of choices, converging and diverging like neural pathways.

"Your peers will be arguing for or against metaphysical forces." His voice is measured. "You, however, will go one step further."

He closes the book, meeting your gaze.

"Instead of proving or disproving their existence, I want you to model one."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

His smirk is subtle, but there. "You heard me."

"You want me to… what, exactly? Build a mathematical model for something physics doesn’t even acknowledge?"

"Why not?" he challenges. "If intuition exists, quantify its mechanism. If destiny is real, define its parameters. If the soul endures, find the equation that governs it."

Your fingers twitch at that.

That’s—

That’s significantly more difficult than the original prompt. You’d have to rethink everything from the ground up. 

The soul?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You really don’t like making my life easy, do you?"

His smirk deepens. "Where’s the fun in easy?"

You hate that he’s right.

And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think.

Your pulse is an uneven rhythm as you meet his gaze. "Alright," you say.

He nods once, satisfied. "Good."

For a moment, neither of you move.

"You’re dismissed," he says, voice softer.

You hesitate. Then turn, heading toward the door.

Just as you step through the threshold, his voice reaches you, quiet but deliberate.

"Don’t disappoint me."

You don’t look back.

But you do smile.

-> next.

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[artanogon]

the real question is dpdr or did . and who

giving your favorite character a dissociative disorder is free and easy

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Prologue - Terms and Conditions

A/N: Here we go! I’m obsessed with these two already. Let me know if you are too 🤍

Pairing: Tony Stark x Female Reader

Warning: 18+ slow burn.

Terms and Conditions

The conference room was sharp and sterile, walls lined with glass and egos, and the temperature dialed to “passive aggressive.” The tension wasn’t hostile—it was rehearsed, corporate, polite. Like everyone had agreed to wear their best masks.

Tony Stark lounged like this was a poker night, not a merger signing. Armani suit, sunglasses pushed back into gravity-defying hair, one leg crossed lazily over the other. He twirled his pen as though he was about to sign away someone else’s soul.

You sat across from him, upright and composed, your Novastem folder neatly aligned with the packet of legal documents. The Stark Industries logo gleamed beside your own, as if the two had already shaken hands and agreed to tolerate each other.

A senior board member from Stark Industries cleared his throat and began, “Given the shifting focus toward sustainable innovation, this merger allows us to diversify our portfolio in a way that speaks to future markets. Novastem’s work with nanogrid energy systems has potential applications across Stark’s existing infrastructure…”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He caught your eye across the table and mouthed: Nanogrid?

You gave a tight smile, then mouthed back: Look it up.

Another advisor chimed in, “And of course, with Miss Y/L/N’s engineering background and Stark’s R&D capacity—”

“—We’re practically a Hallmark success story,” Tony muttered under his breath. You shot him a look. He responded with an exaggerated shrug and the most unbothered wink known to man.

The rest of the meeting blurred into metrics, projections, and polite nods. You signed your part with efficient precision. Stark, predictably, added a dramatic flourish.

And just like that, you were legally bound to a man who probably hadn’t read a single bullet point on the proposal.

He leaned in, voice just above a whisper, “You realize this is the part where I say something charming and you pretend not to be impressed.”

“I’m not pretending,” you replied smoothly, rising to your feet.

.

Later that evening, the penthouse was exactly what you imagined a Stark-level habitat to be, impossibly sleek, a little cold, and humming with invisible tech you could feel in your bones. It was less home, more showroom, like even the walls were trying to impress someone.

Tony hadn’t bothered with the grand tour. He pointed vaguely toward the hall with a distracted, “Guest room’s the third on the left,” and vanished into the depths of wherever billionaires vanish after signing their souls away on legal paper.

You toed off your shoes by the door and wandered further in, suitcase trailing behind you with a whisper.

The place was… vast. And quiet.

Not eerily so—more like the quiet that wraps around you in the moments between chapters. The air felt charged in that too-clean, too-perfect way, like someone had pressed pause on life and forgot to hit play again.

You passed the living room—chrome and marble and enough screens to surveil a small country—and caught your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. You looked tired. Or maybe just… transitioning. From who you were this morning, to whoever this was supposed to be now.

You didn’t mean to explore, but your feet led you through the space anyway. Past the kitchen that looked like no one had ever dared to cook in it. Through the hall where the lighting followed your movement, casting soft gold onto minimalist walls. Past rooms with closed doors you didn’t open.

And then, halfway through turning a corner, you froze.

A small sound barely audible, rustling behind one of the plants. Then the lightest little meow.

You blinked.

From behind a steel planter, a pair of eyes blinked back at you. Pale ginger and white, with the posture of a feline who had definitely been judging you this entire time.

“Oh!” you said, surprised. “Hello. You’re… cute. And very out of place.”

The cat tilted her head like she took offense to the ‘out of place’ part.

She sauntered forward with practiced confidence, tail in the air, and promptly began rubbing against your leg like you’d passed inspection.

You crouched slowly. “And you are…?”

There was no collar, but something about her aura screamed named and spoiled rotten.

A voice called distantly from the hallway—Tony’s.

“Try not to let her con you. She’s fluff with zero morals.”

You glanced up. “She yours?”

“She lets me live here, yeah.” A pause. “Dum-E.”

You blinked again. “You named your cat after your robot?”

Tony reappeared in the doorway, towel slung around his neck. He smirked. “Nah. I named my robot after my cat.”

.

A knock at the door startled you.

It cracked open slightly. “Hey,” said a familiar voice. Happy Hogan.

You blinked. “Happy?”

He stepped inside with a hesitant smile. “Thought I’d check in. You surviving the first night?”

“Barely,” you admitted.

Happy gave a small nod toward Dum-E, who was still curled smugly on your suitcase. “Careful. She once hissed at me for sneezing near her food.”

Tony’s voice called out from somewhere beyond the hall. “She was right to. That tuna was artisanal.”

Happy rolled his eyes. “He feeds her better than himself.”

You tried not to smile. Failed. “She’s already claimed me.”

“She does that,” Happy said fondly, then sobered a little. “You good? I know this wasn’t exactly the dream wedding.”

You looked around, then at the cat, then at the impossibly large penthouse.

“No. But I’ll manage.”

Happy nodded. “You’ve handled worse. You’ll handle this. And hey—if you ever need a real person to talk to… I’m around.”

He paused before adding with mock seriousness, “Just don’t feed the cat shrimp. It goes to her head.”

From down the hall, Tony’s voice again: “I told you, it was ONE time—”

You smiled—genuinely this time. “Thanks, Happy.”

.

You curled up in bed a few minutes later. Dum-E had relocated to the window, silhouetted in moonlight, tail twitching as she surveyed her new roommate.

You weren’t sure what tomorrow would bring.

But you knew one thing.

You were already becoming part of the chaos. And for now… that would do.

[delatoid]

Yippee I finished my first plushie!! (Bo (Dragon Quest))

Finally learned to upgrade from sewing [to repair] clothes to learning how to make plushies and I like how this first* attempt went =) *Some ramblings abt the process under the cut:

So of course this wasn't first first try. But it is my first plushie project :L

I've been wanting to do this for a while, but I didn't really want to have to hand sew a plushie and I was too scared to learn how to use a sewing machine, so for a while I didn't really learn.

BUT we just got a new sewing machine so this was when I was like "ok I'll learn how to use it now and finally work through my plushie ideas list"

Here are the different attempts for making Bo. From left to right:

1) This one was hand sewn just so I could get the feel of making a plushie and making a pattern. As you can see it was awful lol

2) The tiny one was my first time using the sewing machine properly (past testing on sample fabrics and whatnot). Kept it small since it was basically the same as the first one for the most part, but I modified the pattern a bit too

3) First time embroidering, and also tried to change the pattern to have a more drastic "dip" like the She-Slime lamp I have. I didn't really proceed with that since I don't think it really looks as good as the more teardrop-y shape the Rocket Slime art uses

4) Switched to minky here (I was using fleece beforehand). Also switched from embroidering the scleras to just using minky for that as well.

It doesn't show as well in this pic, but the eyes kinda bulge out and the outlines were done too thin for my liking (plus I didn't have heavy enough stabilizer for minky so I think the face kinda deformed a bit there too)

5) The final version!! Pattern was exactly the same as 4, the only change really was just better embroidering (I think) otherwise I'm really proud of how she came out =)

Only note is that I'm still kinda torn on choice of fabric. I *do* like how reflective the longer pile (is that the term?) is, but maybe I should've gone for the less reflective, shorter pile to make her less furry? Idk I just flip-flop whether I like it or not but I don't think it makes her look any worse to me :P

[thestarlightforge]

TL;DR: Don’t let Étoile go quietly into the night. Take 30 secs to sign the petition; fight for them, like they fought for us.

Edit: See the reblog for some beautiful art & comments from my sibling! 💙

Last night, I learned Étoile—a landmark show from Amy Sherman-Palladino, one of my favorite creators—was quietly canceled early this pride month. Without spoiling too much, it’s easy to put together why.

She stuck her neck out for disabled people & queer people more than ever before.

Had a wondrous international cast featuring BIPOC characters in prominent roles.

Criticized bloody corporate money in the arts & centered the female gaze.

Amazon MGM Studio’s former president, Jen Salke, had ordered 2 seasons of the show outright. Then, she switched jobs in March, replaced by Mike Hopkins. He then canceled it six days into pride month.

He did so even after star Gideon Glick (writer & performer behind a prominent gay & autistic character in the show) was actively winning awards for it, & it’s a shoe-in at the Emmy’s.

You might say “it’s a TV show” & “there are bigger things going on in the world.”

But as it so crucially points out, the arts—including how they’re controlled by corporate interests—are a reflection of that world. Of who is allowed to exist in it.

The Overton Window matters. Masse cancellations of queer media matters. The fact disabled characters make up less than 3% of the TV landscape while representing more than 25% of the population matters.

So I am asking, please—take 30 seconds. Sign the petition. Talk about this show. Express a little outrage. Maybe, just maybe, if the noise & awards get big enough, a better outcome will prevail. But even if it doesn’t—Amy Sherman-Palladino bet her lifelong passion project, her dream, on refusing to leave us behind.

Don’t let this go without a scream.

[fcthots]

I have school in less than 2 hours, and I haven't slept in 3 days, but I'd like, nay *need* Jason.

Please write smut about him, any smut make Jason call us 'pretty girl' and let him sat 'You're doing so good, so good'. Make him be a bit feral for his girl, maybe for her saying Jaybear casually or lean into him while sleeping. Just want Jason being an absolute simp, crazy person, just insane for his partner.

Clawing at my walls rn

Like I want him more than I want academic validation, more than I want One Direction back together, more than I want anything.

You're so amazing!

I mean when I say that your posts make my day. You're so talented, and I wanted to thank you for all the work you put in here.

-🪅

you can’t just say these things to me and expect me not to blush

You knew it was a mistake when Jason did a “renovation project” in one of his backup safe houses. You knew he was up to something, but that stupid, but adorable, smile caught you in its trap. He said he “just wanted you to take a look at [his] safe house” and “just make sure you like the renovations!” Liar. Pretty liar though.

His “renovations” consisted of two things: new sheets and a mirrored ceiling. You were doomed the moment you walked in the door. You’re not exactly sure how you ended up this way, but his tongue is making you see stars and your clothes are… somewhere else. You can’t recall.

He isn’t letting you go any time soon. After the fourth time he’s edged you, in fact, he says he’s “just getting started.” Now, your head is a pile of mush. Your face is flushed, your hair is splayed out, and your eyes are fucked out as you watch your reflection in the mirror. When you look down at his face, his eyes are already boring into yours. It sends a shiver down your spine and a spark of pleasure down to where Jason’s mouth connects with you that leaves you oh so close.

But he pulls away again and leaves you whining. He clicks his tongue. “Aw, pretty girl. Look at you. You’re doing so good for me, so good.” You let out another whine, begging for release. “You wanna cum pretty thing? I know you do. One more, ok? One more. I’m sorry, baby. You just look so pretty like this. That’s why we had to get the mirrors, sweetheart. You need to see the way you look when you’re like this, so you know why it drives me insane. But I can’t resist giving you what you want. One more and I’ll let you cum on my tongue.”

He kisses his way back down between your thighs and stays true to his word.