#this does create a good dynamic though

[bearsinpotatosacks]

So, I'm planning a post-final reckoning, also a top gun crossover fic at the moment, and while researching Duke Mitchell (this is going to be a Ethan and Mav are long lost brothers fic), I found a discrepancy either on the wiki or with Top Gun as a whole. It says that Duke was stationed on the USS Oriskany with Viper while they were with the V-51 squadron, where Duke was shot down in an F-4 Phantom.

Yet, when you go on the USS Oriskany's Wikipedia page, you see that the V-51 squadron was never posted on the USS Oriskany, and there were never any F-4 Phantoms on there in the first place!

Also, the V-51 squadron started using F-4 phantoms from about 1971-1978, meaning the earliest Duke could've died was 1971. Mav was born in 1962, meaning he was at least 8/9 (depending on whether he'd had his birthday or not) when he died.

I'm not sure if any of this is common knowledge and my time out of the Top Gun fandom has made me forget, but I swear it's the general fandom consensus that Duke died when Maverick was younger than 8/9, since the only photo we have of Duke has Mav looking fairly young (although I am not a good judge of how old kids look compared to their actual ages), so it's very interesting to see how time away from the fandom, plus some too in depth research changes things up

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Outdrawn

f/f contemporary romance

two cartoonist who’ve been rivals since uni, and now have competing webcomics online, have to work together on the relaunch of a cult classic at the comic press they both work at

they both struggle with art-related physical and mental health issues, and complicated families

[mad-hunts]

okay, but with the discovery of a new song, comes a discussion about how much i loveee characters who are torn in between supporting what is viewed as the 'good side' by most others in their canon and supporting an alternative that is starting to make more sense to them either because people on the 'good side' seem to actually not actually be as perfect as they originally thought and/or are openly experiencing some kind of conflict that have to do with themselves (i.e., they aren't truly happy, they are jeopardizing their own relationships to do this 'right thing,' or things just simply aren't fair in their opinion, etc). and i think that is part of why i enjoy talking about this conflict that exists within what i have confirmed to be my favorite member of the mathis family, jack mathis, because although barton's side is OFC not actually a 'good side'... he was brought up to think of it as that.

and he was brought up to also scorn heroes like batman, or more specifically, genuinely good people like jim gordon BC yes - he killed their grandfather and essentially almost ruined his father's life, but at the end of the day, was barton truly better or worse for that? because through everything that his father had told him about his father before him, i think that jack personally thinks that it was only a matter of time before wesley killed barton, and he probably wouldn't even be around today if it weren't for him. but he's idolized in their family + being this specific idea of 'perfect' is. but throughout the years, something has always felt wrong to jack with their family dynamics. and of course, he is right about that BC your father shouldn't be making you helping you kill people with him.

but whenever barton seems to turn the other cheek towards jack and shows him even the littlest bit of love, he hates it, but he always feels like he falls for it because that's all he's desired from his father: an actually healthy relationship where he doesn't have to constantly have to be on his guard around his father and receives love from him. but jack himself refuses to believe that vigilantes don't have their own agendas in what they do — because again, with the way he's been brought up with, love has unfortunately often been conditional and so although he wants to understand how someone could have an inner love for a stranger enough to save them simply because they are kind; jack looks at the way heroes do that and thinks 'there must be something in this for them or they wouldn't be doing it.'

so, here we have someone who's still a kid to me (he's eighteen in most timelines) that is good at what he does, which is mainly thieving but will step up to protect his family when needed... and that's all he's known during his whole life. so, despite doing wrong, because he's been rewarded for it (sometimes) and seeks validation from his father — he feels stuck in between watching people actually do good things and wanting to be like that, but knowing he'd be outcasted from his family if he were to choose that. and besides, 'whenever things are good, they're really good' is the philosophy that jack has convinced himself of thinking. so he sticks around in a family feeling like he OWES it to himself to make it out of doing terrible things his whole life and making that 'light' inside of him happy.

+ it's honestly so tragic whenever i think about it like that BC i really do think that there's a timeline out there where jack finds the courage to exile himself from his family, and he finds himself THRIVING despite there being some difficulty with him adjusting to actually feeling like the 'good guy' and doing things in a (usually) law-abiding way. but that ain't the main timeline right now 😭 and this stream of consciousness is all from st. chroma by tyler the creator, so thank you for the inspiration mister tyler okok

[homocidal-spider]

I rambled so much I ran out of tags whoops

new tumblr game. put in the tags a GENUINE flaw your fav(s) has. cant be something like "too kind" or "loves too much" like something genuinely bad messed up morally wrong they are or have done

[trampleddoves]

bad idea right

Holiday break with your new stepfamily gets more interesting when you catch your stepbrother's lingering glances.

Pairing: afab!reader x stepbrother!Spencer Content: angst + slight smut, 2.7k words, DDDNE, no kinks, but Spencer is your stepbrother (set just before-s1), reader is a college graduate and mentioned to wear dresses and makeup, reader gets tipsy, complicated family dynamics and unhealthy coping mechanisms, making out, dry humping.  Notes: MDNI. I do not condone the choices of the characters, this request truthfully just brought to me a fully-fledged idea that I could not ignore. Once again, scroll away if this isn’t your cup of tea. Title is indeed from the Olivia Rodrigo song, which I extensively listened to while I wrote. This isn’t even that smutty, but I really enjoyed exploring ideas of resentment simmering beneath the surface. I suppose this affirms a previous anon who accused me of being a freak—evidently. Of the highest order. Welcome. I bear cookies and milk. They’re poisoned.

Winter break. The chill wraps around the air like an overbearing mother—inescapable, looming in corners you wouldn’t suspect—although Spencer Reid wouldn’t know what having an overbearing mother entails. Diana Reid had never been overbearing even in her lucidity but the comparison seems apt. A certain foreboding attitude hangs over the house. Gathering here, with his father’s new family, a measly, pathetic attempt to be closer. 

He’s never particularly gone through the usual sulking phase of adolescence. Too busy growing up, being good, working hard to hide how he’s splintering at every corner—a young boy burdened by the weight of his genius and a mother absent from reality. A life without the support of a father. 

A father who is now desperately trying to reconnect, accepting him—forcibly, under the guise of love—into the fold of his new family. It’s all so performative, but then again Spencer knows all about performative. Having spent years trying to seem okay, like his mother isn’t rapidly deteriorating, hiding the fact that she’s unfit to be his guardian behind clean, well ironed clothes and his remarkable academic performance. His entire life is a laughable farce, so he sees through everything—the perfect spread of Christmas dinner, being forced to open presents in the morning together—they’re all facades precariously balanced on everyone’s cooperation. 

He'd played the part, baring his teeth as a way of smiling—he's never quite properly learned how to smile, having little cause for the action—posing for pictures, thanking his new stepmother for the new copy of Foucault’s Madness and Civilization. 

It’s a good gift, even though he’s already read the material. Shows that she made an attempt to know about him. Spencer could admit that the woman is kind, thoughtful, stable, he could see how his father would fall in love with her. But there's the underlying implication—she's nothing like Diana Reid. 

He decides he hates her the day after Christmas. He decides William Reid doesn't deserve her either. 

It feels like now he’s getting his life’s worth of teenage angst. After Christmas is over, he locks himself away, talking only when talked to. His father and stepmother are gone today, attending a fancy brunch with their shiny new friends, so Spencer ventures out of his room cautiously. His quiet footsteps are simply manifestations of his unease. Trying to create the least amount of noise, take up the smallest space. He does not feel welcome here, and he doesn’t want to.

Winter break. The chill insists upon invading the house, despite the heater. 

Yet you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of cereal in nothing but a slinky, emerald green slip. 

You. The most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

His stepsister. 

He pauses at the doorway, mouth dry, eyes trained on the way the fabric falls over your body, reflective silk casting shadows and highlights and making every single curve seem so supple and soft and oh so tempting.

He clears his throat. “Good morning.”

“Hey,” you look over your shoulder to regard him. He’s found that you’re even more displeased by this arrangement, this quick merging of two families. Traditional holiday festivities ring hollow now, obviously ornamental to make the marriage seem less dismal. Your way of showing your displeasure is the exact opposite of his. Instead of holing up in your room, you’re always outside if you can help it. He’s not sure where, but it’s obvious that neither of you are happy.

He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He’s finally reached a point where college graduates are age appropriate enough to be considered his peers. No longer the youngest person in the room. But at this point, his social grace is completely in reverse to his intellect. That is, nearing zero. He has no idea how to talk to you.

“I’m gonna meet a couple of friends for lunch,” you say, lifting the spoon to your mouth. His gaze follows, before he finds clarity and looks down.

“That’s good,” he mumbles, walking to the fridge and finding the milk carton.

“You wanna come?”

“Not really.”

He sees you shrug from the corner of his eye. Part of him wants to retract his rejection, but you’re already rinsing your bowl. Soon you’ll flounce off, and he’ll be alone. Good, he decides. It’s better off like this, holding you at a distance. He doesn’t need more fuel to add to his inappropriate attraction to you.

Leave it to him to mess this up. He doesn’t even want this new family—he’d much rather spend Christmas in Nevada. A small room he rents near Diana’s sanitarium, so he could spend time with her whenever he can. Still, he can’t believe he’s committing to this cliche. Nerdy step brother ogling his beautiful step sister. It’s as if he carries some permanent malady, inflicting it upon everything he touches.

“I’ll see you later then, Spencer.” your touch on his arm makes him flinch. 

He ducks and nods, hiding away from the odd look he’s sure you’re giving him. A look everyone gives him, even his mentor, the only man who could ever keep up with him. Weakly, he answers, “Yeah. Later.”

Later turns out to be way past dinner; Spencer is alone for far longer than he anticipated. His father and stepmother return around dinnertime, the woman drunk and stumbling about. William Reid pats his son on the shoulder, before quickly retiring to the master’s bedroom, “We’re both exhausted, Spencer. Make sure your sister gets home at a reasonable hour.”

What constitutes reasonable? He’d never gone out and partied when he was studying—or after, if he’s being completely honest. Still, he nods at his father, deciding there’s really no harm waiting up for you. 

It is quiet when you stumble into the house, but there’s a light in the kitchen that makes your heart rate spike. Your mother? William? Are you in trouble for staying out? Can you even get in trouble when you’re an adult? What are the rules for adults still living with their parents? You’re unsure. There’s no curfew, but the presence of the light reminds you all too well of past conversations when your mother had caught you sneaking back in.

It’s easy to regress back into the habits from your earlier years when you’re around her. Locked in this perpetual dynamic of mother and child—mother and daughter, which is arguably even worse—where you’re meant to forever stay young, her baby as she likes to say, with a beaming smile as if that would soothe the sting of having to move back home after college. 

Tail tucked between your legs, accepting defeat. You had plans of making it in a big city—didn’t everyone? But money and luck and a whole other host of factors are not on your side, so you’d begrudgingly accepted her offer. Come live with me until you get your feet solidly planted on the ground, she had said. Conveniently leaving out the part where she remarried. But you didn’t want to be homeless, so you had smiled through gritted teeth and moved back in, accepting William Reid as your new stepfather, as if your old, real father wasn't buried six feet down the ground only eight months ago.

It’s his son now that’s waiting in the kitchen. Spencer. Scrawny, bug eyed. Your mother had gushed about him in the past few weeks—apparently, he’s finished three PhDs., and is being considered for the FBI even though he’s technically too young to even apply. He’d never be like you, struggling to get past the first interview. No, he’s too brilliant for that.

He looks up from his book as you pad through the halls. Dim light softens the gaunt angles of his face, making him almost handsome. He smiles, and the illusion is gone, replaced by the reality of what he is: a boy still fumbling about how to be a man. 

“You’re back,” his voice is soft as he closes the book—some Italian writer you remember reading for a literature class.

You walk past him, grabbing a glass. “Yeah. Why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, training his eyes on the floor, but not before you catch his gaze lingering at your bare legs. “It’s so quiet around here.”

Right. He still lives in the city where, even in the dead of night, there’s an undercurrent of sound. Still accustomed to the slight hum, the pulse that lets you know there are other people awake around you, doing night shifts, or partying, or making love. Here in the quiet suburbs, with the strict homeowner’s association, a car revving down the street would be the cause for a noise complaint.

“Hm,” you gulp your water, “Should’ve come with me.”

“I didn’t want to intrude on you and your friends.” he replies, eyes flickering back to you. Clear amber, even in the dim light, “I hope you had fun, though.”

Try as you might, you can’t hate the guy. He’s much too earnest, too bumbling to ever be of any real danger. Besides, he’s stuck here just as much as you are, into this stupid tableau of family values your parents have forced upon you. Your resentment would only be wasted on him, especially since his resentment is just as obvious.

So you flash him a smile, lips reflective and mimicking wetness thanks to the lipgloss, “I did, thanks. How’s your book?”

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes trained on your mouth. 

“Spencer?”

“Oh, it’s good,” he turns his gaze back to his copy, old and worn, with papers sticking out of them, “I’ve read it before, I’m just reading through my annotations.”

“Ah,” you nod. Of course he’s the type to annotate. And reread said annotations. You walk closer, leaning against the table beside him. The way his eyes dart down your bare legs, not in full display, within touching distance, fills your mind with dangerous thoughts. So you steer the conversation that way, pressing his buttons ever so slightly, “Sorry you’re stuck here by the way. Could’ve been out getting laid at D.C.”

He shakes his head, a self deprecating smirk tilting at his lips. “I’m not—that’s not really my thing.”

“No?”

“Girls don’t really find me appealing.” he mumbles, risking another glance at your legs. You wait for the usual self pitying speech, the one with underlying anger and misogyny, but it doesn’t come. He simply looks wistful.

You find yourself filled with genuine intrigue, “No?” 

It’s interesting how the same word could carry such a different meaning with the slightest shift in inflection. Spencer seems to pick up on the softness of your voice.

“No, I don’t really—I spend most of my time reading.” he tells you.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t spend your time holed up in isolation,” your finger touches his chin, tilting it up to meet you. A strange sense of power fills your stomach as you watch his pupils dilate. “You’d find someone.”

You have a plethora of fucked up things upon which you can place the blame for why you do the next thing—your life not going the way you want it, the growing resentment for this entire holiday, your alcohol addled state of mind. That’s a problem you’ll figure out in the morning. Right now, you’re leaning in to kiss him. Your lips are sticky against his dry ones, palms cupping his jaw as you move your lips gently.

For a moment, you’re afraid you’ve misread the signals—he’s rigid, as though frozen by the permeating frigidity of the house. You consider pulling away, but then he is kissing you back. Slowly, at first, matching your pace, but then your tongue darts out to drag across the seam of his lips, mouth parting, and suddenly he’s moving with desperation. Kissing you as if he intends to meld your mouths together, making the prettiest little noises from the back of his throat.

There’s little time to think, not when there’s so much resentment and frustrations pouring out of both of you and into the kiss. He’s trying to keep up with your anger, but inexperience makes him uncoordinated. It’s sloppy and just on the edge of painful, clashing teeth and tongues poking harshly into crevices, not with the intention to explore but to take. 

When you tug at his pants, he pulls back, holding onto your hips like you’re some sort of lifeline. “W-we shouldn’t,” he pants.

“No?” you press your palm on his crotch, raising a brow at the obvious erection hiding beneath the fabric. 

He moans, eyes squeezing shut. “This is wrong, you’re drunk and—and my step sister.”

“I’m not drunk,” you mumble, moving to straddle his lap, dress hiking up to your hips and giving him a full view of your legs. Your cunt goes directly over his crotch. Only a few scraps of fabric separate you, and the thought makes you moan, makes you nip at his lower lip. He stiffens in response, face bright red.

“At least deny the step sister part,” he complains, resting his forehead against yours.

You don’t have anything to counter it, at least not with words, so instead you move your hips over the spot where you’ve settled. A moan trembles from his lips as you grind on his crotch, seeking friction from the growing bulge. You swallow the sound with another kiss, and this time he doesn’t fight it. 

“It doesn’t count,” you say in between kisses, hands tangling in his hair, “If we don’t actually fuck.”

He laughs, breathless and disbelieving, his breath warm on the skin of your jaw where he’s begun trailing kisses. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Yes, it does.” you insist, grinding your hips on his crotch, moaning as the thin lace of your panties grow soaked with your arousal, making the friction feel that much sweeter. “Makes perfect sense. Perfectly logical. It’s just masturbating then.”

Spencer is whimpering into your neck, large hands holding your waist to keep you balanced on his lap. “That’s still wrong.”

“Oh please, don’t act like you haven’t been jerking off to the thought of me.” That’s a risky sentence; you’re not actually sure. But with the way his hips jerk up into you, you realize he has done it. Lowering your voice, you lean in and bite his ear, rocking your hips into a rhythm that mimics the movements of sex. “You have, haven’t you? That’s why you spend all that time alone in your room?”

“I—fuck,” he groans, nails digging into your hips as he ruts his hips up to match you, “Yes. Yes, yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Spencer.” you moan, arms wrapping around his neck. “God, this feels so good.” Pleasure courses through your veins, heightened by the alcohol and the fact that neither of you shouldn’t be doing this. Beneath you, the chair he’s sitting on scrapes on the kitchen floor, creaking slightly from your rocking bodies.

“Yeah,” he groans, teeth clamping around the sensitive part of your throat. You hiss at the sting, grinding down on his erection harder, an action that sends his body into a fit of tremors, stiffening and then shuddering as he muffles his moans against your skin.

He’s coming, you realize, and the fact makes you go harder, eager to chase your own orgasm. His length is still rock hard, easy to rub your sensitive clit on it to find stimulation, and soon, you’re quivering on top of him as the pleasure finally snaps and overtakes your body.

He holds you tightly to him, arms around your waist as you try to regain your breaths. “W-we can’t do this again.” he whispers, voice hoarse, arms trembling despite their tight grip on you.

“Right,” you murmur, gingerly climbing off his lap, “Just this once, never again.” 

His arms linger, wanting to keep you against him longer despite every brain cell yelling at him about goodness and morality and legal complexities. Reluctantly, he lets go.

You regard him, strangely sober after such a high. Cheeks flushed, a stain at his crotch, the very picture of ruin. With a smile, you bend down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Keep this between us?”

“Of course.”

You make two promises that night. Only one of them is kept.

[harmonysanreads]

Ignoratio Elenchi

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Anaxa x Female!Reader

Synopsis : It's your wedding day. So, an old ‘acquaintance’ has come to wish you well on the trials ahead.

Content Warnings : Yandere Themes, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Some Not-SFW Implications, Anaxa Plays 5D Chess With You, Attempt At Banter, Anaxa Still Needs To See A Therapist.

Note : Special thank you to @naraven for brainstorming with me until we hit the juncture that inspired this fic. The way Anaxa interacts with Aglaea just gave huge Ex vibes to me and I couldn't get the vision out of my head — hence, this small tribute. Get cozy!

「 Words : 3.3k 」

The devil has come for your soul.

You're woken up from your dew-soaked dreams with this exclamation blaring through your ears, demanding a course of action — well in response to an exchange where you will not be one of the benefactors.

He leers over your conscious mind ; drumming idle, purposeful trills of your demise. And you close your eyes, shut tight the blinds to your mind and let him play his tunes. If nothing else, then to at least, create a chance to strike.

“Why are you here?” you envision an arrow slicing through the air, past the light of the chandelier and halting the intruder mid-step into what was supposed to be your safe space.

He dodges the strike, “Not curious about how I got in, huh?” a scintilla of Kephale's light bounces off of the vanity mirror, before being pushed away by the closing door.

But even the thud of the brutal push pales in comparison to the click of his shoes, you force an inhale upon registering his approach.

“What else? You're frail enough to squeeze through the gaps between the guards, that's probably what happened.” you find interest in your nails.

A brief pause almost gives you hope that you successfully, finally got the Blasphemer speechless, “Interesting how the first thing you think of is my figure.”

As if by some cue, the icy composure you so endeavored to maintain gets replaced by a flood of exasperation. You catch yourself just at the brink of sinking, the roundabout response isn't far from your expectations, unfortunately. What does prick a muscle enough to twitch is the near atomic smile reeking of a puerility that should otherwise be unsuited on such a corpse of a man.

You cut the insufferable eye-contact with his reflection, suddenly regretting your purchase of the sheer veil. “You’re avoiding my first question. I merely… feel an alarming increase in my blood pressure when it comes to random and unsought guests. Not a good condition for a bride, I'm sure you're aware, sir.”

By now, he’s crossed half the distance to your seated figure with his leisurely gait, arms surely shielded behind his back in that poise you know signals he’s full on guard. 

“First of all, nothing in this universe is random, mathematically speaking — as I'm sure the Wise Lady is aware.” his foot crosses the line of your bed, you feel the faint sting of your nails digging into the skin of your forearms. 

“Second, the unsought guest you speak of has not once heard the phrase ‘get out’ in the last three minutes. Making the use of that adjective redundant.” you find moisture in your palms once you loosen them, the scholar’s figure almost engulfs your reflection in the mirror. 

“And last of all, if you're spirited enough to gift me such a sweet glare, I'm certain you can tolerate me for a while longer.” even though his left hand rests on the back of your chair, you can feel its weight awfully near.

This time, you don't bother applying icing over your rightfully held displeasure. The scholar steals a glance at the way your painted lips purse to hold back what he's sure aren't flattering palavers.

“Well then, answer me this, what exact conditions demanded the Great Sage’s mathematically determined presence to intrude on such an auspicious day?” your veil dances a step upon the tilt of your head, the visage of the intruder appears colored in amusement — though you don't dare to bet, on the validity of a performer’s emotions, that is.

“Oh, nothing too grand.” his free hand raises, index finger tracing the sparkling gold details of the garment draped over your head, “Merely curious about why the woman who always complained about extravagant parties taking place in this economy is going against her words.” 

You reject his unasked for inspection with a flick of your fingers, you see his frozen surprise in the mirror once you turn in pretense of fixing the drapery. “Because we can afford it. What about it?” your side-eye thaws the Sage’s shock away.

“We, huh…” it's your turn to be taken aback by the genuine venom in his words. To your dismay, the scholar is quick to notice, exhaling to gloss over the blunder.

Because you are so kind, you hold your tongue and give him the chance to shoot back with his typical biting responses. The man in question simply copies your previous stance and holds his arms as a shield against whatever threat he’s weaving curses against.

His visible eye fixates on a point you can't pinpoint on your person, as if to burn through the images reflecting from his head to that canvas. You answer his obvious dilemma with a shrug, focusing instead on lifting the golden veil to inspect any smudges on your makeup.

“They applied too much rouge. It's distracting the viewer from the other components.” he chimes in suddenly, like a ghost on duty, making you almost jump out of your skin.

Before replying to his sudden wisdom in the cosmetic field, you double-check yourself, finding the accused rouge to be innocent. Your mind buffers for a second ; blasphemer he might be, but you know he wouldn't just pose a complaint without a good reason. You search through the shelves of your memories, searching searching searching along a trail you recognize vaguely.

Your lips morph into an ‘O’ once it clicks, “That’s not the rouge, dummy. That's called the highlighter. Its purpose is to look shiny.” fragments of idyll glitter through your words upon realizing that the scholar still confuses the two.

(Just as quickly, you stomp down whatever vestige of nostalgia that dared to crawl through those dead memories.)

The Chrysos Heir — a title you couldn't find more ironic on him — marinates in your words for a few seconds, huffing as if exasperated once they make sense to his brain.

He opens his mouth for a moment, but bites back whatever he was going to say. You marvel at this display of restraint, you would've said you were charmed by his decency had you been a less sane person.

If only he’d been like this in the past.

You turn away from him towards the vanity again, eyes glossing over the myriad trinkets scattered around it. Forcing irritation in your voice again, “If all you wanted to do was poke fun at my appearance, I'm delighted to announce that you’ve succeeded. Please see the —”

“Wow,” he cuts off your tangent quite rudely, you brows furrow against your wishes. “You can't even stand my presence longer than seven minutes now. And to think there used to be a time when you’d trail behind me like a Chimera without its owner.”

“Are you seriously counting minutes — ugh, you know what, don't answer that.” you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to soothe the flair in your temper.

The Chrysos Heir nods, all of a sudden obedient. You ignore the way life has started to bloom around the corners of his lips, “Let me make something clear, if you're here to reminisce, I have no patience nor interest in hearing it.”

The chain attached to his eye-patch bumps with the air as his head tilts, “You’ve changed.”

The genuine fascination in his tone almost stupefies you, almost makes you rethink yourself, almost distracts you from the way his eyes trail off further than what should be appropriate.

“What, disheartened that I'm not as easy to manipulate anymore?” you mimic his earlier stance, the image of the embers that have flickered within you can be seen on his visible eye.

The accused man laughs, laughs — confusing you like he has so many times before. An uncountable number of days you’ve perused, reviewed and practiced to steel yourself for a confrontation like this. You’ve envisioned how coolly you’d face him, how you’d throw him off his orbit with stringent words.

“On second thought, it seems that my observation was a bit hasty.”

And you’d dreaded facing once more that cursed twinkle that seemed to color his soul whenever you’d try to maintain a backbone. It doesn't help that there is truth to his claims, an appalling realization for yourself.

You force a sharp bite on the inside of your cheek, eyes flitting to-and-fro around the emptiness of the room. A chill races down your spine.

The scholar notices your sudden quietude and decides he’s having none of it.

His step is muted this time, his half gloved hand brushes back a wayward strand of your hair, “You’re still that clueless girl trying to brave this world alone, that gets shoved with more duties than she can handle and then, you go and take on even more. Because you can't stand the emptiness anymore.”

Touched by his sudden consideration and enthralled by his acknowledgement, you honor him with a deadpan. “And your point is?”

You can't nibble away the tiny smirk that emerges on your face at the way his fake nostalgia morphs in displeasure, the miniscule triumph overrides your senses and dulls them enough to not register just how much the blasphemer has shrunken the distance.

“My point is that you're making a foolish decision by choosing to marry that man. Do you have any idea what kind of conditions he’s going to impose upon you after you say ‘I do’? The ways in which he’ll make your life a living hell? Haven't you heard what the rumors are saying?”

Now he's being honest, you realize as every new question increases the force of their bites. You throw a glance at the way his left hand grips onto the wood of your chair, “Why should I listen to rumors? I didn't expect you of all people to take baseless whisperings to heart.”

You feel his burdened exhale caress the side of your neck, gooseflesh emerges against your control across the skin. “And I didn't expect you of all people to be privy to the Ostrich Effect.” the last syllable skids with enough disappointment to make a vein pop on your forehead.

You decide that you're done being coy and toss the explosive right to his arms, “You speak so big, but who are you again to have a say in what I decide to do with my life?”

A neuron has surely fried in his head, if the way his rosy pupil widens is anything to go by — or, that's what you’ll believe in at least.

You keep your gaze steady against the forming helter-skelter that you're sure is oscillating in his mind, attempts at meeting that question with a resolution crumbling in regrets buried in the past.

“I know you,” you feel the shiver of his breath on your cheek, “I know that you're the type to dive head first into your grave if it'd mean you’ll succeed in spiting me. You’d rather gyrate in torture all your life instead of swallowing your pride for your own good and I… I can't allow that.”

So, he does understand the kernel of the matter, though you can't decide whether you're thankful or irritated by the fact. His proximity allows you to peer into the dying flickers of a grief that tugs down on his lips and eyelids.

Perhaps you would've believed it. Perhaps you would’ve nodded and embraced this rare show of care, perhaps you would've jumped in joy at having the man you so looked up to acknowledge such an insignificant detail about your soul — had this been in the past.

A snicker of disbelief gets lodged in your throat, you open your mouth to retort but he beats you to the race. “Don’t forget, if it weren't for me, you would not have come this far. I was the cloud that shielded you, guarded you, allowed you to bloom.”

A flinch seizes you as his palm meets the surface of the mirror, “And you repaid me so generously by running away, into the scorching sun that's burned you so miserably no less. Say, does your future husband know of what an ungrateful bride he’s inviting to his life?”

Malice drips down from his words and pools around his eye, it advances to engulf you through the tremors of his figure.

Before he can open the verse to curse you more, you slap a firm palm on his lips, a dizzied glare meeting his shocked ones.

“Enough, Anaxagoras. Leave.” you press, a plea withers beneath the ire. You find that your mind has ceased to think against the emotions the wretched man has stirred.

The Chrysos Heir does nothing but process the move, eyes glossing over for a split second. Then, painstakingly, he retreats his hand from the glass — only to cradle your hand that’d covered his mouth, the red gem lodged in his skin gleams.

“How can you expect me to just leave after calling me that name?” he drags your fingers to press further, his cold lips meeting the tips.

A dumbfounded blink is what he gets, your mind stutters at the sudden turn in his tone. Instincts prob you to yank your hand away from his grasp, but a warning squeeze halts your attempt against your desire.

The chill from his lips melts into your skin and ignites there a fire. The fulsome heat confuses you, why can't you push him afar?

“I… came to wish you goodluck,” Anaxa finally mutters, saving you from sinking into a headspace you’d rather avoid.

You must've looked pitiful with puzzlement, as he rushes to add, “And to bid you farewell. Well, not that this had been my first goal, but seeing as you’re clearly not going to listen to reason, I have no choice.”

He burrows as much of his face as possible in the palm of your hand instantly afterwards — by the tug of a bygone habit — you realize. Tactfully he’s hidden away the visible cues that you normally use to read his unsaid words.

You feel something weighing down on you, whether in your gut or, your heart you can't deduce. But you decide to stay alert.

“Really? Is that all?” you poke, knowing full-well it is not. You know this cunning of his, monopolizing your intuition to speak just enough for you to catch on and do the heavy-lifting.

He answers you with silence, testing further what remains of your patience. You don't bother to control your frown this time, the beginning of a sharp ‘get out then!’ bubbling in your throat stopped just in time as he rounded your seat, bending his knee to a kneel.

You're sure not even the equations you had to solve back at the Grove had confused you as much, “And… what is this now?” you accuse flatly.

The Chrysos Heir finally lets go of your hand in favor of getting comfortable at your feet, literally. “Why are you so baffled? It's not your first time seeing me kneel.”

“Huh,” you heave, thoroughly speechless at the way he never stops talking as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing has changed since the time you spent sacrificing your time at the Grove for him. At the way he seems so happy to pretend that he's innocent, that he has nothing up his sleeve.

You cross your arms and hold your chin up, peering down at the eerie suppliance of the man notorious for bowing before none.

“This was the real deal, huh? You couldn't let the person who’d finally known about how pathetic you actually are go around and spread the news, right? That's why you had to latch onto me, that's why you were so desperate to keep me under your control —”

“No,” his admission is unnervingly soft, like it always is after he’s done stirring a storm within you. You find yourself out of breath from the near-outburst, his hunched figure appearing dewy.

“I have never been afraid of how much power you have over me,” he tilts his head, locks of lime green rustling as it meets your lap.

“You want to go around telling everyone how weak you make me? I will happily allow it — no, I will even help you spread the word myself. Go on, do it. I dare you.” he peers through his lashes, specters of mania swirls in his eye.

A startled yelp from Anaxa snaps you from the daze as well, he looks down for a second before bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Seriously, has your aim gotten bad as well?” his fingers encircle your left ankle, you push the heel of your shoe further in his chest in retaliation — he smiles.

“If you want it to hurt,” he ducks down to press a kiss on the dorsum, looking up to make sure you saw it.

You try to wrench your foot out of his grasp but he angles it towards the left using your momentum, “Then, you should always aim for the heart, tormentor.”

You feel your jaw slacken at the sheer audacity of this man — can he even be called one, at this point?

“Something is deeply wrong with you.” you blurt out, a shudder creeping down your spine at the way he pulls your heel towards his ribcage so that it may dig into his clothes even more.

The shiver sobers you, the compromising situation you've found yourself in finally registering in your head. You would've kicked him hard enoug to run a good pace away — had it not been for the death grip he had on your leg.

“And you like me like this, don't you? Just as you did two years ago, just as you can't pull away from me even now — you're as screwed in the head as me. Which is why we're perfect for each other, you can't escape this fact, not by running away to Okhema and definitely not by marrying some bimbo with a lot of money.”

There's that placid, snooty tone that's already decided what is correct and what is not, you feel an ache forming in your head as memories of its usage flare up in your mind.

Rage seizes your senses, filling your arteries with a strength you feel too drunk on to control.

It grasps onto his collar, pulling him to his feet with an abrupt jerk. “You cursed man! You came to ruin the one day where I thought I could be happy! Don't you know that the reason I am like this is because of you? You always play with my feelings, making me angry and and… and then…”

“Ah, my beloved flower.” you feel his finger brush away a tear that’d rolled down your cheek, frustration swelling over at last.

He gently pries your nails from the collar of his robe and swings your arm over his shoulder, shifting closer towards your ear, “Save your tears, I’ll rescue you from that cruel monster and whisk you to a place where none of these vermins will be able to find us.”

You feel another tear roll down your cheek and sink into his clothes, the cogs in your mind turn and twist as he holds you close — your stupor being broken as a flash goes off.

More follow the first, blinding you almost. Stringent noises connect as murmurs, you feel your knees buckle once you whip aside to face the commotion.

“So what they said was true…”

“The Lady was indeed in an affair.”

“I can't believe even the notorious Anaxa has a heart for romance!”

“Should we... do something?”

“What are you waiting for? Record! Record! This will go viral!”

“Anyone! Inform the groom!”

The golden veil glimmers as it touches the ground. Anaxa catches you before you can fall, shielding you from the paparazzi, “Come, let us run away.”

As the voices ricochet and the crowd draws nearer, you crane your neck to shoot one cautious glance at the Blasphemer. Through the fog of tears and disbelief, a brief flash of someone's camera illuminates a smile that makes your soul churn.

The devil had never come for your soul, he merely allowed you to dream that it belonged to you, for a while.

Thank you for reading!

TAGLIST : @yandere-romanticaa @kamananuionalani @pinksandss @hana-no-seiiki @deaddmoth @ladymothbeth @imcheshire @remyra @meigalahadovna @chopid @francisnyx @paboratti

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you - part 2

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Y/n is absolutely oblivious to everything, Kika is adorably awkward, Alexia is a complete idiot, Aitana is old, and Olga is mother. <3 Real warning now - angst!! Alexia and Y/n fight on this one, again.

Word count: 5.5k

MASTERLIST

part 1 and part 3 here

..

The week of training had been intense.

An Él clássico was approaching, and Romeu was making sure all the girls were physically and mentally prepared, even if it meant pushing them to the brink with his bizarre ideas about team dynamics.

Y/n wanted to win the game, of course, but she also wanted to keep all her limbs.

When Alexia and Y/n arrived at training–without any fighting, miraculously– they were quickly separated by the assistant coach into two teams: seniors and youngsters. 

“What is he doing?” Vicky whispered to Y/n as they made their way to the left side of the pitch. “I bought new training boots, tio [bro], I wanted to use them for, you know…football, not this.”

“I have no idea,” Y/n replied. “He always comes up with the most absurd ideas ever known to mankind, or well, manager kind.” 

“Guys, guys!”

Y/n and Vicky turned around at the sound of Jana’s voice.  She was walking towards them, her ponytail swishing with each step she took on the grass.

However, it was the girl on Jana’s side that caught Y/n’s attention.

Kika.

She had the same sweet smile on her face as she always did. People might expect Kika to be tired by now; it was Friday and she had completed her first full week at Barcelona, but instead of tired, she seemed excited and full of energy.

The whole team had warmed up to her already, even Alexia. Y/n had noticed the other day how Kika and Alexia had a cordial and amicable conversation in the changing room.

It was something about Alexia wanting to learn Portuguese–Alexia had never mentioned this desire to learn another language to Y/n.

“I think we’re doing a tug of war,” Jana said, a mischievous glint in her brown eyes.

“What?!” Y/n and Vicky said in unison.

Romeu was known for creating…unique training methods. Most of them had weird rules and were very physically demanding, but tug of war? That was–peculiar– even for Romeu.

“How the hell would tug of war help us in anything?” Vicky asked exasperated. 

“We’re just going to get burns on our hands,” Y/n muttered, facepalming. “Now it’s a good time to pretend to have cramps or what?”

Kika chuckled at Y/n’s remark, which brought Y/n’s attention back to the Portuguese girl.

She had a pretty smile, and a cute laugh as well.

“Kika said she saw the biggest rope in Romeu’s office, and that he was searching about how the tug of war could be beneficial to other sports,” Jana explained, placing her hand on Kika’s shoulder, who leaned into the touch.

Hmm, okay.

Y/n shifted the weight between her feet, trying to suppress the uncomfortable feeling in her chest. It looked like Kika was really settling in.

“What were you doing in Romeu's office?” Vicky asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He called me to talk about how my first week went,” Kika replied.

The conversation was cut short when Romeu walked onto the pitch. And it looked like Kika was right after all.

Romeu had the largest rope Y/n had ever seen. All the other girls were staring at it weirdly, wide-eyed.

“Alright, girls! Today we’re doing tug of w–”

“Why?” Y/n interrupted, deadpan.

“Huh?” Romeu asked, raising an eyebrow while turning to Y/n. The large rope on his hand made the scene look…comical, to say the least.

“Why are we doing this? Does it have a real benefit?”

Romeu was silent for a moment, not used to the players questioning him.

“Hm, yes, Y/n.” He said. “It’ll make the team grow closer together, it’ll tighten the bond you all have with each other.”

“Why tug of war, though,” Jana asked, clearly confused. “Is this supposed to make us stronger or just humiliate us?”

“You guys will have to work together as a team,” Romeu explained. “And it’ll be fun, trust me, no humiliat–”

“I don’t think it’s fun,” Vicky said bluntly. “Does anyone think it’s fun? To pull a rope around and what? Laugh at the team that loses?”

“Yeah, it seems boring,” Pina chimed in.

“We could just play volleyball if we’re trying to build team spirit,” Vicky suggested.

“Or we could just play football,” Y/n added with a shrug before looking at her arms disappointed. “I’ve got the upper body strength of a noodle, this isn’t gonna end well.”

“I’m with Y/n on this one,” Pina agreed, leaning in on Patri, who also nodded in agreement.

Jana raised her hand like she had a better idea. “Oh, we could also–”

“Do you girls want to go back to La Masia?” Romeu interrupted, emotionless.

The four girls immediately shut their mouths and shook their heads.

“If you’ve got better ideas, you can coach next week,” he muttered. “Kids…” 

Y/n rolled her eyes but stayed quiet, listening as he explained the dY/namics of the game.

She was zooming out when she felt a sharp tug on her ear.

“Stop talking back to Romeu,” Alexia whispered, a typical frown on her face.

The girls were too busy listening to the instructions to hear their conversation. Thank God, Y/n didn’t want everybody to hear her getting lectured by Alexia…again.

“Stop tugging my ear like I'm five!” y/n hissed back.

“Stop acting like you’re five,” Alexia replied. “I know it’s hard for you, but try, yeah?”

“Why don't you tug Vicky's ear too?” y/n asked annoyed. “She’s just as bad as me.”

“Because I didn’t practically raise Vicky like I did you,” Alexia said, smirking slightly. “Be on your good behaviour, please.”

Y/n turned to Romeu and the group, making sure they were all too absorbed in the tug-of-war thing before turning back around to face Alexia.

“Ale, come on,” Y/n said. “Don’t make a deal about it.”

“Managers are supposed to be respected,” Alexias said, ignoring Y/n, with a tone that made it clear she was serious.

Alexia was the perfect little player. She always trusted her manager, always listened to them, and always made sure to be the best captain and athlete for them, especially for Romeu.

It wasn’t that Y/n was impolite to Romeu or any other manager she had, it just was that she didn’t put them on the same pedestal that Alexia did. 

Y/n didn’t see a problem in questioning Romeu, but Alexia felt like she was the only one allowed to do that, or else, it was disrespectful.

“I didn't disrespect him! Why are you bothering me about it, tio?” Y/n argued.

“You know he’ll bench you if he doesn’t like your attitude,” Alexia said quietly. “I want you on the pitch, not sitting on the sideline.”

Y/n’s heart softened at her words, but she still didn’t like how Alexia tugged at her ear like she was a kid. 

But Alexia was right–only this time, though. She needed to be on Romeu's good side to play one of the most important games of the season.

Last month Patri said something to Romeu that he didn’t like and she was benched for two whole games. Y/n didn't want to end up like that, especially with El Clássico approaching.

“Okay,” Romeu said, clapping his hand. “Split yourself into those two teams I talked about, seniors take the right end of the rope, youngsters, the left.

“Aitana, you stay with the seniors,” Romeu said, pointing at Alexia, Marta and other players.

Aitana looked at him confused. “But Ona is with the youngest and we’re just months apart.”

“The classification is based on who has more back pain and who forgets where they put their keys,” Vicky teased.

Aitana gave her a blank stare while the whole team laughed. 

“Right, so I’m basically a walking cane now,” Aitana said dryly, crossing her arms as she started to walk to the other side.

Alexia greeted her with open arms, a victorious smile on her face, even though the teams hadn’t even started the game.

“She’s really like a big sister to you,” Y/n heard Kika’s voice behind her. “Oh–sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on your conversation,” Kika said laughing nervously. “I just– I overheard it.”

“Yeah, she’s…too much sometimes,” Y/n said with a small, amused smile before preparing for the tug of war.

Kika positioned herself directly in front of Y/n.

And then it began.

Both groups were pulling the rope with everything they had.

Y/n’s fingers were burning from the friction, but what was really burning was the spot on her thigh where Kika’s leg was pressing against her. 

Kika was directly in front of her– bent low to keep her foot– so in consequence, her thigh was firmly pressed against Y/n’s.

Y/n shouldn’t have worn shorts to training, she should have stuck to her leggings, or sometimes that covered more skin. 

Y/n tried to ignore it.

Y/n was going to think of puppies. Flowers. Anything but Kika.

“Pull the fucking rope!” Jana’s voice barked from behind her. “Why are you letting it slip?”

Crap. She was distracted.

Kika distracted her.

Y/n gritted her teeth and pulled the rope harder. Across from her, Alexia’s face was set in that determined, slightly terrifying expression that usually meant she was winning. 

But this time, La Reina lost.

When Alexia’s team hit the ground in defeat, Alexia shot up unnaturally fast, her white training kit smeared with dirt and grass. Sweat dripped down her forehead as she pointed at the younger girls.

“They cheated, Romeo!” Alexia protested furiously.

Y/n had been too busy celebrating to care about Alexia’s reaction. She hugged Vicky, and then Jana, then Ona–and finally, without thinking, she wrapped her arms around the nearest body around her.

“We did it!” Y/n said, happily, still riding the high of winning over the seniors, and especially, Alexia.

That was until she realised it.

Kika. She was hugging Kika.

Y/m froze when she realized, pulling back immediately as if she had touched something on fire.

“Oh– I'm sorry,” Y/n stammered.

“No, it's…alright,”  Kika said, her voice nervous, but softer at the same time.

Kika’s ace was flushed, the redness creeping down her neck, her hands shifted at her sides, not knowing exactly what to do.

Y/n gave her an awkward smile before heading to the changing room.

That should’ve been the end of it — except when Y/n glanced back, she saw Kika laughing with Vicky and Patri, an arm draped around each of them.

Kika didn’t seem to get nervous when the other girls were around her, only when Y/n was. She didn’t seem to tense up around them.

Maybe it was something personal? Maybe Y/n made Kika feel uncomfortable somehow? 

Y/n wasn’t the most charismatic person around. That’d be Vicky and Jana, but she didn't like to think her personality was prone to make others uncomfortable.

Y/n thought she was rather distant already. She didn’t fuss over anyone like Alexia did–so she thought she and Kika were okay, but seeing how Kika just looked way more at ease with the other girls left a bitter taste in Y/n’s mouth.

Yeah… Y/n needed to back off.

It wasn't the first time Kika acted nervous around Y/n.

Just yesterday Y/n asked if it was okay if she used the treadmill next to Kika at the gym and Kika began stammering.

Was Y/n that unbearable to be around?

It wasn’t like she wanted Kika to be nervous and uncomfortable around the other girls. She just wished Kika could.

Maybe be more at ease with her, too?

..

That doubt lingered in Y/n’s mind as she poked at food later in Barcelona’s restaurant. Marta and Aitana were chatting away, but Y/n couldn’t focus. 

The stranger feeling in her chest–one that she couldn’t put a name in–was too loud.

Y/n was pulled out of her thoughts when Alexia sat down by her side, putting her plate–filled with greens– on the table and grumbling under her breath.

“What?” Aitana asked.

“Just… the tug of war was so unfair and–”

“Déu meu,” [Oh my god] Y/n muttered as she pushed her chair back, grabbing her plate.

“Estrellita, where are you going?”

Y/n rolled her eyes at the nickname. How many times will she have to ask Alexa not to call her that?

“Eat in peace.”

“What do you mean?” Alexia challenged. “Do I disturb your peace?”

“Every day,” Y/n shot back.

She heard Alexia mumble something about how Y/n still hadn't lost the teenager's moodiness but ignored her. She just wanted to find a new table.

Unfortunately, every spot was taken–except one.

Kika's.

She was sitting alone, though she didn't seem to mind.

Y/n hesitate. She wasn’t about to pull an ‘Alexia’ and invade Kika’s space.

But then–

Kika waved.

Y/n blinked confused, Maybe it was for somebody else. She looked at her left, then at her right.

Kika continued to wave.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows and looked behind her.

“You are hopeless,” Alexia muttered, pointing at Kika. “Don't you see Kika waving at you? Go sit down!”

Before Y/n could process it, Alexia gave her a light shove in Kika’s direction.

Y/n found herself standing awkwardly in front of Kika’s table, unsure what to do with her hands.

“Hi?” She tried.

“Hi,” Kika smiled.

They were in silence. 

“Do…do you wanna sit?” Kika asked nervously. 

There it was again– that nervousness. Yep, Y/n was definitely making her uncomfortable, no doubts about that now.

Maybe Kika was just being polite and offering a seat because she felt bad watching Y/n standing in the middle of the restaurant.

“No, it's okay,” Y/n said quickly.

“Oh, are you sure?” Kika asked, looking around. “All the other tables are full.”

Okay. So it was just pity.

“Hmm,” Y/n looked at the free chair in front of her, not really sure about what to do…eating while standing up seemed pathetic, even for her.

“I can eat standing up with you, if you want” Kika offered, saying, already moving her plate.

“Oh no! I’ll– I’ll just sit,” Y/n blurted, hurriedly sliding into the seat before Kika could follow through. “Here. I’ll sit here.

Kika's expression faltered a bit. 

Yep, she definitely did not want Y/n there.

It was like one of those moments when you offer someone food–to be polite–and they actually say yes.

It wasn’t like Y/n didn’t understand it. She wasn’t the easiest person to be around. She was–in addition to other things– quiet, grumpy, maybe a little rude when she absolutely didn't mean to and when she did mean to.

And now she was sitting here, and probably bothering Kika.

Y/n shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was going to eat fast, keep her head down, and leave before Kika could notice.

But when Y/n looked up, Kika was eating normally, seemingly unfazed, almost as if Y/n wasn’t there.

Y/n decided to follow Kika’s lead and appreciate the amazing fish Barcelona’s cook had prepared. 

The silence between them stretched on, heavy and awkward.

Y/n was good at silence, the best ever. She could be quiet for hours without a problem. 

But in some way, being in silence in Kika’s presence felt…wrong. 

“So…how’s your day been?” Y/n asked,  trying to steer some conversation. Asking about Kika’s day was good, casual, safe territory. 

Although she pretty much spent the whole day with Kika, she knew almost everything that had happened. Next time she should try asking about the weather.

Kika smiled shyly, taking a bite of her food before answering. “Good and busy! I’m getting used to everything here.”

Y/n nodded, offering a small smile pressed in a tight line on the lips. 

Before she could respond, Kika reached for her glass of water, but her hand slipped, and the glass tipped over, spilling water all over the table and onto Y/n’s lap.

Kika’s face flushed red immediately. "Oh no! I’m so sorry, I–”

Kika quickly grabbed a napkin and started dabbing furiously at the mess on the table. “I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to–It just–” The girl kept rambling, her words tumbling over each other as she panicked. “Do you have a change of shorts?! Merda, you can grab one of mine, no problem.” [shit] 

Y/n just… stared at the whole thing for a moment. Not in a mean way, just in a–blanky way, like her brain needed a minute to process whatever had just happened…because of course, this would happen today.

Right at the moment that she was having some–very minor–success in trying to socialise with other people the universe decided to pour cold water on her, literally.

“It’s okay,” Y/n muttered after a few seconds, barely loud enough for Kika to hear. Y/n wasn’t sure what she could say, she never spilt her drinks or anyone or had anyone do it to her…and it really was okay. It was only water. 

Should Y/n…take more napkins? They were all in Kika’s hand already. Should she get up now? Maybe grab a towel in the kitchen to dry the table? Oh that would be a good idea, maybe Y/n could grab more napkins while she was in the kitchen and–

“I’m such an idiot,” Kika mumbled under her breath.

“No you’re not,” Y/n said quickly, too quickly. 

Y/n bit her lip, feeling like she already said too much. She wasn’t the best at comforting people, and knowing her luck, she shouldn’t even try to comfort Kika, she would probably make her feel worse. 

She always seemed uneasy around y/n, especially now.

Kika turned away her attention from the table to Y/n’s legs. She started at Y/n’s tights, and then at the napkins on her hands, and then at Y/n’s leg again. She took a step closer and nervously began drying Y/n’s shorts–and bits of her skin.

Y/n’s breath got caught up in her mouth. She just…froze, again. Kika rubbed the rough material of the cheap napkin against shorts, but the fabric had already absorbed most of the water, so it felt like Kika was drying–y/n’s skin?

“Hey, it’s okay,” Y/n said firmly, reaching out to grab Kika’s wrists before she could rub another napkin into her skin. They kinda burned.

Kika froze instantly, her hand still hovering just above Y/n’s leg. Her fingers twitched while holding the napkins, almost as if she wasn’t sure whether to pull away or insist on drying Y/n off.

Then Kika looked up, her brown eyes wide and startled, and for a moment she just…stared.

Y/n, as a great connoisseur of social interaction, stared back, slightly pressing her hands against Kika’s wrists. 

Her skin was soft and warm, and Y/n liked it. It feels comforting to touch it.

“I should, hm–” Kika stammered, yanking her wrists away from Y/n and moving too fast and nearly knocking Y/n’s glass off the table in the process. “I-I will..grab more napkins.”

“Yeah, right,” Y/n nodded, stiffly, watching as Kika hurried off like she was running from her. Again.

Y/n stabbed the piece of fish with her fork bitterly, not caring about how wet her tights were. She only cared about how Kika hurried off like she couldn't get fast enough.

In the end, Y/n didn’t see Kika for the rest of the day. She wasn’t training at the pitch in the afternoon, but Y/n didn’t know why. 

So she asked around, very casually, about the missing girl.

At first, she tried Vicky and Jana.

“Hi,” Y/n said, leaning in one of the lockers while Jana changed her shirt and Vick did her hair. “How was lunch? Didn’t see you guys at the restaurant.”

“We went to that Italian place I told you about,” Jana said while bending down to fix her boots. “The one you said was way overpriced and that you’d never go?” 

Y/n rolled her eyes at Jana’s comment. Y/n didn't like to go out much, not even with her friends — she just liked to play football and go home. Vicky understood that better than Jana. Jana’s love language was quality time or something like that.

“But it was good,” Jana added, “I ordered caprese salad and Vicky had some fettuccine alfredo.”

“Hmm,” Y/n said, trying to sound disinterested.

“Why do I think you only asked about our lunch because you want something?” Vicky asked. “What is it? Just say it.”

“Have you–like–seen Kika?” Y/n asked, playing with her hair and not making eye contact, “I’m just curious, haven’t seen her around for some time.”

Vicky and Jana shared a look Y/n couldn’t quite decode.

“We haven’t seen her since the tug of war earlier,” Jana said, smiling at her. “But maybe she’s at physio?”

“Yeah, I don’t know either.”

Y/n mumbled something that sounded like a thank you and left the room.

She needed someone nosy, someone who was always in other people’s business.

And that’s when she saw Aitana and Alexia at the pitch, both stretching their legs while having a conversation.

Without thinking too much, Y/n casually walked over, positioned herself next to them and started to stretch, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while awkwardly pulling her thigh up against her body.

“Estrellita, hi!” Aitana said smiling. “What do you want?” Aitana was always straightforward.

“What? Can’t I just hang out with my lovely teammates?” Y/n said, voice just a little too casual.

Aitana raised an eyebrow while Alexia looked amused.

“Well–” Y/n said, looking at the two girls. She couldn’t be as honest as Aiatana, so she had to…play around a little bit. “I was wondering about our schedule for the day.”

“Schedule?” Alexia asked, confused. “What schedule? We do the same thing every day: gym, training, lunch, training, go home.”

“Hm, right,” Y/n said. “But it's not always the same for every player.”

“Yeah, that’s why they send us our own weekly calendar,” Aitana pointed out, her tone suspicious.

“Are you looking for someone?” Alexia asked, a knowing smile on her lips.

“What?! No of course not,” Y/n said way too fast. “Why would you think that? I’m just trying to have a conversation here…”

“Right,” Aitana said suspiciously, dragging out the word like she didn’t believe her for a second.

“Well, if you happen to be looking for someone–” Alexia said, “And that someone happens to be the new Portuguese girl, just know that she’s doing some media training for the rest of the day.”

Alexia winked at her.

Y/n felt her face heat up instantly. Great. Just great. Without saying a word, she turned on her heel and stormed off, nearly tripping over her own shoelace in the process. ‘Perfect’, she thought, scowling. ‘Now I look like an idiot on top of everything else.’

..

“Fix your face,” Y/n muttered while sitting on the passenger seat, Alexia by her side, hands on the wheel as she started the car.

“I’ll fix mine when you fix yours,” Alexia grumbled back, in the same tone as Y/n. 

They were in silence.

Y/n hummed through the songs playing on the radio while Alexia had a frown on her face, her lips in a tight line.

“I just think it’s unfair, Estrelitta,” Alexia stated after 14 minutes of no talking–Y/n counted, it was the closest she got to heaven.

“What?” Y/n asked as they drove through the park Alexia used to take her to train a few years ago when she still was a teen.

It was a good memory.

“That you guys cheated!” Alexia snapped.

“Déu meu, Alexia,” y/n said as she considered throwing herself out of the moving vehicle. “How can you cheat at fucking tug of war, Alexia?!”

“Okay, first: language,” Alexia said sternly, “Second, you can cheat by using magnesium to get a better grip on the rope.”

Alexia said magnesium in the same tone someone would disclose a big, juicy, secret.

“And where do you think we would find magnesium,” Y/n asked exasperated, she tried to be a chill person but Alexia really brought out the worst in her. “We’re footballers not fucking Rebeca Andrade e Simone Biles.” 

Y/n made sure Alexia saw her rolling her eyes, to get her point across. 

“I saw something white on Jana’s hand,” Alexia continued. “Maybe she got it from someone else…do you happen to know any gymnast?” 

“Do I look like I know a lot of people to you?” Y/n asked impatiently. “Better yet a gymnast…? You sound like you would prefer Jana to have cocaine on her hands rather than magnesium. Chill, Ale.”

Alexia never dropped an argument, never. 

Y/n learned to deal with this by simply walking away. She wasn’t one of those people who always needed to be right, but Alexia was.

Unfortunately, Y/n couldn’t walk away from a moving car.

Alexia did not stop complaining though. 

Alexia moaned for 9 minutes straight–y/n counted, again – about the tug-of-war thing. Y/n was going to burn the fucking rope next time she was at the training centre so Romeu would never bring it up.

When Alexia brought up her hallucination about Jana using magnesium for the eleventh time, Y/n decided it was enough.

Y/n had a bad day.

Kika had been acting weird around her while acting normal and friendly with the other girls. She got all wet at the restaurant because Kika spilt water on her–not that she was mad at the girl. And to top it all off, Y/n made a lot of mistakes during the afternoon sessions.

The only–small–victory of her day was the stupid tug of war, and Alexia was taking that away from that by being a whiner.

“Alexia! Please, shut up,” Y/n snapped, turning her torso to stare at Alexia, who seemed to cough off guard by Y/n’s sudden shift in attitude.

Moments ago she was just listening to it. Her usual grumpy face. But now? Now she was mad.

“I really don’t know how Olga can deal with you,” Y/n continued. “You’re impossible to put up with! It was a game, Ale! A game! Get over it.”

They had finally arrived home and Alexia turned off the car before she turned to Y/n, anger on her face.

“At least, I have someone to put up with me,” Alexia said as she got out of the car, slamming the door shut. 

Y/n mouth was agape. “And I bet Olga has to really try because you’re annoying as fuck!”

Y/n followed Alexia inside the house, making sure to slam the car door even harder. When Alexia opened the door, they continued their yelling.

Olga who was lying on the sofa in her pyjamas couldn’t understand a thing of what was happening and why the two women were yelling at each other.

Alexia threw her training bag on the floor. “I’m annoying but at least somebody loves me!” Alexia said angrily. “I'm not angry and cranky all the time like you are.”

Alexia’s words felt like a slap to her face. 

Y/n froze, staring at Alexia, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do. Especially because, deep down, and given her history, it was true.

Y/n’s parents had sent Y/n off to live with someone they didn't know when she was only fourteen. Laura, her ex-girlfriend, had only been with her for the money. 

“Alexia!” Olga sternly said, getting up from the sofa quickly.

If Y/n wasn’t so upset by what Alexia had just said, she would have laughed at the way Olga tugged at Alexia’s ear–the same way Alexia did to her–while giving her a full lecture about empathy.

Unfortunately, the damage was done. 

She quickly took her training bag and made her way to her room, ignoring the way Alexia and Olga were calling for her.

..

Hours had passed, maybe two, maybe more. 

Y/n had already taken a shower and changed into comfy clothes. She decided she was going to take the sadness away.

She was lying on her bed, her face buried in her pillow when she heard a soft knock on her door. Y/n didn’t answer, hoping whoever it was would just leave her alone.

“Y/n,” Olga’s voice called softly before she opened the door anyway. Typical.

“I brought you some water,” Olga said, setting the glass on Y/n’s nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Also thought about bringing some chocolate, but I was scared you would…throw it at my head”

Despite herself, Y/n let out a chuckle against the pillow.

“There she is,” Olga said with a smile. “Look, I know Alexia’s a complete idiot sometimes and what she said earlier…”

Y/n tensed, her smile disappearing as she pressed her face closer to the pillow. It was like if she couldn’t see Olga, then Olga wouldn't see her as well.

“She didn’t mean it like that,” Olga said quietly. “I know it sounded bad — like really bad — but she was angry, and you know how her mouth runs faster than her brain sometimes, well, most of the time.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her throat tightening.

“She’s not wrong, though,” Y/n muttered, her voice muffled. “At least she has people who care about her– her parents, her sisters…you.”

“You really believe that? That you don’t have people who love you?” Olga asked, her voice softer now. “Because if you do… then you’re more oblivious than I thought.”

Y/n turned her head slightly, just enough to see Olga sitting beside her on the mattress, her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“You think Alexia doesn’t care about you?” Olga continued, looking at Y/n's face, her wide eyes reminding her of when Y/n was just a kid. “That I don’t? That the girls don’t? Even Alexia’s family treat you as their own, Cariño.”

“That’s different,” Y/n said quietly.

“It’s not,” Olga insisted. “I know things haven’t been easy for you… with your parents, with…” she hesitated, “…with Laura. But you’re not alone, Y/n. Maybe your family doesn’t look the way you thought it would, but you have one. And Alexia? She’s part of it — whether you like it or not.”

“She’s just... bad at showing it sometimes,” Olga added. “But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’re family to her and that she loved you very much and–”

Olga smiled sweetly. “And I know that I love you very, very, much.”

Y/n finally turned her head completely to Olga, no longer hiding half of it on the pillow.

“She has a funny way of showing it,” Y/n muttered. “We just…fight all the time.”

“She just... she says stupid things when she’s pissed off,” Olga said, a sad smile on her face. “But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that she’d do anything for you. 

Y/n blinked quickly, trying to fight the stinging in her eyes. “She's annoying, though.”

“Yeah,” Olga chuckled lightly. “She’s Alexia. Being annoying is part of the package–it’s her charm.”

Y/n let out a small, tired smile.

“I’ve already talked to her,” Olga said more seriously. “But if you want, I can give her the same lecture again in front of you.” 

Olga sat close to Y/n, her hands caressing her scalp. Y/n let her do it. It felt good. Comforting.

“I would love that more than anything,” Y/n said teasingly, but Olga knew her and could tell Y/n still wasn’t okay. 

Alexia’s words had stung her– badly.

“Do you want me to go?” Olga asked softly, her finger still running gently through Y/n’s hair. “Or to stay? It’s up to you. Alexia’s sleeping on the couch either way.”

Y/n smiled at Olga.

She thought about saying no, about curling back into her own thoughts and just…trying to get back on track on her own. But decided against it.

“You can stay…if you want to,” Y/n mumbled, changing her gaze from Olga to the mattress. “Only if you don't mind tough.”

“I would love to stay here with you, cariño.” Olga shifted her position so she could get more comfortable, her back against the headboard while Y/n lay by her side, her hands never leaving Y/n’s hair.

It was quiet. Y/n liked quiet–except if it was with a certain Portuguese girl–but here with Olga, it felt comfortable, almost motherly. 

Y/N's breathing slowed, and she felt her eyes heavier and a slight pain behind them. Y/n let herself fall asleep.

She heard Olga saying something, but she couldn’t remember it when she woke up the next day.

..

Notes: taglist on the comments. Let me know if you want to be added and if you don't want to be part of it anymore!

Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

MASTERLIST

Part 3 here

[stellarsecrets86]

Mercury In Houses In Groom Persona chart

[In a groom's personal chart, **Mercury** represents his style of communication, intellectual pursuits, thought processes, decision-making, and how he expresses himself in relationships. It governs his ability to analyze situations, convey his ideas, and maintain mental connections with his spouse. Mercury's placement in a groom's chart reveals how he engages in conversations, resolves conflicts, and the role intellectual compatibility plays in his marriage.]

(PS: For entertainment Purpose Only. Have Fun❤)

**Mercury in the 1st House**

The groom has a sharp, inquisitive mind and likes to express himself straightforwardly. He is articulate, witty, and candid with his partner. His attitude toward relationships is analytical; he discusses emotions instead of acting on impulse. His spouse will likely find him intellectually stimulating but at times perhaps too logical or critical. This placement suggests a tendency to rely on reason rather than intuition, which could create challenges in emotional conversations. A partner who appreciates his mental clarity and engages in lively debates will match his energy. He is likely to attract partners who value intelligence and humor.

**Mercury in the 2nd House**  

The groom focuses on practical communication, particularly about finances and security. He may be particular with financial planning and discuss their common objectives with his spouse. In general, his conversations do not dwell on abstract ideas, but on practical matters; therefore, he is a realistic, sensible, and down-to-earth partner. In a relationship, he values stability, though there is also a risk of over-concentration on material issues that needs to be balanced by his partner through emotional and creative expressions. He might be extremely good in business partnerships with his wife, successful in those dealing with clarity of thought and strategy. Intellectual security is his equivalent of financial security.

**Mercury in the 3rd House** 

It makes the groom a conversationalist. He thrives on intellectual exchanges and enjoys learning from his partner. He values openness in relationships and looks for a spouse who is articulate and curious. He likes to debate ideas and problem-solve with his partner, so his partner needs to be comfortable with a lot of discussion. Though mentally agile, there is a risk of overthinking or restlessness in relationships. A partner who loves learning and variety as much as he does will keep him emotionally satisfied. Quick-witted and charming, he's often the life of the party.

**Mercury in the 4th House** 

The groom is introspective and deeply values meaningful conversations about home and family. He seeks a partner who shares his love for nurturing a warm, communicative domestic life. This placement often indicates a strong mental connection with family members or a deep attachment to childhood memories. He may enjoy talking about family traditions, building a home library, or working on intellectual projects from home. While protective and thoughtful, he may sometimes over-analyze family dynamics or struggle to detach the emotional from the logical. His ideal spouse is someone who can balance his reflective nature with light-hearted companionship.

**Mercury in the 5th House** 

This placement suggests a groom in love with creative and playful communication. He is playful and loves to flirt, tease, joke, and mentally stimulate his lover. He brings much charm and lightness into the relationship through his words and may turn it into a continuous and ebullient companionship. He could also possess skills regarding telling stories, writing, or performing and frequently is imaginative in declaring his love. While he craves the exciting newness of love, the drab routine might deter him from commitments. His ideal partner would be someone who sparks his imagination and shares a similar sense of humor. Together, they are sure to create an energetic and entertaining relationship.

**Mercury in the 6th House** 

The groom is very detail-conscious and appreciates practical communication in relationships. He expresses love through service and little acts of useful help, such as problem-solving or organizing one's life. He seeks a spouse who appreciates his intellectual contributions and shares his commitment to efficiency. While he is reliable and diligent, he might sometimes be overly critical or perfectionist, which could strain the relationship. His ideal partner would be someone who appreciates his practicality and encourages him to lighten up and enjoy life. Marriage is a partnership to him, for mutual support and sharing responsibilities.

**Mercury in the 7th House**

The groom strongly emphasizes communication and mental compatibility in his relationships. He prefers a partner who will engage him in deep intellectual conversations, discussing mutually shared goals. A good indication is that he might attract a spouse who is intelligent, tactful, and eloquent. There might be a danger of intellectualizing emotions, although he is good at problem-solving through talking. His ideal marriage involves a perfect balance of mental stimulation and emotional closeness. He feels better in relationships where both partners could learn something new from each other and work together for their goals.

**Mercury in the 8th House**  

The placement of Mercury in the 8th House refers to a groom who wants depth and transformation through communication. He is attracted to deep discussions about life, death, and everything else mysterious. He values a partner who can engage him on a soul-deep level, exploring hidden truths and shared vulnerabilities. While he is insightful and intuitive, his intense curiosity might sometimes make his partner feel exposed. He must learn to balance his probing nature with empathy. Shared finances and secrets may play a significant role in his marriage, requiring honest and open communication. His ideal spouse is one who embraces emotional and intellectual intimacy.

 **Mercury in the 9th House** 

The groom is philosophical and seeks a partner who shares his love for learning and exploration. He enjoys discussing big ideas, such as spirituality, culture, or global issues, and may meet his spouse through travel or education. His conversations are often optimistic and forward-looking, inspiring those around him. While he values intellectual freedom, at times, he may feel restless or afraid of being tied down. His ideal match would be someone who encourages his sense of adventure yet can stabilize him. Together, they are likely to take intellectual or physical journeys, making a marriage full of growth and discovery.

**Mercury in the 10th House** 

The groom is ambitious and a good communicator both at work and in personal life. He wants a partner who will support his career and share his vision for success. His conversations often revolve around practical matters, such as achieving long-term goals or building a legacy together. While he is an excellent planner, he might sometimes prioritize work over emotional connection, which his partner should balance by fostering intimacy. This placement suggests that his marriage may affect his status, making him more regarded or esteemed in his community. He fares well in a partnership that merges ambition with mutual understanding.

**Mercury in the 11th House** 

This placement presents the groom as one who desires friendships and shared ideals in love relationships. He derives delight in discussing future plans, social causes, and community involvement with his partner. His ideal partner would be someone who shares his dreams and supports his urge to leave a positive mark on the world. Though open-minded and progressive, he may at times struggle with emotional intimacy, since his focus might be more on ideas rather than feelings. A partner would do well to encourage balance by fostering both intellectual and emotional connections. They are likely to engage in projects together that help their community or further a mutual cause.

**Mercury in the 12th House** 

The groom is introspective and deeply intuitive in his communication style. He often processes thoughts and emotions privately, seeking a partner who understands his need for quiet reflection. This placement suggests a groom who values spiritual or emotional connection over superficial conversation. While he is empathetic and thoughtful, he might struggle to express his feelings openly, which could create misunderstandings. His ideal partner is someone with whom he can be vulnerable and who encourages him to be honest with his feelings. Together, they can build a relationship based on mutual understanding and shared inner growth.

[untitlzd]

world class sin : prologue

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

next chapter : chain reaction.

After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs. Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading. this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured. there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe. thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to. more soon, luke :)

[visionsofmagic]

◜ mk1 men showing their kinks to you ◞

▸ characters: liu kang, kuai liang, bi han, tomas, johnny cage, kung lao, raiden, syzoth ◂ ▸ wc: 4k+ [wow, once again]

▸ tags: nsfw, soo spicy, lord kink, various kinks, power play, master kink, inappropriate usage of abilities, begging, licking, nudness, humiliation, praising kink, dom/sub dynamic, sub!mk1 characters, dom!mk1 characters, pet names, filming, spanking, ropes, fingering, cum, eating out, kneeling, brat!reader, f!reader, use of yn, personal assistant!syzoth, and more in the work! first time writing kung lao, hope it fits him well. ^^ enjoy! ◂ ▸ m.

THE TITLE • LIU KANG doesn’t have a god complex, not at all, he’s a humble creator – demi god, even though he has great power of fire, martial arts, and more. he expects all of his friends to see him as an ally, not a mighty god, and kneel before him because he wants to be accepted as one of you, staying beside you and protecting the realms at any cost.

well, it is like that for any other – including you, for most of the time anyway. however, he has a thing for a certain title whenever it leaves your pretty shining lips, making him go dizzy even though he is steady, not leaving any of his emotions getting away so easily – but around you, he loses focus a little bit, desiring to have you – wanting you to call him ‘lord’ again and again until he makes you cum, creating a mess on him – your lord.

it’s your idea – to call him by his ‘lord’ title as if it’s blessing coming out of your parted lips, additional teasing by your fingers, hands, and gazes don’t help at all – they just make him lose his control of being an ally, the rising heat causes him to give you more so that you can scream his name within the title.

it has both an affection tone, showing how much you love and trust him – using his title out of respect you have for him, for what he does for the sake of all realms – and a seductive tone which drives him crazy, and having you under him the moment he has a chance to do such thing. he makes you cum again and again as he listens to all the pretty noises you’re making because of him and how his warm cock enters your clenching pussy.

“ohhh – my lord!” you scream, “l-lord liu kang! it’s so good – sooo good.”

“oh, is it my love?” he will sound innocent even though his actions prove otherwise, cock slapping into your warm walls rapidly, “then cum, make a mess for your lord.”

his white eyes shining brighter than before as you hug his arms, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lips to lips, you cum on his cock, making sheets go dirty within it as you moan his name so loud that he smirks down at you – cock side of him showing, “ohh, my pretty love is so good for her lord. let your lord give you more, will you?” you nod and it turns out that he hasn’t enough of you calling him by the title – he wants more.

ROPES • KUAI LIANG only used his weapons as defense and attack tools – well, it was the case until he met you, got to know you better, fell hard, loved you with his soul and heart, and finally got intimate with you.

it takes some time until you both bring the things you like to the bed – both afraid that the other will not approve. when you tell him first, the thing you want to do to him, he makes it come true because he is there to satisfy his lover, you, in the most pleasurable way – you deserve the whole world after all.

then, he brings his desires into bad as the sessions become more intense with each one – he learns how to give you pleasure and how to receive – yet, there is a certain one he likes to have – the one which includes one of his weapon, kusarigama without its kama, only cold metal chains he likes to see on your body – using it as a rope whenever he has you in front of him – ass up, face on the pillow, moaning mindlessly, body jolting forward whenever he spank your ass since you move so much, try to get your hands release – however, it’s impossible to do it even though you want to touch him.

the cold metal around your body, ending on your wrist, and being held by the warm hands of kuai liang sends chills down your spine because of how cold it feels compared to his body and cock buried deep inside you. he has a tight hold on the chain, using it as a rope to help you arching your back, ass getting higher as he fucks you from behind. “is it too much love?” he will ask, a bit teasing, looking at the beautiful sight in front of his eyes – red marks on ass cheeks, pussy soaking, breasts bouncing – the chains around them make them look delicious, face full of heat.

“you have no idea how beautiful you look right now my lady, as always, magical,” he says, increasing his warmness to make you moan his name louder, “will have you like this, wrapped with these chains, until you cum again and again. will make its marks appear on your whole body.”

MASTER • BI HAN is the grandmaster of lin kuei – it gives him power and authority. he likes to have it since he’s crazy for power for his clan, being stronger, better, and more determined with each passing day, doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied –he knows he has great strength but he seeks more and more – so, he doesn’t get satisfied even a bit – however, he can’t hide the truth that he likes to be master only for power, yes, it was the case for him but it changed a little bit when he saw the power he has on you while fucking you.

he doesn’t think of it as a kink, he’s too careless to think about what a kink is – he just enjoys it, it amazes him how he turns on immediately in the moments you call him your master, showing him respect, giving yourself fully to him both as a warrior and his lover.

he prefers being delicate with you but his true instincts make him go crazy around you, losing the control of creating a balance between a gentle lover and a rough fucker for you – he doesn’t think about it that much yet he knows he does two of them at the same time – love you so delicately, protecting you at all costs, telling all pretty names whenever you’re alone while fucking you rough, making you turn into a mess for him and his cock, earning lots of moans and rapid breaths from your agape lips.

he tries to stay calm yet when you use his title in a way no one dares to say it, affection and greed can be heard through it as he fucks you – every hole you have from pussy to ass and his favorite, your shining lips.

eyes rolling, salvia appears, tears wash your pretty face – what a magnificent sight to have in front of him as you stay on your knees, hands gripping his thick thighs, soaking onto the floor under you, and moaning how good he tastes while he has a grip inside your hair, pulling and pushing you, fucking your mouth as he pleases. he feels his empowerment inside your eyes – the look you give him scream how you are pleased to give your master pleasure at the highest level, letting him use you as his personal fucktoy – he smiles at the idea, the free hand caresses your chin full of wetness, creating two opposite sense and sending it to your core.

“how pretty,” he says lowly, “master’s favorite fucktoy,” adding, he smirks at his own statement when he earns a loud moan from you which is shut down by his thick cock inside your warm mouth. “yeah, like that? sure you do my personal toy – offering every hole of her to me – to his grandmaster,” he leaves your mouth, holding his dick and slapping your face with it, “say it,” he orders, “say who’s your owner.”

waiting for a response, he laughs when you give an answer, “master -! my grandmaster bi han!”

“that’s right pretty. let your master fuck your remaining holes as well after I fill your pretty mouth with my cum.”

PRAISING • TOMAS is so shy that he can’t tell his kink aloud even when you encourage him to say it after you explain yours one by one, feeling shy too yet wanting him to know what makes you turn on right away, wanting him to have you in the exact same moment.

he doesn’t judge you, not for a single time, contrary to that, he gets turned on as well, smiling widely, scratching his neck hair, and telling you how he will make them turn into reality the moment he has a chance to. he tries to get better in every one of them as well, wanting you to reach the highest pleasure, not leaving them only as statements.

so, it’s not surprising to discover his kink while having an intimate session with him, not paying attention to it fully but after it ends, you spend alone time, thinking about it with a logical and peaceful mind, you realize what turns him on in sex – putting attention to them and discovering which one is the most effective one on him.

can’t wait until you get together, alone, in the room you share, you just use your theory after a mission ends. you watch him closely yet do not alert him that you do it on purpose, calling him ‘good boy’ after he does his best in the mission, and completes it effortlessly. the word you use shows its effects immediately – he freezes for a moment, eyes shining as he looks at you with them widening, furrows raising, and chest going up and down rapidly for a moment before he gets himself together, saying thanks but sounding so delicate.

you know it’s not just the word – it’s the thing you do – praising him, his efforts, his support – all of it.

the next thing you know he literally moans loudly when you praise him as he eats you out, kneeling before you, the head between your inner thighs, fingers playing with your breasts as you hold him by his grey hair, pulling it and moaning shamelessly, “ohhh, such a good boy for me – baby, doing soo good!”

he freezes once again – yet, rather than turning into an innocent one he prefers to let it go, understanding what you’re doing and finding great lust in it as he moans again and again, eating you further, wanting to get more praise – even his fingers find your pussy, entering it, doubling the feeling up.

it makes you go crazy when you see his hardened cock inside his boxers, “pretty boy!” you scream, head throwing back, eyes going white as he fucks you with his tongue and fingers. soaking wet, you add, “be a good boy and make me cum tomas!”

“yes, yes, yes – ohhh, my goddess, will be a good boy – your good boy, will earn lots of cum from this pretty pussy – ohhhh, so delicious.”

FILMING • JOHNNY CAGE would never thought he would have a certain kink like this one – yes, he has lots of them – and having them with you, well, the ones you’re comfortable with as well as doing the things you want him to do. he pleases his woman as best as he can – giving you pleasure boosts his ego, wanting to please you further until your mind is only full with him – nothing else.

when he has you under him, below him, in front of him – in every position, he watches how your pretty face lightens up with the lust, desire to have more – listens to the lewd voices your pussy creates, mixing the sweet voice you make, especially moaning his name – smiles and looks down at your pussy as he clenches around his length, sending a jolt that flows through his entire body, making his mind go dizzy.

it’s perfect – from the beginning to the end, it’s just the description of perfection – you are the perfection for him. and being a great actor, addicted to his camera – his phone, he realizes something he wants ultimately, the reason why he pictures you even after he has you – he daydreams about you all day, waiting for it to end and finally getting together with you again.

he misses you so much that he can’t stand it, and he understands what he needs to do.

the first thing he excepts from you is to laugh, can’t take it seriously, then, not agree – but, you don’t utter a word when he says it, only looking at his face with heat on your body because of hearing how he thinks you look so beautiful – out of this world, dreamy, while you have his cock inside your holes – he expresses his desire to capture it, watch it later, and seeing you in every aspect as possible as he can.

then, you agree, don’t judge, just accept it and realize how you want him to film you whenever you have mind-blowing sex – it becomes a habit of yours now – he films when he fucks you from behind, the camera captures your pretty face so close that he cums the moment he watches it. he puts his camera on the table beside him when he has you on his lap, riding his cock as he drinks his favorite alcohol, watching you fuck yourself on his dick. he even takes a video of you while you suck his cock – his favorite so far because how obedient and cock slut you’re for him.

he smirks, taking you by the chin, making you look up, and winking at the camera of his phone as you suck his cock as if it’s the most delicious thing your tongue taste of – salvia leaves your mouth, eyes shining, nose has a little redness, cheeks burn, and tears flowing down to your face since his thick cock fills your entire mouth. “oh baby –“ he says, chuckling, “you’re my favorite sight to see in a movie! in our personal fucking movies – ohh, how much I like to watch ‘em only to see the expressions you make – so innocent yet lustful. my pretty lady will make you watch it too!” he laughs, caressing your face, “taking my cock so well – maybe will publish it so that everyone can see what a slut you’re for me! would’ve been my biggest hit!”

HUMILIATION • KUNG LAO is full of ego – thanks to his wins strength, and attractiveness, he has great self-love and he acts as such, telling his best qualities again and again – he does it around others just because he has a habit of doing it but with you? oh, the reason is different for doing it when it comes to you.

he remarks them to show off – to make you fall for him even though you’re literally his lover who fell hard for him, getting excited to see him – to watch him as he fights, and listening to all the bubbles he says including his ego. you leave chuckles, bright eyes shine with enjoyment, letting him show himself off because it entertains him that his favorite girl loves him as a whole – for who he is!

he can swear even he can’t think one of his desires would include an opposite kink compared to his general self. he can’t say it aloud either – he’s too shy to do that, to allow himself to get the knowledge of his deep desires – turning on by you humiliating him in bed out of all places – not to joke, not to tease – to take out his secrets into the surface.

it happens when he utters a few words about him being the greatest in bed, and you tease him about it by mocking, “oh, really? is magnificent kung lao the best fuck? maybe if you try enough you cute boy, being my personal fucker, it can be. what do you think?”

he can’t think about anything at that moment – his mind freezes – he even can’t think!

it takes some time for him to get back, hearing your worried questions about whether he is okay or not – you say sorry if it makes him uncomfortable – then, both you and he look down at his hardened cock, the tip is pink, dripping precum as he exhales the air rapidly than ever, words being cut as they reach to his dry throat.

“y/n –“ he nearly moans your name lowly, looking so fragile with the way his hands on your thighs shake as he holds them – you try to move your hips, caging him between your legs, getting closer, you chuckle, hands find his shoulders as you sit down on the table still, letting his exposed hardened cock press to your bare pussy.

you clench around nothing, and his cock twitches with your husky voice, mocking him more, “oh, will all mighty kung lao cry? will make a mess because of me? hm, is it the case you got a boner now, pretty boy?”

he moans this time, hands gripping the flesh inside his palms tightly, trying to earn a kiss from you as he leans closer but you put your forefinger on his lips, smirking and pointing the ground under his feet. “to earn it, you have to please me, my personal fucker,” you lick the side of his lip, winking as he begins to blush – redness appearing on his shocked face, the tip of his dripping cock hitting your pussy, wanting to get inside. your finger enters his mouth, pulling his warm tongue out as he whimpers, getting harder as if it’s possible, “on your knees, my good boy. show your owner how good this tongue is.”

BEGGING • RAIDEN is a humble man who knows his worth. he’s well aware of who he is, what his worth is, what he wants, and in which cases he will lose it all – only for you, his significant other, the owner his heart and soul.

he’s a gentle lover indeed, you can give him that – bringing gifts to you, kissing you fondly, showing great affection and love, especially when you’re both alone and comfortable – the peace runs in the air as you show the love you have for one to another openly, no fear of getting rejected – the knowledge of your worth in each other’s eyes is visible through the gazes, words, and actions.

it feels like a miracle when he finds both love and friendship in one person – and he thinks he is the luckiest person in whole realms when the tension you share completes each other perfectly – getting closer to you, he discovers his self – his kinks as you tell him about, he still has questions about them though yet he tries his best to please you while he gets you better, further – no one else, only him.

the help he receives from you about these all kink situations deserves a big thanks and he tries to give it to you by fucking you with his cock, his tongue, his fingers – which one you would like to have.

he puts more focus on you than himself, yet, you have other plans – you want him to understand the importance of being aware of knowing his deepest desires to take the best feelings from your body as well as his.

so, you tell him how words have a different and effective role in intimate sessions mixed with actions – you try to make him see its effects on him firstly because it’s the most remarkable and permanent way to learn about it – so, you study him, trying to see what makes him turn on and what turns him off. among others, one thing catches your attention – begging.

raiden never begs – not to others, or for other things. however, he is ready to beg for you even though he’s yet not know it fully – it takes time for him to get there, and being a helpful lover, you take your role gladly, using your knowledge in one night when you begin to make out. raiden appears behind you, hands wrap around your belly, pulling you closer to him, his cock slowly getting hard as it touches the lower part of your back – the thin fabric you have makes the sense breathtaking.

you chuckle, looking at his face as he rests his chin on your shoulder, “needy?” you tease and he blushes. nodding, he does his little tricks and before knowing it, you find yourself on top of him, cock is buried deep inside your walls – it twitches, wanting you to move and ride him.

“y/n –“ he whimpers, eyes getting brighter, tears ready to leave them.

“yes, my pretty boy?” you ask, head tilting to the side as you rise up and sit down on his length suddenly, making his head thrown back onto the pillow, moaning. “need something?”

“need you – to move – y/n, move already!” you chuckle, hands on his exposed well-built chest.

“then beg for it! we both know you can do better than that farm boy.”

and he listens, starting to beg loudly, hands positioned on your waist, holding tightly, tears washing his pretty face as he begs for you to move – then, he begs for more – he begs so beautifully that you ride him so well and he even begs as he cums into your pussy, making a mess. “yes, yes, please – oh my love, please! ohh – s’ much! s’ good!”

PERSONAL PLEASER • SYZOTH chose to be your personal assistant and lover at the same time – the idea of being by your side all the time, giving you the support you need, being the one you call first is always amazes him, causing him to accept your offer and take the title of right-hand man, giving aid and help in every way he is capable of.

he doesn’t feel any humiliation because you’re there to show your love for him, how you think of him as an equal, not below you, no – he’s your lover before being your personal assistant and protector. you are at the same level, and you don’t stay back by showing it to him and all the others – you have him beside you every time you attend meetings, parties, festivals, and business works. he’s always there – he lets you introduce himself as your lover first, then says how he’s also your right-hand man who is best at everything – your own luck.

yes, it makes him feel shy but not as shy as he feels when you have him alone – in your office, in your bedroom, in your garden – it doesn’t matter, the shyness he has is exactly the same in every place. it’s the way of help that makes him go all red, or warm, or crazy even.

you say besides being his right-hand man, he’s also your personal pleaser – you let him fuck you rough, showing the beast he has under his pretty face, “agghhh – fuck – syzoth!”, you let him get undressed and jerking himself off as you watch him – his eyes don’t leave yours, watching every expression you have on that pretty face of yours he likes to see as he jerks himself, cum into his fist and earning the same one from you, “syzoth – so – so good to watch!”, you let him go invisible and eating you out in public as you sit down under a table, trying to suppress your moans when he’s tongue swifts into his natural form, entering deep inside, “syzoth!”, you let him kneel before you, on his knees, watching you approaching him slowly, and then, taking him into the bed as he begs for it. “ohhh – syzoth!”

his answer will always be the same, “yes, my goddess? need me?” he mocks you as if he isn’t the reason why you’re like that – weak on the knees, shaking, soaking wet, wanting nothing but him.

the way he enjoys being your personal pleaser besides assistant drives you crazy – the intensity of having him both as a lover and pleaser rising up. you can’t even blame him for using his power inappropriately – it feels too good to utter the words that warn him. he doesn’t care – he does what he needs to do – what you deserve – his full attention and effort.

“my goddess, let me show my gratitude to you – as your right-hand man, it’s my duty to make sure you get what you want.”

[mahi-wayy]

𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠? 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing : dean winchester x brown!fem!reader

fandom & series : supernatural | brown!reader series ( dean ver. )

length : 3.9k ( not proofread. deal with it. )

summary : "बिस्तर ये तेरा मेरा अरे जंग का मैदान है" [ OR ] tension between you and dean finally snaps.

warnings : foul language, mention of gore, misogyny, inappropriate touch, drunk men ( yes these mfs should be a warning ) eventual smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex ( NO! BAD! wrap it up guys ) creampie, dom/sub dynamics ( kind of ) sub!dean winchester, dry humping, edging, impala sex ( ALMOST ) dirty talk, oral ( both m & f recieving ) begging, glimpse of pussy drunk dean, slight degradation, praise kink, cowgirl position.

library

It all started with you wanting to help him.

It's been well over 6 months since you've been travelling with Sam and Dean and life has turned out to be a lot more fun than you thought. Sure the boys got their noses in all things trouble but they did it to save people.

And hunting wasn't as scary as you thought, though you were learning the physical part of the job, you had the lore and talking to witnesses part covered from like the first week.

So you didn't think you would encounter this much resistance from Dean when you offered help in a salt and burn for a vengeful spirit.

People were dropping dead almost like flies - one victim after another in a span of hours - all with the same cause of death. A slit throat so deep you could see the bones and stuff.

When the fourth victim drops it creates a hindrance in the investigation. They had to go talk to the boyfriend of the previous victim, hit the new crime scene but also go investigate the brother of the very first victim - A guy named Alex who hangs out at a local strip club.

So you came up with a simple idea. Sam hits the crime scene/morgue. Dean goes to the witness and you can check out the strip club. Simple right? Not if Dean had something to say about it.

“You're not going to the strip club. Or the witness. Or crime. Just your pretty self in here.”

He had said with absolute tone and it pulled out a scuff from you as an instinct which makes the man give you a look.

“Why not?”

“Because me and Sam have places to be at and you're not going alone.”

“But-”

“Sweetheart this isn't a discussion.”

She had to fight the urge to snarl at the man. Just what on God's green earth does he think will happen if you go to a club? Men? Pft as if you can't handle a bunch of idiots.

“Dean come on, this is ridiculous.” You say when you see him grab the room key.

“Good. I like ridiculous. Stay.”

He says - Sam shakes his head behind him - before the brothers leave. You wait till you hear baby driving away before sliding the window open. Contrary to what Dean thinks, he isn't the first man trying to keep you in ‘your room’ your dad tried plenty.

So getting out wasn't an issue in the slightest neither was finding the club nor was slipping in especially when they mistook you as one of the new servers. Just your luck.

▪︎ ☆ ▪︎

Contrary to what they believed men weren't half as complicated. Even easier to manipulate.

A tight fit white blouse, a flowing sheer matching ankle length skirt, just the right hair flip with a touch of swaying hips and smooth smile.

That's all it took to have not only Alex but more than half the club wrapped around your tiny finger.

Men.

“Haven't seen you around.”

The targeted man said once you made your way to the bar after serving some beers to a table. Bingo!

“I'm new around here.”

You keep your voice but light like a whisper in the passing.

“Then how about I buy you your first drink here, pretty girl?”

Alex is a decent man, on the taller side with dark hair and light eyes. Hmm you've seen better but still you let your chin rest on your palm smiling.

“Sure.”

Alcohol burns down your throat but you don't mind it, kind of feels nice actually.

“So what's your name or am I just supposed to call you pretty?”

His words slur a bit at the end and it almost makes you grimace but you don't let it show especially when one of his hands reaches to tuck back your hair.

You take a soft inhale - and a shot - before throwing out an alias.

“Pretty name for a pretty woman, I'm Alex Thompson.”

Finally something you can turn into a bait.

“Thompson as in girl who got murdered?”

“Yeah, that was my sister.”

“Oh no I'm so sorry. I just read it in passing on a headline. What happened?”

“Some psychopath broke into her house.”

You narrow your eyes as he takes another swig of his drink - her eyes anywhere but you - he's hiding something. You were about to speak again but he beat you to it.

“But let's not talk about that.” He says in a voice that raises all sorts of warning bells in your head because a) this man is drunk and b) he's definitely attracted to you.

“How about you and me get out of here and have a more private chat.”

He says leaning close, you could smell the alcohol and his overly manly and overly cheap colonge but it was the hand slipping up your arm that made it so hard to not knee the man in his balls.

Intel. You need just a little more.

“I-”

“Hey buddy.”

A voice - familiar voice - interrupts tapping Alex on his shoulders and it happens way too quickly - the moment the drunk man turns around he's met with a fist square in the face making him stumble out of the stool and onto the floor.

You look up only to find the most green pair of eyes you know, narrowed at you in what seemed like anger and disappointment.

Dean.

He doesn't even give you a moment to contemplate anything before his hand grabs your hand - mindful of your bangles even in a fit of rage - dragging you out.

▪︎ ☆ ▪︎

“Dean what the hell!?”

You say freeing your hand once his grip loosens when you two are near the baby. He's not angry as before but he's still pissed.

“Did you have to punch him!?”

He scoffs before turning to face you - eyes dark with anger but something else.

“I don't know, did he have to touch you!?”

“This is ridiculous, there is no way he's talking to you or me again.”

“Well good thing Sam is still an option.”

Oh my god this man-

“You could've talked it out.”

“Well it didn't work when I tried to talk you in staying the fuck out of that place!!”

“I'm not a little girl, I can handle it.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what is it!?”

You see his jaw clench but you don't make a comment.

“Get in the car.” Oh wow-

“No. Answer me first.”

“I swear to- get in the damn car.”

“No, answer me first!!”

“Because I don't like it!”

He yelled out louder than you - voice booming in the empty parking area - and now it made sense. The impulsive punch to the face, the reluctance is letting you come here.

“I don't like you being in a strip club alone, I don't like other men looking at you and I sure as hell don't like other men touching you.”

Dean Winchester was jealous.

“You're ridiculous.”

“Seriously-”

He was cut off when she kissed him all but slamming him back into his own car. Fuck.

There is no soft gesture about it - not at all - not in the way she scratches and tugs at his scalp or the way he wraps his arms around her.

The tension between them has been seemering for months now. Stolen glances, almost kisses, brushing touches, protective behavior. They knew feelings but neither of them were willing to say or do something.

That was until tonight.

He hears the impala door click before she takes a step back - lips still on his - opening the door when she pulls him. Pushing him back across the driver's seat - his shoulders connecting with the passenger's side door with a soft thump - before climbing over him, the door shutting behind her.

It's a tight fit - between his particularly not small frame and her skirt - but neither of them care. Not when her lips are back on his and her hand slipping in his hair and his hand resting at the curve of her ass.

Holy shit.

The kiss breaks when they need air and she trails down to his jaw - his head automatically turning to the side - he grabs her waist with one hand, another going to cradle her head as he sits up.

By the time they settle again she's straddling him and their tongues are locked in another duel and you can't give two fucks about the steering wheel digging in your back.

Not when one, you can feel how hard Dean is right under you and second, the sounds he is letting out. The soft grunts and moans, his hands everywhere as his hips bucked up in response to yours rolling down.

“We need more space.”

“Sam's still tied up at the crime scene/morgue.”

“Drive.”

With that she kisses him one last time before slipping off his lap and into the passenger seat. He dares to look at her and dammit she's such a sight. Messy hair and swollen lips and the upper two buttons of her blouse are unhooked.

Dean hits the gas.

▪︎ ☆ ▪︎

They barely stumble in the motel room before he's pressing you into the door. He's so sure he ran at least two lights getting here but your lips and your touch is worth it. So worth it.

Your hands make quick work of his jacket and plaid - just as his make of unbuttoning your blouse - knocking them off his shoulders without a care. He was ready to pick you up and throw you on the bed when you hook your ankle against his and use the loss of balance to switch the positions.

“Wha-”

The words die on his tongue when you pull off his henley next - your lips attaching themselves to his collarbone - your nails digging in his sides a little as you trail down kisses, licking, sucking and biting all the way down to his belt buckle.

“Sweetheart, fuck-”

He breathes, even on your knees you look as pleased and in control as ever. Your mouth busies itself with mouthing at his belly while your hands work the buckle.

Fucking hell you'll drive him insane.

Dean lets out a sound mix of a strangled moan and whines the moment you take his dick in your hand. Breathes of her name fall from his lips without a thought.

You continue your antics, running your tongue against the underside and the pretty pink tip of his cock.

He doesn't let out a moan until he feels your mouth around him.

It's fascinating to see Dean like this - falling apart on your mouth - his head thrown back, eyes barely open and hands looking for purchase.

The purchase comes in the form of the back of your head, he tries to push you a little more on his cock, maybe pick up the pace but you not only resist it but smack his hand away.

“If you can't behave yourself when you're touching me then don't.”

Your voice is raspy from taking him down your throat but the words still send a shiver down his spine making him fight the urge to buck his hips and whine.

You resume your task of sucking him off and this time he whines because dammit he wants more than the steady pace. He wants faster. He wants more.

But there is an urge to be good, something which stops him from bucking his hips. Makes him behave.

The orgasm builds steady, heat rising in his stomach as the knot of.pleasure tightens as she bobs her head back and forth and he's close.

“Sweetheat- fuck- sweetheart I'm-”

The sentence ends in a high whine because you pull him off right that moment, his hips buck up but there is nothing as you stand up pushing back your hair.

Your smile confirms you did that on purpose just as you kiss him all lazy like you just didn't ruin what could have been one of his best orgasms.

Your fingers hooks in the thread of the amulet, tugging not with enough force to break it but enough with that he gets the message to follow her. He makes sure to kick off his jeans and boxers somewhere on the way.

His hands touch anywhere and everywhere he can until he hears the back of her knees hit the bed - grabbing her waist to stabilize her for a moment - his hands all but tear the hooks of her skirt.

Looking up at her as he lifts her out of it and onto the bed - making sure her head hits the pillow - as they get back to the kiss, their hips grinding together and he's not sure if it's his precum or her wetness but what he knows is her panties are soaked.

And he wants a taste. He knows that too.

“Hey you with me?” Your voice breaks his haze and he looks down at her, pretty. That's all that comes to mind. You're pretty with the unbuttoned blouse and panting and a little flushed.

Dean can't really stop himself from leaning down and capturing your lips in another kiss. Whining and grunting in your mouth, hips still bucking against your clothed core.

“Taste-” He pants once they pull away. “I want to taste. Please, come on baby let me.”

“Yeah? Go ahead. Come on pretty boy, put that mouth to good use. Make me feel good.” You urged pushing him down by the shoulder.

So he imitates your action from before kissing, licking, biting his way down to your soaked panties before looking up at you as he bites the edge of panties pulling them down your leg before tossing them off.

“Gonna make you feel good.”

He murmurs as your legs spread enough to accommodate that strong broad build of his. He moans the moment his tongue makes the first swipes against your pussy.

Better than he thought. So much better.

“So good- GOD!!! Dean right there.”

His hands squeeze your thighs - moaning against your core at the praise - his brain losing thoughts other than building your pleasure. Sucking and licking, over and over. A particular moan from you has him look up.

He whines at the image that you are, hair a mess of dark threads on the pillow, brown skin glistened with sweat, letting out soft breathy moans.

His eyes roll back the moment your hips buck up, your bangles making a soft clunk as you tug him by the hair, guiding his mouth.

Fuck he can spend a lifetime like this.

Which is also the main reason why he whines as pathetically as he does when you pull him off your core by his hair.

“Shhh stop whining baby, don't you want to be inside me when I cum?” You ask all cheeky.

His brain suffers a different kind of short circuit at that because yeah he wants to. He wants to be inside you so bad.

“Come here. Give me a kiss with those pretty lips.”

His body moves automatically leaning up until his lips - very much soaked in your juices - are pressing against yours. He doesn't even think of protesting when you press him on the mattress, climbing on top of him.

“You're gonna be good?”

You're going to kill him. Still he nods because what a way to go.

“Use your words baby, come on.”

“Y-yeah. Yes I'll be good. Please pleas-”

He is cut off by a moan that pretty much punches its way out of him, his eyes rolling back as you slowly sink down on him.

He lets out a shaky breath or was it a whine? As he bottoms out. You're warm and your gummy walls were gripping him for dear life.

“Fuck- Dean. So good.”

She breathes out - her hands pressing against his chest - as she gives herself a minute. The praise hits right yet again and he almost bucks up his hips.

“Shhh. Stay still. You're a good boy Dean.”

He whines at that because he wants to be a good boy but he needs you to move before he embarrasses himself by cumming only from having you around him.

“Move-” He forced himself to breathe as your cunt squeezed around him - fucking tease. “Please, please move please.”

So you do.

It starts with a slow but firm grind, then turns into shallow bounces before you find a rhythm. The pace set is fast but not necessarily rough. It's messing with his already much from pleasure brain.

And in hindsight he isn't surprised he started begging when he did.

“Gonna cum. Wanna cum’ please please. Let me cum’ please.”

“Just a little long baby, come on. I'm so close.”

He whines high in his throat when you say that, when your walls clamp around him so deliciously but he isn't allowed to fill you up.

“Please please- let me cum. I'll goo’ please-”

He is close to sobbing at this point and just makes the knot in your stomach tighten.

“Go ahead-” You pant out. “-cum for me, pretty boy. Let go.”

He doesn't take much for him from, his hips buck up twice before he moans the loudest of the night - throwing back his head as he shoots his load right into you, triggering your own orgasm.

It takes both of you at least a minute to ride out the high before you get off of him, to lay down beside him while he lazily pulls up the covers wrapping you in cheap motel sheets and his arms.

“Remind me to try to hold you back more often.”

That pulls out a chuckle from you as settle down in his arms - exhausted but satisfied. A long beat of silence passes before you speak.

“We need to clean up before Sam gets back.”

Dean's rather colorful cursing makes you laugh again.

a/n : sub!dean I wanna mess you up so bad my baby

tags : @bluemerakis @deansbeer @daylighted @soldiersgirl @h8aaz @titsout4jackles @bejeweledinterludes @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @jmoonk @yawnzshit @figthoughts let me know if I forgot you or you want to be added or removed!!

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Thinking about…

Alastor and Bill Cipher after the same s/o (headcannons)

Hazbin Masterlist // Disney Masterlist // Navigation

Warnings: Obsessive behavior! Alastor being sadistic, Bill being a bit weird because duh, wrote this with Human form Bill Cipher in mind, mentions of death

A/N: I really like this dynamic, even though it’s kind of crazy and a lose lose situation for the reader, but it’s still interesting to write about. I hope you all enjoy!!

Alastor

• Alastor isn’t just charming; he’s obsessed with making you see him as the ultimate catch. He meticulously plans every interaction, ensuring that you are always impressed and feel valued. Every compliment and gesture is calculated to win your heart.

“Why there’s that smile I love to see my dear! Ever the beauty!”

Alastor can’t stand the thought of you being attracted to anyone else, especially Bill. He tries to mask his jealousy with his usual grace and horribly timed jokes, but it’s evident in the subtle digs he takes at Bill whenever you mention him.

When Alastor is alone with you he’s not above grand, romantic gestures. Picture him serenading you with an old-fashioned love song or setting up a beautiful, intimate dinner where he pours out his feelings and tries to convince you that he’s the best choice for a partner and way better than bill in all aspects of the word.

Alastor’s affection for you is deeply strategic. He genuinely cares, but he’s also careful in how he shows it. He’ll often try to subtly make you see how a relationship with him would be beneficial, not just for personal pleasure but for gaining power and influence. He’s a very strong man and his image is important, what’s not to want about him?

“Don’t you love this view dear? We could be here all the time, if you wished.”

Alastor envisions a future where you are by his side, helping him dominate Hell. His feelings are not just about the present but about creating a powerful, enduring relationship. He dreams of ruling Hell together, and he’s willing to go to great lengths to make that vision a reality.

But not all things with Alastor are good, you know how much he HATESSSS modern technology and well, it’s how the world runs now. this is something Bill definitely used against him

“Don’t get intimated by a big screen deer man!”

Though he hates how Bills joke makes you laugh, his smile tightens nonetheless

Alastor will often put doubts into your mind about Bill. He is partially right, so it does make you wonder…

“What if he were to suddenly get tired of you? My dear, he’s traveled galaxies and destroyed universes. You wouldn’t want to be subject to that would you?”

or maybe something like,

“That little shape is no better than a toddler. He can’t even take proper care of his toys, breaking them when he gets bored. How pitiful.”

Bill Cipher

Bill is intensely infatuated with you. His feelings might come across as chaotic and erratic, per usual, but underneath, he’s deeply drawn to your spirit and individuality. He finds your uniqueness thrilling and wants to be the one to make your life as unpredictable and exciting as possible.

“ Wanna see this guy dance with his eyes hanging out of his sockets? Gotta tell ya’ you’ll never see anything like it ever!”

Bill’s way of showing affection is through wild and flirtatious chaos. He might sweep you into a whirlwind of bizarre, fantastical experiences, always with an underlying flirtation that makes it clear he’s very interested in you.

Bill knows how to push Alastor’s buttons. He often uses his chaotic antics to draw your attention away from Alastor, playfully teasing him and making a show of his own appeal. For Bill, it’s not just about romance; it’s about proving he’s the more exciting option, you’ll never be bored of him!

Despite his chaotic nature, Bill genuinely wants a deep connection with you, even if he does have a weird way of being about it. He’s drawn to your complexity and wants to show you that his brand of chaos can be both thrilling and deeply meaningful. He might surprise you with moments of surprising sincerity.

Bill is not afraid to take big risks to win you over. He’s willing to gamble with the very fabric of reality just to create memorable moments. His love is unpredictable and intense, and he hopes you will find that thrilling rather than overwhelming.

Bill is the type of guy to take you to a different reality for a date, wanna go watch marshans fight? no problem! upset about something? let’s go to this dimension where you can blow anything up!

He’s definitely got jokes though, and he’s good at them too

���Hey furry, why don’t you cut that loose part of your hair? OH wait, it’s your EARS!”

Bill is no fool though, he sees EVERYTHING, so it’s really difficult to hide things from him, which means being with him also means you losing your privacy.

“He’s a sociopath dove, you can’t really believe that radio freak actually likes you right?”

He isn’t wrong, Alastor has proven multiple times he keeps people around because he needs them for something, and Bill loves this

“What if you don’t satisfy him? What if he decides you’re not worth being with?”

or maybe he’ll say

“ You never know dove, what if he’s just after your soul? Maybe he likes the fact you put up a good fight, eh?”

Both demons have their crazies to them. Picking Alastor means Bill might destroy your dimension and maybe rearrange his molecules. But picking Bill means watching Alastor rip hell to shreds at your expense, hurting anyone and everyone to get you, maybe even threatening whoever you love.

Dating Alastor means you can kind of live a normal-ish life

Dating Bill means you keep your dimension

[sugawhaaa]

HAN ONE-SHOT

⭐️🖤Naughty boy🖤⭐️

Warnings//genre::SMUT! roleplay, praise and degradation, edging, mommy dynamic, dacryphilia (Like big time)

Pairing:: sub!Han x dom!fem!reader

A/N:: this fanfic is so special in the sense that it's not like super dom and sub but there is still that control and loss of control feeling. Idk how to explain it but it's just so sweet and sexy at the same time 😭 also this is way shorter than I had planned sorry

Skz masterlist:: 🖤

🎧::

Han didn't expect much after such an eventful day. It was Christmas day and Han woke up super early, just like a kid, to open all the presents, you cooked breakfast, took a nap at lunchtime, and ate lunch at like 2 pm then got ready to go to Han's parents' place for dinner and socialized for way too damn long.

When you got home Han flopped onto his bed, groaning as he tore off his clothes, leaving him in his pants. He wasn't sure where you went, just that you were in the bathroom for a while, so long so that he got worried.

"Hey babe, you good?" He sits up on the bed to call for you only to see you leaning against the door frame in Christmas lingerie. "O-Oh," his eyes widened as his lips visibly parted. His cheeks glow red as he straightens his posture on the bed, chuckling lowly. "Is this my last gift of the day? My present from Santa for being good?" He smiles as you close the door with your foot and begin to walk over to him but he can instantly tell from the way you present yourself that he gravely misread this situation.

"I'd say it's more...discipline," you smirk before adjusting your latex glove. Han laughs awkwardly as he scoots up the bed, further away from you but you quickly pin him down and he jumps. "For all the naughty things I didn't catch you doing," you explain, and Han chuckles awkwardly again.

"I've been good," he nods with those big doe eyes, pleading for mercy. You tilt your head with a cocked brow.

"Really now? Then we can go through your private laptop then," he sit on his lap and reach for his laptop to which he quickly grabs your wrist.

"Hehe...babe I don't think you'll wanna see..." he blushes but it's no use; you open his laptop and go through his search history and browsers. Hundreds of kinky porn videos and hentai loaded up his laptop. You raise an eyebrow at him as he lets the bed swallow him whole in shame. "I-I can explain," he chuckles before biting his lip. You then click on one of the videos, allowing it to play into the awkwardly quiet room.

The laptop then began moaning and begging but not in a female voice, but a male.

"Please, I'll be a good boy," the laptop cries out and you raise a brow at Han.

"I don't only watch that kind of stuff!" Han desperately explains but you click on another video. Two guys...

"It's too big!" The man cries out and Han's face burns and just as he tries to explain himself the laptop moans loudly. You pause the video.

"Ready to admit you've been a naughty boy?" You tilt your head and Han pouts slightly, nodding. You close the laptop and set it back on the nightstand. "And you agree you deserve at least a little punishment for this?" Han sighs in response.

"Fine," he pouts but on the inside, he's over the moon excited for what you're going to do to him. You get him completely undressed and make him wait on the bed as you bring over the bin of toys. You sort through to find a bottle of lube but not any regular lube, this lube creates a warm, tingly sensation when applied; Han doesn't know this though.

You squirt a little bit onto his tip before massaging it in. He leans back with a deep moan, pleasure already taking him in a deep grasp. As you massage his cock he notices the warm, tingling sensations and it's overwhelmingly pleasurable. "Baby i-is this a new kind of lube?" He asks shyly and looks up at you with doe eyes.

"Yes, it is~" You grab the lube and apply a bit more and he moans louder, his back arched and chest puffed. "Can you feel the warming effect?" You ask with a hint of mischief and he nods.

"Y-Yeah..." he tosses his head back. "'Feels good," he nods and you smile with a little smirk as you move your hand faster.

"That's good baby," you say as his moans grow harsher and your hand moves faster. His face contorted in pleasure as his balls began to tighten, but it was still too early...right? His cock began to twitch in your hand and you felt the throb of his veins against your palm.

"I-I think..." Han blushes but he knows he doesn't have to say anything for you to understand. You begin to move your palm faster and Han lets out a whine. "O-Oh god!" He reaches out mindlessly to find something to grab onto. His hand finds your skirt and he tugs on it hard. "Oh don't stop!" He cries out as his legs shake slightly.

"what would you do if I did?" You tease and he whines loudly.

"Fuck, I don't know, probably cry," He croaks out along with some stutters. You tilt your head as he continues to moan, his lips quivering slightly; perhaps that was a sight you wanted to see. Jisungie sobbing so prettily below you. Your hand subconciously slows as you imagine how fucked up you could make him. "No god, please no!" He cries out but it's already too late, his climax already washing away as your hands lose contact with his body.

Han tosses his head back with a sound that's a mix between a groan and a sigh. He pouts softly as he stares up at the ceiling, his cock still twitching every now and then. "Why'd you stop?" He whines, silently pleading for you to resume the torture.

"You'll see," You smirk and a chill runs down his spine. You stand up and retrieve some restraints; it's ironic because Han bought them to use on you but he seem to always be the one tied up in the silky ropes of pleasure. Han whines as he sees you bring out his arch nemesis, however he doesn't resist; at this point he knows better than to protest his mistress.

You get hans wrists tied up to the headboard of the bed and he's already a squirming, whining mess. It seems that even after all the nights he's been chained, cuffed and tied he still can't keep still. Han bucks his hips up against nothing, pleading you to give him some attention.

"Please touch me baby, please I'll do anything right now," He looks up at you with that look. The look of raw desperation and weakness, he is completely under your spell.

"Is that so? Then say it," You lean closer to him, your body hovering over him, ghosting over his skin.

"S-Say what?" He looks distraught as he pulls himself closer to you.

"you know exactly what," You smirk and a realization dawns upon him.

"Please mommy, I'll be good, I promise," He pleads helplessly, his voice cracking which makes him blush. "Use me, hurt me, fuck me I don't care just make me cum," He looks up at you with those eyes again, as if he were trying to communicate through his eyes, begging for you. You think for a moment; he just gave you a lot of ideas didn't he? Fuck him? That sounds fun but you did that like last week. Hurt him? Nah he's too sooky for that right now. Then perhaps...use him?

"Alright, since you asked so nicely," You smile and he grins wide. You then lean down before abruptly sucking him into your mouth. His whole body jerks forward, pulling on the restraints.

"Fuck! W-Why do you always do that?" He whines, his bottom lip jutting out unintentionally.

You start by just sucking his tip but quickly make your way down until he's stuffed into your mouth. Meanwhile Han is having a crisis over the amount of pleasure he's in. The warmth of your mouth, the way you pull his cock with your lips, your throat tightening and loosening around his cock, how much longer can he last? He pulls on the restraints hard, leaving red marks on his wrists, as his body squirms around to follow the pleasure you bring him. "Baby-Mommy I think I-I," Han attempts to warn you about the incoming flood of cum he's built up but you quickly pull off his cock and he whines loudly again. You abruptly grab his jaw, a little forceful, but not too much. You can feel his breath against your hand, coming in and out in a rapid pace, as the pulse in his neck throbs against your hand, signaling at his racing heart from the adrenline.

"You cum when I say you can cum. Got it?" You tilt you head and he whines softly as he nods. "Good boy," You kiss his jaw and you hear the whimper he holds in his throat. You throw your leg over him to straddle him and he looks up at you with a different look this time, one of excitement and lust. You adjust your skirt to reveal you were wearing nothing under it the whole time. Jisung's face flushes as he sees your lack of clothing. You then position yourself over him, his cock aligned with your slit. You begin to sink down on his cock, the two of you moaning in unison as his cock fills you. You let out a deep breath before beginning to rock your hips very softly. Jisung groans as he feels his tip rubbing up against your hilt and a grin of pleasure spreads across his face.

It's not long before you find yourself hopping on Han, not quite bouncing, but you were coming up and down on him. He tugs at the restraints again as he arches his back and you feel his cock twitching inside you.

"C-Can I cum soon?" He looks up at you with doe eyes that you literally can't say no to.

"Soon baby," You stroke his cheek softly and he let's out a pathetic whine. He then tosses his head back nd you can tell by his expression it's taking everything in him to not burst right then and there. You begin to ride him harder, the sound of your skin clapping together echoes in the room.

"Please!" He sobs out before groaning, "I can't, I can't~" as tears build on his lashes. Your eyes widen at the sight but you could tell he wasn't in pain, no, he was loving this. He looks directly into your eyes as tear falls along the curve of his cheek. Han then squints his shut and tears pour down his cheeks, his orgasm hitting him like a tidal wave. "Fuck!" He cries as his hands slip out of the restraints to pull you close. His arms wrap around your chest as he moans loudly and breathlessly into your ear. He then faintly whispers "Thank you," before resting his head on your shoulder.

you were momentarily frozen but you snap out of it and wrap your arms around him.

"Your welcome," You smile and he nuzzles into your neck, moaning softly.

"You just look so sexy in this," He tugs at your lingerie and you blush with a little smile.

[4kingz]

hoodie nsfw headcanons warnings : 18+ mdni, rough sex, psychological domination, manipulation, voyeurism, detached affection, power play, objectification (viewer/subject dynamic), mind games

Quiet, Calculating, and Ruthless Hoodie doesn’t need to speak. His dominance is quiet, creeping into the air around you like a thick fog that you can’t escape. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t make a fuss—he just exists with a presence that demands compliance. It’s more than physical control; it’s mental. He owns your thoughts before he owns your body, and he’ll twist your mind before he ever gets to your skin.

Everything is a test When you’re with Hoodie, nothing happens by accident. Every word he says, every glance he gives, is a test. A measure. A way of seeing how far he can push you before you break, and how much control he can assert over your every reaction. When he touches you, it’s deliberate—not just to make you feel good, but to see how much you’ll give. How eager you are to please. And when you do, when you start responding to him? That’s when the real game starts. He doesn’t just get off on your pleasure—he gets off on your compliance. It’s about watching you fight the urge to give in, knowing that when you do, he’ll have you completely.

The silence is suffocating Hoodie’s quiet. When you’re with him, there’s no soft whispers or reassuring murmurs. The silence wraps around you, thick and oppressive, making every movement feel deliberate. His stillness is almost more powerful than anything he could say. When he does speak? It’s not to comfort you. It’s to issue a command, or maybe a quiet threat. You never know if the next word from his lips will make you feel safe or make you wish you were anywhere but here. He doesn’t give you mercy. And that silence? It’s a weapon. Every time he makes you wait, makes you anticipate, it’s like he’s drawing out your compliance, his patience pushing you to the brink of desperation. You want him to say something, anything, just to break the silence. But he doesn’t. He watches you squirm, measuring your reaction, making sure you understand that you’re at his mercy.

He owns your fear Hoodie doesn’t need to touch you to control you. He owns your fear. The quiet, looming tension he creates is just as powerful as any physical touch. His presence is always there—a heavy weight that presses down on you, reminding you that he’s in charge. That no matter how much you try to fight back, you’re still under his control. His gaze, those cold, dead eyes, follow you. He doesn’t need to speak, doesn’t need to threaten. Just the way he looks at you, as if he’s dissecting you, judging your every move. You’re not even sure when you start to crave it—his control, his power over you. But at some point, you do. You’ll start to respond to him without thinking, moving as if you’re an extension of his will. He won’t push you to that point all at once. It’s slow, methodical, like everything else he does. And when you realize you’ve become nothing more than a tool for his pleasure and his control? That’s when he’ll really own you.

Punishment is a lesson, not a game Hoodie’s punishments aren’t quick or vicious—they’re drawn out, methodical. He’s not here to teach you to be “good” in the way a brat tamer would. No, for him, it’s about showing you just how easy things could be if you’d just listen. Every moment of delay, every painful second, is designed to make you understand that your disobedience is costing you.

When he punishes you, it’s not about making you squirm for his pleasure (though that’s certainly part of it). It’s about showing you the consequences of not falling in line. And every time you fight him, every time you try to resist, he drags it out even longer, reminding you just how good you could’ve had it if you’d simply obeyed.

You’re his favorite subject. Hoodie’s the type to record everything, and you? You’re his most prized footage. He’s not just a voyeur—he’s a collector. He likes to capture every moment. The way your body reacts to his touch, your breath hitching when he teases you, the way your eyes flutter when you get close to the edge. He’ll pull out his phone, camera rolling, and just watch. You’re not sure if he’s doing it for himself or if he’s just obsessed with knowing exactly how you break.

He’ll ruin you—and then act like he didn’t. You’ll be wrecked, gasping, trembling... and he’ll just tilt his head, hum thoughtfully, and wipe his fingers on your shirt like it’s nothing. He won’t comfort you, but he’ll tuck you in. He won’t kiss you, but he’ll feed you water like you’re too stupid to hold the cup yourself. He cares—but not in a way you recognize. He’s not cold, just distant. And that distance? It’s intentional. That’s how he keeps you coming back.

[ackermans-angel]

BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND!GOJO SATORU | FIC RECS

A/N: Been obsessed with the Brother's Best Friend trope recently, specifically regarding Satoru, and I really wanted to share my favorite fics created by the amazing writers listed below. ALSO I wanted to do this because I haven't made one of these recommendation lists in awhile, and I love to do them number one to help promote the writers I love, and number two because when I find a trope I love with a character I wish I had a list like this to just find fics instantly LMAOOO. PLEASE feel free to recommend me your favorite brother's best friend fics if you know anymore and FEEL FREE to send me an ask at anytime if you're searching for fics of a certain trope I'd be happy to make more lists. Now enough of my yapping, I got ahead of myself and I'm posting this now but I'll update as I find more fics.

WARNING: I WON’T BE MORE CLEAR ON THIS! If you proceed to these accounts make sure to look at the rules and warnings. please respect the account owner, as most of them don’t want people under 18 on them. ALWAYS READ WARNINGS ON FICS TO INSURE YOU ARE RESPECTING THE WRITERS GUIDELINES!!!

One more thing! IF YOU LIKE A FIC PLEASE REBLOG NO MATTER THE ACCOUNT! The easiest way to show a creator you care and that their work is being appreciated is to reblog reblog reblog! They spend hours of their time creating work FOR US. The least we can do is REBLOG!

accounts under the cut. (last updated January 4th, 2024.)

IF IT’S ONLY A TOUCH…AITA? by @tteokdoroki This one is so good and the most recent one I read. It's the perfect amount of angst and smut. It does have some descriptions of the reader having braids, darker skin, and brown eyes so if you don't like when it's not vague about how the reader looks then this is probably not for you. However, those descriptions do not match me at all and I didn't have a problem while reading at all. I think you should definitely give it a read if you like the brother best friend trope!

BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND by @cptnleviackerman This one was so good for it only having so few notes. definitely go hype this one up because it deserves it. Read the tags before you continue on though because some of the themes could be triggering! Other then that this one was super good.

HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO FUCK YOUR BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND? (FOUR WHOLE DAYS) by @saetoru SOOO GOOD. I love this fic so please go check this one out!

CRYBABY. by @ieirism AHHHH I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ONE. This one was soooooo goood. It is really fluffy and has so much sweet satoru. love love love.

TELL ME YOU DON'T WANT ME by @awearywritersworld I completely forgot about this one but from what I can remember it was really sweet. All angst and fluff and omg their dynamic after sugurus death is just so sweet.

YOUNGER BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND GOJO by @satocidal this is just a little drabble but the smut>>>>> that's all I have to say. go read!!

[fancyperfectionsweets]

Ketu (South Node) in synastry 🏚️

The last time I did an astrology observation, a lot of people were curious about South Node synastry. I'm making a seperate post about it. Please keep in mind that the house themes also play a role here so check them too.

☀️ Ketu-Sun synastry: This synastry is where the Ketu person reprsents a darker emotional side of the sun. They do and speak what the sun wants to say. The sun person usually holds back on these words because it'll be "socially unacceptable". The non-chalance of ketu attracts sun. Very similar to sun-ascendant aspect. The connection feels fated. However, the sun is the one creating this effect on the ketu person. The ketu person can feel truly understood.

🌜Ketu-moon aspects: you know the on and off couple? The one that dates around but ends up together after all? Or where they say that the other one is never off their mind because the person feels like "home"? Yep, that's what this synastry is. The ketu person just unlocks a portion of "home" and "comfort" in moon's head and it's absolutely bonkers from there. This synastry can also prove painful if the ketu person doesn't reciprocate because why are you making the moon feel things when you don't want to keep her??

🗣️ Mercury-ketu in synastry: this is more tricky but if "you just always know how to say the right words" was a synastry, this would be it. I have this with my boyfriend and he's literally the most comforting person ever 🥺. He knows what to say at the right time even though he's super blunt. For some reason, I just cannot find fault in his words. Also, a good placement if your turn on is dirty talk.

🧨 Mars-Ketu synastry: how do I explain this synastry when the only thing i can think of is "I'll beat the crap out of you". And no, ketu isn't feeling this way here. Mars is. Even in harmonious relationships, the Mars person can feel this urge to tussle with ketu. Rile ketu up for a reaction. The ketu person could be just minding their business while the mars person is sitting there thinking "hmm, can I get a rise out of this mf?" 😂😂.

Now this synastry can go either way. It can be 1) I'm going to make him/her so mad, they'd wanna spank me harder today 😈 or 2) yeah, I WANT to pick up a fight just cause 🙂🔪. Be careful. The second one can get toxic pretty soon.

💅 Venus-ketu synastry: this one I talked about previously. Venus-ketu is the most "I was fated to meet this person" placement ever. Ketu activates venus like nothing. House themes matter here a lot, btw. Because venus will activate according to the house theme. I had a ketu-venus synastry with a friend and she used to just pop up in my dreams randomly. I have a 12th house Venus. 12th house is the house of the hidden: dreams, alternate reality, spirituality. It was annoying because why you hijacking my dreams to love you harder?? 🤨

🔮 Jupiter-ketu synastry: has anyone told you that you're lucky for them? You probably had this conjunction with them. The ketu person not only feels fated but feels "lucky" to jupiter. Jupiter wants to keep ketu in their life because they just make things feel mystical and magical (for the better, of course). This placement can breed obsession from jupiter's end if they aren't careful.

🪐 Saturn-ketu: unpopular opinion but to me, this spells as a long term connection indicator. And no, I don't mean positive. Since Saturn is a "slow" planet, it takes a bit of time for it to get activated in any dynamic. However, once it does, it can sort of create a push and pull. The saturn might look to "dominate" ketu in this aspect. For example, if you have this conjunction in the 2nd house, Saturn person may think that you're too idealistic and don't care about your savings and then try to "guide" you. The ketu person though, might see saturn as too intense and want to show saturn how being anxious about savings has it's downsides. This relationship does have the potential to grow but in my personal opinion, this placement should be aspected with other positive synastries because it can effect long term themes of the relationship.

👹 Ketu-ketu synastry: This is the "I get why you're like this" synastry. I have this with my best friend and her habits make sense to me somehow? Even her "I just did it cause" things make sense to me. This is a very ride or die placement. I love this more with friends though cause you can go through periods of detachment and still fall back to the same place like nothing changed.

🌀 Pluto-ketu: the pluto person is left thinking"why did I like you almost instantly? What is this magic?". The ketu person could be openly intimidated and interested in pluto. However, pluto's first instinct is to be attracted and then left questioning as to why. Ketu isn't their type exactly so why do I feel this way? Could be so cute if they take time to get to know each other and then start the relationship.

👯 Ketu-Rahu synastry: "why are you so obsessed with me?" Placement. Lol. This is like meeting one of those people who you don't understand why they like you? You just don't get it as the ketu person. Rahu has their set of reasons. But the ketu person is always secretly thinking. I mean.. I don't see your point? Ketu can also feel bad about this at times. However, once you push through, ketu can actually have aspects it likes about Rahu and keep it around for the "vibes".