cece693

[cece693]

What Can I Say? I'm A Man Pt. 2

pairing: will graham x male reader tags: beverly being the best wing woman, will trying to be good but failing, bad seduction skills, attempt at humor

For a few sweet, blissful months after you and Will Graham finally got together, life seemed almost perfect. The two of you enjoyed flirty banter in the FBI corridors, discreetly held hands under conference tables, and frequently snuck off for “coffee runs” that somehow always ended with will unsuccessfully hiding a hickey on his neck. Beverly Katz, having practically orchestrated your union, basked in the smug satisfaction of a successful matchmaker.

But behind Will’s gentle smiles, darkness loomed. His work—profiling some of the most depraved killers in existence—took an ever-growing toll. His nightmares escalated into vivid hallucinations. He’d jolt awake in cold sweats, and sometimes he’d see flickers of horror even in broad daylight. The pressure in his mind built until something had to give.

Try as you did to be his anchor, Will—stubborn, self-sacrificing Will—decided to end things. It happened one evening, on the porch of his Wolf Trap house, where he quietly insisted you deserved better than a man haunted by killers and ghosts. You argued, nearly in tears, but he only murmured apologies and asked you to leave, shutting you out of his life.

One moment, you were adoring him—and, let’s be real, especially that marvelous butt—the next, you were left with a gaping hole in your heart. Your bed felt emptier without Will’s presence, and your office mornings far less exciting without sneaking peeks at his backside in those perfectly fitted slacks.

Despite the ache in your chest, you knew you had to keep functioning. Enter Daniel, a friendly data analyst with a razor-sharp sense of humor. The two of you bonded over complaining about the FBI’s ancient coffee machine and the subpar quality of the break room muffins. It was refreshing to hang out with someone whose biggest drama was a broken keyboard, and not, say, nightmarish hallucinations. Of course, your office lunches with Daniel were just friendship, nothing more. But Will—holed up in his self-imposed isolation—heard whispers of “Oh, look at [Y/N] and Daniel, they’re so tight,” and promptly jumped to the worst conclusions.

Beverly Katz, noticing how you walked around with a perpetual cloud over your head, tried her best to cheer you up. Whether it was slipping you candy bars or dropping off ridiculous memes about office romance, she kept the spark of hope alive. She also kept a keen eye on Will, who moped around like a tragic Victorian ghost whenever you were in the room.

One day, she caught Will glaring down the hallway as you and Daniel joked about something, Daniel gently nudging your shoulder. She dragged Will into the nearest conference room, slamming the door behind them.

“Okay, Graham, enough is enough,” Beverly growled, arms folded.

“What are you doing?” Will asked, startled.

“I should ask you that question! You’re letting the best thing that ever happened to you”—she jabbed a thumb toward the door—“slip away. Because, what, you’re mopey and think you’re protecting him?” Will opened his mouth to protest, but Beverly cut him off.

“He’s miserable, you’re miserable. If you don’t do something soon, I’ll confiscate your fishing rods, your dogs, and—and—heck, I’ll even make sure your flannels go mysteriously missing.” At the mention of his beloved flannels, Will blanched.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes.

Finally, Will sighed in defeat. “I can’t stand seeing him with that Daniel guy…”

Beverly’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my God, you idiot. They’re friends. You think [Y/N] would replace you that fast? Did you forget how he all but worships your butt?”

Will turned crimson. “I… that’s… irrelevant.”

Beverly snorted. “It’s very relevant. You think Daniel’s walking around in jeans that fit that well? C’mon, Graham, you’ve got the upper hand if you’d just use it.” She slammed a scrap of paper on the table—her so-called “Winning [Y/N] Back Strategy,” complete with bullet points like “Wear something that shows off your assets” and “Stop being a stubborn idiot.” Will gulped as he read it.

Spurred on by Beverly’s ultimatum, Will devised a (very shaky) plan to win you back. He recalled how you used to watch him whenever he walked across the bullpen, gaze shamelessly trailing his backside. In fact, he remembered once catching you drooling. A small flame of confidence flickered in him—maybe that was the key. He rummaged through his closet, searching for an outfit he’d normally never dare to wear. Eventually, he settled on a snug, dark sweater that emphasized his chest and arms, plus a pair of jeans that left very little to the imagination. He stood before the mirror, tugging at the denim awkwardly.

“Beverly said I should show off my figure,” he muttered, cheeks burning. “But do I look like I’m trying too hard?” His reflection did not respond, but the jeans did confirm they were practically painted on. It would have to do.

Though Beverly had suggested a polite, straightforward approach—like calling you or knocking on your door—Will decided he needed something “dramatic.” It had worked once before, in a chaotic, heart-thumping sort of way. So he drove to your apartment late at night, using the spare key he still had from your happier days. Maybe if you saw him in this outfit, you’d realize once and for all that it was him you wanted, not Daniel.

Of course, Will’s hands shook from nerves, so when he tried to insert the key, he nearly dropped it. The door swung open rather forcefully, banging against the wall and causing you—half-asleep on your sofa—to leap up. “What the—?!” you yelped, fumbling for a nearby object (your TV remote) like it was a weapon. “Who’s there?”

When you saw Will step in—face flushed, hair in disarray, wearing the tightest outfit known to mankind—your jaw dropped. The moment felt bizarrely familiar, reminiscent of a previous break-in, except this time Will seemed more anxious than apologetic.

“I—I wanted to see you,” Will stammered. “I’m sorry I barged in, but I couldn’t wait.”

Your heart pounded, torn between confusion, excitement, and a flicker of anger. After all, he had been the one to break things off. And yet, boy, did he look good. “Will?” you breathed. “What are you—how did you—why do you look like that?”

Will cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “Look, I know I messed up. I pushed you away because I was afraid my hallucinations, these nightmares, would drag you down. But I can’t handle the thought of you with someone else.” He paused, glancing away. “That Daniel guy…Beverly says it’s not romantic, but I kept imagining the worst. I just—I need to know if...if it’s over for good. Or if there’s a chance.”

You stared at him, mind reeling. Part of you wanted to scoff, “You left me, remember?” But the other part—okay, most of you—was helplessly drawn to the sight of Will Graham, eyes glimmering with longing, chest heaving in a form-fitting sweater, and those incredible jeans hugging his hips. Your gaze fell involuntarily south, and Will caught it. His cheeks flared red, but a tiny hopeful flicker danced in his eyes.

“I, um…tried to wear something you might appreciate,” he admitted softly. “I’m not exactly smooth at this whole seduction thing. Beverly said I should show off…my ‘best assets.’”

Your heart squeezed in both amusement and affection. “She actually said that?”

Will nodded, cringing. “I’m pretty sure she threatened to take my dogs if I didn’t step up my game.” Despite the swirl of emotions, a laugh bubbled out of you. Leave it to Beverly to strong-arm Will into a skin-tight outfit. You set the TV remote aside, stepping forward, carefully closing the door behind him.

“Will, I’m not with Daniel,” you said plainly, staring him down. “We’re coworkers—friends, at most." Silence fell, tension palpable. Then your eyes flicked over him again, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips. “Those jeans look uncomfortable,” you murmured, voice low.

Will’s ears turned scarlet. “Beverly said they’d, uh, ‘accentuate the glutes.’ Her words, not mine.”

You tried—tried very hard—not to laugh. “I see. And to think I once believed you picked them out.”

He gave a rueful chuckle. “My seduction skills are minimal, at best.”

Taking a small step closer, you let your fingers brush the hem of his snug sweater. “I appreciate the effort, though,” you said softly. “And, for the record, I am very fond of your glutes.”

Will swallowed hard, heart pounding. “I know. You made that pretty clear when we first started seeing each other.”

Your chest constricted with a mix of love and exasperation. “I can’t believe you, Will Graham. You break my heart, vanish, then come back wearing these”—you gestured at the jeans—“like you’re in a rom-com with a midnight booty call.”

He gave an awkward shrug. “I was desperate.”

Despite everything, a tender warmth spread through you. You reached up, cupping his face, feeling the tremble in his cheeks. You leaned in, about to seal the moment with a kiss. Then your phone—sitting on the coffee table—began buzzing like an angry wasp. You glanced over and saw Beverly’s name. Will groaned.

“Of course,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “She probably wants to make sure I didn’t chicken out.” You answered on speakerphone, still keeping one hand splayed over Will’s (very tense) abs.

“Hello?”

Beverly’s voice crackled through. “Hey, [Y/N], just checking in. My spidey senses say Graham might be there, parading around in unforgivably tight pants. Am I right?”

Will flushed, pressing a hand to his face. You stifled a laugh. “Wow, your intuition is spot on. Should I be concerned about privacy?”

Beverly snorted. “Please, I’m the FBI’s top meddler. Your privacy died the moment you two started eye-banging each other. Anyway, are we getting a happy ending tonight, or do I need to stage another intervention?”

Will leaned over, speaking into the phone, voice tight with embarrassment. “We’re fine, Beverly. Go away.”

Her laughter peeled through the speaker. “Take that as a yes. Good luck, lovebirds.” She hung up before either of you could protest.

Rolling your eyes affectionately, you set the phone aside, turning back to Will. “Seems like she’s invested in our outcome.”

He exhaled slowly. “She means well. Even if she forced me into these jeans.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips. “Then maybe I should thank her, because you look—” you gestured up and down, “—incredible.”

Will’s gaze flickered with relief, anxiety, and a growing hunger. Carefully, you slid your arms around his waist, resting your hands on the snug denim across his hips. He sucked in a breath at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

“I’ve missed this,” you admitted, giving a playful squeeze. “And by this, I mean everything—but especially your…”You trailed off, letting your hands speak for you by gently brushing over that firm curve.

A shaky laugh escaped him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“Never claimed otherwise,” you teased, leaning in to brush your lips against his. This time, there was no interruption—just the slow, sweet press of mouths rediscovering each other. The heat was immediate, tangled with relief and longing. It reminded you of all the reasons you fell for Will in the first place—his warmth, his vulnerability, and yes, the glorious behind you now shamelessly palmed.

[cece693]

More Hannibal please 🙏 🙏🙏

Quite The Pair

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader tags: doesn't take place in a season but hannibal and reader met in Florence, reader is also a killer, two monsters finding each other and being only soft for one another, reader wants to see hannibal loose some of his control, and kinda succeeds?

You always recognized the glimmer in Hannibal’s eyes just before a dinner party. It was the same glimmer you carried behind your own, a mirror of desire: for elegance, for creation, for something exquisite that both enthralled and intimidated. By the time you arrive at his home—your home, now—the smell of fresh herbs and simmering stock curls through the air, and you can already anticipate the feast he’s prepared.

You sense his presence before you see him. It’s the subtle shift in the atmosphere, a tension that hums between two beings sharing the same dark passions. When you step through the threshold of the dining room, Hannibal is waiting. Dressed immaculately, eyes sharp with a refined hunger, he gives you a smile meant only for you—an acknowledgment of everything you both are beneath the veneer of high society.

Tonight, it’s just the two of you. He has prepared a lavish meal: seared foie gras, your favorite amuse-bouche, and the promise of something sweet to end the evening. But it is the undercurrent, the unspoken bond, that truly excites you: the knowledge that beyond the refined courtesies and classical music, you both share a darkness and a brilliance that no one else could ever match.

Hannibal gestures you closer, and you let him guide you to the table with one hand on the small of your back—possessive, reverent. In a world where Hannibal Lecter stands elevated above all others, you have learned something fascinating: you are the one capable of drawing him from his impenetrable heights. You see the slight tremor in his fingers when he sets a glass of deep red wine before you. Those hands so deft with a scalpel, so unflinching in their artistry, now waver. Because of you.

“I trust you’ll enjoy tonight’s menu,” he murmurs, voice low and cultured as ever, though there’s a hint of warmth that rarely surfaces for anyone else.

“Always,” you say, returning the smile, your reflection in his gaze.

You savor your first sip of wine. Hannibal watches you carefully, like a painter studying their masterpiece. He remains seated across from you, but the tension in his posture betrays his eagerness to be nearer. His eyes linger on your face, on your lips, as if you are more enticing than any dish laid out before you.

You recall the night he first approached you, after a particularly exclusive benefit in Florence. You had been drifting through the gallery, analyzing each painting with an astute eye, ignoring the usual polite chatter in favor of letting the masterpieces speak. He caught your attention with a single, well-placed observation—a challenge, really, about the meaning behind one of the more obscure canvases.

Something in that challenge had made your heart pound. And when you challenged him back, you watched Hannibal Lecter’s carefully schooled expression shift—just the barest flicker—into the beginnings of curiosity. It was no small feat to snag the interest of a man like him.

From that moment, it was as though you were two predators circling in slow, deliberate steps. You admired his refinement, his intelligence, his capacity for both cruelty and tenderness. And you matched him, piece for piece, tactic for tactic, in a cold, calculated dance until you both admitted what was between you went far beyond fascination. It became need.

Now, in your shared life, your combined intellects and appetites thrive. You create new dishes together, merging flavors no one else would dare. You sharpen each other’s nightmarish edges in stolen moments behind an innocent façade. You understand each other on a level that is entirely primal. And as much as Hannibal Lecter relishes control—lives to orchestrate and manipulate—he finds himself bending to your presence, entranced. You alone can coax from him a moan of admiration, the brief flicker of a trembling breath, or the subdued smile that only you can inspire.

Dessert is almost finished when you decide to test his resolve. You lean back in your chair, letting your gaze travel away from him for a moment, as if you’re distracted. A faint pout touches Hannibal’s lips, only visible because you have learned to read him like a favorite novel. The flicker of jealousy is there, unguarded, an emotion he normally masks so deftly.

He clears his throat.

“Is something amiss, my love?” His voice is smooth, but there’s a tension humming beneath.

You tilt your head. “At the market earlier, the sommelier seemed quite taken with me,” you remark, feigning nonchalance. You watch Hannibal closely, anticipating the shift in his demeanor. His grip on the dessert spoon tightens. For just a second, you see the edge of the predator in him. Protective, territorial. You wonder if he envisions removing that sommelier from the equation—discreetly, elegantly, as only Hannibal can.

You sip your wine slowly, letting the silence crackle around you. He sets his spoon down carefully, collecting his composure. But you see the intensity in his stare, as though any perceived threat to what is his cannot be tolerated. “Did they, now?” Hannibal says softly.

You nod, holding his gaze. “They gave me a bottle of that exclusive vintage you’ve been after. All on the house.”

A flash of raw possessiveness crosses his face. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to—jealousy and love alike coil through him. So seldom does Hannibal lose his impeccable composure, yet here he is, rattled. Because of you.

You lean forward, placing your hand gently over his. “I brought it home for us to enjoy,” you say with a wry smile. “I made sure they knew I had someone waiting for me.” At your reassurance, the tension drains from him, replaced by that blossoming warmth that he reserves just for you. His fingers thread between yours, and he raises your hand to his lips. That old-world courtesy, so carefully performed, never fails to make your pulse quicken.

Hannibal’s lips brush your knuckles. “I trust you sent them your gratitude,” he says, smooth but laced with that quiet darkness.

“Naturally.” You run your thumb across the back of his hand. “Though I suspect they know my heart isn’t on the market.”

A hint of a smile. Relief softens his features, but the subdued desire remains. That is the moment you realize you have the power to unmask him in a way no one else ever could. Later, you find yourself in his study—a haven of leather-bound books and the soft glow of lamplight. Hannibal stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his chest to your back. You can feel the steady drum of his heartbeat.

“You distract me,” he whispers, voice reverberating against your neck. “I’m enthralled.” It’s rare that he admits to vulnerability. But with you, he does so freely, because he knows you will not use it against him—you will nurture it, reflect it, mirror it. You turn in his arms, catching his dark gaze.

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to focus,” you murmur. “Sometimes, the only thoughts in my head are of you and all the exquisite ways we can devour each other’s minds.”

He grins, a fleeting glimpse of teeth—sharp as a wolf’s. “We make quite the pair,” he says, pulling you in closer.

The scent of his cologne tinged with the faintest aroma of tonight’s dinner drifts around you. His composure is usually rock-solid, but now his breath quickens, eyelids lowering as he leans to press his lips to yours. There is no gentleness—only pent-up passion and quiet devotion that threatens to consume you both.

He lifts his head just enough to whisper against your lips, “I have been searching for someone worthy. And here you are, my perfect reflection.”

You trail your fingers over his collar, then up into his hair. He exhales, and you feel his powerful form relax beneath your touch—Hannibal Lecter giving himself over to you. For all his careful planning, for all his cultivated self-control, he allows himself these moments of surrender, heart and mind unguarded.

“There’s no one I’d trust more,” you reply.

And in that stillness, you both know: your unity is as inevitable as it is extraordinary, two minds—two monsters—dancing in tandem. Together, you create something so rare and potent that it challenges Hannibal’s rigid control. He needs you, and you need him, each the other’s mirror, forging a bond that fuses obsession and affection into an inescapable truth.

[cece693]

Please more Salvatore brothers together!!! Love all your works!!!

Pulling the Strings

pairing: the salvatore brothers x male reader tags: reader is kinda an ass, manipulative as shit, reader playing games and being messy, but i kinda like him tbh, basically me if I was in the show

The Lockwood mansion party is winding down. The dance floor has thinned, and the music is softer. A handful of guests remain, speaking in hushed voices or laughing quietly on the terraces. You linger, deliberately letting Stefan and Damon circle you like hungry wolves. Every once in a while, one of them musters up a conversation with Elena—still using her presence as an excuse to be near you—but they’re so clearly focused on you that it’s laughable.

Eventually, you slip off to a quieter part of the estate: a small garden just past the mansion’s east wing. White fairy lights glow around topiaries and intricately trimmed hedges, lending the space a romantic air. The perfect setting to turn the screws of jealousy.

Walking down the narrow gravel path, you text Bonnie—pretending she’s someone you’re interested in—ensuring Stefan and Damon catch the mischievous smile on your lips as you read her replies.

Come on, guys, you think. Take the bait. Sure enough, Damon appears out of the shadows first, casual swagger on full display. “Who’s got you grinning like that?” he asks, tone light, but his eyes flash with something sharper.

You slip your phone into your pocket. “No one important,” you say with a shrug.

He doesn’t buy it. “Right,” he drawls, letting the word stretch. “So unimportant that you’re texting them at two in the morning?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth, and you lean back against the cool stone wall. “You jealous, Damon?”

His lips twist as if he’s considering a witty comeback, but before he can speak, Stefan joins the scene. His voice, quieter but no less intense, interrupts Damon’s retort. “Hey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” His gaze slides from you to his brother. “Everything okay here?”

Damon rolls his eyes. “Peachy, Stefan.”

Your sister’s name flits through your mind; you realize she’s probably wondering where everyone has gone off to. But you push that concern aside. Right now, the only thing that matters is stoking the fire of rivalry flickering between the brothers. “It’s kind of chilly,” you say, feigning a small shiver. “Maybe we could go inside?”

“Oh, I’ll warm you up,” Damon murmurs, his grin downright sinful as he steps closer.

Stefan glares at him, then gently places a hand on your shoulder, his own brand of protective tenderness. “Don’t let Damon twist your words. We can head back in if you’re cold.”

You give them both a measured look, trying to decide which button to push. In a flash of daring, you let your fingertips graze the back of Damon’s hand. Then, almost immediately, you turn and let the side of your body press lightly against Stefan’s. The effect is instantaneous: jealousy flares in both their eyes, and you can practically hear their anger simmering. You hide your satisfaction behind a polite smile.

Stefan makes the first move when you’re halfway back to the mansion. The tension in him breaks; he gently grabs your wrist and spins you around to face him, stepping into your personal space. “Can I—?” he starts, voice husky with uncertainty and desire. His eyes are locked on your lips, and he doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.

Before you can respond, Stefan leans in and kisses you—soft, tentative. His lips are cool and gentle at first, but the undercurrent of vampire intensity thrums beneath the surface. You allow yourself a moment to indulge in the kiss before pulling back, a flush painting your cheeks despite the chill air.

Not missing a beat, Damon clears his throat—a low, annoyed sound. “How sweet, Stefan,” he drawls, “always so polite.” Then, Damon’s hand curls around your elbow, gently but firmly pulling you away from his brother. There’s a whisper of warning in his touch, a challenge to Stefan.

“Don’t even—” Stefan starts, but Damon is already moving.

“Come on,” Damon says in that languid, almost taunting voice of his, “I’m dying to know how that little nobody on your phone compares to the real deal.”

It happens so quickly you can barely register the shift. Damon’s grip tightens around your arm; his other hand moves to the back of your neck. Where Stefan’s kiss was tender, Damon’s kiss is anything but—it’s heated, demanding, hungry. Your heart thunders in your chest at the sudden rush of adrenaline. The taste of whiskey lingers on his lips, and the faint sting of parted lips on yours draws a gasp you can’t hold back. When Damon finally pulls away, he doesn’t let go of your arm. Stefan’s presence looms behind you, anger rolling off him in waves.

“You two want to calm down?” you manage, voice a little breathless.

Damon exhales a short laugh. “Careful, sweetheart. We could just keep going.” His eyes flick over your face, brimming with confidence he’s sure will rattle Stefan.

Stefan, though, has the moral high ground in mind. “Damon, let them breathe,” he snaps. But there’s a slight tremor in his voice that betrays how rattled he is by Damon’s bold move.

You plant a hand on each of their chests—an act as much to steady yourself as to keep them apart. Their hearts, or whatever remains of them in their undead bodies, thrum with tension. In that quiet moment, you catch your breath. They hover there, each pinned by your touch.

This is your masterpiece: two powerful, centuries-old vampires literally panting for your attention. You tilt your head, letting a smug grin lift your lips. “That was intense.” You glance from Stefan to Damon, savoring how they struggle not to tear each other apart.

Stefan’s green eyes soften fractionally. “I’m sorry, I just—”

You silence him with a single look, then turn to Damon, whose smirk dares you to scold him. “I wasn’t complaining.”

Stefan exhales, tension warring with relief. Damon’s eyes spark in triumph, but you’re not going to let either of them settle comfortably. “Now you both see,” you say, voice low, “I know exactly what you’re after. Neither of you can hide it. And I decide who gets my attention—and when.”

Damon chuckles, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as though remembering the taste of you. “I like this side of you,” he admits. “It’s fun.”

Stefan, trying to regain composure, nods slowly. “You’re full of surprises.”

You smirk. “And there’s a lot more where that came from.”

In the distance, you hear Elena’s voice calling your name. You know she’s still clueless about the depth of the brothers’ fixation on you, but that won’t last forever. Eventually, she’ll put the pieces together. For now, though, you still have the upper hand. Stepping away from them—forcing them to release their hold on you—you glance over your shoulder. “We should get back. Elena’s worried.”

Neither brother immediately follows. You revel in the hush that settles between them as they stare at you, hearts ablaze with want. With deliberate slowness, you head toward the main building, letting them watch you go. It takes a beat, but then you feel the air shift as the vampires move to catch up, jostling each other for position. You wear a private, triumphant smile: they’re playing right into your hand.

You are the puppet master. For all their supernatural power, the Salvatore brothers are ensnared by your every look, every whisper, every subtle brush of your hand. And tonight, you made sure they’d never forget it.

[cece693]

Shadows and Subtlety

pairing: loki laufeyson x male reader tags: reader was written with natasha in mind, dom reader, sub loki, he's bad at flirting and vulnerable, I just love him, au where loki doesn't try to take over the world

The first time you lock eyes with Loki across the Avengers Compound, the tension in the air is a living, breathing thing. You’re stationed near the conference room doors, arms crossed over your chest, waiting for Fury to finish a briefing with Natasha. You’ve never been particularly warm, and your posture—coiled like a serpent ready to strike—keeps most people at arm’s length.

But not Loki.

From the other side of the lobby, he tilts his head just so, green eyes narrow as if you’re a puzzle to be solved. In your black tactical gear, face set in a permanent scowl, you’re used to people’s wariness. He, on the other hand, is the God of Mischief, and mischief rarely turns away from a challenge.

Natasha meets you in the hallway, handing you a thin folder. “He’s waiting in the training room,” she says with a smirk.

“He?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. You rarely train with others, preferring your own quiet regime. The fact that Natasha of all people is setting you up with a sparring partner piques your interest.

She gives you a shrug. “He specifically requested you, said something about wanting to learn ‘a more mortal approach to close quarters.’” Her lips twitch. “He’s a fast learner, but he lacks discipline.”

It’s then you realize exactly who’s waiting for you, and a low scoff escapes your throat. “So the Trickster wants to see me?”

Natasha chuckles. “He’s been curious about you. Watch yourself. And try not to break him, if you can.”

Your eyes flash with dry amusement. Break him? You’ve heard the stories of Loki’s cunning, his illusions, his near-royal arrogance. But you’re not the type to back down or fawn over gods, no matter how pretty they might be.

You stride into the training room, footsteps echoing across the polished floor. Loki stands at the far side, dressed in form-fitting Asgardian leathers—slightly less dramatic than his usual attire, but still elaborate enough to set him apart. His dark hair frames his sharp features, and a hint of a self-assured smirk graces his lips.

You drop your gear bag by the wall, rolling your shoulders. “You asked for me?”

He inclines his head, an attempt at cool confidence. “I did. I’ve heard you’ve had extensive training. Natasha informed me you’re difficult to best.”

You snort. “She flatters me.” You take a step onto the mat, beckoning him closer with a curl of your fingers. “Let’s see if you can keep up, prince.”

Loki’s smirk widens momentarily, but as soon as you lunge, his eyes widen. You’re fast—faster than he anticipated. You catch the flicker of self-doubt in his gaze. He parries your first blow, tries for an elegant twist of your arm, but you counter easily, deflecting him until he’s nearly forced to his knees.

“Don’t rely on illusions,” you warn, voice low. “I can sense them. I can see through them. Stick to what’s real.”

He snarls—less an angry sound than a frustrated one. He’s realized he can’t simply trick you. Your presence is too grounded; you’re too used to reading subtle changes in an opponent’s stance. And you’re shockingly direct in your approach.

Your next move brings him to the mat with a firm thud. Loki’s breath leaves him in a rush as you pin him, forearm across his collarbone. The amusement flickers on your face when you see the flush high on his cheeks. He’s not just annoyed; he’s enjoying this. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips part in a silent gasp—it’s all too telling.

You release him and stand. “Lesson one,” you say, offering your hand so he can regain his footing. “Watch your pride. It’ll trip you up every time.”

His fingers linger on yours as you haul him up, and you feel a slight tremor in his grip. When you let go, he swallows, meeting your eyes like he’s searching for something in them. You can’t hide your smirk.

“I never realized you were that strong,” Loki murmurs. There’s a subdued deference in his tone, a flicker of submission, almost. You can see it in the way he drops his gaze the moment your eyebrow arches, as if worried he’s crossed a line.

“Don’t expect me to hold back,” you warn quietly. And from the flash in his eyes, you suspect he likes that.

In the week that follows, Loki makes more appearances in your orbit, always with the same combination of bravado and delicate uncertainty. You notice how he hesitates when he’s around you, how his usual flair for the dramatic falters. Meanwhile, your reputation for being a bit of a lone wolf holds steady. You’ve been through your share of scrapes—both in covert operations with Natasha and in your own personal life. It’s left you guarded, with a no-nonsense approach that either keeps people away or makes them respect you. Sometimes both.

Loki, surprisingly, doesn’t shy away. If anything, he’s like a moth drawn to flame—fascinated, unable to resist getting closer, no matter the burn he might risk.

One day, you’re walking down a corridor when you sense him behind you. You half-turn, giving a curt nod. “Something on your mind?”

He stiffens, like you’ve caught him snooping. “I wanted to ask if you had time for another training session?”

You watch him from beneath your lashes, posture rigid. “I’m free now,” you say, voice clipped. “Let’s go.”

He exhales, relieved—or maybe just excited—and trails after you, fingers twisting anxiously in the hem of his dark tunic. The faint tremor in his movements suggests he’s not just interested in training. There’s more he wants, something swirling behind his eyes he doesn’t quite know how to articulate.

You settle into your stance. Loki does the same, though his brow is furrowed. He seems distracted, eyes flicking to the door, to your face, back to the floor. “Focus,” you bark.

He huffs, pulling in a breath. “I am focusing, it’s just—”

You cut his words short with a sweeping kick, forcing him to dodge. He conjures a small illusion—a flicker of green—but you catch on. You feint left, then close in from the right. Before he can blink, you’ve pinned him against the gym wall, forearm pressed to his shoulder, your body practically caging his in place. He inhales sharply, eyes wide. He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to push you away. Instead, his lips part, breath shaky as you lean in just enough that he can feel your presence looming over him.

Your voice rumbles low in your chest. “Stop playing games. If you want to say something, say it.”

Loki’s cheeks color faintly. He looks up at you—really looks—and for a moment, it’s as if he’s letting his armor slip. Gone is the trickster mask. Gone is the arrogant tilt of his chin. Instead, you sense vulnerability, submission, and something akin to longing.

“I—” He swallows thickly, not sure how to confess. “You captivate me,” he finally manages. “You’re so certain, so unrelenting. I can’t pretend it doesn’t affect me.”

You watch his pupils dilate, see the tremor along his jawline. You know that feeling—of wanting something that might be dangerous, might be overwhelming, but craving it anyway. Part of you wants to push him away; after all, attachments have never been your strong suit. But the other part sees the way his eyes are practically begging.

Keeping him pinned, you lean in. “Don’t toy with me,” you whisper, your voice a threat and a promise all at once.

He closes his eyes, breath stuttering. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” You release him, stepping back, and Loki sucks in air like he’s been underwater for too long. He rubs his wrist, carefully avoiding your gaze.

“Meet me on the roof later,” you say abruptly, ignoring the loud pounding of your heart. “After midnight.”

Loki’s eyes snap to yours, filled with a rush of hope. He nods, and you almost feel the tension melt off his shoulders.

When Loki arrives at the rooftop, you’re already there, leaning against the edge, looking out at the city skyline. There’s a crisp wind, and the quiet hum of distant traffic underscores the night. He steps closer, apprehension clear in every movement. “You wanted to speak with me?” His voice is softer than usual, the usual haughty edge gone.

You turn, scanning his face. “We can’t keep playing cat-and-mouse in the training room. That’s not me. If you want me, you need to be clear about it.”

Loki’s breath catches. “You must know that I’m not exactly experienced in this. My affections have never been the focus. I never thought—” You lift your hand to trace the line of his jaw, halting his rambling. He stills under your touch, eyes half-lidded.

“You can’t hide from me,” you murmur. “I see you. Past all the illusions, the snark, the bravado.” Your thumb slides over his bottom lip. He shivers, gaze dropping in submission. “You’re clever, but I’m not a puzzle you can solve by sweet words or illusions.”

“I don’t—I mean, I’m not trying to manipulate you,” he blurts, almost desperate. “I’m just…unsure how to ask for this.”

You lean in, your breath teasing his ear. “Just ask.”

He’s trembling so subtly you might miss it if you weren’t pressed so close. “Please,” he whispers, the word raw and quiet. “Just let me stay near you. Let me have this.”

Something tugs in your chest at how vulnerable he is. You grip his chin, tilting his face up until he’s forced to meet your eyes. “We’ll go slow,” you say, “but understand: I won’t tiptoe around you. I won’t soften who I am.”

His gaze flickers with excitement. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” You smirk, satisfied. One hand slides around his waist, pulling him flush against you. He gasps—soft, needy—and it’s the most genuine sound you’ve heard from him yet. You kiss him then, firm, controlled, letting him feel your dominance in every brush of your lips. Loki melts into you, fingers digging into your shirt as though he can’t bear to let go.

Days turn into a new routine. When you train, Loki barely attempts illusions anymore; he focuses on the raw, physical dance of the spar. After each session, you catch him watching you with unwavering fascination. His attempts to flirt remain adorably clumsy—he’s not used to wanting someone so intensely, nor to the idea that they might want him in return.

Natasha teases you about it once: “You’ve got the god on his knees,” she jokes dryly. You merely shrug, not confirming or denying. You don’t have to. The glances between you and Loki say enough. Some nights, you find him waiting outside your door, hands folded anxiously. He never quite knows how to initiate closeness unless you command it—or silently beckon him. And he likes that you take the lead. It’s in his eyes, in the way his shoulders relax the moment you say his name in that low, calm voice of yours.

On an evening that’s grown peaceful after a minor mission, you’re both in your quarters. The lights are dim, and Loki sits at the edge of your bed, fiddling with the sleeve of his tunic.

You step close, pressing two firm fingers beneath his chin so he’ll look up. “What is it?”

He seems caught between speaking and staying silent, but at last, he exhales shakily. “I’m not…I’m not used to being second to anyone. And yet I find myself wanting you to—” He stops, throat working. “I want you to lead. To control.”

Your expression doesn’t change, but there’s a slow burn of gratification in your chest. You brush his hair aside, letting your fingertips trail delicately over his collar. “You can have that,” you say quietly. “But it means trusting me.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut. His voice is barely audible. “I do. More than I ever thought I could.”

You claim his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. He surrenders himself to you, pressing closer, and the tension that usually coils in his body unwinds, replaced by a warmth that envelops you both. There is no mockery in his submission. There is no cruelty in your dominance. It’s an odd harmony, born of two people who’ve known different forms of isolation, forging a bond that surprises you both.

It’s not a fairy tale. You’re not romantic by nature, and Loki is still prone to fits of self-doubt or flare-ups of pride. There’s friction. There’s teasing. But there’s also an unmistakable electricity in the air whenever you’re together. It shows in the brush of your hand at the small of his back as you pass him in the hall; in the fleeting moment when Loki’s voice drops an octave and he murmurs a quiet, “Yes,” to your unspoken directive.

Others in the Compound might not fully understand it, but Natasha—ever the keen observer—simply smirks in that knowing way of hers. If Thor notices the change in his brother’s mood (fewer outbursts, a strangely content gleam in his eye), he doesn’t comment. But you see it. You see the way Loki seeks you out, his steps lighter, his smirk softer.

And at the end of the day, when he stands by your side, eyes brimming with honest devotion instead of empty bravado, you feel that something you never expected from a trickster god: trust. In his own way, he’s put himself entirely in your hands, subverting the typical power dynamic of mortal and deity. But the truth is, you respect that vulnerability. You hold it carefully, treating his submission as a gift rather than something to exploit.

Maybe it’s not what either of you had foreseen, but sometimes, the best things are those we could never have planned. And so, in quiet moments—when it’s just you and Loki, his head bowed against your shoulder, your fingers absently tracing runes on his arm—you find a peace you didn’t know you’d been searching for. And Loki, who spent so long hiding behind illusions and living in Thor’s shadow, discovers that perhaps giving up a measure of control is the most liberating feeling of all.

[cece693]

HI BABY!! i read your jasper hale kiss marry kill thing , and i loved , however , i was wondering if you could make one like that but with jacob? :) no pressure!!

Spin The Bottle

pairing: jacob black x gender neutral reader tags: reader and Jacob like each other, but neither make a move, resolved feelings, slight jealousy from Jacob, no timeline but everybody is of age and have turned into wolves, ambiguous if reader is a wolf or not

The flickering glow of the bonfire danced across everyone’s faces, laughter mixing with the gentle roar of the ocean behind you. The smell of salt and burning driftwood filled the air as conversation hummed around the circle of friends on the shore. It was yet another perfect La Push night, and you couldn’t help but feel utterly content—especially with Jacob Black sitting nearby, his smile a constant beam of sunshine in the firelight.

Quil nudged Embry with a grin. “Alright, enough gossip. How about a game?”

Leah raised an eyebrow. “Game? What did you have in mind?”

“Spin the bottle,” Seth suggested enthusiastically, which earned an amused groan from Leah and a chorus of chuckles from the others.

Jacob’s eyes flickered over to you before he could hide it, but you noticed—how could you not when his gaze was so warm? Heat crawled up your cheeks, and you swallowed hard. Something in the air felt charged. You had a hunch Jacob was hoping the spin of a simple glass bottle might just change the dynamic between you two. And maybe part of you hoped for the same.

You shrugged, feigning a casualness you didn’t really feel. “Sure, I’m in.”

Everyone shuffled into a tighter circle, the bottle placed in the center of the makeshift ring on the sand. Paul let out a low whistle and flicked his hand at you with a teasing grin. “You’re first.”

Chuckling nervously, you took the bottle and gave it a tentative spin. Jacob’s knee brushed yours as he stretched out his legs, closer than ever, and you found yourself silently chanting, Please let it stop on him…

But Fate had a funny way of ignoring the best-laid hopes. The bottle slowed and landed on someone else—Embry. A quick hush fell over the group, and then they all burst into laughter or groans, depending on their sense of humor.

Embry lifted his eyebrows in playful surprise. “Guess that’s me,” he said, trying to hide the slight awkwardness in his voice.

You felt a knot form in your stomach. You didn’t dislike Embry—he was a great friend—but this was definitely not the outcome you’d been hoping for. Still, a game was a game, so you offered him a small, friendly smile. Leaning forward, you pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. It was over in a heartbeat—no sparks, no real connection, just the brush of lips and the warm flush of embarrassment flooding your face.

Jacob’s gaze flicked away so quickly you barely caught the disappointment etched across his features. The rest of the pack cheered, teased, and kept the game rolling, but Jacob was suspiciously quiet. Only a few moments later, he stood up, brushing sand from his jeans.

“Hey, guys,” he said, trying—and failing—to sound casual, “I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’m feeling a little tired.” You blinked, watching as he turned away from the group. You knew perfectly well that Jacob never left a bonfire this early, especially when everyone was in high spirits. Without missing a beat, you scrambled to your feet.

A few people in the group noticed. “You okay?” Leah asked quietly, her eyes flicking between you and Jacob.

“I’m fine,” you answered with a tight smile. “I just need some air or something.” You hurried after Jacob, your feet digging into the cool sand as you tried to catch up to his retreating figure. The bonfire’s light grew dimmer behind you, replaced by the shimmering moonlight on the water.

“Jake!” you called, voice subdued but urgent.

He slowed, but didn’t turn around right away. When you finally reached him, you saw his jaw was tense, shoulders rigid. “Hey,” you said gently, stepping into his line of sight. “What’s going on?”

Jacob exhaled heavily, his gaze drifting to the ocean for a moment. “It’s nothing,” he began, then laughed softly, the sound tinged with self-derision. “No, actually, it’s not nothing. I just—I really wanted that spin to land on me.”

Your heart did a little flip. “Jacob…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still averted. “I know it’s a stupid game,” he continued in a rush, “but I can’t shake how much I wanted you to kiss me instead. God, I feel like a jealous idiot.”

You reached out, fingertips just grazing his arm. “Jake, you’re not an idiot,” you assured him. The words tumbled out before you could stop yourself. “I…I wanted it to land on you, too.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, hope etched across his features. “You did?”

You nodded, feeling your pulse quicken. “Yes. I—I like you, Jacob. A lot. And I’m sorry if that kiss made you feel…well, you saw how it was—just a silly game. But you… you’re different. You matter.”

A slow smile spread across his face, warmth flooding his gaze. “I really matter?”

You let your hand slip fully into his, fingers interlocking. “Yeah, you really do.”

Jacob let out a breath he must have been holding for weeks. “If that’s how you feel, would it be okay if I—?”

You didn’t let him finish the thought. Instead, you stood on your tiptoes (or simply leaned in closer, if height wasn’t an issue) and pressed your lips gently to his. He made a small sound of surprise, but it quickly melted into contentment as his free arm came around your back, pulling you in closer. The soft, rhythmic hush of the waves against the shore mixed with the steady thrumming of your heart, and for a moment, everything else fell away.

When you finally broke apart, Jacob’s cheeks glowed with more warmth than the bonfire could ever provide. You gave him a shy, but genuine grin. “Does that make you feel a little better?”

He laughed, a bright, relieved sound. “Much better,” he admitted, gently squeezing your hand. For a moment, you stood there together, moonlight illuminating the two of you. In the distance, you could hear the pack’s chatter and laughter, and the comforting crackle of the bonfire still burned behind you. But here, in this quiet bubble on the shore, you and Jacob existed in your own world.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. “Want to head back? Or do you still feel like you need some time alone?”

Jacob shook his head quickly, still looking a bit starstruck. “No, let’s go back—together.” His hand stayed firmly in yours as you both turned to walk side by side toward the bonfire.

[cece693]

A Crown of Two Realms

pairing: loki laufeyson x małe reader pairing: reader is a prince, arranged marriage, ambiguous ending, heart vs what's right, love sometimes isn't enough, why do I keep doing this to myself :(

For as long as the Nine Realms remembered, Asgard had stood as a gleaming pillar of might—yet your homeland, the hidden kingdom of Illyria, was older, wealthier in resources, and influential enough to command the respect (and, occasionally, the wariness) of even the great All-Father, Odin. When word spread that the heir of Illyria had accepted a formal marriage alliance with Asgard’s crown prince, the entire cosmos paid attention.

You were that heir.

Sharp-minded, with a handsomely chiseled visage that drew comparisons to the very deities etched into temple walls—wherever you went, it seemed people murmured, “He is perfection.” They weren’t wrong to admire you; from childhood, you had been trained to lead, to command, and to bear the responsibilities of your ancient, formidable realm.

The day you arrived on Asgard, escorted by a contingent of Illyrian warriors clad in shimmering silver armor, the air practically crackled with anticipation. Thor Odinson—your future husband—stood at the foot of the palace steps, bright-eyed and eager to greet you with warmth. Yet, even as you approached him with regal composure, your gaze drifted to the lean figure slightly behind him, dressed in emerald and black: the second prince of Asgard, Loki.

He was watching you as well, his expression guarded but unmistakably curious.

Odin and Frigga welcomed you graciously into the golden halls of the palace. They made a show of Asgard’s famed hospitality, laying out a splendid feast in your honor. Courtiers lined the corridors, bowing or curtsying as you passed. You could sense their awe—after all, you came from Illyria, a kingdom shrouded in near-mythic prestige. Some whispered that your realm once guided the dawn of magic itself; others claimed your armies had subdued entire dimensions with minimal effort.

All evening, you wore the gracious, polished façade expected of a royal. You chatted with dignitaries, answered questions about Illyria’s luminous cities and your father’s famed conjurers. Meanwhile, Thor rarely left your side, eager to regale you with tales of his own feats: banishing Frost Giants, venturing into cosmic realms, and valiantly defending Asgard. You responded with polite smiles, nods, and the occasional appreciative laugh. As perfect as it all looked on the surface, there was a gentle hum of disquiet in your chest.

From across the banquet table, Loki’s emerald eyes flicked your way from time to time, assessing, appraising. He appeared aloof, yet he seemed to be the only one not entirely beguiled by your princely exterior. It made something in you stir.

Your days following the feast were tightly scheduled:

Diplomatic Lessons with Odin, ensuring you grasped every nuance of Asgard’s laws and customs.

Combat Training with Thor, so you might learn each other’s fighting styles.

Council Meetings discussing the future stability of the Nine Realms, with you sitting at Thor’s side—ever the composed consort-to-be.

For all your flawless manners and competence, you never seemed to allow yourself a moment to breathe freely. Indeed, you had long mastered the art of veiling your true feelings behind calm, intelligent eyes and an impeccably gentle smile. But when the spotlight dimmed—when you slipped out of council chambers or strayed from the training grounds—you found yourself wandering Asgard’s palace in search of quiet corners. It was in one such corridor that you encountered Loki once more.

He stood at a tall window, gazing out over the Bifrost’s shimmering expanse. You paused, unsure if you should interrupt. Yet the shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips before he even turned to face you. “Come to admire the view?” he asked, voice tinted with subtle sarcasm.

You dipped your head, maintaining your stately composure. “It is quite impressive,” you replied, glancing out at the rainbow bridge cutting across the sky. “But I was also hoping to discover more about the prince I rarely see at these gatherings.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Our father and brother do love a grand audience. I prefer quieter spaces.” He looked you up and down. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t scare easily. Most are far too enamored with Thor to pay mind to me.”

Your composure softened just a touch. “I have no fear of you, Loki. Nor do I overlook you. In Illyria, we have a saying: ‘The keenest mind stands in the silent corner.’”

He chuckled quietly. “Fitting.”

A hint of curiosity glimmered in his gaze. You found yourself intrigued by the subtle interplay of cunning and intelligence beneath his exterior. Your time in Asgard had been filled with people wanting to see only your perfect “prince” persona. But Loki’s scrutiny felt different: he seemed interested in you, not the grand illusions and legends that accompanied your name.

A few days later, after a particularly grueling session with Odin’s council, you sought solace in the grand library. Illuminated by golden sconces, the shelves rose like monoliths, each row brimming with ancient tomes. You had heard rumors that Asgard’s archives held knowledge that even your father’s great library in Illyria lacked.

As you wandered the aisles, a familiar presence made itself known—Loki, perched on a tall stool, a dusty book spread across his lap. He pretended not to see you at first, but when you paused beside him, he glanced up. “Running from your princely duties?” he teased in a low voice.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “If you knew how many times a day I’m reminded of my ‘responsibilities,’ you’d understand why I slip away now and then.”

“I do know,” Loki said, and his voice bore a note of empathy. He snapped the book shut. “So, Prince of Illyria—tell me, do you devour knowledge as eagerly as the rest of your people are rumored to do?”

You took up the challenge in his tone. “We pride ourselves on it. The mind is a blade that never dulls, after all.”

He regarded you, faint admiration mixing with mischief. “Ah, so your famed composure conceals more than just polite conversation. I wonder, do you ever let yourself be anything less than perfect?”

A spark of something playful lit in your chest. You lowered your voice. “Try me.”

Loki’s eyes widened slightly, as though taken aback by your directness, then a slow grin curved his lips. He patted the space next to him on the broad windowsill. You hopped up beside him, the tension leaving your shoulders. Away from the prying eyes of the court, you felt a familiar sense of relief wash over you.

Perhaps, just this once, you could be something more human—free from the constant parade of princely duties.

Over the subsequent nights, you found yourself seeking Loki’s company more and more. It wasn’t planned, at least not consciously, but you both ended up in the same corners: a deserted wing of the palace gardens, a quiet lounge near the palace’s lesser-known exits, or hidden alcoves in the library. There, you allowed your mask of infallibility to slip. You joked about some of the more ridiculous demands placed upon you and admitted you sometimes grew tired of always being so “polished.” In turn, Loki confided his own struggles—constantly in Thor’s shadow, overlooked or misunderstood in Asgard’s courts.

He made snarky remarks, which you parried with lighthearted wit, leaving you both sharing smirks or muffled laughter. Strangely, these unguarded conversations with Loki felt more genuine than all the lavish banquets you’d ever attended combined.

The more you revealed your true self—playful, at times recklessly curious, occasionally exasperated by royal burdens—the more Loki seemed drawn to you. And you found yourself feeling the same: you craved his clever banter, the keen intelligence sparkling in his eyes, and the subtle vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

The next day, as Thor escorted you through a grand martial demonstration—showcasing the Einherjar’s prowess—you felt restless. The troops’ synchronized movements were impressive, but your thoughts were elsewhere, recalling the warmth in Loki’s voice the night before, when he’d talked about mastering illusions to carve out his own identity.

When the demonstration ended, Thor draped a friendly arm over your shoulders. “Wasn’t that magnificent?” he boomed.

“Indeed,” you replied, forcing a polite smile. “Your warriors are formidable.”

But the brightness in your eyes didn’t quite reach your heart. Thor seemed to sense something was off. “If there’s anything amiss, please, share it with me.”

You glanced around at the gathered guards, your personal retinue included. Hundreds of eyes, all waiting for your measured response. Your calm, princely façade held. “Thank you, Thor. I’m simply weary from the travel and duties.”

He nodded understandingly, though a shadow of concern flickered in his gaze.

That evening, you found Loki in the secluded palace gardens, standing near a fountain that shimmered under Asgard’s starry sky. He wore his usual emerald cloak, a thoughtful expression on his face. The minute he saw you, he straightened, as though shifting from private thoughts to face the world. “What troubles the great prince of Illyria tonight?” he asked, wry amusement lacing his tone.

You let out a soft, frustrated sigh. “I feel trapped. Everyone sees me as this perfect solution—this polished, ideal figure who will unify Asgard and Illyria. No one cares to see the man underneath.”

Loki studied you intently. “I see the man. The one who challenges me in witty debate, who isn’t afraid to say the wrong thing from time to time—just to see how I’ll respond.”

You smiled faintly. “And you...you don’t treat me like some precious relic. You give me honesty, even if it’s laced with mockery.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “I don’t mock what I admire. And I do admire you.” His expression turned earnest. “You’re not simply the heir of an all-powerful realm. You’re also…good, decent, and surprisingly humble. Someone who makes me feel—” He swallowed, searching for the words. “Makes me feel understood.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. A strange tenderness gripped you. The night air seemed to crackle with unspoken emotion. In a hushed voice, you spoke: “I never expected to find such kinship here, least of all with you.”

Loki’s eyes flickered. “Nor I with you.”

Then, quietly, he admitted, “Do you know what it’s like—being forever eclipsed by Thor’s light? And now, you arrive, shining like a star in your own right, but instead of drowning me out, you look for me in the shadows.”

Your breath caught. “I see you,” you said, fervent and quiet. “I see your brilliance, Loki. And I can’t help being drawn to it.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the fountain’s soft trickle the only sound in the hush of the garden. Then, Loki reached out, his fingers brushing yours in a tentative gesture. “In all my life, I’ve never felt quite so—” he hesitated, then murmured, “I believe I’m falling for you. It’s madness, I know. You’re to wed Thor. Our entire realm stands to benefit from that union. But I can’t deny what’s taken root in my heart.”

Emotions surged through you: elation, longing, and dread, all at once. You carefully entwined your fingers with his. “I feel it too. This is more than mere friendship. Yet duty binds me—I cannot simply break it without risking war between our realms.”

Pain flickered in Loki’s expression, tempered by resignation. “I know,” he whispered. “But for once in my life, I wish destiny would bend.”

You hardly slept that night. Each time you closed your eyes, you felt Loki’s hand interlaced with yours—warm and comforting, yet fraught with the knowledge that this, whatever this had become, could upend two realms. When dawn finally broke, your mind was already spinning with the weight of regret and longing.

You tried telling yourself that it was just a passing moment, a slip in composure. But deep down, you knew better. You’d never felt such a raw pull toward anyone, let alone the “other prince” of Asgard, the one your realm regarded as an afterthought in these negotiations. How was it that Loki—a figure so often relegated to the shadows—was the only one who truly saw you for who you were?

Yet duty loomed larger than ever. The next morning, you donned your ceremonial attire as if it were armor, and forced your lips into polite smiles for the courtiers. Thor greeted you in his usual fashion—boisterous, warm, heavy-handed in his affection. A sharp pang of guilt stabbed at you every time he grinned your way. He saw you as his future partner, the one who would strengthen Asgard’s hold on the realms with Illyria’s might by his side. Only you knew how fragile that notion had become.

Despite the ache in your chest, you made every effort to avoid Loki. You accepted invitations to train with Thor at dawn, to attend council sessions at midday, to endure elaborate banquets well into the evening. Whenever you thought you glimpsed Loki in the corridors or spotted the swish of his emerald cloak, you turned on your heel, heart pounding. If you faced him again, you feared you’d crumble, that you’d let the façade slip and act on feelings you had no right to indulge. But the palace halls had a way of entwining fates that preferred to remain separate. After nearly a week of avoidance—of half-finished nights spent pacing in your chambers—a hushed commotion in the library drew your attention. Voices, low and tense. One was distinctively Thor’s, crackling with anger. The other, undeniably Loki’s, fired back with a sharper, cold retort.

Steeling yourself, you followed the echo, careful not to be seen. Pressed against a gilded column, you could just make out their figures among the tall shelves. Thor’s broad shoulders tensed as he loomed over his brother, voice barely contained.

“Must you always vanish at my betrothed’s approach?” he demanded. “You’re avoiding him as though he’s done you some grave harm.”

Loki’s scoff echoed through the still air. “I do nothing of the sort. Perhaps it’s he who doesn’t wish to see me.”

Your stomach turned. You could practically feel Loki’s pain in his words. Thor let out a frustrated growl, palms slamming against the wooden table. “This alliance is too important to be riddled with your petty resentments. If you have an issue with him, address it, brother. Do not sabotage Asgard’s future through these childish games.”

“Childish games?” Loki repeated in a venomous murmur. “Is it childish to keep my distance, knowing full well that your beloved fiancé is tethered to you for the sake of duty—while he might harbor other…thoughts?” His voice faltered, bitterness lacing every syllable. “Leave me to my ‘games,’ Thor. It’s safer that way.”

Thor opened his mouth to retaliate, but the library doors creaked, heralding the arrival of a group of scholars. With one final glare, the God of Thunder stormed off, leaving Loki behind with his fists clenched at his sides, magic rippling faintly in the tense air. In that fleeting moment, you almost stepped out to speak with Loki—comfort him, maybe. But the memory of your last encounter was too fresh: his trembling whisper, the heartbreak in his eyes. You couldn’t bring yourself to deepen his hurt or your own.

Instead, you retreated quietly, the weight in your heart heavier than ever. You wandered through the corridors like a ghost, ignoring the questioning looks of your Illyrian advisors. They had long since sensed your change in demeanor, but none dared to pry.

Reaching your chambers, you shut the doors behind you and leaned against them, closing your eyes. You pictured Loki’s face when he said, “For once in my life, I wish destiny would bend.” Those words echoed louder with each passing day. Part of you wanted to grasp destiny with both hands and force it to bend, to let the alliance shift to a new shape—one where duty and love weren’t at odds. But each time your resolve flared, an avalanche of responsibility bore down on you, reminding you of every soldier, every citizen, and every promise the marriage was supposed to uphold.

Time offered no mercy. Another week slipped by. Another feast, another council meeting, another swirl of illusions you maintained for appearances’ sake. Loki’s absence, once a mild inconvenience, now felt like a gaping void you couldn’t ignore. Where was he? The few times you spied him in the distance, your heart leapt in your chest only to sink when he vanished like smoke.

In the still nights, lying awake in the grand bed that never felt like home, you replayed every moment spent with him—his cutting humor, his intelligent gaze, the unexpected warmth in his laughter when you managed to draw it out. You ached to see him again, if only to know he was well. But the walls built by duty and guilt felt insurmountable.

Your arranged wedding was edging closer, each day ticking away like a drumbeat of war. The entire realm would gather to watch Asgard’s golden prince wed Illyria’s graceful heir, sealing an alliance that would alter the power balance in the cosmos. It was inevitable—or so Odin and your own father insisted. You were a prince of Illyria; your life was never entirely your own.

Yet, despite everything, you couldn’t banish the memory of Loki’s eyes. The longing there, the unspoken promise of something more real than any throne or realm could grant you. Perhaps it was too late to turn back. Perhaps the best you could do now was shield him from the heartbreak that would inevitably come. If that meant sacrificing your own happiness—well, princes were often required to make such sacrifices.

Or so you tried to tell yourself, night after endless night.

But a small, traitorous spark of hope still flickered in the depths of your chest, refusing to die. A whisper that said there might be another way. A path where duty and desire could coexist, if only you were bold enough to claim it. Yet for now, you remained paralyzed by doubt and fear, uncertain how—or if—you could change the fate that had already been written for you.

[cece693]

As You Are

pairing: will graham x male reader tags: reader can be envisioned as hannibal, just a cute one-shot I thought about while looking at season 2 will, he really had a whole ass makeover for his man, and I don't disagree :)

You’ve never been one to tone things down. Even on your laziest days, you exude a poised elegance that might make others question whether or not you had just stepped off a runway. Crisp trousers, perfectly tailored shirts, the occasional dramatic coat—your reflection in any mirror radiates quiet confidence, your style as precise and deliberate as a well-curated art piece.

Will Graham, your partner, appreciates that about you—at least, you always believed he did. After all, his world is one of details and subtleties, the minutiae that others overlook but that he cannot ignore. It’s partly why he fell in love with you in the first place: your presence is a bold, comforting light against the often dark corridors of his mind.

But lately, something has changed.

It starts small: a new bottle of expensive cologne on the bathroom counter, a neatly pressed button-up shirt you’ve never seen before. At first, you chalk it up to Will wanting to experiment. Everyone deserves the chance to switch things up every now and then. But as days turn into weeks, the shift intensifies. You notice Will meticulously combing his hair in the mornings until every strand lies perfectly in place. His usual scruffy beard is now trimmed with almost surgical precision. He steers away from his beloved flannels, opting instead for slim-fit sweaters and stylish jeans that look expensive and out of place in his closet. His hesitant eyes dart around you, as if searching for approval.

And while you appreciate the effort, there’s a mounting worry in the back of your mind: This isn’t Will. At least, not the Will who would stride into the kitchen barefoot, wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants that revealed a soft vulnerability you found achingly beautiful.

One quiet afternoon, you’re both in the living room. Will is seated on the couch, fiddling with the collar of yet another crisp shirt. You watch as his shoulders tense, the small furrow in his brow betraying some hidden worry. “Is something on your mind?” you ask softly.

He glances up, surprise flickering across his face, as though he forgot you were there. “No,” he says at first, too quickly. When you keep your gaze on him, patient and unwavering, he sighs. “Yes. I’m just…I don’t know, I feel like I should try harder.”

Your brow furrows. “Try harder at what?”

His eyes dart away. “At looking nice. Being the kind of partner you deserve.”

You let his words sink in. For a moment, you’re unsure how to respond. For you, Will had always been the standard of softness and genuineness. No illusions. No artificial shine. You love him for his earnest nature, his gentle intelligence, his compassion. “What makes you think,” you begin carefully, “that the way you’ve always been isn’t already more than enough?”

Will exhales through his nose, hands fidgeting in his lap. “Look at you.” There’s a small shrug, like he’s embarrassed to even say it. “You always look like you stepped out of a fashion magazine—effortlessly stylish. When I’m next to you, I just…I feel like I should try not to be an eyesore.”

There’s a pang in your chest, tenderness for the man who so often sees the worst parts of the world—and sometimes sees the worst in himself, too. You stand from the armchair and make your way over, sitting beside Will. Without hesitation, you take his hands in yours. “Will,” you say quietly, “you are not an eyesore. You never have been.” He searches your face for any sign of dishonesty and finds none.

“That’s kind of you,” he mumbles, “but I see how people look at us—how they look at you.”

“So what?” You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Let them look. I don’t dress well or groom myself meticulously because I think I have to be perfect for you. It’s just part of who I am, and I enjoy it. You—” you press a hand against his cheek gently, your thumb grazing the delicate stubble “—are perfect for me as you are. I don’t want you to feel like you have to change just because I dress this way.”

Will swallows. His gaze drops to your lips, then lingers on your eyes. “I guess I just didn’t want you to feel like I was letting you down or not matching you in any way.”

You can’t help but chuckle softly. “You could dress in a potato sack, and I’d still think you were the most compelling man in any room.” You brush your thumb across his cheekbone. “Your intelligence, your kindness, the way you notice when I’m feeling off even before I do—that’s the Will Graham I love. A tailored shirt doesn’t change what’s already here.”

His breath shudders as he releases tension he’s been holding onto for weeks—maybe longer. You shift closer, pressing your forehead to his. A subtle wave of relief seems to wash over him, though you can still sense some hesitation.

“If you enjoy dressing up,” you say, “then by all means, do it for yourself. But don’t do it because you think I need more from you. I promise, I don’t. I never did.”

Over the next few days, the tension in Will’s brow subsides. He hasn’t tossed out the new clothes—he keeps them for special occasions, or for days he does feel like dressing up. But he also goes back to his beloved flannels, the comfortable jeans, the no-fuss hair that curls just above his ears. He’s not putting on airs anymore. And whenever he does slip into a tailored sweater, it’s not born of insecurity—he’s choosing to do it. He still takes care with his appearance, but it’s more authentic, more him.

And each time you catch him in moments like that—hair slightly mussed from his morning shower, wearing clothes that might be a touch mismatched—you can’t help but grin with love and relief. Because that is the Will you adore, the Will who does not need to change, the Will who has your heart and will keep it, forever, exactly as he is.

[cece693]

I really loved the silent but angry reader with hannigram!! would it be possible to request a part 2? Maybe something where the reader finally snaps and like- beats someone up or something? idk lol Thank you for your time and your writing!

On The Tip of Your Tongue Pt. 2

pairing: hannigram x male reader tags: reader doesn't care about what's said about him but when it comes to his lovers, phew, just phew, guard dog, altercation, hannigram finding it unnecessary but sweet, you showing people they're wrong

A week after that peaceful evening at Hannibal's home, you found yourself back in the maze of FBI corridors—late at night, subdued fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It should have been a routine debrief, but Agent Lange had a knack for turning even mundane situations into confrontations. His favorite pastime: picking at your silence.

By now, you’d grown skilled at blocking his barbed comments about you—he never seemed worth the trouble. But the moment he made Hannibal or Will the targets, every fiber in your body tensed like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

The trouble started in the break room, of all places. You were rinsing out a coffee mug while Will stood nearby, silently reading through case files. Hannibal was down the hall, finishing an impromptu consultation. Agent Lange sidled in, a smug half-smile plastered on his face. He began with a low mutter, obviously wanting you to overhear. “Doesn’t say much, does he?” Lange said to no one in particular, though his eyes never left you. “Probably thinks he’s too good for the rest of us.”

Will glanced up, brow furrowing. “Cut it out, Lange,” he warned, voice quiet but firm.

Lange scoffed. “Oh, look, Graham is here to defend his little buddy.” He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, then smirked. “What, you guys have some kind of arrangement with that doctor of yours? Must be real cozy, you three. Freak show if you ask me—Doctor Lecter with his fancy dinners and you, Graham, with your messed-up head. Not sure what he—” Lange shot you an assessing look “—sees in a pair of psychos.”

Your grip on the mug tightened until your knuckles turned white. You could handle insults directed at you alone. But calling Hannibal a freak—calling Will messed up—that was a line no one should ever cross.

Will started to step forward, frustration rippling in the set of his jaw. “I’m warning you, Lange—”

But Lange just kept on. “Warner from Accounting told me the three of you even share a place sometimes,” he sneered, letting out a low, mocking laugh. “That’s a real nice arrangement. Guess all the weirdos have to stick together, huh?”

In that moment, your heart pounded so loudly in your ears that you barely registered Will reaching for your arm or Hannibal appearing in the doorway. All you knew was that Lange had just gone after the two people you loved most, spat insults that made your blood boil. Before Will could hold you back, you lunged at Lange, slamming him against the countertop before grabbing him by the collar.

“Don't you ever talk about them like that,” you growled, voice trembling with fury.

Lange’s hand shot up to shove you away. Big mistake. You seized his wrist, twisting just enough to yank him off balance. Then your fist crashed into his jaw, the impact ringing through your arm. Lange staggered, barely staying on his feet. There was a collective gasp from the few agents who’d been unlucky enough to witness the altercation. Hannibal’s calm, cool voice cut through the air—firm, yet oddly soothing. “(Y/N). Enough.”

But Lange, spitting blood from a split lip, couldn’t let it go. “They’re both messed up in the head,” he snarled, glaring at you. “They deserve—” You lost all sense of caution. With a furious snarl, you shoved Lange so hard he stumbled into the table, sending files and coffee cups flying. He tried swinging at you, but you easily dodged, landing a swift, punishing blow to his ribs.

Will’s arms locked around your torso, hauling you backward. “(Y/N), stop!” he ordered, breath tight.

Still seething, you struggled for a second, your gaze locked on Lange’s crumpled form. Hannibal stepped in front of Lange, effectively blocking him from view, placing himself between you both. For a heartbeat, you saw a flash of something like approval in Hannibal’s eyes—gone in an instant, replaced by measured concern.

A tense hush fell over the break room. Lange groaned, pressing a hand to his side, shooting you a hateful glare. Will released you slowly, scanning your face for any sign of lingering rage. “Hey,” he whispered, “breathe.”

You inhaled shakily, your fury still smoldering beneath the surface. “He insulted you,” you spat, voice hoarse. You glared over Will’s shoulder toward Lange. “Both of you. He had no right.”

Hannibal stepped forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. You could feel the gentle pressure, calming like a steady pulse. “That’s quite enough for tonight,” he said in that refined, even tone. Then, turning a cold gaze on Lange, he added softly, “You would do well to keep further opinions to yourself.”

Lange, nursing his bruised jaw, spat out an obscenity but didn’t press his luck. One look at Will, still standing protectively in front of you, made him think twice. He shoved a chair aside and stumbled out of the room, muttering threats about filing a report.

The ride back to Hannibal’s home was drowned in thick, static tension. You sat in the back seat, staring out the window with your jaw tight, chest still heaving from residual anger. Will occupied the passenger seat, arms folded, gaze flicking every so often to the rearview mirror where Hannibal’s impassive face reflected back. No one spoke a word. The hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement were the only sounds.

By the time the car pulled up to the stately brick home, the air felt electric. Hannibal parked with his usual precision, and you exited wordlessly, your lovers flanking you on either side. You stepped into the foyer, your breath still shallow from the surge of adrenaline. Hannibal immediately ushered you toward the kitchen with gentle but insistent pressure on your lower back.

“Sit,” he instructed, voice low and calm in that familiar, cultured way. “Let me see your hands.”

Will leaned against the marble island, arms crossed, watching as Hannibal carefully took hold of your bruised knuckles. You winced when he turned on the faucet, letting cool water run across torn skin. For a moment, Hannibal focused solely on rinsing away dried blood. Once satisfied, he turned off the tap and reached for antiseptic and gauze. His eyebrows knit in that slight, discerning frown he wore when studying a patient—or a lover, in need of care.

“You truly did a number on him,” Will commented quietly, pushing off the counter. He walked over, eyes flicking between your injured hands and your tense expression. “Not that he didn’t deserve it.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, finally speaking for the first time since leaving the FBI. “He insulted you,” you said, voice hoarse with lingering fury. “I could’ve handled the things he said about me. But about you two? I couldn’t just stand there.”

Will’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “We’re not exactly fragile, you know. We didn’t need you to defend us.”

Hannibal cast Will a knowing glance but addressed you. “However, that does not mean we didn’t appreciate it,” he said, carefully affixing the final piece of gauze. His eyes flicked up to yours, a subtle heat behind them. “Or find it intriguing.”

“Hot, actually,” Will added, stepping closer. The corners of his mouth lifted in a hint of a grin that bordered on playful. “Watching you lose your temper like that…seeing you go from silent to lethal in a heartbeat. I can’t pretend it wasn’t a little—” he cleared his throat, “arousing.”

You felt your face flush at Will’s admission. His candor took some of the edge off your anger, replacing it with a wave of self-conscious heat. Hannibal’s expression betrayed no surprise—if anything, a knowing gleam lit his dark eyes. He folded your freshly bandaged hand into both of his, pressing a light kiss to your wrist.

“That flash of violence,” he said quietly, “while I don’t endorse needless brutality, I do find it befitting of you. That anger in your eyes, the way you allowed for it to consume you was beautiful."

You swallowed hard, letting your gaze flick from Hannibal to Will. “But I— I nearly lost control.”

Will’s voice dropped lower, tinged with empathy and something else. “He had it coming. Besides, we would've stopped you before it really became a problem."

Despite the swirling emotions—anger, relief, lingering adrenaline—warmth spread through your chest. You exhaled the breath you’d been holding. The raw edges of your temper began to soften, replaced by a comforting sense of belonging. “Next time,” you said, voice low, “I’ll try to give you a little warning before I snap.”

Will’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Sure,” he teased. “Even if it’s just a look—anything to let us know you’re about to unleash hell, so we can pull up a chair and enjoy.”

A gentle chuckle rumbled in Hannibal’s chest. He raised your bandaged hand to his lips again, pressing a second kiss to the gauze, an oddly chivalrous gesture. “If there is a next time,” he said, his dark eyes glinting with sincerity, “we’ll be right at your side. Not because we need the defense but because we relish your fervor.”

That final declaration, spoken in Hannibal’s cultured tone, cradled in Will’s soft laugh, was enough to steal the last vestiges of your anger. You let yourself sink into the moment—the quiet acceptance, the shared heat, and the unwavering knowledge that, here, you were safe to be exactly as you were.

[cece693]

Hi ily

🫶

[cece693]

Hii can I ask if you write for poly ships? (Like reader x character x another character)

YES! I do and would like to do so more often 😁

[cece693]

ALSO do you by chance write for frank castle?:o

Uhm, I don't know the character that well but I can give it a try. (Just don't expect a masterpiece 😁)

[cece693]

Could I request a doctor reader with Mathew Brown from Hannibal

after will abandoned him he was placed into the same hospital he once worked at and transfers his devotion and obsession onto his new doctor ( which they don’t reciprocate but he is determined to make them see the truth . He won’t fail again

I Won't Fail Again

pairing: matthew brown x male reader tags: Matthew needs help, but he's a good guy, well kinda, mentions of will and how he dumped his ass, creepy if this occurred in real life, open ended, this takes place over multiple sessions explaining the many line breaks

Matthew Brown had once devoted himself wholly to Will Graham. It was a devotion born of fixation and admiration, a strange, electric faith in Will’s innocence and cause. But that faith had failed him—Will had abandoned him in the end, leaving Matthew alone with the ruins of that intense purpose.

Legally, psychiatrically, he was considered too unstable to be in a conventional prison. But those who saw madness where Matthew saw clarity found it easier to send him to the very same hospital he’d once worked at. The irony chafed at him: how he’d worn these halls in uniform, how he’d walked among patients with a sense of authority. Now he was one of them—a patient in the place he used to think he controlled.

Matthew’s new doctor spoke in measured tones and wore his well-pressed suits like a shield. Something about your composed manner and unwavering voice snatched Matthew’s devotion before he even realized it. He started to watch you the way he used to watch Will, with an unnerving intensity that left the staff uneasy.

At first, Matthew tried to be subtle. He’d never been patient with these feelings, but he understood the delicate nature of coaxing truth from people who refused to see it. He studied your routine: when you arrived, how long you lingered over your notes, what you ordered from the vending machine during your mid-afternoon slump. The man was so carefully, elegantly boring that it fascinated Matthew. He found a new anchor for his once-directionless faith.

They met in a consultation room with a small table and two chairs. “Mr. Brown,” You greeted in a quiet, authoritative voice. “I understand you used to work in this hospital.”

“I did,” Matthew replied, drawing out each syllable to watch for any reaction and was rewarded by your shifting in your seat and adjustment to the cuffs that latched around your wrists. “People here never appreciated what I did for them. They questioned my methods. But I was always correct in my observations.”

You nodded politely, your eyes skimming Matthew’s file. “You worked with Will Graham, an FBI profiler.”

“Yes,” Matthew’s voice caught. “I believed in him. I still do, though he left me behind.”

“And now, you’re here.” Your tone remained unwavering, though Matthew could feel the slight tension in the line of your shoulders.

“Now I’m here,” Matthew echoed softly, leaning forward. “So are you. And you matter.” You blinked, betraying a flicker of confusion. To Matthew, that confusion was like a flash of lightning in the dark. He’d glimpsed a crack in your armor.

The nights were endless, fluorescent-lit intervals broken by head checks and medication calls. Matthew forced his eyes open to watch the corridor’s watery reflections dance through the glass panel in his door. In those quiet hours, he replayed each session, searching for some sign of your needs—some place where fear might be peeled back to reveal the truth beneath. He wrote letters he was never allowed to send, letters scrawled in the margins of paper meant for therapy notes. He does not see what is in front of him, he penned, sketching your profile from memory. But I won’t fail again. Not like before.

A part of Matthew still ached from Will’s desertion. That pain only hardened his resolve. You would see he wasn’t insane, or misguided, or broken. Matthew knew what was real, and you could be guided—he just needed time.

“There’s no reason you should trust me yet,” Matthew said, his voice steady, “but I promise you, what I’m telling you is important.”

You scrutinized Matthew’s pale face. “And what is it you believe so fervently now?”

“That there’s a higher understanding. We’re all looking at these petty illusions. The staff, they talk about me behind my back— but you? You see more.”

“I see a man who was obsessed once. I see a man who has trouble trusting others because he believes himself to be the only one who truly sees the truth.”

Matthew’s lips curved, halfway between amusement and resentment. “My last devotion was misplaced. This time, I won’t make that mistake.”

You tilted your head, measuring those words. “You must realize that I’m your doctor, Matthew, not your friend.”

“And Will was the FBI profiler, not my friend,” Matthew countered sharply, “yet I still believed. But belief alone isn’t always enough—we have to act.”

A hint of alarm flickered in your eyes. “That’s precisely what gets you into dangerous territory.”

Matthew exhaled a slow breath. “Danger is only a problem if you’re blind to it.”

Two weeks later, you discovered a piece of folded paper in your office, slipped under the door. It was a neatly drawn portrait of your face—perfectly proportioned, every line precise. Beneath it, in neat handwriting, was a single phrase: I see you.

You felt a chill prickle over your arms. You had no doubt who had left it. Matthew Brown was watched closely in his room, but hospital schedules weren’t bulletproof. At some point, Matthew had found a way to slip this note out. Or maybe he had an ally; or maybe he had manipulated the staff. You couldn’t tell. Either way, Matthew had decided to keep pressing.

Something clenched inside your chest. You’d heard stories about Brown’s past. You'd read the man’s file thoroughly—his unwavering conviction, his near-fanatic devotion to Will Graham. If that devotion had pivoted toward you now…you threw the paper away, ignoring the subtle quake in your hands.

During their next session, you looked down at your desk, deliberately avoiding Matthew’s penetrating gaze. But Matthew leaned forward, a serenity painting his face, as though he saw a door open in your guarded expression.

“They’ll never understand you the way I do,” Matthew said softly.

“This dynamic between us,” You answered, measuring every word, “is not about understanding on the same level. I’m here for your treatment, to help you cope, to—”

“Cope with reality?” Matthew cut in, smirking. “Whose reality? Yours? The staff’s? People blind to the evil that lurks? I was right before, you know. About Will. It was all part of a bigger design. No one believed me except him. But he left me behind, too. I won’t let that happen again. I’m better prepared. I see you for who you are.”

“And who am I?” You asked, voice trembling with more frustration than you intended.

“You are more than a doctor. You are a gatekeeper. But you don’t realize what you can open.” Matthew’s chains rattled softly as he stood—an abrupt, forced movement before the orderlies could push him back down. “I’m going to show you. I’ll make you see it.”

The orderlies pressed Matthew back into his chair, forcibly securing his wrists. But his voice cut through the hush, steady, still so certain:

“I won’t fail this time.”

You stood, turning away, every nerve on edge. Part of you wanted to run from that unwavering stare. But you had to stand your ground—you were the doctor, you reminded yourself. Matthew was the patient. That was the line. That was the truth.

Yet, as you closed the door on the session, you could still feel Matthew’s eyes boring through the narrow window. A part of you couldn’t shake the prickling sense that the boundary you thought so firm might just be one more illusion Matthew Brown was determined to shatter.

Days turned into weeks, but Matthew’s conviction never faded. He filled diary pages with sketches of you, of the hospital corridors, of the images in his head. His rhetoric grew more certain each time he saw you—no grandstanding, no pleas for acceptance, just calm belief that you'd one day stand at the threshold of truth and see as Matthew did.

Outside, the hospital staff whispered about transferring Matthew to an even more secure unit. You found those whispers comforting, and yet a strange tension resided within you. You weren't supposed to feel unnerved. But a single look from Matthew across the corridor, or a note slipped under you door, reminded you that devotion—obsession—had a power all its own.

And Matthew? He’d quietly vow, over and over, behind that door with its little window, “I won’t fail again.” Because he had found a new clarity, a new mission, and a new center of gravity in you. He would not let this devotion slip through his fingers.

[cece693]

My Vampire

pairing: hannigram x male reader tags: reader is a vampire, takes place after they fall off the cliff, nursing back to health, hannigram feel jealous, but everything is resolved, just something silly I came up with

You’d never planned on crossing paths with Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. In truth, you avoided humans whenever possible, preferring the deep shadows of the forest and the quiet hours of the night to any bustling crowds. But that unspoken, secret life you lead—sustained by blood and centuries of solitude—proved itself impossible to hide when you found the two men collapsed at the rocky bottom of a steep cliff.

In the silvery glow of the moon, you saw them: Hannibal, impeccably dressed even in disarray, and Will, painfully crumpled, a halo of curly hair matted with blood. They had fallen—or been driven—off the edge. Your acute hearing picked up the faint beating of two frantic hearts. Against your better judgment, you acted swiftly.

The moonlight guided you as you carried both unconscious men to the safety of your home, deep in the forest. Turning on the lights revealed modest furniture, shelves of ancient texts, and the paraphernalia you’d collected over centuries: strange artifacts, historical relics, a few odd trinkets you found comforting in your long life.

You prepared beds for them in separate rooms. First, you stabilized Hannibal—a fractured rib, sprained wrist, cuts along his temple. More concerning was Will: several bruises, probable concussion, shock. With careful touches, you cleaned and dressed their wounds. Under the same roof with two delicate, thrumming pulses—it took everything in you to keep a tight leash on your most primal instinct. But you did. You always did.

Their condition demanded something more than standard human medication. You whispered ancient incantations under your breath, letting the faint threads of supernatural energy flow from your fingertips to their broken bones. Even as your thirst roared, you continued your strange, secretive healing, pressing over bruises and fractures with hands that never seemed to warm.

Days passed. You listened to the soft stutter of Will’s pulse and the steady cadence of Hannibal’s. At first, they roused only in fleeting moments, eyes glassy, speech slurred. You offered them water and soups thick with herbs that carried subtle restorative properties. They ate without protest, too weak to question anything. Eventually, Hannibal’s eyes found yours in the dimness of his room.

“You saved us,” he murmured, voice quiet yet controlled. There was a ripple of curiosity beneath the gratitude. You simply gave a small bow of your head, your lips curving in a gentle, almost secretive smile. He studied you: your unnaturally still posture, the unearthly pallor of your skin that seemed to glow faintly in the low light. You turned away from his searching gaze, easing a blanket higher over his chest with a careful gesture. There were questions you expected, but for now, Hannibal simply closed his eyes, content to rest in your presence.

Will took longer to regain consciousness, drifting in and out of feverish dreams. When he finally startled awake, he looked around with wide blue eyes, instantly on edge. You carefully stepped forward so he could see you—a kind face, arms raised in a gesture of peace.

“It’s all right,” you soothed, voice soft and resonant. “You’re safe here.”

His gaze flickered around, searching. “Hannibal?” he asked, voice tight with concern.

“He’s here as well,” you reassured him, stepping aside so he could see the figure through the open doorway. “He’s recovering.”

Will’s tension ebbed, replaced by relief. He slumped back onto the bed, nodding to himself. Then, quietly: “You saved our lives.”

You nodded, pressing a cloth damp with cool water against his forehead. “I did what needed to be done.”

Over the next several days, you stayed close, quietly tending to their needs. You brought them more comforting meals, teas laced with your own subtle magic, and changed their bandages as their injuries healed at a pace slightly faster than normal humans—your clandestine influence, though you never openly acknowledged it. As Hannibal and Will grew stronger, the two men observed you in unspoken unison. They’d share glances from across a room, as though exchanging telepathic notes about you. Eventually, curiosity overcame them.

One afternoon, while preparing more of your herb-laced soup in the cabin’s small kitchen, you found yourself under Hannibal’s direct stare. The man approached with a measured step, Will close behind. “I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Hannibal started, voice like velvet, “but I must admit, your hospitality is extraordinary.”

You allowed a smile to cross your lips. “I live alone. I have the space to share, and you needed help.”

Will glanced around at the eclectic collections on the walls and shelves—maps older than any living memory, candelabras that looked straight out of an antique store from centuries past, and your library of old texts. “You’ve traveled a lot?” he guessed.

“I’ve wandered,” you answered enigmatically. The silence that followed was taut.

“We’re grateful,” Will said softly. “We want you to know that.” In return, you simply nodded. You didn’t expect anything from them beyond eventual departure. Yet something stirred in your chest—an unaccustomed warmth of companionship you hadn’t felt in decades.

The days slipped by like dusk over water. You found yourself engaging in quiet conversations with Will in the evenings, while Hannibal read through your old tomes. Sometimes, you’d glance up to catch both men looking at you with an intensity that made your long-dead heart flutter in a dangerously human way. One night, you were startled when you heard Hannibal and Will murmuring to each other by the fireplace:

“He’s different,” Will said. “I can feel it.”

Hannibal’s voice was thoughtful. “Yes, there’s a presence to him. A calm and hunger, perhaps. Subtle, but there.”

Hunger. You swallowed. The faint thirst you spent centuries controlling was, indeed, always present. They were so perceptive.

Soon, little signs around the cabin began to raise suspicions: the heavy, iron-bound chest in a dark corner that you never let them open, the wine bottles you kept in a locked cupboard (though the contents were not wine at all). Once, Hannibal caught sight of you striding silently across the moonlit porch late at night, eyes glinting, your form almost inhumanly poised. Then there was the evening Will found a solitary pale figure in the forest, sipping from a small deer’s wound. You vanished before he fully comprehended the sight.

But what truly fueled their jealousy—though it blossomed in them before they knew the truth—were the small hints of a partner. A second set of clothing in a trunk, a pair of shoes that didn’t quite match yours, an engraving on a ring hidden in a wooden box. They caught glimpses of these things and exchanged wary looks, uncertain if you belonged to someone else. And why did you keep such personal belongings locked away?

Neither man dared to confront you outright. Yet their longing to be near you, to share these stolen pockets of tenderness, was obvious in every word, every gesture. When you approached either of them—asking about their injuries, smoothing the hair from their faces, offering small, tender assurances—you could feel their hearts quicken.

It happened one late evening, on the porch overlooking the forest. The sky was clear, starlight bright. You stood beside Hannibal and Will, who were both healed enough to walk carefully outside. They sipped from porcelain cups of your herbal tea, scanning the tree line where the moon gilded every branch.

Hannibal spoke first, voice low and calm, “We’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“It’s been two weeks,” Will added gently. “We owe you so much. But we can’t keep burdening you.”

A pang flitted through you at the idea of them leaving. In them, you felt the pull of companionship, even desire. You’d seen the way their gazes lingered on you, felt the gentle brush of their hands when you passed something between them. They were drawn to you in ways neither had dared say.

“You don’t have to leave,” you murmured. “At least not until you’re fully recovered.” You paused, eyes searching the forest. “My home is safe if you need it.”

Hannibal watched you closely, seeing something in your eyes. “There’s more to you than kind hospitality, isn’t there?”

A fleeting grin tugged at your lips, an age-old secret behind your eyes. “I’m not like you,” you admitted softly. “I’m something else.”

Will shifted, the memory of seeing you in the woods late at night still burning in his mind. “I’ve seen glimpses,” he ventured. “But I—I don’t understand.” You inhaled, feeling your chest tighten with apprehension. Never, in all your years, had you willingly revealed your nature to humans. Yet these men—there was something about them that felt like an inevitability.

“I was born human once,” you started quietly, “but that was a long time ago.” You steeled yourself. “I’ve lived many lifetimes since. Surviving on blood, fighting the thirst, wandering from place to place.”

Hannibal’s expression was one of fascination rather than fear. “A vampire?” His tone lacked the disbelief you’d grown used to. Instead, it was curious, tinged with admiration.

You nodded, exhaling slowly. “Yes.”

Will set aside his cup, stepping closer, his eyes flicking over your face. The moonlight made him look almost otherworldly himself. “You saved us from that cliff. You healed us. And you never...took our blood?”

“I’m not a monster,” you whispered. “And I found your lives worth preserving.” You paused, swallowing the remnants of your fear. “The items you found—those things that made you think I had a partner—are old memories of someone I lost centuries ago. Not a current lover.”

Hannibal and Will exchanged glances, a faint bloom of relief apparent in both their eyes. Will exhaled a soft laugh, pushing a nervous hand through his curls. “We thought…We weren’t sure.”

Hannibal’s refined voice cut in, “We may have been jealous.” There was a wry, knowing smile curving his lips. “A foolish notion, given your generosity.”

Heat—or the memory of it—rose to your cheeks. “There’s no one else now,” you said quietly.

As the truth came to light, the shift in your relationship was palpable. Neither man showed fear or disgust. Instead, an unexpected acceptance lingered, twining you closer. Will still found you in the kitchen late at night, but now he’d quietly slide in beside you, leaning against the counter, eyes full of curiosity. He’d ask about your life in hushed tones: your travels, the centuries of knowledge you’d collected. You answered in half-truths or occasional full confessions, depending on what you felt ready to share.

Hannibal, too, found ways to join you in your quiet moments. He appreciated your old texts, marveled at the archaic languages you could read. Something in his own brilliant mind was stimulated by the very notion of a creature who had lived through so many eras. He’d ask you sophisticated questions with an almost reverent tone, and you’d see the faint glint of desire flicker across his features—desire, not just for your body, but your timelessness.

And between them, there was a synergy you’d never witnessed among humans. You caught it in how Will would pass Hannibal a knowing look or in how Hannibal’s fingers would gently skim the small of Will’s back. They were bound to each other, yet somehow, they extended that bond to include you.

After dinner one evening, the three of you lingered around the fireplace, sharing a bottle of fine wine Hannibal had found in your cellar (the real wine, not the blood you kept hidden). The conversation drifted, warmth glowed across your faces. Will was the first to break the comfortable silence. “We’ve been talking—Hannibal and I.”

“Oh?” you prompted, resting your forearms on your knees.

“We feel drawn to you,” Hannibal continued, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “When you saved us, nursed us, you offered an unspoken intimacy. We have begun to care for you in ways that aren’t entirely platonic.”

You set the wine glass aside, heart beating in a way you hadn’t felt in ages. “I care for you both as well,” you admitted, voice quiet. “I was prepared to let you go, if that was what you wanted.”

Hannibal’s hand slid across the small couch to cover yours. Even after all your time in the darkness, the tender heat of a human touch could still set your veins aflame. You felt the weight of both men’s gazes, their presence so near, so achingly real.

Hannibal’s voice was a low murmur, “We have no intention of running away from this…from you.”

Will’s shoulder brushed yours, and you turned to see him looking at you as if you were some delicate miracle. “Stay with us,” he whispered. “Let us stay with you.”

[cece693]

hello! i absolutely adore your writing for hannibal!! i was wondering if i could request yan! hannibal x reader who is aware of hannibals facade he puts on for others but not of his true nature. perhaps reader feels insecure in their relationship as they have a hard time telling whethe or not the facade his kept up between them as well? reader does not understand how deep hannibals devotion truly goes... perhaps with smut if youre up for it!! thank you so much, apologies if this was a bit of a loaded one!

Are We Real?

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader tags: themes of sex/smut but nothing too graphic, hannibal's half truths and lies, reader is blind to hannibal's hobbies, they do love each other, hannibal isn't ready yet to reveal his whole self, will prolong this because he kinda wants the reader to stay away from his darkness

You know the exact moment Hannibal’s eyes settle on you from across the room. There is a certain gravity to his gaze that no amount of polite banter or refined charm can hide. You sense it even when he’s smiling benignly at a colleague or glancing at a passing waiter. Your relationship with him has been a series of carefully choreographed dance steps—fluid, hypnotic, and still somehow laced with an undercurrent you can’t quite name.

What you do know is that Hannibal Lecter puts on a facade for others. He presents himself as a well-mannered gentleman, the perfect host and brilliant psychiatrist. There’s an elegance in his every step, a graceful precision that makes you wonder if his entire being is a meticulous composition. You’ve seen him entertain guests in his lavish home, that impeccable façade never faltering. You admire it, even when it disconcerts you.

And yet, you sense something more behind his polished exterior—like smoke curling beneath a locked door. You’ve been close enough to feel the heat but have never glimpsed the flames that feed it. It leaves you in doubt. You’re not naïve; you realize he is a man with secrets. Still, you don’t understand how profoundly they run. You only know that the devotion he shows you—beautiful, patient, and intense—feels real, even if your insecurities whisper otherwise.

Tonight, the firelight in Hannibal’s study paints warm hues against the walls. You sip a drink from an ornate crystal glass as Hannibal’s fingers trace a light path along the nape of your neck. There is no one else in the house; the last guest left hours ago, no doubt charmed by the evening’s tasteful conversation and exquisite meal. You can still feel the buzz from the wine, or perhaps it’s from the press of Hannibal’s body close to yours.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, voice carrying its usual gentle confidence.

You tilt your head, leaning slightly back so you can see his face. His eyes skim over you carefully, always reading and analyzing, though you know he’d never say it so plainly. “You,” you admit softly. “I can’t always tell when you’re being genuine. You have this…way about you.”

His expression doesn’t flicker; Hannibal’s composure is as still as a sculpture. “In what way?”

You hesitate. “I know how you are with other people. It’s like you put on a mask. I just—” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Sometimes I’m afraid that mask is there when we’re together, too.”

He moves behind you with such grace you barely sense the shift. His hand drifts from your shoulder to the small of your back, fingertips ghosting along your shirt’s fabric. You exhale shakily, aware of his presence more than ever. Hannibal’s voice resonates in your ear, low and sure. “I would never insult you by offering anything but my truth. Perhaps my truth is simply more guarded than most.”

He turns you by the shoulders to face him. The proximity makes your breath catch. “I do wear masks,” he confesses, “but only so that I can navigate a world that might not appreciate the depths of my true self.”

It’s a strange, cryptic admission. Part of you wants to probe further, to question him about what he truly means. Another part is appeased by the sincerity in his gaze, the gentleness of his voice, the way his hands settle on your hips.

Before you can formulate a response, Hannibal’s mouth brushes over yours. The kiss begins soft—testing, almost cautious. It’s as though he wants to ensure you accept him, which you do without hesitation. Your arms slide around his waist, drawing him in closer, wanting that reassurance that he is here, truly with you in this moment. He tastes of fine wine and the lingering spices from dinner. Each movement of his lips is smooth, meticulous, yet surging with an undercurrent of passion. Hannibal is skillful at everything, and kissing is no exception. Your head reels, heart pounding in your chest. For this small window of time, you are the only person in his universe.

Your insecurities fade ever so slightly, replaced by a warmth that starts in your chest and flows through your veins. His lips move along your jaw, pressing small, heated kisses down to your neck. His hands slide beneath your shirt, palms ghosting across your skin in a way that sends shivers rippling through you.

He whispers your name, soft and reverent, against your throat. You lean into the sound as though it might slip away if you don’t hold on tight. “Come with me,” he murmurs. It’s not a request; it’s a promise. He takes your hand and leads you down the darkened hallway to his bedroom, a space usually locked from the prying eyes of visitors. The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the rest of the world disappears.

Your breaths mingle in the dim light as Hannibal slips out of his jacket, hanging it neatly. Everything he does is methodical, a routine so practiced it’s almost ritualistic. You begin to unbutton your shirt, but his fingers stop you. He looks at you, and for a fleeting second, the mask he wears for everyone else seems to vanish entirely.

“We can shed more than our clothes tonight,” he says, voice laced with meaning. “If you’d allow me.”

You swallow, unsure whether that statement should comfort or unnerve you—but something inside you wants more. You nod, letting him take the lead. His hands are gentle but firm as he undoes each button of your shirt. You watch his face; for the first time, you catch the glimmer of something undeniably fervent in his eyes. It’s an unsettling intensity, yet you feel no fear—only fascination, arousal, and a sense of being deeply wanted.

He slides your shirt off and leans in to kiss you again. Slowly, languidly, Hannibal makes sure every inch of you is kissed, touched, worshipped. His mouth travels down your chest, pressing reverent kisses along your skin. You’re guided onto the bed in a graceful dance: Hannibal’s arms cradle you, preventing any graceless stumble.

Beneath him, you can’t help but arch your body upward, craving any ounce of contact he’ll spare. When his hand slips beneath your waistband, the sharp inhale you take betrays your excitement. His fingers brush the sensitive skin there, and you gasp at the electric spark.

He is thorough—everything with Hannibal is thorough, from the care he takes with each article of clothing to the methodical way he traces over your skin. In his eyes, you see desire, yes, but also something that looks alarmingly like possession. A part of you wonders if you should be afraid of that fierce devotion. Another part finds it dizzyingly irresistible.

Hannibal kisses you deeply, swallowing your soft moans, his own breathing labored and intense. The space between your bodies narrows with every shift of his hips, until there is nothing but heat and friction. You cling to him, nails lightly digging into his back as he angles himself in a way that sends delicious sparks coursing through your core. There is no doubt about his passion—his unspoken devotion. With each thrust of his body, each exhalation of your name, he offers wordless proof that, here in this moment, you and he are the only reality.

When release finally comes, it washes over you in a shuddering wave, your lips parted in a silent cry against his shoulder. You feel his grip on you tighten, as if he’d fuse your bodies together if he could. His own climax follows, and for a few long, breathtaking moments, you can feel the steady hammer of his heart racing as wildly as yours.

The room is dark and quiet. Your breaths gradually even out, and your limbs feel pleasantly heavy under the silky sheets. Hannibal presses a tender kiss to your forehead before sliding away just enough to meet your gaze. There’s a charged silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. You turn on your side to face him. Your mind stirs with questions—about him, about the future, about the masks he wears for the rest of the world.

Hannibal studies your features, a peculiar softness in his expression. “You have always seen more than most,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Yet you do not run. For that, I am grateful.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he raises a hand to gently cup your cheek.

“I will not ask for your blind trust. That would be unfair.” He sighs, a small, almost weary sound. “My nature is complex. But you must believe me when I say my feelings for you are entirely real. I would sooner do harm to myself than allow harm to come to you.”

His intensity stirs something deep within you. Part of you is still in the dark about what lies at the core of Hannibal’s being. But you see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. You remember the evenings spent in quiet companionship, the affectionate gestures he bestows with careful intention, and the unwavering attention he grants you in crowded rooms. You nestle closer to him, pressing your body against the warmth of his. You choose to believe in his words—for tonight, at least. You will let yourself feel assured that his devotion is genuine, even if it’s wrapped in the many layers of a man who is far from ordinary.

As Hannibal slides an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, you rest your head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart lulls you into a sense of peace. With each breath, you begin to let go of the nagging doubts. In the end, you decide, whatever mask Hannibal wears for others, the version of him in your arms feels achingly real. And for now that is enough.

[cece693]

PART 2 OF THE BUCKYxLOKI’S BROTHER PLEASE!! (And thank you)

He's Cute Pt. 2

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: date night, cute moments between bucky and reader, protective bucky, reader having eyes only for his man, couldn't help myself so we have some jealous bucky

The morning sun cast a warm glow on the bustling New York street as you and Bucky left the Avengers Tower, side by side, for your much-anticipated coffee date. You could practically feel Bucky’s heartbeat thrumming—his energy was a mix of nerves and excitement, hidden behind a carefully maintained cool exterior.

Still, you caught the way he’d sneak glances at you, how he kept a polite but protective distance between you and the street, and how his hand hovered near the small of your back whenever you paused to look in a shop window. If there was one thing you’d learned about James “Bucky” Barnes, it was that beneath the stoic shell, he was a sweet, attentive soul.

When you reached the little coffee shop a few blocks away, the sweet aroma of espresso and baked goods made you inhale appreciatively. Bucky let you step in first, his eyes still straying to you while you gawked at the menu board.

“Wow,” you murmured, half to yourself. “So many options. Mocha latte, flat white, salted caramel… Are these incantations?”

Bucky suppressed a grin, remembering the first time you’d asked that. “No magic, promise,” he said, nudging your shoulder gently. “What are you in the mood for?”

Before you could answer, the barista—a cheerful guy in his mid-twenties with a neat man-bun and bright green apron—leaned over the counter, practically beaming at you. “Hey there! First time, huh? Don’t worry, I can help you pick the perfect drink,” he offered, sliding an elbow onto the counter in a move that was definitely meant to come off as suave.

You blinked, oblivious to the barista’s flirty smile. “That’s kind of you,” you said politely. “I’ve only tried a couple coffees so far.”

“Awesome,” the barista replied, eyes dancing with interest. “You should let me whip up a custom latte just for you. Something sweet, with a little extra foam on top, maybe a heart design…”

Bucky cleared his throat, stepping forward so that his broad shoulder was just enough in the barista’s line of sight to cut off the direct gaze. “He’ll have a caramel macchiato,” Bucky said firmly, voice low in a way that suggested the barista hurry it up. “And I’ll take a black coffee.”

The barista’s smile faltered, eyeing Bucky with a mix of confusion and polite fear. “Sure thing.”

As the barista fiddled with the espresso machine, you turned to Bucky, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t realize there were so many specialized drinks. Custom lattes?”

Bucky’s jaw unclenched, and he mustered a small, reassuring smile for you. “Yeah, they get creative. But trust me, you’ll like the macchiato.”

Once you two collected your drinks, you picked out a cozy table near the window. The morning light bathed you in a soft glow that made your hair look…well, downright ethereal, if Bucky were being honest. And from the corner of his eye, he noticed more than one patron shooting glances your way.

You sipped your caramel macchiato, eyes lighting up at the sweet, creamy flavor. “This is wonderful!”

Bucky felt a surge of pride, as if he’d personally crafted the drink. “Glad you like it,” he said, resisting the urge to reach out and brush his fingers across your knuckles. Before the conversation could deepen, another interruption arrived—this time a fellow customer who lingered by the pastry display, giving you a once-over before sauntering over.

“Good morning,” she said, flipping her hair with a practiced flourish. “I haven't seen you here before."

You, perpetually polite, offered a friendly nod. “Yes, I’m new to Midg—New York. It’s very different from home.”

She giggled, eyes trailing over your features. “Well, if you need a local guide, I live right around the corner.” She lowered her voice, leaning in conspiratorially, “And I know all the best spots.”

Your eyebrows lifted in genuine curiosity. “Really? That sounds interesting.”

Bucky’s grip on his coffee cup tightened until his knuckles turned white. He cleared his throat, but she didn’t budge—she seemed more than happy to ignore him entirely, focusing on you like a hawk. “Yeah,” she continued. “I could show you a real good time. How about—”

“He’s good,” Bucky cut in, voice dangerously soft. He stared her down, his intense blue eyes flicking to her face with a distinct warning.

She blinked, finally noticing the murderously protective glint in his gaze. “Oh—are you two…?”

“Yes,” Bucky said bluntly, not even letting the question hang.

You, still oblivious, looked between them. “We’re on a date,” you added helpfully, as though trying to clarify.

The woman looked between you, Bucky, and his metal arm resting on the table. An awkward laugh escaped her. “My mistake. Enjoy your coffee.” She walked off, adjusting her purse with forced nonchalance.

As soon as she was gone, you turned back to Bucky, your expression perplexed. “She was hitting on me, right? Is that like a phrase, ‘hitting on someone?’ Because you said—”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirmed, irritation still simmering just behind his calm veneer. “She was.”

“Oh,” you murmured, taking another sip of your drink. “Well, that’s not a problem, is it? I mean, people here are friendly…”

Bucky exhaled heavily, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He reached across the table, lightly brushing the back of your hand. “You’re too nice for your own good,” he said softly. “Just...it gets on my nerves when strangers try to pick you up right in front of me.”

Understanding dawned on you, and your eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He shook his head, giving a dismissive little shrug. “Not your fault at all. I just…might have a jealous streak, I guess.”

A warm smile curved your lips. “That’s kind of sweet. In a protective way.”

Your words made him relax, and he actually managed a genuine, sheepish grin. “Glad you think so.”

With the interlopers gone, you and Bucky finally got some quieter moments. You asked him about the differences between the 1940s and modern times—he gave you quick anecdotes about old radio shows, dime coffees, and awkward attempts to use smartphones now. In return, you regaled him with tales of Asgard—though you stuck to the less epic parts, not wanting to overshadow the mundane joy of a simple coffee date.

Sometimes Bucky would reach out and tap the rim of your cup with his vibranium fingers, almost like he wanted an excuse to brush against your hand. More than once, your gentle laughter made him forget the rest of the café altogether. That is, until your phone chimed with a text—a reminder from Tony about some meeting in a couple of hours.

“Guess we need to head back soon?” Bucky asked, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.

You nodded regretfully, finishing the last sweet sip of your drink. “Seems so. We can’t exactly ditch the meeting, can we? Tony would… he’d probably show up here with an Iron Man suit,” you joked.

Bucky gave a small smirk. “He’s petty like that.”

With some reluctance, you both stood, disposing of your cups and stepping out into the warm late-morning air. The short walk back to Avengers Tower was surprisingly pleasant, even with the occasional sideways glances from passersby who recognized one of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Bucky kept close to you, occasionally brushing his shoulder against yours, as if to remind everyone this is my date.

The moment you stepped through the Tower doors, though, you found yourselves ambushed by the rest of the team loitering in the lobby—clearly waiting. Tony, arms crossed over his chest, grinned like a cat who caught the canary. Steve, Sam, Clint, and Natasha stood behind him in a loose huddle, each wearing various degrees of curiosity and mischief.

“Would you look at that,” Tony drawled, “our resident star-crossed duo has returned.”

Sam smirked. “Didn’t think a simple coffee run would take this long. Or is that code for something else?”

Clint raised an eyebrow suggestively. “‘Coffee run?’ That’s a new one.”

Bucky glowered at them, ears turning pink. “It was just coffee. And we walked.”

“Walked,” Tony echoed, lips twisting in an exaggerated pout. “Uh-huh, I’m sure.”

You, still glowing from the morning’s events, decided to speak up. “There was coffee, yes, and a few people...tried to start a conversation.”

Natasha picked up on your hint of confusion. “Tried to start a conversation? That’s a polite way of saying they were hitting on you in front of Bucky?”

You nodded earnestly, unwittingly dropping the bomb the team was waiting for. “Yes, actually! Twice, in fact. Bucky was not pleased.”

A collective gasp and a few stifled laughs rippled through the group. Sam hooted, patting Bucky’s shoulder. “Oh man, did you go all Winter Soldier on them? Metal arm intimidation?”

Bucky shrugged off Sam’s hand, trying to maintain dignity. “I just told them to buzz off. That’s all.”

Tony snickered. “I can see it now: ‘Move along, buddy, or you’ll be meeting Mr. Vibranium.’”

Steve, at least, tried to look sympathetic. “Glad it went okay, though. The date, I mean.”

“It was nice,” you said, the corners of your mouth lifting in a sincere smile. “Very…sweet.” You turned to Bucky, stepping closer. “Thank you for showing me more of Midgard’s culture.”

Before Bucky could form a reply, you leaned in and planted a quick, affectionate kiss on his cheek. The lobby erupted in whoops and cackles. Sam feigned swooning against Clint, who patted his forehead dramatically. Tony cupped a hand to his ear as though straining to hear wedding bells. Bucky froze, eyes going wide, heat rushing to his face. But the grin that broke out was nothing short of radiant.

“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” Tony teased, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “Looks like we’re gonna have to start calling you guys ‘Sugar and Spice.’”

Clint made an exaggerated smooching sound. “Or do we call you both ‘Buzz Off!’ and ‘He’s Mine!’”

Bucky grumbled something incoherent, but he still looked over at you with soft eyes that said he didn’t regret a thing.

[cece693]

What Can I Say? I'm a Man

pairing: will graham x male reader tags: just me being silly, but also serious cause will has a dumptruck, have you guys seen it, just me living vicariously through my fics cause damn, I would risk it all like hannibal did for will, will is a tease, beverly is the best wingwoman

When you joined the FBI’s Behavioral Science division, you expected a mountain of paperwork, a boss who spoke in monotone, and coworkers who lived on stale coffee. What you didn’t expect was Will Graham. Specifically, you didn’t expect his eyes to sparkle with shy intelligence—or for his perfectly round, absolutely mesmerizing butt to distract you at every turn.

The day you first met, Will wore an innocent-looking pair of jeans that somehow hugged every inch of his backside. It wasn’t your fault your eyes lingered on him longer than they should. You tried (and failed) to act like you were just adjusting your tie or checking the time on your phone. But anyone glancing your way could see the obvious: you were hooked.

Will, meanwhile, had always carried himself with a certain reticence. Soft-spoken, thoughtful, and occasionally lost in his own world. But when you walked in—tall, confident, exuding a suave air that made hearts skip—Will took note. Over the next few weeks, he realized he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. After all, you weren’t the only one thirsting over a coworker. Will found himself daydreaming about you in ways he knew weren’t entirely professional.

He told himself to snap out of it. He was a dedicated profiler, for heaven’s sake. But the moment he noticed you trying to discreetly peek at his backside? Let’s just say a certain mischievous streak awoke in him, one he rarely let others see.

Beverly Katz was the first to call you out. One morning, after Will sauntered by your desk in a pair of freshly pressed slacks that clung to him like sin, you nearly choked on your coffee. Beverly appeared at your elbow, smirking. “Is it me,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “or are his pants one size too small?”

You sputtered and tried to look offended. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She gave you a playful shove. “Just make sure you’re hydrating, because you look ready to pass out whenever he bends over a file box.”

You shot her a glare, cheeks blazing, but you couldn’t deny the truth. Will’s backside was a lethal weapon, and your thirst was borderline criminal. Beverly, for her part, found your plight endlessly entertaining. She took special delight in watching your eyes follow Will across the bullpen—like a starved man chasing a steak.

Will was fully aware of your wandering eyes. At first, it made him blush furiously—he wasn’t used to such direct admiration. But gradually, a little voice in the back of his head teased, Show him what he wants.

It started small: the subtle arch of his back when he stretched, ensuring that his hips angled perfectly in your line of sight. Then he progressed to wearing jeans a tad too snug on casual Fridays, or slightly fitted dress pants on normal workdays, all to test your reaction. And oh, he relished those reactions. He’d catch your jaw going slack, or see you turn a particularly vibrant shade of red. He’d pretend not to notice, hiding a smirk behind his paperwork.

But somewhere along the line, Will’s game stopped being purely playful. Because the more he turned up the heat—giving you unobstructed views of his glorious butt—the more he wanted your attention in other ways, too. He found himself fantasizing about you pushing him up against a desk, or catching him in the break room alone, pressing him against the wall.

It all came to a head one fateful Friday. Will strutted into work wearing dark-wash jeans that fit so snugly you could see every contour of his backside. The entire bullpen seemed to collectively do a double-take, but you nearly swallowed your tongue. Even Beverly let out a low whistle—something about “we need an HR meeting just for those jeans.”

You spent the day doing a terrible job of working, fidgeting at your desk, mind consumed with images of what it would feel like to squeeze, grab, knead that…ahem. By lunchtime, you were seriously considering faking a migraine and going home to avoid spontaneously combusting.

Beverly, noticing your tension, decided to nudge things along. She strode to your desk, arms crossed, a sly grin on her face. “He’s in the break room. Now’s your chance.”

“My chance for what?” You tried to play dumb.

She rolled her eyes. “To finally do something about the pining! My God, it’s unbearable. If you don’t make a move, I’m going to do it for you.” You set down your pen with a sigh, mustering your courage. Heart pounding, you headed toward the break room. Sure enough, Will was there, pouring coffee into a mug with his back turned. As you walked in, he half-glanced over his shoulder, smiling when he realized it was you. Then, deliberately, he arched his back just a bit more while he set the coffee pot down.

The flex was so obvious that you nearly tripped over your own feet. Your face went hot. You cleared your throat, trying to appear composed. “H-Hey, Will.”

He turned around slowly, eyes dancing with amusement. “Hey.”

He leaned a hip against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. The way his jeans stretched over his thighs and butt was… distracting, to say the least. “You, uh—” You gulped. “You look nice today.” It was an understatement of the century, but you had to start somewhere.

Will’s lips quirked. “Thanks. I may have chosen these jeans on purpose.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, heart stuttering. “O-on purpose for…?”

He took a step closer, leaving the coffee mug behind. “For you,” he admitted quietly, cheeks coloring. “I’ve noticed how you look at me. I…I kind of like it.”

For a moment, you forgot how to form words. Your mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts: He noticed? He did this for me? You inhaled sharply, setting your mug down before you spilled scalding coffee everywhere. “Will, I—I’m not exactly subtle, I know. I hope I never made you uncomfortable.”

A gentle laugh escaped him. “No, never uncomfortable. Believe me, I’m flattered—more than flattered.”

He edged close enough that you could smell his cologne, a warm, woodsy scent. “You’re…you’re the hot coworker in the department, you know,” Will whispered, eyes flicking over your face.

That statement alone made your brain short-circuit. He thinks I’m hot? Will swallowed, his voice going soft but urgent. “If you want to, maybe—kiss me, or—”

It was your turn to step in, bridging the last few inches between you. Without overthinking, you cupped his cheek and pressed your lips to his. It was tentative at first, a gentle, testing kiss that felt more like a question than a statement. But Will answered eagerly, sliding his hands around your waist. When your tongue brushed against his lips, he parted them with a quiet sigh, deepening the kiss. It sent a thrill down your spine—God, you’d been waiting for this forever.

As the kiss intensified, your hand drifted down, fingertips resting on the slope of his lower back. With a trembling breath, you moved lower, finally cupping that glorious backside you’d been admiring for so long. Will’s jeans were firm and warm beneath your touch, and the muscle underneath made your mind spin.

He responded with a soft gasp, his eyes fluttering shut. “Took you long enough,” he teased, voice muffled against your mouth.

You couldn’t hold back a husky chuckle. “I’ve been dying to do that since the day I met you.”

He pressed closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. “Let’s make up for lost time, then.” Your other hand joined in, giving a playful squeeze. The heat of the moment was intense, but it still felt safe—like you both understood exactly how far to push. Will’s breath hitched, and for a second, you worried you might’ve overstepped.

But he grinned, eyes dark with want. “I told Beverly I wanted to climb you like a dog in heat,” he confessed, half-laughing at his own words.

You let out a shocked, delighted bark of laughter. “I’m sorry—what?”

He buried his face in your shoulder, clearly mortified. “It just…slipped out during a moment of weakness.”

Your heart flipped. You slid a hand up to his nape, fingers threading through his curls. “Well, if it helps, I take it as the highest compliment.”

As if on cue, the door swung open behind you, and in walked Beverly—again. She stopped dead, mouth forming a little o of surprise as she caught you and Will pressed together. You tried to jump away, but Will’s grip on you was firm, almost possessive.

“Oh wow,” Beverly said, bright grin spreading across her face, “so that’s what a coffee break looks like these days.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—we—this isn’t—” Will simply shook his head, looking half-flustered, half-amused. “Beverly.”

She lifted her phone as though to snap a picture, but your death-glare dissuaded her. Still, she was positively glowing with smugness. “Alright, alright, I’ll let you have your privacy—just wanted to see if the machine had been refilled.”

Will turned to pick up his abandoned mug. “I think so,” he said as casually as possible. You, meanwhile, tried not to look like a teenager caught making out at prom. Beverly gave you a thumbs-up on her way out the door. “Carry on, lovebirds.”

Once the coast was clear, Will looked at you with amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I’d say we owe Beverly some kind of gift basket for pushing us together.”

You shook your head in exasperation, though you couldn’t hide your grin. “Yes, but also, she’s never going to let us live this down.” Will shrugged, leaning closer. “I think it’s worth the trade.” And then he placed a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips, making your heart flutter.

“Do you—would you like to go out tonight?” you asked, tucking a curl behind his ear. “Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve stale coffee and the prying eyes of our coworkers?”

He smiled softly. “I’d love that. Actually, I know this cozy little restaurant near Wolf Trap. Good food, decent beer, and I’ve been dying to take you there.” Your smile widened. “Sounds like a plan.”

That night, you and Will exchanged suit jackets for something more casual, meeting up outside the FBI offices. The tension between you was still there, but it had softened into a warm, mutual understanding. You wanted each other—and not just physically, though that part was undeniably electric.

Over dinner, you laughed, you talked, you learned little details about each other that you’d never have gleaned from mere hallway small talk. And the glances—those heated, affectionate glances—spoke volumes about the things you’d do when you finally got some real privacy.

Before parting ways, you found yourselves tangled in a kiss beside Will’s car, the cool night air contrasting sharply with the fire coursing through your veins. Will’s arms draped around your shoulders, your hands found their customary place on his waist, traveling south to rest on those perfect curves once again. He hummed in approval, nipping at your lower lip.

You parted, breathless and smiling. “I can’t believe it took us so long,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his.

Will’s eyes shone with affection. “Sometimes the best things are worth waiting for.” He paused, then added with a playful smirk, “But don’t think I’m done torturing you with these jeans at work.”

A laugh burst out of you, full of relief and excitement. “Torture away, Graham. Just don’t be surprised if I return the favor.”

[cece693]

Hey!! I wanted to make a request for Percy x (male reader) son of Apollo

The reader is mainly good at writing and drawing, and enjoys using Percy as his muse for his works.

Thank you, take all the time you need 🙇

Shades of Green and Gold

pairing: percy jackson x maler reader tags: you are kinda a stalker, returned feelings, first kiss, percy is too handsome for the reader, you can legit write sonnets about percy, cute but kinda creepy

You’re reasonably sure that no one else in Camp Half-Blood spends as much time admiring Percy Jackson’s hair as you do. You won’t deny it, because who could blame you? There’s something about the way he grins, the way his sea-green eyes light up when he’s on the verge of a clever remark, or the way he ruffles his hair after a long day of training. It’s enthralling. You’re an artist—writing, sketching, painting—son of Apollo, heir to creativity and light. And Percy Jackson is your favorite muse.

Every morning, you wake early to catch the exact moment the sun spills over the lake, painting the surface with soft pinks and gold. You slip out of the Apollo Cabin carefully, trying not to wake your rowdy half-siblings. You carry a small sketchbook and pencil in your hand, charcoal in the other. The crisp morning air still bites, but there’s something comforting about that quiet, in-between time.

You settle on a flat rock near the canoe lake. From here, you can watch the water, the line of cabins, and if you’re lucky—Percy Jackson heading off to breakfast or morning training. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve drawn him: in graphite, in watercolor, with ink. Half-finished poems about his eyes litter your journal.

Today is no different. As soon as you spot Percy, you can’t help but smile. He’s dragging a sword behind him, hair sticking out in all directions, still yawning. He’s adorable. You press your pencil to the page and start outlining his silhouette. The curve of his shoulders, the lines of his arms…You’re so focused that you barely notice when he turns and catches your gaze.

Percy raises his eyebrows in obvious curiosity. You flush, snapping your sketchbook shut, but it’s too late—he’s already jogging over. “Morning,” he says, grin slowly turning more playful. “Am I interrupting?”

You swallow and manage a small laugh, hugging the sketchbook to your chest. “Not at all. Just…practicing.”

He nods towards your pencil. “I see. Gonna show me sometime?”

Your heart beats louder than a battle drum. “Maybe…eventually.”

Percy’s grin grows. “I’ll hold you to that. See you at breakfast?”

You nod, and he jogs off, leaving you with that dopey, starstruck feeling you’ve never quite gotten used to. By the time you arrive at the Arena for combat practice, the midday sun is high and fierce—Apollo’s domain. You tie your golden camp shirt around your waist (much to your instructor’s dismay), opting for a lighter white tank top. Sweating profusely while you train with a bow is not your ideal way to spend an afternoon, but your father’s gift—unerring aim—doesn’t sharpen itself.

Chiron pairs you with Percy for a quick sparring session. It’s supposedly to “expand your skill set,” but you wonder if it’s the universe giving you more material for your sketches. You try to steady your heart as he flashes you another signature grin.

He wields his trusty sword, Riptide. You draw your bow, focusing on the center of the target behind him, but your eyes can’t help drifting to the lean lines of his arms. You almost feel guilty. Almost.

“All set?” Percy calls, pushing his dark hair out of his face.

“I’m ready,” you answer, stepping into position.

The session starts strong. You manage to keep your arrows close to the mark, even as Percy deflects them with impressive skill and a flurry of water from a nearby barrel. You can sense he’s showing off a bit—it’s Percy, after all. You grin. His confidence is infectious, and soon the two of you are exchanging friendly banter.

When you pause to catch your breath, Percy flicks water droplets from his blade in your direction. You splutter, trying not to laugh. He shrugs with an impish twinkle in his eye.

“Heard you’re a good artist,” he says casually, striding forward until you can see the slightest hint of sweat at his temples. “Piper told me your last painting of the Apollo Cabin was amazing.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s nothing big.”

“From what I hear, it’s a big deal,” Percy insists, stepping closer. The space between you is suddenly charged. “Will you show me your work someday? I mean it this time.”

“Sure.” You feel the sun warm you from above, the presence of your divine father giving you a little nudge of courage. “I’d like that.”

That evening, the sky burns a vivid orange as the sun descends behind the strawberry fields. You find yourself on the porch of the Big House, perched on a bench, scribbling in your notebook. You wanted to capture the memory of Percy deflecting your arrows, to freeze the moment onto the page with just the right words.

“Still practicing?” Percy’s voice comes from behind you, startling you so badly you almost drop your pencil.

“Percy! I—”

He doesn’t wait for you to form a coherent sentence; he slides onto the bench next to you. The fading sunlight catches the green in his eyes, setting them aglow. His presence is warm and all-consuming, even though the day is cooling down.

“Sorry to sneak up on you,” he says. “Thought you might be here.”

You let out a small laugh. “It’s fine. You just startled me.”

He nods toward your notebook. “May I?”

You hesitate. The words in that notebook are deeply personal. Poems about his eyes, the curve of his smile, your fleeting impressions of each encounter. But there’s something in Percy’s earnest expression that calls you to trust him. With trembling fingers, you pass the notebook over.

He flips through carefully, eyes scanning the lines of your writing. He stops occasionally, lips moving with the words, eyebrows quirking up at certain phrases. You sense your entire being is in that notebook, and he’s reading you like a story. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When Percy finally looks up, his eyes are strangely bright. “You wrote these…about me?”

You pull your gaze away. “I guess you could say you inspire me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You dare to look up and see a smile, soft and genuine, tugging at his lips. “It’s good. Like…really good. I had no idea I could be someone’s muse.”

You exhale a nervous laugh. “I, uh…I can show you the drawings, too, if you want.”

Percy nods, looking more interested than ever. “Definitely.”

You lead Percy to the Apollo Cabin and slip inside. Your siblings are out—probably at the campfire or racing chariots—leaving the bunks and scattered musical instruments in a hush. You rummage beneath your bunk, pulling out a battered portfolio.

It’s stuffed with sketches—some finished, some half-done. A watercolor of Percy standing by the lake. A charcoal piece of him gripping Riptide. A gentle pencil sketch focusing on just his face…his eyes, to be precise. You lay them out across your bunk. Percy stands behind you, so close you can practically feel the warmth radiating off him. You swallow, heart pounding, as he takes in each piece.

“They’re amazing,” he breathes, leaning down to pick one up. “I never realized—this is how you see me?”

You can’t quite meet his eyes. “There’s something about you, Percy,” you admit. “Your energy, your aura. You’re like the sea itself—constantly shifting, alive with motion. It inspires me. Helps me write, helps me draw. I never wanted to freak you out, so I kept it mostly to myself.”

Percy gently returns the piece of artwork to your bunk, then turns you around by the shoulder so you’re facing him. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt.

“I’m not freaked out,” he says. “I’m flattered, honestly.” He chuckles, eyes scanning your face as though he’s searching for any hint of uncertainty. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me.”

You feel a burst of warmth in your chest. “Really?”

“Really.” Percy exhales a soft laugh, letting his hand drop to your wrist. “I like it. And I’d like to see more—whatever you make. If that’s okay.”

You search his expression, uncertain if you’re reading the situation correctly. The glimmer in his sea-green eyes suggests you might be. Mustering your courage, you nod slowly. “You can see everything,” you say, voice hushed in the quiet cabin. “I—I’d really like that.”

His smile widens. “Thank you.”

You swallow, that same unstoppable grin blossoming across your own face. The tension thickens, but it’s a gentle tension, a comforting one. He leans forward, and you feel his forehead against yours, that sweet, electric moment of closeness you’ve been imagining for weeks.

Finally, your lips brush softly, uncertain at first. Then Percy returns the kiss, delicate yet full of promise. It’s the kind of quiet moment that you know you’ll replay over and over in your sketches, in your poems, in your daydreams. When you finally pull away, you can’t help but laugh in disbelief. Percy gives a contented sigh, resting his forehead against yours again.

“Would it kill the mood if I told you I knew about this?"