#The skirt one is my version and the long one is more one to one with the gift
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đĽđ˘đ¤đ đ˘ đđ¨ | lando norris Ă fem!reader
summary | you confront lando about his new girlfriend, accusing him of replacing you. he admits he still feels for you, but you demand he prove his love by choosing you fully, not as an option
warnings | emotional manipulation, angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, rebound relationship dynamics, betrayal
word count | 2.2 k



đ sctw album đ more ln4
You see it from afar.
His laugh, the way he runs a hand through his hair, that same sidelong glance that used to be yours.
And her...
Sheâs wearing your coat. Well, not literally, but it looks like it. Same cut, same worn-out beige tone, like she stalked your old photos and built a Pinterest mood board with your name on it.
"Y/N?" your friend whispers, nudging you. "You okay?"
Youâre not. But you smile. Of course you are. Youâve had months to prepare for this. To see them together.
Lando and the watered-down version of you.
She laughs a little too hard at something he barely said. Her hands reach for his like she has something to prove, like sheâs marking territory.
And the worst part...
Lando doesnât even notice.
Or he does. And he likes it.
"You look incredible," he says later, when fate decides to put you face to face. Charity event, lots of familiar faces, lots of cameras.
"Thanks," you reply, smoothing your skirt with a grace you didnât have when you were with him. You donât try to be cool anymore. You just are.
She shows up two steps behind, with a rehearsed smile and a scripted comment:
"I love your shoes! I literally saw them at Zara the other day and thought, this is so Y/N."
You look at her.
Itâs not just the shoes. Itâs your perfume. Your hairstyle. Your way of saying âliterally.â
Itâs creepy. And honestly, kind of pathetic.
"Yeah?" you say with a thin smile. "Well, not everyone has their own style."
She laughs, like itâs a joke. Lando doesnât. He frowns. Because he knows you.
And you know he knows.
"It was a joke," she clarifies, but the tremble in her voice betrays her.
"Sure," you reply. "I just didnât find it funny."
Hours later, you're on the terrace, a glass of wine in hand and a faint song playing in the background. The breeze carries memories, ones you'd rather not invoke. But there they are.
Your fingers laced with his, a broken promise, a fight in Monaco, tears in an airport.
"You shouldn't have said that," his voice comes from behind.
"Which part? The style thing? Or the not everyone part?"
Lando sighs.
"Sheâs not you."
"No. But she tries to be."
You turn around. Heâs closer than you expected.
"Does it bother you?" he asks.
"What bothers me," you say calmly, "is that you let it happen."
Silence.
"You let her step into my place. What did you expect? That she wouldn't try to fit the shape I left behind?"
Lando doesnât answer. But his jaw tightens.
And for the first time in a long time, you see something in his eyes you didnât see when you were together:
Doubt.
And thatâs when you understand.
Maybe sheâs copying you because heâs still looking for you everywhere.
Lando doesnât speak at first. He just looks at you with that intense stare you once could read with your eyes closed. Now, itâs all noise.
"You donât have the right to be mad," he finally says.
"And you had the right to replace me so quickly?"
"Iâm not replacing you."
You laugh, dry.
"Right. Itâs just a coincidence that she likes the same movies I do, drinks her coffee the same way, and has the same ringtone I used to have. What a coincidence."
Lando takes a step toward you.
"Sheâs not you, okay? No matter how hard she tries. And Iâm not the same since you left."
Your eyes lock with his. You see it: the regret, the confusion, the restrained desire.
"I didnât leave," you whisper. "You let me go. Donât forget that."
Days later, the universe plays dirty again: a private event, a small guest list, and of course, sheâs there. Like a shadow. Like an echo. Wearing a skirt you used to wear and a hairstyle he once complimented⌠on you.
But this time, youâre done playing nice.
"Can we talk?" she asks when Lando gets distracted.
You raise your brows.
"Now you want to talk to me?"
"Itâs just that..." she bites her lip. "I didnât know it bothered you so much."
"What? That you copy me or that youâre dating my ex?"
She stays silent.
"Look," you add, your tone unchanged. "I donât care that youâre with him. What bothers me is that you think copying me is the only way to make him like you. That says a lot more about you than it does about me."
She blushes.
And you walk away. Because you donât have time for imitations.
Later, as youâre picking up your bag at the coat check, Lando appears behind you. Again. Always him.
"What did you say to her?"
"The truth," you reply without turning around. "Isnât that what you used to like about me?"
"I still do."
You freeze. Slowly, you turn.
Heâs close. Too close. Same scent, same chaos.
"Donât say that."
"Why not?"
"Because weâre nothing now."
"Then why are you still hurt? Why do you look at me like that every time weâre in the same room?"
Your breath catches.
"Why are you still looking for me in other people, Lando?"
And thatâs all it takes.
The tension bursts into an unplanned kiss â fast, furious, full of unspoken words. No cameras, no witnesses. Just the two of you, trapped in a corner where you still exist.
His hands hold you like youâre still his. Your fingers cling to his jacket like no time has passed. It hurts. But it feels good. It feels real.
"This doesnât change anything," you whisper against his lips.
"It changes everything," he replies.
And for the first time, you donât know if that gives you hope⌠or scares you.
Lando doesnât say anything at first. He just looks at you with that intensity of his the one you used to read with your eyes closed. Now, everything is noise.
"You donât have the right to be angry," he says at last.
"And you had the right to replace me so quickly?"
"Iâm not replacing her."
You laugh, dry.
"Right. Itâs just a coincidence that she likes the same movies I do, that she now drinks her coffee the way I used to, and that she uses the same song as her ringtone. What a coincidence."
Lando takes a step toward you.
"Sheâs not you, okay? No matter how hard she tries. And Iâm not the same since you left."
Your eyes lock onto his. You see it: the regret, the confusion, the restrained desire.
"I didnât leave," you whisper. "You left me. Donât forget that."
Days later, the universe plays dirty again: a private event, a small guest list, and of course, sheâs there. Like a shadow. Like an echo. Wearing a skirt you used to wear and a hairstyle he once complimented⌠on you.
But this time, youâre not here to play nice.
"Can we talk?" she asks when Lando gets distracted.
You raise your eyebrows at her.
"Now you want to talk to me?"
"Itâs just thatâŚ" she bites her lip. "I didnât know it bothered you so much."
"What? That you copy me or that youâre dating my ex?"
She stays silent.
"Look," you add, your tone unchanged, "I donât care that youâre with him. What bothers me is that you think copying me is the only way to make him like you. That says more about you than it does about me."
She flushes.
And you walk away. Because you donât have time for imitations.
Later, while you're grabbing your purse at the coat check, Lando appears behind you. Again. Always him.
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth," you reply without turning around. "Isnât that what you liked about me?"
"I still do."
You freeze. Slowly, you turn.
Heâs close. Too close. Same scent, same chaos.
"Donât say that."
"Why not?"
"Because weâre nothing now."
"Then why are you still hurt? Why do you look at me like that every time weâre in the same room?"
Your breath catches.
"Why are you still looking for me in other people, Lando?"
And thatâs all it takes.
The tension erupts into an unplanned kissâfast, furious, full of unspoken words. No cameras, no witnesses. Just the two of you, trapped in a corner where you still exist.
His hands hold you like you still belong to him. Your fingers cling to his jacket like time never passed. It hurts. But it feels good. It feels real.
"This doesnât change anything," you whisper against his lips.
"It changes everything," he replies.
And for the first time, you donât know if that gives you hope⌠or fear.
The hallway lights flicker. In the distance, you hear laughter, music muffled by the thick club walls. But youâre still there, caught between yesterday and now, with his lips still brushing yours.
"This shouldnât be happening," you murmur, without conviction.
Lando looks at you with a storm in his eyes.
"But it is. It always happens when weâre close."
And then, as if the universe demands immediate revenge, she appears.
"Lando?"
Your body freezes. Guilt crashes over you like ice.
Lando takes a step back, his lips still red, his breath uneven.
She sees you. She doesnât need an explanation. The pieces fall into placeâyour lips, his rumpled jacket, your guilty eyes. It says everything.
"Seriously?" her voice trembles. "Here? With her?"
No one replies. There are no excuses. What could you say? That he kissed you first, that it wasnât your intention, that youâre confused too?
But you donât.
Because youâre not confused.
And that makes it worse.
"Since when?" she asks. "Was it always like this? Since we started dating?"
"No," Lando says, still looking at you. "But I never stopped feeling it."
She laughs. A hollow, wounded sound.
"Of course. How could I compete with her ghost if you never let her go?"
You feel awful. Not for confronting her. But because deep down, you always knew this would happen. That he was with you in body, but with her in memory.
She turns to leave. And for a moment, you almost go after her.
But you donât. Because he doesnât move. He doesnât run after her.
Heâs still there. With you.
"Youâre not going after her," you whisper, more surprised than angry.
"I canât."
"Why?"
Lando swallows.
"Because sheâs not you."
Hours later, youâre in his car. No destination, just familiar streets and the radio playing low. Not much talking just breathing the same air. But something has changed.
"So now what?" you ask.
"I donât know," he admits. "But I know what I donât want."
You glance at him sideways.
"What donât you want?"
"To lose you again."
And that sentence⌠it stays with you like an invisible scar.
But the problem is, this time, youâre not the one who has to stay. He has to prove heâs changed.
You stay at his apartment that night, but not out of love. Not out of habit. Just because you donât have the energy to run⌠yet.
The city sleeps, but you donât.
Youâre sitting at the edge of the couch, a blanket over your legs. Lando stands by the window with a glass of wine he hasnât touched.
The silence is heavy. Heâs waiting for you to say something. You decide itâs time.
"You know what hurt the most?" you ask, without looking at him.
He turns slightly.
"What?"
"That you made me feel replaceable."
You say it slowly, like each word is a punch.
"Like everything I was to you could be copied, shaped into someone else. Someone younger. Easier. Less complicated."
Lando closes his eyes.
"I didnât go after her for that."
"It doesnât matter why you did it. You did it. And not only that. You turned her into me. You gave her everything you used to give me⌠just without the love you had for me."
"Donât say that," he replies, hurt.
"Why not? Does the truth bother you?"
You stand, the blanket falls. Now you look him in the eye.
"Or does it bother you to realize you were never honest with yourself?"
He puts the glass down. Walks toward you.
"Y/N⌠I loved you. I love you. I swear."
"Donât swear it. I donât want empty promises."
Your voice shakes, but you donât.
"Do you know how hard it was to rebuild myself after you? You were in everything. My coffee, my playlist, my Sundays. And just when I started to breathe without feeling you, you decide to kiss me."
Lando swallows hard.
"I didnât plan that."
"But you did it."
You pause. Swallow the lump in your throat.
"And she saw it. You know whatâs worse? She hates me, when youâre the one who dragged her into this. Just like you dragged me."
Lando lowers his gaze.
"Youâre right."
"Of course I am."
You inhale deeply.
"And thatâs why Iâm not falling again. Not unless youâre willing to do what you never did."
He looks up.
"Whatâs that?"
Your voice is firm. Steady.
"Choose me."
Silence.
"Not as an option, not as an escape, not as comfort. Choose me fully. With the consequences. With the ugly parts. With the real stuff."
He nods.
"Then give me the chance to prove it."
"No."
Your words hit him hard.
"No?"
"Prove it away from me. Change without me as your excuse. Be better without needing to kiss me to remember why you loved me."
You take a step back.
"And if after that you still choose me⌠then weâll talk."
#đď¸ lando norris#lando norris one shot#lando norris x reader#lando norris imagine#lando x reader#lando norris#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#f1 fanfic#formula 1 x you#formula 1 x reader
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The Third Rule
Lily x Oscar Piastri x You (Reader)
Chapter 13 - What He Doesnât Say Out Loud
It started subtly.
A reaction to one of (Y/N)âs Instagram stories â the one of her at dinner with Matteo and some friends. Oscar just sent the đ emoji. Nothing else. No context. No follow-up.
Then it happened again.
âNew haircut?ââDidnât know you liked jazz bars.ââThat guy in your post, he your boyfriend?â
He always phrased it casually. As if he was just making conversation. But the timing was too perfect â always after she posted something where she looked too happy, too far removed from the version of her that had once let him lift her skirt in a quiet kitchen.
(Y/N) answered when she felt polite. Brief. Dry.
âJust a date.ââYeah, I needed a change.ââItâs not that serious.â
But Oscarâs messages kept coming â a bit more frequent, a little later at night, always when Lily wasnât around. Heâd ask how school was going, if she was still planning on applying for the summer internship abroad, if sheâd watched the latest race.
Sometimes, heâd get quiet. And then, out of nowhere:
âI saw that photo of you smiling. The real kind. Havenât seen that in a while.â
(Y/N) didnât respond to that one. She didnât know how to.
Because it wasnât fair. He was still with Lily. Still living the life theyâd chosen, the relationship theyâd promised to keep simple. And yet, there he was â prying the door open again. A door (Y/N) was trying very hard to keep closed.
She muted his messages for a few days. Not blocked â just muted.
Matteo noticed her mood shift one evening while walking her home.
âYou okay?â âYeah. Just tired. Finals.â âIs it that race guy again?â he asked gently, not judging â just... seeing her.
(Y/N) blinked up at him, surprised. âHow do you know?â
He smiled, pulling her hand into his. âYou go quiet when heâs in your head.â
That night, she decided not to check her DMs.
And for the first time in weeks, she slept soundly.
.
The message came on a Tuesday morning while you were halfway through rewriting your resume.
âHi (Y/N), we received your name through a trusted internal reference. We'd love to schedule an interview with you for a potential internship position at McLaren. Would you be available this week?â
You stared at the screen for a long moment. Your pulse quickened â this couldnât be real. But you knew who it was.
You called Oscar.
He picked up after two rings. âHey,â he said, voice soft. Like heâd been waiting.
You didnât waste time. âIt was you, wasnât it?â
He chuckled faintly. âDonât be mad.â
âOscarââ
âI just passed your name along. Thatâs it. No strings, no expectations. I just... I guess I felt bad. About everything. And this felt like the right thing to do.â
You leaned against the wall of your room, your voice gentler now. âYou didnât have to do that.â
âI know. But Lily thought it would be a good idea too. She said youâd never forgive me if I didnât at least try to make something right.â
There was a pause. You didnât know what to say.
Oscar filled the silence, his voice low but sincere. âItâs just an interview. If you get it, itâs because youâre qualified. I didnât do anything but open a door.â
âThank you,â you said, after a long beat.
Later that day, you went to find Lily.
She was reading on the couch when you sat beside her. âThank you,â you said simply.
She looked over, raising an eyebrow.
âOscar told me everything. The internship. You... backing it.â
Lily smiled. âHe felt guilty. I think he didnât know how else to fix things.â
âI think I mightâve pushed him away too hard.â
âYou had every right to,â Lily said, not missing a beat. âBut Oscarâs not angry. He just wants you to be okay.â
You looked down at your hands. âI never wanted to get in your way. Between you and him.â
Lily gave you a small, tired smile. â(Y/N). Weâve been best friends for years, but itâs not just romantic.â
 âI love him,â she continued. âAnd heâll probably always be part of my life. But weâre... end game. Donât worry.â
Silence. Then, she nudged your knee gently with hers. âSo take the internship, (Y/N). You deserve it. And if that chapter comes with a fresh start, let it.â
You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it felt like the ground beneath you had stopped shifting.
Tag List:
@freyathehuntress, @mimisweetz, @aleatorio1234, @totallynotluluu, @rorabelle15, @prongslena, @linnygirl09, @mangotaitai, @forensicheart, @devilacot, @lilorose25, @landofotographyy, @paolexsstuff, @sanctify-mp3, @emma-manuhpe, @virtualperfectioncat
#oscar piastri x you#oscar piastri imagine#oscar x you#oscar x reader#oscar piastri#f1 fanfiction#f1 imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1#f1 x reader#formula 1#op81#formula one imagine#formula 1 imagine#imagine#formula one x reader#formula one fic#formula one fanfiction#one shot#formula one#love triangle#poliamor#threelove#fanfic#fanfiction#x reader#x you
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INTRODUCING . . . SWEETHEARTÂĄREADER

sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . is a pillow princess with big, blonde, bouncy curls && soft lips (which she loves taking care of). sheâs a big self-care girl, && spends most of her nights doing face masks, hair care, skin care, body scrubs, basically everything to make herself the best (most softest) version of herself.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . looooves all things pink, && girly, && sparkly. her room is straight out of a fairytale, && her closet? to die for. sheâs got all the 2000âs lacy babydoll tees, the short skirts, && bejeweled low-rise jeans. her shoe collection is a sight to behold, && her boyfriend is more than happy to add to it.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . learned to do makeup young, which resulted in perfecting the routine early on. when she first met her boyfriend he was sure she was straight from heaven. his little angelic sweetheart.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . is a big spring / summer girl who loves a good tanâeven though her fair skin is ultra-sensitiveâshe takes all the necessary precautions to keep herself looking perfect, soft, && young.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . cat person all the way just because theyâre soft && gentle (&& mainly because they are low maintenance with the best cuddly reward). thankfully, her lovely boyfriend gifted her her dream kitty just a few weeks into dating && sheâs treasured her ever since.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . is an innocent attention whoreâemphasis on innocent. sheâs all big doe eyes, soft pink lips, && perfectly blushed cheeks. sheâs quick to give him âthat lookâ when heâs been on the game for too long, stays with his friends for more than a couple hours, or comes home late. she knows just how to make him feel sorry enough for her to drop to his knees as an apology.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . was gifted a âRâ necklace a couple days after they met, && hasnât taken it off since. he loves itâthe control, the possessionâ&& she doesnât mind being claimed when it comes with the love, && passion that is. . . rafe cameron.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . is a lover of sitcoms like âhow i met your motherâ, âsex and the cityâ, && âfriendsâ, && movies like âpretty womanâ, âdirty dancingâ, && âwhen harry met sallyâ. her boyfriend isnât a big fan, but heâll never pass up the opportunity to have your head in his lap, hearing your soft giggles, && running his hands through your hair.
sweetheartÂĄreader who . . . collects jellycats like nobodyâs business, so rafe made it a tradition to get a new one for every date they go on. her bed is completely overtaken by all the stuffed animals, but she loves it because theyâre all a product of rafeâs love for you.
SWEETHEARTÂĄREADER WORKS.á
â๨ŕ§Ë â¤ď¸ Ë ŕŁŞ coming soon . . .
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Š URCOOLGF.  est. 2025
#urcoolgf#sweetheartÂĄreader intro#sweetheartÂĄreader#meet the character#meet the reader#rafe cameron#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron outer banks#rafe obx#rafe outer banks#rafe cameron x reader#rafe x reader#rafe x you#outer banks rafe#outerbanks rafe
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hello!! i saw your fratboy shauna and lottie posts and i am obsessed with them. could you please make a mellisa one? no rush, i just think your writing is amazing and would love to read that!!
â so american || fratboy and g!p melissa headcanons đť



a/n: the og fratboy!! thank you so much anon <3
summary: sheâs human version of overexcited golden retriever whenever sheâs around you. and sheâs very proud of that. modern college au. girlfriend!melissa.
warnings: NSFW content - MDNI
â
â if melissa had a tail, it would wag everytime she sees you. her ears would perk up, carefully listening and waiting for your orders. really.
she belongs to those frats, obviously. plays soccer, throws parties, always sneaking in alcohol. she tries to be all tough and smug as others, but if it comes to melâŚsheâs more of a softie than real cocky asshole. an very awkward, a bit dumb, but still somehow endearing.
â
â in the begging, she has a big crush on shauna, until, well, she realizes itâs not what she wants or needs. and when sheâs all ready to give up on having crushes at all, cause, letâs be real, her romantic life isnât as excited as the rest of frats, she meets you.
â
â okay, not exactly meet. she talked to you. once. but it was enough to develop massive, massive crush on you. you were asking her about teachers or something, she didnât know. she could just nod and pretend she listens to you instead of dumbly staring at you. she was focusing on your voice, wellâŚon the sound of it. not the words exactly. her cheeks were flushed in seconds and she swore all she wanted to do, was to tug her cap tighter and scream. god, she never were so fucked.
fortunately, you thought itâs cute. the way she stuttered slightly around you. always tried to be close to you. even if she wasnât the most confident and flirtatious, she was treating you like you were the most precious thing on the world. she lingered â always there to hold your small mirror when you were fixing your make up, always sit next to you, laughing at your jokes a bit too hard.
â
â others mocked her. about the fact that she got it that bad and she didnât even try to hide it. but it worked, youâre dating now. besides, youâre gorgeous and sheâs ready to tell the whole world that youâre, in fact, couple.
âno, really, itâs pathetic,â some of her friends scoffs. she stares at them, brows furrowed as she fixes her cap.
âpathetic?â she repeats, trying to made sense out of it each time. always failing. her friend nods and she shakes her head. âobviously, thatâs myâŚ
her friend groans, stopping her before she can starts talking about you. cause once she begins, she wonât stop until sheâll be sitting here, soft smile plastered on her face, thinking about you for the rest of the day.
â
â do i really have to mention it? yes, melissa has weird amount of hats. yes, sheâs wearing them all the time. but what about melissa having a thing for denim? especially denim jackets. theyâre clinging to her the way hats do.
â
â the fact that sheâs not so smug and bratty, doesnât mean sheâs not possessive. god, she is. probably more than rest of the frats. it has something to do with hers clinginess. sheâs not just touching you, sheâs barely letting you go alone to the bathroom. always wrapped around you â from behind, at your side, in bed â doesnât really matter. as long as she can touch you.
â
â sheâs not beating up people, who hits on you. no, she simply gets whiny, being annoying and needy until you pay attention to her. and if you finally do, thereâs few minutes before she drags you to her bedroom to finger you.
â
â speaking of â she loves to hump you, too. your thighs, to be specific, groaning into your neck, whimpering your name. she doesnât need a lot to shamelessly cum, messing her jeans and boxers inside. usually, she smears cum accidentally on your skin or pants, too.!
âjesus, melââ you start, glancing at the sticky stain on your skirt. sheâs still pressed to you, now in a bit uncomfortable position. itâs all hot and her cum clings to you.
âim sorry,â she murmurs into your neck, still trembling and panting. she refuses to let you go, caging your leg between her own. pressing softening cock to your leg. âi couldnât help myself,â she mumbles.
â
â oh, sheâs awful at holding back orgasm. always cumming a bit too quick. she doesnât exactly knows if itâs because you smell so good m, or your skin is so soft. her cock just erupts after few minutes despite the fact that sheâs pretty experienced. in one second sheâs fucking you deep and hard, and in the next one, sheâs whining, cumming into you (fist, mouth, pussy â whatever)
â
â for some reason, she has a weird thing for cum. hers, yours, mixed together. not exactly a breeding kink but she likes to push white ropes inside you, when it leaks out. spreads your cum all over your thighs and belly â only to lick it clean later. she just loves the taste of it.
â
â sheâs just a needy puppy. goes anywhere you go, overexcited whenever she sees you. but can you blame her? she loves you, youâre her first serious relationship. naturally, sheâs obsessed.
â
â she braids your hair. itâs her way to tell you i love you. some evenings, she just sits with you and with careful hands, she makes cute braids on your head. she kisses the crown of it at the end â after you end your gossip about everything and everyone at college.
â
â oh right, sheâs walking you to your classes. make sure that youâre not gonna get lost somewhere. as if it was possible.
âmelissa,â you say half amused, half annoyed. âim not a toddler, i can walk aloneâŚââ
âyeah,â she says but her hand is already around your shoulders. marking what belongs to her so everyone on the hallway can see. maybe walking with you itâs her weird way to say that hey, losers! this one belongs to me! âlet me be your gentleman,â she grins and you just shake your head with a smile.
â
â oh yeah, sheâs making awful jokes. mostly dirty jokes. and you swear, theyâre so stupid thatâŚmakes them funny. you feel like youâre embarrassed by yourself everytime you laugh at them. sheâs always so proud of herself tho.
â
â is willing to do absolutely everything for you. small things like making you breakfast, buying something you canât, picking up your package. and those who means way more to you. always going with you to the cinema because you wanted to see particular movie. finishing your homework when youâre too tired. she just wants to be there for you.
â
â youâre her favourite person. no matter how much her friends tease her for being a simp, no matter how many times youâll be arguing over small shits. is she over clinging? absolutely. whatâs more, sometimes sheâs just a dummy in her cap, knowing only how to kick ball around. but you wouldnât have this any other way.
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hi love! honestly i donât at all remember what my last ask wasâapologies if it was bad đ how would you feel about doing preferences of all the lads being with a hippie girl?
đđđ đđđđđđđ đđđđ đ đđđđđđ đđđđ
ę° pairing ęą paul mccartney x fem!reader, john lennon x fem!reader, george harrison x fem!reader, ringo starr x fem!reader
ę° note ęą hi sweetpea! no worries at all, your asks are always lovely!!! truly, you never miss âĄâĄ the term âhippieâ didnât come into popular use until around 1967 during the counterculture movement so this is like.. a bit after that!!
ę° JOHN ęą
"Iâd rather wear flowers in my hair than a crown on my head."
John doesnât just fall for you, he spirals.
Itâs like you open a trapdoor in his head and suddenly heâs floating: freer, lighter, more curious than heâs felt in years.
You donât laugh at his new spiritual phases or the way he talks in spirals about peace and revolution and love.
You add to the conversation and it drives him wild.
When you're lying on his floor painting murals in silence, barefoot and lost in thought, he watches you like youâre the only real thing in the room.
He was cynical about labels at first, âhippies, mods, itâs all just uniforms, innit?â
But with you, he saw past the surface.
You werenât pretending. You meant it.
He wants to match the integrity you carry in your chest like fire.
Youâre the only person who could calm his anger with a sentence.
Or set it alight in the right direction.
He writes songs about you that sound like dreams half-remembered.
You open up a softer version of John.
ę° PAUL ęą
âYouâre like a daisy in a bloody thunderstorm, love.â
Paul is endlessly enchanted by your peacefulness.
You donât push him; you let him come to you, like a bird to an open hand.
He jokes that youâre like a little woodland creature when he first sees you barefoot in the garden, talking to bees and naming trees.
Heâs drawn to your unstructured days and spiritual mutterings, even if he doesnât quite understand it.
Youâre not trying to escape reality, youâre building a better one inside it.
You teach him to slow down, to notice the birdsong between takes, to value the sunrise as much as the spotlight.
He adores your style. The long skirts, beads, scarves tied in your hair, heâll often ��borrowâ your accessories for photoshoots.
Heâs the first to build you a little greenhouse or studio to âdo your earthy things in.â
He draws flowers on your bare back with his fingertip while you lie in the grass.
When you turn around, he says, âIâve got a whole garden growinâ in me chest just from lovinâ you.â
ę° GEORGE ęą
âYou've got a better understanding of the divine than most priests, yâknow.â
George got it. Immediately.
The incense, the barefoot grounding, the eastern philosophies, you were already living what he was studying.
He admired your gentleness. How you listened before you spoke. How you sat with pain and didnât flinch.
He was always the most spiritually attuned of the boys, so your quiet reverence for nature and music and meaning strikes him like a tuning fork to the soul.
Your love isnât loud. Itâs built in glances, in hands grazing as you pass, in a shared breath after a long meditation.
You both believe in past lives, and George is absolutely convinced youâve known each other before.
You donât disagree.
He lives for your garden days, where he watches you tend to plants like theyâre your children.
Sometimes he joins you, dirt under his nails, quiet smile on his face.
ę° RINGO ęą
"I like how you smell like grass and strange perfume. Itâs nice."
Ringo is in awe of you.
He doesn't always understand your herbalism books or your cosmic ramblings, but he loves the way you light up when you talk about them.
You make flower crowns and plop them on his head mid-breakfast.
He loves it.
He brings you wildflowers from gas station stops like theyâre diamonds.
âThey were growinâ out of the carpark, thought of you.â
He never thought much about that counterculture stuff before you came along, but now heâs rearranging his flat so the light hits your dreamcatcher just right.
You like that he doesnât try to be deep.
He is deep in his own way.
Ringo sees everything, even when he doesnât talk about it.
You spend lazy afternoons painting each other's faces or lying in the garden naming clouds.
taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee
#the beatles#the beatles fanfic#the beatles x reader#fanfic#fanfiction#beatles x reader#beatles#john lennon#paul mccartney#ringo starr#george harrison#john lennon fanfic#john lennon imagines#paul mccartney x reader#paul mccartney imagines#paul mccartney fanfic#john lennon x reader#ringo starr imagines#ringo starr x reader#george harrison x reader#george harrison imagines#headcanons#beatles headcanons
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Oh I forgot to post this...based on a B-day present I got from a friend


[Click for better quality]
#Yes Vinny in an apron was a gift I got!!!#The skirt one is my version and the long one is more one to one with the gift#My hubby đ¤â¤â¤â¤đĽşđ#Ff7#Ffvii#ff7 remake#Ff7 Rebirth#Final fantasy 7#final fantasy vii#Final fantasy#ff7 vincent#Vincent Valentine#Digital art#Artwork#Fanart#Fandom#I could draw him more in silly outfits....I still need to do my EC x Smt collab outfits.....#Da BirdQueen art
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~leg prosthetics~ sock category/ tattoo option!
This was a channel point redemption by a community member on my twitch that was wanting a leg prosthetic/prosthesis with a floral design (there are 5 floral swatches, zul!!) There is always space for more accessibility items in game, so I hope you enjoy these!
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LEG PROSTHESES:
⼠45 swatches
⼠base game compatible!
⼠the sock category version is 3d and therefore only compatible with shorts, skirts, etc. But it is compatible with most shoes!
⼠the tattoo version is flat and not as realistic, but is compatible with all clothes, shoes, and everything else. I recommend using this one (either on its own or paired with the sock version) so your sims can still have their accessibility aid with long pants, boots, no magical legs reappearing when they take a shower, etc.
⼠comes in masculine frame, feminine frame, tattoo, and merged options.
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Follow me on twitch!
Support me on patreon!
DOWNLOAD THE LEG PROSTHETICS ON SIM FILE SHARE!Â
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TOU: do not redistribute, reupload, or claim my cc/CAS rooms/presets as your own! recolour/convert/otherwise alter for personal use OR upload with credit. (no paywalls)
I am wcif friendly if you want anything seen here!
I DO CUSTOM CAS ROOM (and other) COMMISSIONS! fill out my commission form âĽ
#sims 4#sims4#thesims4#ts4#s4cc#ts4cc#sims 4 cc#sims 4 custom content#my cc#the sims cc#sims4mm#maxis match#maxis mix#ts4 accessibility aids
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I have so many short & sweet videos on my fyp right now. I canât stop thinking about singer!reader announcing her f1 bf by arresting him and dedicating Juno to him like Sabrina does at her concerts. The fans would go wild!!! Iâm desperate for this fic
Juno (Live from the Shrot n'Sweet Tour)
Lando Norris x fem!singer!reader
Summary: requested as above.
Wordcount: 0.6k
Warnings: (very) suggestive content, smau (a first time for me, i hope it's alright), flirting, fluff
Note: omgg, this is such an good idea! I loved writing it! I chose Lando bc, I just love writing for him, hope that's alright with you. If not, let me know and I'll (gladly) make another version.
Masterlist, Short n'Sweet Series

âIf you havenât already noticed,â Y/n announced, making the crowd go quiet to hear her talk. âWe have a special guest tonight in the crowd.â
The moment the words left her lips and the camera panned to the guy in the audience, beaming up at her with the biggest smile one could muster, the crowd went wild. Lando was just laughing at the reaction.
Everyone there knew how big of an f1 fan Y/n was. Having attended some grand prixs already and posting her reactions to every race on her insta story, she didnât try to make her love for the sport unknown.
The camera went back to the woman on stage, sirens going off and making everyone know what would happen next. It was a common tradition on the tour. But now, it was different when she said, âIâm sorry, sir, but Iâm afraid youâre under arrest for being too hot.â
The way she winked at him and from how red he got at the mere eye contact with her, made it obvious this wasnât mindless flirting. This was proper natural behavior for them.
âThat hot, formula 1 driver I have absolutely no relation to.â She pointed out at the crowd. âYou know who I mean, right? Of course, you do.â She nodded in approval at the crowd as they clapped and shouted in excitement. They were there for the show and boy, were they going to give them one.
âSorry, what was your name again?â She asked innocently, holding the microphone in his direction.
Instead of one answer, she got thousands. All calling one name: Lando.
âOh, okay. Okay,â she said after genuinely being surprised by the amounts of answers she received.
âLando, gosh,â she continued talking, waving her hand in front of her face like she was trying not to faint. âLando.â She mused his name, making it melt on her tongue like it was the most beautiful thing she heard.
She didnât need to ask, but a script is a script. âLando, where are you from?â
âMonaco,â he shouted back this time.
âMonaco? So, youâre rich?â He nodded. âAnd you came all the way here to see me?â
âOnly for you.â
âOnly for me? Youâre too much. Stop it.â Waving her hand at him, as a blush graced her face and she scrunched up her nose. âYouâre doing things to me, boy. I canât even.â
Before she could keep on rambling, her backup dancer opened the back of her once long skirt making it fall down, revealing a shorter version. She stepped out of it, saying, âOh my god, my clothes are falling of for you. This is embarrassing.â
She heard his voice again, a flirty comment leaving his lips: âWouldnât be the first time.â
âWouldnât be the first time?â She repeated, trying to see if she heard him correctly. When he nodded, she could see the confidence building up inside of him more and more. He wasnât as nervous about this anymore as he was backstage before the show. Overthinking and stressing about how the fans would react to it. âOh, youâre right about that.â
The crowd went wild again. Screaming louder than ever before.
âSo, I guess,â she started talking, taking the fluffy pink handcuffs from another one of her backup dancers. âCould you maybe keep them for the rest of the show? Just so, I donât loose them for later.â She winked at him again, starting to laugh when she saw him bury his face in his hands out of embarrassment.
She could barely still hear herself over the screams of the fans.
âAnyway, Iâd like to dedicate this next song to my boyfriend, Lando Norris.â
And then the song began, the crowd going crazy and she couldnât stop smiling. Everyone knew, finally. They knew and she made it official in a way only she could.
Lando Norris

Yep, this is my girlfriend. No more of that Lando Norizz bullshit.
yourusername: babe, what the fuck is that last picture?
yourusername: love you though, i guess
-> LandoNorris: you guess? Didnât seem like that last night, huh?
-> yourusername: omg, shut up. This isn't a public account concersation.
Comments have been limited.
#lando norris x you#lando norris x y/n#lando norris x reader#lando x reader#lando norris#f1 fandom#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1#formula 1 x you#formula one x reader#formula 1 x reader#formula 1#formula one#sabrina carpenter short n sweet#short n sweet sabrina carpenter#short n sweet#juno#sabrina carpenter#sabrina carpenter series
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forgive me / father charlie x fem!reader
synopsis: after recently becoming involved with the catholic church, you soon start having inappropriate fantasies about your priest. desperately wanting to atone, you confess your sins.
warnings/tags: handjob, unprotected sex (don't try this at home), mentions of self harm/repentance, priest x reader (i mean no harm to the catholic community, this is just fiction).
word count: 1.3k.
a/n: sooooo𼰠i'm obsessed with nicholas chavez. i'm not gonna lie, i haven't seen grotesquerie fully, but after seeing his scenes i had to write a one shot about father charlie. this is completely and utterly feral. me when i need him biblically.
link to another father charlie piece i've done due to popular demand!!
︾âżď¸ľâżŕ¨âĄŕ§âżď¸ľâżď¸ľ
I've never been a religious person. I've always believed that a higher power is unprovable, leading to my agnosticism. My mother is a devout Catholic, but she's never particularly pushed her beliefs onto me. That was until recently when she threatened to disown me if I refused to come to church for another Sunday.
The people are insufferable, the sermons are unstimulating, and I cannot bear knowing I could be doing something much more exciting with my morning. I sit at the very end of the pew, arms crossed in anguish, awaiting a middle aged, balding priest to appear and preach for an hour. But to my surprise, a much younger version emerges instead. Dark thick hair, darling brown eyes, and a charming smile. My eyes widen with intrigue at the strikingly handsome man before me. He begins to speak, walking up and down the rows of people, truly passionate about what he's saying. I'm paying attention to the words, but not so much the message. After the communion and the drinking of the wine, my mother and I mingle for a bit, chatting uselessness to the bored housewives. Church is the only liberating part of their week, and now I know why.
As if by a miracle of God, I become Catholic overnight. My mother is shocked at my interest in coming to church the following week, and the week after that, and that week after that. Each time I see him, my desire intensifies. Knowing that he has taken a vow of celibacy only entices me more. I imagine him bending me over the pews, his singular ring leaving an indent in my upper thigh. I need to confess. I need to release this demon that is plaguing my thoughts.
On a stormy Friday evening, I make my way to the back of the church, placing three hesitant knocks on his office door. The rest of the building is vacant, candle light being my only source of sight. His voices seeps through the door, permitting me to enter.
"Ah, Miss Y/L/N, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He welcomes me in with a warm smile, putting down the pen he was holding to usher me to sit.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I- I've come to confess." I swallow, stuttering my words in fear. Father Charlie cocks his head in question.
"I see. Anything you say should be in confidence, your confession will be safe with me." He replies, nodding in reassurance. I fiddle with the hem of my skirt in anticipation, heat rising to my cheeks from simply being alone with him. I drape my long hair over my shoulder and clear my throat.
"I've been having impure thoughts, Father."
"Okay. And what do these thoughts detail?" He probes, clasping his hands together on the wooden desk. The Bible sits closed next to him; I can feel it judging me.
"Sexual thoughts. I want to pleasure myself, but I know I can't." I grip at my throat which has become tight, my stomach tingling with the remembrance of my fantasies. Charlie loosens his Roman collar, eyes searching the room for anything to look at besides me.
"I think about you, Father. You punishing me for my sins, taking me, sliding yourself into me." I spill, cheeks on fire and wine red. Father Charlie is quick to stand up from his chair, pacing to the other side of the room.
"I have taken a vow. Please do not seduce me." He begs, reaching for the door handle.
I stand in front of him, his tall frame towering over me, eyes fixated on mine. His chest is heaving, lips slightly parted as he breathes. Standing on the tips of my toes, I whisper.
"Don't you want to know what it feels like, Father? Just once?" My bottom lip lightly grazes his ear lobe, increasing his breathing pace. Our faces are mere centimetres apart, and I'm using all of my might to stop myself tasting him.
"I cannot abandon my faith, I mustn't." He insists, expression pained and frustrated. His brow is furrowed, forehead glazed in sweat. I can tell he is holding himself back with all his strength, and I'm feeling brave.
I take my fingertips and slide them over his clothed cock, smiling as it hardens under my gentle touch. Charlie goes to remove my hand, but quickly retracts when I speed up, using my palm to add pressure. I slowly undo his leather belt, lifting the waistband of his black pants. Taking him in my grasp, I stroke his thick length, watching in euphoria as his head tips back in bliss. His hands seek the stability of the doorframe for support, his knees weakening more every second.
"Feel me." Slipping my panties to the side, I guide his fingers to my pussy, slick with my arousal, begging for contact.
"Oh, forgive me Lord." He cries out, teasing my entrance with his digits while I excite his tip dripping pre-cum with my thumb. He stares at me in awe when I lick myself off his fingers, cock throbbing, veins pulsing blood into him until he's unbearably hard.
Hungry for my kiss, he devours my lips, biting my bottom lip playfully. Our tongues slide across one another, his hands gripping the sides of my face. He tastes like the Merlot we have at communion; sweet and fruity. My hands snake around his neck, twirling the thick locks of hair at the nape. His lips take interest elsewhere, peppering erotic pecks across my jaw, to my neck, and to my chest. I unbutton my white dress shirt, revealing my braless breasts. His eyes widen, immediately manhandling and kissing the supple skin.
"I want to feel you inside of me. Please, Father." I moan, perching myself on the edge of his desk, skirt hiked up to my hips. I spread my legs wide, fully revealing myself to him. He exhales in defeat, slotting himself between me.
Charlie rests his hands on either side of me on the desk while I line up his cock to my entrance, pushing my hips towards him. Grabbing my waist, he enters me, his length filling my walls like a glove. His voice groans deeply against my neck, his hand pressed on my lower back for support. His thrusts start off slow and juvenile, but quickly speed up to a pace we both can't take for long. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him in deeper. I moan sweet noises with every movement and caress, realising that this is better than I could've imagined.
"You feel so good, this feels so good." He sobs, nails digging into my hips so hard they leave streaks of blood. The cross around his neck swings in my face, reminding me of how sin can feel so good.
Waves of pleasure wash over me, the coil inside of me tightening by the second. I pull the back of his head close to me as my climax arrives. I bite his lip hard in satisfaction, tasting his blood on my tongue. It's not long before he follows in a moaning mess, burying his head into my chest, grabbing my breast as his warm cum fills me.
It takes a minute of getting our breaths back to move. I use a tissue to wipe his seed off my thighs. Father Charlie hastily redresses, fixing his collar and clutching his necklace.
"Lord, forgive me. Forgive me for this cardinal sin. Forgive me for enjoying it." He prays on his knees, staring up at a portrait of God. I place my hand on his back, feeling some guilt.
"I need to repent. You need to punish me." He says, picking up his leather belt from the floor and placing it in my hands.
"How can something that feels like this be a sin?" He asks me, tears in his eyes. I shake my head, not knowing the answer myself. He takes his shirt off, showing me his scarred back.
"Punish me, please."
#nicholas alexander chavez#nicholas chavez#grotesquerie#smut warning#smut#father charlie#father charlie grotesquerie
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đ°đ đđđ§ đŹđĄđđŤđ đ¨đ§đ đŹđđđ !
sylus x reader | smut | 0.8k listen to: diet pepsi by addison rae, sports car by tate mcrae lyns notes: wrote this instead of my caleb fic. it seems I have invented new levels of procrastination
Sylus was a careful man. He was composed and confident, and perhaps due to the unimaginable amounts of power he held, always knew exactly what he wanted. He took pride in his ability to be arguably the most patient man alive.
Especially when it came to you.
But there were momentsâ few and far between as they wereâ where his patience ran thin. When his greed cut through any semblance of composure and stripped him down to what he was: a man, one who always got what he wanted. When his composure crumbled and his self-control disappeared.
How lucky he was to have you, who always let him indulge, no matter the situation you found yourself in.
Like now, as you leaned against him, back flush against his front and legs spread wide and over the seat of his custom Harley-Davidson, with your panties pushed to the side and his fingers knuckle deep inside you.
Tucked away in one of the alleys of the N109 zone with the kickstand of his motorcycle keeping both of you upright, anyone could catch the two of you. Not that he'd ever let that happenâ this version of you was for his eyes aloneâ but he knew the risk spurred you on. He could feel it, with how your slick gushed out of you and onto the palm of his hand. The fact that you trusted him so much, even in such a situation was what did it for him.
He was a careful man, but god did you take the rational parts of his brain and scramble them.
"Syâ" You gasped out part of his name, your fingernails digging into his thighs as you threw your head back onto his shoulder, back arching in ecstasy. Your skirt rode up, bunching around your waist as he fucked you with his fingers so expertly, knowing just what to do to make you fall apart.
His lips dragged along your neck, nipping, licking and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your flushed skin.
"You're so wet, kitten," he cooed against your ear in that honeyed voice, his thumb finding your swollen clit, rubbing it in maddening circles that had you mewling and living up to the nickname. Shamelessly, you ground against his fingers, eyes fluttering shut as you chased the high he was so eagerly giving to you.
The soundsâ god, the moans and whimpers that left your lips were downright sinful, and it only made him want to pull more of them out of you. "Look at you, sweetie," he smirked against your skin, crooking his long fingers inside your dripping pussy so perfectly, pressing against that spot that made you see stars. "So perfect."
"Please," You whined, the sound melting into another one of your gorgeous moans when he increased the pressure of his thumb against your sensitive nub. His free arm snaked around your waist, palm resting flat over your stomach and holding you down against him.
The sight of you rocking your hips against his palm had his cock hardening in his pants, but this was about you. He'd take care of that issue later in the confines of his bedroom, with you sprawled out on the silk sheets. He'd fuck you so good, filling you up just like he had so many times now.
But right now? Right now, all he cared about was the way you cried out his name as he pushed a third finger into your pretty little cunt, grinning as your legs began to tremble. You were making a mess, arousal dripping all over the seat of his bike, and he couldn't bring himself to care. If anything, he wanted you to make even more of a mess.
"Are you gonna come for me?" He rasped as your walls fluttered around him, and you nodded desperately, biting down into your lower lip so hard at the overwhelming amount of pleasure he was giving you at the moment. Your hips bucked into his hand, gasping when increased the pace, rubbing your clit faster.
Your orgasm crashed over you, leaving you with no choice but to helplessly moan out his name as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Still, he didn't stop, his fingers pumping in and out of you as he helped you ride out your high. Fucking hell, you were stunning like this, all breathless and desperate, taking all the pleasure he so willingly gave you, practically begging for more.
Finally, he slowed down, slipping his fingers out of you and raising them to your lips, nudging them gently. "Suck."
The single command was enough for you. Obediently, you opened your mouth and wrapped your lips around his fingers, swirling your tongue around them and tasting yourself. He groaned, burying his face in your neck.
Fuck. You were truly going to be his undoing.
#i'm very new to writing smut dksfskdf i usually write extensive amounts of plot this is unprecedented#sylus x reader#sylus smut#sylus x mc#sylus love and deepspace#love and deepspace sylus#love and deepspace fanfiction#lads sylus#lads smut#lads x reader#lads x reader smut#love and deepspace smut#lowk what even is this LMAO
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so i am newly in a wheelchair which has been a Massive gain in my ability to go out and about. but i realized that i have aprox 0 clothes that look Good while seated. its a completely different silhouette and i am at a loss as to what to do for it. do you have any suggestions for what could look good seated? preferably no skirts or dresses.
Edit: Check the notes for more people's input, including actual wheelchair users who know much more about what works than I could!
Congrats on chair acquisition!!
Since you're sending this to me specifically I am working under the assumption that you mean to do some amount of sewing.
A high waisted silhouette definitely works best for sitting. I make all my pants with the waistband at my natural waist, and a bit of pleating or gathering at the back just like they did on 18th century breeches, and I've never noticed any particular discomfort from sitting in them. (I think high waisted pants are more comfortable in general, and that low rise jeans are evil.)
It's something I've never really thought about before, but sitting is a very legs-forward position, so perhaps a colourful or fancy stripe down the side would work well.
(I made this pair 10 years ago and they didn't fit well and are long gone, but I should do a better version someday...)
Or some other form of side seam decoration, like these fabulous button tabs.
(I don't know what the source for this mid 19th century fashion plate is.)
Cropped jackets would also be good. The first thing that comes to mind for me is the Carmagnole, which was a style worn by French revolutionaries. It's got a pretty similar cut to a regular 1790's coat, just shorter.
(Source)
(Source)
And there are other styles of short jacket, like this one from a few decades later.
I think it might be possible to get a similar effect from cutting down a thrifted corduroy jacket, depending on the pocket placement? It's not something I've done myself though.
A fancy little bolero could be a lot of fun too! I quite like these ones made by Marlowe Lune. Super easy to sew, and could be patterned by cutting down a bigger pattern that fits the torso.
They'd be a good thing to try if you have a smallish piece of fancy fabric, or a small bit trim to use, or want to try a small amount of embroidery.
There are lots of historical styles with sleeves too, and all sorts of decorations.
(Dunno the source for this one either, unfortunately, but the pin says 1880s reception dress. I think a little jacket like that would look good with a puffy shirt and pants.)
Short capes might be practical too, and the late 19th and early 20th century have tons of fancy capelets for inspiration, like this one.
Or this one.
I hope this is somehow helpful! I don't know if you're looking to sew things from scratch or to buy and alter stuff or what, and I have no personal experience using a wheelchair, but these are the best things I can think of for a suitable silhouette. Dramatic sleeve/shoulder puffs would also be shown off to great effect, if that's something you'd like to wear.
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Every time I look at fanarts of TID I have to take a deep breath because some of the clothes aren't completely period accurate, so I wanted to try to draw them with more accurate dresses.
Charlotte did not take as long as I expected, probably because I always imagined her style in a more simple and elegant style.
I used Cassandra Jean's design for the gear and tried to adjust it a bit following the Codex's information about older versions of the female gear having a skirt, but I just decided to make that padding around the abdomen and hips longer and simulate a skirt (but not too long to not reduce the mobility), whereas the male gear would be shorter and the way that Cassandra Jean did it.
RIP Charlotte, you would've loved jumpsuits QUEEN
(February 4, 2024)
Little Miss Barbie x Regina George (1878 Edition)
Jess was a bit more complicated because she does care about her appearance more and has a more intricate style. And normally I try to not add a lot of detail with Victorian characters because Queen Victoria didn't like makeup and found it vulgar, so women usually went for a natural look. Jessamine paints her dark circles whereas Charlotte naturally has them for obvious reasons. â ď¸
Low-key, I loved doing Jessamine's ghost form.
And please let's not talk about my strange doodling attempt with the electrum lace design on the parasol. Halfway through it I started telling myself Henry is not a fashion designer and he tried his best to mimic a lace design with the electrum and hide some runes for her protection.
(February 13, 2024)
I will be honest, I struggled with the color of the dress because I do not imagine Cecily with a plain color dress, but not too intricate as Jessamine's. Everything looked too blue at first and I switched so many colors until it ended up like that. And don't get me started on the hair... It felt â¨WRONG⨠to give her a historically accurate hairstyle considering everyone gives her straight hair down.
So in my head her hair IS straight, she just has to appropriately wear it up. But nothing too complicated. And it's worth mentioning my memory is starting to blur out a lot. I had to check her wiki for the weapon and whatnot, and I found that she was petite and thin. In my head she was about Tessa's height. But I barely remember a lot from the books by now.
But I did try to make her look closely similar to Will. And I think she does look like a female, better, version of him. Also, if you're wondering why she's not wearing the necklace: I didn't realize I didn't add it until I finished coloring the dress and by that point I was so sick of it I left it like that. I had the sketch of the necklace, I just forgot to put it with the dress. đŤ
(March 2, 2024)
Gideon is so lucky. đŠ
The suits might discourage me from doing the men because there's not really much difference aside of small details of how each man wears it. But anyway... Back to Sophie.
The damn maid dress. It's simple. It is ten times simpler than Jessamine's dress and YET I was struggling with it. And don't get me started on the scar.
The wiki said it was a big, silver, scar on the left side of her face from the corner of her mouth to her temple. I had an existential crisis trying to figure out how to do it, because in the other set ups of these drawings, I depict them like they're facing me, so the portrait wouldn't have shown the scar.
And it's a problem because I also suck at drawing scars. The first try looked fine but it wasn't silver, then I did this and in one part I guess it's fine because I didn't want to make a pretty scar when it's supposed to be bad and shocking for the time period. But a part of my brain thinks it looks like the fungus from The Last of Us. â ď¸
Anyways. You may be wondering, "why didn't you do the Shadowhunter gear?" And it's a simple answer... I wanted to see her in a pretty dress. Of course, I could have done the portrait with the maid dress, the middle with her fancy dress, and the second full-body drawing with the gear but I didn't think about that until 10 minutes before posting. đŤ And that gear is COMPLICATED (Not really, I'm just tired after the dresses).
(April 10, 2024)
If you are wondering why there is a huge time jump from the last fanart to this, I had a really bad art block and the frustration from the inaccurate dresses brought me back lol
Unfortunately I am currently in another slump đŤ
The next one was supposed to be Tessa but the dresses really frustrated me and I never even started the sketch. Idk if I'll ever finish it. I hope so, but don't get your hopes up.
#the shadowhunter chronicles#shadowhunters#the infernal devices#charlotte fairchild#jessamine lovelace#cecily herondale#sophie collins
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short nâ sweet - part 1



âwanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs?â
PART 1, PART 2,
PAIRING. spencer reid x popstar!reader
SUMMARY. spencer gets a lot more than he bargained for when he attends a concert with garcia.
WARNINGS. afab!reader, sub!spencer, softdom!reader, oral (m receiving), use of handcuffs, begging, red lipstick in places it should never be, unprotected pnv sex, creampie, just pure filth, also not proof read
AUTHORâS NOTE. i got this idea after rewatching my short n sweet concert videos. i could not get the thought of spencer receiving the juno handcuffs out of my head so I wrote it all down. i hate the beginning and ending of this a lot but the middle is so good hehe.
credit to @cafekitsune for dividers
wc: 4,029
also on ao3
Garcia gripped Spencerâs hand tightly, pushing through the crowd until they reached the barricade next to the stage.
âHoly shit Spence! We made it!â Garcia cheered.
âNice, thatâs great⌠I think iâm going to pass out.â Spencer pants, gripping onto the railing for dear life.
Spencer, who isnât particularly fond of concerts or music in general, reluctantly agreed to attend this show solely to appease Garciaâs relentless begging. Concerts were not Spencerâs forte, that was until he saw you up on the stage prancing around in lingerieâŚ
Despite his initial discomfort, Spencer finds himself inexplicably drawn to your energetic performance. Your confidence, charisma, and raw talent captivate him more with each passing song.
As you move about the fake penthouse on stage with reckless abandon, your provocative attire leaving very little to the imagination, Spencer's analytical mind struggles to reconcile his attraction with his deeply ingrained social awkwardness.
He tries to focus on the music, his thoughts consumed by the intricate details of your choreography and the way your skin seems to shimmer under the bright lights.
Spencer's cheeks flush slightly as he realizes the extent of his distraction, his heart racing in a way that's both unfamiliar and exhilarating. He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at his sweater vest as he attempts to regain some semblance of composure.
After performing a very heartfelt ballad, you approached the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd with your eyes.
âHey, girls?â you call out to two of your dancers who are standing by your side. âI believe I might have found my future husband in the crowd tonight.â
The crowd erupted in cheers as they realized the clever bit.
âDo yâall see him? Heâs standing right over there, the tall one wearing the sweat vest.â You point to Spencer while giggle like schoolgirls with your dancers.
âHey there, baby. Whatâs your name?â A grin spread across your face as you noticed his cheeks flushing a vibrant red.
Caught completely off guard, Spencer stammers, his hazel eyes wide as saucers. He feels like he's been struck by lightning, the sudden intimacy of you presence leaving him momentarily speechless.
"Dr. Reid," he manages to choke out, his voice cracking slightly. He can feel his face burning, and his heart hammers against his ribcage like a jackrabbit.
"I-I mean, Spencer," he corrects himself, the remnants of his professional demeanor trying to resurface amidst the chaos of his escalating nervousness.
Spencer swallows hard, trying to gather his scattered thoughts as he meets your intense gaze. The mischievous glint in your eyes sends a shiver down his spine, even as his analytical mind struggles to comprehend the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
âOooooo, a doctor!â You exclaim, dramatically fanning yourself. âWell, Dr. Reid, youâre under arrest for being too hot.â
Spencer jumped as police sirens blared through the arena, accompanied by flashing red and blue lights.
âI might need you to examine me, doctor. I feel extremely hot, and- OH!â You teased as your long skirt fell to the floor, revealing a much shorter version of it.
Spencerâs jaw was practically on the floor.
You grinned as you inched closer towards the edge of the stage, crouching down to Spencerâs level.
âI want you to have these,â you smiled as you handed Spencer a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.
Spencer can't help but stare at the exposed skin of your legs, his breath catching in his throat when he notices the bedazzled lipstick stain on your inner thigh.
"Ah, um, thank you..." He reaches out to take the offered cuffs, his fingers brushing against hers. The sensation sends sparks dancing along his nerve endings, and he feels himself grow flustered once more.
As you stood up, you blow Spencer a kiss. The all too familiar intro to the song Penelope had been forcing him to listen to for the past few weeks, began to play.
âThis song is for you, Spencie,â you winked as you started singing, maintaining eye contact throughout the entire first verse.
Spencer's eyes widen further, his mouth agape as he watches you prance down the catwalk. The provocative lyrics and suggestive dance moves leave him utterly stunned, his cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
His analytical mind tries to process the explicit nature of the performance, but it's drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the heat coursing through his veins. He finds himself captivated by every move you makes, his gaze riveted to your lithe form.
When you strikes a pose that leaves little to the imagination, Spencer's breath hitches, and he feels a strange tingling sensation in his loins. It's foreign yet exhilarating, and he can't tear his eyes away, even as his rational brain screams at him to look away.
As the song reaches its climax, Spencer finds himself caught up in the raw energy emanating from the stage. The crowd's cheers and applause mingle with the pulsating beat, creating an electric atmosphere that seems to vibrate through every cell in his body.
Lost in the moment, Spencer's inhibitions begin to melt away, replaced by a primal urge to respond to the sensual stimuli before him. When your gaze locks onto his, he feels a jolt of connection, as if an invisible thread tethers them together.
With a sense of reckless abandon he rarely experiences, Spencer raises the fuzzy pink handcuffs as he grins, his movements deliberate and charged with newfound confidence. As the final notes fade, he couldnât help but notice the smile on your face as the lights dimmed and the show ended.
âWow,â is the only word Garcia could mutter as she stares at the empty stage. âI canât believe she gave you the handcuffs, do you know how lucky you are?â
âYou know, the probability of me receiving these is incredibly low, considering there are approximately 14,000 people here and-â Before Spencer could continue his rambling, he and Garcia approached a security guard.
âAre you Spencer?â the intimidating-looking security guard asked.
âUh, yeah, that would be me,â Spencer stuttered, feeling a pang of worry that he might have overstepped some boundaries during his interactions with you on stage.
âIâve been informed by y/nâs management that she is requesting to meet you backstage,â the security guard said.
"Backstage? Me?" Spencer looks at Garcia incredulously, wondering if this could be some kind of joke. But the stern expression on the guard's face suggests otherwise.
Spencer stares at Garcia, completely speechless. As the security guards wait for his response, Garcia nudges his side and gently pulls him back to reality.
âI, uh, y-yeah,â Spencer stammers, âIâd love to go backstage,â
âAlright, follow me,â
Spencer waves to Garcia as the guard guides him through the concealed corridors of the arena, observing the crew dismantling the stage to transport it to the next venue.
After what appears to be an eternity, Spencer is led to the door of your dressing room. Youâre lounging on the couch in a soft, fluffy robe, engrossed in scrolling through your phone when you hear the door open.
âHi!â You greet Spencer with a warm smile, standing up and embracing him. âThanks so much for coming.â
Spencer's heart races as you pull him into a warm embrace, his senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating scent of your perfume and the softness of your robe against his skin. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe, his mind reeling from the unexpected touch.
When you finally release him, Spencer takes a step back, trying to compose himself. His cheeks flush a deep crimson, and he fumbles with the hem of his sweater vest, clearly flustered.
"T-thank you...for inviting me," he stutters, his voice barely above a whisper. Despite his social awkwardness, there's a genuine sincerity in his tone, reflecting his gratitude for this rare opportunity to connect with someone like you.
Glancing around the cozy dressing room, Spencer notices the array of makeup, costumes, and personal items scattered about.
âI hope you donât think Iâm weird but I couldnât take my eyes off of you all night,â you admit as you plopped onto the couch, your cheeks now flushed pink from embarrassment. âThe handcuff thing is just a funny little bit I do, but tonight I chose you because I really do think youâre insanely hot.â
âN-no, itâs not weird at all, Iâm flattered actually,â Spencer stammered, taking a seat next to you.
âReally? Youâre not weirded out that I had my security find you in the crowd and bring you backstage so we could meet?â You asked.
"No, genuinely, I mean it," Spencer says, his eyes locking with yours as he spoke. "I know weâve just met, but I felt a connection with you tonight, something that went beyond mere admiration."
Spencer shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours.
âAnd that handcuff thing...well, it was a bold move, and it worked.â
A faint blush colored his cheeks as he met your gaze again, his hazel eyes shimmering with a mix of shyness and curiosity.
As the silence between you stretches, Spencer finds himself drawn to the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your robe gapes slightly, offering a tantalizing glimpse of your skin. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the strange tingles coursing through his body.
Before he could say another word, your lips crash against his.
Spencer's eyes widen in shock as your lips suddenly press against his, the unexpected kiss sending a jolt of electricity through his entire being. For a moment, he freezes, unsure of how to react.
But then, as if possessed by some newfound courage, Spencer's arms wrap tentatively around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. His lips part instinctively, allowing your tongue to slide past them and explore the warmth of his mouth.
Spencer's fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand resting on the small of your back, guiding you more firmly against him. He can taste the sweetness of your red lipstick mixed with the hint of adrenaline, and it only fuels his growing desire.
As the kiss deepens, Spencer's thoughts become a jumbled mess â part confusion, part exhilaration, and an overwhelming sense of lust.
Spencer gasps softly as your lips leave a trail of red across his sensitive skin, the sensation both unfamiliar and intoxicating. His head tilts back, exposing more of his neck to your explorations.
When your fingers start to work on his buttons, Spencer's breath hitches. He's hasnât been this intimate with anyone since Maave, and the idea of baring himself to you, a complete stranger whoâs also a mega superstar, sends a thrill through his veins.
As you continue to undress him, Spencer's hands roam over your back, tracing the curves of your spine beneath the thin fabric of your silk robe. He marvels at the softness of your skin, the warmth emanating from your body.
His shirt finally falls open, revealing his lean torso. Spencer feels a slight surge of vulnerability until he feels your lips on his collarbone.
Spencer's eyes flutter closed as your lips dance across his chest. When you drop to your knees in front of the couch, his heart races, a mix of nervousness and anticipation coursing through him.
The sound of his belt buckle clicking open sends a shiver down Spencer's spine. He watches, transfixed, as you work on freeing him from his pants. The air grows thick with tension, and Spencer's breathing quickens.
When your fingers brush against the growing bulge in his underwear, Spencer lets out a shaky exhale. Itâs been awhile since he has been touched so intimately, and the sensation is overwhelming yet exhilarating.
With trembling hands, Spencer reaches down to help you remove his pants, his eyes locked onto yours. A flush spreads across his cheeks as he reveals himself to you, feeling both exposed and strangely empowered by your reaction.
âSo pretty,â You breathed out, your hands brushing against his hard cock.
Spencer's eyes widen at your words, a rush of heat flooding his cheeks. No one has ever spoken to him like that before, with such raw, unfiltered admiration. It takes his breath away.
A soft moan escapes him as your hands make contact with his straining erection, the touch sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core. Spencer's hips twitch involuntarily, seeking more of your gentle caresses.
He looks down at you, his hazel eyes dark with desire, and whispers, "Please... I need..." His voice trails off, unable to articulate the intensity of his longing.
Spencer's slender fingers thread through your hair, holding you close as he waits with bated breath for your next move. His body trembles with anticipation, every nerve ending attuned to your touch.
As you feel his fingers tangled in your hair, you get an idea. You let go of him as you sit back on your knees, Spencer letting out a whimper at the loss of contact.
âDo you still have the handcuffs?â You asked, grinning wickedly.
Spencer gulped as he nodded, pointing to his discarded pants on the floor next to you. You dig through the pocket to pull out the fuzzy pink handcuffs you gave to him only an hour prior.
âHands behind your back, Spencie,â You smirked as you dangle the cuffs in front of him.
"Yes, ma'am," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of playfulness despite the vulnerability of his position.
A startled yelp escapes Spencer's lips as the handcuffs encircles his wrists, securing them behind his back. The sudden restraint sends a thrill through him, mingling with the lingering ache of want.
He stares up at you, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, as you fasten the cuffs with a playful snap. The term of endearment 'Spencie' slips past your lips, and it feels like a brand, searing itself into his very being.
Spencer's body quivers under your gaze, his skin prickling with anticipation. The pink cuffs seem almost comical against his pale, slender arms, but the effect they have on him is anything but humorous.
Spencer's breath hitches as your lips brush against his, the fleeting kiss sending a spark of electricity through him. He leans into it instinctively, craving more of your touch, even as you move to kneel in front of him once again.
A low groan rumbles in his chest as your hand wraps around his shaft, stroking him with confident, deliberate motions. Spencer's head falls back, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat, as he surrenders himself to the sensations coursing through him.
âOh God," he gasps, his hips bucking slightly into your grasp. âThat feels... incredible." Each word is punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, his body tensing and relaxing in time with your touches.
The restraints digs into his skin, a subtle reminder of his submission to you.
Spencer's eyes widen in shock as your warm, wet mouth envelops him, the sensation unlike anything he's ever experienced. A choked moan tears from his throat, his hips jerking involuntarily as you begin to suck him deeper.
The sight of your red lips wrapped around his cock, the vibrant color smeared across his flesh, is almost too much for Spencer to bear. He can't tear his gaze away from the erotic image, transfixed by the way your tongue swirls around his sensitive tip.
âOh fuck, that's..." he trails off, unable to form coherent thoughts amidst the onslaught of pleasure. His mind reels, struggling to process the intensity of the feelings coursing through him.
Spencer's chest heaves with ragged breaths, his body trembling as he submits to your skilled ministrations.
As you take him deeper into your mouth, Spencer's control begins to slip. The feeling of your hot, wet tongue swirling around his length is overwhelming, sending waves of pleasure crashing over him.
"Ah! Oh God, yes!" he cries out, his voice strained with need. His hips thrust forward instinctively, lost in the haze of lust as you bob your head along his shaft.
"I'm... I'm going to cum," he warns, his words punctuated by shallow pants. Spencer's grip on the cushions tightens, his muscles coiled taut as he teeters on the brink of climax.
Before heâs thrown over the edge, you pull away abruptly, looking up at him and giggling as he writhes around desperately.
Spencerâs cock twitches and leaks precum from the loss of stimulation. A pained whine escapes his lips, his hips reflexively bucking up in search of your warm mouth.
"No, please don't stop," he begs, his voice laced with desperation. Spencer's chest heaves with rapid breaths, his body wracked with the need for release.
His hazel eyes, usually bright, are dark with desire, pupils blown wide as he gazes at you with pleading intensity. The remnants of his earlier composure have crumbled, leaving only raw, unbridled lust in its wake.
âI need you," Spencer confesses, his admission torn from him like a bandaid.
As you stand in front of Spencer, his gaze is immediately drawn to your body as you slowly untie your robe, mirroring the opening of your show. The sensual movements and provocative poses are etched into his consciousness like a fever dream.
His breath catches in his throat as the fabric parts, exposing the tantalizing expanse of your skin inch by delicious inch. Spencer's eyes drink in every detail â the delicate freckles scattered across your shoulders, your nipples already hardened into peaks, the gentle swell of your hips leading down to your thighs.
âPlease," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. âLet me touch you.â
Spencer's hands fight against the handcuffs, the urge to reach out and touch you, to claim you as his own is nearly overwhelming.
You toss the robe onto the floor next to Spencerâs clothes as you straddle his lap, leaving more lipstick stains across his face until your month reaches his ear.
âBeg for it,â you whispered, softly nibbling on his earlobe, causing him to whimper. âBeg me to let you touch me.â
A shiver runs down Spencer's spine as your warm breath caresses his ear, your whispered command igniting a fire within him. His mind reels, desperate to comply, to plead for the privilege of touching your gorgeous body.
"Oh God, please," he gasps, his voice trembling with need. âLet me touch you, please. I wa- I need to touch you."
Spencer's hips lift involuntarily, seeking friction against the soft flesh of your thigh. His fingers curl into fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggles against the restraints, yearning to wrap his arms around you and lose himself in your embrace.
"I'll do anything, please," he vows, his words dripping with sincerity and desire.
It doesnât take much more begging for you to give into his pleads.
The moment your lips meet his, Spencer surrenders to the intense passion, kissing you back with equal fervor. His hands, still bound, can't reciprocate physically, but his entire being leans into you, craving closer contact.
As you grind against his rigid length, Spencer moans into the kiss, the sensation of your heated core rubbing against his aching cock sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. His hips buck instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure.
Breaking the kiss, Spencer pants heavily, his hazel eyes glazed with lust.
âFuck... I want you so badly," he admits, his voice ragged with desire. âPlease, I need to be inside you."
Instead of speaking, you respond by unlocking the handcuffs. Thankfully since they are just a prop, they are easy to remove and donât require a key.
Spencer is surprised and almost embarrassed by how easily they were removed, but he has no time to dwell on that as you begin lining him up with your entrance.
With the restraints gone, Spencer's hands immediately find purchase on your waist, gripping you tightly as he feels the head of his cock notch against your slick entrance. His breathing hitches, anticipation coiled tight in his belly.
When you position him, aligning his thick shaft with your waiting heat, Spencer lets out a low groan, his hips surging forward of their own accord. With a smooth, deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, a guttural moan escaping him at the exquisite feeling of your walls clenching around his sensitive flesh.
"Ah, fuck yes..." Spencer gasps, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he savors the sensation of being fully embedded within you. âYou feel so good.â
You canât help the pornographic moan that escapes your throat as Spencer bottoms out. You are still as you both get use to the filling of him inside of you.
âSpencer,â You whimper, âyou feel so fucking good inside of me.â
Spencer's eyes flutter shut as you start to move, your inner muscles massaging his cock in a delicious rhythm. The slow, deliberate pace allows him to savor every inch of your warmth enveloping him.
"Yes! oh God! just like that," he encourages, his voice strained with pleasure. âYou're so tight, so perfect... Fuck!"
His hands slide down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the supple flesh as he begins to match your movements, thrusting in sync with your rolling hips. Each stroke sends sparks of bliss shooting up his spine, intensifying the building pressure in his groin.
"More, please...â Spencer pleads, his thrusts growing more urgent as he chases his own release.
You grant his wishes as you nestle your head into his neck, sucking softly on the sensitive skin just below his ear.
Spencer groans loudly in response. The sudden increase in tempo, coupled with the sensations of your mouth on his neck, sends him hurtling towards the edge. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps as he pistons in and out of your throbbing heat, driven by nothing but primal urges.
"Oh, shit... right there, just like that!" he grunts, his hand moving from your ass to rub rough circles over your clit. "I'm going to... Oh fuck!â
With a final, powerful thrust, Spencer hits his peak, his cock pulsating as it spills hot cum deep inside you. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him, his vision blurring as he rides out his orgasm.
It doesnât take long for you to finish, your body tenses above Spencer as he sloppily thrusts into you, riding out the remainder of your orgasms.
As the last tremors of your orgasms subside, You both collapse onto the couch, panting heavily as you try and catch your breath, your sweat-dampened skin pressing intimately against one another.
"That was⌠incredible," he manages to say, his voice hoarse from exertion. "You're amazing."
You carefully remove his softening member from your spent body. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you as he nuzzles into your hair.
"I never want this night to end," he confesses, his tone sincere and vulnerable. "But I know we should probably get cleaned up and back to reality soon.â
âYeah, I need to be on the bus heading to New York in a few hours,â you replied, your voice laced with a hint of disappointment at the thought of possibly never seeing Spencer again.
A pang of disappointment and longing shoots through Spencer at the mention of your impending departure. He knows their whirlwind encounter can't possibly lead to anything long-term, given the vast differences in their lives, but that doesn't diminish the strong connection he feels.
"I understand," he says quietly, reluctantly loosening his hold on you. "Well, um, if youâre ever back in town, Iâd love to maybe get coffee together.â
Spencer's eyes search yours, hoping to find some glimmer of agreement, even as he anticipates the likely rejection. It's a fragile thread, but it's all he has to cling to as he faces the prospect of saying goodbye.
âIâd love too,â you smiled, brushing some of the hair that had gotten stuck to his sweaty forehead.
Spencer returned your smile as he got dressed and headed for the door.
âWait!â You shouted, causing Spencerâs head to whip back around.
âYou almost forgot these,â you say, handing him the fuzzy pink handcuffs. He chuckles and tucks them into his pocket before disappearing out the door.
#criminal minds#spencer reid#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds smut#criminal minds x reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#sabrina carpenter#short n sweet
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Hey! I was the one who wanted to request an arrange marriage (regency era) au with viktor and reader. I would like the reader to be bubbly and artistic (for painter/drawer), if thatâs okay?
If youâve watched bridgerton, perhaps reader would be apart of that family? But if you havenât, thatâs fine, just ignore this part lol
Hi Anon! So... this is happening. People this is my take on Bridgerton-inspired regency AU :v more under picture!

A Deer and a Man - Ch.1.
viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit) - tho this chapter is a little pornographic, there is some naked wrists, running around in nightgowns and men with loosened cravats, so proceed with caution :v
Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.
word count: 7,7K (it will be this long, sorry!)
tag: #d&m
summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the regionâViktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family's wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?
author's note: Anon, forgive me, but I wasn't able to write it precisely into the Bridgerton universe, I don't know it nearly enough. Also, I got brain damaged while writing it and included the artist part as a pianist, as this is the subject I know best. Super special thanks to @mithrava who helped me with details (I almost squeezed our poor girl into a corset, but she fucking hates bras anyways) and to @rennethen who beta reads and brainstorms the ideas with me!
also the artist behind art is here!
Cross-posted on AO3
â
The first look into the mirror in the morning is always suspended between a thing in bloom and a thing fading away. What blossoms is the vision of yourself, wrapped up in a short stay, your form sculpted to societyâs liking, cheeks brushed with a becoming rose tint, hair pinned into a careful bun, soft tendrils escaping to frame your face. The self that fades is the girl who may draw a full breath, whose flushed cheeks owe nothing to powder but to joy, whose wild curls defy taming. You greet her each evening and bid her farewell each morning, so that the ladyâyour familyâs prized jewelâmight step into the light. Mostly.
That is, when you were not hunched over the piano, playing Appassionata with a furious fervour instead of what your mother deemed proper, like some dull Hummel or Clementi. How utterly boring and soulless they seemed, that you could almost hear your night self scolding you each time your fingers reluctantly touched the keys to play one of those Sonatinas.
Running was also a thing you had to avoid, for the most part. Eating a whole apple was strictly vulgar. As for a whole eggâwell, that was something to be done in the strict privacy of the kitchens, once youâd managed to filch one without the cooks noticing. Yanking your skirts up while sitting on the grass and scribbling was also one of those moments when, if your mother had caught you, she would have been most displeased, to say the least. All in all, you had precious little time to let your night self emerge during the waking hours. She was continually suppressed by the version of you that took small, delicate bites, drank tea from a tiny cup, and sat upright while playing agreeable tunes.
Today, of all days, it is imperative that your night self remain firmly in check, while your day self does her utmost to impress the very man you have already deemed beyond salvationâwithout so much as laying eyes on him. A rare occasion indeed, where both versions of you are in agreement.
He has but one benefit of the doubt, and that is Jayce Talis. A brilliant inventor you once encountered when you slipped away from your mother and sisters while running errands in town. Back then, he had been mocked and overlooked as he tried to preach his discoveries from a modest tent set up on the way to the pharmacy. Someone particularly unkind had flung a fistful of mud in his direction, which Jayce avoided with such grace that your eyes had lit up.
You had been so young then, perched atop a crate of peaches, listening from afar, watching him wave his hands about, utterly bewitching.
"Is this truth you are speaking? Absolutely fascinating," you had said, once you had mustered the courage to approach him and give voice to the questions grinding in your hungry mind.
"Itâs all possible, Miss," he had replied with a brilliant smile. "Take a pamphlet. I am here every Thursday."
But before you could so much as tell him your name, your mother had seized you by the ear and dragged youânearly by forceâinto the nearest perfumery. Huffing and sighing in disapproval, she had straightened your dress, grumbled about the mud on your shoes, and scolded you for indulging the poor manâs delusions.
Little did she know.
Five years later, Jayce Talis is one of the most sought-after and highly regarded inventors and scientists in the entire region. Yet it is not he whom your family desiresânot exactly. His research and the opportunity to invest in itânow that is what truly entices them.
And standing beside Jayce is his partner, Viktor. A stray, adopted by House Talis as though he were its own son. Apparently just as brilliant, undoubtedly just as sought-after.
"A good match," your mother says with a firm tone.
"A bright future for you and your sisters," your father says, his voice tinged with sadness and apology.
Of all men, you had thought him the one who would never betray you. And you tell yourself it is only one part of you that he has betrayed. Yet it wounds you so deeply because it is the part he always claimed to love most of all.
The real part of you.
You push her aside as you tuck a loose lock back into your bun. Fill your lungs with as much air as your short stay allowsânearly not enough. Then you answer your motherâs call with a rehearsed, âI will be right there, Maman!â
One last glance in the mirrorâoh, no. You forgot a smile.
So you plaster it back onto your face, let the stale air escape your chest, and runâno, walkâdownstairs. And the noise is already there as they all exchange their exaggerated good afternoonsâyour sweet father, your benevolent mother, your silly younger sisters, Jayce and Viktor. You hear their voices, your mother chuckling politely at Jayceâs remarks about bumpy roads, Viktorâs reserved greeting with a lilt of an accent that makes your ears perk up. Pretty.
Your eyes land on Jayce firstâhis frame broader than you rememberâand something swells within you. Not sultry, just pleased to see this once-boy now a full-grown man, taking up the space he was always meant to claim.
And next to himâoh.
Emerging from your fatherâs embrace is Viktor, visibly startled by the stark contrast between your official mother and your matey father, who claps him on the back, smiling with flushed cheeks. Happy, relieved, because the boy who will marry his daughter is a slender, gentle man with kind hands and bright eyes. Your father breathes deeply, granting himself absolution for sending his eldest away into the arms of a stranger.
And the man at the bottom of the staircase looks nothing like the monster you painted in your mind. His frame is lithe yet full of quiet strength, supported by a cane. His face, all sharp angles, is touched by shifting light and shadow with every expression he tries to suppress. Lips small and tender, nose a work of the most skilled sculptor, eyes the colour of your fatherâs favourite bourbonâand your favourite honey, the one from summer flowers. His leg is hugged by a strange contraption of a brace, and you feel a weird sense of camaraderieâboth of you constricted in some way.
"Hello," you say in your rehearsed voice, though it wavers slightly at the touch of his hand on yours. Your heart stumbles between beats when his lips press to your glove, his thumb steady on your knuckles.
"I am so glad to finally have met you, Miss. I have heard so much about you," says Viktor, holding your gaze. His composure settles back into place, his eyes drilling into you. And beneath his voice, a hintâsuggesting he has heard more than just that you are a sweet young lady.
"Only good things, I hope?" you ask. And truly, the hope lingers in your tone, even though you know Jayce has told him what a wild thing you are when nobody is watching.
Briefly, you wonderâwhat would it be like to be asked by this man to marry him, had your families not decided your fate for you? Would you say yes, tears in your eyes? Or would you smile gently and tell him a polite maybe? Would you challenge him or take him in without compromise, had you met and known him before everything was resolved for you?
"Only good things," Viktor says with a false, polite smile as he releases your hand. And the falseness of it stirs something within youâa worry, a flicker of fear.
What is this man like when no one is watching?
You have heard almost nothingâonly mentions of his brilliance and good behaviour. But if they are as much half-truths as the mentions of your brilliance and good behaviour, then this arrangement could be either a blessing or a curse.
Not that it matters. If you ever wanted to be married, which you still do not. You merely accept your fate for the sake ofâŚ
For the sake of your family. Of course.
The exchange of pleasantries has barely settled when the butler steps forward, his voice measured and precise. "My lord, my lady, refreshments are prepared in the drawing room."
"Ah, excellent!" Father claps Jayceâs shoulder in a display of easy camaraderie. "We have much to discuss, Mister Talis. Shall we?"
Mother inclines her head gracefully, extending a gloved hand toward the open doorway. "Come, gentlemen. We shall not let business keep us from our tea."
The procession to the drawing room is orderly, Father leading Jayce in enthusiastic conversation about the boundless opportunities ahead. "A partnership of this nature is unprecedented, of course. An investment in the futureâour shared future."
Jayce responds with the confidence of a man accustomed to admiration. "Precisely, my lord. With the right support, we could revolutionise industry as we know it."
You follow with measured steps, Viktor at your side. He has not spoken since the introduction, his expression composed, though his eyesâdeep, contemplativeâmove with interest over the fine furnishings of the room.
As everyone settles, tea is poured, the gentle clink of porcelain filling the brief lull in conversation. You accept your cup, watching as Viktor does the same, his fingers long and careful around the delicate handle. A man of precision, no doubt.
You lower yourself onto one of the chairs as a maid pours the tea, your hands folding neatly in your lap as you watch your father and Jayce fall into an easy rhythm of discussion. They speak of investments, of Hextechâs promise, of the ways in which your familyâs patronage will shape the future. You hear none of it.
âYou must find this arrangement rather inconvenient,â you say to Viktor, keeping your voice light as you turn toward him.
His eyes sharpen, though his smile remains polite. âHow so?â His hand playing with the cane stills, long fingers extend idly toward its wooden pole.
You tilt your head. âTo be bound to a wife you do not know. And for science, no less.â
Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, setting his tea down. âScience is a noble cause, Miss. Perhaps even nobler than marriage.â
A test. You recognise it as easily as you recognise your own reflection.
"Then I suppose you have the better end of the bargain," you say, knowing itâs in fact, the exact opposite.
What Viktor doesnât know, is that your mother has ensured the bargain benefits your family far more than it does the inventors. And looking at both of themâJayce, hardly containing the beam on his face, and Viktor, observing everything reverentlyâyou feel a pang of guilt, followed by a flicker of anger at the injustice.
A plan formulates in your wicked brain faster than you can blink.
Viktorâs lips press together, but amusement flickers in his gaze. âPerhaps we both do.â
Whatever he means by that, you donât get the chance to find out. Your motherâs voice cuts through the conversation, her smile as polished as the silverware. âMy dear, do spare Mister Viktor the interrogation.â
You return her smile, though yours is sharper. âI was only ensuring he is as clever as they say.â
Your motherâs eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to Viktor, seamlessly redirecting the conversation to something safer. "Dearest, I do believe Mister Talis was about to ask your thoughts on Clementiâs compositions. Such refined taste in music is most becoming."
A deliberate redirection. A warning.
You inhale, curbing the temptation to press further. "Indeed, my lady Mother." Turning to Jayce, you summon a practiced smile. "I do believe his sonatinas have their merits. Though, some find them ratherâpredictable."
Viktorâs gaze lingers a moment longer, unreadable. You have tested him, and he has not recoiled. A curiosity, then. A mystery yet to unfold.
You spend the rest of the afternoon refreshments chatting to Jayce about mediocre music, wondering if he is as bored as you are. He is ever the gentleman, offering the occasional enthusiastic nod or agreeable remark, though you catch the way his gaze strays toward the conversation between your Father and Viktor. You, on the other hand, attempt to suppress yawns, stuffing your face with biscuits only to receive a sharp, silent scolding from your motherâher ever-composed expression unchanging, yet her message perfectly clear in the slight arch of her brow and the subtle narrowing of her eyes.
Jayce, for his part, is far less burdened by such silent reprimands, complimenting the food with an easy charm that has even the servants standing a little straighter. "Absolutely delightful," he declares after a bite of pastry. "Your cooks must be geniuses, my lady."
Mother responds with a gracious nod, her practiced smile unwavering. "We do strive for excellence."
Meanwhile, across the room, Viktor exchanges politeness with your father, andâintriguinglyâseems to warm to the conversation. While his initial responses are careful, measured, there is a spark of genuine enthusiasm as the subject shifts to research. Your father, less constipated than your mother in matters of etiquette, easily shakes off formality, allowing his hand to linger on Viktorâs shoulder longer than necessaryâa gesture of camaraderie and gratitude.
As the discussion unfolds, Viktorâs composure loosens. He leans in slightly, his hands moving as he speaks, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of a man entirely lost in his own world of ideas. His voice, once restrained, now carries a lilt of passion as he explains the intricacies of Hextech and its boundless potential. You watch, fascinated, as the façade slips awayâjust a littleârevealing something softer beneath. And how lovely he looks when he forgets himself.
Dinner proceeds without any great disturbances, save, again, for your motherâs silent rebukes whenever you take too large a bite or drink too greedily. Conversation flows between the three men, animated and full of promiseâthe future, progress, the shape of the world yet to come. All three desire it in their own way, though you suspect Viktorâs hunger for it is of a different nature than the othersâ.
And then, of course, comes your turn to be put on display. After dinner, Motherâs hand lands lightly on your wrist, her voice smooth as silk yet firm beneath the surface. "Dearest, why donât you show our guests the depths of your talents? A sonatina, perhaps? Something refined."
Refined, meaning dull. Predictable. A test, as everything always is.
You rise, crossing the room with measured steps, already feeling Viktorâs gaze on you. He has seen something of you in conversationâbut now, he will listen.
And soâyou play the godforsaken Sonatina, your skin pulled tight over your face, eyes hooded, fingers moving with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner serving a sentence. Your back aches from keeping your spine stiffly straight, and despite your best efforts, your brows begin to furrow in ironic frustration. You only realise it when your mother clears her throatâpointedly, just a touch too loud.
You correct yourself immediately, smoothing your expression, though you swear you hear the ghost of a chuckle slip past Viktorâs lips. How dare he.
"How lovely," Jayce says, his smile wide and honest. You return it with one of your ownâentirely dishonestâas you offer an insincere, "Thank you, Mister Talis," and bow politely. Viktor nods and swallows, and for some reason, you catch the way his throat bobs.
"Gentlemen, I believe it is time to discuss business. Let us move to the smoking room," Father announces, beaming. You can't suppress the sigh that escapes you. Soonâvery soonâyour night self will be free. She has been clawing at the edges of your skin for hours.
"Goodnight, my dearest girls," Father says warmly, pressing a kiss to both your forehead and your motherâsâa gesture so private, so natural, it earns him a scoff from his wife and a kiss on the cheek from his daughter.
Pleasantries are exchanged, and as soon as the men are out of sight, you bolt toward your bedroom. Your mind is already racing, gears grinding. Your feet slip from your heels, and you clasp them in your hands as you take the stairs two at a time. Every step sheds another layer of constrictionâthe short stay, the chemise, the pins biting into your scalp, the suffocating weight of your skirts. Off, off, off. The blush, the powder, the pretence. Her watch has ended for today.
You shake your hair loose from its updo before you even reach your door, already calling for your maid the moment you step inside, clawing at the laces of your gown in desperation.
âMiss, why the dramatics?â she teases, catching up with you in the corridor.
âPeggy donât test me. I canât breathe,â you whine, slumping onto your vanity chair, hands pressing against your ribs to emphasize the urgency. âI am convinced that in hell, everyone wears a short stay.â
Peggy chuckles but says nothing more as her fingers work deftly at the laces, loosening them with a care that speaks of years spent tending to you. You feel the tension ease, your ribs finally expanding without resistance.
âWell?â she prompts, her voice light but expectant. âHow was the evening?â
You hesitate. The words sit heavy on your tongue, as though speaking them aloud would solidify them, make them real. And you are not quite ready for that. Instead, you exhale slowly, composing yourself before replying, âHe is⌠nice.â That is all you can manage.
Peggy hums knowingly. âFrom what I managed to spy, heâs also rather handsome.â
You scoff, turning your head away. âIs that all that matters?â
âIt certainly doesnât hurt,â she says with a grin, but she does not press further.
At last, the constriction gives way, and you take an exaggerated breath, filling your lungs like a drowning woman reaching the surface. Then, without ceremony, you slide off the chair and sprawl flat on the floor, half-dressed, limbs flung out like a marionette with its strings cut.
Peggy, unfazed, picks up your nightgown and drapes it over you as though covering a corpse. âGod, grant rest upon my poor mistressâs soul and let her eternity be free of the constriction of breast support,â she intones in mock solemnity.
Laughter bubbles up from your chest, unrestrained and real. You lift an arm weakly and wave it in her general direction. âSaint Peggy, patron of weary ladies, I thank you.â
She curtsies dramatically. âAs ever, at your service. Call on me if you need anything.â
âI expect I shall sleep like a log.â
âGood. Youâve earned it, I think.â With that, she takes her leave, pulling the door shut behind her.
Silence settles over the room, thick and absolute. You are alone.
For the first time since the day began, the weight of it all presses down on you. The evening, the introductions, the expectationsâyour motherâs sharp gaze, your fatherâs quiet resignation, the way Viktorâs eyes had searched yours with something unreadable. It is real now. You are betrothed.
You swallow. A part of you wants to dwell on it, to trace every moment back and find meaning in the way Viktorâs lips had pressed to your glove, or how he had looked when he spoke of his work, his façade slipping just enough to let something genuine through. But you stop yourself before you go too far.
No. There is still one more thing to do tonight.
You push yourself up from the floor, shaking away the thoughts. The night is not over yet.
Barefoot and silent, you slip from your chambers, the corridor dimly lit by the soft glow of sconces. The house is quiet, the faint crackle of a dying hearth the only sound accompanying your careful steps. You know this path wellâthe precise places to avoid so the floorboards wonât betray you, the door handle that needs an extra nudge before it turns smoothly.
Inside, your fatherâs study smells of ink, aged paper, and a lingering trace of cigar smoke. The large mahogany desk dominates the space, neat and orderly, save for the glass of brandy he left half-finished. You move swiftly, rifling through the stack of documents until you find itâyour contract, tucked within a leather folder. The paper is thick beneath your fingers, the ink crisp and unwavering in its certainty.
You sit at his desk, candle alit, quill and ink poised above parchment. The contract lies before you, its neat, formal script a reminder of how little say you had in its creation. Pushed through by your father but shaped by your motherâs precise demands, it is, at its core, a transaction. A business arrangement designed to favour your family above all else.
Your eyes skim over the terms, and irritation prickles beneath your skin. The imbalance is glaring. The investment into Hextech is substantial, but in return, the Talises and your future husband receive only what your mother deems âreasonable compensation.â No direct ownership, no authority over the funds. Your family retains the power, and Viktor and Jayce are little more than beneficiaries at your parentsâ discretion. A gilded leash.
You press your lips together. No. This will not do.
Dipping your quill into the ink, you begin to amend.
First, the financesâyour fatherâs control over the investment is reduced. Instead of an allowance doled out at his leisure, the funds will be released in agreed-upon increments, ensuring neither Jayce nor Viktor are forced to beg for what is already promised to them. They will have the freedom to allocate resources as needed, without interference from your family.
Next, ownership. The contract had positioned your father as a silent but permanent stakeholder, yet he has no knowledge of Hextech, no hand in its creation. You strike that out, altering it so that once their research yields results, patents and profits remain in the hands of their rightful creators. Your family will receive a generous return, but not at the expense of their autonomy.
Then, Viktor himself. The terms outlining your marriage are, predictably, cold. Your motherâs hand is evident in every word. You are to be an asset to your husband, a guiding influence, ensuring that he remains focused and socially presentable. It is not about companionshipâit is about control.
You set your quill down, flexing your fingers before taking it up again. You cannot undo the engagement, but you can redefine it. The clauses regarding expectations of your role are softened, turned into vague suggestions rather than obligations. Where once it stated that your husband must be âencouragedâ to attend events and maintain appearances, you adjust it to read that he may do so at his discretion. No doubt your mother will notice this change, but you will cross that bridge when you must.
By the time you finish, the candle has burned low. You lean back, studying your work. The contract remains an arrangement, a tether you cannot sever, but at least now, it is fairer. A step closer to something tolerable.
You blot the ink, letting the parchment dry. The night stretches on, silent save for the scratching of your quill as you forge your own small rebellion in ink.
Once you deem it ready, you sneak back out, guiding your footsteps toward the guest bedrooms. An unthinkable mĂŠsalliance, your mother would say, but you feel that both Jayce and Viktor should be made awareâif your plan is to work. You step carefully, your bare feet growing dirty from crossing the house without slippers.
Muffled conversation filters through the door your mother assigned to Jayce. His voice is slightly raised, Viktorâs quieter, edged with irony. They are discussing the evening.
One proper breath, and then a knock on the door.
The hum of conversation ceases instantly as heavy footsteps approach. The door cracks open, and Jayceâs eyes widenâbecause there you stand, in nothing but your nightdress and a loose cape that does little to conceal your state of undress.
His mouth falls open, and only a small, startled sound escapes his lips.
âLet me in!â you whisper sharply, glancing down the corridor with nervous urgency.
âOh, Miss, forgive me, but this⌠is very inappropriate,â Jayce says weakly, though he makes no move to stop you as you push past him and step into the room.
The air is thick with the remnants of their earlier conversation, the scent of brandy lingering. Viktor sits slouched in an armchair, one elbow propped on the armrest, fingers pressed against his temple as if warding off a headache. He watches you, silent, unreadable.
Jayce, on the other hand, is all frantic gestures and hushed protests. âYou must go back to your room. If anyoneâGod, if your motherââ He exhales sharply, rubbing his jaw. âThis is madness.â
You cross your arms, standing your ground. âFuck the polite society, Jayce. Do you want to be a slave to my mother, or will you read what I brought you?â
At that, Viktorâs lips quirkâbarely. âQuite a mouth you have there, Miss.â His voice is smooth, carrying none of Jayceâs flustered panic. He rises from his chair, extending a hand.
Itâs only then that you truly take him in. His shirt is undone at the neck, the cravat abandoned somewhere, his hair tousled prettily as if heâs raked his fingers through it too many times. A flush warms his cheeksâalcohol, no doubt, courtesy of your father.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second before placing the document in his outstretched hand. Your fingers brush, and you retreat too quickly, as if the touch burned.
Silence. Viktorâs eyes flick across the page, reading with quiet intensity. Jayce, peeking over his shoulder, mutters under his breath, âOh, my.â
Viktor lets out a quiet scoff, the amusement avoiding his eyes. âAnd to what do we owe this mercy of yours, pray tell?â His gaze lingers on the last lines of your text, his tone devoid of the warmth he carried earlier. Now, it is sharp, cold, measuredâkindness stripped away as if it had only ever been a mask to wear in polite company. He swallows and lifts his eyes to you, utterly unamused, borderline bored. âI loathe charity.â
Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it, a tangled mess of emotions forming beneath your ribs, but anger is among them. You exhale sharply, crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly very aware of how exposed you are. âAnd I loathe injustice and trickery. Thisââ you gesture vaguely at the parchment. âIs fair. If I am to be sold to a man I do not know, let it be on terms that are humanely acceptable.â
âHow kind,â he says, smilingâmocking. âAnd how do you expect us to accept this? Who do you think is stupid, me and Mister Talis or your own father?â He steps closer, ignoring the way Jayceâs hand presses against his shoulder as if to restrain him. His weight wavers without a cane, and for a moment, you think he might have to steady himself on you.
âMy father is not an unkind man. He simply loves my mother too much for his own good. My motherâŚâ You tilt your head, letting the words settle between you. âWell, sheâs a woman.â
The corner of Viktorâs mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. âCharming.â
âBut my father will not read this upon signing, of that I am certain. We will be long bound before anyone notices.â
Viktor exhales, a sound of something between disbelief and amusement. âAnd who are you doing this for, my merciful Lady?â His voice shifts, the sharpness still there, but beneath itâa spark of something else. The same fervour he held when speaking of his machines, now laced with something darker.
âMyself, my Lord.â You meet his gaze without hesitation. âYou just happen to be a casualty of my mercy.â
And something stirs in your chestâa swelling, an exhilaration. The night version of you, the real you, speaking bluntly to the man who is to be your husband. And he does not recoil. He accepts the challenge. Infuriatingly so, but beneath your irritation, something sparks under your skin that you cannot chase away. Excitement.
Viktor blinks, slowly. Then, he turns to Jayce, whose face has gone chalk white during your exchange. âWhat do you think of this?â
Jayce swallows hard. âWhat if he notices? Your father, that is,â he asks wearily, clearly tempted by your terms yet frightened of what it might cost your families' alliance.
âHe wonât. And if, by some unholy joke, he doesâI will take the blame. Tonight never happened,â you state firmly, bravely. You do not let your voice betray the truth: that you have no idea what you would do if your mother ever found out. She would probably cut your hair and throw you in a convent.
They both nod, and you allow yourself a breath. Then, Viktor extends his hand for a handshake.
You stare at it briefly before acceptingâhis palm is calloused, warm. Bigger than yours, his fingers so long they nearly brush your wrist. His grip is firm, unwavering.
For the briefest moment, his gaze flickers downwardâto your chest. Itâs so quick you might have missed it. But you didnât. And neither did he miss the way heat rushes to your cheeks.
His eyes meet yours again, glinting with an unreadable taunt. âI think itâs best you return to your chambers, my Lady,â he says at last. To that, you can only nod.
You slip back into your fatherâs office under the cover of darkness, placing the altered contract precisely where it needs to beâwhere it will be signed without a second glance. Then, just as carefully, you retreat to your chambers, slipping past every creaking floorboard with the expertise of someone who has done this many times before.
Once inside, you bolt the door, shrugging off your cape before sinking onto the mattress. The night version of you refuses to rest. She tosses and turns, replaying every moment of the eveningâthe music, the dinner, the conversation, the challenge in Viktorâs eyes, the brush of his fingers against yours.
And yet, despite all of it, he is still a stranger.
Morning invades you with harsh light pouring through the abruptly opened curtains and Peggyâs voice urging you to get up.
âMiss? Youâve overslept! Up! Up!â she whisper shouts, pulling the covers down from the bed.
You groan and press your palms to your eyes, curling up into a bean. âPeggy, have mercy, I beg of you.â
âSorry, Miss, no mercy today. Our guests are leaving soon, and you canât miss breakfast, not today,â Peggy says with a kind smile that disarms you. You roll out of your bed, feet dragging across the floor before you slump down in front of the vanity. You watch as Peggy chases away the night self, pins your hair up, wipes the night drool of your face to make you at least vaguely presentable. Sheâs merciful with the short stay thoughÂâpicks a looser one, from the time before you lost your baby fat.
Your heels clack on the staircase and you can already hear voices coming from downstairs. As you approach the drawing room, a glimpse of the scene within stops you in your tracks. Lurking in the doorframe, you watch as Jayce and Viktor hunch over a parchment, feigning deep concentration as they pretend to read it thoroughly before signing. They do so, exchanging pats on the shoulderâconspirators sealing a silent agreement.
Then, it is your fatherâs turn. He catches sight of you lingering in the doorway and flashes you a warm smile. âGood morning, love.â
His eyes drop back to the document. He gives it one last cursory sweep, his quill hovering just above the space left to sign.
You hold your breath.
And he... hesitates. A small hmm escapes him. His brows knit together in fleeting consideration, and thenâoh.
He looks straight at you.
Heat flares in your cheeks, but you do not waver. You hold his gaze, steady, unflinching. And for whatever reasonâbe it the bond of blood or simply the fact that he has known you all your lifeâhis expression softens. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
And oh.
He signs.
You exhale, breathless, weightless. Laughter erupts between themâhugs, handshakes, pats on the back. Jayce beams, his happiness unguarded. Viktor wears a smile that, for once, looks almost honest. Your father looks content.
It is signed. Done. Sealed.
Your father steps forward and pulls you into a firm embrace. âYouâve done well. Iâm proud of you,â he murmurs against your hair. Then, in a quieter, amused tone, he adds, âNow, let us pray your mother doesnât notice until the wedding.â He chuckles softly.
Oh. Right. You are getting married.
***
A few days have passed since the contract was signed, and to your relief, your mother has not noticed the adjustments you made. She remains blissfully consumed by wedding preparations, entirely unaware that the original termsâso starkly in favour of your familyâhave been tempered to grant House Talis a fairer standing.
However, your father called you to his study, his expression unreadable as he regarded you across his desk. His words were firm, yet not unkind. He did not scold, nor did he praise, only ensured you understood the weight of your actions.
"You have done them a service," he admitted at last, after a measured silence. "One I hope they will not forget." And though he said nothing further, though his approval was never voiced, something in his toneâsomething almost like respectâsettled in your chest, easing the uncertainty that had lingered since you first put pen to paper.
Now, with a storm in your mind, your fingers fly over the keys, the sharp, cascading notes of Beethovenâs Moonlight Sonata (Presto Agitato) filling the room with thunderous urgency. It drowns out everythingâthe ticking of the clock, the creak of the floorboards, even the faint rustle of the curtains shifting in the afternoon breeze.
You have not thought about it until now. Not truly. Not beyond the abstraction of ink on parchment and the murmured discussions over tea and candlelight. But now, with only days left before you are no longer just yourself but someoneâs wife, it hits you. A shift. A point of no return.
How strange, to know that the house you grew up in, the one you have played in, dreamt in, stormed through in childhood fits of temper, will no longer be yours. That soon, your place at this very piano, in this very room, will be an absence rather than a presence. The thought unsettles you.
So you play harder. Louder. Until the force of it rings in your chest, keeping you from thinking too much. You curl forward, biting your lip absentmindedly, your face twisted with emotion, your torso nearly hovering over the keys like a hunchback.
You do not hear the front door open, nor the sound of measured footsteps in the hall. You do not see the maid, Peggy, curtsy as she leads your visitor inside. You do not even notice when she hesitates, turning to announce himâbecause before she can, a voice stops her.
"Itâs alright, Peggy. Please, allow me."
It is a quiet request, yet it holds the weight of something decisive. Viktor stands in the doorway, smiles for Peggy, but his eyes are fixed on you, considering. The way your body moves with the music, the tension in your shoulders, the way you lose yourself in the notes.
Peggy looks up at him, blinking in momentary surprise, before a small, approving smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. He is not appalled. Not by the passion, the volume, the unladylike ferocity with which you play. And that, she thinks, is a good sign.
So she gives him a knowing look, inclines her head, and quietly slips awayâleaving him alone to watch you. And you, still unaware of his presence, continue to play.
He spies your reflection in the windowâyour face shifting from one expression to another with each rise and fall of the music. Your brows knit in concentration, your eyes clamp shut with feeling, your mouth parts slightly, forming an unconscious little o. Strands of hair have slipped free from their updo, framing your cheeks in wild disarray.
Viktor inches closer, careful to avoid the floorboards that might creak beneath his step. He drinks in the sceneâthe unguarded display, the sheer abandon with which you play. A thought takes root. Perhaps this arrangement will not be the terrible imprisonment he once feared. Surely, youâwith your tempestuous fingers and flagrant disregard for proprietyâwill agree that freedom is the highest privilege, worth protecting above all else.
He tells himself the feeling in his chest is not admiration but hope. Hope that the two of you might reach an understanding, one that will allow you both to remain unshackled even within the binds of matrimony. He tells himself that your parted mouth is merely amusing, nothing more.
The piece crashes to an end, and with a frustrated groan, you collapse forward, resting your forehead and elbows on the keyboard. A discordant wail echoes through the room. Viktor chuckles and finally breaks the silence.
"Are you not happy with your play, Miss?"
You jolt upright with a sharp gasp, spinning around so quickly that you nearly stumble in your haste to stand.
"Dear God, my Lord!"
You attempt a curtsy, but the motion is so hurried and clumsy that you almost topple over. Viktor steps forward instinctively, his hands finding your forearms to steady you, cane clattering to the floor. His grip is light, his touch like a feather, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle," he murmurs, breath quickening despite himself at the warmth and tension in your arms. He holds you wondering whether his fingertips would meet had he closed them around you. The thought gets chased away as soon as it enters his mind.
You swallow hard, your heart still racing from the shock. The room suddenly feels much smaller, the space between you too charged. You are keenly aware of your appearanceâloosened hair, flushed cheeks, a dress slightly rumpled from sitting too long at the piano. You feel exposed. He does not seem to mind, still holding your elbows.
"I do not know as much about music as Jayce," Viktor continues, tilting his head slightly, "but this sounded rather⌠challenging, no?"
"Iâm so sorryâyou werenât meant to hear this," you blurt out, lowering your gaze.
"I enjoyed it thoroughly," he replies without hesitation. "Itâs rather different to what I heard last time."
Your fingers twitch on his arms. Different was one way to put it.
"Oh, itâs quite different," you admit. Then, lowering your voice, "Also, quite forbidden. Please donât tell my motherâshe will burn my sheet music and make me play that measly Clementi until my fingers bleed."
Viktor smirks, his fingers wrapping just a notch tighter around your arms. "I shall keep your secret, Miss. Whatâs another one shared between betrothed? I imagine there will be more."
For the briefest moment, you wonder if he is flirting. Your pulse quickens at the notion, but you quickly clear your throat and step back, disentangling yourself from his grasp. You smooth your skirts, willing the heat in your cheeks to fade.
"What brings you here, if you donât mind my asking?"
He leans to pick up the cane and you wonder momentarily if you should help, before he says, "Oh, I was announced to call upon you today. Have you forgotten?"
You press your lips together, mortified. "Forgive me. It completely slipped my mindâI got lost in thought."
Viktor hums, nodding in understanding. "Thatâs quite alright. I think I am familiar with the feeling." Then, arching a brow, "Also, why are we whispering?"
Your shoulders stiffen. "Because if my benevolent mother finds us here without a chaperone, hell will open its mouth and swallow me whole."
Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, unbothered. "I was told your mother went to town with your sisters, Miss. No need to fret. Or whisper, as much as I like the sound of it."
His voice is steady, indifferent to the scandalous implication of being alone together. You, however, remain acutely aware of it, your hands smoothing over your skirts once more as if to will yourself into some semblance of propriety. So odd to meet another who cares not about the binding of the rules made up by God knows who. Absolutely peculiar to be the one who leans toward the constriction on instinct, being presented with someone who doesnât obey. The night self has cackled within you ludicrously.
âWhat is the reason for your calling, then?â you ask, forcing your voice to remain steady.
âI was told by Jayceâs sweet mother that such is a custom between courting couples,â Viktor replies, his tone unreadable.
Courting. Couple. Be still, your stupid heart. You press your lips together before speaking. âI thought I was considered to be courted by now.â
Viktor tilts his head slightly, watching you as though deciphering a puzzle. âIf you do not wish me to visit, do tell. I donât mean to impose upon you, Miss.â
âOh no, my Lord, forgive my bluntness,â you say quickly, feeling a warmth creep up your neck. âI am merely not sure if I am able to entertain you in the way you desire.â
Something shifts in Viktorâs expressionâhis gaze darkens slightly, and his fingers twitch at his cane before he hesitates, swallowing as if choosing his words carefully. âI meant to invite you for a stroll later this week,â he says at last, voice softer, but still carrying that enigmatic lilt. âApparently, it is good were we to be seen in public together. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and have an unsupervised conversation while being regarded.â
Thereâs something about the way he says itâan almost playful contradiction in the idea of a private moment under the scrutiny of othersâthat makes you pause. He is studying you again, and though you should feel wary, you find yourself intrigued instead.
âWell, I would lie if I said you didnât grasp my attention. I shall indulge you, my Lord,â you say after taking a long inhale, steadying yourself. The moment of unguarded reaction is goneâyou slip back into the polished version of yourself, the one who knows how to navigate these waters. Calm, composed, hands resting gently on your abdomen, back straight, chin held high.
Viktor only smiles, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before he inclines his head. âI am no Lord, just a man. Please, call me Viktor.â
Your fingers twitch where they rest. He is dismantling barriers you had placed with such ease itâs infuriating. âI will be there, Viktor.â The name feels unfamiliar yet strangely natural on your tongue.
In response, he whispers your name softly, like a secret meant only for him to know. A shiver curls up your spine, and before you can stop yourself, your arms moveâgrasping at your elbows in a defensive clutch. The instinct to shield yourself is immediate, but you smother it, replacing it with a placid smile. If Viktor notices, he does not call attention to it, though something in his gaze flickers. He looks as though he is about to say something, but then he hesitates. Withdraws.
For a moment, you simply stare at each other, the air thick with something unspoken. It feels strangeâutterly so. As if you are being assessed, studied with a precision that leaves you feeling exposed. And the duel is not fair. He has some sort of weapon, some unseen advantage, while you stand bare, vulnerable. Like a deer in the forest, ears pricked, waiting for the shot to ring out.
âI shanât disturb you further,â he finally says, turning toward the door. âI will send a note as to when and where we will meet.â
On cue, the door creaks, and Peggy peeks through the crack.
âMiss, the Lady will be back soon. Shall I make some tea for you and your caller?â
You exhale sharply, regaining your bearings. âMister Viktor is leaving, but thank you. We should, probablyââ You catch yourself before you say too much, before you admit that you need to look as though you have been dutifully engaged in proper, ladylike pastimes rather than playing scandalous music behind closed doors. You glance at Peggy, willing her to understand.
She does. âOf course, Miss! I will be with you in a few moments.â
The door clicks shut behind Viktor.
You release a breath you hadnât realised you were holding, pressing a hand against your ribs as though it could steady the frantic beat of your heart.
Save for your father, this was the first time you had been alone in a room with a man. The realisation settles over you like a weight, and the two halves of yourself clash within your chest.
The day youâthe dutiful daughterâcannot help but acknowledge the impropriety of it all. She knows what is expected, what lines should not be crossed. And yet⌠she hesitates. Because the unease doesnât stem solely from being alone with a man. It stems from being alone with Viktor, a man whose manners slip free of societal constraints the moment he is given the chance.
The night you, however, does not hesitate. She roars in satisfaction. This was thrilling. The push and pull of conversation, the glances, the knowing looks. And to do so while basking in daylight, without shadows to obscure the truth of it?
Intoxicating.
#viktor arcane#viktor x reader#viktor fanfic#viktor x reader smut#viktor x f!reader#arcane#viktor smut#arcane fanfic#my writing#ao3#ao3 fanfic#viktor x oc#viktor nation#requests#d&m
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đŠđŽđ đŚđ˛ đ§đđŚđ đđ đđĄđ đđ¨đŠ đ¨đ đ˛đ¨đŽđŤ đĽđ˘đŹđ | đŹđđ§đŁđ˘ đą đđđŚ!đŤđđđđđŤ (đŹđ§đđđ¤ đŠđđđ¤)


đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛ as much as you wanted to stay by his side, you couldn't bear the thought of watching him fall in love with other women while you're stuck at the kitchen washing dishes and measuring ingredients. so you dreamt of leaving, of traveling to different islands to share your lovely songs and tunes; but the more your desire to leave grows, the more sanji finds himself drowning in your warmth. or, you and sanji over the years, wherein five times you tried to leave him and the one time you finally did, despite his refusal to let you go.
đđđ đŹ musician reader, 5 + 1 things, pining, unrequited love, not actually unrequited love, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending
đ§đ¨đđ i swear i cannot escape a brainrot whenever i watch a new show. this automatically wrote itself, i don't even remember how i came up with this idea. anyway, i'm surprised there aren't many sanji fics that involves the unrequited love trope, seeing that it suits him. or maybe that's just me. this is only a SNEAK PEEK though.
đđđ˘đ full version now published here!
You accepted it years ago.
You accepted the fact that you somehow fell in love with Sanji Vinsmoke along your weird journey of working in a sea restaurant full of former pirates and making music while at it. How the pesky feelings grew and wrapped themselves around your aching heart, you didn't know. Maybe it was when he learned to cook your favorite food and gave it to you afterwards, or the way his crystal blue eyes reminded you of snowflakes every winter.
Or maybe it was when he pulled your hair out of jealousy the moment he learned that Zeff would be taking in another child in his care, but brushed it and even braided it after the latter cleared the misunderstanding. Maybe it was when he supported you in your dreams and told you they weren't silly, maybe it was when he fought off drunk men that were trying to hit on you. Or maybe it was the way his voice would drop an octave lower whenever he asks you for a favor. The list could go on and on and you still wouldn't know the reason why. It doesn't matter anyway. You tripped, you fell, and now you're pining.
Drying off the last of the plates, you washed your own hands after and patted them dry on your skirt. You were the last one to leave the kitchen, the other staff already back in their quarters after a long, exhausting day of cooking. You fixed the signature blue bandana tied in your hair then went on your way towards the upper deck.
You weren't blessed with a talent in cooking, so you offered to do chores instead. Washing the dishes, cleaning the restaurant, and doing the laundry were few of the things you do in the Baratie. You can't say that you enjoy it, but you were beyond grateful that Zeff gave you a chance despite his opposition to let a woman work inside his restaurant.
As you were about to go to the newly laundered clothes you hung on a thin wire earlier that morning, you heard two voices speaking. You also smelled cigarette smoke wafting through the air, and you only knew one person who could be smoking at this hour. Your breath hitched in anticipation.
"You bringing a woman to your bed again, Sanji?" The other person asked playfully, but there was a hint of disbelief in his voice. You carefully took a peek so you won't accidentally reveal yourself and be accused of eavesdropping. Two people came into view with their backs facing you.
"Now, what are you talking about, Patty? I am a gentleman. I only had a nice chat with the lovely lady and escorted her back to her ship." Sanji interjected, a cigarette hanging on his lips.
Patty huffed. "I didn't know that chatting included kiss marks on jawlines."
This caused Sanji to laugh and say, "Not my fault she was charmed by my food."
"The boss man ain't gonna like it when he finds out about this."
"He's not gonna find out." Sanji assured him, wiping off the said kiss mark on his jaw. You stared at him as he did so, and you pitied the woman who planted that kiss, knowing she was just one of the many beautiful ladies Sanji had flirted with before. However, a tinge of pain in your chest said otherwise, taunting you that it was not pity you're feeling, but foul jealousy.
"Why don't you look for more decent women, eh? How about 'little lass' for a change?" Patty suddenly suggested.
It was like someone had hit your stomach with one of the metal pans in the kitchen with the way it lurched in surprise and nervousness. Your heartbeat started to quicken the longer you waited for his response, making your grip on your skirt tighter. In moments like these, you allowed yourself to hope, to wish that he saw something in you and that he finds you beautiful and lovely enough to be the person standing by his side.
But his answer made all that hope crumble down into nothing but dust.
"I don't see her that way." Sanji said after a long stretch of silence, taking a long drag from the cigarette then releasing the smoke in a single breath.
Ah.
You blinked repeatedly, trying to keep the tears from forming. It's always been like this, so why can't you get used to it? Taking a deep breath, you gulped away the knot forming in your throat and decided to leave. You can grab the clothes later.
"You're too kind for him." Someone behind you spoke, making you jump and tense up. Turning around, you saw Zeff looking at you with an unreadable emotion in his eyes and his hands on his hips, almost like he knew your secret. Of course he does. He always sees everything.
You stumbled on your words. "Sir?"
"That boy is always up to something." He began, switching his attention to Sanji. "One minute he's stubbornly immature in the kitchen, and the next he'll be a thirsty man staring at women like they're liquid booze."
Clearing your throat, you forced a smile.
"Well, he can be a lot sometimes." You agreed, remembering the days when the two of you would fight over irrelevant matters. Then you chuckled and continued, "But he's kind. He's gentle, and lovely, like a freshly made poem you keep repeating in your head. But then he's also confusing, hot-headed, and reckless. He's like the sea, isn't he? Calm yet wrapped with mystery, dangerous yet beautiful..."
You trailed off, an unbearable heat rising up your cheeks and neck once you slowly began to realize that you just ranted out your feelings to the head chef. You glanced at him with wide eyes, preparing to see a disgusted look on his face; however, Zeff didn't appear to be repulsed by your little speech. In fact, the corners of his lips were slightly quirked up.
"But I cannot swim. If I were to drown, he wouldn't save me." You quickly added, hoping to shut down the topic.
He sighed. "You will meet someone who deserves you as much as you deserve them, little lass." He simply said. He then laid his hand out, and on his palm was a little box poorly tied with a ribbon. "Here, for you."
Altnough you were a bit confused at the random gift, you accepted it and cradled the box to your chest. "I'll be okay, Zeff." You insisted, grinning cheekily. "When I become famous, I'll sing my songs here in Baratie, and people would flood the restaurant to hear my singing. And to eat your food too, of course."
The head chef nodded, relief flooding his expression. "I look forward to that." He said while awkwardly returning your smile.
That night, when you were sure that everyone in the Baratie was asleep, you opened the loose floorboard on the floors of your bedroom and grabbed the wooden box you kept hidden for a long time now. You opened the lid and began counting the Berry you saved for the past few months.
Tomorrow was the perfect day to leave.
You just can't stay here. Yes, you had a roof over your head, delicious food to eat everyday, and clean clothes to wear but you were so miserable. This wasn't the life you wanted. You wish to go out there, sing your heart out, and fall in love with someone who actually loves you back.
A knock on your door made you freeze. You held your breath as the person on the other side continued to knock a few more times. "You awake?"
Pain surged through your veins, your chest twisting in agony. Sanji.
"You didn't come down for dinner. I guess you're too tired, hmm?" He said, his muffled voice gentle, and the sound almost prompted you to stand up and open the door for him. But you dug your fingernails in your palms and resisted, because you can't just let this opportunity pass by.
You heard a brief clinking sound before Sanji spoke again, "Sweet dreams, ange."
Once his footsteps faded away, you cautiously moved towards your door and opened it as quietly as you can. There, on the floor, was a small plate with a slice of your favorite dessert: angel's food cake, topped with fresh cream and strawberries.
You bent down and saw a note beside the plate. And when you got to read the contents of the note, you burst into tears and sobs that wracked down your entire body.
Happy Birthday
â S.
You ate the cake with tears silently falling down your cheeks, and that was the first time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.
again, this is only a sneak peek of the actual fic, i'm currently halfway in completing it. please let me know if you want to read it, because i might publish it next week. if not, i'll just drown in sorrow and self-pity.
#opla#opla x reader#opla x y/n#one piece#one piece live action#opla sanji#one piece sanji#sanji#vinsmoke sanji#sanji live action#sanji x reader#sanji x you#sanji x y/n#opla sanji x reader#angst#one piece sanji x reader#ŕ¨ŕ¨ ladadiida
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put her canine teeth in the side of my neck
lest x female reader
summary: youâre lestâs favorite client, but her services arenât free
a/n: yk that saying of the devil works hard but fan fiction writers work harder? yeah.
tags: fluff, making out, dry humping, drug use, lest is transfem, female reader, biting
ao3 version
you tentatively knocked at the door with your hood up over your head, glancing back to make sure no one had followed you. lest opened the door with a hum and stepped to the side, an open invitation that you happily took. shucking off your cloak and setting it on one of the hooks by the front door, you made yourself at home on her couch.
lest was in a comfortable purple skirt with slits up the side and a simple strappy white tank top. she strode into the living room where you were lounging, her hips swaying side to side in a very purposeful way. glancing over to her as she leaned down with an intentional arch in her back, she could feel your eyes burning into her ass. your mouth salivated a little which you embarrassingly gulped down, turning your gaze away quickly as she straightened up. with the shimmer paintbrush in her hand, she kneeled down next to the couch and started painting a twirling pattern on your wrist.
lest continued to paint patterns and gently dragged the paintbrush up your arm, ending with a swirl around your bicep that matched the other patterned brush strokes adorning your skin. a familiar buzz worked its way into your bloodstream as the shimmer traveled through your veins, giving you eyes a purple glow at the peak of your digestion. your body sagged with relaxation and a euphoric sigh left your lips.
currently, you were in lestâs shoebox apartment draped over her velvet flea market couch with faded tassels lining the edges. some were missing while others had very few strings left, but she had the couch re-stuffed and replaced the springs so it felt like new. she usually insisted on traveling to her client's houses instead of letting them into her home, but you were a lifelong friend, so she didnât mind. maybe a friend was the wrong way of putting it, friends donât usually kiss.
seeing as you were properly satiated, lest turned to her own vice of smoking through a pipe. while she mainly worked with clients who preferred being painted, she always smoked. if it ainât broke, donât fix it you supposed to yourself.
she carefully set the brush into its proper case and stuffed it into her doctors' bag. picking up her pipe from the coffee table, she took a long drag and blew the air straight up. you watched as the purple clouds danced in the air and slowly dissipated as if it were never there in the first place.
was she always this pretty or did the shimmer haze just make her seem more ethereal?
she climbed on all fours onto the couch and straddled your lap. your hands connected to her hips and squeezed the soft flesh. rubbing her sides to slightly pull up her shirt, you softly dug your fingers into her fur and felt her shiver above you. she took a long drag from her glass pipe and blew the purple smoke into your face, which you happily inhaled.
she set the pipe down on the table and started rocking her hips against yours, a soft moan sighed from her lips. leaning forward, she panted her hands on either side of your head. you met her rocking by thrusting your hips up against her, arching your back against the couch and zeroing in on her lips. she chuckled at your eagerness, you were always so needy when you were high.
she pressed her lips against yours, her canines quickly nipping your bottom lip for access into your mouth. the taste of the shimmer smoke flooding your mouth as your tongue danced with hers, her sandpaper-like tongue ticking your wet muscle. you giggled into the kiss and she smiled against your lips.
you felt her bulge pressing against you and youâre sure that she could feel the wetness soaking your underwear that was surely moistening your pants. a loud purring started in her chest as she continued to lazily grind again you, kissing down your neck. she licked up the side of your neck, smirking as you squirmed beneath her and held back your giggles. your hands trailed down her waist and gripped the flesh of her ass, needily bucking up against her with a whine. she scraped her sharp teeth against your neck, sinking them in shallowly at the junction between your neck and your shoulder. you gasped as she sunk her teeth into your skin, pleasure quickly overcoming the initial pain that you felt.
she pulled back and gently licked at the bite mark, burying her face in your neck with a deep sigh. you hummed and closed your eyes, rubbing her back as the tones of her purring slowly lulled you to sleep. while the shimmer was nice in your system, holding lest in your arm was better than any drug.
part 2
#lest arcane#arcane lest#arcane season 2#lest x reader#lest x female reader#lest x fem reader#reader x lest#arcane#strawberrykidneystone writes#strawberrykidneystone#lest#lest smut
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