#an ironic reading wouldn’t be out of the question

[er1nne]

hi! i’m the anon who requested a new part for “the interview with drew goes viral”. you actually posted it on my birthday, so i’m sending you a huge thanks, really.

i absolutely loved it and i also wouldn’t mind if you wanted to turn this into a series too hahah.

the two of them 🥺🥺🥺 i love that drew is going to the coffee shop after her, would love to see how their relationship grows! i’m in love with them and with the you you write. thanks again!!!

hope you’re doing well, have a nice weekend xxx

another run in with drew ♡

part one, part two, part three

author's note: love how this had become a series lol, also series masterlist coming soon. give me ideas on what you want to see, your wishes are my command

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

You haven’t seen Drew since the coffee shop. No texts. No calls. No accidental likes on Instagram stories. Just that strange little moment—quiet, simple, unexpected—followed by nothing but silence. A silence you didn’t have time to question, at least not out loud.

Work swept you under fast. One interview turned into five, turned into twelve. There were red eyes and red carpets, layovers that bled into morning glam, emails marked urgent that weren’t, and endless voice notes from your assistant reminding you to drink water or, God forbid, actually sit down and eat. You’ve been floating from event to event, mic in hand, pretending the whirlwind is normal.

And maybe it is. Maybe this is just what success feels like when it comes all at once.

But somewhere in the back of your mind—between camera flashes and client lists—you still think about that coffee. The way his hand brushed yours when he reached for the lid. The way he looked at you like you were someone worth pausing for. Not performing for. Just… seeing.

You never followed up. Neither did he. So maybe that’s where it ends.

Until now.

You’re back on the red carpet, badge clipped, mic wired, heels biting into the carpet just enough to remind you to stand tall. Another night. Another venue. Another lineup of stars and stylists and agents crowding every inch of the step-and-repeat. Ironically enough, for a Drew Starkey interview. Even when you can't make time to see him personally the universe has a funny way of putting you two together. Meant to be? who knows.

You try not to think too hard about it—don’t give it weight. You’re here to work. You’re here to do your job. Not to chase the what-ifs of a man who left your texts untyped and your mind way too occupied on nights when you should’ve been sleeping.

Still, your fingers tighten around the mic just slightly as you read down the list of arrivals. Tom Blyth is slotted ahead of Drew. You know Tom. He’s warm, low-maintenance, the kind of actor who gives thoughtful answers and makes your job easy. You ground yourself in that—small wins. Familiar rhythms.

Your team gives you the signal, and you step forward into the chaos of flashbulbs and pre-show nerves. The cameras sweep toward you and Tom as he arrives, his publicist giving you a nod. You settle into the interview, asking your usual questions—questions you could probably recite in your sleep by now. He smiles, laughs, says something about the director’s process. You nod, respond, push the conversation where it needs to go. It’s smooth. Effortless. Just how it’s supposed to be.

Your heels click into place on the press line, the carpet beneath you plush but just unstable enough to remind you you’re balancing on borrowed time—and four inches of designer expectation. The noise is a hum—paparazzi flashes, producers shouting cues, the murmur of industry air kisses and small talk no one really means.

Then you see him.

Tom Blyth moves through the crowd like it’s parting for him on instinct. All charm and movie-star ease, dressed in something sharp and tailored, the kind of suit that looks effortless but costs more than your entire monthly invoice report. The lapels lie just right, the fabric catching the camera flashes like it knows it’s being watched. He carries himself like someone who’s used to being looked at—and knows exactly what to do with that attention.

When he stops in front of you, the grin he offers is the kind you feel—not just see. It’s practiced, yes, but not fake. It lands with just enough weight to leave a mark.

You hold your mic steady and smile back, but the energy shifts the second he opens his mouth.

“Well, well,” he says as he stops in front of you, eyeing your mic, then your face, “didn’t expect to see the best-dressed person here holding the microphone. Shouldn’t you be on this side with the rest of us?”

You smile, professional but just shy of bashful. “Careful, Tom. Keep sweet-talking me like that and I might start charging for compliments.”

“Go ahead,” he says, laughing. “As long as you let me expense it under ‘networking.’”

He winks, and you try not to let your shoulders tense under the cameras. “Let’s talk about the film, yeah? You’ve worked with some heavy hitters this year. What drew you to this script?”

He leans in slightly, enough for you to catch a trace of his cologne—something warm, amber, expensive. “Besides the fact that it gave me a reason to show up and see you again?” He pauses, grin widening. “I liked how human it felt. Honest. Flawed. I’ve been chasing those kinds of roles lately. But this one hit different.”

You nod, genuinely engaged, your mic lifting instinctively. “Do you think audiences are ready to see you in something that vulnerable? Or do you still like being everyone’s golden boy?”

“Depends,” he says. “Would you still like me if I wasn’t?”

Before you can even come up with a reply—witty or otherwise—a voice cuts through the noise, low and unmistakably familiar.

“Now he’s trying to steal my favorite interviewer.”

You turn.

Drew stands just behind Tom, casual but calculated, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on you like he’s trying to read the punchline before you’ve even delivered it.

Tom steps back half an inch, amusement flashing across his face. “Well, didn’t know I was stepping on any toes.”

“Not toes. Just territory.” Drew’s tone is light, but the message is there, coded in the way his eyes flick to you, then back to Tom like a reflex.

Tom glances between the two of you, catching it. “Didn’t mean to step on anything,” he says, chuckling under his breath. “Or anyone.”

You force a smile—tight, professional—and tilt the mic toward Drew without looking directly at him. “We’re all friends here. Right?”

“Sure we are,” Drew murmurs, eyes still on you. He doesn’t blink when you finally meet his gaze. He just lifts one brow slightly, like he knows something you don’t want to admit out loud.

Tom excuses himself down the line, sensing the shift, and you don’t blame him. The moment he walks away, the noise around you fades into a blur. Your crew’s still watching. Cameras still pointed. But all you feel is him.

Then he leans in closer—like he’s adjusting something on his suit, like he’s letting you fix his mic—but his mouth is right by your ear.

“Long week?” he asks, voice low.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. You don’t turn to face him, just nod slightly, lips pressed together. “Busy.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Too busy for coffee, huh? Maybe dinner works better instead.”

You slightly hold your mouth agape with a surprised smile decorates your face. You swallow hard. He’s not wrong.

“Sure, it that will make it up to you.”

"How about tonight? If you’re not busy after the premiere.”

You pause. Then add— Then: “There's not a such thing as 'too busy'. It’s a date, then.”

The words fall out softer than you expect, almost natural, and the moment they land, both of you flinch—just a little.

“Promise.”

That gets him.

He doesn’t smile—but something in his expression shifts. Softens. You feel the shift in his body before you see it—his shoulders ease, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s forcing stillness. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something in his face unlocks. Like your words knocked the wind out of him for half a second.

And then—

You turn your head. Just slightly. Just enough for your mouth to hover where his had been.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, breath warm against his skin. “Are you the jealous type?”

He goes still. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just still.

One beat. Two.

And suddenly it’s like everyone around you vanishes. The press. The handlers. Even the cameras seem quieter. Because anyone watching now sees it—the way his hand flexes at his side. The way your smile lifts just barely, slow and knowing. The air between you buzzes, hot and thick and impossible to ignore.

Then you smile for the camera—tight, sweet, unreadable. “We’re rolling, Starkey. You ready?”

He pulls back, expression unreadable. “Always.”

You lift the mic, voice smooth. “Drew Starkey, star of tonight’s premiere, joining us now…”

And just like that, you fall back into the rhythm. But your pulse is nowhere near calm. And neither is he.

And just like that, you’re back on script—two professionals, poised and polished.

But your pulse is nowhere near calm.

And his? His jaw ticks once. His eyes don’t leave you.

But this is anything but far from over.

[verstappenverse]

oh i think i have a request 🤭 maybe max starts to date reader cause of a bet but he ends up actually falling in love with her…kinda angst but maybe fluffy and happy ending as well?

The Bet and The Fall

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max starts dating you on a bet never expecting to fall for you, but as your relationship grows he must confront the fallout of his careless gamble.

4k words / Masterlist

You never thought the end of your year would involve Max Verstappen.

The first time you saw him, he’d been exactly what you expected. Quick wit, easy smirk, and just enough arrogance to carry the weight of his success. He’d walked into the bar with a confidence that commanded attention, his laughter spilling into the room like it belonged there. And maybe it did.

You didn’t think much of him then. He was just another face, another fleeting encounter on a night out. But fate or something cruelly ironic had other plans.

It started with an accident, a spill of your drink when you turned too quickly, bumping straight into him. His reflexes were sharp, of course, the glass never hit the ground.

"Smooth," he’d said, voice tinged with amusement as he set the glass down.

You’d laughed it off, brushing away your embarrassment. "Thanks for the save. You’re faster off track than I thought."

That had earned a raised brow and a crooked grin. "You know who I am?"

"I’m not living under a rock."

Max shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t look like the type who goes to parties like this.”

Your laugh was genuine, surprising even yourself. “And what does that mean exactly?”

"Nothing bad." he said, watching you closely. "But I’m good at reading people."

"And what do you read from me?"

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you seem like you’re trying to figure out how you ended up here.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted, glancing around the room. “I’m here because my friend insisted. Apparently I need to ‘live a little.’”

Max’s smile widened, and there was something disarming about it, “And are you? Living a little?”

You shrugged, feeling oddly at ease despite the absurdity of the situation. “I guess I am now.”

He’d offered to replace your drink, and you’d let him, thinking it was nothing more than a kind gesture. He shifted slightly closer, the noise of the party fading into the background as the two of you talked.

The conversation flowed more easily than you expected. Max was charming in a way that felt unpolished, his humour dry and his smile boyish despite the confidence he carried. He asked questions about you, what you did, where you were from, and he actually seemed interested in your answers.

At some point, you forgot who he was. You forgot that you were talking to someone whose life was splashed across headlines and social media. And when your best friend eventually came to drag you away, Max had looked genuinely disappointed.

When he asked for your number as you were standing up to leave, you hesitated.

"I don’t usually do this," you admitted, handing him your phone anyway.

"I don’t either," he replied, though the glint in his eyes made you doubt that.

Still, he’d texted you the next day and slowly things started to unfold.

What you didn’t know at the time was that across the room someone had been watching the entire interaction with a smirk plastered on their face.

Max had been sitting at a table with his friends earlier that night, a drink in his hand and an argument brewing. It wasn’t unusual competitive personalities clashed even off the track. But tonight Daniel had been relentless, poking at Max’s habits, his so-called inability to "settle down."

"You don’t even know how to date properly," Daniel joked. "I bet you wouldn’t last two weeks with a normal girl."

Max rolled his eyes. "And what does that even mean?"

"It means," Daniel said, grin widening, "you’re all about control. You don’t let anyone in unless you’ve already decided it’s worth your time. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the spontaneity?"

Max scoffed. "You’re talking like I don’t know how to have a real relationship."

"Because you don’t," Daniel shot back, laughing. "Prove me wrong. Bet you wouldn’t last a month with someone who isn’t already part of your world. No models, no influencers, no one born into racing. A normal person. You’d combust."

Max leaned back, unimpressed. "I could date anyone I wanted."

Daniel’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "Alright, Verstappen. Prove it." He gestured toward the bar, where you stood unaware of their gaze. "Her. One month. Bet you can’t do it."

Max followed Daniel’s line of sight, lips twitching as he took you in. You were laughing at something a friend had said, head tossed back, easy and unguarded. There was no designer handbag, no polished effort to impress.

Max smirked, arrogance slipping easily into his voice. "Easy."

"Oh, is it?" Daniel teased. "She doesn’t look like the type to fall for your usual tricks mate."

"She’ll fall," Max said, confidence unwavering. "They always do."

Daniel arched an eyebrow. "Alright then." He held out his hand. "If you pull it off drinks are on me for the rest of the year."

Max clasped Daniel’s hand without hesitation. "Deal."

What he didn’t anticipate was how easy it would be to approach you or how different you would be from what he expected. When he wandered over to the bar, leaning casually against the counter, he didn’t have to try hard to strike up a conversation. You were warm, quick-witted, and entirely uninterested in the weight of his name.

You didn’t look at him like he was Max Verstappen, Formula 1 World Champion. You looked at him like he was just a guy who spilled your drink and owed you a new one. It caught him off guard, that refreshing lack of pre-tense.

Max had meant for it to be a game, a challenge to prove his point. What he didn’t realise then was that he’d just placed a bet against his own heart. And for the first time in his life, he was about to lose.

Looking back, you’d wonder if you should have noticed the cracks sooner.

Everything felt perfect. Max was attentive, charming, and surprisingly easy to talk to. He wasn’t just the Max Verstappen the world saw he was softer with you, more thoughtful. He’d remember small details, how you liked your coffee, the book you were reading, the song stuck in your head.

He made you laugh too, really laugh, the kind that bubbled up unexpectedly, catching you off guard, leaving your cheeks aching and your stomach fluttering. And when he kissed you for the first time his hands cradled your face, careful and deliberate, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t gentle enough. There was something almost reverent about the way he touched you, like he was holding something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved but wasn’t willing to let go of either, and when he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw, you realised something terrifying.

You had fallen fast, and you had fallen hard.

What you didn’t know was that Max hadn’t expected to fall at all.

A month came and went, but by then Max wasn’t counting anymore. The bet was long forgotten, buried under the weight of late-night conversations, stolen glances, and the way your laugh seemed to echo in his mind long after you were gone.

At first, it was easier to ignore the way something shifted in his chest whenever you were around, the way his mind drifted to you even in moments when he should have been focused. He told himself it was just intrigue, a fleeting distraction that would fade once the bet was over. But then, moment by moment, the reality became impossible to ignore.

It was the way you laughed, unrestrained, unselfconscious. The kind of laugh that made people turn their heads, infectious and full of life. The way you talked with your hands, so animated and expressive that he found so captivating. The way you challenged him, never intimidated by his sharp edges or his reputation, meeting him head-on with quick wit, making him feel like he didn’t have to be Verstappen, the calculated driver, the public figure, with you he could just be Max.

He fell without realising it, like slipping into a warm bath, slow, comforting, inevitable.

The tipping point came on what should have been a regular, quiet evening at your place. You’d insisted on cooking dinner for him brushing off his protests about how he could just order something instead. The kitchen was chaos, vegetables half-chopped, sauce simmering too quickly, flour dusting your shirt, but you didn’t seem to care. You were too busy laughing at yourself, muttering about how you were definitely not cut out for MasterChef.

“Come on Verstappen,” you teased, tossing him an apron. “You can’t be a world champion and not know how to chop an onion.”

Max caught the apron midair, a mock look of horror on his face. “I don’t think that’s in the championship requirements.”

“Well it’s in mine,” you quipped, tying your own apron behind your back. “Get chopping.”

Max leaned against the counter, watching you with an expression that would have given him away in an instant if you’d turned to look at him.

“You’re staring,” you teased after a while.

He smirked. “Maybe I like what I’m seeing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush on your cheeks betrayed you.

It was a simple moment, but it lodged itself in Max’s chest like a permanent fixture. He knew then it wasn’t just intrigue or infatuation, he loved you. And that terrified him.

The closer you got, the harder it became for him to bury the truth. He tried telling himself it didn’t matter, the bet had been stupid, something meaningless that had quickly been replaced by something real. But every time he saw the trust in your eyes, every time you looked at him like he was the best thing to ever happen to you, the guilt churned in his stomach.

There were nights he barely slept, lying awake in bed with the weight of it pressing down on him. What if you found out? What if you looked at him with disgust, walked away without giving him the chance to explain? He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t lose you.

Every moment with you, big or small, was another thread tying him closer to you. He didn’t know how it happened so fast, but he couldn’t imagine his life without you in it. You were his home, his safe place, and he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.

One evening, the two of you sat curled up on the couch in his Monaco apartment, a movie playing in the background that neither of you was paying much attention to. You rested your head on his chest, and he pressed a kiss to your hair, his heart aching with how perfect it felt.

But then you spoke. “You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?”

The words made his chest tighten. You always noticed. Even the smallest shifts in his mood never escaped your attention.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes searching his face. “Are you sure? You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

The guilt surged, and for a fleeting moment, he considered telling you. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but then he imagined the way your expression would change, the way you’d pull away from him, he couldn’t bear it.

Instead he leaned down to kiss you hoping it would be enough to distract you. You sighed into the kiss, your hands finding their way into his hair, and for a moment he let himself believe it was enough.

“I love you,” you murmured against his lips, your voice soft and certain.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you too,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

He adjusted the blanket over you and pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Get some sleep liefje.”

Max buried the secret deeper after that night, convincing himself that it was better this way. You wouldn’t forgive him, he was sure of it, and he couldn’t risk losing you.

But the guilt didn’t go away. It lingered like a shadow, growing heavier with every passing day. He started overcompensating, showering you with affection, he’d buy you flowers every day, plan spontaneous dates, and do anything he could to keep you happy.

And it worked. You were happy. You loved him. And Max loved you so much it hurt.

The fear of losing you consumed him. It drove him to be better, to be the man you deserved, but it also ate away at him. He avoided certain conversations, terrified that you’d somehow stumble upon the truth. He cut Daniel off sharply whenever he brought up the bet, even if you were nowhere near, his tone cold and final.

“Don’t,” he snapped when Daniel jokingly mentioned it in passing. “It’s not funny.”

Daniel raised his hands in surrender, the mere mention of the bet made Max’s chest tighten, the fear creeping back in. He couldn’t let you find out because Max knew one thing with absolute certainty, if you ever did he’d lose you.

No matter how hard he tried the fallout was inevitable.

The night had started out like any other, one of those glitzy, over-the-top events Max had to attend where champagne flowed like water and conversations were laced with artificial charm. You had never particularly liked these parties, but for Max you endured them.

Maybe that’s why you had stepped outside. The ballroom was too loud, too stifling, too full of people who smiled too widely and spoke in half-truths. You had wanted air, a moment to breathe away from it all, and then you heard it.

Max’s voice, unmistakable even in the distance, low and edged with something uncharacteristically uneasy. You followed it instinctively, your heels clicking against the marble floors as you rounded the corner toward the balcony. You weren’t eavesdropping, at least that wasn’t the intention but something in his tone made you pause just before stepping into view.

"I didn’t think it’d go this far," Max said, his voice quiet with exasperation. "It was a stupid bet Daniel. A fucking drunk, meaningless bet. And now I—now she—”

His words cut off abruptly like he couldn't even bring himself to say it out loud, but the damage was already done.

Your heart stopped.

The world seemed to tilt under your feet, the music and laughter from the party fading into white noise. Bet. The word hit you like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs.

You didn’t hear the rest. You didn’t need to.

A choked breath escaped your lips before you could stop it, and that tiny sound was enough to break whatever bubble of secrecy Max had been operating in. His head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm as he registered your presence.

"Shit," he muttered, his entire body tensing.

You didn’t wait for an explanation. Your feet were already moving, the panic clawing at your throat as you turned on your heel and pushed past the doors leading inside. You needed to get out.

"Wait—"

Max was already chasing after you, shoving past Daniel, who muttered a quiet curse calling out for Max as he realised what had just happened, but Max didn’t hear him, or maybe he didn’t care. His focus was on you weaving through the crowd as you dodged between people your vision blurred with tears.

When Max found you, you were already halfway out the entrance.

"Wait," he called, his voice raw with panic. "Please just listen it's not what you think—"

"Don’t," you bit out, whirling to face him. "Don’t insult me by pretending this wasn’t exactly what it looks like."

His face crumpled, "It wasn’t supposed to be like this."

"Then what was it supposed to be Max?" Your voice shook, the weight of betrayal pressing down on your chest. "A joke? Something to laugh about with your friends? A game to pass the time until you got bored?"

"No," he said stepping forward, hands reaching for you like he could fix this if he just got close enough. "At first-when we first met I…it doesn’t matter, but not anymore. Not for a long time. I swear, I didn’t mean for this to happen-"

"But it did," you cut him off, voice breaking under the weight of it all. "And you let it happen. You let me believe in this, in you, while you knew—"

"I fell for you too," he rasped, his desperation tangible. "I swear to god, I did. And now I can't—" His breath hitched, words failing him. "I can’t imagine my life without you."

"Stop," you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. "You don’t get to say that. Not now. Not when this," you gestured between you, "was built on a lie."

His wiped away his own tear that had fallen. "But we were happy, that was real." he pleaded, voice breaking. "I tried so fucking hard to make you happy everyday, to make everything perfect. Doesn’t that count for something?"

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as fresh pain sliced through you. "No, Max. It doesn’t. Because it was never real. You don’t get to build something on a lie and then act like the good parts outweigh the truth."

He reached for you again, but you stepped back, the distance between you feeling impossibly vast.

"I can't do this, Max. I can't be with someone who—" Your voice faltered. "Someone who made me love them knowing it was never real."

"It is real, I swear I lov-" he pleaded, but you just turned away.

And this time, when you walked away, you didn't look back.

Max tried everything to win you back. Texts, calls, presents, even showing up at your door unannounced. But you ignored him, too hurt to entertain the idea of forgiveness. It wasn’t until over a month later that he finally got through to you.

A knock at your door interrupted the quiet of your evening. You weren’t expecting anyone. And when you peeked through the peephole, your stomach twisted. Max, again.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the lock, but before you could turn away his voice came through the door, muffled but unmistakably determined.

"I’m not leaving until you talk to me."

You sighed, pressing your forehead against the wood. A couple of weeks ago you would have let him sit there all night. Now, all you felt was confused. But… you unlocked it, pulling it open just enough that you could stand in the door.

"Max—"

"Wait," he cut in gently, his eyes desperate. "Please. Just let me say this."

"I messed up," he admitted, his voice raw with regret. "I know I did. And part of me wishes I could go back and never agree to the stupid bet, to stop it before it ever started." He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. "But I can’t. And the truth is… I don’t know if I’d want to."

You reached for the door, but he pressed on.

"Because the bet led me to you. And I don’t regret that. I regret lying. I regret hurting you. But I could never regret you." His voice broke slightly. "I love you. Not because of some stupid decision, but because of who you are."

He took a step closer to the door careful, like he knew he was balancing on a knife’s edge.

"Because of the way you ramble when you're excited. The way you always text me when you see something that reminds you of me, no matter how small. The way you—" He let out a shaky breath. "The way you make me feel like I've finally found something that matters more than everything I ever thought I wanted”

"I know I don’t deserve another chance," he continued, voice softer now. "But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that I’m not the guy who made that bet. I’m the guy who loves you. And I swear, I will never stop trying to be better for you."

Silence wrapped around you both. You swallowed hard, fighting against the warmth creeping into the cracks he had just reopened. "You had months Max. Months to tell me the truth. And you didn’t. You let me find out like that…why?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a long moment he just stared at the ground, his breath coming uneven.

"Because I was scared," he admitted, "scared that if I told you, I’d lose you. That you’d look at me like you did that night, like I was just a mistake you regretted. I kept telling myself I’d find the right time, that I’d make it up to you before you ever had to know, and I fell for you, really fell, and suddenly telling you felt like handing you a reason to walk away."

For all the ways you wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the betrayal, there was something devastating about the way he said it.

"So you lied instead," you murmured.

His lips pressed together, his head bowing slightly. "I did. And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made." His eyes lifted back to yours, full of something desperate. "But I swear to you, losing you showed me exactly what kind of man I never want to be again."

"I don’t know if I can trust you again," you whispered.

Max nodded, no trace of frustration, just quiet determination. "I’ll earn it," he vowed. "No matter how long it takes."

Your gaze flickered to the flowers in his hands. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out, fingertips brushing against his as you took them.

It wasn’t a yes. Not yet.

But it wasn’t a no, either.

And the way his lips parted slightly, the hope in his eyes you knew he’d wait for as long as you needed. A beat passed before you sighed and pushed the door open wider.

"Come in, just for a bit."

He paused, like he was afraid to move too fast, but the second you stepped back he followed slipping inside. You set the flowers down on the counter, fingers brushing over the petals as you tried to steady yourself.

"You’ve been eating right?" he asked a flicker of that familiar concern in his expression.

You huffed a small, reluctant laugh. "Seriously? That’s your first question after all that?"

Max shrugged, tentative in his smile. "I’ve been worried."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached in a way you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge in weeks. You had missed him, his presence, his quiet care, the way he always paid attention to the little things.

"Yes, I’ve been eating," you said, shifting your weight awkwardly.

"Good." He nodded, then hesitated. "Can I—sit?"

You hesitated to, then gave him a small nod. "Yeah. Just… don’t push your luck."

Max smiled at that, he walked over to the couch sitting at the far end, after a moment you sat down to, tucking your legs beneath you. Neither of you spoke at first. The air still felt heavy, but not unbearable. Max rubbed his palms over his thighs, glancing at you before looking away again.

"This is weird," you admitted.

"Yeah," he agreed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "But not bad, right?"

You exhaled, staring down at your hands. "Not bad."

His grin widened, "Let’s order something, whatever you want.” his voice dropped, teasing. "Just don’t steal my fries."

"Who says I’d want your fries?" you murmured.

Max smirked. "You always want my fries."

You huffed dramatically, turning your attention back to your phone. "Fine. I’ll order my own. Happy?"

"Not yet," he murmured, the teasing edge in his voice softening into something else. "But I’m getting there."

You chuckled, rolling your eyes, but the warmth creeping into your chest was impossible to ignore. No, it wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But later when Max stole a fry from your box, grinning at you like he hadn’t just started a war you realised it was a start, a real one.

[lov3lyl3tters]

“All the little things”

summary: Spencer shows his love through small, everyday acts of service—making your coffee just right, folding your laundry, stocking your favorite snacks—all quiet ways of saying “I love you” without needing the words.

warnings: Fluff, Slice of Life, acts of service, reader getting sick, Spencer being dreamy

Living with Spencer Reid meant noticing the details.

Not the dramatic ones—the sweeping romantic gestures, the overly flowery confessions, or the movie-style declarations of love. That wasn’t his style. What was his style was quieter. Simpler. And, honestly? So much better.

You saw it first in the small things.

Every morning, when you stumbled into the kitchen barely awake, your travel mug was already full—coffee, two sugars, a splash of oat milk. Spencer never asked. He just remembered.

You used to make a joke about it. “Are you reading my mind again, Dr. Reid?”

He would smile softly, always with that slightly bashful look, and say, “No, I just… pay attention.”

You never had to ask him to do the laundry. Not because it was his chore—there was never any scorekeeping—but because he always noticed when you were exhausted after a long day at the Bureau. He’d quietly sort it after dinner, folding your favorite sleep shirt last so it stayed warm when he handed it to you.

He even did it the right way—sleeves tucked in, tags folded so they wouldn’t itch your skin.

Once, after a particularly hard case, you came home and found that he had already stocked the fridge with your comfort food. Mac and cheese, those overpriced ginger sodas you liked, your favorite chocolate from that specialty store two blocks over.

“Don’t tell me you profiled me at the grocery store,” you teased, collapsing onto the couch with a tired sigh.

He smiled, setting a bowl in front of you. “You don’t have to be a profiler to know what someone needs when you love them.”

You melted on the spot.

He always made sure your phone charger was plugged in before bed, even if you’d tossed it somewhere during the day. He bookmarked your latest reads so you never lost your place. He even color-coded your shared calendar—purple for your work, blue for his, green for nights off together.

The first time you got sick while living together, you tried to brush it off. “It’s just a cold, Spence. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t buy it. He’d already rearranged his schedule, made a thermos of lemon tea, and queued up your favorite comfort show on the TV.

“You need to rest,” he said simply, sitting beside you with a tissue box and a book in hand. “I’ll be right here.”

And he was.

All day.

You weren’t even surprised when he showed up at work with a second umbrella because he checked the forecast and knew you’d forget yours. Or when your car mysteriously got new windshield wipers after you casually mentioned they were squeaky.

One night, you were both curled up on the couch, the quiet hum of the city outside your window, and he was rubbing small circles into your back without even realizing it. You turned to him and asked, “Why do you always do so much for me?”

He blinked, like it was a strange question. “Because you matter to me.”

You stared at him, heart full. “You know, you don’t have to do any of this.”

He smiled again—soft, sure, a little sheepish. “I know. That’s why I want to.”

It hit you then. His love wasn’t loud. It was consistent. Reliable. Woven into the rhythm of your daily life in ways you didn’t always notice until you paused long enough to look.

Spencer’s love language wasn’t about words or gifts or grand gestures. It was about checking the tires on your car before a long drive. About picking up your prescription on the way home. About learning how you like your eggs even though he never eats breakfast.

It was acts of service. Every day. Quietly. Faithfully.

And every time he refilled your water bottle without being asked or plugged in your curling iron because you were running late or made sure you never ran out of the lavender lotion you liked… you fell a little more in love with him.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

But because he wasn’t.

[bludhavents]

As Long as You Know Me

Pairing: Liam Mairi x Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Summary: As a child of the rebellion, your birthday failing on Reunification Day stirs up a swarm of emotion. When your friends try to celebrate, Liam comes to your rescue... in his boxers.

Warnings: Grief, parent loss, fem!reader. Little angsty, but lots of fluff included. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Long time no see :) You can send in any requests, sign up to join my tag list, and read my previous works all through my bio, tehe! I have lots more Fourth Wing content on the way. I hope you enjoy, comment for a part 2!

July 1st was an open wound. As a child of the rebellion, it marks the day that I was forced to watch my parents be executed for fighting for a better life. July 1st is the day that Lillian Sorrengail ruined my life.

It’s the day she ironically declared “Reunification Day”, as if she hadn’t torn apart families and orphaned so many children.

July 1st was also the day that I was born. Every year since I turned eleven, my birthday has been tainted by the cruelty of the General and her misguided sense of justice.

This year, my birthday starts with her drunk daughter knocking on my door.

“Take it!” Violet urges, trying to pass me a shot of liquor. I make no move to reach for it. 

Her, Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer are all standing at my door with cheery grins across their faces and dazed looks in their eyes. They don’t have nightmares of watching their parents die. On the worst day of my life, they were probably out celebrating with their families, smiling at the rebels’ defeat. I spent that night alone. I spent it with a cursed mark running up my skin forever. 

“What’s going on?” I stifle a yawn behind my hand, wrapping my blanket tighter around my shoulders as I face them. 

“You’re twenty-one!” Rhiannon’s words slur as she claps me on the shoulder. “Drink up, birthday girl!”

“What time is it?” I blink at them. Ridoc’s smile falls into a line of annoyance quickly. 

“You’re really ruining this, you know?” He chastises. I raise my eyebrows and look across the rest of the faces in front of me, eight eyes watching me with weaning anticipation. Sawyer sways on his feet and I notice the moonlight coming through the hallway window behind him. 

“What time is it?” I ask again, staring at Sorrengail this time. She’s chewing her bottom lip. The shot in her hand is about to pour over the edges.

“It’s midnight,” Rhiannon explains as if it’s obvious. 

“For fuck’s sake,” I complain, running a hand down my face. I move to shut the door, but Ridoc protests, pushing it open and letting himself into my room. The rest follow him without question. My stomach rolls at the smell of booze they bring into the room.

“It smells nice in here,” he compliments, sitting on my bed. I disagree.

“What are you guys doing?” I sigh in frustration. “It’s late. You woke me up.”

There’s a part of me that feels guilty for my lack of enthusiasm at their excitement, but the larger--tired-- part of me is overwhelmingly disappointed by their lack of thoughtfulness. It doesn’t take a lot of tact to refrain from initiating a celebration on the day of someone’s traumatic event. Yet somehow, they still managed to surprise me in the worst way.

Have none of them thought that maybe I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday? Have they possibly considered that I didn’t tell them about it for a reason? The mark that swirls up my arm was no secret. They know what today means to me. 

“We’re celebrating. It’s your birthday. Quit whining,” he complains. “What do you want to do? We could still go into town.”

“I want to go to bed.” I lean against my open door frame and stare at my friends who are now scattered across my room. Violet places the shot on my desk before dropping her body on to my chair. Rhiannon has a handle of liquor in her hands and is drinking from the bottle. I cringe. 

“But it’s your birthday,” she whines. 

“Happy birthday,” Sawyer coos, pulling me into a hug. I groan and gently push him back. 

“I appreciate you all, but it’s really late, and I’m tired, and I don’t celebrate my birthday, so I think you guys should take this party elsewhere,” I explain, hoping that my reasoning can make itself known without me having to spell it out. My rebellion relic tingles on my skin. Rhiannon whines loudly and shrieks as she almost drops her bottle of liquor. I cross my eyebrows. 

A loud slam of a door echos down the hallway and I hold my breath, hoping that nobody else has come to join this dreadful birthday party.

“Are you okay?” Liam is in my room immediately, and I feel my shoulders relax slightly. The first thing he does is place a hand on my shoulder, scanning my face for injury and finding none to warrant the pained expression on my face. His eyes starts searching the room wildly before he seems to put the pieces of the scene together himself. “Oh. I heard a scream.”

“Sorry.” Rhiannon frowns. Violet stifles a giggle. My eyes catch the liquid dripping out of the corner of her mouth before she wipes it away with her sleeve.

“Now you can join the party,” Ridoc says from my bed. Liam says nothing.

I step toward him, letting his strong arm loop around my waist and bring me into his side. I let out a deep breath and he pulls me in tighter, the both of us exchanging a thousand words without speaking. 

“What’re you wearing?” Violet asks him, wobbling as she stands from my chair. She stumbles over the edge of my rug as she approaches him, and Sawyer is quick to catch her before she hits the ground. I turn my face into Liam’s side, unable to watch this shit show any longer. He straightens beside me, bringing a hand to cradle the back of my head.

“Are any of you guys sober?” Liam asks. I feel his voice rumbling in his chest as he does. 

“Nope!” Ridoc pops the p and pulls a flask out of his pocket. He tosses it to Liam, who watches it fall to the ground two feet in front of him. “Oops.”

Sawyer has his arm around Violet’s waist, steadying her as she clings onto his shirt for balance. Rhiannon is sprawled on my floor, shoes kicked off, with the bottle to her lips again. Ridoc is now under my covers with his head on my pillow. I grumble.

“What’s going on here?” A new person steps into the drunken circus that has invaded my room and I throw my head back in frustration, not having asked for any of this.

I miss my life ten minutes ago, when I was fast asleep in bed.

“Couldn’t tell you.” I look across Liam and meet Xaden’s eyes. The two of them whisper something back and forth before Xaden nods once and takes a further step into my room. His first stop is the flask on the floor, then the bottle in Rhiannon’s hand, then the now-empty shot glass on my desk. 

“Back to your own rooms, cadets. Be sober by morning, we will be having a discussion about this with Aetos.” He walks toward the door, holding it open with his foot as Sawyer drags Violet out of the room. Liam and I step out of the way, breaking our embrace to give them room to move. I notice Violet’s eyes lingering on the wingleader, but he doesn’t so much as look her way as she’s pulled to her room. Rhiannon leaves next, smiling cluelessly as she carries her shoes in her hands.

“Happy birthday,” she says, throwing her arms around my neck in a hug. Her boots slam against my back and I wince. She leans all of her weight on me and nearly drags me down as she hangs from my neck. I unwrap her from me and she walks out. 

“Love you.” Ridoc slings an arm around my shoulders and tries to guide me out of the room with him. 

“Cadet Gamlyn.” He lets go at the sound of Xaden’s voice. The older boy shuts the door as soon as everyone is out, leaving only myself, Liam, and him. We all breathe out. “What was that all about?”

“They found out it was my birthday. I don’t know if they’ve even put together that it’s the same day,” I answer, not needing to expand on what ‘same day' means to this crowd. Both of the men in front of me were there to watch their loved ones die alongside mine. They understand the storm of grief stirring in my stomach. I sit on the edge of my bed, huffing at the disarray of my comforter.

“You were with them?” Xaden accuses Liam, who moves to sit next to me. 

“No. I came in when I heard someone scream. I thought someone had come in and tried to hurt her or something.” He yawns, and I remember that it’s midnight. He must have been asleep just before he came in. His light hair is tousled on top of his head, and I notice for the first time that he wears only a pair of loose, black boxers. I avert my stare and bite my lip as my face heats at the realization of his muscled legs pressed up against the thin fabric of my nightdress. I swallow hard.

Xaden, on the other hand, is still wearing his training gear. I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine that he’ll be attempting to sleep tonight. Being the son of Fen Riorson makes today a little more complicated. 

He sits in my desk chair and puts his head in his hands, sighing deeply. I lean my head to the side and lay it on Liam’s bare shoulder. His head turns and he presses a soft kiss to my hair, leaving his face to rest there. 

The three of us sit there silently grieving with one another.

I let my mind wander to the birthdays I celebrated before the dreadful day I turned eleven. I remember my father making heart-shaped waffles for breakfast every year and letting me drown them in whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I remember my mother waking me up by climbing into bed with me and kissing my forehead. I remember my last happy birthday with them, when we were all crying from laughter because the bakery spelled almost every word on the cake wrong. When we were all alive.

I think of my mother’s laughter, her loud snorts that would send us all further into a fit of giggles. I think of how my father would always put a hand on his gut when he was really tickled by a joke. I’ll never forget either of their joy, throughout everything. 

I’ll never forget that Lillian Sorrengail robbed me of experiencing that ever again. I’ll never forget that she robbed my future children of their grandparents. I’ll never forget that she had the audacity to grieve for her son and her husband when they died years later, as if she hadn’t inflicted that pain onto so many other families.

My mind flits back to the present when Liam begins rubbing his hand up and down my bicep. I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to ground myself back in reality. The boy beside me smells like citrus and rain, and I breathe it in again. His touch is soft and delicate, such a loving motion that sweeps my heart into a flurry. I sigh into him.

My eyes wander my room, landing on the confiscated liquor Xaden set on my desktop. His large body is still in my tiny chair, but now he’s slumped forward, eyes closed, and breathing deeply. My lips turn upward.

I sit up straight, facing Liam. He looks back at me, his eyes glossy. I feel my heart crack in my chest at the sight, but shove the pain down where I store the rest of today’s feelings. My finger rests on my lips to warn him to stay quiet and he nods, licking his lips. I pull my eyes away from the action and then point to where Xaden is asleep in my chair. A small grin rises on Liam’s mouth and I raise my palm to my mouth, stifling a laugh.

In all the years that I’ve known Xaden Riorson, I’ve never seen him without the crease between his eyebrows and the tension tightening his jaw. Looking at him now, he’s perfectly peaceful. His breaths are even and deep in the too-small chair. His skin is free from any stress lines. His lips are slightly parted and his hair is hanging loosely. Gentle snores fall from his mouth.

I draw my eyes back to Liam to see him sitting back on his hands and staring at the rare sight, too. In this position, every muscle in his upper body is perfectly displayed. His forearms, biceps, shoulders, chest, abs. I drag my eyes up his body and back to his pretty face.

“Do you want to sleep in here, too?” I offer to him in a whisper. We both know that, despite my wandering eyes, I’m offering because of the pain we are both going to be in once we’re alone. It’s easier to ride the grief out together. He nods once and adjusts himself on my bed.

Now, he’s sitting up straight against my headboard, legs extended out. He holds my gaze and shoots me a boyish grin as he kicks his feet into my lap. The look on his face is enough to seize my thoughts for a moment, and I have to blink to regain my senses.

With a roll of my eyes, I lift his legs off of me. I slide my throw blanket off of my shoulders and move across the room, draping it gently over Xaden’s body. I move back to the bed quietly, where I grab the top corners of my comforter and pull them up with me as I scoot to where Liam is perched at the head of the mattress. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder. I gather the material of the comforter and pull it over our laps. 

“Should we move him?” His voice is loud enough for me to hear, but low enough that the sleeping boy couldn’t hear it from across the square room. 

“I don’t think so.” I match his quiet tone. “He needs the sleep. If we wake him up he’s just going to leave. I think it’s best for him to be with us.”

“You’re very thoughtful,” he praises, and my stomach flutters. Liam Mairi has always been a kind boy. For him to be kind under the covers with me in his boxers was a whole new experience, though, and it was one I hoped to find myself in again as soon as possible.

His toned stomach is expanding and deflating so hypnotically that I find my lips parting as I watch helplessly. My eyes drift to the trail of hair that begins below his navel and continues into the waistband of his bottoms.

“What’re you thinking about?”

My face heats as I tear my eyes away from his body and meet his burning gaze, and I shrug. 

“I’m a little rubbed the wrong way by my impromptu birthday party,” I supplement instead of revealing my actual thoughts. He lifts his arm from next to mine and drapes it around my shoulders, bringing me closer to him until my head is resting on his chest again. I adjust my legs on the bed and let myself get comfortable against his solid wall of muscle.

“I’m sorry. I get it. Do you remember that guy who tried to kill me during our first training fight?” I nod against his chest, tracing lazy circles along his skin with the tip of my index finger. “Well I kept an eye on him after that. He fought four other people, and only tried to kill the ones with rebellion relics.”

“Oh, Liam.” I turn my head to look at him and find his soft blue eyes looking toward Xaden’s sleeping form. “I’m so sorry. I wish things were different.”

“Me too. It’s just hard whenever we have to deal with things like that and our friends don’t. They probably don’t even realize what today means for us, because they’ve been celebrating it for so long without having to think about what we went through on the other side.” He shrugs his arm off my shoulder and moves it up and down the back of my night dress, making me shiver. It feels like the heat of his touch is burning right through the fabric and into my skin. I have to remind myself to breathe.

We sit like that in silence for a few minutes until he speaks again. “Can I turn the light off?”

I nod, holding back a groan when he moves his body away from mine and leaves me in my bed that suddenly feels too big without him. His footsteps are quiet as he moves across the room and flicks the switch. I lift the blanket up for him and he laughs softly, sliding in and laying his head on my pillow. He extends his arm for me to lay on, and I do, resting my head where his shoulder and bicep meet. 

“Thank you for staying.” I’m staring at him under the faint moonlight that’s coming through the window. The shadow of his full lips curves upward as a grin stretches across his face charmingly. My chest flutters. His blue eyes flick to mine. 

“Thank you for inviting me. I didn’t think my first night spent with you would include my brother sleeping in your chair, but I guess it’s still pretty nice,” he teases with a wink. It takes all my strength to contain the bark of laughter that threatens to escape at his sudden boldness. A breathy chuckle leaves me instead, fanning over his freckled skin. 

“Are you saying you’ve thought about spending the night with me, Liam?” I fiend upset, pushing myself up with the hand on his chest so that my face is hovering over his. “I’m shocked.”

“Oh please.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, moving his hand along my head until it reaches the back of my neck and stays there. My eyes flick down to his strong arm flexed beneath me before I can stop myself, and his smile widens impossibly. “You know every guy in this wing has thought about spending a night here with you.”

“What?” I furrow my brows. “Are there other guys in this wing? Could’ve fooled me.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest and into my heart where it twists itself into nervous ropes.

Liam and I have had an undeniable chemistry for as long as I can remember, but I’ve always been too afraid to act on it. His friendship meant too much to me, and I didn’t want to risk pursuing something that might cost me that. Now though, with his hand on my neck and his bare skin on my sheets, I find myself willing to risk anything to have this. I pull my eyes away from his lips only to find him staring at mine. 

“The boys of Fourth Wing will be very sad to know that their fantasy girl doesn’t even know they exist.” He wets his lips with his tongue and meets my eyes with a mischievous smirk. “I don’t feel bad for them, though. As long as you know me that’s all that matters.”

The hand on the back of my neck draws me closer, slowly, giving me time to protest. Instead, I meet his eyes and nod once. The smirk that graces his lips is enough to send me into overdrive. Liam parts his lips beneath me and I pause, only centimeters away, inhaling his exhales. His large nose turns as he moves to close the distance between us. My eyes flutter shut.

A loud crash comes from across the room to interrupt our moment, and Liam wraps both of his arms around me immediately, pinning me to the curve of his neck and protecting my head with his free arm.

There’s a passing moment of silence before a pained groan follows, and then Liam is laughing loudly under me. He takes his hands off of me and throws his head back against the pillow in an uncontrollable fit of giggles. 

“Shut up,” Xaden moans into the darkness.

I swing my legs off of the mattress and hurry to the lightswitch, but trip and fall halfway there. Xaden and I both groan in unison, and Liam’s laughter only grows louder and more humored.

The loud sound came from Xaden crashing to the ground along with my now-broken chair.

A rough hand shoves my shoulder and I roll off of him, cursing under my breath. Landing on top of him was far more painful than I would have expected. I lay on the floor beside him and laugh shortly.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask over the chuckles in the background. Xaden grunts in response. “How did my chair break?”

“Stop asking me questions,” he grumbles. “I’ll get you a new chair for your birthday.”

I laugh again at that. 

He sits up on the floor and runs his hand through his messy hair. Liam manages to navigate his way to the lightswitch without tripping over one of us, and as soon as the bulb flicks on, all three of us are closing our eyes and mumbling our protests. 

“Neither of you are wearing enough clothes for me,” the older boy complains as he adjusts to the light, throwing the blanket I left on his sleeping shoulders at me. His attention turns to Liam, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at him. “What’re you still doing here anyway?”

“I wasn’t gonna leave her alone in here with you snoring like that. Someone had to cover her ears so that she could sleep,” he deflects, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. Xaden rolls his eyes so hard that I wonder if it hurts. 

“I don’t even remember falling asleep.” He rubs the back of his neck with his hand and yawns. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. “Thanks for letting me sleep.”

“You’re always welcome to stay here. Once I get a new chair, I mean,” I tease him. 

[cei1ne]

—You suffer from anemia yet your boyfriends as supportive as ever, just in his own way

დ .•*”Summary: You suffer from anemia but you don’t let it stop you from becoming a hero, yet, your boyfriend’s a stubborn mess and forced you to rest.

༺ღ༒Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x GN!Anemic!Reader

☆࿐ཽ༵Tags: High school; Relationship; UA; GN!Reader

＊*•̩̩͙Warnings: Cursing?; Anemia; Overprotective boyfriend

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳Word count: 3.8k

‧͙⁺˚*･A/N: Someone requested this but it was anonymous and my tumblr was bugging lately! It just got deleted but I still had lots of fun writing this and I hope you’ll have just as much fun reading this! And I didn’t know if they meant headcanons or Scenario so I just did both!

Headcanons: Katsuki Bakugou x GN!Anemic!Reader

1. Worry Masked by Irritation: Bakugou would constantly mask his concern for your condition by pretending to be annoyed. He’d grumble about you being “too weak” but would secretly go above and beyond to ensure you’re healthy.

2. Diet Control Freak: He’d take control of your meals, researching iron-rich foods and sneaking them into your diet. If you tried to resist, he’d shove a plate at you with a snarky remark like, “Eat this before I lose it.”

3. Hyper Awareness: Bakugou would become hyper-aware of your signs of fatigue or dizziness. If you so much as swayed while standing, he’d immediately drag you to sit down.

4. Loud Protector: If anyone dared to tease or question you about your condition, he’d explode (figuratively and maybe literally). “You got something to say?! Say it to me!”

5. Gentle in Private: Though Bakugou is explosive in public, in private, he’d show softer affection. He’d tuck blankets around you, carry you to bed if you overexerted yourself, and grumble softly, “Don’t push yourself, idiot.”

6. Hates Seeing You Weak: Seeing you too tired to get up genuinely unnerves him. He’d pace, bark orders, and eventually sit by your side, silently holding your hand.

7. Acts of Service: Bakugou would do small things like fetching water, helping you stand, or taking on your chores. Of course, he’d act like it’s no big deal. “You’re lucky I’m not a total asshole, huh?”

8. Research Master: He’d secretly learn about anemia from every available resource and even consult Recovery Girl or doctors. He wouldn’t tell you about it, though; he’d just start doing things that showed he knew what he was talking about.

9. Training Adjustment: He’d modify training sessions for you, subtly encouraging you to take breaks without making you feel weak. He might even offer to spar lightly to “keep you on your toes.”

10. Blunt Reassurance: If you ever felt self-conscious about your condition, Bakugou would bluntly shut you down. “You’re not weak. You’re mine, and that’s all that matters.”

Rest is for the Weak (But Not for You)

The morning started like any other. The dorms buzzed with activity as Class 1-A prepared for the day ahead. You had been one of the first to wake, though not because you were particularly eager. A familiar heaviness sat on your chest, and your limbs felt as though they were weighed down by lead.

It was nothing new. This was your normal.

“Y/N, you doing okay?” Mina’s cheerful voice rang out as she caught sight of you rubbing your temples. “You look kinda pale.”

You gave her a small smile, brushing it off. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

“You sure? I can grab you something from the cafeteria real quick if you need it!”

“Thanks, Mina, but I’m good,” you said firmly, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself.

She hesitated but eventually nodded, skipping off to join the others. As you gathered your things and headed toward the training grounds, you could feel the weight of someone’s gaze on you.

Turning your head, you locked eyes with Bakugou.

He didn’t say anything, but his narrowed eyes and furrowed brow made it clear he’d heard the exchange. You pretended not to notice and hurried to catch up with the others, hoping he wouldn’t press the issue.

_________________________________

The training session was supposed to be routine—a series of combat drills designed to test reflexes and stamina. You had been paired with Midoriya for a sparring match, something that usually wouldn’t faze you.

But today, every movement felt sluggish. Your punches lacked their usual strength, and your dodges were just a fraction too slow. Midoriya, ever the observant one, noticed almost immediately.

“Y/N, are you sure you’re feeling okay?” he asked, concern etched into his face as he blocked one of your weak punches.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, dodging to the side as he retaliated.

But the dizziness was getting worse. Your vision blurred at the edges, and the sound of your own heartbeat roared in your ears.

“Y/N—”

“Stop holding back!” you snapped, cutting him off.

Midoriya flinched but complied, though his hits were clearly pulled. You hated it—hated the pity in his eyes, the way he seemed afraid to fight you properly. You wanted to prove you could keep up, that you weren’t a liability.

And then your knees buckled.

_________________________________

“Oi! What the hell are you doing, Deku?!”

Bakugou’s voice rang out across the gym, loud enough to make everyone pause. You barely registered the sound of his boots stomping across the floor before he was standing between you and Midoriya, his crimson eyes blazing.

“I-It wasn’t his fault—” you started, but Bakugou cut you off with a sharp glare.

“Shut it, dumbass,” he growled before turning back to Midoriya. “What the hell were you thinking, letting them push themselves like that?”

Midoriya opened his mouth to respond but quickly decided against it, his expression shifting to one of resignation.

“And you,” Bakugou snarled, rounding on you. “What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve hurt yourself!”

“I’m fine!” you snapped, trying to push past him.

But Bakugou wasn’t having it. He grabbed your arm—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“You’re not fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re done. Sit down before you pass out.”

_________________________________

Bakugou practically dragged you to the edge of the gym, ignoring your protests as he deposited you on a bench. The other students watched from a distance, their whispered conversations filling the air.

“Bakugou, you’re overreacting,” you muttered, crossing your arms as he crouched in front of you.

“Overreacting, my ass,” he shot back, his tone sharp. “You’re pale as shit, and you can’t even stand up straight. Don’t lie to me, Y/N.”

You glared at him, but the dizziness made it hard to keep your head up. Bakugou noticed immediately and let out an irritated sigh.

“Tch. Stay here,” he ordered before stomping off.

When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a water bottle and a protein bar. He shoved them at you without a word, his scowl deepening when you hesitated.

“Eat. Drink. Now,” he barked.

“Bakugou, I don’t need—”

“Don’t argue with me, dumbass!” he snapped, his voice louder than necessary. “Just do it!”

You flinched but complied, taking small sips of water and nibbling on the protein bar.

________________________________

When the session ended, Bakugou didn’t give you a choice about walking back to the dorms together. He hovered close, his sharp eyes scanning you for any signs of weakness.

“You didn’t have to walk me back,” you muttered, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment.

“Shut up. You’re lucky I didn’t carry your ass,” he shot back.

The two of you walked in silence for a while, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. But as you reached the dorms, Bakugou’s voice softened.

“You need to take care of yourself, Y/N,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

You glanced at him, surprised by the shift in his demeanor. “I do take care of myself.”

“Bullshit,” he muttered. “If you did, I wouldn’t have to babysit you all the damn time.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the exhaustion caught up with you, and you leaned against the wall for support.

Bakugou was at your side in an instant, his hand on your arm as he steadied you.

“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he grumbled. “You’re too damn stubborn for your own good.”

_________________________________

Once inside your room, Bakugou made himself at home, pulling a chair up beside your bed as you sat down.

“You’re not staying,” you said, giving him a tired look.

“Like hell I’m not,” he retorted, crossing his arms. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t do something stupid.”

You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re an idiot,” he shot back, though there was no real heat behind his words.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the tension gradually fading as the weight of the day settled over you. Bakugou’s presence, as much as you hated to admit it, was comforting.

_________________________________

The silence in your dorm room was a strange thing. Bakugou wasn’t one to enjoy stillness, yet here he was, sitting in your chair like he belonged there, arms crossed as he glared at the wall. The occasional sound of his foot tapping against the floor was the only thing breaking the quiet.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you said finally, unable to take the tension anymore.

“Too bad,” he replied curtly.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “You’re seriously overreacting. I just got a little dizzy.”

He turned his sharp gaze on you, the intensity in his crimson eyes making you freeze. “A little dizzy? You couldn’t even finish training without almost eating shit in front of everyone.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, looking away.

“I’m not saying it to piss you off, dumbass,” he snapped, leaning forward slightly. “I’m saying it because you’re being reckless.”

You stared at him, surprised by the raw frustration in his voice. Katsuki Bakugou was never one to sugarcoat his words, but there was something different about the way he spoke to you now—like he was genuinely afraid for you.

“I just don’t want to hold anyone back,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bakugou’s expression softened for a moment, though his scowl quickly returned. “You’re not holding anyone back,” he said firmly. “You think I give a crap if you can’t keep up sometimes? You’re not weak, Y/N.”

The words caught you off guard. You’d always thought Bakugou saw weakness as unforgivable, that he’d look down on anyone who couldn’t match his relentless energy. Hearing him say otherwise left you speechless.

“Tch. Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbled, his cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of pink. “I’m just telling the truth. Now shut up and rest.”

_________________________________

Despite Bakugou’s insistence that you stay in bed, word of your condition had spread among your classmates, and it wasn’t long before a few of them came knocking.

“Y/N! Are you okay?” Mina burst into the room, her usual enthusiasm dampened by concern. She carried a small bag of snacks, which she set on your bedside table with a flourish.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, offering her a reassuring smile.

“Yeah, they’re fine,” Bakugou interjected from his seat, his voice dripping with irritation. “Now get out.”

“Bakugou, be nice!” Kirishima appeared behind Mina, giving his friend a pointed look before turning to you. “We just wanted to check on you, Y/N. You scared us a little back there.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, guilt creeping into your tone. “I just… overdid it.”

“You think?” Bakugou muttered under his breath.

Kirishima chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, we’re glad you’re okay. Just take it easy, all right? And don’t let Bakugou boss you around too much.”

“Too late for that,” you joked, earning a glare from Bakugou.

After a few more minutes of chatting, Mina and Kirishima finally left, though not without a promise to check in on you again later. As soon as the door closed, Bakugou let out an irritated huff.

“They don’t know when to leave,” he grumbled.

“They’re just worried,” you said, leaning back against the pillows. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need a damn audience while I’m trying to take care of you,” he shot back.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to take care of me? Is that what this is?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his cheeks flushing again.

_________________________________

That night, long after Bakugou had begrudgingly left your room, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His words from earlier echoed in your mind.

“You’re not weak, Y/N.”

It was such a simple statement, yet it meant more to you than you could explain. For as long as you could remember, you’d been battling the fear that your anemia made you a burden. You hated the idea of being someone others had to take care of.

But Bakugou didn’t see you that way.

You weren’t sure when he’d started paying such close attention to you, but his protectiveness was undeniable. It was infuriating at times, but it also warmed your heart in a way you couldn’t ignore.

_________________________________

When you woke the next morning, the first thing you noticed was the smell of food.

Groggily sitting up, you saw Bakugou standing by your desk, a tray of breakfast in his hands.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“What’s it look like?” he replied, setting the tray down on your lap. “You’re eating before training today.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “You made this?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “It’s just eggs and toast. Not like I cooked a five-star meal.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you picked up your fork. “Thanks, Bakugou.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, looking away. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

As you ate, you noticed how he lingered by the door, his usual impatience replaced by something softer.

“Are you gonna watch me the whole time?” you teased.

“Maybe,” he shot back.

_________________________________

Over the next few weeks, Bakugou’s concern for you became an undeniable part of your routine. He started carrying snacks and water bottles with him during training, shoving them at you whenever he thought you looked tired. He adjusted his own training schedule to keep an eye on you, even if it meant sparring with someone else so he could watch from a distance.

And while he never outright said it, his actions spoke volumes.

One day, after a particularly exhausting training session, you found yourself sitting on the edge of the gym, your legs dangling over the side as you tried to catch your breath. Bakugou appeared beside you, handing you a cold water bottle without a word.

“Thanks,” you said, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip.

“Tch. Don’t mention it,” he muttered, sitting down next to you.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the gym fading into the background. It was moments like this that reminded you just how much Bakugou cared, even if he’d never admit it.

“You’re not weak, you know,” he said suddenly, his voice softer than usual.

You turned to look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone.

“Thanks, Katsuki,” you said quietly, using his first name for the first time in weeks.

He didn’t say anything, but the faint smile that tugged at his lips was enough.

[alice-everafter]

"Is the room to your liking?"

Riddle's tentative voice rings through the peaceful silence. He's stood like a stranger, unsure and hesitant in his crimson pajamas. Which is ironic given the fact that it’s his own room that the two of you are in. Really, that should be you standing around awkwardly. But instead here you were, sat on his king sized bed in similar pajamas without shame.

"Riddle," you don't have to fake the giddy grin as it stretches across your face painfully wide. "Any room is to my liking considering the shack I currently call home."

He gives you a concerned little smile in response. You couldn’t help it, you were excited to finally be able to sleep on a mattress that wasn’t lumpy. Or creaky. And or slightly moldy. The point being you’re excited to get some good sleep.

Riddle flicks off the lights and starts to settle into bed. You follow his lead, because if there is one thing Riddle Rosehearts can do is be a commanding presence even in satin pjs.

He turns on his side, staring at you from across a reasonable gap given the fact that you were currently sharing a bed. A really big one at that but a bed regardless.

And then continues to stare as a questionable silence occurs.

“Do you always go to bed this early?” You blurt out before you can think any better of it. The awkwardness was just asking to be broken.

“This is early?” Riddle’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I’ve always gone to bed at this hour, even as a child.”

You can just vaguely make out the light of the still setting sun from the window behind you.

“Well, I mean, what time do you normally get up?”

“6 am.”

“Oh,” well. Maybe he’ll let you sleep in, enjoy the luxury of a non-lumpy bed while you still can.

“You seem apprehensive.” Riddle fiddles with the blanket in his hands where it rests right below his chin. You try and shoo the imagery of a small child being tucked in out of your brain.

Thank god his unique magic didn’t have to do with reading minds, otherwise you’d be thrown to the streets with a collar as a parting gift.

Speaking of collars and lack there of, today had marked a month since Riddle’s “big summer blowout” as you have codenamed it as. And what started as a “1 month of sobriety” joke by Ace turned into an actual celebration by Cater. So, naturally, you dragged yourself along and helped yourself to Trey’s mouthwatering pastries. But then one thing led to another and somehow you were roped into playing a Twisted Wonderland version of Monopoly that led to Grim melting all the plastic house pieces in a fit of firey tantrum to then being forced to fix them by Riddle in an impromptu magic lesson/lecture and—

Yeah, so a lot happened. And next thing you know, you’re being surveilled watched by Trey as you meticulously brush your teeth along to his direction… for some reason? Turns out Ace wasn’t spewing complete lies about Trey’s “fetish” for teeth. You wouldn’t call it that, personally. It was more like a… slightly uncomfortable passion.

But anyway, here you are. Sleeping over at Heartslabyul because Riddle had insisted you and Grim stay the night since by the time you had realized, it was past curfew. Though, surprisingly, Riddle insisted that you share his bed. And Grim, still more than a little apprehensive about the Dormhead, scampered off to sleep with the other freshmen. Cramped dorm rooms be damned.

“Prefect?”

You shake yourself from your thoughts, realizing you had left Riddle hanging for your answer.

“No, no. I’m just… difficult to get up in the morning.” You settle on saying, fiddling with the comforter much like Riddle was.

“Oh, well you can’t be worse than Ace. He’d sleep the entire day away if I allowed it.”

You can see that familiar spark of disapproval flare up behind his eyes and you instinctively tense up. Though as quick as it was there, it fizzles out. Reminding you that yes, this was Riddle, but not the same one that nearly decapitated you with a rose bush.

This is the one that you saw break down in tears on the Heartslabyul lawn after treating it like a playground sandbox. The one that nearly did it again—the crying part, not the sandbox bit—as he pulled you aside and apologized for nearly killing you.

You remind yourself that as you decide to take a small leap of faith with your next words.

“I was also sort of hoping to sleep in tomorrow.”

“Oh,” is all he says. Which isn’t terrible, but not exactly good either.

“Since, you know. It’ll be Sunday. And, you know, still the weekend so. Good to get caught up on sleep while you can… you know.”

He’s analyzing what you’ve said, you can tell by the way his eyes get wide and concentrated. Oh, he’s biting his lip now. That means he’s actually considering your thoughts. He’s thinking, he’s about to speak—

“Alright.”

“…Alright?”

“Yes, alright.” He seems to solidify his answer with a nod. “Let’s sleep in.”

Those words settle in your chest like the sweetest relief.

“Brilliant idea, Riddle!” You can feel the excitement as it grows in your chest. So much so you reach over and grasp his hand, shaking it in emphasis. “You won’t regret this, I tell you.”

“You’re acting like I’ve just done something revolutionary.” He titters, cheeks pink from the unexpected contact as you basically start shaking his hand like an eager businessman after a hard won deal.

“How many times have you slept in before?”

He opens his mouth to respond, ponders, and then slowly shuts it.

“See! So it's basically revolutionary. Why do you think we threw you a party?"

"Oh, and that's another thing." He seems to remember something at the mention of the party. "The fact that Ace and Cater kept congratulating me on my '1 month of sobriety' is pure nonsense. I've never had a lick of alcohol my whole life, so why would I be sober if I never got not sober to begin with?"

As he rambled, you could see his confusion slowly shifting towards indignance. His cheeks were beginning to flush, eyebrows knitting together. His fingers were clenching and unclenching in the sheets pulled over his body.

He looks at you now with pursed lips, bordering on pouty, waiting for a reply.

"...Well, it's a, um..." You stop yourself from saying joke. If you wanted Riddle to not possibly get offended, you'd need to overexplain as much as he can overthink. "It's supposed to be ironic. As in like, 'haha get it? Riddle would never get drunk and therefore sobriety makes no sense and therefore is funny!' kind of ironic."

You subconsciously ended up avoiding eye contact throughout your entire explanation. And also leaving out the comparison of his... "moments" with alcoholism, since you didn't think that would go over very well. So when you finish and decide to just bite the bullet and look, his expression is one of... disappointment?

"Oh," he says, simply and softly. "I see, I guess that... makes sense."

...Maybe you should explain the comparison. "If you need me to elaborate, I can."

"No," he quickly responds with a shake of the head. "That won't be necessary. Your explanation was more than enough."

His eyes are trained on a loose piece of thread near the edge of his pillow yet it's like he's staring straight through it.

"Is there... something else then that's on your mind?"

"I guess I am just... realizing a few things about myself. Especially in regards to these past few months. All those times when I overheard a student comment that I 'couldn't take a joke' were, in essence, correct."

"What?" Talk about a topic shift. "Wait, hold on a second, where did this come from?"

"From just now, actually." He begins picking at the thread he's been zoning out on. "I mean, you saw me. I almost talked myself into a tizzy over, what? A harmless phrase that had no intention of demeaning my character? That ended up turning into a party meant to congratulate me?"

"Well, I mean, there is an underlying comparison between your 'tizzy' moments and alcoholism so—"

"Ace was right."

You blink, momentarily wondering if the person laying across from you is actually Riddle or not.

"How?" You don't bother with hiding your incredulousness, too confused to sugarcoat.

"When he said that everyone around me only panders to my behavior." He huffs, a small humorless laugh filled with self deprecation. "I, all that time, was just silencing thoughts and behavior that I viewed as wrong even though it would've been right. It's no wonder some of the freshman are still hesitant with me. Why it feels like everyone is walking around eggshells when they talk to me."

"Even you, Prefect." He looks... small, truly like a child. Curled into himself like he wishes to disappear from sight. Blinking rapidly like he's trying not to cry. "Even you do it. You let me do what I want, you're never 100% honest with me, and you justify my responses. Like just now."

You open your mouth to rebuttal, but he shakes his head, smiling sadly.

"Don't bother, I can give you examples. Asking me if we could sleep in, expecting me to disagree. Only half explaining the meaning to me since it'd be directly referencing my anger. Which you have yet to actually name for what it is, not once."

You... hadn't even realized you were doing that. It was all just, natural. Instinctive.

"I can... I'm not the most perceptive but, I can tell when you tense up, Prefect."

He meets your gaze, and that's when you process the tension in your shoulders. You had been tensing them, for who knows how long.

"I don't blame you," he speaks before you can begin to try and say anything in response. "Not after everything I did, not after I overblotted and nearly got us all killed."

He looks defeated as he turns over to lie on his back, staring up at the canopy of his bed.

"Ace and all of them were right, I'm just a baby tyrant."

The two of you lapse into silence, you with nothing to say and him having said it all. You don't know how long you stare at his profile for, just scraping the recesses of your brain for the words to say. But eventually, you decide "fuck it" and just let him have it. Like he deserves.

"So you're a bit of a control freak." His head snaps to you but you force yourself to ignore it, barreling onwards. "Scratch that, you ARE a control freak. Can you blame yourself? What with that shitty mom you have, I'd be surprised if you didn't turn out some form of fucked up."

"My mother is—"

"Nope," you abruptly hold a finger up right to his face. "None of that, I'm talking. You want the truth so I'm giving you the truth. Your mom sucks, severely. She basically made you into the baby tyrant that you are. And we, as friends and as your dormmates, have perpetuated that attitude. Thereby continuing the cycle of tyranny until when someone eventually called you out on it, you exploded."

All that momentary fight dies out the more you went on. Every new statement was like a lash across his face. Now he refuses to look at you, too disappointed to meet your gaze. Eyes glossy with unshed tears.

You cross the invisible wall between you two and reach out, grabbing his hand once again in yours.

"But that doesn't mean you can't change." You squeeze his hand, whether to reassure yourself or him is beyond even you. "The fact that you're acknowledging your behavior is proof enough that you're on your way to fixing it. But even then, healing isn't linear. If you take a few steps back, just get back on it again. It's going to be a while but there's nothing you can do about that except let it happen and be patient. Don't let every reminder of your faults be a dissuasion, let it be a motivator to keep going."

You take a moment to breathe, but also to gauge his reaction. Wide eyed and staring at you in wonderment, Riddle lays unmoving. Nothing but the dim impression of street lights outside to illuminate his form in the darkness of his bedroom. Looking at you and only you.

"I'll do better," you tell him, resolute. "I'll hold you accountable. I'll remind myself more to say what I mean, or even call you out on your shit if I need to. And if not me then someone else will, especially Ace. Consequences be damned with him."

He's lying once more on his side, mirroring you like before. His fingers have since found their place around your hand, holding it in kind. His grip tightens with the lull in your speech. You don't know whether it was intentionally or not but it's enough to encourage you to let that last little thought out.

"And for what it's worth, I think you're doing as good a job as any, Riddle."

Silence settles in, him with nothing to say and you having said it all. Well, almost having said it all.

"So," you pipe up before those tears you can see in his eyes decide to fall. "I think this call for a concluding hug, what do you say?"

So, so many emotions fly across his face as you hold open your arms as best you can while lying on a bed. Eventually, what he settles on doing is laughing. Watery and in disbelief, Riddle laughs and leans forwards into your arms.

"Honestly," he chides without an ounce of real intent as he presses his face into your shoulder. "That's how you decide to end your thoughts?"

"I don't see you doing any better, Mr. 'I'm just a baby tyrant.'"

A month ago, that response would've gotten you a one way ticket to collar town. But tonight, he only laughs and holds you tighter.

"Touché, Prefect." He leans back enough that you're able to watch as a smile spreads across his face, unabashed and bright like the sun.

It's one of the firsts of its kind that you've ever seen on his face. You hope you can keep producing more just like it.

[angellic4l]

la vita è bella - s.r

in which; sunshine!bau!reader and season2!spencer see a foreign film together after work.

content: fem!reader and season2!spencer, they’re so in loveee, fluffy fluff, mentions of drinking but no one actually does it, brief mention of spencer’s germaphobia, mention of the holocaust and ww2.

a/n: i wrote this all in one go bc my draft that i’m working on is so not ready, so i apologise if it’s bad. also, la vita é bella means life is beautiful, the Italian name of the film, which is why i called the fic that. WAIT I JUST READ IT AND I NEED TO SAY I DON’T THINK ELLE IS MEAN I LOVE ELLE! anyway, kisses!!

After a pretty rare, uneventful day at the BAU - just hours of paperwork, filing, reports, and a lot of team banter - the team of profilers begin to pack up. Coats are lifted from the backs of chairs, bags slung over shoulders, chairs put under desks, and a chorus of contented sighs coming from the agents.

The team, bar Hotch and Gideon, begin to make their way to the elevator together, walking in a huddle on their way out of work while making light conversation about their plans, considering everyone’s getting out early today.

“I say we all go the bar, a few drinks, maybe some darts, and lots of fine women,” Morgan suggests with a smirk, patting Spencer on the back when he says ‘fine women’.

Elle and JJ laugh, the thought of Spencer trying to talk to ‘fine women’, as Morgan called them, an amusing thought to the two of them.

Spencer, who’s walking in between you and Morgan, pushes his glasses up his nose with his index finger, his face sporting one of his infamous looks you’ve come to know, his brows furrowed as he silently questions Elle and JJ’s laughter.

“Actually, I was going to go and see a foreign film downtown, if any of you want to come. It’s an Italian film, but I can whisper translate, called ‘Life is Beautiful’, which is kind of ironic because it’s about a Jewish man and his son becoming victims of the holocaust, but-“ Spencer’s cut off by a comment from Elle about him being ‘dorky’, his face loses the small smile he’d had while talking about the film, and his once gesturing hands fall to his sides.

You think your heart might’ve actually shattered at the sight, Spencer’s dejected look never becoming easier to see, no matter how many times you do see it. The other three agents agree to go to the bar together while you and Spencer remain silent, walking in step with each other.

“You coming, sunshine?” Morgan asks, looking past Spencer to gaze at your face, Elle and JJ turning their heads slightly to look at you stood behind them, all of you coming to a stop at the elevator doors.

“No, I think I just want to have a quiet night in. I hope you guys have fun, though,” you reject them, a small smile on your face because only you know what you’re actually going to do.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

All of you step out of the FBI building, JJ, Morgan, and Elle splitting off to head to the bar, Spencer walking through the parking lot and starting his journey to the metro station, while you wait for the other 3 to be gone.

It’s not because you’re embarrassed of Spencer, no, you wouldn’t have cared about offering in front of the others, but you knew he’d probably be teased for it, and that’s the last thing you want. He’s so sweet to everyone, unbelievably kind to you, but everyone teases him regardless. It hurts your heart every time he goes quiet after being told to ‘shut up’ or someone comments on his rambling.

Once you’re sure Morgan, JJ, nor Elle are in earshot, you hurry over to Spencer’s slender figure that’s slowly dissipating, emerging with the dark night sky, becoming nothing but a shadow as he gets further.

“Spence! Wait, come back!” You call out, quickly realising his long limbs are no match for you and he was getting further by the second.

Spencer stops almost immediately, spinning on his heels when he hears your voice. He could recognise it anywhere, your sweet, melodic voice engrained into his brain; it’s one of his favourite things about you, how each word you speak seems to be infused with honey, ringing out sweet and soft.

Although, even if your voice is sweet and soft, despite the fact that you’re shouting, adrenaline spikes in his body - Why are you shouting him? Are you hurt? Are you okay? - the questions plague his mind, increasing his heart rate faster than anything ever has before. That’s saying something, considering he sees dead bodies, crime scenes, and confronts serial killers almost weekly.

Spencer’s legs have carried himself over to you before he’d even processed it, his own mind had distracted him, thoughts had clouded his head, and he only realises he’s stood in front of you and that you’re okay when he hears your melodic voice again.

“Spence? Spencer? Are you okay?” You ask, brows furrowed ever so slightly and pink lips pouted to express your concern for the brunette boy.

You didn’t ask him to ‘snap out of it’, make a joke about him being stuck in his big brain, or say ‘are you even listening?’. No, you just asked if he was okay. Spencer smiles softly at that, another gentle reminder that you really are an angel personified, despite his agnostic beliefs, regardless of whether he prays to a God or not, you are angelic to him.

“Yeah, yes, I’m okay,” Spencer reassures you, the soft smile on his face still there as he looks down at you. His brain catches up after he stops being dazed by your seemingly divine presence, in his opinion.

“You called me over, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s okay. Could I come and see that movie with you? I know some Italian and you said you’d whisper translate.”

Standing in the middle of Quantico’s parking lot, the pair of you clad in thick coats due to the recent spike in cold weather, your head tilted back so that you can look up at Spencer and his tilted down so that he can see you. You watch Spencer’s face go from a small smile to a full blown grin, his teeth peaking out from behind his pink lips making your heart warm in your chest, winter weather aside.

“Yeah? You’re serious?” Spencer asks, you nod.

“I’ll drive us there, no need for the metro. I’ll take you home, too,” you say, dangling your keys on your ring finger. The pair of you begin to walk to your car as Spencer explains what the movie is about, not being cut off this time.

In the car on the way there, he starts to talk about WW2, rattling off all of the details he knows about it, mainly ones he thinks will be relevant for context to the film. Smiles rest on both of your faces as he does so, his hands moving frenetically as he talks. When you know what he’s talking about, you’ll wait for him to finish before talking yourself, but mostly, you just listen to him.

Spencer stays true to his word and whisper translates the film to you, his voice in your ear something you like much more than you probably should, close proximity between the two of you because of it. His head is tilted towards you, lips by your ear but not so close that all you hear is his breath, Spencer’s very mindful of that.

At some point, you both reach for the popcorn between you without looking, his hand coming to rest on top of yours in the bucket. Suddenly, you’re very thankful for the dark room hiding the pink tint of your cheeks, completely unaware that he’s thinking the same thing.

Retracting his hand from the bucket quickly, he whispers a small “sorry,” secretly hating the loss of contact with your smooth, silky skin, warm fingers, no longer under his.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him quietly, eyes never leaving the screen in front of you for fear of him seeing the blush that’s painted your cheeks. You reach into your bag and hand him a hand sanitiser, knowing how he is with germs.

Spencer can’t help but wonder if you carry this just for him as he takes the clear bottle from his hands, reading the label as best as he can in the dim theatre and learning the hand sanitiser smells like vanilla. So do you, he notes, and he decides he doesn’t mind his hands smelling like you, in fact, he actually quite likes it.

An hour into the film, despite your best efforts not to, you succumb to sleep, the sound of Spencer’s voice in your ear every few seconds, the dim room, and how warm you are all lulling you into the unconscious state you currently find yourself in. Well, Spencer finds you in that state when your head drops to his shoulder, looking down at you through his glasses, and realising you’d fallen asleep.

He blushes at the sight of your head on his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him and sending him to some extreme height at the same time, your hair splayed over his shoulder making him smile to himself. In this moment, he decides that, despite all of the horrors he sees daily, the trauma he was subjected to growing up, and everything else in between, life is beautiful.

[esote-rika]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝟐 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Waldorf!Reader Category: fluff Summary: Interactions with the local police makes you realize that you’ve done too good a job at Spencer Reid’s makeover. Content: 1.3k words, Early s2 when Elle was on medical leave, glasses!Spencer, jealous reader, post-case clean up, part one here (not necessary to read). A/N: Anon, thank you for requesting more Waldorf!reader <3 I’m making this into a semi-connected series instead of just a bunch of unrelated one shots because I miss her and I have ideas for how she fits into the team as the seasons go on. Plus, I want to write a reader that’s in the BAU but isn’t always hooking up with Spencer lol.

Four confirmed deaths. Another woman had been missing, her bright eyed smile looking plastic and hollow as you stare at the picture attached to the case file. Alana Taylor, the most recent victim, the abduction that prompted JJ to uproot the team from a period of relative calm and travel to rural Ohio. 

The case had been particularly perplexing; an unsub that killed with sadism, but disposed of victims in a way that suggested remorse. Your arrival should have been cause for relief, but it only led to some strange struggle for power between Hotch and the local sheriff, who had only accepted help because the media had started to flock into their small town. 

Regardless of difficulties and differences, Alana Taylor had been saved. Found in an underground bunker beneath an unassuming farmhouse. A success, as far as cases go, although it’s difficult to count it as a success when you know there’s been four prior lives you couldn’t save. Still, it’s a moment of cautious optimism, a case ready to be wrapped up and typed into reports.

Around you, the precinct is abuzz with activity. The rest of the team has left for interviews with the victim’s family, last minute debriefings with the local police. You’re at one of the interrogation rooms, which the BAU had made into a temporary conference spot, tasked with the insignificant grunt work—reorganizing the case files and reports with Reid. Apparently, being a genius doesn’t save him from the regular people job. 

You wouldn’t mind being paired with him, normally. He’s diligent, rarely complains (something Morgan enjoys extensively, even in jest). Mostly, organizing papers with Spencer just means enduring an earful of scientific trivia and random statistics. The same thing is happening today, only that he’s not telling them to you.

Rather, the receiver of his tangential spiel is one of the local officers in the department, Officer Mitchell. Who happens to be young. And pretty. And hanging onto his every word. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s doing. While the officers had been given explicit instructions to help the BAU, you know this one’s interest lies beyond providing assistance. No, the too loud laughs, the fluttering lashes, and deliberate hair tucking are all thinly veiled, rather clumsy attempts at flirting. 

It’d be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic.

Ironically, the genius in question doesn’t seem to understand what’s going on, rattling off statistics and differences in distance between abduction sites—which had ultimately led to the identification of the perpetrator—utterly oblivious to the flirtatious attention being thrown his way.

Truthfully, you can’t really blame her. Reid seems to have taken your fashion recommendations to heart, avoiding clashing prints in favor of a more flattering color palette. He’s in shades of blue today, a button down the color of cotton candy clouds on a summer morning, tucked neatly beneath a navy blue sweater vest. You’d taken him to a barbershop a few days ago too, instructing the man to cut into his hair in order to give it some dimension. He looks good, even with his glasses—especially with his glasses—which he’s wearing because he’d run out of solution for his contacts. You’re tempted to tell him to keep this bespectacled look, it’s working for him.

But not right now, because 1) you don’t want him to think you’ve been scrutinizing his appearance, 2) you can’t because his attention lies elsewhere and you’re not about to compete for that, thank you very much, and 3) that’s an inappropriate comment to make in the workplace and you are the pinnacle of professionalism. 

Unlike other people.

You glare at Officer Mitchell.

You don’t even realize another team member has returned until a hand rests on your shoulder. You flinch, the action extracting your attention from the scene before you. Looking up, JJ’s amused blue eyes meet yours. “You're almost done?”

“Yeah, almost.” you reply. Grumble, really, as your gaze inexplicably returns to Reid and Officer Mitchell. Still wrapped up in conversation, neither of them seem to notice JJ’s arrival, or particularly interested in helping you. “No thanks to these two.”

JJ chuckles, “Shouldn’t you go rescue her?” 

“Rescue her?” 

“Spence is rambling, you know how he gets.”

“Yeah, and she’s openly flirting on the job.” it comes out in a hiss paired with narrowed eyes. Perhaps too harsh for the conversation, but the idea that anyone needs to be saved from Reid’s rambling doesn’t sit right with you. Rescue is what you do to people in trouble, who need help. Officer Mitchell is not in trouble, and if she needed help, she’d be casting glances to the rest of the room, not looking at Spencer Reid like he holds the key to the universe. Matter of fact, it seems like she’s the complete opposite of in trouble.

Something crosses over JJ’s face, fleeting by so quickly you couldn’t really place it. 

“He’s talking her ear off,” There’s a placating tone to JJ’s voice that you don’t appreciate.

It makes you catch yourself though, so you attempt to soften your own voice, trying to match her calm one but yours still comes across sneering (Oh well, she’s the liaison for a reason), “Yeah, but she initiated the conversation. If she voluntarily subjects herself to Reid’s tangents, that’s not on me. Neither of them need rescue, they seem perfectly happy in each other’s company. ”

Try as you might, that last bit comes out snappy. 

JJ catches it too, shrewd as always. But she doesn’t comment on it, not directly at least. “Hm, I did notice a few people back in the office giving him more attention than usual.”

“Yeah, so he’d proofread their reports for them.” you stand with a huff, paperwork and evidence carefully balanced inside the police issued cardboard box. JJ follows you as you stride out of the room, leaving Reid and Officer Mitchell alone to do whatever they so wish. None of it is your business anyway, you just wish he’d been able to multitask and not leave the dumb task to you.

“Mhm, are you sure it has nothing to do with the little makeover you gave him?” JJ says, matching your quick steps. 

You don’t like the little smirk playing on the blonde woman’s lips. Her idea isn’t far off, Reid does look good. Still himself, with his crooked ties and the converse you couldn’t talk him into replacing, but now more elevated. Less nerdy kid and more rumpled academic. Which means you did exactly what you’d originally set out to do. Reflect who he is through clothes, communicate his intelligence and competency just with a few styling adjustments.

“Good job to me, then.” Why did that sentence leave through gritted teeth? 

JJ doesn’t dignify you with a response, and simply watches you with that same, infuriating smile, as though she knows something you don’t. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It doesn’t seem like nothing, but you let it go, walking outside to the SUV that will take you to the airport. Gathered around, you notice that the team is missing one specific member, who’s probably still busy inside, being flirted with.

“Hey, where’s Reid?” Morgan seems to have the same idea. He directs the question at you, though, seeing as you were the last one to be paired with him.

“I’m not his keeper,” you reply dismissively, brushing past the burly man to slide into the back of the car. Any more mention of Reid and that officer and you’re afraid you’ll snap and say something you’d regret.

Outside, Morgan shoots JJ a confused look, baffled by your abruptness. The blonde woman simply shrugs, wearing the same smile from earlier, keeping her thoughts to herself. It’s too soon for anything, anyway, and if she so much as mentions the faintest bit of her theory, JJ knows the entire team will know in an instant. Better to let it play out. Better you figure it for yourself.

waldorf!reader tags @lokisswiftie @lillaberry @libraprincessfairy @yasmin12312 @saintkittykat @brainisrotted @misspendragonsworld @fefa-la-printcessa

[slttygeto]

༉‧₊˚. episode 08: lost in the fire.

preview: " . . . Without a second glance, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot, his voice low and taunting. “I don’t feel guilt, doll.”

“I…” you cannot put into words how you feel, it feels as though you had swallowed your tongue and any smart retort you had prepared is thrown out of the window. Shuji notices the change in your expression, how you went from being incredibly affected by his words to nothing all of a sudden. There’s an emptiness behind your eyes as you nod at him. “You’re right.”

And then you were gone. ."

word count: 5,3k

content warning: nsfw warning! heavy smut, choking, biting, n!pple sucking, unprotected s/x, not enough foreplay, jealousy.

༉‧₊˚. note: happy new years :) starting 2025 with a new chapter! thank you to my amazing best friend @aurelianamu for being my beta reader and helping point out mistakes and things that needed serious editing! i am still on a hiatus, but enjoy reading. thank you!

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

➜ MASTERLIST

Hanma openly admits his vocabulary isn’t exactly expansive, chalking it up to his teenage self choosing cigarettes over books, biker gangs over libraries and nasty fights over going to school. Only that he knows a couple of words, they’re still insufficient when he is facing this hurricane of emotions and fails to locate the heart of it. He can’t pull the plug on something that’s blurry, so he sits in his car and looks out of his window. The vehicle trembles in sync with the rhythm of his restless foot.

A tattooed hand goes up to his face, and he slides down his blouse cuff to stare at the watch adorning his wrist; 10:32PM. You had to be awake, right? 

One would question why he couldn’t simply send you a message, and the truth is far more complicated than that suggestion. He can’t message you when he was the one who told you he doesn’t fuck you on your period. You were offended by his tone more than what he was implying, and told him and he quotes ‘to go fuck himself and never come back again’. 

Now, this wasn’t the first time that the two of you had a petty argument, the earliest one Hanma can remember was of him saying he didn’t want to eat your homemade food because he thought soup was boring, and you had glared at him the whole night until he apologized with his head between your thighs. Or when you tried to insinuate that he was so much softer than you had thought, the night ended with tears streaming down your face as you gagged and choked on his cock. 

The two of you didn’t know what communication was, sex seemed to be the solution to everything. Well, except for this time.

You were understandably hormonal when you texted him, asking if he could drop by and hang out with you for a couple of hours at the beginning of November. And him being an asshole, he made some poor joke about how ‘he doesn’t fuck women on their periods because they’ll get attached’ and the rest is history.

Hanma doesn’t think he fucked up that badly, but that wouldn’t explain the fifth cigarette he throws out of his car window as he glares daggers at your balcony door. You can’t keep ignoring him forever, it’s been ten days. 

He mutters a sharp “fuck” under his breath as he swings the car door open, stepping out and locking it with a press of his key fob. His strides are long and confident as he reaches into the pocket of his suit pants for another cigarette. Shielding the flame with his hand, he lights it, the glow briefly illuminating his face before he tucks the cigarette between his index and middle finger. He ascends the stairs, smoke curling in his wake as he eyes the apartment doors one by one. Ironically, the one thing he had memorized beside the feeling of your hallway, was the smell of homemade food that emerged from beneath your doorway, a scent which was forever engraved at the forefront of his mind. 

A familiar wooden door greets Hanma as he steps into the dimly lit hallway, and he braces himself for how many times he is going to knock to get you to open the door for him. The memory of you whisper-yelling at him to just get in flashes before his eyes and an amused smirk finds its way up his lips, but it’s immediately wiped off when the door suddenly swings open. Surprised, he takes a step back with furrowed eyebrows, hand reaching towards his gun holster out of instinct. 

Then he hears it, the sound of high heels clicking against the tiles. 

You step out of your apartment with your back facing Hanma, allowing him to scan your outfit for a brief moment. It was cold outside, so you were wearing an oversized, fluffy and warm jacket on top of what he believes to be a short dress, and the black stockings you had chosen for the night bring more attention to your legs. To match the aesthetic of the outfit, you chose to wear your knee high, black leather high heeled boots, adding a couple centimeters to your height. And to finish off the look, you had styled your hair in a way that Hanma could only describe as intoxicating. The perfume you were wearing was dizzying, and it only worsens when you turn around and Hanma sees you with a full face of makeup. The right amount of glitter, the sharp eyeliner, the mascara giving your face that doe-eyed look and finally, that lip combo.

Where the hell were you headed to?

The good thing about working in corporate jobs was the amount of birthday celebrations to look out to. You had at least two birthdays each month, and November was no exception. But to ensure that not every winter birthday is celebrated inside the company, a co-worker took it upon themselves to invite everyone to a club, and who were you to turn down the offer? 

You hated being holed up in your apartment for too long, it made you feel claustrophobic and anxious, and you were getting sick of your balcony and the same boring view. The moment you step out, you get a whiff of cigarette smell and instantly, you realize who was behind you. Your movements are slow and careful as you lock your door, fix the scarf that’s wrapped around your neck to keep you warm then–you see him.

Hanma doesn’t miss the way your eyebrows twitch when you lock eyes with him, he can’t deny that the slight purse to your lips makes the coil in his stomach tighten, then your frown deepens. 

“Smoking’s not allowed in the hallway,” you point out towards the cigarette bud hanging between his fingers.

“Where are you going?” he completely dismisses your statement, eyes scanning your outfit from head to toe for what feels like the hundredth time. He knows exactly what hides beneath those layers of clothing, he’s touched and felt and groped it so many times already–then why does it bother him that you’re dressed so prettily for an occasion?

You’re already fed up with him, your high heels clicking against the tiles as you walk past him and Hanma almost groans when he gets a whiff of your perfume. Fuck, why did he have to be so stupid?

“Whatever, don’t stay here for too long or else they’ll kick you out.” You announce as you call for the elevator, pressing the button as you put your keys in your handbag. 

The tall man is quickly standing behind you. He knows why you’re ignoring him, but he doesn’t think it entirely justifies not answering him. “Did you not hear me?”

You scoff. “You’re saying that?” 

“It’s different, I’m asking where you’re going–”

“And now I’m asking you to mind your own business?” you hear a ding and step onto the elevator, Hanma right behind you. “I’m a grown ass woman.”

“Never seen your grown ass outside at night.” How blunt.

“Oh right, because in the last two months when you’ve known me and rarely ever visited may I add, you’ve never seen me go outside after 8PM?” 

You were bitter, that’s understandable, but that doesn’t explain completely avoiding his question, does it? He was only asking about your whereabouts so that he knows where to expect to see you! 

And perhaps even follow you there. 

Hanma bites his tongue at your words. He would never admit that you were right, or that he messed up by completely ignoring your phone calls and messages because you had told him that you were on your period. However, everyone makes mistakes and it’s what makes us human…

…or however that saying goes. 

The elevator starts to go down, his golden eyes alternate between scanning the number shown in bold colors indicating the floor number and the screen of your phone. You were sending a text in a group chat, he could see the name of it–something about your company, and next to it was the word ‘birthday party!’. He’s thankful that he’s being sneaky enough to be able to look at what you were typing, however that doesn’t last when you finally notice that he has grown a little too quiet. You hide your phone in your chest.

“Can you not?” you hiss, voice laced with venom as you shoot him a glare over your shoulder. 

“A colleague’s birthday?”

“What are you, twelve?” you furrow your eyebrows as you turn to face him fully. Even with high heels, you don’t reach his full height and you hate it. You hate that you are looking up at him, at his handsome face which you didn’t see for a full week, and you absolutely despise the way he is staring at you.

His eyes were devouring you, forcing you to think of anything but how you’ve made them roll to the back of his head countless times. You refuse to stare at his bulging arms, or how his hair was slightly disheveled from running a hand through it. Was he frustrated by his own actions? You hope he was, you hope he fisted his cock pathetically to the thought of you, that his whines were so loud it echoes in his empty apartment. You pray that a mission interrupted his alone time, and he had to finish off some guy he didn’t like with painful blue balls.

And you fervently and desperately hope that he cannot read your true thoughts.

“Add sixteen years to that,” he replies while bringing the cigarette to his lips, taking a whiff from the stick. He pulls his hand away, smirking when he notices the slight shift in your expression and it worsens when he blows smoke on your face.

“Stop that! I don’t want to smell like cigarettes when I get in the car!”

“Oh?” he tilts his head to the side, golden eyes locked with yours as he searches for another clue. “So you need a car to get there?”

“I would be crazy if I walked outside dressed like this.” you ignore his intense stare, masking your nervousness with annoyance as you pull out your phone again. 

“Who’s driving you there?”

“None of your damn business.” 

“An uber.” The elevator finally dings and you hurriedly step out of the cubicle, trying to get away from him as far as possible. 

“Oh! We got ourselves a detective here!” you exclaim jokingly, the sound of high heels clicking against the tiles echoing in the empty hallway. “You should work for the FBI, has anyone ever told you that?”

Hanma ignores your comments, his strides long and purposeful as he walks right behind you. “You keep clutching your purse, it’s open so you can make sure that your credit card is there and your forgetful ass didn’t actually miss anything. You’ll stop getting anxious when you get into the car and pay the driver–”

“Stop that!” You finally turn around to stare at him, and the tall man has to stop himself from scooping you into his arms and fucking you against the nearest wall. You puff out your chest like a balloon ready to burst, a fragile show of dominance and anger, but you were clearly fed up and you couldn’t handle hearing his voice anymore.

“You think you can read me easily, you think using your little criminal tricks on me will get you off the hook, it doesn’t.” you get even closer to the man, a manicured finger poking at his chest with each syllable rolling off your tongue. “You think you’re the only one who can read me? Well, I’ll tell you what’s in front of me right now.”

Hanma remains unnervingly quiet, so you continue.

"I see a man who couldn’t keep his word if his life depended on it. Someone who drowns his guilt in cigarette smoke because facing it is too much to bear. A man so shaken by the idea of me living my life without catering to him that he’ll go as far as to ruin it for me, hoping to force a reaction out of me. Well, guess what? You won’t. So enjoy your misery and your frustration, because tonight? You won’t be getting anything from me"

The only sounds breaking the stillness of the moment were the occasional hum of passing cars outside the building, their distant echoes a sharp contrast to the suffocating quiet of the hallway. The air around you felt heavy as you struggled to catch your breath, your face was in flames. Your gaze flickered wildly over Shuji’s expression, desperate to find even the slightest crack, some hint that your words had gotten to him, that they had landed where they intended to. 

But all you were met with was silence, dragging on until a scoff cut through the air and you felt your chest tightening. 

Without a second glance, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot, his voice low and taunting. “I don’t feel guilt, doll.”

“I…” you cannot put into words how you feel, it feels as though you had swallowed your tongue and any smart retort you had prepared is thrown out of the window. Shuji notices the change in your expression, how you went from being incredibly affected by his words to nothing all of a sudden. There’s an emptiness behind your eyes as you nod at him. “You’re right.” 

And then you were gone. 

He doesn’t try to follow you, the sound of your high heels clicking against the concrete becomes a distant sound the farther you walk away and he stands near the entrance of the building with his hands buried in his pockets. 

It was time to work.

—

“Where were you? We were looking for you!”

“Sorry! My cat threw up on the carpet and I had to clean it real quick,” you say with a wave of hands, looking around the crowded area with bright eyes. “Seems like the birthday girl is having fun!” 

You see a flash of red hair on the dance floor, and chuckle when you notice the way she seemed to effortlessly become the center of attention. People were cheering her on, clapping and asking the DJ to change the song just to match her energy. Meanwhile, you decide to take off your coat and place it on the chair that a coworker had reserved for you. 

You weren’t the type to go clubbing, years of being constantly guarded by your brothers had left you tense and uneasy under the flashing lights, but you envied those who did it so effortlessly. They wouldn’t look as awkward as you do. 

That is until you feel a pair of eyes following your every move, and you are forced to look at them. 

It was a coworker, someone you had grown comfortable around because of his kind gestures. He would offer to help you carry papers around even if you were going to take the elevator, and when you ran out of water or your favorite drink in the fridge, he would be the first to request a restock for you. He was a gentleman, one that didn’t know how to hide his attraction towards you.

And you didn’t seem to mind it, a woman could appreciate being treated nicely once in a while.

“Not going to join them?” He gestures towards the rest of your colleagues who seemed to be enjoying their time on the dance floor. You chuckle as you shake your head, leaning back in your seat.

“Dancing is not my thing,”

The man, whose name is Tomoya, takes this as an open invitation to sit across from you. He puts his elbows on the table as he leans forward, clearly invested in the conversation.

“Why? It’s just moving your body to the beat.”

You press your lips as you hum, leaning towards the brown haired man as you respond.“Hmmm, I’m not sure if I like that.” 

“How about this, if I can change your mind, you–” he pauses as he points his finger at you, eyes glimmering with mischief. “--go on a date with me.”

You scoff, raising an eyebrow at him. “A date?”

“Yup.” 

How do you explain this to a man you hardly speak to at work? How do you tell him that your life is already entangled with someone else–someone too deeply involved in your world to simply cut loose? The idea of going on a date with Tomoya doesn’t seem so bad, but the thought of facing Hanma, of telling him about the possibility that you want to end whatever it is you have, makes you hold your head in your hands. 

“We’ll see.”

You’ll deal with it later.

The rhythm of the music reverberates through the air as you find yourself on the dance floor with your colleague, Tomoya, who seems to be enjoying himself far more than you. The bass is heavy, the lights flicker like a heartbeat, and for a moment, you can almost forget your reservations. His encouragement draws a timid smile from you, and despite your clumsy attempts to follow his lead, you eventually surrender to the music. The tension in your shoulders eases as your movements become less forced, and soon enough, you find yourself laughing and moving your body to the beat.

You walk through the crowd to greet the birthday girl, your grin bright and contagious as you ask if she’s having fun. Before long, Tomoya succeeds to reclaim your attention. His lips move, but it’s hard to hear anything with the loud music.

“What?” you call out, cupping your ear for emphasis.

With a smile, he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “I said, you look beautiful.”

Goosebumps rise on your skin at his words, and your face heats up. Your laughter quiets down as you shyly glance away, scanning the room for an escape from his intense gaze. That’s when you see him. A familiar figure near the bar freezes you in place. Your chest tightens, the world blurring as you focus on the tall man leaning casually against the counter.

“Are you okay?” Tomoya’s voice snaps you back, but your response is dismissive.

“Yeah, yeah,” you pat his shoulder with a forced smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Your steps quicken as you drag your feet through the crowd, each stride bringing more dread. Please don’t be him. Please. But as you approach him, there’s no denying it. That sharp grin, the cigarette dangling between his fingers–it’s him. Your hand finds his shoulder before you can stop yourself, and when he turns, you’re met with those golden eyes that seem to silently mock your surprise. 

“Well, what a coincidence, doll,” Hanma drawls, his voice dripping with amusement. “Do you need something?”

“Excuse me,” you snap, your hand gripping his forearm as you pull him to his feet. “We need to talk.”

“Oh absolutely,” he smirks, letting you drag him past the sea of curious eyes. He seems far too entertained for your liking, his laughter barely contained as you shove open the door to the women’s bathroom.

The startled gasps and shrieks from the women inside only add to the dread you were feeling. You glance around apologetically, muttering a quick, “Sorry,” as they scurry out, a few of them shooting you knowing looks. 

“Relationship emergency?” one asks before disappearing out the door.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, locking the door behind you.

“Are you insane?” you whirl around, glaring at Hanma as he leans casually against the sinks, an infuriating smirk painted across his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Why? Did I ruin your little moment out there?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it that makes your throat tighten and your mouth go dry. “Mad that I stopped you from almost fucking him?”

“Don’t you even start–”

“Or what?” His voice drops, low and dangerous, as he pushes off the sink and begins to close the distance between the two of you. The confidence in his stride makes your knees feel like jelly, and you’re suddenly hyper aware of the way he towers over you so easily. “Tell me, doll, is this why you didn’t want to tell me where you were going tonight? Were you afraid I’d show up and fuck up your little date with that fucker?”

“Don’t call him that,” you retort, though your voice wavers under his suffocating stare.

His eyebrows raise, mock surprise etched across his face. “Oh? Defending him now, are we?”

“I’m not defending him!” you argue, though the crack in your voice betrays you. Shit, you were a nervous mess. “He didn’t do anything to deserve your anger.”

Hanma chuckles, low and menacing. “Anger? Oh, doll, I’m not angry. Not with him, anyway.” His steps falter when he’s inches away from you, his body caging you against the door. “Because we both know he doesn’t mean shit to you, right?”

Your silence speaks louder than words, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. “It’d crush him, wouldn’t it? If he knew why you’re so hesitant to go on a date with him.”

“I never said–” Your breath catches as his hand cups your jaw, tilting your face upward. 

“So you do want to go on a date with him?” His golden eyes burn into yours, searching for something, though his grin never falters.

You gulp, your voice barely above a whisper. “...maybe.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, and you can’t stop the way your lips part instinctively. “You’re a liar,” he coos, his tone dripping with mock pity.

“Am not–”

A gasp is ripped from your body when you feel his knee push past your thigh, landing perfectly on your clothed cunt as he presses you further against the wall.

“Let’s try again,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear. “Do you want to go on a date with him?”

Your lips tremble as you throw your head back, and Shuji’s hand lands perfectly on your throat. He feels a piece of jewelry there, but he ignores it as he squeezes your neck gently, drawing a quiet moan out of you. 

“I…” you start, unable to keep your eyes open as you feel your body burn up. The effect he had on you, the way it felt effortless to make a mess of you felt unfair. You gulp as you try to morph the lust in your gaze into anger. “I do.”

A pair of lips crash against yours almost immediately, and Hanma quickly catches as your knees give out on you at the impact. You would be lying if you said you didn’t miss this–his lips, how roughly he handled your body whilst making sure that nothing hurt you, because you craved it more than anything else. So you kiss him, fervently moving your lips against his as your hands claw at his shoulders and back. You felt like a flower starved of sunlight, withering in the absence of warmth and connection. 

Hanma couldn’t offer either, but his touch was enough to fill the void. 

He pats your butt and you jump, wrapping your legs around his waist before sitting you on the sink. The marble is cold, sending a sharp chill against your skin but it quickly fades away when Hanma’s lips travel down your neck, then your exposed chest where your perfume hits his nostrils the hardest. 

The tall man stands there, inhaling deeply as your scent washes over his senses, his eyes closing as he surrenders to its intoxicating pull. He notices the necklace, how it seems to be stuck to your skin even if it doesn’t match your attire and something coils in his stomach.

Without second thought, he sinks his teeth on the skin of your boob, a loud gasp ripping from your throat as your hand finds his hair.

“Not there–” You try to reason with him, but he doesn’t listen. Instead, he sinks his teeth into a different spot, watching as you throw your head back, your back arching in response, a wave of pleasure taking over.

If he could, he would tear that piece of jewelry from your body.

“Shuji,” the sound of his name slipping from your lips is a melodic drawl, intoxicating him like no drug ever could. An animalistic growl rumbles from the back of his throat as he pulls down the top of your dress, revealing your boobs. The cold air makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and your nipples instantly harden under the attention given to them. 

He fervently licks and sucks on the buds, shoving his hands under your dress. You are lost in the pleasure, fingers digging in his scalp as he gently bites on your left nipple, his hand groping the other breast. 

Then you hear a tearing sound, followed by a sudden chill, making you shiver as the coldness creeps in.

“Oh my god!” you scream in horror, instinctively trying to close your legs as you eye the ripped stockings. “Those were expensive you fucking asshole!” 

“Fuck that,” your heart stills when you see him lean down, biting your inner thighs and salivating at the sight of your black thong. “I’ve got money.”

“Y-You’re not buying me a-anyth–ah!” you try to cover your mouth when you feel his head get shoved between your thighs, a wet tongue pressing against the fabric of your thong. And then, you hear a dark chuckle. 

“You smell so fucking good. Did all that fighting turn you on?” he pulls away, his fingers playing with the straps of your thong. “Or did you fuck around hoping that I’d fuck the attitude out of ya?”

Stubborn yet looking for a good fuck, you respond breathlessly.“No.”

“No?” he tilts his head, a mocking expression on his face as he purses his lips. “So you don’t want me to fuck you?”

He sees you look down at your own lap, and bursts out laughing as he finally removes the fabric off of your body. “Ah, you’re so fucking adorable,” he moves away from the sink and starts to unbuckle his belt. You sit up on the sink to admire him as he frees his hardened cock, stroking it a couple of times before standing between your thighs. He notices your starstruck gaze, and a low chuckle rumbles from the back of his throat, as if amused by the effect he has on you.

“Cockdrunk already?”

“Shut up.” You pull him in for a kiss, your hand traveling down to line up his tip with your entrance. He parts his lips, but then you feel him smile against your mouth. You open your eyes to meet his gaze. 

He watches with an amused grin as your jaw goes slack the moment he pushes himself inside, but it quickly fades away when the wetness of your pussy washes over his senses and he has to take a moment to ground himself. 

He can’t cum too quickly, that would be pathetic.

Hanma doesn’t take long before starting to fuck you, slow and calculated thrusts quickly turn into hurried and sloppy ones when your pussy clamps down on him with each kiss he presses to your pulse. He feels his self control slipping through the cracks of his mind, and when he finally looks at your face again, he is reminded of why the two of you were fucking in the women’s bathroom. 

With a clenched jaw and flared nostrils, his hand travels to the back of your head and he yanks it back. 

“Thought we had an agreement doll,” he hisses through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his eyes open as he grips your hair. “I thought you knew that you couldn’t pull shit like that with me. But I bet you like it, huh? You love testing my limits–ah fuck!” you clamp down on him again when he hits that one spot that makes your eyes roll, the added friction of his crotch against your clit sending shivers down your spine as you arch your back.

“Oh my god!” you cry out, the burning in your scalp mixing with pleasure. 

Hanma leans forward, pressing his lips against your cheek as he growls. “Answer me.” 

Tears well in your eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him. He was everywhere–inside of you, touching you–and now it felt as though he was trying to invade your very thoughts. “Fuck, fuck Shuji please don’t stop, please–” 

He continues to fuck you at the same angle, licking his fingers to rub your clit in messy circles.“You like getting on my nerves, don’t ya? Makes it more fun for me to fuck you stupid.”

“Oh!” You gasp at the stimulation, eyes widening as you try to look down at where the two of you meet. “Oh, right there!”

“I asked you a fucking question.”He spits out venomously, his grip tightening around your head, forcing your forehead to press against his as he holds you in place.

“Yes!” You cry out, not caring about how fucked out you must look. “Yes, yes I do! I love it, oh my god please don’t stop fucking me, please–”

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought–come on baby girl, get filthy with me.” Hanma grins triumphantly, but the pleasure starts to wash over him. “Make a mess on me, pretty girl. Use my cock, you know how to do that.” 

He leans back, watching as you pathetically try to move your hips back and forth. After a few failed attempts, you break down in front of him.

“I c-can’t, I can’t!” You sob, your hips trembling and shaky. Hanma’s gaze locks onto yours, his dark eyes fixated on the tears streaming down your cheeks–the sight of you so fragile beneath him is enough to send him over the edge. “Please, please fuck me Shuji.”

“Fuck–” His hand wraps around your throat, fingers grazing your necklace as he captures it in the same motion, and then his hips find that same delicious pace. His fingers find your clit again, rubbing in the same dizzying motion that made you the loudest earlier, but instead he hears nothing.

You suddenly fall quiet as your body arches away from him and Hanma watches in awe as your hand shakily grips his forearm. The bathroom is filled with wet sounds of skin to skin, and then he feels something wet on his pants and a loud gasp painfully rips from the back of your throat. 

“Oh shit!” His proud laughter dies down on his tongue as your pussy clenches on him, burying his face in your chest. He reaches his own orgasm after a couple of strokes, biting down on your shoulder to muffle his own noises.

The two of you sit there in silence, with mostly you trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. You had never cum that hard before, not with a man at least, and your face burns with the realization that you squirted on him.

“Oh no, how am I going to clean that?” you don’t even notice that Shuji’s pants are soiled as well, his cock still nestled in your pussy.

“I don't pay cleaners so I can grab a mop myself.” 

“What?” you furrow your eyebrows as you stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“Did I not tell ya?”

“Huh?”

 His voice dips lower as his grin stretches wider, “I own this club, doll.”

2025 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[cleo-fox]

Conquer

Part 1 of 5

Series Masterlist

Summary: The king intends to take a bride.

You just never thought it would be you.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex (fem receiving), teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: I’m kind of fascinated by the concept of a soulmate AU where Loki wins and this is just another take on that thought. If you've read my fic Surrender, this one is a different universe (an AU of an AU? Is that a thing?)

I am indebted to @infinitystoner, who was kind enough to talk me through some of my doubts about this fic. This one is for you, K. (Also, everyone should go read her work, it's fabulous).

The king intends to take a bride.

At first you think it’s just a stupid rumor, but with time, it becomes clear that it’s not merely a stupid rumor, but a true rumor about a stupid plan. He hasn’t found his soulmate; the speculation is that this is about producing an heir or something similar. Which is also stupid because he’s the one who took over your fucking planet. He can make new rules for succession if he wants to. He doesn’t have to make other people suffer.

You, like most people, still harbor a lot of anger and resentment toward Loki.

You don’t know who he’s going to rope into this plan, but you feel bad for her already. Imagine not only having to be married to that monster, but being in this weird second place to whoever is unfortunate enough to be his soulmate. Imagine having to fuck him, to try and have his kid, all the while knowing you’ll be discarded once he finds his soulmate. Imagine having to go along with all of this and never being able to say what you really think.

The only person you feel sorrier for is whoever turns out to be his soulmate.

Later, all of this will strike you as absurdly ironic.

But you don’t know any of that yet.

*

You took a job at the hotel because you needed a change of pace after Loki took over. It was just a front desk job—you checked people in and out, answered questions, and said “let me get my manager” whenever there was a serious problem with a guest. It wasn’t glamorous or fun, but it was straightforward and you never had to bring work home with you.

The one thing that you never really considered was whether you were inadvertently choosing a job that would bring you into closer proximity to the man you were trying so desperately hard to not think about at all.

You probably should have considered it—you knew when you took the job that he did a fair amount of travel. You never really understood why—he conquered the entire fucking planet, you think he’d be content to just chill in his palace or whatever. But no. He was constantly on the move, constantly showing up and demanding to be accommodated, and people put up with it because what else are they supposed to do? You can’t exactly persona non grata the guy that successfully took over your planet and made himself king. If that worked, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

You kind of assumed that he wouldn’t show up to your hotel—it wasn’t conveniently located to anything useful and while it technically had a five star rating, you didn’t think it offered the same caliber of accommodations as the places he was known to stay.

As it turns out, you were wrong on all counts. Hilariously wrong. Because now his steward is here in your hotel lobby. Or his…emissary? You’re not sure what this guy’s official title is. You recognize him from the news—he can often be spotted in the entourage of guards and staff that accompany Loki everywhere, but you don’t know his name. He is rattling off a monologue of sorts—the king requires accommodations, only the finest rooms, and so on. You feel as though you are having an out of body experience as you click through the booking software and confirm that the penthouse is available. You breathe an inner sigh of relief—it would have been manageable to evict whichever rich person had booked it, but it would have fucked up the cleaning crew’s scheduling for at least the next week and you know that corporate is already up Marisol’s ass about your location’s overtime.

You don’t really expect him to show up during this transaction. If you had, you would have said “let me get my manager” and washed your hands of it—you don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with self-proclaimed kings. But as you are booking the room (who the fuck are you supposed to list as the guarantor on the invoice? This wasn’t covered in your training), Loki storms in, followed by a cadre of guards.

You’re not really prepared to see him in person—that’s partly why you freeze. He’s so tall and well…real. It sounds stupid, but it’s jarring seeing him in front of you instead of on a screen or in a picture. He’s not exactly more frightening, but looking at him makes your pulse quicken.

He’s scolding the steward (emissary?) about something—you’re so distracted that you miss exactly what it is that has him so annoyed.

And then you realize that the mark on your left wrist is burning.

You swallow hard. No. Not him.

Loki looks up and his eyes lock with yours.

Fucking hell.

*

The wedding is a spectacle, to say the least.

Your dress is fucking ridiculous. Instead of the traditional white, you are draped in yards of green fabric covered in thousands of emeralds and diamonds and painstakingly embroidered with thread made of real gold and silver. It is very much a statement about who you are and who you belong to. You don’t care for it, but you don’t really have a choice—the details of the ceremony have been largely left to other people to decide. Part of you thinks they must have been planning for this for years, based on the number of things that are already prepared. Or maybe having access to magic negates the need for planning ahead.

You are much too angry to actually ask Loki about any of this. Not that you see much of him before the ceremony anyway.

You go through the motions of the ceremony, trying to keep your cool. It’s only been a week since he found you at the hotel, so the fact that you haven’t consummated your soulbond is more akin to an annoying itch than anything more disruptive, but when he kisses you at the conclusion of the ceremony, it's…intense, to say the least. The mild ache that settled itself between your thighs last week seems to swell, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. When he slides his tongue past your lips, all you want to do is release a wanton moan directly into his mouth and rub yourself shamelessly against him. The fact that you’re standing on a platform while the entire world looks on is really the only thing that stops you.

The fact that this is your immediate reaction scares you a bit. You know it’s biology—soulbonds are meant to be consummated isn’t just a saying—but there’s part of you that feels like you should have a stronger handle on that impulse. You are mad at him, you remind yourself. He took over your entire planet, installed himself as king, and then had the audacity to be your soulmate. Focus. Be angry.

You wonder if your family and friends are watching. Your phone ran out of battery the night after he found you and you haven’t had the heart to charge it. You’re barely managing your own emotional reaction—you’re not ready to invite anyone else into it just yet.

The rest of your wedding day is a blur. You meet a bunch of important people and retain exactly none of their names or roles. There is an elaborate multi-course feast and you manage to eat without spilling food on your dress, which feels like a small miracle. You meet more important people and somehow retain even less information. You dance—a few dances with important people whose names you’ve forgotten, but mostly with Loki. The sun sets. They bring out an elaborate dessert course. You dance again. Loki’s hand on your waist fans the flames of desire that you’re trying so hard to ignore.

Finally, you’re whisked away to prepare for bed. It took three people to get you into your dress, and it takes just as many to get you out. They help you into a nightgown that you also didn’t get to pick out—and in fact, it’s the first time you’re seeing it at all. It’s almost too pretty to sleep in, though you suppose that’s the point—you’re supposed to fall asleep naked and sated in the arms of your new husband (god, it’s so weird that you have a husband). You’re not so sure that this is the specific fate that’s in your cards, but you anticipate the nightgown will be coming off at some point this evening. In the interim, you look stereotypically virginal in white lace and chiffon, a glittering emerald pendant resting in your cleavage.

You’ve been staying in a guest suite since he found you, but tonight, they bring you to his rooms. Your rooms, you suppose. Somehow, you doubt he’s the sort who believes that husbands and wives should sleep separately.

The lights are on, but it’s quiet. You wonder if he’s even here.

You approach the couch that sits in front of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. You can see fireworks and twinkling lights of different celebrations and your stomach clenches like a fist. It’s supposed to be in honor of you. Earth’s new queen. A title that shouldn’t even exist, let alone belong to you.

You turn away from the window and sit down on the couch. You stare at the wall, hands twisting the delicate fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

You hear a sound in the other room—his study, you think—and your heart leaps to your throat, practically buzzing with an emotion that feels like the strange cousin of anxiety and anticipation.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall as you listen to his footsteps draw closer.

“It’s customary to announce yourself when you enter someone’s quarters, you know.”

You pause for a moment before letting your gaze trail to him. It’s a conscious, obnoxious power play on your part—you are trying to show him that you still have agency, that he has not yet won your respect or admiration.

You’re not even sure that it registers, which only serves to irritate you further.

He is still wearing most of his wedding clothes, though he’s taken off the fine surcoat from the ceremony, exposing the soft tunic he was wearing underneath. He is smirking—that seems to be his expression of choice, you’ve noticed.

“Aren’t these my rooms too?” you ask. “Is it customary to announce myself in my own space?”

You are trying to be rude, but it doesn’t seem to matter: he simply laughs.

“You are spirited,” he says, looking you over appreciatively, stirring a wild and burning need in your hips, slickness collecting in the lacy white underwear that had been chosen for you.

“And you intend to break me, is that it?” you snap with more venom than is perhaps wise.

“Of course not.” His answer surprises you, though you are determined to not let that show in your face. “Your will is part of your appeal. I’d no sooner crush a rose beneath my boot.”

You are skeptical of this claim given the amount of damage he did to New York City, but your traitorous cunt throbs at his words nonetheless.

“I’m not happy about any of this, you know,” you say, hoping that your anger will act like roiling floodwaters on the firestorm of lust that’s continuing to build in your hips.

It doesn’t, of course. What’s worse: he laughs. Again.

“I’d gathered,” he says. “You are wonderfully unsubtle when you’re angry.”

“I mean, are you surprised?” you say irritably. “I didn’t even get to pick out my own wedding dress, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is the burden of the office, I’m afraid,” he says. “Your wants and desires are often secondary to the needs of the crown.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from screaming at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not.”

You let out one long breath. “Are you trying to irritate me?”

Another smirk. “I’m afraid I simply have a gift for it.”

You finally give in and scowl. “Great. This is going about as well as I had expected.”

His eyes drift down the column of your throat to the emerald pendant resting in your cleavage and then to the bodice of your nightgown. “Perhaps it’s time we concern ourselves with activities that require less talking.” He licks his lips and brings his gaze back up to yours.

“I’m not entirely convinced anything would stop you from talking,” you say.

“I suspect letting me bury my tongue in your cunt might do the trick.”

For the first time today, you are entirely speechless. The fire burning low in your hips roars into an inferno, like someone has poured accelerant along your nerves and Loki has struck a match. You take in one shaky breath, your heart thrumming in your throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with a dark sort of smugness. “To bed, wife.”

You steadfastly ignore the way your stomach jumps when he calls you ‘wife.’ Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot.

You’re tempted to argue with him some more—you don’t like giving him even the vaguest impression that you’re following his orders or anything like that—but one smoldering look from him has your heart pounding and another wave of fresh arousal flooding between your legs. You follow him to the bed, trying to keep your expression neutral and indifferent.

He pulls you firmly against him and you wonder if he can feel your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no space between you—you can feel his stomach muscles expand and contract with every slow intake of breath, the press of his slowly hardening cock against your stomach.

He tilts your face up to his and claims your mouth in a devouring kiss, and this time, the moan that you’d held back during the ceremony slips from your lips almost immediately. He makes a low growling noise in return, his hands sliding to the row of small pearl buttons that hold up the back of your nightgown.

You suspect that beyond aesthetic and functional value, the purpose of these buttons is to facilitate a slow, sexy reveal; Loki undoes exactly two and a half buttons before roughly pulling the edges of the fabric apart, the remaining buttons snapping from their threads and pinging against the floor.

You pull away from him, immediately annoyed. “Do you make a habit of ruining other people’s things? What if I wanted to wear that again?”

He laughs, tugging the fabric off your shoulders. “Perhaps you forget the extraordinary powers I have at my command,” he says, staring greedily at your breasts as he tugs the nightgown down your waist, pulling it off your hips so it falls to the floor. “I could tear this gown off you every night and remake it every morning with no more than a click of my fingers.”

Fucking magic powers undercutting your goddamn fucking point.

“Yeah, well, you’re still a jackass,” you say sourly, unwilling to concede the point any further.

His smile is sharp in a way that makes you shiver and he slips his hand into your underwear, his smile growing as he feels how slick you are. “It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much, does it?”

You try to keep your expression stern, but his fingers find your clit and you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Your sweet cunt is so ready to come.” He slides a finger into you and you whimper. “It’s obscene how wet you are for me.”

You bite back a plea and kiss him instead. His mouth is rough on yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip, tongue plundering your mouth. He slides a second finger into you and you keen.

“Yes,” he groans against your mouth. “Take it like a good girl.”

You clench around his fingers and your hands seek purchase in his hair. You tug on it lightly and he growls with pleasure before he pulls away, his hands moving to the waistband of your underwear and tugging it off your hips.

“Get on the bed.” His tone brooks no arguments. “Now.”

It’s tempting to talk back, tempting to resist. You are still angry about every aspect of this relationship and this stupid fucking wedding. But you know you need this—the dull ache in your hips is only growing more pronounced with every passing moment and the brief feeling of his fingers on your clit was nothing short of heaven. Soulbonds are meant to be consummated and your body seems to be doing everything it can to propel you toward that end.

You kick your underwear the rest of the way off before sitting down on the bed and lying back on the pillows.

He pauses for a moment to look you over, his gaze trailing lazily over your bare skin, his hand absently moving to palm his cock through his trousers. “Spread your legs,” he says. You do and you catch a breath of a groan from him as he stares at you. Your cunt throbs in response and you bite your lip to keep yourself from whimpering.

He allows himself one moment before he crawls on the bed to join you. He kneels between your legs, staring greedily at your exposed cunt, running a thumb along the edge of your folds. Your hips rock upward involuntarily, chasing his hand, seeking friction.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he murmurs. “So soaking wet, so desperately needy for my touch.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “I think I might need a taste.”

Your breath stutters in your chest and he kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly licking and sucking his way upward in a tantalizing preview of what’s to come. You’re already soaking and you can feel yourself growing wetter as his sinful mouth draws closer and closer to your aching need.

You’re not entirely sure whether it’s a moan or a whine that passes your lips when he finally licks that first long, lazy stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groans low and wanting against your cunt, his tongue rolling over your clit once more before he catches it between his lips and slowly begins to suck.

There is no getting around it: Loki is a pro at eating pussy.

It would be easier if he wasn’t, you find yourself thinking somewhere in the haze between orgasms. If he were mediocre, it would make it so much easier to be angry at him, to resent your current situation. This is not to say that you’ve abandoned your anger at all—you are still mad. But your anger feels so much less effective when he’s spent a solid ninety minutes with his head between your legs and you’ve lost track of the number of times he’s made you come.

He is—predictably—infuriatingly smug about all of this.

Your first orgasm arrives so quickly that it seems to take you both by surprise. And indeed, he lifts his head moments later, already smirking.

“That was awfully quick, wife,” he says. The glint in his eye tells you that he absolutely noticed how you reacted to that name earlier and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from scowling.

“Maybe you’re out of practice,” you say. Even as you say it, it doesn’t sound convincing (it doesn’t even make sense when you think about it later) and Loki laughs outright.

“I think not,” he says, carefully sliding one long index finger inside of you. “I think your poor cunt has been sorely neglected, either by you or some subpar lover you took to ease the ache of missing me.” He adds a second finger and you bite your lip to keep in a moan. “I think you’ll be begging for me before the night is out.” His fingertips press teasingly against that spot inside you and you take in a sharp breath.

He starts lazily moving his fingers in and out of you and while it feels good, you know it’s not going to be enough to get you there. You suspect, from the way that he’s smirking, that he knows this, too.

“Do you want my mouth again? I don’t think you’re done.”

“You’re trying to be a jerk and I don’t like it,” you say.

He laughs and draws his thumb briefly over your clit. “Darling, I only want you to tell me what you want.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I think you can understand the appeal of hearing a beautiful woman beg for your touch.”

His compliment immediately clashes with the suggestion that you begging for him is a possibility.

He smiles, catlike, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“You need my mouth again,” he says, fingers curling inside you. “You need more. I can feel how wet you are, sweet thing.” His thumb presses against your clit and retreats as soon as your breath hitches.

“I could keep you like this for hours. Days, even,” he says, lazily stroking his fingers inside you. “I could keep you right on the edge, begging for your release. But I don’t think you want that. Even I don’t want that. I think you want to come again right now and I think you want my mouth.”

“I’m not begging you for it,” you say.

“I’ve only asked you to tell me what you want,” he says. “I’ve merely expressed that I find the idea of you begging very appealing.”

You want to smack him. With your luck, though, that would turn out to be one of his kinks and then you’ll really be in for it. Your fingers flex against the sheets.

“Do you want to come, darling? Do you want my mouth again?” he asks with a feigned innocence that suggests it’s not a loaded question, even as the glint in his eyes tells you it is.

You’re silent for a beat and then his thumb returns to your clit, pressing and stroking as his fingers curl inside of you. Your hips rock with his hand and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning aloud when he stops a few seconds later, his eyebrows raised like he’s expecting your answer.

This exchange repeats four more times. On the fifth, you finally break.

“Please,” you whimper. You sound more desperate than you would prefer, but your overwhelming need to come has quickly superseded whatever shreds of decency you have left.

“Please what?” he asks, radiating smugness.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl, which he only laughs at.

“I’m waiting…” he says, his fingers curling in a teasing way.

You know there’s no getting around this. “I need to come.”

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, like he’s expecting more.

You resist the urge to sigh. “I need your mouth. Please.”

He barely spares a second for a wicked grin and a growl of praise that only elevates your need before he’s lowering his mouth again to your clit.

Your second orgasm is somehow even quicker than the first, only this time, you’re already whimpering for the next one as soon as you catch your breath.

Mercifully, he doesn’t lift his mouth from your cunt this time, though he does give you a wicked look that more or less says the same thing.

His fingers are wonderful, but you know they’re no substitute for his cock. And while he has made you come so many times already, the need to have him inside of you continues to grow, settling into a dull ache in your hips.

“I need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe as the aftershocks of your latest orgasm fade back to that ache.

He lifts his head for a minute. “I intend to, but I don’t think you’re done yet.”

Your eyes widen as he seals his lips back around your clit.

“I mean, I’ve just—fuck—I’ve just had more…c-consecutive orgasms than I’ve ever had before in my life, you’re—oh my god, yes—you’re not exactly leaving me wanting—oh fuck.”

He stays silent, but it’s because his tongue is working over your clit. You, on the other hand, are in the process of undercutting your own point. A few more strokes of his tongue and you are coming again, your hips jerking hard against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop after that, either—he draws more orgasms from you, groaning into your cunt when you pull on his hair.

Your pleas for him to fuck you become increasingly desperate with every orgasm, until he finally lifts his head.

“What was it that you wanted?” he asks with a smirk that tells you he needs absolutely no clarification whatsoever.

“Fuck me, please. I need to be fucked, I need your cock,” you say. You feel restless and desperate, the ache inside you growing with every passing second.

“Oh, darling, all you needed to do was ask,” he says, his tone overly cloying.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl. “I have been asking. Repeatedly.”

He laughs and begins to undress. You suspect he’s doing this to torture you—you know he could remove his clothes in one go if he wanted to.

He peels his shirt off first and your lips part involuntarily as you take in the firm expanse of muscle of his chest and abdomen, your fingertips itching with the need to touch him. You grip the sheets instead in the vain hope that it might make a difference (it doesn’t).

But even the enticing expanse of his chest is no match for what’s to come.

He removes his trousers with achingly precise slowness. You expect him to be hard; what you’re not expecting is the primal response that it invokes in you. His cock is long, thick, and hard, the head already slick with pre-come. It’s not just for you—it’s because of you.

You swallow hard as he turns to face you fully. You’re so distracted by his cock that you almost miss the smug smirk, which he makes no attempt to hide. He knows he’s hot, he knows he has a beautiful cock, and he knows that you are absolutely aching for him. It is profoundly irritating.

He wraps his hand around his cock, wetting his lips as he casually strokes himself once. “Do you want me?” he asks with the sort of tone and expression that tells you he absolutely knows the answer.

You could yell at him. The prospect is certainly tempting. But you’re not sure that it’s worth it, not with the way your cunt is throbbing with the need to be filled with his beautiful, thick cock.

“Loki, please.” It comes out as more of a whine than you’d like, but you decide that you can live with it.

You are treated to a particularly wolfish grin before he starts stalking towards you.

There’s a large part of you that expects him to flip you over and take you from behind, rough and fast and impersonal. But instead, he climbs on top of you and draws you into a kiss. It’s deep and slow and heightened by the heavy weight of his bare cock pressing against your belly, drops of pre-come smearing against your skin.

Your back arches and your right leg snakes around his waist, trying to pull him closer, urging him to finally ease the ache inside of you. But he takes his time, kissing you slowly, running his hands over your breasts and hips, rocking his cock against you, but not inside of you.

You don’t like begging—it feels too much like offering up a vulnerability—but it becomes increasingly difficult not to give into the urge the longer he stays on top of you like this.

“Loki,” you finally say when he starts peppering sharp, sucking kisses against your throat.

“What is it, my love?” he asks with a faux confusion that you can see through right away.

“You know what I want,” you say as evenly as you can manage.

“Mmm, let me hear you say it just once more,” he says.

“Please fuck me.”

You’re expecting another negotiation, another battle of wits, but instead, he gives you a rather sharp grin and adjusts his hips so he can rub the tip of his cock up and down the length of your cunt. And then, to your surprise, he lines his cock up at your entrance and slowly begins to ease inside of you.

There’s a part of you—a large part of you—that’s surprised by how careful he is. He’s gentle, slowly pressing into you, giving you time to adjust, his movements careful. He does this all in such a way that you might not notice if you didn’t think to look—he wants you to think that he’s not doing any of what he’s doing. He wants you to think he’s not thinking of you when he is, that the care and precision of his movements are merely a pleasant coincidence. You’re not sure how you know this, but you feel certain.

He waits to kiss you until he’s pressed fully inside you, and you realize this is another illusion, another cover so you don’t realize that he’s giving you another moment to adjust to him.

It’s oddly considerate—irritatingly so. The coals of your anger still burn bright in your heart, but they flicker for just a moment.

But then he begins to move and coherent thoughts flee your mind entirely.

He feels so good. You’re not sure if it’s the soulbond itself, the dopamine and serotonin, or if he just knows the perfect way to move, but the first thrust has your toes curling and that warm heat stirring in your belly. You’ve already come so many times tonight that it feels impossible that your body should be capable of more, but you know immediately that he’s going to bring you right back over the edge if he keeps moving the way he is.

And he’s showing no signs of stopping, either.

“Norns,” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your neck, “you feel perfect. So warm and tight.”

You shiver, your cunt clenching reflexively around his slowly stroking cock. He grins and presses his lips up against your ear.

“Do you like hearing how your snug little cunt fits me like a glove?”

You would prefer to be able to lie in this particular moment—instead, your body immediately betrays you and your legs tighten around his waist as your cunt shudders around him.

You can practically feel his sharp, hungry smile as he nips at your earlobe. “I can feel how much you do,” he murmurs. A devastating swivel of his hips has you uttering a gasping whine that you are not at all proud of.

“That’s it.” He’s swiveling his hips on every other thrust now and you know the moment he switches to that exclusively, it’s all over. “You’re so close,” he purrs with confidence that annoys you just a little, even in your pre-orgasmic stupor.

But then he swivels his hips again and you shudder before you can hide it and he notices…and does it again.

And again.

Fuck.

Your orgasm starts barreling toward you at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes glitter because he knows.

“You’re going to come for me.” It’s not even a command—it’s just a statement as he rolls his hips in those devastating thrusts.

You whimper, your back arching.

“Give into it. Let me feel you.”

One more push of his cock against that sweet spot inside you and you can’t fight it any more. Your muscles tense one last time and you cry out as you come hard on his cock.

“Oh, beautiful,” he groans, his eyes closing as he fucks you through it.

It seems to last a long time, drawn out every time the head of his cock drags against that sensitive spot that sent you over the edge in the first place. He pauses briefly to bring your legs up over his shoulders, which makes his cock hit a spot even deeper inside you that feels so good it pulls a strangled sob from your throat.

Loki groans, his pace increasing, one hand falling between your legs to rub at your clit. It’s so much, but it feels better than anything. You feel another orgasm rising in your hips and you whimper.

“Good girl, fucking take it,” he slurs. You can tell that he’s getting close from the way his thrusting is becoming more frantic, how he tips his head back and grips your hips even harder.

“Come for me,” he growls. “I’m going to fill your lovely cunt with my seed. Come for me.”

Your vision whites out and your back arches as you come. If you were capable of rational thought, you would be angry that your body simply obeyed this simple directive; as it is, it’s hard for you to process anything other than how good he feels inside of you.

You can tell he’s approaching his end and he’s utterly captivating to watch. His eyes are screwed shut, brow furrowed and lips parted as he lets out a low groan that makes your toes curl.

His eyes open in the final throes and he surges forward to kiss you. He moans softly into your mouth as he comes, his whole body shuddering.

You feel dreamy and sated as he slows to a halt, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. The restless ache inside you is finally quiet—at least for now.

You expect him to roll off you and fall asleep—the portrait of a cliche. Instead, he stays with you, the warm heat of his breath ghosting over your shoulder. You can feel his cock still throbbing inside of you.

You should push him away, reclaim the distance between you. You’re angry at him, after all.

But also…it feels nice.

It’s just the endorphins, you tell yourself. It’s hormones. It doesn’t mean anything.

You can feel the lie prickling at the edges of the thought, sharp and needling, like ground glass pressing against bare skin. It means a lot of things; you just wish it didn’t.

Be angry.

His lips brush against your shoulder. More of your muscles relax. It’s nice.

Be angry.

You’re tired though. It’s been a really long day and the bed is soft and the weight of Loki on top of you is oddly reassuring.

Maybe just for tonight. Maybe just this once you’ll allow yourself to fall asleep in his bed.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say. It feels too sharp, too strident. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He doesn’t know you, though, not really, and so you can only hope that he misses the subtle catch in your voice, that little note of uncertainty.

“I’d expect nothing less.” His voice is slightly muffled against your shoulder.

Goddammit, why does this have to be so comfortable?

He shifts slightly, easing out of you. You feel the resulting mess vanish before it even hits your thigh. At least he’s considerate.

You scowl at the thought.

“Sleep,” he says after a moment. “You’ll need your strength to rage at me in the morning.”

“I can rage at you in my sleep,” you say as your eyes slide shut.

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “Sleep.”

And despite all your complicated feelings—your anger, the inherent feeling of ease you get from his embrace, your unease with your new title, your homesickness—you find that the pull of sleep is too tempting to resist and the world slowly fades away.

Next chapter

[reywritings]

The View from Here

A chance meeting on a balcony might just lead to a new daily routine.

Jason Todd x Reader, No use of Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader

This is my first time posting. So here goes, I guess?

______________________________________________________________

In all honesty, you were pretty sure your neighbor hated you.

Nobody got particularly close with their ‘neighbors’ in this apartment building, but you wouldn’t have exactly minded getting close in this one instance.

Your recently new neighbor was… big. ‘Built like a tank’ big. ‘Built like a brick house’ big. He wore those worn, leather jackets and had a strikingly beautiful face, with soft scars across his cheek bone. And yet... he had this quiet air about him. A mystery, and you did enjoy a good Agatha Christie novel.

You barely interacted other than waves in the hall, but you could swear he picked his pace up when you were in the hall, alone together. He definitely wasn’t afraid of you, not when he could probably throw you at the nearest wall and leave a you-shaped hole like some looney toons bit.

So, the obvious choice was that he simply disliked you. Which wasn’t a big deal at all! You don’t even know him, why would you care?

…you cared SO much.

It was around the fourth month of you being neighbors, when it happened.

Jason had been having a rough night. A rough week—a rough life. He could still feel the bruises on his side from the previous night. He hadn’t seen the tail swinging his way– and when he hit that cement wall, he swore he heard something crack. Next time, Dick can call Tim or Cass to help him reign in Killer Croc.

Ultimately, his typical ruminating, and now sore side, led to lack of sleep—so here he was, the next afternoon, on his balcony for a smoke break. What a view—an overlook of the turnpike, an old Denny’s and NJ Transit tracks. Yeah, definitely worth the balcony prices.

He hears a sliding door open and glances over to see—oh shit. His neighbor. They were standing there holding some books, a mug of either coffee or tea, presumably, and a surprised look on their face.

…he wasn’t sure if this was an upside to his day or not.

Don’t get him wrong, he liked his neighbor. A bit too much.

So, when you gave a small, stilted wave and took a seat on the old, plastic chair that came with the apartment balcony, he nodded back. And that was it.

…Although, he was a bit curious as to what you were reading. Maybe a peek couldn’t hurt. If that peek didn’t turn into him turning his head to try and read the title, which was turned at just an angle that he can’t see it.

He sighs, looking back up to see you already glancing at him. Did you see that?

Okay. Embarrassing, but it’s fine. It’s not like he had outright made a fool of himself in front of you.

“I like books.” Why did he have to say that?! He blinks as you look up from your book, eyes widened at his sudden proclamation. “...I have a big collection…also...”

There’s a singular beat and he ponders if a fall from this height would kill him.

“Really?”

The question isn’t mocking or in disbelief, just… almost an undertone of excitement to it.

You glance around; a bit nervous—but this was your chance.

“...do you have a favorite boo—” You cut yourself off. “Sorry, dumb question. I mean who can pick ONE favorite. Okay, what are some of your favorites?”

And suddenly, it was like Jason’s tension left his body.

“That’s for sure. I appreciate a lot of the classics. The Count of Monte Cristo is a great one, Frankenstein, too.” He was deeply aware of how ironic his choices were, not that you knew.

“I love Mary Shelley.” You blurt out and then realize you might have been a bit TOO excited. “…I appreciate her literature and overall gothic nature…”

Jason laughs at that. Of course you had good taste. This… this wasn’t good. He should pull away again. Put his cigarette out, go back inside and pretend this never happened. Right?

“So what are you reading now?” He hears himself ask.

“Anna Karina. I just started it.” You smile at him, and God, was it devastating.

He feels himself give a soft smile back. “You’re gonna love it.”

“…So.” You decide to take your chance. “Aside from your ‘big book collection’, what else do you enjoy?”

You can’t help but notice how quiet he gets and curse yourself for being so forward.

Please don’t be scared away, please don’t be scared away—

Meanwhile, Jason’s mind blanks as he racks himself for a hobby aside from vigilantism, sparring and training for said vigilantism, cleaning his guns—

“I cook.” He says, albeit a bit stilted.

Oh. Oh. Really? He’s charming, handsome, smart, reads and cooks? You come to terms that you’re already long gone.

“So that’s what smells so good? I think our vents are connected… and I can smell something good cooking from somewhere. Now I know.” You grin. Okay, maybe the words were a bit flirtatious, but hey—seemed like tonight was all about uncharacteristically taking chances.

“…you think so?” A compliment. A genuine one. Jason wasn’t sure how to take that... but if you kept smiling like that when you said them, maybe he could get used to it.

“Is that what you do for work? It sure smells professional.” You say, fully buttering him up at this point—but also not lying. It did smell like a Michelin star restaurant from the vents on your shared wall. You wondered where he learned that.

“Ah, no. I do security work.” Jason lets his usual cover slip out, and kind of wishes he hadn’t. It seemed too suspicious—what if you thought he worked for Penguin or someone? That surely would drive you away… not that what he actually did was any safer.

“...like at bars?” You question.

“Yes. Bars, clubs… the like.” Yes, that sounded better. Jason pats himself on the back, although it was you who proposed it unknowingly.

“Yikes, that would freak me out. I mean—running security in Gotham?” You joke a bit, but there’s a serious hint of concern in your tone. It’s touching. You barely knew him and yet…

Jason smiles, shaking his head as he puts out his now stub of a cigarette.

“Nah, I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me.”

You eye him, and he internally squirms under your gaze. His job had him reading people all the time but… he seemed at a loss when it came to you. You and your deep, understanding gaze.

“…I’m still going to. But thanks for the reassurance.” You say, softly.

Oh. Jason is at a loss again, and he sees you move to stand up, your face only illuminated by the glow from within your apartment, behind those sliding glass doors.

“Oh wow, when did it get so late?”

He hears you ask as he drags his eyes away from you, letting them fall onto the turnpike and train tracks below. Eyes following the ashes of cigarette, chasing the after essence of the burn. The earlier commute traffic dwindled. The dim roads, illuminated by streetlights now.

“Yeah, it is late…” Jason frowns. “I have work soon.”

You look back with an understanding nod. He swears he sees a hint of disappointment in your eyes.

“That makes sense. Night shift and all…” You trail off a bit. “…I oughta get inside anyways. Can’t read in the dark, anyways.” He watches you open the sliding door again, pausing to glance back at him. Jason can study the way the light falls in soft streams from behind you. He finds himself wishing he had a photographic memory in that exact moment.

“…stay safe for me?”

He blinks and then feels himself nod. “Yeah. Will do.”

The guilt of the empty promise is soon replaced when those words earn him that saccharine smile.

“See you tomorrow…?” You ask, rather hopeful. A wishing of ‘let this be the first of many’ hidden under your plain question.

In that moment, Jason decides maybe his promise wasn’t so empty after all. He’d make sure to be extra careful tonight.

“See you then.”

After all, he had something important tomorrow. 

[maidragoste]

deserves better

Jacaerys Velaryon x Aegon’s Widow!Reader

continuation of i am making you feel sick?

I'm happy to share more about Jacaerys and this reader. I hope you all enjoy it. If you like it, please don't hesitate to leave a like, comment, and reblog. The comments and interactions always motivate me to continue writing 🥰🥰💖💖

If you have any ideas, questions or headcanons you want to share, my inbox is always open 🤗💖

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

I hope you have a good reading!

Jacaerys was surprised at the entrance to the chamber to see you sitting vigil over the child. He expected to find the handmaidens or the maester watching over him, not you. He felt guilty for thinking so little of you; of course, you would worry about the child once you found out he was sick. However, you wouldn't be spending much time with him. Jacaerys didn't blame you for not wanting to see the child that much; after all, he also avoided his own son because he couldn't help but see your Jaehaerys in his face. It's not as if it were a secret: the future heir to the throne seemed to be being raised by the handmaidens instead of his parents. Even Jaehaera and Egg seemed to be spending more time with the child than you two did. Except now because neither you nor Jacaerys wanted them to catch winter fever.

“I was praying,” you said, looking at him with tired eyes, but that was nothing new. Since your last pregnancy, you almost always looked tired. “You can join me if you want,” you decided to extend an olive branch. This wasn’t a time to argue. If this was his son’s last night alive, then you wouldn’t deprive Jacaerys of being with him in his final moments. You weren’t that cruel.

Jacaerys swallowed, feeling a little nervous. He was used to you avoiding him, to you rejecting him. “I would like that,” he said before sitting down in the chair next to you. Had you been waiting for him?

He watched as you clasped your hands and closed your eyes. He knew he had to join in your prayer, but he couldn't help but stare at your hands. There was dried blood on your cuticles. You may seem serene now, but that detail told him the situation was weighing on you. He couldn't imagine what was going through your head. It must have been traumatic for you. You'd already lost two sons; the gods couldn't be so cruel. Jacaerys felt a lump begin to form in his throat. You didn't deserve this.

Jacaerys closed his eyes and asked the gods to have mercy on you and to let their son live.

You both fell silent as the two of you continued your prayers. It wasn't a tense silence, but it wasn't harmonious either.

“If he lives, we have to be better,” you declared, breaking the silence, your eyes meeting Jacaerys’s. “I will be a better mother to him,” you promised.

“You are a good mother,” he said, because he couldn’t bear to hear you speak ill of yourself. You had done the best you could. He couldn’t hold you responsible when he and the kingdom forced you to bear a child you didn’t want in the first place.

“Don't lie,” you cut him off instantly. “I was terrible to him, to Jaehaera.” The tremor in your voice was like a blow to Jacaerys. “But I will get better and you should too. Our son deserves better.”

Your words hurt Jacaerys because he knew you were right. His son deserved a better father. Someone present, caring, and someone he could trust. It was ironic how before the war, Jacaerys imagined himself a loving father and ended up being an emotionally neglectful one. His mother would be disappointed. He, himself, was disappointed by his actions, by putting you and innocent children in this situation.

For the first time in years, you felt sorry for Jacaerys, seeing the tears and pain in his eyes. You still disliked being married to him, but the child you share is more important than any bad blood. Perhaps there could be a new beginning between you two, for their family.

Taglist for all my House of the Dragon works

@chaotic-fangirl-blog @venus-flytrap3 @ajordan2020 @iloveallmyboys @sweethoneyblossom1 @fudge13 @crystal-faith @tita004 @ichanelvxgue @snowprincesa1 @joyouart @rosey1981 @alastorhazbin @papichulo120627 @apollonshootafar @jasminecosmic99 @partypoison00 @labellapeaky @rebelliuna @bxdbxtxh15 @impartinghades @thegirlnextdoorssister @angeliod @snh96 @aleemendoza2425-blog @natashaobo @watercolorskyy @nyenye @savagemickey03 @kishie8 @ewwwitsel @arabis-world @missusnora @nzygftoji @alisoncdariel @cookielovesbook-akie @partnerincrime0 @klara-lily @427120lxld @justhereiguess2 @buckylahey @wa801 @artistadistrada2002 @thelastemzy @justanotherkpopstanlol @jacesvelaryons @aemondwhoresworld @cassiopeiablog @multiversemayhemme @dixie_elocin

hotd masterlist

[kaeyeahsworld]

The Right Choice

content warning: mild abusive relationship, thoughts of cheating (but none actually) scumbag ex, mild violence, regret, big dick toji, eating out, female reader, fingering, orgasm, 18+, angst bcs I love writing it.

A/N: another tattoo artist Toji brain rot. Not proof read or edited pls don’t come after me, come after or for toji which ever works for u :D

It had been an entire year of your scumbag boyfriend setting up his own tattoo parlour right along side Toji’s.

Although in the initial days, your boyfriend’s place had done better compared to Toji’s simply because he was loud and obnoxious enough about his work, but when ultimately it came to finesse in the art Toji remained undefeated.

Toji’s calm but awkward manner with the clients made him an instant favourite in stark contrast to your boyfriend who only cared about the bucks.

With the tattoo parlours being almost beside each other, you often bumped into him. The first few times were just awkward but prolonged eye contacts, that went ahead to subtle smiles and Toji’s crinkling eyes, which at last proceeded to an awkward conversation.

“I see you around a lot. You work here?” He somehow mustered up the courage to ask you that, praying to the saints he hadn’t come off as creepy or overbearing.

Toji could never forget the first time he had laid his eyes upon you. It was late in the night while he was closing down, when he heard some voracious laughter coming off from Zack’s parlour. On the usual, he wouldn’t give two fucks if someone was even dying on Zack’s side but when curiosity got the best of him, he turned around and glimpsed at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

Only for the rose coloured glass to be broken when he got to know that you were dating Zack. The most narcissistic piece of douche Toji had ever come across.

He initially thought you might have been the same and somehow kept convincing himself to keep away, but none of that worked when you guys had started conversing.

You had met Zack at a concert and not knowing better started dating him and the year since then had been..well, bleak to say the least.

Zack was beyond your comprehension. He was everything you wished you were- loud, confident but the more you came closer to his world, the more distant you felt from him. The Zack that doted on you in the beginning and made out sloppily with this stinky breath was nowhere to be found these days. The Zack that was all up for late night video calls was now the same one who would leave you on delivered for 24 hours straight. Or should you say a different one. Still, you were a stubborn little one. Refusing to accept the reality of the situation.

To the add to the whole thing, was the guilt that was brought upon by your little crush on Toji. You would never cheat on your guy, but god Toji felt like he was everything you deserved and more.

His intense lingering gazes, his soft smiles, his gentle demeanour but the strength that had come with it. It gave you all the right shivers.

Ironically, the first time you guys spoke to each other was when you were trying to escape your boyfriend who was fighting with a customer about the design, when you had accidentally bumped into Toji.

Noticing the inked beauty peaking out on his forearm, you immediately realised that this was your favourite artists design.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah” Toji looked at you, trying to not let his heart eyes show,

“Is your tattoo Miyazaki’s work?” This question genuinely surprised Toji and gosh he prayed to the heavens to warn him if this is the part where he falls head over heels for you.

“Ya know him?”

“OF COURSE I DO??” You had screamed and almost pounced on his arm to admire the man’s work.

Toji had wondered then how your eyes would light up if you got to know he had trained under the said artist.

Fast forward past a few more of “accidental” bumps into each other, and some lighthearted conversations about everything and nothing under the sun, in a few moments and both of you could sense the undeniable attraction you had felt towards each other.

But neither of you ever crossed the line. You were a woman, taken, and he was a man who respected your choices no matter how strange or..shitty.

You couldn’t help but notice how different Toji was around you and when you were together with Zack.

The kind demeanour he held was immediately replaced by indifference whenever he would see you with your boyfriend who would pass on a snarky reply just to irk the said man.

Toji could easily give Zack 2 broken legs with how big he was, but one look into your doe eyes and he couldn’t even bring himself to look in your direction except throwing a finger off to the other guy.

But nothing could keep you away from each other especially during those lonely wistful nights.

You lying in your bed with your fuck ass boyfriend wasted somewhere, fingers plunging deep into your warm cunt and a heart full of regret, guilt and most of it all, lust for Toji. Nights that went away calling out his name in small whispers imagining his large hands that would envelope you and touch in all the right ways nobody ever could. Making you see stars and kissing you through the bliss.

Toji was no better. Stroking his cock in anguish, lusting after you like a beast in heat. Your plump lips, your sexy fucking hips that he would dip kisses all over, if you were his, your luscious skin that he would worship and mark, you were going to be the death of him.

But when the nights slipped away and dawn broke and as in when in you guys bumped into each other, it was the same all over. Hidden glances and lazy longing that would never translate into something more.

Until it had.

You shouldn’t have come to the parlour today. Things had been rocky between you and Zack for a few weeks now.

He had been smoking up all the money and refusing to take even the simplest of clients just out of sheer audacity and worst of all, paid no heed to your words more than ever.

Going to the parlour, at 2 am in the night after getting a call about the ruckus your boyfriend had caused and setting the damn curtains on fire, you immediately ran over only to come across the most drunk and high Zack had ever been, amidst scattered flames.

You knew from your experience to be better than to be around him when he intoxicated but the situation at hand was not helping. If only you hadn’t invested money out of blind stupidity into his tattoo parlour, maybe you would have been spared this ordeal today.

“Drag this bastard away miss OR we are gonna call the cops on y’all” said a stranger trying to control him.

“I’m so sorry about this”

“WHO…THE FUCK..lem..me gooo you little..bitch..”

“Baby listen to me, you aren’t in the right mind let’s get out of here..”

Zack had always been rough with you but never violent but it seemed like that was about to change tonight, when he grabbed you by your shirt collar and harshly dragged you towards him.

”ZACK! LET..ME GO!”

“Fuck youu..you” but before he could bring his face towards you, came a dangerous hit that probably bore into the drunkard’s skull.

“Hands away you sick fuck.” said the seething voice.

It was Toji. More than the pain, all you could think about was the relief that had washed over you on seeing Toji’ eyes that were ablaze with fury.

Before you could even say anything, he grabbed your wrist towards his motorbike and plopping helmets on both of you, drove away to your address.

He drove like the man he was at the moment- fast, angry and menacing. You clutched onto his waist for you dear life and that was the only thing, that calmed Toji a little bit.

You were here, he was here with you and you were safe and that was all he needed.

But in the half an hour that he drove both of you in utter silence, the events of the night slowly came crashing back to you.

Longing that turned into regret and that had now taken its ugly form of shame. Shame for who you were and who you had chosen to be with.

Sensing your hasty breaths on his back, Toji slowly parked his bike near the sea shore.

Even with unbearable longing like his, Toji had made it a point to never touch you. He would only do that when you were his completely mind, body and soul.

Tonight was the first time and he didn’t like it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to face Toji and when he slowly grabbed your chin to look at him, the sight before him tore his heart apart.

Tears welled up in your eyes and dripped down your soft cheeks like pearls, if Toji was a god he would be raging a war by now. But he was a mere mortal and all he could do was engulf you into him. Arms all around, caging you and protecting you, while you stained his jacket with your sobbing.

After the night had passed and somehow returning to your apartment with his help, you didn’t leave the confines of it for almost 2 weeks. Except for the occasional knocks from the said man or a get well soon bouquet, he had not spoken a word more to you, just as you hadn’t.

Both of you knew it was your decision in the end.

Almost as a sign, you got the news from your friends that Zack had ran away the same night as the police tried to catch a hold of him. Nobody knew where to and neither of them cared enough to find out.

The last checkpoint was having a conversation with Toji.

As you slowly approached his parlour, the ever so familiar but distant end of the tattoo street, one end of which was burnt ashes and the other end bustling with less customers compared to the usual, you awkwardly knocked on the clean glass door.

“Here inside” said Toji’s low baritone from the room within, as you noticed him deeply zoned in into his work on an old man and mistaking you for a customer.

You decided to wait outside in the waiting hall. It felt only right. It was only right to apologise for whatever had happened.

He had waited for you so patiently always, a steady wall that you had come to lean on unknowingly through the past few months and he never once asked anything in return. You loved him and you would wait for him just as long.

After being done and billing up the customer half an hour later, Toji peeked into the waiting hall to see who had checked in while he was working when his heart raced at the sight.

Here you were, in a soft white dress that had flown gently till your knees and straps falling agonisingly over your shoulder, looking like the sweetest angel and not to forget, with a small flower in hand. A delicate little rose and upon seeing Toji in all his black top and pants glory your heart welled up just as much as.

“Toji…I didn’t want to disturb you..so”

“You should have. You can always disturb me you know that right?”

He wanted to hug her. Touch her face, kiss her locks and smooch her lips. His restraint was a tight string waiting to break.

“Why are you here, Y/N?” His voice came off tighter than usual. With tears in your eyes and slowly offering him the small flower you found on your way here, you asked him

“Toji, can I get a tattoo?”

This took him by surprise. He didn’t know what he was expecting but tattooing you was definitely last on his list. Heaving a sigh, he gently took your fingers and the flower and moved you into the room with all his equipment.

Nobody had given him flowers before. The simple gesture had set in an ache for your being that he couldn’t ever define even if he wanted to.

If you wanted to do it his way, so be it.

“Where do you want your tattoo miss? Based on that I can tell you how painful—“

“My lower back”

“What—“ before he could even say anything, you were stripping down from your dress, locking the door while Toji’s mind was reeling.

2 weeks you had disappeared and now you were here in front of him , half naked.

“You favourite work of Miyazaki. Can you ink it on me Toji?” Of course he would. He could never say no to you. Not when you looked so sweet, sitting right in his chair looking up at him with heart eyes. Legs on display all for him. In nothing but soft lace panties.

“Fuck…darling, what are you doing to me..” he said as he slowly grabbed a delicate stencil of one of his favourite art, a pattern of the moon, the cherry blossoms and a ripple through it all.

Toji was an excellent artist but he never had to work with a raging boner before. His pants were bursting to the sight in front of him, you in a relaxed state ready to be marked. Almost a dream.

“Are you sure baby?”

“Yes. But one thing before that.”

“Hm?”

“Can you kiss me Toji?”

That was the last straw and before you could even say anything, Toji was at your lips, grabbing you by the back of your head and devouring you. You deserved slow and gentle and Toji swore to himself he would take all his time with you, but not at this moment.

Months worth of pent up lust and more so, love and the result of it, was kisses that took your breath away. Nipping away at your lower lip gently, as you opened your mouth he plunged his warm tongue into you, making you moan in ecstacy.

“Hmpph— To..jii..hm!” “Gosh baby do you know how many times I have dreamt of doing this to you huh? Your luscious fucking lips that you keep tinting up with that gloss..fuck..”

Littering kisses all around your neck, under your ears, licking across your collar bones, your whimpers were honey to his ears. Slowly wrapping your hands around his nape, you whispered to his lips

“Take me Toji. Make me yours, please.”

That was all you had to say.

Kissing you harder than ever, Toji grabbed your waist. “Turned around for me baby. Let me take care of you” with your back arching and on all fours on his chair, he ripped at your panties. You were a dripping mess and Toji was so close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager.

“Toji..wait…it’s messy down there..stop—“

“Tell me girl. Did that fucker ever eat you out?” He asked venomously, slowly slipping in a finger into your sopping hole

“No-ughmm!!- he said it was too dir..ty..” his finger was so different from yours. Long and thick. If a finger alone was so delicious, you were sure you woud go crazy once his cock was in you.

“Proved himself to be a fucking moron once again. Well, you are all mine now. So let me treat your delicious cunt the right way baby yea?”

“Hmm—ahh!!” Dipping his face into your wet folds and antogonizingly licking up along them, eating you out from the back was Toji’s personal heaven. His nose bumping right into your sensitive clit and making you wetter by the second and now 2 of his fingers in your cunt, prodding you in all the right places sending shudders down your spine.

“Ride my face baby. Find your rhythm and make yourself feel good” Toji said and as he literally sucked and slurped at your folds and clit like a man starved. Spitting and licking and slightly pinching on your clit, in a few minutes, you were seeing stars that would normally take you so long.

“I’m cominggg Toji—!!!” Crying out and slumping over the chair.

Toji couldn’t get enough of you though. Marking you all over your back, letting red bruises blossom like petals, leaving you a sputtering mess.

He needed more. He needed you to cry his name out. Turning you around, he latched his lips onto your breast this time with a finger brushing on your clit lightly.

The wet muscle languidly brushing over your sensitive buds, teasing and biting and soothing it up again, you were so lost in pleasure, sure you would come from his attention to your breast alone.

“Faster toji..please..” “On your clit baby? Like this?” His gentle brushes had now turned into precise strokes and never in recent times had your dreamt of coming twice so quickly.

“Ahh!! Fuck!! Just like….that..I can’t! M gonna——cum..”

“Come for me good girl, let it all out… there ya go” and with the knot uncoiling, you came harder than ever.

“Such a good fucking girl for me” he whispered sinfully as he locked your lips in a gentle peck, making you ride out your high.

Little did Toji know that his sweet girl was minx in bed, all ready with her cunt clenching around for his cock. And he was all ready to give her the entire world, and of course his cock too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~••••~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: everytime I wrote Zack my brain kept going ‘gongaga’ send help.

A/N: just edited it a lil bit I’m so sorry for the all the typos 😭

[ariahmichelle]

Secrets Out- Drew Starkey x Actress!reader

Can be read as a stand alone but it is Part 3 of ‘phoning it in’ Part 1 here Part 2 here

Also my requests are open!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It had been almost 3 months since you and Drew confessed your feelings for one another. The transition from friends to… something more was surprisingly natural. You’d agreed to keep things under wraps for now, wanting to enjoy this budding relationship without the pressure of others watching.

You and Drew became official two weeks ago and of course, have yet to tell your mutual friends, both of you amused by watching them slowly catch on.

Tonight, though, the entire Outer Banks cast was gathering for a night out to celebrate before filming for Season 4 began, you knew some of them had been sensing a shift between you and Drew but none of them have questioned either of you yet.

However you knew it wouldn’t be much longer before the secret is out.

The girls—Madelyn, Madison, and Carlacia—were already at your apartment, getting ready. Your place had turned into a full-on glam zone, with curling irons, makeup bags, and laughter filling the space. Madison was expertly applying eyeliner while Carlacia debated between outfits, and Madelyn scrolled through her playlist to set the mood.

You were perched on the edge of your bed, fixing your hair in a handheld mirror. It was a classic girls’ night, full of chatter and teasing.

“You look cute,” Madelyn said, glancing over at you with a grin. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“No one,” you said quickly, but the way your cheeks heated gave you away.

Madison wasn’t buying it. “Come on, you’re glowing. Who is it?”

“Yeah,” Carlacia chimed in, looking up from her outfit choices. “There’s definitely someone. Spill.”

You laughed nervously, brushing them off. “I’m just excited to go out. That’s all.”

But as the conversation shifted back to which heels would be most comfortable, your phone buzzed beside you. You glanced down to see a text from Drew.

Me and the boys are otw. Can’t wait to see you sweetheart xx

You bit your lip to suppress the smile that immediately followed and typed back a quick reply.

You thought you’d played it cool, but Madison caught the way you tried to hide your grin. “Okay, who are you texting?”

“No one important,” you said, tossing your phone onto the bed.

“Uh-huh,” Madelyn said, smirking. “Sure, we believe you.”

Luckily, the doorbell rang, saving you from further interrogation. You stood up quickly, smoothing down your outfit. “That’s the boys.”

As you opened the door, the guys poured in, bringing their usual loud energy. Chase, Rudy, JD, Austin, and finally Drew stepped through the threshold. Drew’s eyes immediately found yours, and his face softened with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low.

“Hey,” you replied, your chest fluttering as he stepped inside.

“Alright, let’s get this party started!” Rudy announced, holding up a bottle of tequila.

Drinks were poured, laughter echoed through your apartment, and the group settled into their usual rhythm. As the night unfolded, you found yourself hyperaware of Drew. He was his usual charming self, joking with JD and Austin, but every so often, you’d catch him glancing at you. When your eyes met, he’d give you a subtle smile that sent your heart racing.

Meanwhile, you noticed Chase leaning toward Rudy, whispering something and glancing in your direction. You pretended not to notice, but you had a feeling they were starting to pick up on the little moments between you and Drew.

Eventually, the group decided it was time to hit the bar. It was one of your favorite spots downtown, with good music, strong drinks, and plenty of room to dance.

As you weaved through the crowd at the bar’s entrance, Drew’s hand found the small of your back. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine, but it also felt protective, grounding. He guided you through the throng of people, staying close behind you until you reached the table the group had claimed.

“Everyone good?” Drew asked, his hand lingering on your back for a moment longer before he pulled away.

“Great,” you said, glancing up at him.

He smiled down at you, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you, despite the chaos of the bar around you.

The night picked up quickly. Drinks flowed, the girls dragged you onto the dance floor, and the guys took turns buying rounds at the bar. You found yourself caught up in the energy, but your eyes kept drifting to Drew. He was at a table with the guys, laughing at something Rudy said, but every so often, you’d catch him looking at you.

Finally, after watching him from across the room for too long, you decided to do something about it. Dancing your way back to the table, you stopped in front of the boys, hands on your hips.

“Alright, enough sitting around,” you said with a teasing grin. “All of you, up. Dance time.”

The guys groaned in unison, but you weren’t taking no for an answer. Grabbing Drew’s hand specifically, you pulled him up. “Especially you.”

He laughed, letting you drag him onto the dance floor. “You’re relentless.”

“You love it,” you shot back, spinning around to face him.

As the two of you danced, the rest of the cast slowly joined in. But you and Drew stayed close, moving in sync with the music. You could feel the weight of your friends’ gazes, especially when Drew placed his hands on your hips.

Leaning into his ear, you said, “I think they’re catching on.”

Drew tilted his head down to yours, his breath warm against your ear. “Maybe we should give them another hint.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a tentative kiss; it was confident, sure, and full of feeling. The world around you seemed to blur, and for a moment, it was just the two of you.

When you pulled back, cheers erupted around you. “Finally!” Madison shouted, clapping her hands.

“Took you two long enough,” Chase added, grinning.

You buried your face in Drew’s chest, laughing at their reactions.

Drew wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. “Guess the secret’s out,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, smiling. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The rest of the night was a blur of dancing, laughter, and teasing from your friends. While the secret was out, you couldn’t have been happier that you and Drew no longer had to hide. As far as you were concerned, the night couldn’t have been more perfect.

[theonottsbxtch]

ANXIETY PT 2 | CL16

an: and here she is! i hope you guys enjoy her, please come and talk to me about it in!!

wc: 4.4k

part one

AT FIRST, SHE DIDN’T SLEEP.

Not really. The chair was uncomfortable, the ropes cut into her wrists, and every time she let her eyes close, her mind jolted awake with the same question hammering over and over: Where am I?

At some point, exhaustion won. When she woke, her neck ached from slumping forward. The room was dim, only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Her stomach was empty now, hunger gnawing at her ribs.

And Charles was there.

Sitting calmly on a chair opposite her, reading a book like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

She stiffened, heart thudding against her ribs. “How long was I out?”

He glanced up, gaze unreadable. “A few hours.”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “You can’t keep me here.”

He sighed, setting the book down on the table beside him. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” She yanked at the ropes again, ignoring the sting. “You can’t just—just take someone and expect them to—”

“To what?” His voice was calm. “To accept it?”

She glared at him, breathing hard. “I will never accept this.”

Something flickered in his expression, but he only nodded. “You’re hungry.”

She clamped her jaw shut.

Charles stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll bring you something.”

“I’m not eating anything you give me.”

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “You said that last time, too.”

And then he left.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

He’s lying. He has to be lying.

Doesn’t he?

On day three, the ropes were gone.

She woke in a different room—a bedroom this time, the bed soft, the room too grand to feel real. Dark wood, deep emerald curtains, a chandelier above her that glowed with warm golden light.

She sat up so fast the world spun.

The door was closed. Not locked. She knew that because when she stood, moving hesitantly toward it, she tried the handle.

It turned easily.

Her stomach clenched.

A trick. A mind game. He wanted her to think she was free.

Carefully, she edged the door open, stepping into a long corridor lined with paintings. The air smelled like old books and polished wood. No signs of anyone else.

Her breath quickened. If she was somewhere new, if she wasn’t tied down—maybe she had a chance. Maybe—

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She spun, heart slamming into her ribs.

Charles stood a few steps away, arms folded, watching her with that infuriating calm.

“Do what?” she forced out.

He nodded toward the far end of the corridor. “Try to leave.”

She clenched her fists. “Or what? You’ll drag me back?”

His lips quirked slightly. “You’d only get lost.”

She hated how certain he sounded.

“I want to go home,” she said, voice shaking.

Charles tilted his head slightly. “You are home.”

A chill ran down her spine.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”

Charles said nothing. He only turned, walking away.

And the worst part?

Somehow, she knew he was right.

She would get lost.

Because she had no idea where she was.

On day five, she ate.

Not because she trusted him, but because hunger gnawed at her so fiercely she could barely think.

Charles didn’t comment when she finally picked up the fork. He simply sat across from her at the long dining table, reading another book, drinking from a glass of wine.

Like this was normal.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

He turned a page. “Doing what?”

She gestured around. “This. The house. The food. The—freedom.”

At that, he glanced up. “You call this freedom?”

She swallowed, setting the fork down. “It’s more than the chair.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just studied her, his gaze sharp, like he was assessing something.

Then, finally: “Would you like more?”

More.

The word sent a shiver through her.

She should have said no.

Instead, she whispered, “Yes.”

The garden stretched endlessly, walled in by high iron gates. Roses bloomed in neat rows, and somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly.

She stood on the stone path, arms wrapped around herself, the warm breeze brushing against her skin.

Charles had let her outside.

That morning, he’d simply left the door open, said nothing.

And so she’d walked.

Not away—because where would she go? There was no way out. Not yet.

But here, in the open air, something inside her loosened.

She turned, slowly, finding him watching her from the terrace.

She should have hated the way he looked at her.

Should have feared the way he watched.

But she didn’t.

Not as much as before.

And that was the part that scared her most of all.

In the three weeks she was here she still flinched when the doors closed behind her.

She still watched the windows, traced the lines of the gates with her eyes, searching for weak spots, exits, anything.

But she walked freely now.

She could move through the house, through the halls lined with dark wood and grand chandeliers, past the velvet curtains that swallowed all the light when drawn.

She ate when she wanted.

Read when she wanted.

Walked outside in the gardens without him hovering over her shoulder.

It was a trick, of course. A slow, careful noose around her neck that Charles kept loosening, letting her believe she wasn’t trapped—until one day, she’d forget she ever wanted to leave.

But she wouldn’t forget.

She wouldn’t let herself.

Would she?

That night she found the man by the main door.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit.

His back was to her, but something in the way he stood sent a jolt through her, something familiar.

Her stomach turned as she took a step closer, her voice hesitant.

“…Carlos?”

He turned, and there it was.

The same sharp cheekbones, the same neatly-trimmed beard, the same deep brown eyes she had passed a hundred times in the lobby of her old building.

Carlos.

Her doorman.

The man who had held the door open for her every morning. The man who had nodded politely whenever she returned home late.

The man who—

Her breath hitched.

He let Charles in.

A chill ran down her spine.

Carlos studied her with a neutral expression, his hands folded in front of him. Not nervous. Not guilty.

Like this was normal.

Like he belonged here.

“I—” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t understand.”

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

Then, a voice from behind her.

“I see you’ve met Carlos.”

She froze.

Charles.

His presence was immediate, filling the space even before she turned to see him standing there, watching, a small smile playing at his lips.

“You know him, don’t you?”

A shudder rippled through her.

She looked back at Carlos, at his blank, unreadable face, at the way he didn’t deny it, didn’t react.

Her mind reeled.

How long?

How long had Carlos been watching her? How long had he been letting Charles in and out of her apartment, standing there while she went about her life, oblivious?

Her stomach twisted.

“Why?” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t answer.

Charles only smiled.

A slow, knowing smile.

And in that moment, something inside her cracked.

The days blurred together.

She told herself she was still angry.

Still fighting.

But anger was exhausting.

And fear—fear ate away at her like a slow poison, seeping into her bones, making her limbs heavy, making her thoughts sluggish.

She couldn’t live in a state of panic forever.

Could she?

Charles never raised his voice.

Never locked her in a room.

Never forced her to do anything.

He gave her space.

Gave her freedom.

She wandered the mansion now. Sat by the grand windows that overlooked the gardens, let the golden light of the afternoon spill over her skin.

She could walk outside.

Could touch the flowers.

Could breathe in the crisp, fresh air.

But not once—not once—did she ever make it past the gates.

She thought about running. She did.

But there were cameras.

Carlos was always nearby.

And Charles…

Charles would know.

He always knew.

He was in her head.

It was in the little things.

The way she’d hesitate before touching something, as if waiting for his approval—even though he wasn’t there.

The way she found herself choosing clothes she knew he liked, soft fabrics, delicate things, things that felt beautiful.

The way she caught herself listening for his voice, the sound of his footsteps, the subtle shift in the air that meant he was near.

She hated it.

Hated how much space he took up in her mind.

Hated how her body had begun to relax around him.

One evening, she sat by the fire, staring into the flames, the heat licking at her skin.

Charles sat across from her, reading.

Just reading.

Not speaking. Not looking at her.

But his presence—his quiet, calm presence—wrapped around her like a thick, suffocating blanket.

She should leave.

She should go to her room.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

And when the fire crackled, and she flinched, he finally looked at her.

“You’re safe,” he said.

Simple. Soft.

Something in her chest ached.

She turned away, her jaw tight.

Because she knew—she knew—what he was doing.

But her body didn’t.

Her body had already started to believe him.

Sometimes at night she would have nightmares, she dreamt of her old apartment.

Dreamt of the cold metal handle of her front door.

Dreamt of reaching for it—

And finding it locked.

No matter how hard she twisted, how much she pulled, it wouldn’t open.

She turned, frantic, searching for help.

And there, standing in the hallway—

Carlos.

His face calm. His hands folded in front of him.

Behind him, Charles.

Watching.

Smiling.

She jolted awake.

Heart pounding. Breath shaking.

She wasn’t in her apartment.

She was here.

In the mansion.

And when she turned her head—

Charles was there.

Sitting in the chair beside her bed.

Not touching her. Not speaking.

Just watching.

Her breath caught.

“Bad dream?” he asked, voice low, smooth.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying her with that unreadable expression.

And then—

“You called for me.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No, I—”

“You did.” His voice was steady. Certain. “You said my name.”

A lie.

Had to be.

She wouldn’t have.

Would she?

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

His eyes flickered to her hands, then back to her face.

“You don’t have to fight me,” he murmured.

The worst part?

It sounded kind.

It sounded gentle.

She turned away, pressing her forehead into the pillow.

She didn’t want to know if he was lying.

Because if he wasn’t—

If she really had called for him—

Then she was already losing.

She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but she awoke a second time to a knock at the door.

She had learned to read the silence in this house.

Knew when Charles was near, knew the way the air shifted when he entered a room, how his presence curled around her like an unseen force.

But this—this was different.

The knock echoed through the grand halls. Sharp. Unexpected.

A voice—low, irritated—followed.

Charles.

She couldn't hear the words, only the tone.

Something wasn't right.

She barely had time to sit up before her bedroom door burst open.

Charles stepped inside, closing it swiftly behind him.

And in his hand—

A knife.

Her breath caught.

Not because she thought he would kill her.

If he wanted her dead, she wouldn’t be here.

But because there was something in his eyes she had never seen before.

Fear.

True, genuine fear.

She pressed herself against the headboard as he approached, his steps controlled but urgent.

"You're going to listen to me," he said, voice low and edged with steel.

She forced herself to breathe. "Charles—"

He climbed onto the bed, hand pressing the cold blade to her throat.

Not enough to cut.

Just enough to remind her that it could.

Her body went rigid.

"You’re going to go downstairs," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "You’re going to smile. You’re going to hold my hand. And when they ask, you're going to say you're my fiancée."

The word made her stomach churn.

Her fiancée.

Not his prisoner.

Not his victim.

His fiancée.

Her pulse pounded against the knife. "Who—"

"My parents."

It was barely a whisper.

And suddenly, she understood.

The fear in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.

This wasn’t just about keeping her in line.

This was about him.

She watched his expression shift—controlled, but cracking at the edges.

She had never seen him like this.

So close to unraveling.

So vulnerable.

The realisation came slow.

Charles wasn’t untouchable.

He wasn’t some godlike captor, holding all the power.

He needed something from her.

And that meant—for the first time—she had something to use against him.

She swallowed, carefully. "And if I say no?"

The knife pressed harder.

His jaw clenched.

"You won’t."

Silence stretched between them.

And then—

He begged her without words.

Not with his mouth, but with his eyes.

She should have relished it.

Should have felt some twisted sense of victory.

But all she felt was cold.

Because beneath all the threats, beneath the blade at her throat—

She realised something else.

Something worse.

He was just as trapped as she was.

And against her own will, against all logic—

A part of her wanted to know why.

She walked down the grand staircase, her heart a chaotic drum in her chest. The house felt suffocating, every shadow looming over her like a heavy cloak, pressing down on her. Charles followed closely behind, silent, his presence more oppressive now than ever before.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, the tension in his hands as they gripped the knife, still not far from her body. She tried not to think about the cold metal, the threat of it against her skin.

At the bottom of the staircase, in the vast, immaculately decorated living room, an older couple stood near a fireplace. They were every bit the aristocratic picture Charles had painted of them. His mother, a stately woman with silver hair and a soft smile that somehow didn’t reach her eyes, wore an air of command. His father, frail and stooped, leaned on a cane, his expression hardened and distant, eyes too tired to care about anything beyond his own world.

His mother, however, noticed her immediately.

"Ah, Charles!" She said, her voice surprisingly warm, eyes lighting up with something that bordered on excitement. "And you’ve brought her."

Her eyes roamed over the woman who had entered their world, as if appraising her like some prized possession, before settling with a satisfied smile.

"Isn't she simply delightful?" The woman’s gaze swept over her, a smile as sharp as glass on the edge of her lips. "She’s even lovelier in person, Charles."

Charles stiffened behind her, and she could feel the way his breath quickened slightly. His mother didn’t seem to notice or care. She had already turned her attention back to her son, a pleased hum in her throat.

The woman approached her slowly, as if she were a rare animal, circling her with the precision of a predator. “Tell me, darling, when are we expecting the wedding?”

The question landed like a blow, and the world seemed to stretch in that moment, spinning around her. She blinked, unsure of what was happening - her mind whirling. The wedding?

Before she could gather her thoughts, his mother was speaking again.

“Charles, you’ve been keeping her all to yourself, I see. We can’t have that, can we? Our family is far too old, too proud, to let such a treasure go unnoticed - she’s gorgeous.”

Her voice was syrupy sweet, but there was something cold in her gaze, something unnerving in the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It felt like the woman was sizing her up, mentally cataloging every detail of her appearance - her clothing, her posture, the subtle trembling of her hands.

“Charles, I’m so glad you finally found someone who matches our family’s standards.”

The words didn’t sit right. The way his mother spoke - like it was all an agreement, a deal in place. She wasn’t just meeting a future daughter-in-law. She was assessing an asset.

“Isn’t she beautiful, darling?” His mother asked, turning back to him with a satisfied grin. “Just like your father wanted.”

The mention of his father caught her attention. Wanted.

A shiver ran through her, the weight of it suddenly hitting her all at once. It wasn't just about love for him.

It was about inheritance.

And Charles.

Charles wasn’t in control of this.

She met Charles’ eyes across the room. His face was stiff, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t smiling. There was something behind his gaze, something darker than she had ever seen before.

Her stomach twisted.

She was trapped in his world now, his carefully constructed reality that he was trying to force her into.

And still, she played her part.

“Thank you” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.

His mother’s smile widened. “You’re a smart girl. I can see why Charles chose you. You’ll fit in here nicely.” She stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder in a way that felt oddly possessive. “Now, let’s talk about the wedding details, shall we? I’m sure you’ll want the very best of everything.”

“Of course,” she managed, her voice quiet.

But in the back of her mind, questions bloomed like thorns. Why had Charles done this? What was his real game?

She could feel it now, the slow creeping of understanding. He wasn’t just trying to trap her.

He needed her.

More than she could have ever known.

And with each passing moment, her sense of self-control slipped further away, replaced with something far more dangerous. 

Before she knew, before she could take one more final look at Charles, she was being ushered into a room with a tea set already waiting for them. She sat opposite his mother, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her lap - the way she thought his mother would like to see.

The tea was delicate, floral, and far too refined for a situation like this. It sat untouched in the dainty china cup the maid set before her, the scent of lavender and something citrusy curling around her like an unwanted embrace.

Charles’ mother sat opposite her in the vast room. Light spilling through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Everything about the scene should have felt elegant, serene even - but it didn’t.

It felt staged. 

It was too perfect, too rehearsed. Like a moment out of someone else’s life that she’d been forced to step into.

His mother was watching her, a satisfied smile playing at her lips as she stirred her tea with an air of contentment.

“I must say, I’m relieved,” she said suddenly, her voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. “I was beginning to wonder if Charles would ever find someone.”

She tensed slightly.

His mother sighed, a hand resting delicately on the table as she glanced out towards the sprawling estate grounds. “After his diagnosis, well…” She let the words hang in the air, almost wistfully. Then she turned back to her, eyes sharp. “It’s just so wonderful that he’s found you.”

The breath hitched in her throat.

Diagnosis?

She kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside, something splintered.

His mother didn’t seem to notice - or if she did, she didn’t care. She carried on, voice gentle, as though she was discussing something as mundane as the weather.

“For so long, we worried, you know. The unpredictability, the… obsessive tendencies. It’s difficult, raising a child like that. Difficult to see them struggle with attachment. But look at him now - he’s changed so much.”

The world around her seemed to shrink, the space between them closing in as though the very air had turned thick and suffocating.

Attachment.

Obsessive tendencies.

Her mind raced, pieces snapping into place with a horrifying clarity.

His break-ins. The way he had watched her, orchestrated everything. The control. The calculated way he had slowly stripped away her autonomy, little by little, reshaping her world until she had no choice but to exist in his.

She had thought it was just manipulation. Just power. Need.

But it was more than that.

His mother reached forward suddenly, placing a delicate hand over hers, her grip deceptively strong. “You must be something special,” she said with an approving nod. “He’s never taken to anyone like you before.”

The room felt colder.

Her chest tightened.

Because now, she wasn’t just his little prisoner.

She was his fixation.

A carefully chosen piece in a puzzle he had been building long before she had even realised she was part of his game.

And Charles, he wasn’t just keeping her here because he wanted to.

He was keeping her here because, in his mind, she was slowly the only one who could truly ever belong to him.

Who could get him that inheritance.

To fulfil his life.

The weight of his mother’s hand on hers sent a chill up her spine. She willed herself to stay still, to keep her fingers from trembling beneath the woman’s touch. The realisation sat heavy in her chest, a slow creeping dread wrapping around her lungs like ivy.

She tried to swallow it down, to push past the rising nausea, but the older woman’s gaze held her in place - evaluating, assessing, approving.

“It really is lovely to finally meet you, dear,” she continued, giving her hand a light squeeze before retreating, picking up her tea as though she hadn’t just cracked the foundation of reality beneath her. “I always knew Charles had a heart for romance, but he was so particular.”

She managed a small, weak nod, the motion barely there.

Particular.

Another careful choice of words.

His mother sighed, giving her a knowing smile as she took another delicate sip of her tea. “Oh, don’t look so worried. He’s an intense man, yes, but intensity is just another word for devotion, isn’t it?”

Devotion.

The world settled uneasily in her stomach. 

She forced herself to glance away, her eyes flickering towards the garden beyond the glass. The estate stretched out endlessly, its perfectly kept hedges and winding paths giving the illusion of freedom when she knew it was nothing but a gilded cage.

“I-” she started, but the words caught in her throat.

What could she even say?

That she had no choice? 

That she was here against her will?

That her presence at this table was a careful act of survival?

His mother’s eyes were too sharp, too perceptive.

“That’s why I’m so pleased to see you two together,” his mother went on, placing her cup back into its saucer with a soft clink. “A woman like you will be good for him. Anchor him. Make sure he doesn’t slip into those… darker tendencies.”

She felt like she was going to be sick.

“I-”

But the door swung open, and there he was.

Charles.

His presence filled the room instantly, the air shifting with an almost imperceptible tension.

His expression was carefully neutral, but she saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw.

“Mother,” he said smoothly, stepping inside. “Father and I have just wrapped up in the office and while this was a lovely surprise-”

His mother cut him off, beaming. “Oh, Charles, really. No need to sound so stiff. We simply had to meet your lovely fiancee.” She gestured towards her, as though presenting a mule at an auction.

Charles’ gaze briefly flickered to her, unreadable, before he turned back to his mother.

“As much as I’d love to extend the visit,” he said, his tone still polite, still composed, “I believe you and Father have tea at the Wetherby’s soon, don’t you?”

His mother waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, they won’t mind if we’re a little bit late-”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Charles interjected smoothly. “But it would be terribly rude to keep them waiting, wouldn’t it.”

A beat of silence.

Then his mother gave a soft chuckle, shaking her head with a knowing smile. “Oh, you always were one for manners. Perfection.”

Perfection.

She rose from her seat gracefully, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.

His father walked in, just as she stood, casting a look at Charles that lingered. There was something unspoken in it - something that made Charles’ expression harden just slightly.

Then his mother spoke.

“You know,” she mused, tilting her head, “for an engaged couple, you don’t seem terribly affectionate.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

And then he looked at her.

It wasn’t just a glance, it was a look that sliced right through, that saw. As if he were peeling back the layers, peering at what lay beneath the surface.

Her breath hitched.

Charles didn’t hesitate.

Before she could process it, he took a step, his hand was at the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her face up towards him. There was barely a second to react before his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss.

It was possessive.

Demanding.

Her body stiffened, instinct flaring up like a warning siren. But there were eyes on them.

His mother.

His father.

Watching.

Judging.

Expecting.

So she kissed him back.

The act of submission made something shift.

Charles’ fingers tightened in her hair, his other hand pressing against the small of her back, drawing her in. His lips moved against hers with a slow-burning intensity, something dark and unreadable curling at the edges of her mind.

The worst part?

For just a fraction of a second, just a sliver of time too small to admit aloud, she forgot.

Forgot the circumstances. Forgot the control he had over her. Forgot the door that had locked behind her, the cage she had been placed in.

For a moment, it was just heat.

Just breath.

Just the slow, sinking sensation of something shifting inside her, something she wanted to recoil from but didn’t.

The sound of his mother’s voice snapped the moment in two like a brittle twig.

“Alright then!” she chimed, her tone light, amused, but edged with something knowing. “Don’t defile your poor fiancee before the wedding, Cha!”

A soft laugh.

His father sighed.

Charles finally pulled back, just a breath away, his lips still perilously close to hers. His eyes locked onto hers, dark, unreadable, his breath steady and controlled.

But there was something in his gaze.

Something that said: I felt that too.

Her stomach twisted.

PART THREE...

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[fae-renjun]

🗯✮₊˚⊹ THE ANATOMY OF A ROMANCE — l.jn [ TEASER ]

# pairing.ᐟ lee jeno x fem!reader — [1.1k], college!au, academic rivals to friends to lovers, teaser for the first instalment of how to fall in love (for dummies)

# synopsis.ᐟ  when yn finally got tickets for comic con this year, the last thing she expected was to accidentally coordinate outfits with lee jeno: the boy she had been tied with for the top of every class they had taken together since first year. or in which jeno begins to realise the girl he could never beat in academics has more in common with him than he thought. warnings.ᐟ just swearing for the teaser

# tia speaks.ᐟ est. final wc: 4.5k & est. publish date: 20/03 (the writing in this teaser might be a bit chopped, this is not the final edit)

i. you can’t turn the radio down (& you can’t think of anyone else)

Jeno’s first mistake had been trusting his friends with his hair. 

Looking up nervously as Mark handed him the mirror, Jeno was already braced for disaster after observing the reactions of Jisung (visibly distressed in the corner while biting back a smile) and Chenle (not holding back at all, literally rolling on the floor laughing). 

“This is not fucking green.” “It’s bluish-green?” said Mark hesitantly in response. “It’s mint, Mark,” said Renjun from his spot on the couch. “It could still work,” said Jisung, more as a question than a statement. “Yeah,” Jaemin answered, barely holding back a laugh, “Beast Boy can be minty.”

From the corner of his eye Jeno saw Haechan slowly pull his phone out of his pocket, which was then swiftly returned to its place with Jeno’s warning of putting him in a chokehold.

“I cannot go to comic-con like this.” “Sure you can,” Chenle responded between laughs. “Listen man,” said Renjun, “even if you wanted to fix it, there’s not enough time to do that. Just put on the outfit.” Jeno begrudgingly dragged his feet across the floor to his room, as the conversation continued muffled outside.

Mark shouted, “Yo but why do I actually look so good as spiderman?!” “My Iron Man is better,” retorted Chenle “Why’d you guys assign me the Hulk anyway?” asked Jaemin, as Jeno walked out of his room. Jisung said “Your muscles,” at the same time as Haechan who instead responded with, “So that you and Jeno can have matching green couple outfits.” Renjun, busy adjusting the bow for his Green Arrow costume, just let out a snort-laugh as Jaemin considered both responses for a second before nodding, “Valid.”

Soon Jeno and Renjun were ushering the 5 others out of the house and into the cars to make sure they wouldn’t be late for The Batman 2’s trailer screening.

Y/N opened up the camera app and held her phone close to her face as she made sure the small red plastic crystal she’d bought from the craft store and stuck onto her forehead with lash glue wasn’t crooked. Aeri stood adjacent, combing through her freshly-dyed pink hair with her fingers. 

As a notification popped up on her screen Y/N let out a groan, “Dr. Kwon just assigned us 30 pages of reading for my 8am on Monday!”

“Those Monday morning lecturers love being diabolical, I’m telling you,” said Aeri with a sigh.

In the process of throwing her head back in frustration, Y/N noticed a mint-coloured blob exiting a car out of the corner of her eye. As she turned to get a better look she said to Aeri, “He might have been going for Beast Boy but the poor guy’s hair did not-” Y/N fell silent on seeing the face behind the mint hair. Then she started laughing.

No, said Jeno to himself, this could not be a laugh he recognised, this could not be-

“Holy fucking shit.” “Please,” said Jeno as he made eye contact with the girl, “spare me.” “Absolutely not. That is not green.” “Blame Mark.”

“No, I will actually be thanking Mark. This is incredibly diabolical work,” responded Y/N as she held her phone back up to take a photo. “Oh my god, delete that,” said Jeno with a look of horror. Y/N shook her head, “Don't worry, I won’t post it. Just need it to laugh at.” she said as Jeno’s friends joined in on laughing at the boy’s embarrassment. “I did not consent to that photo Y/N, but I guess you just like looking at my face that much.” “Yeah, I like laughing at it.” “Whatever you say. Nice to know you’re obsessed with my face. What a shame it’s not reciprocated,” said the boy with an obviously mocking look of sympathy.

Before she could retort, Haechan cut through the banter, “Sorry to point out the obvious but has no one else noticed the costumes? You’re Beast Boy, and she’s Raven. They’re lovers in all the comics and shit, no?” Jeno’s mouth fell agape as Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief. Both of you rushed to defend yourselves, “Lovers is a stretch-” “ Ok but she’s been with other people in the comics, even Starfire, I mean really Aeri is-” The duo's voices were drowned out by their friends falling into a fit of giggles once again.

Y/N lightly slapped Aeri’s arm to get her attention, dragging her inside the convention center and away from the boys, as the pink-haired-girl continued holding in her giggles.

After the two girls had browsed some of the merchandise at the convention, they finally got to The Batman 2’s panel. Y/N just happened to be so lucky that the only free seats (other than those at the opposite end of the hall) were right next to a group of 7 boys, one of whom’s hair stood out like a sore thumb. It was now her turn to groan as Aeri dragged her right into those very unfortunate seats. 

With a whole 15 minutes left until the panel started all Y/N could do to occupy herself was talking to Aeri and staring at the ground and tapping her feet in order to ignore the presence of a certain Lee next to her. As the girls’ conversation reached a lull, Jeno on her other side cleared his throat before asking, “So…do you like comics?”

Y/N nodded, “Yeah…a lot.”

“Well then this is great!” exclaimed Jaemin, “Nono here is the resident comic book nerd in our friend group.”

Y/N’s face broke into a teasing smile, “Nono?”

Jeno closed his eyes in frustration then turned to Jaemin and gave him his best ‘threatening’ glare (but all his friend did was smile back).

“Favourite characters?” asked Y/N, once he had turned back around.

“Dick Grayson, Roy Harper, Miles Morales, Cassandra Cain, John Constantine,” he gestured at his own outfit, “and Beast Boy. Yours?”

“Jason Todd, Kamala Khan, Gwenpool, Zatanna, Rogue, Kori and Raven.” Y/N responded, pointing to her own outfit as she finished.

There was a beat of silence, “Good list.”

“Yours too.”

The two nodded, each clearly having gained some additional level of respect for the other as the lights in the hall dimmed and the event began.

While pulling her hair out of the back of the brown jacket she had put on for the second day of ComicCon, a realization dawned on Y/N, causing her to practically fly across her room to her phone.

Y/N: just so that we don’t accidentally match again Y/N: because i’m sure neither of us wants that Y/N: what are you dressed as today?

Jeno (Anatomy 101): miles morales

Y/N: ok, cool. Y/N: clear.

Jeno (Anatomy 101): you?

Y/N: rogue

Jeno (Anatomy 101): ok Jeno (Anatomy 101): can you delete the picture now

Y/N: nope!

Seen at 11:57am

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