#and some moments of tenderness in between

[kirammanswifey]

how would be the first time with arcane characters x fem reader (nsfw)

characters: viktor, jinx, vi, caitlyn, jayce, ekko, silco, mel and sevika.

writer's note: hi guys, this took me longer than it should have but it's finally ready and i'm pretty happy with the result. some smuts are more explicit than others, and not for any particular reason, it's just how my inspiration flowed and how i imagine the dynamic with each character's personality. as you already know request are open ;)

The room is bathed in the soft light of a lamp on Viktor's desk, barely enough to illuminate the blueprints scattered across the table. But this time, there are no scientific projects demanding his attention, only you. Viktor is sitting on the edge of the bed, his honey-colored eyes watching you with a mix of nervousness and tenderness.

Viktor

"Are you sure you want to do this with me?" he asks in a low voice, almost a whisper, as his trembling hand caresses your cheek. You can feel the warmth in his touch, a warmth that contrasts with his usually reserved exterior. Viktor has always been so cautious, so focused on his work, that this moment feels as if time has stopped for the two of you.

You nod softly, but the knot in your stomach is inescapable. "There’s nothing I want more. I want to take this step. We’ve been together for four months, I think we’ve waited long enough."

However, the words taste half-hearted, and your mind starts filling with doubts. You bite your lower lip, the weight of a secret you've carried for years pressing against your chest. Should you tell him? Will it change anything between you if you do? A small voice inside you whispers that he may not understand, that he could see you differently.

The silence stretches, and you feel heat rising to your cheeks. "Viktor, there's something I need to tell you before... before we do this," you begin, your voice barely a murmur. You take a second, looking at your hands intertwined in your lap. "I’ve never… I’ve never done this before."

Lifting your gaze just a little, you see the confusion on his face, but there’s no judgment, only patience. You take a breath and continue, even lower, as if saying it aloud was a confirmation you've avoided for years. "I’m still a virgin."

The last word comes out as a whisper, and you wish you could hide from the vulnerability you just showed. You were twenty-seven and hadn’t had sex, hadn’t even thought about it. It had never been a priority in your life. But now that you were with Viktor, it was one of the things you couldn’t stop thinking about. You look away, your fingers nervously playing with a fold in your clothing. "I know it’s unusual for my age. I always thought... it should have happened before, but it just never did. It’s a bit embarrassing."

The room fills with a heavy silence, and you fear what Viktor might think. But then, his warm hand envelops yours, stopping your nervous movements. "You don’t have to feel embarrassed," he says with a tenderness that makes your heart relax a little. "Experience doesn’t define the value of a moment like this."

You look at him and find his eyes full of understanding. "I don’t have much experience either," he admits softly, a small blush appearing on his cheeks. "I’ve always been so immersed in my work that… I never had time for these things."

Your lips curve into a small smile at his words, finding comfort in the shared sincerity. Viktor has always been someone you can trust, and this moment is no different. You felt so comfortable.

"But," he adds, gently squeezing your hands, "I’ll do my best. I want this moment to be special for both of us."

A wave of emotion envelops you, dispelling the embarrassment and replacing it with something deeper: trust. Viktor, always so considerate, makes you feel safe, loved, and it is in this space of mutual vulnerability that you find the courage to move forward.

His lips meet yours again, this time with more intention. The kiss is slow, laden with silent promises and desires that have been waiting to be explored. Viktor’s hands slide over your body with a mix of curiosity and reverence, stopping to feel every curve, every line.

You do the same, letting your fingers explore his body, acknowledging the delicacy of his movements, the firmness of his chest under your hands. Every caress is a discovery, a reaffirmation of the connection you both share.

"Let’s take it slow," he whispers against your lips, his voice soft and reassuring. "I want us both to feel comfortable."

You nod, feeling more confident with every passing second. He removes your blouse, leaving you in your bra, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on your collarbone, savoring the smoothness of your skin. His fingers worked quickly, almost desperately, on the clasp of the garment.

"I didn’t know you were so skilled at this," you confessed with a nervous giggle as you felt the usual freedom in your chest, the straps falling but still covering your breasts, only to be uncovered by a gesture from Viktor, a gesture with a grace that could only be characteristic of him.

Viktor brushed the hair covering your right ear aside, leaned in, and whispered with his marked accent, "I work with machines, my dear, I’m especially agile with my hands."

Those words filled you with courage, and you threw yourself into kissing him, your bare breasts rubbing against the covered skin of his chest. You moved your hips frenetically, your body begging for more, pleading for that unknown pleasure you were dying to experience. You wanted to taste that forbidden fruit exclusively from Viktor's hand.

With Viktor, everything was slow, full of meaning, every touch, every whisper, a promise of eternal love. Both naked in bed. The movements become more intimate, more laden with desire. You feel his warm breath on your neck, his hands finding places that make your skin tingle, your heart race faster.

And when you finally cross that line together, it’s with a mix of awe and love, discovering that experience doesn’t define how special a moment can be, but the person with whom you share it.

"Do you dare to follow me?" Jinx asks, almost as if she isn't posing a question but throwing down a challenge. Her voice is playful, but there's something in her gaze that lets you know things could get much more intense than they seem.

Jinx

The sound of metal clashing against concrete is the only thing filling the air. The lights of Zaun flicker in the distance, creating an atmosphere that feels as electric as the chaos dwelling in Jinx's heart. You're there, standing in front of her, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins after a night of mischief and shared laughter. Her laugh, like her energy, is unpredictable, dangerous, and so contagious that you can't help but smile every time she looks at you with those bright blue eyes, filled with fun and madness. The kind of madness that takes your breath away and makes you crave more and more.

You nod, feeling your body tense with anticipation. This isn't the first time you've been close to her, but it is the first time the air feels charged with something different. The atmosphere, the closeness of her body, the way she subtly touches you while questioning everything you've done wrong in your life... it all gives you the sense that this is a point of no return.

You're nervous, but the thrill of being with Jinx, that unpredictable and uninhibited girl, quickly dissipates any trace of fear. Jinx is a whirlwind, and though you know you could lose yourself in her, you also feel there's something deeper, something you've never seen in anyone else.

Jinx moves closer, her mischievous smile never fading as she gently takes your hand. "Let's do it, toots," she says with that spark in her eyes that always drives you crazy. "This will be the most fun ride of your life."

The kiss comes unexpectedly, but perfectly. Her lips are a clash of energy, warm, quick, impetuous. You're surprised at how tender her touches can be, despite being so chaotic in everything else. Her hands explore your body with a mix of curiosity and desire, as if she's trying to disassemble you playfully. One of her hands slips under your skirt and brushes against your clit with her index finger, as if testing you, wanting to see your reaction, wanting to have fun with you.

A gasp of surprise is enough to make her laugh and move faster; before you know it, she has three fingers working inside you. You didn't even have time to think, and that's exactly what you shouldn't do with Jinx. With Jinx, you just have to relax and not fill your head with unnecessary thoughts. With Jinx, you just have to accept her and not question her actions.

And that's why you didn't utter a word when she bit one of your nipples hard enough to make you scream. She was pushing you to the limit, her fingers never stopping, never ceasing to stimulate you.

Your eyes rolled back from the pleasure, that mischievous, incoherent pleasure. Your first orgasm came without warning, juices running down Jinx's fingers like a broken fountain. The second followed, feeling like stepping on cool sand on an early morning beach, refreshing and necessary. After that, you lost count. You knew nothing anymore. You were just aware that you were enjoying it as if the world were ending tomorrow.

"Tell me I'm the best, tell me no one has ever made you feel as much as I have," Jinx whispered against your neck, covered in hickeys and bruises.

You tried to focus your blurry vision on Jinx, and in her eyes, there was a fragile layer of vulnerability that you could barely grasp but knew was there.

You took her face in your hands and kissed her with much saliva and a lot of uncoordinated passion, something that made the moment even more exciting. Because it was a kiss born from your instincts, from the vulnerability of your being, and the best part was that it hadn't been perfect. It was real and authentic, like your love for her.

"You are. No one has ever made me come so many times in a row. You're incredible, sweets," you admitted between breathless gasps, your body still sensitive but arching for more.

"I knew it, I'm the best," she patted herself on the shoulder, proud of herself.

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in your body easing a bit. Jinx had a way of making what should be uncomfortable into something liberating, something you had never experienced before.

"Well, get ready, toots. This is just the beginning," she promised, going back to attacking your overstimulated clit.

Her lips trailed down your neck, and you felt how her body responded to yours with an urgency that made you feel alive in a way you never imagined.

From there, the night was filled with tender moments, sincere connections, and a vulnerability you only shared with her.

You and Vi in your room, she had sneaked through one of the windows in the middle of the night. And her excuse for waking you up in such an overwhelming and unexpected way, was that she missed you. And you couldn't scold her, you couldn't question her for her impulsive action because you missed her just the same. And you didn't say anything when she snuck under your sheets and started eating your pussy hungrily.

Vi

Her strong arms kept your trembling legs apart, her hair tickled your belly and her tongue, oh god, her tongue was so deep inside you. She was so dedicated to her task, she was trying her best, enjoying every lick. The air in the room was filled with the obscene sounds of her tongue and your muffled moans.

Every now and then you would bend your torso to get closer to her, but Vi would quickly push you back again, immobilizing you with her hand on your neck. She didn't want you to distract her, she didn't want you to interrupt her.

Even then you wanted to tease her, you wanted her eyes to look at you. You needed it. You'd always had a dangerous fixation on her attention.

"Did you really get past the security guards and climb up to my window for this? You must have really missed me." You commented in a mocking, almost contemptuous tone.

And you succeeded, her intense gaze now locked on your face. She pulled away from your pussy for a moment to talk to you.

"From down here it doesn't seem like it bothered you much," She bit the inside of your thighs, an area so sensitive it made you moan louder than you should.

She teased you and went back to her arduous task. And you, you were going crazy, it was the first time you two had done something like this. And it wasn't even half as good as you had imagined. It was much better. You could easily tell she was an expert, she knows where, how and where to touch to make you see stars in a clear sky.

“Why are you so sweet?” Vi panted into your pussy, sucking your clit between her lips and making light circular motions with her tongue. You were going to lose your mind if she kept this up.

You leaned down and the straps of your dress fell down, one of your breasts was exposed and Vi didn’t hesitate to take it in her hard hand to squeeze it.

“Don’t say things like that,” You squirmed into her touch, your hips moving forward as she moved away from your private part.

“Oh, are you embarrassed, little deer?” She said, her typical cheeky smile coming to the surface. “You don’t have to, you’re gorgeous and delicious.” You were going to complain, but you felt two of her fingers enter your hole and all rational thought went out the window.

“Fuck, Vi,” You panted as her fingers twisted around inside you, touching parts you didn’t even know existed or that would feel this good.

Vi licked her lips, tasting you, and squeezed your neck tighter.

"Shut up, we can't let your parents hear us," Her comment made a kind of glint appear in your eyes that she didn't miss. "Or do you want us to be discovered? What a dirty girl!" Her voice has that playful mockery, that challenging tone that always makes you laugh, but also makes you a little nervous.

"No... that's not true," you answer, your words now much more uninhibited. But your voice trembles a little, betraying the confidence you try to show.

"Don't lie to me, you liked the idea," Vi pulled you closer, pulling your hair with the hand that previously held your neck. "Your pussy squeezed my fingers." She whispered on your lips, teasing and humiliating you.

You tried to deny it again, but it felt so good, you loved that she treated you so roughly. That she wasn't careful with you. That she didn't worry about hurting you. Because she knew just what to do and what not to do. Vi was fucking perfect for you, and you were fucking perfect for her.

"I don't blame you, the image is morbid. The little girl from home who doesn't break a plate being ravished by the dirty and rude criminal from Zaun. That's what your prissy parents would think. They'd think I forced you, that I'm forcing you into this. Ironic, right?" The tone of her voice is brazen, almost defiant, but there's something else in her words that makes you blush. Is she challenging you? Is she provoking you? What does all this mean? You feel trapped in her gaze, that intensity that always accompanies it, as imposing as the sound of his fists hitting a punching bag.

And the intensity of her caresses didn't cease, they only increased in magnitude more and more, you didn't know how much more you could take.

"I would love to see their surprised faces when they see the reality, that their good little girl is a fucking bitch hungry for my fingers," her hot breath on your skin feels like a touch of fire.

“Shut up,” you barked, a knot forming in your stomach.

"Why? You're getting wetter, you're enjoying this too much," Vi teases you, continuing to penetrate you, taking you to the edge.

And finally you came. You could feel the energy in your body vibrating with the same intensity as your soul moved. It was magical. Everything around you, all you can think about, is her.

Vi didn't waste the opportunity and she went back down to your pussy, feeding on every drop of your orgasm.

"Shit," You cursed under your breath as you watched her.

When she finished she stood up with a triumphant smile, the back of her right hand wiping away the fluid left on her chin. The confidence in her voice and in her actions melts you inside. Despite her defiant attitude, there's something deeply protective in the way she takes you, in how she guides your every move with a mix of dominance and care. There are no doubts, no insecurities when you're with Vi, and you realize that even though your nervousness almost paralyzed you at first, now you just feel the need to be closer to her.

"Thanks, little deer. I was thirsty," She winked at you and laid down next to you.

She closed her eyes and held you close, falling asleep as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't just given you the best orgasm in the world.

That night, everything seemed to be aligned: the fresh air of Piltover, the soft light of the stars, and the closeness between the two of you. You had gone to deliver a report, one thing had led to another, and now you were kissing as if your lives depended on it.

Caitlyn

You clung to her body like a magnet, not wanting to let her go; finally, your greatest dream was coming true. Since you joined the Enforcers, you had been attracted to Caitlyn, and not just because of her impressive physique and British accent. Everything about Caitlyn is serene, controlled, perfect. It’s hard not to admire the calm with which she moves through the world, with her well-mannered ways and always upright posture, almost like an unbreakable force. But in that same stillness, there’s something that draws you in, something that makes you want to know what lies behind her façade.

Caitlyn stopped the kiss, her hand holding your jaw in a dominant yet gentle manner. Her dark navy blue hair was tousled thanks to your restless hands, and she was catching her breath. She looked incredibly beautiful. You didn’t think you’d ever seen such a perfect human being.

The sound of the wind is the only witness to what’s about to happen. Caitlyn is there, right in front of you, her gaze fixed on yours, deep and penetrating.

"I think what we're doing is a bit... out of the ordinary, isn't it?" Caitlyn says, her voice soft, but with a tone that makes you feel like she’s watching your every move.

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply, nervousness pulsing through your veins, but you can’t look away from her. There’s something in her calm that soothes you, but it also challenges you. The fact that she looks at you that way, almost as if she’s expecting something, makes you feel a whirlwind of emotions you don’t know how to handle.

Caitlyn takes a step towards you, just enough for you to feel the warmth of her body near yours. She observes you in silence, as if she’s evaluating every small change in your expression. “I think it’s a bit much to call me that after what just happened. Call me Cait.”

And in that moment, you felt like you melted.

“Cait,” the way your tongue savored her name was timid and tender, like testing if you weren’t doing something wrong, but a half-smile from her confirmed the opposite.

She was your superior; it hadn’t been wise of you to steal a kiss, a kiss that she reciprocated, but you didn’t know if she might punish you for it. She could throw you out of the Enforcers or, much worse, ignore you and treat you with discomfort. Doubts were eating you alive. The fear of having done something stupid was tormenting you over and over.

“Listen carefully. Through the physical contact we shared a few minutes ago, I think it’s quite noticeable that we feel a mutual attraction,” she made a small pause, and your heart almost jumped out of your chest. “However, we cannot let it affect us in the workplace. Do you think you can separate the two?” she asks, and although her tone is calm, there’s a glimmer of something more in her gaze, something deeper.

You found yourself nodding pathetically fast, like an addict when offered their favorite drug.

She smiles slightly, a soft but confident smile, as if she knows what’s about to happen is inevitable. Suddenly, her hands touch your face gently, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The contact is electric, and though her touch is soft, there’s a strength in it that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t experienced before.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Caitlyn whispers, slowly leaning in. “I’ll take care of you.”

And with those words, her lips touch yours once more, softly at first, but it doesn’t take long for it to intensify. The gentleness gave way to a burning desire both of you had been holding back. She quickly removed your uniform, amid passionate and sweet kisses, pushing you onto her bed. She gets on top of you, observing your naked figure, a look of approval crossing her face, and at that moment, you felt like the happiest person in the world.

Her hands, firm but delicate, trace your body, exploring every corner with a precision that leaves you breathless. It’s the perfect contrast: her external calm and the intensity that emanates from her touch.

Every movement of Caitlyn is calculated, but also filled with an emotional connection that captures you. There’s no rush, no fear, just a desire to be close, to discover what both of you can offer in this moment. She knows how to make you feel special, how to make your body respond to her touch, how to provoke a fire inside you with just a glance.

In an instant, you are completely lost in her, in her tenderness, in her strength. Caitlyn is not like the others. The way she touches you is not just physical but reaches your soul, as if she is baring your heart while pushing you beyond your own limits. Every sigh, every brush of her skin against yours, is a promise that there’s nothing she cannot expect from you, but also that there’s nothing you should fear while she’s by your side.

When she finally stops, her gaze meets yours, filled with desire but also with something much deeper. Caitlyn doesn’t need to say anything else. You understand everything in her eyes: this is a beginning, not an end, and what happens between the two of you will only build on trust, passion, and something much more genuine than just physical desire.

“I’d love to see how far you could go if you let yourself go,” Caitlyn murmurs, with a subtle smile that makes you blush, but at the same time makes you feel like the only person in the world to her. “Do you want to let yourself go?”

Once again, you didn’t hesitate to nod. You almost protested when she got up; you had already gotten used to the weight of her body, her hands on your skin, her eyes on yours. But curiosity formed when you saw her rummaging through the cabinet beside the bed, your eyes widened when you saw her walking back to you with a black dildo.

Everything was so surreal, you had so many nerves, so many questions, so many doubts, but it all vanished when Caitlyn's fingers danced along the smooth, curved surface of the dildo, teasing you with the promise of what’s to come. Her touch sends shivers of anticipation racing up your spine as she brings the toy to her lips, her tongue flicking out to moisten the tip. Caitlyn's eyes, darkened with lust, never leave yours as she traces the contours of her mouth along the length, her breath hot and heavy against the cool silicone.

"Let's get you nice and ready," Caitlyn purrs, her voice low and sultry. She takes your hand, guiding it to the base of the dildo, letting your fingers explore the textured surface. The weight of it, the solidity, is a thrilling reminder of the pleasure that awaits you.

Caitlyn's fingers curl around yours, both of your hands now wrapped around the thick shaft. Together, you slowly inch the toy between your legs, the head nudging against your inner thigh. The first touch against your most intimate place sends a gasp tumbling from your lips, your hips instinctively canting forward.

Everything was a madness, a kaleidoscope of sensations and feelings.

"Feel how wet you are," Caitlyn whispers, her thumb circling your clit with a feather-light touch. Your arousal coats the toy, making the glide easier as inch by inch, Caitlyn slowly pushes it inside you. The stretch, the fullness, is exquisite, your walls yielding to accommodate the girth.

Caitlyn sets a steady rhythm, the toy sliding in and out of you with practiced ease. Each thrust sends a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through you, your body trembling and shaking. The obscene sound of the dildo plunging in and out of your dripping sex fills the room, mingling with your wanton moans and cries.

She picks up the pace, the toy driving deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. Your cries grow louder, more urgent, as the first stirrings of your orgasm begin to build. Caitlyn's free hand finds your breast, kneading the soft flesh, her thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your nipple.

It was too much, too much, you couldn't take it anymore. The woman of your dreams was fucking you with a damn dildo in her fucking room. You thought you were dreaming. Hallucinating.

"Come on, darling, let it go. You deserve it, you’ve been a good girl," Caitlyn whispered in her marked accent, and you didn’t need anything more to let it flow.

Caitlyn held you for a moment longer, her hand resting gently on your back. Both shared a brief sigh, allowing the calm to fill the space between you.

"Are you okay?" she asked with a slight smile, her voice soft but firm.

You nodded, taking a deep breath and feeling the tension slowly dissipate. Caitlyn moved back a bit, giving you your space, but her gaze remained attentive, as it always did.

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling a bit lighter.

Caitlyn turned towards you, intending to ask why exactly you were thanking her, but stopped when she saw you already asleep in her bed, your breathing calm and relaxed. A soft smile formed on her lips as she watched you for a moment, appreciating the serenity on your face.

Without making any noise, she got up and took the report you had brought her. She sat on a nearby chair and, with the same calm she had shown you, began inspecting the documents, letting you rest in peace while she worked in silence.

Jayce's office is impressive, filled with blueprints and artifacts that reveal his brilliant and ambitious mind. You're there, beside his desk, watching him move, standing by the window, unaware of the way you look at him. There's something about his posture, something about the way he speaks with such confidence, that makes you feel an undeniable attraction.

Jayce

But you know, you've noticed for a while: there's something about him that calls to you beyond the professional. You move closer, silently, but somehow your steps resonate in the air of the office.

"Have you finished the meeting?" you ask, your voice soft but with a clarity that makes him turn towards you. Jayce looks at you, and for a moment, everything seems to stop.

"Yes, I have," he responds, but something in his tone sounds more relaxed than usual. The look he gives you is inquisitive, but also something more. He lets you know with a smile that hides a slight challenge. "Is there anything else you need?"

Without warning, you move closer, the space between the two of you narrowing. He doesn't say anything, but you can see the surprise in his eyes when you stand right in front of him, your fingers lightly touching his chest. The air becomes dense, heavy, as if you're waiting for him to say something.

But you take the initiative. You place a hand on his neck, forcing his gaze to yours. "Yes, actually... there is something I need," you say, and the way you say it makes him fall silent. The tone of your voice is firm, but it's charged with palpable electricity, something both of you can feel.

Jayce stays still, but you can see he's tense, slightly surprised by what you're doing, as if he's not used to someone taking control in a situation like this. But it's not like he's upset, rather, he seems to be waiting for you to continue with what you have in mind.

The hand that was on his neck now slowly moves down, sliding over his chest until it reaches his waist, delving into his pants. The touch is soft, yet confident. Your fingers touch his semi-hard cock, feeling how his breathing quickens.

"And that, Jayce, is for you to stop for a second and listen to me," you say, and with a smile that's part challenge, part promise.

Jayce is left speechless, but he plays along, letting you lead him to the edge of the desk. You have his full attention now, and the way he looks at you, the way he seems to be waiting for each of your moves, makes you feel incredibly powerful. He, the great leader of Piltover, is now in your hands, and you know it.

Without taking your eyes off him, you lower yourself to his lower part, maneuvering to unbutton his pants. And when you succeed, you sigh with joy, his impressive length bouncing against your face, ready for you.

You look directly into his eyes, seeing a slight tension form on his face, but there's also something else: desire. A desire hidden beneath his facade of power and control.

"I've seen you very stressed lately, and I don't like seeing that pretty face full of wrinkles. I'm going to make you feel good, my fellow" you whisper against his cock, blowing warm air on his large, leaking member.

He seems to take a deep breath, as if he's trying to process what's happening. But when your hands start to glide along his length, everything else disappears.

Your touch is gentle, teasing at first, barely grazing his sensitive flesh. You watch, transfixed, as a bead of moisture wells up at the flushed tip, tempting you to taste. Unable to resist, you lean in and lap at it with the flat of your tongue, savoring the heady, masculine flavor that explodes across your senses.

Spurred on by his sharp intake of breath, you take him into your mouth, engulfing the swollen head and suckling gently. Your tongue swirls around him, taking him deeper on each downstroke until he hits the back of your throat. You can feel him throbbing against your tongue, growing even harder and more insistent.

You pull back slowly, releasing him from your mouth with a lewd pop. A string of saliva connects your bottom lip to the engorged head of his cock. You look up at him with hooded eyes, your lips curling into a seductive smile. "You taste so good," you purr, stroking him faster now. "I want to make you feel amazing, golden boy."

You see him lose control, but it's different. He's more vulnerable, more human, more real. And you're there, enjoying every second of that power.

The brush of your lips over his cock makes him sigh, but this time, the sigh is a whisper of surrender. He is no longer the leader of Piltover, the man of steel and determination. Now he's just Jayce, the man who yields to you, the man who lets himself be carried away by desire, by the need to feel closer to you.

With every step, you take him further beyond his limits. And as you do, he also shows you, in silence, how much he wants you, how much he needs you. Everything else fades away, leaving only the desire you both share.

But then, a familiar laugh cuts through the stillness of the night. You turn around to see Ekko, jumping from one ledge to another as if it were the most natural thing in the world, landing beside you with a smile only he could offer. The mischievous glint in his eyes tells you this night is going to be anything but boring.

Ekko

It's a cool night in the Undercity, the moonlight reflecting off the crumbling walls of the buildings as you stand atop a rooftop, watching the city sprawled beneath your feet. From here, everything seems calmer, more distant, even though life continues behind you.

"What are you doing here without me?" Ekko asks, raising an eyebrow, never taking his eyes off you. "Did you think you could enjoy the view without me joining you?"

You laugh, knowing exactly how he plays, how he always manages to make situations feel fun and full of energy. "Did you think I'd sit idly by while you strut around like the king of Zaun?" you respond with an equally playful smile.

The closeness between the two of you becomes more palpable, more charged, as if every shared word heightens the tension between you. The cool night air feels light, but the heat growing between you is anything but.

Ekko steps closer, his eyes gleaming with the confidence he always has, but there's something more. Something that makes you wonder if this moment will be different from the rest. He stands in front of you, his breath now closer to yours.

"The good thing about being up here," he says, looking you up and down, "is that no one can interrupt us." His tone is soft but with a hint of something you know exactly where it's leading.

You follow him with your gaze as he steps even closer. The tension builds, almost like a non-verbal challenge, and you can't help the mischievous smile forming on your face. Something about him incites you to play, to see how things unfold.

"Oh, yeah? And what do you want to do with all this privacy?" Of course, you knew, but you were playing along, as that was the dynamic between you.

Ekko's gaze intensifies, his lips curving into a satisfied smile as he steps closer to you. His hands rest on your hips, lightly firm but without pressing, as if waiting for something. His eyes never leave yours, teasing with the idea of what the two of you could do.

"Why use words when there are actions?" he responds, his voice so low and deep it makes you shiver. Without warning, his hands slide around your waist, lifting you slightly and pulling you closer to his chest.

The contact is gentle, but it feels like an electric jolt, as if everything between you had condensed into that single moment. He caresses your back with his fingers, as if wanting to explore every inch, but in a relaxed way, without haste. His game is subtle, but you're sure he's enjoying the uncertainty you're both creating.

"I want you," he murmurs against your lips.

You smirk and touch his crotch, enjoying his soft gasp in response.

"I know, I can feel it," you say with a provocative air, marking the first victory of the night.

But Ekko wasn't someone who gave up easily. He slid a hand between your legs, brushing against your sensitive spot still covered. You moaned and dug your nails into his shoulders.

"Yeah, I can feel it too," his tone was teasing, but not in a bad way.

A few seconds of playing, of tension, and then you dare to take the next step. You give him a gentle push, not too hard, but enough to stop his movement and make him look at you, amused but also a little surprised. "Is that all you got, Ekko?" you challenge, unable to resist the provocation in your tone.

With a low laugh, Ekko responds, "You're right, how could I underestimate you?" Then, he leans close to your ear, his breath brushing your skin. "I think this night is going to be more interesting than I thought."

In a swift move, he works on his belt, then pulls down his pants and underwear to his knees. But he doesn't stop there; he lifts you and raises your dress. In less than a second, he's inside you, large and warm, throbbing.

You gasped loudly and pulled his hair. Everything had happened so suddenly, so wild and erratic. But it was to be expected; you two had had immediate sexual tension from the first time you saw each other. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before this happened.

The heat intensified, the electricity between you became palpable, your hips moving side to side, guided by his firm hands—it was a beautiful, coordinated dance. And before you can react, his lips meet yours in an intense but playful kiss. It's not rushed or desperate but filled with the passion you've both kept at bay, that spark that had always been there, waiting for a moment like this.

The kiss is deep, slow, as his hands explore your body softly but with a need for more. Ekko's playfulness doesn't fade, and you can feel how he changes the rhythm, how his caresses go from gentle to more demanding, as if challenging you to keep up.

"I knew you had something up your sleeve," he says, with a mocking smile between kisses. "But I didn't think you'd be this good at it." Ekko traced lines on your tense abdomen with his fingers while you rode him—you were a sight to behold. His muse. There, under the moonlight caressing your face, your body united with his, it was a masterpiece.

"It's just that you make me want to play at your level," you respond, riding him with a steady, confident rhythm.

Ekko throws his head back, allowing himself to let go for a moment, enjoying your delicious motion. His expression is a delight, mouth slightly open and brows furrowed—the face he makes when he's angry. And you've always had a particular fixation on angry Ekko, so you took advantage of the situation and kissed him once more. You needed it. You needed this. You've needed this for so long.

Every kiss became more frantic, every touch more necessary, every moan more intimate. On the rooftop, under the starry lights and the whisper of the wind, there was only you and Ekko. And that was all that mattered.

Silco

The atmosphere in the room is charged with tension. You've been close to him for some time, ever since that day he took you out of the brothel, that repugnant place that, for reasons you still don't fully understand, he allowed you to leave behind. Life with him is not easy, and you know he's watching you, testing, evaluating you at every moment. But you also know that, in some way, he's protected you, cared for you. And at this moment, that protection seems to be the foundation of what's about to happen between you two.

Silco, standing next to his desk, observes you in silence. His gaze is intense, calculating, but there's something more in it, something that makes you feel a warmth inside. You know you desire him, but you also know that in this moment, in this game between the two of you, you are not in control. And that's something that, strangely, excites you more than you imagined.

"I've been wondering for a while, dear," he says with his deep, controlled voice, "what did you learn in that unpleasant place where I found you?" His tone is cold, but there's something in his gaze that makes everything more intense.

You can't help a wave of shame mingling with desire. You remember that brothel, the looks you received, how you felt empty and worthless. But Silco didn't look at you like the others, he saw something more, something that made you feel important. Now, in front of him, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of you at this moment.

"I want to see how well you learned the lessons there. Maybe I can teach you some new ones." He takes a step toward you, his gaze now warmer but equally firm. "I'm dying to see what you're capable of doing with your hands, with your body."

The comment, though direct and unmistakably harsh, provokes you. And instead of feeling uncomfortable, you feel a surge of excitement fill you. You approach him, without a word, and with a bold gesture, your hands glide over his chest with a softness that contrasts with the hardness of his attitude.

He watches in silence, with that same look that always gives you the feeling he can see beyond the obvious. Silco takes your wrist firmly, without you resisting. He knows what he wants, and he's not afraid to go after it.

"Do you think you're capable of doing it, or should you keep waiting to be 'saved'?" The way he says it challenges you, and it's not the question that bothers you, but the way he throws it at you, as if demanding an answer no matter how much you hate or desire him.

At that moment, something inside you snaps, and you can't help it. You stare at him, defying him, knowing you want him, but not wanting to give in so easily. "Do you really think you can teach me something? I don't think so," you say with a playful tone but with that fire in your eyes that you know he likes.

His response is immediate. He grabs you by the waist and, in a swift movement, pushes you against his desk, bending your torso and pressing your face against the wooden surface. The distance between your bodies is minimal, almost nonexistent, as his hands find your underwear, in a brutal and demanding manner. There is no softness, no tender caresses; it's all hardness, passion, and control. Silco owns the moment, and you are his.

"I think it's time you see what happens when you act like a spoiled brat," he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. And you have the feeling you're on slippery ground, but that only increases the intensity of the moment. His cock enters you slowly, painfully slow, as if he were torturing you, and before you could say anything, he had already started fucking you hard.

Your body reacts immediately, feeling his dominance and the way his hands move over you with urgency. You don't resist because you know this is what you've been waiting for. In his thrusts, there is power, control, but also a palpable desire to possess you, to take what belongs to him.

Silco isn't afraid to show you his rough side. He caresses you firmly, no matter what you think, as if everything you have been until now fades away in the act. You are not the girl you used to be, the one who escaped from men who saw her as mere merchandise. No, now you are in front of him, showing him that you also know what you want.

"I should have fucked you earlier. You feel incredible. Now I understand why you were so expensive; you must have been one of the star workers," he says, with his rough voice, as his hands cling to your hips, pushing into you relentlessly, each movement more demanding than the last. "But now you're mine."

And though every word he says burns you, you know this is a game where neither of you is afraid to lose. Silco has taken over you, but the truth is you have also taken over him, and both are caught in this whirlwind of desire and power, where passion consumes everything.

When you enter, Mel greets you with a soft smile, her gaze as always, deep, calculating, but this time there’s something different in her eyes, something that makes you feel like you’re not in the middle of a negotiation or a political discussion, but in something much more personal.

Mel

"Stay close," she says with that soft but firm voice that always makes you feel like everything else disappears. There are no rules, no power tensions, only the weight of desire slowly building between the two of you.

The distance between you is minimal, but Mel doesn’t make the first move, she waits. She looks at you with those eyes that seem to see everything about you, making you feel exposed but, at the same time, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s as if there’s a tacit permission in her gaze, an understanding that this moment will belong to just the two of you.

The space between you fills with palpable energy, the room dimly lit by candlelight, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. It’s not a place of power, but of calm, where the rules are different, and emotions are raw.

You gasp in surprise when you see her shed her robe, revealing nothing underneath. Her beautiful dark skin contrasted with the golden details she always wore as accessories. She was ethereal. That woman was ethereal.

Insecure, you undress as well, nervous about not meeting her expectations. Because you could never come close to her beauty and divinity. Once you’re naked, your trembling hands move to cover your body.

Mel steps toward you, her delicate but firm hands brushing against your face. "You don’t have to hide," she whispers, and the softness of her voice completely envelops you. For a moment, it seems like nothing else matters. The tension you’ve been feeling dissipates, replaced by a deep desire, something that pulls you toward her.

The touch of her fingers on your skin makes you close your eyes for a moment, allowing yourself to be carried away by the sensation. She gracefully caresses your breasts, tracing every imperfection. There’s no rush, no anxiety, only the slow rhythm set by Mel, allowing you to explore whatever is blossoming between the two of you.

"I want you here," she murmurs in your ear, taking your hand and placing it on her pussy, the warmth there sending a shiver through you. You begin to stimulate her, and she does the same to you. You can feel how her presence fills the space, how her words are not just a whisper, but an invitation to something deeper. In her embrace, in her hands on you, you find a calm you never thought you’d find, but also an intensity you hadn’t anticipated.

It doesn’t matter what’s between you, what’s happened in the past, or what will come in the future, because in this moment, the only thing that exists is Mel and you, and the connection that feels more natural than ever. She doesn’t need anything more from you, she doesn’t demand anything, but you know that what happens between you won’t be just a physical encounter; it will be a turning point, something both of you will treasure.

Mel leans into you, her lips, soft but filled with determination, meeting yours. The intensity of her kiss isn’t aggressive, but it has a depth that captivates you, wrapping you in a calm passion, where every move, every gesture, holds a meaning much greater than physical desire. Your fingers work harder to give her pleasure; you’ve become addicted to her moans, to the way her coded seriousness crumbles in front of you.

She holds you by the waist with one hand, while with the other, she caresses your cheek tenderly, as if, for once, she allows herself to be vulnerable with you. The softness of her touch is almost unsettling but so comforting at the same time. "I trust you," she says, and those words are all you need to hear.

You take control of the situation, pressing her against the nearest wall, your lips sucking on her skin, and your fingers never leaving her wet pussy for a second. She embraces you and lets it happen, allowing herself to be vulnerable with you.

The moment stretches on, and Mel, with her confidence but also with her vulnerability, guides you without rush, without pressure. There are no expectations, only the desire to share something genuine, something real.

Sevika

The alley is dark and silent, shadows are the only thing surrounding you after the mission you just completed with Sevika. Sweat covers your skin, along with the blood you’re not sure belongs to you or the men you took down with your own hands. Torn clothes and dirt on your face are reminders of what you just went through: more than 30 men, and only you and Sevika, emerging victorious from the battle.

Sevika stands by your side, her gaze fierce, her face as marked by the fight as yours. Yet, there is no fear in her eyes, only a determination that ignites something in you, a need for something more, something raw, whatever may arise at this moment. In the middle of the darkness, the air heavy with dust and adrenaline, the chemistry between the two of you is palpable, almost unbearable.

"Did you have fun?" Sevika's voice is rough, as if the battle left more than just physical marks. She takes a step towards you, her large, strong body invading your personal space in a way that makes you feel more alive than ever. It’s not just her presence that burns you; it’s the way she looks at you, as if she’s not afraid of what might happen between the two of you, as if she already knows that, at this moment, there’s only the two of you.

Your breathing quickens, not from exhaustion but from the tension building in the air. You don’t need to say anything; there’s no need for words. The silence between you fills with the mutual need that has been accumulating since the first second you clashed in that alley, fighting side by side.

"We did it, right?" Sevika almost challenges you with her words, her tone low and loaded with desire. Her body moves slowly towards yours, and when her hands grab your waist firmly, you realize there’s no turning back.

Your body trembles when her lips meet yours, rough and filled with unexpected passion. There’s no sweetness in this kiss, only hunger, a need that can’t be hidden. Sevika’s hands roam your back, pulling you toward her with force, as if she’s marking her territory. There’s no play, only the rawness of two people who’ve been on the edge of the abyss and now surrender completely to whatever comes. She makes you climb on her body, your legs wrapping around her hips.

The air smells of sweat, blood and hot skin, the atmosphere so charged that you can feel the heat of her body as if it were merging with yours. Sevika doesn't ask your permission to explore, to take what you both know you've been wanting for far too long. Sevika is strong enough to carry you with one hand and with the other to literally tear your underwear apart. She didn't wait for a yes from you, nor an invitation, because she was sure that you wanted her, oh and how right she was.

Her fingers pumped savagely in and out, the obscene sound of wet flesh smacking against flesh echoing in the close confines of the alley.

"Fuck, you're so fucking wet, little thing," Sevika snarled, her breath hot and ragged against your neck. She punctuated her words with a particularly brutal thrust, bending you nearly in half over her arm.

You could only whimper and writhe, impaled on Sevika's invading fingers, the rough brick scraping your back raw. Sevika's other hand gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh as she fucked you with wild abandon.

It was pure, animalistic rutting, a savage taking of pleasure and seeking of release. Your moans turned to desperate cries, your nails scrabbling at her shoulders as the pleasure bordered on pain.

Every movement is wild, fierce, a whirlwind of sensations you barely manage to process. The sound of ripping clothes, the clattering of shoes against the pavement, and the labored breathing filled with adrenaline fill the alley. In this moment, all that exists is the way Sevika possesses you, with that unstoppable force, with the energy of someone who doesn’t ask permission but takes what’s theirs.

Her fingers never slowed, plunging in and out, stirring up your insides, until finally, with a hoarse scream, you came undone. Your cunt clenched and spasmed around Sevika's fingers, gushing fluid down her wrist and splattering onto the filthy ground below.

But she didn't stop. She kept fucking you through your orgasm, extending it, drawing it out until you were a boneless, mewling mess.

"I've been watching you all this time, you know what you're doing," she whispers between kisses, her deep voice filled with admiration and desire. "I love women who know how to fight."

Then she pulls her fingers out, bringing them to her mouth and sucking your essence from them with a low, satisfied groan.

"Tastes like a woman who knows how to fight to me," she grins wickedly.

The passion was raw, direct, an explosion of repressed emotions, and when it all ends, only the cold sweat of the battle and the warmth of her body still pressed against yours remain, the feeling that, despite everything, this is what both of you needed.

[cheralith]

childhood bestfriend!kaiser who accidentally finds out who you gave your first kiss to after being under the impression you still had it.

sure, you both were reaching an age where most people had already kissed another, been bedded, under-age drank, but kaiser never took you as the type to be so… promiscuous (“your dad was okay with it?” he had asked. “why the hell would i tell my dad about that.” your eye roll had never been louder.)

it was apparently some classmate you had dated briefly back in early high school, a time where you had both were barely able to see each other since kaiser spent some time in jail after being framed and after being bailed out by his manager, spent the majority of his time in his team’s training clubhouse. it didn’t help that it was quite a few towns away from your own, so communication grew weary between you and him during that time.

so when you and him finally reconnected and began to settle down with each other once again at an older age, where you and him were blooming into college, he’s amazed to see how much you had grown during the past few years, how your featured had matured into themselves so elegantly that sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d examine each bit of your features to get a proper look.

it was a little difficult attempting to gain a proper stance from him, since all the training at bastard mündchen had clearly done a work on him both good and bad, but when kaiser felt himself relaxing more and more with each frequented interaction with you—he’s brought back to when you were both children and didn’t know any better of the world around you.

so imagine his shock when you accidentally let it slip out that your first kiss went rather wrong as you and him are watching some sort of foreign sports movie where the main character’s long-time love interest finally kisses him.

“god i remember my first kiss,” you say casually, making kaiser snap his neck towards you so fast.

first kiss? you had your first kiss already? before he did???

sure, kaiser had a good amount of fans that flocked to him every chance they got and perhaps he’s done a little bit of entertaining to them, but even so—he still hasn’t necessarily had such a moment shared with another. he never felt like he needed to focus on it… never felt like it was some deed worth prioritizing becoming the best striker… until now.

“huh?” kaiser shuffles in his place and furrows his brows tightly, a vein barely visible from his forehead. “whaddya mean first kiss? with who? when?”

the questions shoot out all at once, you can’t help but laugh at kaiser’s (supposed) curiosity. you suppose the suspense of knowing what happened to that runt he met at eight years old has experienced since his arrest.

“oh, it was just a classmate from one of my sophomore classes,” you wave a hand, as if it was completely nothing to hold much regard to.

kaiser twitched, his eyes flickering towards your ripened lips. “and you gave him your first kiss?”

“probably my last too,” you sigh out wearily, “haven’t really had much people interested in me since then.”

he fell silent, going to scan your face again once more as you fixated your gaze to the tv, circling in on your lips again that give a soft pout. he twitched.

“he got too excited and ended up moreso clashing his mouth on mine—we ended up clacking teeth pretty hard,” you snort out as you stare in quiet amazement at how tender and soft the tv’s couple’s kisses were. “it ended up hurting too much to try and continue.”

you bite your lip, concentrated. “i dunno, i just wish it was more slowly, more… in-the-moment.”

kaiser twitched once more. noticing your wistful gaze at the movie playing in front of you and him. he flickers his eyes toward the intimate scene that you seem so focused on. he pays attention to how the lips of the two characters flow in a certain rhythm and how they meld into each other. they seem loose, relaxed, and that lack of tension made the kiss seem much more romantic.

he thinks back to some of how his teammates greet their girlfriends with kisses, or how he’ll just see a random couple locking lips with each other in the bars his team and him tended to as a celebration of a victorious game. kaiser had never felt a compulsion to experience such a thing, but there’s a strange magnetic feeling he’s getting that tugs him closer to you that is very much not his own rationale’s doing.

he says it with too much confidence. he says it like he’s done it numerous times before, like he’s a master at it, despite never even paying such avid attention to another’s lips until now. so kaiser doesn’t know why, but he suddenly blurts out,

“then let me show you a proper kiss.”

[contact-guy]

okay I wanna talk about writing this a little bit!

-In the last lines of the comic, Holmes is recalling this conversation.

-There's a part in Granada Holmes (The Hound of the Baskervilles) where Holmes takes off his glove to shake Watson's hand. There was something so intimate about it, I wanted to capture that when he writes the letter.

-For that drawing of Watson standing looking out at the Falls, I kept thinking of a line from Lord of the Rings. It's when Samwise thinks that Frodo has died. He leaves the body, determined to carry on his mission, but stops for a moment to look back. "He peered out at that high stony place where all his life had fallen in ruin." There may be one or two commonalities between the things I like okay?!??

-Also for that drawing, that canon line "who was to tell us what had happened then?" shook me to my core when I first read this story. I knew I had to work it in somehow. What happens to the narrator when his protagonist dies?

-More canon lines - Moriarty talking about an "engine tearing itself to pieces" and "the days of the great cases have passed" are things that Holmes says himself.

-There's an instinct to drawing comics that makes me love making them more than any other medium. When a character is going to go through something complex, first I make sure that I can draw them experiencing that emotion. If I can't draw it, then there's probably something wrong and I need to write a bit more. Here are some sketches I did as I was ideating (which ended up being used in the comic):

-I was agonizing a few months ago about how to do this story, how to bring Holmes to the brink of the cliff and then bring him back. Sometimes when I'm stuck I just freewrite to see what comes up, trying to step through things from the character's perspective and see what makes sense. Here's some of this that I kinda think slaps:

When he survives…

He didn’t expect it. He was fully prepared to die. And he almost steps over that cliff, he does. Because he’s written himself into the end of the story. He’s written John the perfect ending.

But he doesn’t. Some animal part of his starved and neglected body, the part that kept him from falling in the first place, that kept him fighting. Is it the part that was loved and nurtured by watson? Some lingering love keeps him from following Moriarty. Hands that touched him in tenderness and love, now holding him back.

So everything since then has been trying to portray that in the most effective way possible. thank you for reading!

THE FINAL PROBLEM - part 9

This update comes with a content warning, which you can read here if you're so inclined.

THE FINAL PROBLEM - part 9 of a few more - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8.

This is in the Watson's Sketchbook series!

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Girl Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: If Spencer thought being secretly in love with you was hard, having to avoid you in the hallway was even worse.

Words: 4,8k.

Warnings & Tags: mention of jail. painter!reader. post prison reid. spencer’s pov. lack of communication. the reader has a cat. angst, so much angst. this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I struggled a lot writing this because it's a roller coaster, so sorry in advance.

“How long? It's not a problem to take care of everything, but I'd like to know if you'll be okay or—” Your voice almost cracked for a moment, your eyes still trying to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. Spencer's sheets were still wrapped around your body, and you felt so connected to them that the thought of getting up while still watching him toss and turn looking for his shoes was too much.

“I don't think more than a day or two, I'll be fine.” He stopped his chaotic steps for a second and stared at you as if to make a promise. He paused, glancing away as if to compose himself before adding, “I have some work in Mexico. It came up last minute, or I’d have told you earlier.” His voice faltered, almost imperceptibly, and the words sounded rehearsed, like he was repeating something he’d practiced.

You frowned slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “Work in Mexico?” you echoed. “Since when do they send you out of the country for cases?”

“It’s not that kind of work,” he said quickly, his tone just a little too smooth, a little too practiced. “It’s…consulting. A conference on forensic advancements, some behavioral workshops—things like that.” He kept his gaze on the floor as he spoke, as if afraid to meet your eyes. “I won’t be gone long.”

You didn’t question him further. Why would you? Spencer wasn’t the type to lie, and the way his brows knit together, the way his voice softened with the promise, “I’ll be back soon,” made you believe him. But something about the way he shifted his weight, the way he avoided looking directly at you, left a faint unease in your chest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have dinner with you yesterday. And breakfast now. I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” he added, his words tumbling out in a rush, as if trying to fill the silence.

You tightened the sheets around yourself, curling into their warmth, feeling the lingering heat from the side of the bed where he had been only moments before. It felt like he had never really left, the space around you still filled with the faint echo of his presence. Watching him now, his movements a little frantic, his gaze flickering toward the clock every so often, made you feel like he was slipping away too quickly. A part of you, small and selfish, wanted to ask him to stay. To sit back down, to let the world and his trip wait just a little longer.

But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you whispered, barely above a breath, as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment, “Promise?”

Spencer’s gaze softened even further, a tenderness washing over his features as he moved closer to you. His lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite touch his eyes but was filled with something that made your chest tighten. “Promise,” he replied, his voice firm but gentle, as though sealing a pact between the two of you. He leaned down, his warm breath brushing your forehead before his lips followed, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your skin. The kiss was tender, quiet, and almost reluctant, as though he didn’t want to pull away from this moment either. For a moment, his forehead rested against yours, the space between you vanishing entirely. It felt like the world had narrowed to just this—just the two of you—and all the invisible lines you had drawn between friendship and something more blurred into nothing.

But before you could do something stupid, he pulled back, with his eyes lingering on you, still filled with a softness that made your heart flutter. “Have you seen my shoe?” he asked, his voice playful yet tinged with the usual frustration of his misplaced belongings.

You let out a small laugh, still wrapped in the sheets, the warmth from them mingling with the warmth of the moment. “Oh, you’re a mess, little boy,” you teased, your voice light and affectionate, the fondness for him slipping out in every word.

“Mittens take it again?” Spencer asked, his eyes glinting with playful exasperation. He had grown accustomed to your cat’s antics, and he could hardly be surprised at this point.

You nodded, grinning as you pointed to the underside of the bed. “Ding ding, genius,” you replied, your voice light and teasing as his gaze followed your finger. Sure enough, there it was, tucked under the bed—another casualty of your mischievous cat’s nightly adventures.

He grumbled good-naturedly, but a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as if the chaos of the morning didn't matter when you were here with him and everything felt so domestic. As he bent down to pick up his shoe, you couldn't help but watch, your heart swelling at the sight of the man you were so in love with, even in his messiest moments. There was something about him—something in that moment—that made him feel so good, as if everything else could wait and the obvious fact that he didn't feel the same way about you didn't matter. Anyone outside the room generally didn't matter. For now, it was just the two of you, tangled in sheets and laughter, clinging to a piece of time that was all yours and would be the only thing you'd have left when he was gone.

“She loves you, that’s why she does it…I guess she wants your attention,” you said, your voice trailing off, and the taste of the words felt sour in your mouth. It sounded too much like you were talking about yourself rather than your pet, and the realization hit you like a cold wave. It made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain, and you immediately wished you could take the words back. But you didn’t.

He glanced at you, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. “I read something about that,” he said, his voice light, but you could tell he didn’t entirely understand the weight behind your words. It didn’t matter. You were used to it by now.

“You read about everything.” You gave him a small, rueful smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes, the bitterness of the moment creeping into your voice. You were fine with it, you told yourself. Fine with everything.

He glanced at the clock, a quiet sigh escaping him. “I have to go…it’s late,” he said, and you could hear the quiet resignation in his voice. The moment, it seemed, had reached its inevitable end.

“Okay.” The word slipped out of your mouth more dryly than you intended, and you hated the way it sounded. You didn’t want him to leave. You didn’t want the moment to end. But it was already slipping away, and you knew it. “But before you go…come here.”

He hesitated, looking at you with uncertainty in his eyes. But then, slowly, he took a step toward you, his face softening when you reached out to touch his cheek. The moment your fingers brushed against his skin, he shivered, and your heart skipped a beat at the contact.

“Is…is something wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now, as if sensing the shift between you.

“No, I just want to say goodbye properly.” You shifted closer, your heart hammering as you moved toward him, your lips hovering near his. The temptation to close the distance, to kiss him, burned inside you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Take care and come back,” you whispered, the words carrying more weight than you meant. You kissed his forehead gently, your fingers instinctively smoothing his hair down as you did. “Now it’s like you have my blessing,” you added with a faint smile.

He smiled at you, the warmth in his expression a bittersweet thing that made your heart ache. “Thank you, and good luck tomorrow with my godchildren’s.” His voice was soft, but the moment was already passing, slipping away, and with it, the space between you both. He gathered his things, gave you one last lingering look, and then turned toward the door.

You stood there, watching him go, the weight of what you didn’t say crashing down on you. The door clicked shut behind him, and you felt a hollow ache in your chest, a longing you couldn’t quite name.

God, you really wanted kissed him.

God, he really wanted you kissed him.

When Spencer opened his eyes for the first time in a cell and felt a sickening jolt of disorientation. The dirty walls and a rickety bench stared back at him, mocking the comforting image of his organized room and, more painfully, the thought of you. The absence of your laughter, your touch, your presence—everything that had once grounded him—hit him like a freight train. He knew something was wrong.

As the days blurred together and the evidence piled against him, he clung to the belief that this nightmare wasn’t real. Every hearing, every damning piece of evidence that chipped away at his freedom, felt surreal. Even when the judge handed down his sentence, condemning him to months behind bars, the finality of it didn’t register. What shattered him was the moment he filled out his visitation schedule and consciously omitted your name. He hadn’t wanted you to see him like that. He didn’t ask anyone to explain, didn’t try to soften the blow of his absence. That, he thought, was the point of no return—the moment he lost everything.

But Spencer was so wrong. The true breaking point came when he walked out of that hellhole, finally free, and climbed the stairs to his apartment. Each step was a physical ache, the pain in his chest sharper and heavier with every step. His hands trembled as he reached for his keys, the jangling sound unnervingly loud in the empty hallway. His gaze fell on your door, just a few steps away. The familiar sight sent his stomach into knots.

For the first time, he wished you wouldn’t be there.

The thought was alien, unnatural. You had always been there, and he had always wanted you there. When he was too drained to cook, you’d suggest their usual coffee spot, your smile lighting up the grayest of mornings. When his back ached from long nights bent over case files, you’d massage his shoulders, insisting scented candles could fix his bad posture and his bad days. When his mother’s health took a downturn, and he felt his world crumbling, you’d hold him, stroke his back, and promise that everything would be okay. And when his social battery was drained at reunions, you’d step in with your bad jokes or your art facts, making the world feel manageable again.

Now, standing in front of his own door, his fingers clumsy with the lock, all he could hope for was silence. He didn’t know how to face you, didn’t know if he could explain the broken pieces of himself.

His door creaked open, and he was greeted by the familiar scent of the home he had only dreamed of for the last while. It was overwhelming: clean clothes, slightly sweet candles, and something undeniably yours. The apartment was exactly as he remembered it, as if time had stopped the moment he left three months ago and never returned until now. His heart shrank as he took it all in: the blanket you insisted on leaving on the couch, the pile of books you always meant to return to his library but never did, his fish swimming around as if nothing had happened, and even the plants by the window, thriving despite his absence because you had surely watered them without fail.

And then there were the little details, things that told him that you had not moved away from this place, from him. The plate you always left for his cup of coffee, the one you gave him last Christmas, was still on the counter. His favorite cardigan, the one he thought he had misplaced, was folded neatly on the back of the chair and smelled of the baby softener you liked to use. His books were exactly where he had left them, although one of them had a bookmark you had made, a telltale sign that he had read it and was waiting for him to come back to comment on it, as you always did.

But he hadn’t returned.

Not then. And maybe not now at all.

Suddenly, the phone in his pocket rang, its shrill tone slicing through the heavy silence like a sharp reminder of reality. The vibration against his skin startled him, his body tensing as he pulled the device out. His gaze flickered down to the screen, and the name that appeared caused a knot to form in his stomach: JJ. His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind racing, unsure if he was ready for the conversation he knew would follow. But deep down, he knew there was no avoiding her. Jennifer wouldn’t let him slip away unnoticed, and if he didn’t answer, she might show up at his door, demanding answers he wasn’t sure he had.

With a resigned sigh, he swiped the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “Is everything okay?”

The concern in his own voice surprised him. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe he was just desperate to shift the focus away from himself.

“Everything’s fine,” JJ replied, her voice steady but laced with something deeper. “I just wanted to check in. You’ve been…quiet.”

He exhaled slowly, staring out the window, the city lights stretching before him and the memories cutting deep. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Just trying to catch up on things. All good here.”

“Okay,” she said softly, and there was a pause—a hesitation that made his pulse quicken. He could almost hear her thinking, weighing her next words. Then she cleared her throat, the sound small but deliberate. “Have you seen…her?”

The question hit him like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He turned away from the window abruptly, pacing the length of the apartment as if motion could somehow ease the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his chest. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. His jaw clenched, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I don’t know if I want to.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, and he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself. How could he say that when every thought of you still made his heart ache? When the idea of you haunted him, so vivid and constant it felt like you were in every shadow of his empty apartment?

Jennifer’s sigh crackled over the line, heavy and filled with the weight of unspoken truths. “She’s been asking about you,” she said softly, her voice tinged with that unshakable sadness she tried so hard to hide. “Every time I see her. I think…” She hesitated again, and Spencer could hear her swallow hard, choosing her next words carefully. “I think you owe her an explanation.”

He swallowed saliva and tightened his fingers around the phone. JJ was right, of course. She always had been. But the idea of facing you, of trying to explain everything without drowning in tears, seemed impossible. How could he tell you the truth? How could he look you in the eye and admit that he had spent the last three months in jail, paying for a crime he had not committed? That he had done things that he deeply regretted, that made him sick and a horrible person?

You deserved better. You always had.

You were a blessing to anyone who had you around, and he knew that better than anyone. That's why he recommended you as a babysitter for JJ's kids, that's why he insisted that you come out to the bar with him and the team several times, that's why he told his mother about you, and that's why he gave you unlimited access to every single part of his life and told you things he'd never told anyone else. You were the one he thought of during those long, sleepless nights behind bars when JJ brought drawings from her boys. He imagined you there with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Henry with his homework or letting Michael pile blocks on your lap. It was silly—heartbreaking, even—but the thought of you, of your warmth and your kindness, had kept him going.

“I have to go…clean some things,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, so desperate to run away from the topic.

“Okay,” JJ replied softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “Tell me if you need anything.”

Before Spencer could find the strength to speak, the line fell silent. The hum of the apartment filled the space around him, oppressive in its quiet, and he stood there, phone still clenched in his hand. The weight of it, the weight of everything, settled deeper into his chest, making it hard to breathe. He stared at the counter as if it could offer him some sort of escape from the quiet agony that had overtaken him. With a long exhale, he dropped the phone, his fingers lingering on it for a second longer than necessary, before pulling away with a heavy sense of finality.

Just as he was about to move, his mind already drowning in the whirlpool of thoughts he was so desperate to escape, a soft, muted thud broke the oppressive stillness of the apartment. The noise was faint, almost imperceptible, but in the suffocating quiet, it reverberated like a crack of thunder. His breath caught, his heart skipping a beat as his body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the sound, his eyes locking onto the open balcony door.

A sleek black shape emerged from the shadows, moving with a practiced elegance that seemed almost ethereal in the dim light. Mittens.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice breaking on the single syllable, hoarse and unsteady as if even addressing his might shatter the fragile thread of control he was clinging to.

The cat paused for a moment, her head tilting slightly as if considering him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. Then, without a second thought, she padded over, her steps confident and unhurried, the soft click of her claws against the floor the only sound in the room. She jumped lightly onto the couch, then onto the small table beside him, her movements fluid and practiced. As she reached him, Mittens sniffed his hand delicately, then nuzzled it gently, her warm, soft fur brushing against his fingertips. The familiar rumble of her purring filled the air, a soothing, almost hypnotic sound that cut through the tension and wrapped around him like a blanket.

Spencer let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet of the apartment. He hesitated, his fingers brushing the soft fur of her head, unable to stop himself from reaching out.

Mittens leaned into his touch, her purr intensifying as her little body pressed against his hand, seeking warmth, some affection. She didn't care about the months she hadn't seen him or just heard his name spoken a thousand times by you. To her, he was still Spencer, the same one who had fed her, played with her, and cared for her whenever he could. That was enough. She was very happy.

“You still remember me,” he murmured, a faint, fragile smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the first time he’d smiled in what felt like an eternity.

The cat blinked up at him, her green eyes half-lidded with contentment, as if to say, Of course I do.

For a long moment, he just stood there, his hand resting on her soft fur, letting her purring fill the empty spaces inside him. It was such a small thing, her presence, but it reminded him of you—of the life he’d left behind, the warmth he hadn’t realized he’d needed so desperately until now.

But the calm didn’t last, and Spencer’s heart nearly stopped when he heard a soft knock on the door. His gaze snapped up from the cat, who was now lazily sprawled across the arm of the couch, her purring uninterrupted. The knock came again, this time paired with a voice that sent a jolt through his chest.

“Mittens?”

The voice was muffled through the door, but he knew it instantly. It was you.

Another knock followed, gentle but insistent. “Are you here, baby?”

He froze, every muscle in his body tightening as he registered the sound of your voice. You were here, in his apartment—or at least on the threshold of it. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to see you again.

The cat, oblivious to the tension that suddenly filled the room, stretched lazily before hopping down from the couch. Her tail flicked behind her as she padded toward the door, her movements casual, as if she belonged here. Her eyes were fixed on you as you stepped through the open door, your figure partially silhouetted by the light from the outside.

“There you are,” you said softly, your voice brimming with relief. The warmth in your tone hit him like a physical blow, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sound threatening to escape.

You crouched down to scoop the cat into your arms, your movements gentle and practiced. “You scared me,” you murmured, cradling her against your chest. Your voice softened, carrying that familiar tenderness he’d missed so desperately. “You’ve been running off so much lately.”

Spencer pressed himself against the shadowed wall, willing himself to disappear. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t even look at you for fear his body might betray him. The apartment was dark enough to hide him, but he knew the signs of his presence were everywhere—his phone abandoned on the counter, the faint indentation on the couch, the way the air seemed to shift with the weight of him being there.

You didn’t notice. Your focus was entirely on Mittens as you stroked her soft fur, your touch so gentle it made Spencer ache. “I know you miss him,” you murmured, the words falling from your lips so quietly they almost didn’t reach him. “I do too.”

The confession tore through him like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. His chest tightened, and he bit down hard on his lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood. Tears burned in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

You lingered for a moment, your gaze sweeping over the apartment as if you could feel his presence, even if you didn’t see him. Then, with a soft sigh, you turned back toward the door.

“Let’s go home, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Mittens’ head before stepping into the night.

The door closed with a quiet click, and Spencer was left alone once more. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the couch, his hand trembling as it pressed against his face. The silence was deafening, a hollow, aching void that swallowed him whole.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe fate didn’t want you to see him again—at least, not yet.

But then, the next morning, it happened.

You were returning to your apartment, groceries in hand, when you saw him.

He was standing at the end of the hallway with his back to you, as if he was leaving his apartment. As soon as you saw him, your heart skipped a beat and all your rational thoughts vanished. It seemed like an eternity since you had seen him, even though it had only been a few months. Your first instinct was to run to him, throw yourself into his arms, and demand an explanation, but something about his posture made you hesitate. He was stiff, distant, almost sad. His usual warmth was nowhere to be seen. And yet there was something different about him: his long hair, now a bit wilder and more unruly, framed his face in a way you had never seen before. Some curls fell over his eyes, and his beard had grown thicker and darker. The change in his appearance was shocking.

Without thinking, you dropped your groceries at your door and hurried toward him. “Spencer!” you called, your voice trembling with a rush of emotions you had bottled up for months.

He turned slowly, and for a split second, his eyes locked with yours. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, maybe guilt, but it quickly faded, replaced by a cool distance you had never seen in him before, at least not with you. Before you could stop yourself, you reached out and pulled him into a tight hug. It was instinct, more than anything, to wrap your arms around him like you always used to do. The warmth of his body felt like home, like everything you had missed was right there in your arms. You held on tightly, breathing him in as if this would somehow make up for the absence. You’d been so lonely without him, and this, just holding him again, felt like it would fix everything that has been wrong lately.

But to your surprise, Spencer didn’t move an inch. This time his body was rigid, unyielding, as if he didn’t feel you or want you around. He did not return your hug. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge it or really want it. His arms remained stiff at his sides, and you could feel his breath hitching against your neck, but he didn’t respond. It was like hugging a stranger, someone you once knew but no longer recognized.

“God, I missed you…” You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, trying to gauge his expression, but his face was unreadable. His long hair now brushed against the collar of his shirt, the unruly beard framing his jawline. But his eyes were the only thing that stayed the same—cold and distant, void of the tenderness they once held. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer immediately. The silence hung between you, thick and oppressive, before he finally spoke, his voice flat. “Sorry, I…I don’t think I’m the best person for that right now.”

Your heart sank, the warmth of the hug and reunion evaporating into a hollow chill. “What happened?” you whispered, feeling the pain creep into your voice. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you say anything? I was so worried for you and JJ don’t say so much.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look like Spencer, not the one you had known—kind, warm, and always ready to offer comfort. His face was hard, closed off, and distant. He seemed…different, almost cold. “I’m sorry, I needed to get to…work,” he said, his voice clipped and curt. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this hour.”

You felt a pang of confusion and hurt at his words. “What do you mean? You didn’t want to see me? You haven’t been here in months,” you said, the bitterness creeping into your voice. “You just disappear, and then you show up here, like nothing happened? You sleep here? I came to your apartment last night, and you weren’t there.”

He didn’t react. No apology, no acknowledgment of the pain he’d caused. He just stood there, cold, distant. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words almost sounding like an afterthought. “I had work to do. It’s…complicated.”

“Complicated?” The word tasted bitter on your tongue. “That’s all you’ve got after disappearing for three months?”

Finally, his eyes met yours again, but there was no warmth in them. No tenderness, no familiarity. His gaze was hard, as cold as his words. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said sharply, his tone final, cutting through the air like a knife.

It felt like a punch to the gut. The warmth that had once filled your heart whenever Spencer entered a room, the gentle care he had shown you, was now replaced by something colder. It was as if the person you had known—the person who had been your friend, your confidant—had vanished along with the man who used to leave you sweet notes and show up with your favorite food after a rough day.

“You…you don’t owe me anything?” you whispered, your heart breaking with each word.

The silence stretched between you again, suffocating. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

But it was hollow, empty. A formality. Not an apology that meant anything.

And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he turned, walking away. “I have to go,” he said, his voice softer now, but still detached.

Before you could say anything else, he turned, leaving as quickly as he had appeared. And just like that, he was gone again—leaving you alone with the deafening silence and a heart full of questions.

Just like your worst fear: Spencer was avoiding you in the hallway.

[shan-yee]

𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲

𝘑𝘶𝘯-𝘏𝘰 𝘹 𝘝𝘐𝘗!𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

๏𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜= 1393

๏𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜= oral, noncon, imagine that Jun-Ho wasn’t taken away by the old man, reader is a VIP and the wife of one of the guys, the reader wears a bathrobe and underwear, blackmail, the reader always keeps her promises.

๏𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢= Jun-Ho wants informations, she has them. But nothing is free in this word.

๏𝙰/𝙽= English is not my first language, please let me know if you see any mistakes ! Enjoy ✨

๏𝙰/𝙽 2 = When « fine, i’ll do it myself » hits a little to hard. And i think that i’m getting better at writing smut-

[̲̅t̲̅][̲̅a̲̅][̲̅g̲̅][̲̅l̲̅][̲̅i̲̅][̲̅s̲̅][̲̅t̲̅] : @zeizeisjy @fnl9zer @missroro

—I will tell you everything you want, but first, i want you.

Her words resonated in the young policeman's head, he glanced at the remote control she held in a firm grip in her right hand and considered his options.

He could refuse and try to run away but she would set off the alarm which will let everyone know of his presence, or he could accept and she would give him everything he wants.

—Think fast pretty boy.

Jun-Ho took a deep breath and raised his arms in submission before placing his weapon on the oak desk to his right. The young woman smiled at him with a satisfied air and crossed her arms under her chest, she slowly ran her thumb over the big red button on the remote control before slipping it into one of the pockets of her bathrobe.

—Good choice, but just to be sure I'll keep that there.

She sat at the end of her bed and, silently, beckoned him to come closer, her mischievous smile reaching her ears, taunting him. Jun-Ho approached with wary and slow steps, his dark shoes clattering on the floor, near her, he placed a single knee on the ground and stared straight into her eyes. It was a kind of rebellion, a way for him to show her that even if she had him on his knee, he was not her slave and sooner or later he would regain his freedom.

[Y/N] seemed to appreciate his defiance and with her right hand she caressed his face, almost affectionately. She ran her fingertips over his jaw, delicately tracing it down to his chin, then touched his dry, pink lips before finishing her little journey on his eyebrows.

—You’re so pretty. She whispered after a few moments of intense silence.

While she had fun tracing each feature of his face, the young man had wondered how he had found himself in this situation. He had managed to slip away from the room where some VIPs were watching the fifth game take place but had to quickly hide before being noticed by a guard, which led him to enter the young woman's room.

In other circumstances he would surely have turned around when passing her in the street, in a bar, he might even have offered her a drink, if he wasn't too busy hatching a plan to find his brother.

Finally, with the tip of her thumb, she pressed on his chin, making him part his lips and slipped her tongue between them. Jun-Ho seemed surprised but feeling the young woman's nails on his neck, urging him to react, he closed his eyes and reciprocated the kiss.

He felt her breath intertwined with his, just like their tongues, and in a seconds he got caught up in this game of sensuality and his left hand slowly went up the leg of the [H/C] haired woman, from the ankle to the thigh passing through the knee. Once he reached her thigh he planted his fingers in its fat, making his partner smirk in their kiss.

Meanwhile, her fingers gripping his neck slipped through his sweat-damp hair and she passed them through his black locks with a certain tenderness.

Jun-Ho was the first to pull away to catch his breath, a light stream of saliva connecting them before it broke. The young woman smiled at him, a spark of desire shining and flickering in her [E/C] eyes.

—You’re good at kissing, let’s see if you’re good at something else.

The young man watched the VIP's fingers undo the knot that held her [F/C] bathrobe, he stared, breathless, as the fabric slid down her shoulders then spread out on the satin sheets of the bed. His eyes slowly moved up to her stomach and little by little to her chest, he admired it rising then falling with each of her inhalations, her [S/C] skin covered with a very light trickle of sweat.

Jun-Ho slightly straightened up to be face to face with her, he gave her one last disdainful look, which secretly hid another emotion, before placing light kisses on her collarbones. Little by little they descended on her chest and his tongue left a light trail of saliva mixed with her perspiration up to her sternum.

He took a moment to get used to the salty taste that came to prick his tongue before he resumed his kisses on her breasts while his hands, placed on her thighs, slided to the edges of her panties.

He took the underwear, after she lifted her butt off the bed, down her legs and let it fall to the floor. The young woman spread her thighs and he ventured between them without a word.

Their breathing quickened in unison and he felt her burning gaze on the top of his head as well as the skin on the underside of her thighs, which he held apart to have more room, heat up under his palms.

He heard the slats creak as she leaned back, her weight supported by her arms, she looked at him intently, her lips parted and impatient. Suddenly, feeling his hot, ragged, breath against her sex, she squeezed the black satin sheets before closing her eyes, her respiration hitched with apprehension since she hadn't been satisfied by a man in months.

Jun-Ho let go of one of her thighs and came to spread her intimate lips using his thumb, he observed for a few seconds before attacking her clitoris. He kissed it first before taking it between his lips and sucking gently. His black orbs observed her, admiring her face tense with pleasure.

Her reactions gave him a certain pleasure and he felt his breathing speed up as well as his hands becoming sweaty. He wanted to make her pay for this humiliation but a part of him found her sensual and seductive, perhaps without realizing it, he was enjoying it much more than he would like to admit.

Using the tip of his tongue, he made small, quick and precise circles. It didn't take long for Jun-Ho to understand what she liked, the leg of the young woman he held in his left hand beginning to tremble under his movements.

[Y/N] fell back, which surprised the police officer between her legs who followed the movement of her body and brought her pelvis closer to the edge of the bed, while letting out a small chuckle which quickly turned into moans. The back of her head sank into the covers as she bit her lower lip, trying to suppress her noises of pleasure, and quickly the fingers of her hand stretched to get lost in her partner's black locks.

She pulled lightly on it as the muscles in her lower abdomen contracted as she felt her orgasm coming. Jun-Ho seemed to understand this and his long movements became faster while two of his fingers came to venture inside her.

It only took a few movements of scissors and tongue for the knot that had formed in her stomach to explode and a long moan to echo through the room. The woman felt her eyes roll back and her thighs suddenly lock and cramp from the pleasure.

She had had many partners in her life, without her husband knowing it of course, but rare were the times when she had felt such ecstasy, not only was he handsome but his tongue was one of the best.

Jun-Ho slowly stood up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and retrieved his gun without taking his eyes off her. The [H/C] haired woman, after regaining her senses, stood up and gave him a confused look.

—You said you wanted me, you had me, now give me what i want.

There was a slight pregnant pause where she could observe his beautiful glistening skin under the dimly light of the room as well as a slight bulge in the chic black pants that he had stolen, finally the young rich woman started to laugh, her breathing still irregular, numb legs and wet forehead—like her inner thighs—.

—Alright pretty boy, give me your number and I will send you every proof I have.

[yellowfics]

“can i leave a kiss on your soft lips, baby?”

it was one of those days. the kind of day where bakugo katsuki found himself in an internal battle, silently questioning what the hell it was about you that had him so damn hooked.

it reminded him of the time his mom used to go on about how she fell in love with his old man, telling that whole corny love story. he thought it was stupid back then, but now, here he was, going through the same damn thing with you.

you weren’t doing anything special, and you hadn’t changed a damn thing about how you looked—you were just you. the way you carried yourself, the way your laugh filled the room as you scrolled through your phone, probably watching some dumb tiktok. and that laugh, all carefree and unaware, drove him crazy. you had no idea how much it was getting to him. hell, he loved every little thing about you, even if it pissed him off sometimes.

katsuki stood by the counter, arms crossed, crimson eyes trained on you. he told himself he wasn’t staring; he was observing. watching. noticing every damn detail about you.

why the hell do you have to look so good doing nothing? he thought, scowling as he clenched his jaw.

it annoyed him to no end. not you—no, never you—but the fact that he couldn’t stop feeling this way. the worst part was you weren’t even trying to be attractive; you just were. the kind of attractiveness that made him feel vulnerable, and katsuki bakugo didn’t do vulnerable.

when you glanced up from your phone and caught his glare, you raised an eyebrow. “why are you looking at me like that?”

“like what?” he snapped, quickly averting his gaze and biting the inside of his cheek.

“like i just insulted your cooking or something.” you tilted your head, amused.

“damn it,” he muttered under his breath, ignoring your teasing.

you set your phone down, curiosity piqued. “what’s up with you?”

he didn’t answer immediately. his gaze flicked back to you, and it hit him again. that look in your eyes, the sound of your voice, the way you stood there like you weren’t making his heart pound out of his chest. katsuki ran a hand through his spiky blond hair, a growl rumbling low in his throat as he closed the distance between you.

when he was close enough, he reached out, his calloused hand cupping your face. his thumb brushed over your cheek, rough but surprisingly gentle. you blinked up at him, caught off guard.

“katsuki?” your voice was soft, questioning his actions.

he didn’t answer right away, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. for a moment, his usual scowl softened, something unspoken passing between you. then, in a voice low and steady, he said,

“can i leave a kiss on your soft lips, baby?”

your breath hitched, and your lips parted in surprise. a shy smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you nodded.

the corners of his lips twitched into a small smirk before he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. the kiss was slow and filled with a raw intensity that made your heart race. katsuki wasn’t often tender—he didn’t think he needed to be—but when he was, it was like the world melted away, leaving only the two of you.

when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his crimson eyes still locked onto yours.

“you drive me crazy,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. “hate how much i love you sometimes.”

you laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “i love you too, katsuki.”

[celestialmatcha7]

fragmented | nam-gyu

pairing: nam-gyu x gn! reader

genre: angst with some fluff

summary: nam-gyu relapses into drug use, and when y/n finds him in a fragile state, they offer comfort and reassurance. y/n promises to help him through the struggle, reminding him he’s not alone in the fight.

author’s note: i love nam-gyu. i just wanted to contribute and provide something for my fellow nam-gyu admirers. this imagine takes place prior to the games.

The dim light of the apartment barely illuminated the chaos inside. Clothes were strewn everywhere, a chair overturned, and the faint, acrid smell of smoke lingered in the air. You had come straight from work after Nam-gyu hadn’t returned any of your texts or calls all day. A pit of worry had settled in your stomach, and now, as you opened the door to find him sitting in the corner of the room, trembling, that worry turned to a heavy ache in your chest.

His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, his head resting on top as if the weight of the world was too much to bear. His once-vibrant eyes were clouded, red-rimmed, and glassy. A crumpled packet lay nearby, damning evidence of the fight he had tried so hard to win but lost today.

“Nam-gyu…” Your voice was soft, cautious, not wanting to startle him.

His head snapped up anyway, his face crumpling the moment he saw you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice hoarse, as though he’d been screaming or crying—or both. “I—I tried. I swear I tried.”

You immediately knelt in front of him, reaching out, but he flinched. The sight broke your heart into a thousand shards. “Hey, it’s okay,” you whispered, even though it wasn’t okay. Not for him, not for you. But right now, he didn’t need reminders of failure. He needed you to anchor him before he drifted further away.

“I promised you,” he said, voice cracking. His hands shook violently as he pressed them against his temples, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I promised I’d stop. I just—I couldn’t. It hurts, Y/N. It hurts so much.”

You inched closer, carefully wrapping your arms around his hunched form. He stiffened at first, but then his body crumbled into yours, his face burying in the crook of your neck. His skin was clammy, his breaths erratic.

“I’m here,” you murmured, stroking his disheveled hair. “You’re not alone in this. I’ve got you, Nam-gyu.”

He clung to you as though you were his lifeline, sobs wracking his frame. “What’s wrong with me?” he mumbled against your shoulder. “Why can’t I just be normal for you?”

“Nam-gyu, listen to me.” You pulled back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and the sight of his anguish nearly undid you, but you steadied your voice for his sake. “You’re not broken, and you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here, and I’ll keep being here, okay? We’ll get through this together.”

He nodded shakily, though his eyes still brimmed with self-loathing. You pressed your forehead to his, letting the silence stretch between you. Your steady breaths guided his, slowing his erratic rhythm until he could breathe without gasping.

“I’ll call the counselor tomorrow,” you said gently, brushing a tear from his cheek. “We’ll get you back on track. One step at a time.”

Nam-gyu sniffled, his lips trembling. “You really don’t hate me?”

You gave him a small, tender smile. “I could never hate you. You’re fighting, Nam-gyu. Even when you stumble, you’re still fighting. That’s what matters.”

His arms tightened around you again, and for the first time in hours, a faint glimmer of hope flickered in his tired eyes. You stayed like that for a long time, holding him close, reminding him with every touch and every word that he wasn’t alone—that you’d always be there, even when the battle felt impossible.

[niniwritesxo]

‘tell me to stop and i will’

kang dae-ho x fem reader

part two of ‘please’

——————————————————————————

The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of Dae-ho’s ragged breathing. His hands lingered at his sides, clenched into fists, as if he was trying to hold himself back. But his eyes, his eyes were locked on yours, intense and unyielding, pulling every thought from your head until all that remained was the weight of him standing so close.

“I should go,” he muttered, though he made no move to leave. His voice was low, uneven, and the way his gaze flickered to your lips betrayed every word he’d just said.

“Then go,” you replied softly, though the words felt hollow even as you said them.

He let out a sharp breath, his jaw tightening. “You don’t mean that.”

Your stomach twisted, and before you could respond, he took a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating off him. His hands hovered near your waist, like he wanted to touch you but didn’t trust himself to.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was an edge to it, a challenge. “Tell me, and I will.”

Your breath hitched, your pulse thundering in your ears. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. The words wouldn’t form, trapped somewhere between your mind and your heart.

“Say it,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “If you want me to leave, just say it.”

But you couldn’t.

His hand rose slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered against your cheek, and the tenderness in the gesture made your chest ache. “You don’t want me to stop,” he said, almost to himself, like he was trying to convince himself it was okay.

Your skin burned where his hand touched, and you felt your face heat as the weight of his words settled over you. “I—” You faltered, the sound of your own voice foreign and unsteady.

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your jawline. “Even now, you won’t admit it.”

Your breath caught as his hand slid to the back of your neck, his touch firm but careful. The air between you felt impossibly thick, and the tension was so sharp it almost hurt.

“Dae-ho…” you started, but your voice betrayed you, shaking just enough for him to notice.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want me to go insane y/n.”

You swallowed hard, the words tangling in your throat. The weight of him, his presence, his intensity, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him standing was almost too much.

“I’m not going to stop unless you tell me to,” he said again, his voice low and steady, his lips just a breath away from yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

And then, like a dam breaking, his lips found yours. The kiss was deep, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, the feel of you, as though this moment was something he couldn’t let slip away.

Your hands moved without thought, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if to keep yourself grounded. The world around you faded, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything else fell away.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though his grip on you didn’t loosen. “I just… I couldn’t stop myself.”

You shook your head, still catching your breath. “Don’t apologize,” you murmured, your voice trembling.

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find some kind of reassurance. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly.

“You won’t,” you replied, your voice soft but firm. “You won’t lose me, Dae-ho.”

The relief in his expression was subtle but unmistakable. And as his hand lingered at the nape of your neck, you knew that whatever came next, you weren’t letting go of each other.

[moonselune]

companions and drunk reader crying and cuddling with scratch + owlbear :33

I did this set at the reunion party because for some reason I thought that was part of the prompt but hey ho, some fluff to warm our souls and brighten us up during this darkside of the year <3

Karlach:

The reunion party was in full swing, the lively hum of conversation and laughter filling the air. Music played from a makeshift ensemble, and the scent of roasted meat and ale mingled with the crisp night breeze. You and Karlach had been inseparable for most of the evening, both of you reveling in the joy of being free from the hellish grasp of Avernus - even if it was a brief respite. Friends surrounded you, their faces lit with genuine smiles—a rare luxury in the trials you’d all endured together.

But as the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely, Karlach found herself chatting animatedly with Wyll and Gale about some shared escapades. It wasn’t until a lull in the conversation that she noticed your absence.

Her brow furrowed as she scanned the crowd. Where had you gone? You’d been right beside her just moments ago. Her heart sank slightly as her mind played through the possibilities, but then she noticed a faint commotion near the far side of the camp, where the light of the bonfire barely reached.

Curiosity and concern prompted her to investigate.

As she approached, Karlach was met with a sight that was both hilarious and heartwarming. There you were, sprawled on the ground, your cheeks flushed from too much drink, nestled comfortably between Scratch, who was contentedly licking your face, and the owlbear cub—no longer a cub but still unmistakably affectionate. The owlbear had draped itself partially over your lap, its massive body radiating warmth, while you murmured incoherent endearments and occasionally giggled.

“You are such a good boy, Scratch,” you slurred, scratching behind the dog’s ears with one hand while your other patted the owlbear’s soft feathers. “And you—big ol’ fluff monster—you’re my second-best friend in the whole wide world. Don’t tell Scratch, though.”

The owlbear let out a low, rumbling coo, and Scratch wagged his tail enthusiastically.

Karlach leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, and just watched you for a moment, her expression softening. The firelight caught in her amber eyes, reflecting the warmth she felt in her chest. After everything you’d been through—fighting, surviving, struggling—it was moments like these that made it all worthwhile. Seeing you so carefree, surrounded by creatures who adored you, filled her with a quiet contentment.

“Well, well,” she drawled, stepping closer, her voice laced with affection. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’ve already gone and replaced me with fur and feathers.”

You looked up at her, blinking owlishly, and broke into a wide, dopey grin. “Karlach! Join us! There’s so much love here, it’s like… like a cuddle explosion!”

She chuckled, her heart melting a little more. “A cuddle explosion, huh? Sounds dangerous.”

“It’s the best kind of dangerous,” you declared, patting the ground beside you.

Karlach didn’t need much convincing. With a theatrical sigh, she dropped to the ground beside you, her warm body pressing against yours. Scratch immediately climbed into her lap, while the owlbear shuffled closer to include her in its feathery embrace.

“You know,” she said, her voice low and tender, “I think this might be the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

“‘Cause I’m with you,” you mumbled, resting your head on her shoulder. “And Scratch. And Big Fluffy. It’s perfect.”

Karlach wrapped an arm around you, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

“You’re perfect, babe” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Minthara:

The reunion party was a raucous affair, the camp alive with laughter, clinking mugs, and the occasional outburst of song. Minthara had joined reluctantly at your insistence, her usual composed demeanor barely hiding the faint amusement she felt as she observed the chaos.

The Drow paladin rarely indulged in such frivolity, the two of you had an Underdark to conquor afterall, but tonight she allowed herself to linger, even engaging in a deep conversation with Astarion, who had recently returned to the Underdark to settle down.

As the two shared dry wit and sharp banter, Minthara’s keen eyes darted across the camp, instinctively searching for you. When she realized you were nowhere in sight, she narrowed her eyes.

"Where has that fool wandered off to now?" she muttered under her breath, much to Astarion’s amusement.

“Ah, love,” Astarion quipped, a sly smirk on his lips. “It makes us chase after them even when we’d rather not.”

Minthara rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. She excused herself, muttering something about responsibility, and began to search for you. It didn’t take long—muffled giggles and low, rumbling noises led her toward the outskirts of the gathering. There, illuminated by the faint glow of the moonlight, she found you sprawled on the ground.

You were nestled between Scratch and the owlbear cub—though it had long since outgrown the 'cub' moniker—and were clearly the drunkest she had ever seen you. Your face was flushed, your hair mussed, and your arms were wrapped tightly around the two creatures as if they were your most precious treasures.

“Listen,” you whispered conspiratorially to the owlbear, though your volume defeated the purpose. “We’re gonna take over the Underdark. Me, you, Scratch, and Minthara. She’s so scary and smart. We’ll rule everything. But don’t tell her—it’s a secret plan.”

Minthara crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow as she approached.

"A secret plan, is it?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock disdain. “Taking over the Underdark with a dog and an owlbear? Truly, you’re a visionary.”

You looked up at her with wide, bleary eyes, your face breaking into a sloppy grin.

“Minthara! You found me!” you exclaimed, holding out a hand. “Join us! It’s a cuddle coup.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, though there was a flicker of amusement in her crimson eyes.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, turning to walk away.

But before she could take a step, you staggered to your feet with surprising agility for someone so far gone. With a triumphant shout, you lunged at her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her down to the ground.

Minthara yelped in surprise, glaring daggers at you as she landed unceremoniously on the grass.

“Have you lost your mind?” she snapped, but her anger quickly gave way to resignation as Scratch and the owlbear cub immediately joined in, nuzzling against her.

She froze, her normally stern expression softening as Scratch licked her cheek and the owlbear rumbled contentedly. She didn’t push them away, though she grumbled, “You’ve turned me into a damned pillow.”

You beamed at her, your face close to hers as you slurred, “You’re the best pillow ever. And the best everything else. I adore you, Minthara. You, Scratch, Owlie—you're all my favorite.”

Her cheeks darkened with a faint blush, though she refused to acknowledge it.

“You’re drunk,” she said curtly, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.

“And in love,” you replied with drunken sincerity, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips. It was sloppy and uncoordinated, but Minthara didn’t pull away. She sighed, her hand coming to rest on your cheek for just a moment before she let it fall.

“I'm going to kill you,” she muttered, though her tone was more affectionate than irritated.

You grinned, nuzzling against her like a contented cat. “I can't wait.”

Minthara rolled her eyes, though a small, almost imperceptible smile played at the corners of her mouth. As Scratch and the owlbear settled around you both, she resigned herself to her fate, lying back against the grass and letting the warmth of the moment wash over her.

Perhaps you were impossible. But you were hers.

Lae'zel:

The reunion party was in full swing, the air buzzing with laughter, music, and the clinking of mugs. You’d coaxed Lae’zel into attending, promising her that Xan, your precious hatchling, would be fine under the watchful eyes of Voss and the rebels - who were surprisingly more than happy to look after him. Though she had reluctantly agreed, you noticed her gaze drifting toward the camp’s perimeter now and then, her brows furrowed with that familiar Githyanki intensity.

“Relax, Lae’zel,” you teased, nudging her gently. “Xan is fine. Tonight is about us.”

Lae’zel gave you a skeptical glance but said nothing, her hand brushing against yours briefly—a rare public display of affection from her that made your heart swell. For a while, the two of you enjoyed the festivities, sharing drinks and banter with your companions. But as the evening wore on and the wine flowed more freely, you became… well, significantly more inebriated.

At some point, Lae’zel turned to speak with Wyll, who was recounting one of his latest exploits. When she turned back, you were gone.

Her jaw clenched as she scanned the crowd, her warrior instincts kicking in despite the harmless nature of the gathering. She stomped through the camp, muttering curses under her breath as she searched for you.

“You couldn’t stay in one place, could you?” she growled.

It wasn’t long before she heard familiar, albeit slurred, murmuring. Following the sound, she found you sprawled on the ground near the campfire, flanked by Scratch and the now nearly full-grown owlbear cub. Tears streamed down your face as you hugged the animals close, stroking their fur and feathers.

“I love her so much,” you sobbed into Scratch’s neck. “And Xan. Xan is perfect. Perfect little hatchling.”

Lae’zel froze, her expression caught between exasperation and disbelief. She crossed her arms and glared down at you. “What are you doing, fool?”

You looked up at her, your face lighting up with drunken joy.

“Lae’zel!” you cried, holding out your arms. “You’re here! You’re so amazing, and strong, and—hic—beautiful. I love you.”

Lae’zel pinched the bridge of her nose, her shoulders heaving with a deep sigh.

“You are worse than Xan when he is hungry,” she muttered. Turning her attention to the animals, she pointed toward the river. “Drag this mess into the water. Perhaps it will sober them up.”

Scratch tilted his head, his tail wagging, while the owlbear let out a soft, rumbling croon. They looked at her, clearly uninterested in complying.

You giggled, stroking the owlbear’s feathers. “They like you, Lae’zel. They know you’re the best. Everyone knows you’re the best.”

Lae’zel’s irritation flickered, her lips pressing into a tight line as she fought to suppress the small smile threatening to emerge.

“You’re insufferable,” she declared, but there was no venom in her tone.

At her words, you burst into fresh tears. “Xan is so lucky to have you as a mom. I’m so lucky! How did I get so lucky?”

Lae’zel knelt beside you, her movements stiff but deliberate as she pulled you upright and into her arms.

“You’re drunk and ridiculous,” she said, her voice low but steady.

You wrapped your arms around her, clinging tightly. “But I love you,” you mumbled into her shoulder.

Lae’zel let out a small, exasperated sigh, but she didn’t push you away. Instead, she adjusted her grip, holding you firmly against her.

Her fingers brushed against your hair as she murmured, “You are fortunate I have patience tonight.”

You snuggled into her embrace, your tears finally subsiding as warmth and exhaustion took over. Though her expression remained stoic, a faint, hidden smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She did love you, she loved Xan, and the feathered and furred beasts weren't too bad either.

Shadowheart:

The reunion party was a vibrant celebration, a gathering of friends, companions, and allies, each reveling in the hard-won peace after so many battles. You and Shadowheart stood together, hand in hand, sharing a quiet joy amid the merriment. The news that the owlbear cub—now a formidable but still affectionate creature—would be coming back to your farm had filled you both with delight. The prospect of a peaceful life on your little slice of the countryside, surrounded by Scratch, the owlbear, your other small army of animals and each other, was everything you’d dreamed of.

You’d both mingled, laughed, and shared drinks, but at some point, Shadowheart turned to grab another bottle of wine, only to find you had disappeared. Her brow furrowed, though she didn’t panic. You weren’t exactly subtle when you were drunk, and it wasn’t hard to follow the sound of your voice, rising in animated, tearful elation.

When she finally found you, Shadowheart couldn’t help but pause, her arms crossing as she observed the scene before her. You were seated on the grass near the campfire, Scratch pressed against your side, his tail wagging lazily, while the owlbear nestled on the other side, its feathers ruffled as you gently stroked its beak.

“And you’re gonna love the farm,” you slurred, gesturing wildly with the bottle in your hand. “There’s fields to run in, and soft places to sleep, and you two—” you sniffed, your voice breaking slightly as you turned to the animals— “are gonna be so happy. So loved.”

The owlbear let out a deep, contented rumble, and Scratch licked your cheek, which only made your drunken tears flow harder. Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small smile.

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” she said, stepping into the firelight.

Your head snapped up, your face lighting up as if you’d seen the sun itself.

“Shadowheart!” you cried, scrambling to your feet only to stumble and flop back onto the grass. “You’re here! Come here, come here—cuddle pile!”

Shadowheart sighed but couldn’t suppress her amused grin as you reached out for her.

“You’re hopeless,” she muttered, though there was no real bite to her words. She approached and allowed herself to be pulled down into the pile of fur and feathers, the owlbear shifting to make room for her as Scratch barked happily.

“This is the best night ever,” you declared, wrapping your arms around her and pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m so happy, Shadowheart. We’re gonna have the best life. You, me, Scratch, and this big feathery baby.”

She shook her head, laughing softly as she snatched the bottle from your hand.

“You’ve had enough,” she said, taking a swig herself. The wine burned pleasantly as it went down, and she let out a contented sigh. “Though I suppose I can’t argue with your enthusiasm.”

As the night wore on, Shadowheart found herself caught up in your infectious joy. She joined in on your rambling talks of the future—of gardens you’d plant, adventures you’d take, and all the little moments of happiness waiting for you both.

“You know,” she said, her voice soft as she leaned her head against your shoulder, “I think you’re right. This is going to be a good life.”

Your only response was a drunken hum of agreement, your arms tightening around her as the warmth of the fire, the animals, and each other enveloped you both. In that moment, everything felt perfect. Everything was perfect. Everything was going to be perfect.

Jaheira:

The reunion party was in full swing, laughter and music filling the air as friends and allies celebrated the peace you had all fought so hard to achieve. You and Jaheira stood together for much of the evening, your hand occasionally brushing against hers in a quiet intimacy. She was radiant in her element, speaking with old friends, trading stories of past battles, and offering wisdom to those who sought it.

At some point, she became engrossed in a conversation with Halsin, the two of them naturally drawn together by their shared love for nature and nurturing. Their talk turned to the orphans Halsin had come to care for, and Jaheira, with her ever-compassionate heart, shared tales of her own tendency to adopt and guide wayward children.

“I suppose I can’t help myself,” she admitted with a soft chuckle. “Perhaps it’s the druid in me, or perhaps just the mother.”

Halsin nodded with a knowing smile. “It’s a noble trait, Jaheira. The world is better for it.”

But as Jaheira began to share another story, she realized something: you were no longer at her side. She scanned the crowd, her brow furrowing in mild irritation.

“Speaking of wayward children,” she muttered under her breath, excusing herself from Halsin with a polite nod. “Now where have you wandered off to?”

It wasn’t hard to track you down; she simply followed the faint sound of sniffling and tearful rambling. What she found made her stop in her tracks, crossing her arms with an exasperated sigh.

There you were, sprawled on the grass near the fire, clutching Scratch and the owlbear cub—though it was hardly a cub anymore. The owlbear sat with a dignified sort of calm, its feathers ruffled from your clumsy affection, while Scratch lay happily across your lap, his tail wagging lazily.

“And you guys,” you sniffled, gesturing to the animals with the bottle still clutched in one hand, “you’re the best. I love you so much. You’re good boys. The best boys.”

Jaheira approached, shaking her head as she took in the sight of you, your face red from tears and wine.

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, though her voice held a note of amusement. You looked up, your tear-streaked face lighting up at the sight of her.

“Jaheira!” you cried, holding your arms out dramatically. “You’re here! Come cuddle with us!”

“Cuddle?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Darling, you’re drunk.”

“I’m emotional,” you corrected, your voice wobbling as fresh tears welled in your eyes. “And you have to cuddle with us, or—or I’ll never forgive you! Ever!”

Jaheira sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead as though trying to muster the patience of a saint.

“You are worse than Halsin's orphans,” she teased, but there was no mistaking the warmth in her tone. “And that’s saying something.”

Your lip wobbled, and you clutched Scratch tighter.

“Please,” you whimpered, the plea so earnest and pitiful that Jaheira couldn’t help but laugh.

“All right, all right,” she said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “If it means that much to you.”

She knelt beside you, allowing you to pull her into the chaotic cuddle pile. The owlbear gave a soft hoot, adjusting its position to include her, while Scratch wagged his tail even harder at her presence.

“See?” you murmured, wrapping your arms around her as you leaned heavily against her shoulder. “This is nice. Isn’t it nice?”

Jaheira let out a long-suffering sigh, though a smile tugged at her lips as she rested her head against yours.

“You’re ridiculously impossible,” she said softly. “But yes, this is… nice.”

For a while, the two of you sat there, surrounded by warmth and fur and feathers. Jaheira found herself relaxing despite the absurdity of the situation, her arm slipping around your waist as she pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she murmured. You hummed happily, nuzzling into her shoulder.

“I know,” you slurred, the wine making your voice thick. “And I love you, too. So, so much.”

Jaheira chuckled, shaking her head as she tightened her hold on you.

“You’ll be the death of me,” she said fondly. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Gale:

The reunion party buzzed with energy, laughter and conversation flowing freely among friends old and new - thanks to Minsc's addition. You and Gale were nestled in a quieter corner of the celebration, a glass of wine in your hand and Gale gesturing animatedly with his own as he launched into an impassioned tale about his latest trials as a professor at Blackstaff Academy.

“…and would you believe it? One of the students thought it prudent to attempt wild magic on their first evocation test! I spent half the afternoon dispelling chaos and putting out fires—literal fires—and the other half explaining why summoning imps in a classroom was hardly conducive to learning.”

You nodded along, smiling as you watched the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of his work. His passion was endearing, and yet… a mischievous thought crept into your mind as you caught sight of Scratch wagging his tail nearby, the owlbear cub—no longer quite a cub—lounging lazily beside him.

When Gale paused to take a sip of his wine, you saw your chance.

“Fascinating,” you said quickly, standing and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Be right back, love.”

He blinked, caught off guard but easily reassured by the peck. “Oh, certainly. Don’t wander too far.”

You didn’t answer, instead making a beeline for the animals. A few moments later, you were leading Scratch and the owlbear cub away from the main gathering, giggling to yourself as you went. An hour later, Gale finally noticed your absence and set off to find you.

He tracked you down by the sound of your voice, soft and teasing as you lounged in a quiet grove just beyond the party. There you were, sprawled on the grass with Scratch snuggled into one side and the owlbear cub resting its heavy head on your lap. Your cheeks were flushed with drink, your eyes glassy with a mix of affection and mischief.

“And Gale,” you slurred, stroking the owlbear’s feathers as if imparting some great wisdom, “wanted to be a god. A god! Can you believe it? Silly Gale. He doesn’t need to be a god. He’s already… already my god. My love, my life…” Your voice dropped conspiratorially, and you hiccupped. “But he would’ve been a prick as a god. Don’t you think?”

“Do you think so?” Gale’s amused voice cut in, and you turned your head to see him standing there, arms crossed but a fond smile tugging at his lips. You gasped dramatically.

“Gale!” You grinned at him, patting the grass beside you. “Come here! Join us! Cuddle!”

“I think not,” he said, though the smile on his face betrayed him. “Someone has to ensure you don’t declare my divine candidacy to the owlbear.”

Your grin wavered, and you pouted, your bottom lip trembling as your eyes filled with exaggerated tears.

“You won’t cuddle with me?” you sniffled, your voice wobbling. “You don’t love me anymore?”

Gale’s resolve crumbled instantly. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know I can’t say no to that face.”

With a dramatic flourish, you opened your arms wide. “Then get over here, Professor Dekarios!”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the laughter bubbling in his chest as he lowered himself to the grass beside you. Scratch immediately wriggled over to press against his side, while the owlbear gave a satisfied huff and shifted to accommodate him. You threw your arms around him, nuzzling into his chest as if he were the most comfortable pillow in the world.

“See?” you murmured, your voice soft and content. “This is perfect. My god. My Gale.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I suppose there are worse fates than being your god. Though next time, perhaps less wine and more water.”

You hummed in agreement, already half-asleep against him. Gale shook his head, his heart full as he tightened his arms around you and let the peaceful moment wash over him.

Astarion:

The reunion party was in full swing, with the warm glow of laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. You and Astarion had arrived arm-in-arm, though the two of you quickly found yourselves mingling with different groups. Astarion had gravitated toward Minthara, the two of them caught in an animated conversation about how you and he had adjusted to life in the Underdark—a topic Astarion spoke of with a surprising fondness.

You, however, had been immediately distracted by Scratch, whose wagging tail and joyful demeanor were too much to resist. You’d spent some time tossing a stick for him before finding the owlbear cub—now fully grown—lounging nearby. One thing led to another, and soon enough, you’d wandered off, leaving Astarion none the wiser.

When he finally noticed your absence, it was only because Minthara raised an eyebrow mid-conversation. “It seems your partner has… disappeared.”

Astarion sighed, his eyes scanning the crowd. “They do tend to wander, don’t they? One moment they’re here, the next, they’ve likely befriended every stray within a ten-mile radius.”

It didn’t take him long to find you. The sound of your drunken sniffles and delighted murmurs led him to a quiet corner of the grove, where you were sprawled on the grass, your arms wrapped around Scratch and the owlbear cub. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glassy, and you were mid-sentence in what appeared to be an earnest declaration.

“You’re just… so cute,” you hiccupped, scratching the owlbear behind its feathered ears. “Both of you. The cutest. I don’t deserve you. Nobody does.”

Astarion stepped closer, his lips curling into a smirk as he crossed his arms.

“Well, well, what have we here?” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “The drunkest I’ve ever seen you, cuddling animals and crying over their cuteness. Truly, a sight to behold.”

You looked up at him, your expression a mix of delight and indignation.

“It’s not my fault!” you exclaimed, sitting up—though the effort made you wobble. “Scratch… Scratch has been fetching me wine!”

Astarion raised a skeptical brow, his smirk widening. “Scratch has been fetching you wine? Darling, I taught you to lie better than that.”

You gasped, clutching Scratch protectively. “Are you calling me a liar? Scratch would never let me lie. He’s too good, too pure!”

The dog wagged his tail innocently, clearly pleased with the attention. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips as he moved to sit beside you.

“Yes, yes, Scratch is the pinnacle of virtue. Now, move over before you collapse completely.” He pulled you against his side, his arm wrapping around your waist. You immediately snuggled into him, still hiccuping slightly as you continued to pet the animals.

Just as Astarion was starting to feel truly settled, Scratch suddenly trotted off.

“And where are you going, you furry little enabler?” he called after the dog. Moments later, Scratch returned, tail wagging proudly as he carried a bottle of blood in his jaws. Astarion’s mouth fell open slightly in surprise, and then he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Well, I’ll be damned. He really is a very good boy.”

He took the bottle from Scratch, patting the dog’s head affectionately.

“My apologies, my love. It seems you weren’t lying. Who would have thought Shadowheart’s greatest contribution to our journey all those months ago was teaching this beast to fetch drinks?”

You giggled, leaning up to press a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Told you so. Scratch is a genius. The cutest genius in the whole wide world.”

"And what about me, am I not cute?" Astarion asked in mock offence as he brushed a rogue strand of hair out of your face.

"Not as cute as Scratch and Owlbear but you try -hey give me back my wine!" You whined as Astarion took your bottle from you, brows raised, suggesting you try again. You huffed and rested your head on his shoulder looking up at him with big wet doe eyes. "You are not as cute, because you are twice as beautiful."

"I don't know if that makes sense, but I'll take it." He said, giving you back your wine with a small smile. He would have taken it off you, you really were the drunkest he had ever seen but your so-called 'wine' was actually water, Scratch really was a genius.

Wyll:

The reunion party was in full swing, a mix of old friends, laughter, and the clinking of glasses raised high in celebration. The air buzzed with the joy of shared victories and the promise of futures finally free of hardship. You and Wyll had spent much of the evening together, arm in arm, swapping stories and indulging in the abundant wine. It was a rare, beautiful moment to simply be—no battles to fight, no worlds to save.

For Wyll, the sight of you laughing and glowing with life was a reward all its own. But as the hours ticked by and the wine loosened tongues and inhibitions alike, you had somehow slipped away.

It wasn’t unusual. You had a penchant for wandering when the drink took hold of you, curiosity leading you to wherever your heart fancied. Wyll, ever patient and knowing, only chuckled to himself when he realized you were gone. After excusing himself from a lively conversation with Halsin and Minsc, who were subtley trying to out-brag the other (nothing had changed there) he set out to find you, his long strides carrying him through the grove as he kept an ear out for your familiar voice.

It didn’t take long. He followed the soft sound of sniffling to a secluded patch of grass where the moonlight spilled down like a spotlight. There, nestled between Scratch and the owlbear—no longer a cub but still affectionately devoted—you sat, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as you buried your face in the owlbear’s feathers.

“They’re just… so cute,” you murmured, your voice thick with drunken emotion. Scratch’s tail thumped happily against the ground, clearly basking in your attention, while the owlbear tilted its head in quiet curiosity.

Wyll stopped, the sight making him blink in surprise. His hand rose to cover the grin tugging at his lips.

“Oh, my love,” he said softly, his voice tinged with both amusement and affection. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

Your head shot up at the sound of his voice, and the moment your eyes met his, a fresh wave of tears spilled over.

“Wyll!” you exclaimed, your voice breaking as though his very presence was a miracle. “You’re here! And you’re so… so cute!”

Wyll blinked, momentarily startled, before laughter rumbled low in his chest.

“I’m cute, am I?” he asked, kneeling beside you. His grin widened as he took in the wine bottle lying haphazardly nearby and the glassy, adoring look in your eyes.

“Yes!” you wailed, throwing your arms out dramatically. “Your smile is cute, and your horns are cute, and your eyes are cute, and your hair is cute!” You punctuated each word with a hiccupping sob, your hand waving wildly as if to emphasize your point.

Wyll’s brows lifted in amusement, though his gaze softened with love.

“I see the wine has been particularly generous with you tonight,” he teased, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “I’m sorry for being so… unbearably adorable. Shall I tone it down?”

“No!” you exclaimed, clutching his hand as though the idea was unthinkable. “Don’t stop being cute! It’s the best thing about you—no, wait.” You gasped as though struck by a revelation. “Everything about you is the best thing!”

Wyll let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “You are truly something else,” he said, his voice warm as he reached out to steady you. “Even when drunk, you’re determined to flatter me into blushing.”

Your lip wobbled, and you suddenly looked utterly distraught.

“Even your boots are cute,” you whispered, as though it was the most profound truth you had ever spoken.

That was enough to undo Wyll completely. He laughed, full and unguarded, before leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple.

“Alright, alright,” he said gently. “I’ll take responsibility for being impossibly charming.”

You sniffled, your tears slowing as the exhaustion of the evening began to creep up on you. With a soft hiccup, you slumped forward, burying your face in his chest. Wyll’s arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you close as he stroked your back.

“You’re a handful, you know that?” he murmured, though his tone held no irritation—only affection. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The owlbear gave a low croon and leaned in, its head nuzzling against Wyll’s shoulder as though to share in the moment. Scratch let out a soft bark of agreement, his tail thumping against the ground. Wyll chuckled, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“You’ve managed to rally quite the crowd,” he said softly, glancing down at your peaceful face. But when you didn’t respond, he realized you had fallen asleep, your breath even and steady against his chest.

“Oh, my heart,” he said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “What am I to do with you?”

Carefully, he adjusted his hold and scooped you into his arms. The owlbear and Scratch followed as he carried you back toward the firelight of the party. Wyll’s steps were steady, his gaze warm as he looked down at you. Even in your drunken, tearful mess, you were his mess.

And he wouldn’t trade you for the world.

Halsin:

The reunion party was nothing short of spectacular. Lanterns hung from the ancient trees, casting soft, golden light over the gathering. Music and laughter mingled with the sounds of the old faithful camp at night, a serene backdrop to the revelry. You had started the evening with Halsin, both of you basking in the joy of seeing friends and allies together again. It was a rare chance to relax, to celebrate the life you had built after the chaos.

Halsin was soon drawn into a conversation about the orphans you and he had taken in. A circle of the more compassionate companions had gathered around him, captivated as he spoke about the children’s growth, their joy, and the home you were creating. His deep voice carried over the crowd, filled with pride and hope. You stood beside him for a time, sipping wine and listening, but your attention was eventually caught by a familiar sight—Scratch wagging his tail and the owlbear, now fully grown, ambling nearby.

"Look at them," you murmured, already swaying slightly as the wine took hold. "Two perfect, fluffy creatures, and they need my attention."

With a mischievous smile, you slipped away, weaving your way through the crowd, wineglass in hand. By the time Halsin realized you were gone, you had already disappeared into a quieter part of the grove. He smiled to himself, fondly amused, and excused himself from the conversation.

“She’s probably plotting something,” he said with a chuckle, following the faint sound of your voice.

It didn’t take long to find you. Beneath a sprawling oak, you were sprawled on the grass, cuddling Scratch and the owlbear. You had an almost-empty bottle of wine in one hand, your other arm draped dramatically over the owlbear’s shoulders. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a bit disheveled, and your voice carried through the night as you spoke with exaggerated fervor.

"Listen here, Scratch," you said, poking his nose gently with your finger. "And you, too," you added, pointing to the owlbear, who blinked at you with wide, curious eyes. "You’re coming home with me. No arguments. It’s decided. We’re a family now."

Scratch barked happily, his tail thumping against the ground. The owlbear hooted softly, tilting its head as if contemplating your declaration.

You nodded solemnly, taking another swig of wine.

"Halsin might say no, but don’t you worry." You leaned in close, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that was anything but quiet. "I have my ways of convincing him. Very persuasive ways." You wiggled your eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, giggling at your own implication.

Then, as if struck by the sheer emotional gravity of the moment, your voice wavered, and tears welled up in your eyes.

"But if that doesn’t work," you said, your words thick with feeling, "I’ll just cry! Like this!" You dramatically buried your face into Scratch’s fur, letting out a loud, theatrical sob.

From the shadows, Halsin watched, arms crossed, a bemused smile playing on his lips. Finally, he stepped forward, his voice warm and steady. “Tears, my heart, will not be necessary.”

You froze, your head snapping up to look at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

"Halsin!" you exclaimed, scrambling to sit up and almost tipping over in the process. "When did you get here?"

"Not long ago," he replied, crouching down beside you. "Long enough to hear your… strategy."

You waved the bottle in his direction, sloshing a bit of wine onto the grass.

"It’s a good strategy," you insisted, pointing at him with exaggerated authority. "Very effective."

Halsin chuckled, his large hand brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"I’m sure it is," he said indulgently. "But I assure you, no convincing is necessary."

“What about the other thing?” you asked, your voice dropping into a clumsy attempt at sultriness that only made Halsin laugh more.

“When you’re sober,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You turned back to Scratch and the owlbear, lowering your voice to a loud whisper. “See? I told you it would work. He may be Daddy Halsin, but we all know who the real daddy is.”

Halsin’s brows shot up, a deep laugh rumbling from his chest. “Do we now?” he asked, scooping you into his arms with practiced ease.

You clung to him, your head resting against his broad chest as you continued to mumble incoherently about your master plan.

"Fluffy family forever," you declared, nuzzling into his tunic.

Scratch barked again, wagging his tail enthusiastically, while the owlbear lumbered after you both. Halsin shook his head fondly, his smile softening as he looked down at you.

“You are a marvel,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple.

As he carried you back toward the heart of the party, you sighed contentedly, your arms tightening around his neck.

“You’re the best, Halsin,” you murmured, your words slurring but full of affection. “The absolute best.”

“And you,” he replied, his voice low and full of warmth, “are an utter wonder.”

I hope you guys enjoyed this, I worked quite hard on it and it was quite a good distraction. Love you all - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[featherandferns]

like him (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | inspired from this scene and this scene, this request/message, and this incredible, heartbreaking song

content warning: anxiety and panic; mild v!olence; non-specific references to child abus3

word count: 6.6k. (not yet proofread so apologies for spelling/grammar errors)

blurb: at the town meeting for the Maybank property, everything that's happened to JJ in the past forty-eight hours comes to a head. In his internal turmoil, you're the only guiding light back to safety.

Energy can’t be destroyed. JJ wasn’t much of a smart ass at school but he managed to understand that much. He remembers the lesson for some reason: maybe it was the muggy classroom, the hottest day of summer, or maybe it was because he was sat next to you and nearly every memory that has you in it is etched into his brain with permanent marker. But JJ remembers physics class enough to recall that law. Newton’s, was it? Who knows. 

Energy can neither be created or destroyed - only converted from one form of energy to another. 

Maybe JJ understood that law so well because he’d seen it play out more times than he could count. Practical things like that always had a way of welding themselves into JJ’s intelligence; he was better at hands-on learning. He’d seen it in the ocean, riding on waves, journeying from the power of the currents. He’d seen it when fixing up cars, when fishing on the docks, when lighting up a bonfire. But the time he remembers best is when you burnt yourself. 

It was a silly thing, really. You’d been craving mac and cheese and had tried to fix a pan of it up. You’d used the wrong type of lid and placed it overtop of a near to overflowing pan of water. The bubbles pushed and prodded at the glass and the steam simmered up and up. Always one to talk, you weren’t much paying attention. You were leaning on the counter, a hand beside the stove, and gazing up at JJ like he was something special. He wasn’t sure why you looked at him like that, all he knew was that he never wanted it to go away. JJ can recall the moment that the lid of the pan came tumbling off. Water overflowed from the lip and trickled down the sides. The bubbles popped and splashed and a hefty droplet of water landed perfectly on the back of your hand. Your eyes were pink from the tears as JJ held your hand under running water, trying to sooth the burn, ease the injury before it could worsen. His lips had pressed to your forehead in a tender way that he always wished his dad would kiss his after a fall or a scrape. Your voice was stuffy and thick when you cursed water and pans and, sadly, mac and cheese. 

Glancing to his left, he spots the faint scar on your hand that remained from the incident over a year ago. It’s a distraction from the legal babble that fills the city hall. His eyes trace the curve of your arm, following it like roads on a map, guiding him to your shoulders and your collarbones and your neck and your face. The jut of your chin and the slope of your nose; the shining of your eyes in the bright light as you stare intently ahead at whatever was unfolding. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to hear. Your lips are being brutalised; gnawed on anxiously as you track the conversation between lawyers and councilmen. You were always the clever one. JJ would have you explain things to him in physics knowing damn well that he barely understood. It was an excuse to hear your voice and to make you laugh when he made crude jokes. “Kinetic energy, huh? Think I know a thing or two about that.” Maybe, if there were different circumstances, he’d have you translate the jargon being tossed around in the room to him. Put it into layman’s terms, spell it out in the way only you could that avoided being condescending. Only caring. 

But JJ can hardly hear over the sound of his own ringing ears. He can hardly think over the buzzing of his thoughts as if his mind had been infested with cicadas. He can hardly breathe through the thick, musty air of the room. His throat feels tight like he’s having an allergic reaction. His heart is aching and pounding all at once in that awful, annoying way it likes to do when things feel like they’re out of control. And, boy, did things feel like they were out of control. 

You wince as your teeth pull on a loose piece of skin of your lower lip. It draws blood. Not much, enough to be gone in a swipe of your tongue. JJ remembers his previous line of thoughts. How natural for his mind’s path to be derailed by you. 

Energy. The pan. The pressure. JJ felt pressure. He felt like that pan. Inside of him, it was building. The bubbles and the steam, pushing its ways up, churning through his stomach, pressing against his chest, fighting up his throat. It was invading his head. Shrinking his thoughts, clouding his mind, blurring his vision. It was squeezing him, suffocating him. He’d been on the heat for too long. Too many things, not enough time. Too many thoughts. Too many curveballs. If this was a baseball game, it would have had people’s heads spinning. JJ’s head was spinning. There was too much, too little, too big. He didn’t like big. No, he liked small. He liked simple. He liked the house and the garden and the shop and you. He liked his life. But it wasn’t his life. Nothing was his life now. It was building - the pressure. Building and building and building and–

–And any second now, he was going to explode. 

Lid on the stove. Water over the edges. Burn on the hand. 

Your hand is on his leg. You’re looking at him. It takes him a moment to register. He feels miles away from his body. Eyes slanted with concern, you’re frowning at him. 

“Are you okay?” you whisper. Never condescending; only caring. JJ gives a stiff nod and, purely because he can’t stand to see you look at him like that, like he’s something good, he turn his attention back to the front of the room.  

“We are scheduled to hear from some of the members of the community,” boldly-locks in the glasses announces into the microphone. “Beginning with a representative from the occupants of the Roger’s Point property, which used to be the Maybank property.”

It’s funny how Maybank has been JJ’s last name his whole life, but hearing it this time, out loud, it doesn’t feel like he knows it anymore. He props an arm up on the stall’s edge, running his fingers over his lips. A representative, huh?

“Anybody feeling brave?” Kiara asks in a hushed tone. 

Energy. JJ’s pushing up onto his feet. “I am. I got this.”

Your hand latches onto his arm before he’s fully risen.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” John B murmurs in alarm. JJ looks down at John B, then at you. You’re half-apologetic as you shake your head ‘no’. 

“Sit down, okay?” Pope demands in a hiss. 

“Not me, then. All right.”

When JJ reunites with the seat, it feels as though the pressure doubles. Your hand reaches for his; fingers intertwined with his. JJ lets your hold linger for a second, enough for you to know he isn’t angry at you, and then he lets you go. He’s too fidgety. Too clammy. Too much, too fast, too little time. You whisper with the others as you try and decide on a voice for the group and, soon enough, John B is volunteered forward. As he stands, JJ claps proudly. That’s his brother. 

“Please state your name for the record.”

“I am John Booker Routledge.”

“Damn right,” JJ affirms. In his peripheral vision, he sees you nodding. Susciently, soundly, somewhat calmly, John B fights the Pogue’s corner. He asks the questions that all of you had been asking since this new curveball was fired. JJ felt like he used to be good at dodging things. His dad’s bunches; homework and detentions at school; juvenile and prison and consequence. But now, here, in this room, things are feeling less manageable. Things are feeling more real. 

The lid. The stove. The pressure, building. 

“Myself and Sarah…We both lost our fathers last year…”

JJ’s eyes squeeze shut. Like whiplash, images flash through his mind. Pictures. Words. ‘I’m not your real dad’. Something that feels like bile creeps up his throat but he forces it down. Your hand reaches out and clenches his knee reassuringly. Pressure. Energy. JJ’s foot taps anxiously against the tiled floor of the building. It’s building. 

A kook stands up. Not any Kook. The kook. The prison master in this sick, twisted game that Figure Eight was playing with JJ’s life. He’s perfectly presentable in his black suit, grey hair combed without a single strand out of place, glasses perched innocently on his lightly wrinkled face as if he was destined to age like a fine wine. It’s easy to do that when you don’t know stress. When you don’t know fear. 

“Excuse me. May I speak?” he oh-so-politely asks. 

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you, Mayor. There seems to be a misunderstanding. Okay? And I think I can clarify.”

“Oh my God,” JJ mutters. 

“What an asshole,” you murmur. 

With John B’s permission, Mr Zeasy shuffles him out of place and takes over. He talks as though he was born on a soapbox, preaching down the sinners of The Cut, sneering at their poverty, scoffing at their struggle. 

“So what the, uh, current occupants of the land don’t seem to understand is that there is an injunction to invalidate the most recent sale.”

JJ’s brows furrow. You shake your head. 

“Wh–What does that mean? JJ, what does he mean?” you mumble, glancing at him. 

“There was a pre-existing promissory note from the original owner that was in the process of benign finalised when the land auction took place.”

“What the fuck?” you whisper harshly. “Is that even legal? How is that legal?” 

JJ can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. 

Stove. Pan. Lid. Water. Pressure. 

“The bank wasn’t legally allowed to go to auction.”

“Bullshit,” JJ mutters. All of it. Everything. Everything was bullshit. 

“We have a promissory note right here from the original owner, signed before the auction, and finalised  by Judge Holden.”

The applause that follows the announcement feels like a thousand pinpricks into JJ’s eyes. 

“That means our sale was invalid,” Pope tells Sarah. 

The buzzing is back in JJ’s head. It’s louder now. Deafening. Overwhelming. He has to fight to hear the discourse occurring at the front of the room. His chest feels tight. His throat is closing up. His lungs can’t take in air. They’re shrinking. It’s too little, too much, not enough. Building. Building. 

“And where is the original owner and can he validate the authenticity of this document?”

“Yes, he can. He’s right here.”

Mr Zeasy gestures down the aisle. JJ can’t bring himself to move. He’s stuck in place. Until he isn’t, and he’s turning, looking over his shoulder as the room heckles and hollers. There he is. Sitting then standing, taking off some dusty cap. He lingers like a fucking idiot. JJ’s vision blurs. Stove. Pan. Water. Tears. Pressure. Building. 

Everything else fades away as Luke locks eyes with JJ. It’s hard to believe there’s any sincerity when he speaks. 

“I’m sorry, J.”

It’s hilarious, actually. Everything that’s happened in the past forty-eight hours: what was he sorry for this time? Scratch that, not the past forty-eight hours. His whole life. His whole miserable, bitter existence. His life spent in poverty and in fear and in self-deprecating shadows. Because of Luke. Because of a man who might not even be his father. So, tell me dad, what are you sorry for this time? 

JJ can’t take another moment staring at him. He turns back towards the front, bowing his head. His eyes are downcast to the floor. His shoes are dirty. They always are. You always offer to clean them for him but he never accepts. There’s no point, he’d say. JJ was never good at keeping clean. 

“Isn’t it obvious? He signs the promissory note and in exchange, he gets amnesty.” 

JJ’s jaw clicks. The townspeople are in uproar, hollering out, yelling for justice, frowning upon the inequality of the island. You’re on your feet too. Tossing your arm, yelling out in anger, the pain thick in your voice. Somewhere behind him, somewhere amongst the chaos, is the man JJ thought was his future. The man he thought he was destined to grow into. Why wouldn’t he? They look the same, talk the same, act the same. The hair, the mannerisms, the self-righteousness, the selfishness, the idiocy, the blinding, brimming anger that was always right there on the surface. The man who was JJ’s sign for a deadend - a deadend he was bound to find himself at too, with time. The man who pulled the rug out beneath him merely moments ago. 

His head is buzzing. His chest is tight. His throat is dry. His heart is racing. His foot is tapping. His jaw is clenching. His rage is boiling. The pressure, building, building, building. Stove. Pan. Tears. Burn. Too much, too little, too fast. The buzzing is loud, deafening, like a migraine on steroids, and he can’t find a thought, can’t find anything to ground him. You’re not there. There’s no thought of you to invade in and to bring him peace. 

It’s building, it’s building, it’s building. 

Stove. Pan. Lid. Pressure. 

Energy. 

It feels like a dream when he pushes onto his feet. His body screams out for relief, for satisfaction, for something. The world lags around him, time dragging like molasses, and JJ feels as though he moves in slow motion as he walks down the aisle of the hall. In the blurring of his vision, there is a clear point of focus, like a road illuminated by headlights in the pitch black of night. Luke comes into view. His father. His dad. His abuser. JJ breezes past him. Makes a right. 

Energy can’t be created or destroyed. 

His hands grab onto a stray chair. His knuckles whitening with his tight grip on the wooden arms. It feels light as paper when he lifts it from the floor. 

Energy can only be transferred. 

The glass shatters in a beautiful array of shards as the chair pummels through the window. Daylight floods the room. A breeze brushes over his face as if saying thanks. The fresh air is a relief. 

JJ can finally begin to breathe again. 

An arm hooks around his neck and JJ’s flailing and throwing himself into action. He grunts and fights and elbows until the grip finally loosens. Another cop is approaching in the pin-point vision and JJ hurls his legs out, leaning back against his aggressor, and kicks the man away. An arm comes loose and JJ uses it to grab at the cop, and then he’s lurching himself forward, tossing the cop over him and onto the floor. Energy. He is full of energy. The first punch lands square on his cheek. The second just skims his jaw. His uniform is scratchy in JJ’s grasp as he holds his down. The man’s face is indistinguishable in the mist of his messy head. It’s Luke. It’s Groff. It’s Mr Zeasy. 

The pain of the nightstick is numb when it collides with his back. JJ stumbles forward, grunting. He staggers up onto his feet, disorientated, confused. His vision becomes to sharpen and the room comes back into sight. It’s a cop on the floor. A bloody, bleeding cop. 

Oh fuck. 

Oh, fuck. 

He wobbles back a few steps as his mind tries to catch up with the moment. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. 

Your hands grab at the lapels of his jacket. Your face is almost unrecognisable from the panic. But JJ can hear your voice loud and clear as you yell at him. 

“Go! Get out of here! Go!”

You give him a push. Energy. 

A cop is coming at him, fast. JJ runs out of the room, through the doors, and he grunts as the officer makes a grab for him near the main exit. The two fly out onto the porch and down the stairs. The pain is lessened from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It’s pure survival instincts as he feels cops surround him, grabbing at him body, holding at his limbs, pushing him against a cop car’s bonnet. The metal is cool against the boiling hot skin of his face. He manages to wrangle an arm free and rams it into the cops face. He imagines it’s Luke’s. The hold on his other arm loosens and he manages to break free, wrestling against the forces.

“Get off me! Get off me, man!”

He’s shoved into the back of a cop car, head first. He grunts as he collides with soft cushions of the seats. But then there’s people at the window, slamming at the glass, yelling at him. No, no this is bad. This is really fucking bad. This is worse than the time JJ spilt wine on your favourite dress. It’s worse than when he accidentally hurt you whilst fooling around. It’s worse than when he thought you’d drowned on t he boat. It’s worse than when you burnt your hand at the stove. JJ looks around frantically but he’s surrounded by people. Everywhere. 

What the fuck is going on? 

It’s a reflex when he shields his face from the glass of the back window. Squinting, he sees a trainered foot kicking through it. He recognises those trainers. It’s you. 

“Back up! Back up!” he yells out the window. It’s you. Pope’s by your side. JJ kicks out his leg and knocks out more glass, clearing a space. You’re there with the others, grabbing at his arms, trying to pull him out as he wriggles his way through the clearing, over the seats. His legs feel like jelly when he gets to his feet. 

He stares blankly at John B and Pope, staggering backwards as they drive him away. Then you’re pushing through the two of them, grabbing at his face, simultaneously encouraging him away from you. 

“Go! Run, JJ! Go!” you shout. 

Never condescending; only caring. 

JJ nods. 

Energy. 

JJ starts to run. 

His feet pound rhythmically on the concrete. It’s endless, the energy pounding in his body. He could never be exhausted. For the first time in what feels like his whole life, JJ feels free. And as JJ runs through the abandoned streets of Kildare County, he feels like he’s chasing down the ghost of his father. 

Who is he?

JJ had always thought he knew that answer. JJ Maybank: delinquent, future tax-evader, loyal friend, son of a lowlife. A Pogue. A grifter, a grinder. Despite all his ailments in his life, he had never needed to question where he came from. It was plain as day, clear as light, who JJ was. Who his father was. Who JJ would wind up being. Luke had told him so, with every hit he landed on his puppy-fat cheeks, with every slap swiping across his youthful face. Any blood drawn came with the assertion that this was what he deserved. This was who he was. A good for nothin’, low-life just like his father. A waste of space. A high school dropout. 

He turns onto a side road and realises he’s heading for Main Street. It’s weird, seeing the town so hollow, nothing but a shell of its buildings. It unsettles him further. He could never run out of energy. JJ keeps running. In the distance, that figment never becomes clearer, never becomes closer. But he follows it anyway. 

Luke looked like JJ. The blonde hair, now faded into shades of grey. The lips and the nose and the eyes. It was more than that; it was the temperament too. The frustration and the short fuse, passed down through genetics like an Olympic torch. At least, he thought. So, what did that mean? It was never inherited? Was JJ just fucked up from the start? What was that theory you were trying to teach him about - back when he had tried to win your affection, offering up study dates to help try and pick up his grades. Any excuse to be in your orbit. It’s nature versus nurture, JJ, you’d said, smiling sweetly. Your fingernails were rounded and painted pink, chipping at the tips, as you point at the diagrams. But JJ was watching you, he wasn’t paying much mind to the image. Look! Come on, you have to focus! He’d said something then, something to make you laugh, something that had you all flustered and blushing and him smirking. But then he’d looked. He’d listened. Some traits can be inherited from genes - nature - but some come from upbringing and environment - nurture. 

Was that what this was? Nurture? Had all the years spent wrapped up in the daily missteppings of his father moulded JJ into some tormented, tainted failure. Had his soul been pure before and his future been clean and bright, and Luke had used his grubby hands to reshape it into something ugly as if JJ was nothing more than a scrap piece of clay. A scrap that could be thrown away. 

He was thrown away, though. Wasn’t he? Groff didn’t want him. Groff didn’t care for him, not like Luke did. He didn’t feed him, didn’t bathe him, didn’t teach him how to fish, how to ride a bike, how to roll a cigarette. He didn’t care for him. He wasn’t a father. But Luke wasn’t either. 

Luke wasn’t his father but he hit him like there was the same amount of honour ladened into every punch. 

What did Groff look like? JJ can hardly picture his face in the dimming brightness of the streets. The streetlamps were coming on now. The hours were ticking away. Nobody around, time seemed to stand still. His steps ease up just slightly. He isn’t tired though. He just needs to concentrate more on what Groff looked like. But he can’t seem to formulate the picture in his mind. It’s blurs and snippets of shapes and colours. Blonde and white and shifty. Rich. Kook. No, fuck that, JJ wasn’t any Kook. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. But still, for some reason, JJ finds himself obsessed. 

Do I look like him? 

Somewhere in the midst, JJ swiped a baseball bat. The whole journey is a daydream. A fever dream, really. It doesn't make sense. There’s no chronological order to it; just flashes of moments like a busted old film reel. You’re the star. You always were in JJ’s life. The brightness, untouched and untarnished, beaming bright on him. The thing he wished on and the thing he planned his life around. He can remember the break in your voice as you yell at him to run. He should run. JJ keeps running. 

Something makes him stop. Crickets chirp. He’s panting but not nearly as much as he should be, right? Why isn’t he tired? You’d know. You know everything - maybe even more than Pope. Sirens wail in the distance like a warning. They’re coming. He pushes those thoughts away to the back of his mind. He tries to push that other thought away too, but it won’t budge. Instead, it stands front and centre like the banquet of a movie theatre. Do I look like him? 

JJ realises he’s staring at the window of a shop. A jewellery shop. The lights are on because these Kooks can afford to keep the electricity running after hours. They’d never understand what it’s like to go without. To feel so hungry you think your stomach might start to digest itself. JJ knows that feeling - knows it well. JJ isn’t a Kook. A smile presses onto his face. It feels like breathing. 

Energy. 

He yields the bat and takes a swing. Bam! The glass shatters musically. It’s so beautiful the way it cracks and splinters. He swings the bat, licking at his lips, and saunters along the pavement. The alarm is like an accompaniment to his symphony of vandalism. The door’s window break is a little tougher; JJ grunts. Glancing inside, his eyes latch onto one of the displays. The silver ring glints temptingly in the fluorescents like it’s from Lord of the Rings. You flash through his mind. The images of you that he saved in that corner he hardly liked to go in, too scared of the world in which it might not come true. Images of you and him, married, happy, you round-bellied, a house and a dog and a life with him. With a nobody like him because JJ was not a Kook. 

But, do I look like him? 

He’s delicate as he removes it from the mannequins hand. He studies it closer and feels settled on his choice. This’ll look good on your hand. You deserve nice things. 

“Thank you,” he says, pocketing it. JJ staggers back onto the road. His eyes glance down the empty street and he’s relieved to find the ghost has faded away. Sirens whir like a doomsday call. 

“Oh, here they come,” he grins. “Okay. So, y’all wanted one island, huh?”

He approaches a car. He’s never owned a car. Never been gifted one for his eighteenth; never thought that he’d manage to afford anything nice, either. Just a banged-up, second-hander. That’s the life of a Pogue. JJ wasn’t a Kook. 

“I’ll give you it,” he grunt, hurling his bat at the vehicle. “Over here, fellas! Y’all wouldn’t want to miss the game.”

Every hit he takes feels like a stone lifted off his shoulders. 

The fuse box causes a magnificent explosion, akin to a supernova on earth, and JJ flinches as sparks crackle out. Energy can’t be destroyed. Rooky error. 

“Let’s play ball.”

The trashcan clatters as if falls to the floor. Trash spews out onto the street. JJ digs about in his pocket, muttering, and procures his lighter. It’s the one you got him for his sixteenth. The flame flickers. 

“Let’s really light it up.” 

The fire catches quick. He remembers that from when the chateau burnt down. There’s fun in the chaos, JJ finds, singing under breath and taking swings at windows and doors like they’re nothing more than targets on a fairground game. Every splint of glass is like resolution for JJ. Every hit is like catharsis. 

“Oh, that felt good.”

The mannequins are undeterred by his violence. It reminds him of you. You never once budged whenever he’d spiral. Would you budge now, after this? 

“Where are my manners?” JJ wonders jovially. His hand cups at the plastic dolls and he guides his lips down to the back of it. The same hand that you had the burn on. His teasing continues on with every toss of the bat. His eyes glance over the male mannequin. The blonde wig and the uppity suit. Did Groff wear suits? What was he wearing when JJ met him? 

Do I look like him? 

He doesn’t want to think about that right now. No, no, he can’t. It’s too little, too much, too fast. He was just starting to feel in control again. He grabs for the bar stool and builds up some power before tossing it through the window a cafe. Energy. JJ is pure energy. He’s chaos reincarnated. Babylon humanified. 

He admires his work like an emperor surveying his kingdom. Just how he imagined the Kooks to do so once they capture his land, his home, his life. 

But was it ever his? What is his life, if more than half of it is a lie? What does that amount to then? What does that leave? What’s left of him if he doesn’t have himself - his identity? 

Who is he? 

JJ takes off running again. This time, he feels like he’s being chased. The figment, the ghost, whoever the hell it is, is behind him now. Haunting him. Hasn’t he always felt haunted? By his mother, by his father. By his future. JJ runs faster. The sirens are like lines of cocaine, propelling his legs ahead. He glacnes frantically left and right and takes a sudden turn. 

The streetlamps cast the streets in an eerie orange glow. The trees look like figures looming by the roadside. The houses and buildings lights are mostly off. Dogs bark, sirens echo. A sign comes into sight as if he was guided to it by some divine force. Zeast Realtors. JJ smiles knowingly at his new best friend. 

“Light her up.”

The stairs don’t creak as he makes his way up the building. His stairs always creaked. They were rotten. Mice lived under his house as a kid. His family house that no longer holds any significance in his life, just the way his name doesn’t. JJ is without a name. 

The alarm fires off the moment the glass shatters on the door. It’s embarrassingly easy to get inside. Within the office are plans laid out like a villainous layer. Plots and plans for:

“A new figure Eight.”

JJ loses it. Whatever remaining grasp of control he had on his inhibition is wiped away like his childhood. Glasses and picture frames and ornaments and business cards: nothing is safe from his bat. 

“What’s fair is fair! Huh?”

But it isn’t helping like it was before. He doesn’t feel lighter. He feels like he’s sinking, down and down. Why isn’t it helping? JJ batters more things, hoping for it to change, hoping for everything to change. He wants to wake up now. He wants to wake up in his bed, beside you, and have you hold him and kiss him and ask him about what had him moving so much in the night. He wants you to make a joke on how it was keeping you up. He wants his life back. 

A framed photograph of Mr Zeasy sits pretty on the mantle. JJ studies it for a moment. Scans over the pressed suit and the quiffed hair and the stagnant smile. The falseness that lies in the act of being proper. His reflection catches in the light. JJ’s face twists in disgust. 

“No way am I a kook.”

The sirens are suddenly very loud. Shit. JJ ducks down out of sight from the windows. His back presses tightly against the cabinets. It grounds him. Shit. His head hangs and his lips purse and his mind reels. This is it. Luke was right. He was a lowlife, a delinquent, a failure. He’ll spend his life in prison. Fuck, he can’t think of how many charges he’s racked up by now. It might be a new record. Maybe for ocne his dad would be proud of him. That’s all he ever wanted. 

“This is what I was talking about, son!” Shoupe hollers out. 

Son. Son to who? 

Who is he? 

“You’ve gone too far and we’ve got a serious situation.”

He isn’t Luke.

“I told you this shit would happen and here we are.”

He isn’t Groff. 

“I need you to put down any and all weapons you may have, or you will get shot.”

JJ rises to his feet. 

“I don’t want that, so just come on out with your hands up.”

He isn’t anybody, anymore. 

“JJ, listens up, son-”

“No, you listen up Shoupe!” JJ hollers. “I’m not just gonna come out there so you can take what's ours and let them win again. It was ours, fair and square. So I have a right to fight for what’s mine.”

“JJ! Can you hear me?”

It’s Kiara. 

“Just, please, do what they say! This is getting dangerous!”

“No!” JJ shouts. His anger twists. “I’m done kissing the feet of people who’ve taken from me my entire life!”

His voice cracks. Tears sting at his eyelids and he wills them away. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He was happy: truly, really happy. Maybe he’s cursed. Maybe he isn’t meant to be happy. Maybe that’s who he is. 

“Y’all might have given up,” JJ shouts. He swallows. Everything hurts. To himself, he makes a stand. “But I’m not done fighting.”

“So, Shoupe. You want me, you’re gonna have to come get me.”

He starts quickly down the hallway. The beckonings from the cops sounds like the devil trying to lure Eve in to bite from the apple. The sound of whistling and crackling has him ducking for cover. Bullets. 

“Jesus Christ.”

No, not bullets. Fireworks. He looks up to find a microwave. His mind works fast. What would you do? Something smart. Think, JJ, Goddamnit. Think! 

‘Metals are conductors’, you explain as you stir the mixture in the beaker. JJ’s toying with the bunsen burner, mesmerised by the flames in a way that has you joking he’s an arsonist. ‘Fun fact about it is that if you put it in a microwave it starts sparking and shit. It can even start fires. Something about it reflects the microwaves. It acts like a mirror. Pretty cool, huh?’ 

JJ scrambles in the kitchen for cutlery. He comes up with a handful of forks and crams them into the microwave. He starts it up and smacks it farewell. Thank God for you and your wonderful mind. There’s no time to waste; JJ races up the staircase of the building. There’s chaos outside. People yelling. He can hear Sarah and Kie’s screams. They’ll be fine. He can’t help them, for once in his life. Maybe he never could. He opens the window and steps out onto the roof. He closes it behind him. Leave no trace, just like his childhood. 

He teeters on the edge of the roof and looks down. Shit, that’s a hell of a drop. They’ll be behind him, though, hot on his trail. There’s no time. Sucking in a breath, JJ prepares himself for the landing before jumping off the roof. The metal of the car smacks against his skin and side. JJ’s knee shifts uncomfortably when he makes contact and he grunts. Rolling off onto the grass, he takes a second to check that he’s really alive. 

“JJ.”

He blinks and looks up. It’s you. 

“Oh my God, JJ,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

“What–Where–”

“It’s just me, I slipped away from the others, they don’t know I’m here,” you hurry out. You’re hands on his body, helping him up. JJ grunts and registers a dull ache in his leg. The adrenaline works well as pain relief. “We gotta go. Now.”

“No, no, I can’t drag you into this,” JJ panics, trying to shake you off him. 

There’s a humour in your eyes as you tell him, “I was already in this. Come on.”

There’s no time to be wasted in arguing. JJ complies and the two of you take off running down the street. You’re guiding the way. JJ doesn't question it. He trusts you. Hell, you might be the last person on earth that he trusts truly and deeply. The limp in his leg slows him down so he lingers behind by a few steps. Your hair is swaying as you race down the street. The streetlamps bask you in an ethereal glow. There’s small cuts on your legs from where you broke the glass of the cop car to break him out. JJ can’t believe you’re here. 

“Come on, through here. I know somewhere we can lay low and think,” you tell him. JJ doesn’t ask any questions. The two of you pant as you run down the road. Soon enough, you come to what looks like an abandoned barn. You guide the two of you around the back and push back some metal siding. It reveals a hole big enough to crawl through. You go first and JJ follows, careful to secure the siding back once the two of you are inside. There’s blind patting around before you let out a sigh of relief, and JJ can hear the rattle of something in a box. When you light a flame, he realises it’s a box of matches. Your face comes into view in the faint light and you look around for something. A candlestick that sits in an old-timey holder is balanced on an old piece of machinery. You take it and light it, and place it back. There’s enough light to make out JJ’s face and his yours. 

For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. Then you’re hurling your arms around his shoulders and pulling him against you. 

“Oh my God, JJ, I was so worried about you,” you tell him into his shoulder. JJ slowly coils his arms around your body. The warmth of your skin through your dress is like medicine. He tugs you tight against him and suddenly can’t think of anything worse than letting you go. His face buries into your neck and he breathes in the smell of you. It sends him back through time; through adventures and restless nights and sleepless mornings and peaceful evenings and joyful afternoons and mornings spent in Physics class together. 

His mind clears enough from the imminent panic of survival that it can make space for that one damning thought. 

Do I look like him? 

JJ isn’t aware that he’s crying until your running a hand up and down his back soothingly. You shush him gently, almost swaying him, and JJ can’t help but cry more and more. His fingers grapple desperately at your dress and he tries to pull you impossibly closer. He can’t lose you too. He’s lost everything he knows: his dad, his mother, his house, his life, his freedom. He can’t lose you too. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Lemme see you,” you worry, unfortunately pulling away from him. Your hands are soft as they brush over the skin of his face, sweeping hair off his forehead, swiping tears off his cheeks. Your smile is sweet and tender when he looks at you through wet eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“Do…” JJ can’t find his breathe. Your brows tug together slightly. 

“Does something hurt?” 

Everything. 

“Do I…” JJ gasps for air and clenches his eyes shut. He knows how it will sound. Like a petulant, pathetic child asking his dad what ‘JJ’ stands for. Like an idiotic, dreaming infant asking his dad where his mother is. Like a useless, stupid teenager asking his girlfriend: “do I look like him?”

When he opens his eyes, you’re studying him, confused and concerned. He thinks you might not have heard him. 

“Do I look like him?”

You lick your lips. “Do you…Are you meaning Groff?”

JJ almost winces. He sniffs and nods, trying to steel himself. His shoulders square. He stares at you and waits. Your mouth moves as if to form words but nothing comes out. Sighing, you study him - really look at him - and then you give a half-smile. It’s solemn and sombre. 

“No, JJ. I don’t think you look like him. Not really.”

JJ’s eyes press shut. A sob wracks up his throat. He suddenly realises that he wasn’t sure which answer he wanted to hear. Which answer would hurt the least? 

I don’t look like him. 

“What’re you thinking right now?” you whisper. 

JJ swallows thickly. He wipes roughly at his cheeks with the back of his sleeves. You’re expression breaks his heart when he meets your gaze. Your hand cups his cheek, thumb sweeping over his skin like a mother soothing her child in their sleep. JJ wonders if his mother ever did that to him. 

He doesn’t know who he is anymore, but he can try and find out. There’s only one way to do that. 

“I need to go see Groff.”

Your eyes flicker with withheld surprise. But you’re good at saving face. Smiling, nodding, you back him like you did since day one, sat side by side in physics class due to the fates of a seating plan. From strangers to classmates to lab partners to friends to lovers. And the love you had for him, the love JJ had for you; that was the most powerful energy he'd ever known. An energy that could never be destroyed.  

“Okay,” you say quietly, nodding. “Let’s get you to Groff’s.” 

[margeoww]

In the Stillness of the Stars

back to my masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: a quiet night under the stars reveals the softer side of luke as he shares a rare moment of vulnerability with you.

The stars above Camp Half-Blood always seemed brighter when the nights were quiet. Tonight was one of those nights, the kind where the air carried a stillness so heavy it almost felt sacred. You didn’t expect Luke to find you here, sitting on the hill overlooking the strawberry fields.

—Couldn’t sleep? —his voice broke the silence, soft and familiar.

You looked up to see him standing there, his golden hair catching the faint glow of moonlight. He wasn’t wearing his usual smirk; instead, his expression was calm, almost serene.

—Something like that. —you said, patting the patch of grass beside you. —What about you?

He sat down, the warmth of his presence chasing away the chill in the air. —Same. —he admitted, glancing at the sky. —Too much on my mind.

It was rare for Luke to talk about himself, to let his guard down. You didn’t press him, knowing he’d speak when he was ready. Instead, you tilted your head back to look at the stars, the silence between you comfortable and unspoken.

—Do you ever wonder if the gods look down on us? —he asked suddenly, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place, bitterness, maybe, or longing.

—All the time. —you admitted. —But I don’t think they’re watching for the reasons we hope.

Luke huffed a quiet laugh, and you felt his shoulder brush against yours as he leaned back on his hands. —No, probably not. But it’s nice to imagine, isn’t it? That someone up there actually cares.

You turned to him then, catching the way his gaze lingered on the stars. In this light, he looked almost boyish, like the weight of his responsibilities had been momentarily lifted.

—They care. —you said softly, —just not the way we need them to.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, the stars above and the earth beneath your feet.

—Sometimes I think you’re the only person who really sees me. —he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the wind.

Your breath caught in your throat. —I do see you, Luke. All of you. Not just the brave leader or the rebel. The person underneath it all.

He smiled then, small and almost shy, as if he didn’t quite know how to handle your words. —And that doesn’t scare you?

—No. —you said without hesitation. —It makes me want to stay.

His hand found yours, his fingers threading through yours with a tenderness that caught you off guard. —I don’t know what I did to deserve you. —he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You squeezed his hand gently. —Maybe the gods are looking out for us after all.

Luke laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine, and for the first time that night, you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

As the stars continued to shine above, you leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder. In that moment, the chaos of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet, undeniable connection between you and Luke Castellan.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words. Luke’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, his touch sending a warmth through you that the cool night couldn’t chase away.

—I don’t deserve this. —he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion. —I don’t deserve you.

You turned to face him fully, your free hand reaching up to gently cup his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, his blue eyes wide and searching. —Stop saying that. —you whispered. —You deserve so much more than you think.

For a moment, Luke just looked at you, his expression vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. Then, as if pulled by some unseen force, he leaned closer. His forehead rested against yours, and his breath mingled with yours in the cool night air.

—Tell me to stop. —he said softly, his lips just a whisper away from yours.

—I won’t. —you replied, your voice steady, your heart pounding.

And then his lips were on yours. The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant, as if he was afraid you might pull away. But when you didn’t, he deepened it, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. It was a kiss filled with everything he couldn’t put into words—gratitude, longing, and a quiet, unshakable love.

When you finally pulled apart, you stayed close, your noses brushing. Luke smiled, small and genuine, the kind of smile he only ever showed you.

—Maybe the stars were watching after all. —he said, his voice light with a hint of awe.

You laughed softly, resting your forehead against his. —Then let them watch.

The world around you seemed to fade away again, leaving only the two of you beneath the endless sky, hearts finally beating in sync.

[girl-lostconnection]

Odyssey!au again: Ghost x reader

It takes him 20 years to get the reader back, yes. During which he commits unimaginable crimes and at some point resigning his own humanity and shreds of sanity because Ghost is a good dog, a loyal dog, a feral dog and he just wants you back.

He wants you back so badly, he wants your hands in his hair, he wants his head on your lap. He wants to feel at home again and he digs his heels in and let’s go of everything else.

He doesn’t need much, he doesn’t need victory in this damn war anymore, he doesn’t want the spoils, he doesn’t want it if he needs to let go of you.

He makes a choice between you and everything else and he chooses you. Always you. Only you.

You-you-you-you.

At some point gods get involved purely because his determination and his desperate loyalty is strong enough to fracture already existing fate. Strong enough to bend the rules, strong enough to force him going.

Simon disappears the moment he stands at the crossroad and has to make a decision whether or not you are worth the sacrifice. (But god, of course you are worth it, how could you not be worth it, how could his lovely-lovely bird not matter to him. He would die for you, he would break for you, he would live for you).

Simon disappears so Ghost takes the reins in his scarred calloused hands and pushes through everything life and gods and fate throw at him.

Ghost burns down every bridge, Ghost gives away everything, Ghost earns his monicker in his 20 year journey to getting you back just to collapse on his knees the moment he sees you.

Because it’s been so long.

It’s been so long since he last has seen you and he’s nothing like the Simon you knew, he’s not even sure he’s still Simon. He is not sure Simon even exists.

He crawled out of deepest pits just for you and now he can’t bring himself to touch you because he’s not who he was. He’s the Ghost.

Would you love Ghost? Is Ghost worth the same warmth, the same tenderness, the same heart-wrenching affection?

But he has been starving for you, has been praying and pleading and bleeding for you.

And Simon would have stepped back and let you decide whether you take him back or not but Simon isn’t here anymore.

So Ghost makes this decision single-handedly.

He just can’t keep going like that. He needs you, he wants you, he gave up everything for you. Surely he can get a little reward for that? Surely you wouldn’t mind your husband coming back to you however changed he might be?

So he does what big vicious things like him usually do in the moment of weakness.

He nuzzles into your lap and holds on.

Falls asleep right there, ironclad grip on you because he will go mad if he wakes up and you are not here, if he wakes up and it’s just a dream, if he wakes up and he’s still not home.

If he wakes up and it’s been a cruel dream.

Ghost never says how many of those he had in the last 20 years, but the tremor of his fingers and sharp intake of breath when he presses his face in your lap say more than enough.

[darknessisafriend]

Commodus x reader NSFW Headcanons

Since some of you request it, here's some nsfw hc for our favorite emperor. I tried to write it so you could imagine both female or male reader <3

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Commodus would get extra cuddly, snuggled against your chest, all soft and quiet. He would remain in the blissful state for a while, simply enjoying feeling your skin against his, your heartbeat slowing down just like your breathing. Often, he would fall asleep almost immediately, he was so sleep deprived that with you he was relaxed enough to finally recover some. If he didn’t fall asleep, he would call for a maid to bring a few snacks and ask for the baths to be ready. Sometimes even carrying you there, so you two could relax your sore muscles/spots; but that would be rare, he was too sleep deprived.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partners)

Commodus is a man who, for a long time didn’t really have a favorite body part, it was rather the opposite. He wasn’t that tall for a roman, he had a slight deformity of a shoulder blade, hale lip…that would be until you showed him that these traits made him who he is and was part of his charm. He would grow fond of his hair, thick and curly, soft under your touch, the way you grabbed them when he was between your thighs or the way you caressed them while cuddling. As the body part he prefers with you, it would be your lips, the way you smiled, called his name oh so needily, your tender kisses on his skin.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

Commodus would love to make you taste him, watch you lick his fingers covered in his seed, your delighted expression. He would be able to moan from the sight itself, then kiss your lips, tasting how bad you were imprinted by him.

He would also enjoy to cum on your belly, he kinda has a breeding kink, anyway he loves the idea of having an heir, children, a family of his own. He would also feel rather blessed that you want this from him, his babies, his blood, whatever woman or man, that wouldn’t stop him from dreaming.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I’ll give you two! He loves to bottom with men, to be handled, pleasured mercilessly. He likes to keep your undergarments, in a pocket, when he is missing your presence romantically or sexually, he would take it out and close his eyes as he inhaled your scent, burying his nose in your panties.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

I don’t think Commodus would be thatexperienced actually. He is the kind of boy to brag about past sexual experiences to feel like he belongs, to blend in with people. But in truth, he is speaking about things he heard or read of. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what he is doing, the matter interests him a lot; from the starts he wants to be able to please you the best he can.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Commodus would love it when you ride his face, he would ask it of you almost every time.  He would look at you from below, the way you bit your lower lip as you face fucked him, almost choking him between your thighs, his hands kneading your butt cheeks, humming at your taste, the way your legs trembled as you reached climax.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

The first times of your relationship Commodus would be rather serious, you are the first to give him true attention, he takes that as seriously as the Empire. But he has that boyish spirit; with time he would get more relaxed, loving to tease you throughout the day, edging you during sex, giggling at your whimpers, your helplessness, loving that sweet torture, he only could give you.  Afterwards he would often joke, loving to tickle you as you cuddled.

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Commodus would be very well groomed, first, because he is a roman, they had a thing about body hair. So, he would wax his entire body hair when he is not on the field. His hair can be a bit messy though, but it’s usually because he struggles to fall asleep, so he keeps that sleepy look often, disheveled hair and sleepy eyes.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? Romantic or rough/dirty.)

Depends on the mood. I believe he would be very sweet, desperate; he would be the kind of man able to cry after sex. Of course, when things in his life don’t go so smoothly, he would totally go for angry sex, a way to vent, to let go of boundaries, of the mask he wears all day along. He wouldn’t be patient like he is with the Senate, he would take what he wants, without restraints and make a mess out of you.

J = Jack off (Do they masturbate and how often)

Commodus would not masturbate that often, but it does help him to fall asleep after a tense day. Except when he’s been accumulating lack of sleep, he would lose his libido and stay away from anything sexual and would rather require comfort.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Commodus has a huge praise kink, he is craving approval and being told how good he is doing, what a good boy he is. It would greatly participate in his arousal during love making. Sometimes you would praise his sexual skills, but he would also love when you rewarded him for the good things he did during the day, the way he talked to a politician, or a good decision he took.

Also, he rather loves to be dominated because he lives it like guidance, a way to let go of all his responsibilities, all the pressure and just let someone handle it at his place. He would obey your every request and gladly receive a pat on the head after, or the right to bury between your legs.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Commodus loves taking baths, so naturally he would love to enjoy intimacy with you there. Whenever during the day, he could invite you to join him for a warm or refreshing bath. Servants knew he should remain unbothered when you joined him, they didn’t need to see, your moans would be enough of a proof.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

When you voice your desires for him, what you like about him, what arouses you about him, the way you look at him. He gets very excited by the pleasure you feel during sex, when you call his name, your soft whimpers, when you tell him that when he does this or that it feels so good.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He wouldn’t be into humiliation, any reductive play wouldn’t turn him on; it would trigger his insecurities, remind him of the way his family treated him. Commodus needs to be pampered, feel protected and have his safe bubble where he can be vulnerable.

He wouldn’t enjoy hurting you during BDSM play, even if it makes you feel pleasure he would struggle to find pleasure in it, he is the kind to treat you like fragile porcelain, even if dominant and rough sometimes, he wouldn’t like to flog/spank you and such.  

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

For oral sex, Commodus would love to give, he is the generous type but most of all he is a taster, he couldn’t get enough of your taste, he never wanted to forget it. The Emperor would be very hungry at that, every time you had sex, he would want to give you oral. Naturally, he wouldn’t be shy about it, his tongue licking your slit, burying in your hole while his nose teased your clit. He would be a quick learner, sensing when one thing pleased you more than another.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Both; depends on his mood, though he wouldn’t stay long on slow pace, passion would take over and so the pace would increase, getting passionate, bestial almost. With time of course he would learn to control himself a little so he could please you better. He would find a liking into being slower, taking his time, memorizing your every breaths, moans, your eyes growing watery and your body more desperate.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Commodus would quite enjoy quickies. First, because he was a very busy man and often got caught up in his projects without seeing time pass. Having quickies would be a good compromise to have a break and dedicate time to you. It wouldn’t be just about that of course, since marrying you, Commodus would find himself needing you more and more, to part from the harshness of his position and dive back into your tender arms, even if for just a few minutes, it would save his sanity.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? Like to try new things etc.)

Commodus is a man of great curiosity, he would naturally be up to experimenting in bed, and he was very open minded at that so you could suggest pretty much anything, and he would be up to give it a try. He wouldn’t often take the risk though; he finds comfort he things he knows but from times to times he would get excited about an idea enough to want to try it.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

His stamina isn’t big, he is so touch starved that he doesn’t need much to reach climax but with small breaks he would be up for a few rounds, in fact he would never grow tired of you, he would be so afraid to lose you someday, afraid to forget you in old age…

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Commodus wouldn’t mind integrating toys into your sexual life, once again he would be curious to try them on you or himself, see how it feels, how different it is from a human body. That is also how he would end up asking you to peg him and that would really be a fun extra, to see him beg for you to thrust deeper as he arched his back. On the opposite, if you were a male lover he would ask to try what a female felt like, with some self-made toy or with a third female sexual partner.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

A LOT. When he would discover how a hand brushing on your lower back or your shoulders could give you goosebumps, he would keep testing. Pushing your boundaries more and more by making you sit on his lap to feel his hardened crotch, his hand slithering under your toga to tease your thighs, whispering lustful words in you ear until you begged him to go in his quarters and give you satisfaction. Of course, he would be into edging as well so getting in the bedroom wouldn’t especially mean instant relief, not until you begged him to be merciful.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Commodus would actually be pretty loud; he would whimper a lot as if he was suffering but in fact he would be under pure bliss. When he was more desperate it would turn into groans that would be slightly high pitched at the end. His noises would be truly addictive.

W = Wild Card (A random headcanon for the character)

He is bisexual and enjoys experimenting, sometimes he would ask you to peg him, loving when you stimulated his prostate, giving him immense pleasure. He would love also that by doing so, he was completely at your mercy, his pleasure was yours, the pace, the intensity of your thrusts, your hand around his cock, his deliverance. He would be a controversial emperor but he wouldn’t give a damn, his sexual experimentations wouldn’t define the politician he was.

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Rome doesn’t have great lingerie fashion; it is pretty much simple undergarments or nothing. Now, under those undergarments Commodus is rather normal, waxed, not too big or small according to roman standards. However, he has a great butt like marble ass of David Statue.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Rather high, he is very needy of you, for reassurance, to make sure you still desire him, that it is not his imagination tricking him. But it would be also to vent; Commodus has a stressful life, and making love would be the healthiest way for him to get rid of the pressure. You would pretty much make love everyday with, unless he was excessively tired from the day and training.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterward)

tag list:

Commodus would instantly fall asleep; he is just exhausted all day along. It would actually prevent him from overthinking at night, he would just collapse from pure pleasure, nuzzled in your arms.

Thank you for reading and please don't hesitate to leave a comment ❤️

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[airybcby]

How about hiori with 🫐 and 🍫

i love hiori omg

a hiori yo chocolate blueberry

જ⁀♡⊹｡° something about you

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event !

♡ content — hiori yo x gn! reader, gn! reader, one bed trope, reader has slight feelings for hiori, hiori's sadism mentioned like once, talk of hiori playing pro, some cuddle moments, awkward kinda, not my best but i fear idk how to write for hiori well

♡ synopsis — Living with the resident ' nice guy ' , hiori yo, for this simulation was supposed to be good for you...until you're faced with any strangers sharing a space's worst nightmare... a singular bed

The apartment was... cozy. That was one way to describe it. Small but clean, with just enough space for the both of you. The only glaring problem was the single bed that sat against the far wall.

Hiori noticed it first, freezing mid-step as his gaze locked onto it. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he glanced at you, his blue eyes uncertain.

“There’s only one bed,” he said softly, as if you hadn’t already seen it.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s fine. You can take it.”

His head snapped toward you, his brows furrowing. “No way. You take it.”

“Hiori, it’s not a big deal—”

“It is to me,” he insisted, his voice uncharacteristically firm. “I’ll take the couch.”

You looked at the small, uncomfortable couch in question, your heart twisting. You knew him well enough to understand why he was being so stubborn. Hiori had always been the type to put others first, even at his own expense.

“I’m not letting you sleep on that,” you said, crossing your arms. “We’re both mature. We can share the bed. It’s just sleeping.”

He hesitated, clearly torn. But after a long moment, he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Alright. But I’m staying on my side.”

The first night went without incident. Hiori was almost annoyingly still as he slept, his back turned to you, his arms tucked rigidly at his sides.

The second night, though, he loosened up—or at least that’s what you told yourself when you woke up to find him lying on his back, his hand resting near yours.

“I didn’t cross the line,” he said as soon as he noticed you were awake, his voice light but his gaze serious.

“I didn’t say you did,” you replied, though your heart was racing.

The days passed, and despite the awkwardness, you settled into a routine. Hiori would tease you endlessly, but there was a tenderness beneath it that made your chest ache.

“This isn’t weird for you?” you asked one night as you lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.

“What?” he replied, his voice soft in the dark.

“Sharing a bed. Being here. With me.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “No. Is it weird for you?”

You hesitated. “No. I guess not.”

“Good,” he said simply, and that was the end of it—or so you thought.

The moment it all came crashing down was during the final week of the simulation.

You woke up one morning to find Hiori’s arm draped over your waist, his face inches from yours. For a moment, you froze, your heart racing.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. When he realized the position you were in, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he blinked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Morning,” he said finally, his voice low and raspy.

“Morning,” you whispered back, your cheeks burning.

And then, as if the weight of the moment was too much, he pulled back, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

“Sorry,” he said, his tone back to his usual sweet tone, though his ears were red. “Guess I forgot to stay on my side.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, sitting up as well. “It’s not a big deal.”

But it was. You both knew it.

The next morning, he avoided your gaze entirely. The easy banter that usually filled the space between you was gone, replaced by a heavy, stifling silence.

“Hiori,” you began as you packed your things on the last day, your voice trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, cutting you off.

“For what?”

“For crossing a line.” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his hands busy folding a shirt that didn’t need folding. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, stepping closer.

He finally looked at you then, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Longing?

“You don’t get it,” he said softly, his voice laced with frustration. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hiori Yo? Hurt you? In what world would that be possible? But you didn't know him like you thought, how his brain worked, how he was just a bit of a sadist.

And, in the end, he was still an egoist, still a soccer player who's was going to play pro.

He refused to bring someone into that life when even he didn't know how it would play out.

“Hiori,” you whispered, your chest tightening.

“This was supposed to be pretend,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor. His usual smile still on his face, although his eyes looked sad, “But I think we both know it hasn’t felt that way.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might say something else. But he just shook his head, his jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely audible.

You swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “So that’s it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he zipped up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

As he walked toward the door, he paused, his hand resting on the frame.

“For what it’s worth,” he said without turning around, “I wanted this. More than I should have.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet, empty apartment.

this is so bad but i didn't wanna make him "i'm such a baby , pls help me" fanon hiori when he's a meanie but i didn't know how to make it fit the story

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[aventurineswife]

Ok, confession time.....wriothesley and gallagher....there thats it

-Smooch Anon💋

The Weight of Unspoken Words

Tags: Gallagher x Reader, Wriosthesley x Reader, Confession, Slow Burn, Confession, Vulnerability, Romance, Introspection, Emotional Depth, Quiet Moments, Inner Turmoil.

Warnings: Mild Emotional Angst, Introspection on Loss and Loneliness, Mild Suggestion of Relationship Dynamics.

A/N: first time writing about dilfs lookin ahh them 🧍‍♀️

The bar was nearly empty, save for a few patrons scattered about. The faint clink of ice against glass echoed through the dimly lit room as Gallagher expertly prepared another drink. His rough hands moved with precision, yet there was a certain gentleness in the way he handled the glass. His eyes, distant and weary, flickered up briefly to meet yours before he returned to his work.

"You've been quiet tonight," you said, your voice soft, trying not to disturb the silence that had settled between the two of you.

Gallagher paused, his movements faltering for just a moment. He took a breath, as though collecting his thoughts, before setting the shaker down on the counter. His gaze shifted to the window, his expression unreadable.

"I've been thinking," he said, the words almost a whisper, as if he were speaking to himself more than to you.

You leaned forward slightly, intrigued by the rare vulnerability in his voice. Gallagher rarely shared his thoughts, and you couldn't help but feel honored to be the one he chose to speak to tonight.

He turned back to you, his eyes glimmering with something deeper than the usual melancholy. There was a quiet longing behind them, something that had been buried for a long time.

"There's a lot I’ve lost," he continued, his voice steady but tinged with sadness. "A lot I’ve seen. And it’s... left me empty. But when I look at you, it’s like... for just a moment, I don’t feel so alone anymore."

His hand hovered near the bottle, but his attention was focused solely on you now. The sincerity in his words was unlike anything you'd heard from him before.

"I don't know if I deserve it," he muttered, his gaze faltering for a second. "But I’d like to try. For you."

He didn't need to say more. The weight of his words hung in the air, and in that moment, you knew what he meant. It was a quiet confession, one not of grand gestures, but of a man willing to open himself up, just a little, to the possibility of something more.

The Fortress of Meropide was always quiet, a place where silence reigned. But tonight, the stillness felt different—thicker, as if something was hanging in the air. You had come to deliver some reports to Wriothesley in his office, but now, you found yourself standing in the middle of the room, unsure of what to say next.

Wriothesley was seated at his desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood as he read over some documents. His eyes flickered to you for a brief moment, then returned to his work.

"You seem lost in thought," you said softly, stepping closer to his desk. "Something on your mind?"

He paused, setting down the papers, his gaze now fully focused on you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His calm demeanor was as composed as ever, but you could sense an unspoken tension between you.

"I suppose... I've been thinking about how much I value peace," he began, his voice as calm as ever, yet there was a hint of something more, something tender beneath the surface. "How much I cherish the quiet moments. The simple ones, like this."

He stood up, slowly walking toward you, his steps deliberate and measured. As he neared, his eyes softened, and you could see the exhaustion that lingered beneath his composed exterior.

"I’ve been surrounded by chaos for most of my life," he continued, his voice low, almost intimate. "But in you, I find a peace I didn’t know I was missing."

You could feel your heart race as he reached out, gently taking your hand in his. The touch was warm, reassuring, and in that moment, you knew what he was about to say.

"You've become more than just someone I rely on," he confessed, his words steady but full of sincerity. "I don't want to imagine a life without you in it. Will you stay by my side, through whatever comes?"

The question was simple, yet it carried the weight of everything he'd said before—a promise, a desire for something more. You didn't need to say a word; the connection between you two was enough. Wriothesley's confession was a quiet one, but in its stillness, it spoke volumes.

[earthlybeam]

Just some random headcanons i think that fit haldir (my opinion)

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Haldir version below.

🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

What's their love language? Haldir’s primary love language is Acts of Service, closely followed by Quality Time. As a Marchwarden of Lothlórien, Haldir’s life is shaped by duty, responsibility, and vigilance. These deeply ingrained values influence how he expresses love, as he approaches relationships with the same steadfast dedication and thoughtfulness he devotes to guarding the Golden Wood. For Haldir, love is not simply expressed through fleeting words or grand declarations—it is a consistent, tangible force woven into the small yet meaningful actions that demonstrate his care and devotion.

When it comes to Acts of Service, Haldir shows his love by doing rather than speaking. He believes actions are the truest form of commitment, and his affection manifests in the form of thoughtful gestures aimed at making his significant other’s (s/o’s) life easier and more secure. He is the type to notice their needs before they even voice them—whether it’s preparing a warm cloak on a cold night, repairing a treasured possession, or quietly standing watch while they rest, ensuring they feel safe. His acts are never performed for recognition or praise; they are born out of genuine care and a deep desire to support and protect the person he loves. For Haldir, these gestures are deeply personal. He takes pride in knowing what will comfort his s/o most, whether that’s preparing a meal tailored to their tastes, offering a silent shoulder to lean on after a hard day, or stepping in to handle problems they cannot face alone. His service is a silent promise: “I see you. I care for you. I will always protect you.” It’s how he reminds his s/o, without words, that their happiness and well-being are his priority.

Alongside Acts of Service, Quality Time is equally vital to Haldir’s love language. For someone whose days are often consumed by duty and vigilance, time spent with his s/o feels precious and sacred. Sharing undistracted moments allows him to lower the protective walls he constantly maintains and connect with them on a deeper level. Haldir treasures the rare, quiet hours where he and his s/o can simply be together, unburdened by the outside world. These moments might include walking together through the serene golden woods of Lothlórien, basking in the tranquility of the forest and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Perhaps it’s sharing quiet conversations beneath the stars, where his guarded demeanor softens, and his words carry rare tenderness. Even moments of silence are meaningful to him—a gentle touch or a glance exchanged between them speaks volumes. He values this undivided attention as a way to nurture their connection and show his s/o that in those moments, they are the center of his world. Haldir’s love language is deeply tied to his character—measured, steadfast, and thoughtful. Through acts of service and time spent together, he conveys a love that is constant and enduring, grounded in the unspoken promise that his s/o will always have a partner they can depend on. For Haldir, love is a quiet, steadfast flame, burning brightly even when unspoken.

How do they view their significant other? Are they the light in their life? Best friend? Savior, etc.? Haldir views his significant other (s/o) as a radiant beacon of light in his often somber, duty-bound existence—a source of warmth and hope that softens the edges of his stoic life. To him, they are far more than a mere companion or partner; they are his anchor, his guiding star, and his reason to return home after the long, wearisome days of patrolling the borders of Lothlórien. In a life consumed by vigilance and the weight of responsibility, his s/o represents the beauty and peace he protects but seldom allows himself to fully enjoy. Haldir’s perception of his s/o is deeply tied to the rare vulnerability they inspire in him. While he is accustomed to leading and standing guard, his s/o becomes the one person with whom he can let down his walls. In their presence, he finds solace and reprieve, as if stepping into a safe haven where he can momentarily lay aside his burdens. They become his confidant—the one person he trusts to share the thoughts and emotions he keeps hidden from the world. With them, he doesn’t have to carry the weight of his responsibilities alone.

Quietly romantic and introspective by nature, Haldir sees his s/o as the embodiment of everything he cherishes most: grace, strength, and the quiet beauty of life that he rarely has time to appreciate. To him, they are a balance to his solitary and guarded nature, a mirror that reflects the softer, more human aspects of himself that he often suppresses. He finds their presence grounding, yet inspiring, as if they are a reminder of what he fights to protect—a symbol of hope in a world that can so easily fall into darkness. Haldir’s love for his s/o is rooted in admiration and deep respect. He marvels at their ability to bring light into his life, whether through their laughter, their quiet understanding, or the way they look at the world with wonder and resilience. He treasures their kindness and strength, often seeing in them the courage and gentleness he strives to embody. To Haldir, his s/o is a precious gift, something both fragile and enduring—a rare source of joy and meaning in a life filled with duty and sacrifice. Though he may not always voice his feelings openly, Haldir’s actions speak volumes about how deeply he values his s/o. He views them as his sanctuary, a partner who not only supports him but helps him see the beauty and purpose in his own life. In their love, he finds the strength to face the uncertainty of the world, knowing that no matter what challenges arise, they are his reason to hope and endure.

How do they act when falling out of love? Falling out of love would not be an abrupt or impulsive event for Haldir. His deep emotional reserve and disciplined nature mean that such a shift in his feelings would be a slow, contemplative process. He is not someone to act rashly or give in to fleeting emotions; instead, if he senses the connection fading, he would likely retreat inwardly, becoming more withdrawn and introspective. He would reflect on the reasons for this change within himself, often questioning the validity of his feelings and searching for clarity before taking any action. Given Haldir’s guarded demeanor, it would not be immediately apparent to his significant other that something has shifted. He would still carry out his duties with precision and care, remaining respectful and considerate, but emotionally, there would be a subtle distance that grows over time. His affection would become more distant, and his attention would shift, not through overt coldness but through a quiet, internal reorganization of priorities.

Though Haldir would not be overtly confrontational about the shift in his feelings, there would be an emotional distance that gradually widens. His partner might notice his increasing silence, less frequent displays of affection, or his tendency to seek solitude more often than before. Still, his innate sense of duty and honor would prevent him from being rude or inconsiderate toward his s/o. He would not lash out, but instead, his actions would reflect a growing detachment—a silent, internal struggle that he bears alone. Haldir’s loyalty and honor would keep him from severing ties hastily. For him, it would take a significant betrayal or a profound misalignment in values to drive him to consciously fall out of love. If he feels that trust has been broken or that there is an irreconcilable gap between them, he would be forced to reconcile these feelings quietly and with great pain. The emotional weight of this shift would not be taken lightly, and he would carry it silently, perhaps turning to the solitude of the woods or other quiet spaces to process the emotional toll. However, despite the fading passion, Haldir’s sense of responsibility toward his partner would ensure he remains protective and respectful. He would not leave without offering an explanation, but the process would likely unfold slowly, with little more than a gentle withdrawal. In the end, his actions would convey that while the depth of his love may have changed, his sense of duty and care for the well-being of his s/o would remain—though the romantic connection may no longer be what it once was.

Will they do anything for their s/o? Will the crocodile tears win them over or are they stubborn on not giving in? Yes, Haldir would go to great lengths to ensure his significant other’s happiness, safety, and well-being—within reason. His devotion is steadfast and his love, once given, is unwavering. He would fiercely protect his s/o, offering both emotional and physical support, and would sacrifice much to keep them safe from harm. Whether it’s braving danger, offering comfort during difficult times, or ensuring their peace of mind, Haldir would prove time and time again that he is a reliable and trustworthy partner. However, Haldir’s deeply ingrained caution and strong sense of duty mean that he does not act impulsively. His decision-making is tempered by practicality, and he weighs every action carefully. While his love is profound, it is not blind or unreasoning. He values integrity, responsibility, and respect in a relationship, and this will shape the extent to which he is willing to go. If his s/o’s request is reasonable, aligned with his values, and does not threaten the stability of Lothlórien or his duties as a Marchwarden, Haldir would go to great lengths to fulfill it.

That being said, he is not easily swayed by emotional manipulation or crocodile tears. Haldir holds steadfastly to his principles, and he does not let guilt or emotional pressure dictate his actions. While he is empathetic and deeply attuned to his s/o’s needs, he does not tolerate behavior that compromises mutual respect or manipulates his affections. His love is not conditional, but it is grounded in a shared sense of honor, trust, and responsibility. For Haldir, true devotion is not about reckless acts of love, but about long-term commitment, support, and a partnership built on mutual respect. He would never act in a way that endangers the well-being of those he loves, nor would he do anything that violates his sense of duty or the values he holds dear. His love is steadfast, practical, and tempered by a quiet strength that ensures it remains enduring, grounded, and honest. In short, Haldir would indeed do anything for his s/o, as long as the request is aligned with his integrity, the safety of his people, and the values he holds sacred. His love is unconditional, but it is not without boundaries or limits.

How do they kiss? Haldir's kisses are slow, deliberate, and profoundly meaningful. He does not rush or indulge in impulsive displays of affection, preferring instead to savor each kiss as if it were a rare and precious moment. His reserved nature means that he does not engage in public displays of passion, but when he is with his significant other in private, his kisses are intimate, tender, and full of deep affection. When he kisses his s/o, Haldir's movements are measured and purposeful. He often begins by gently cupping their face, as if memorizing the contours of their features, or holding them close with one hand resting protectively on their lower back. His touch is warm and reassuring, the sort that speaks of safety and trust. He would never rush through these moments, instead savoring the closeness between them as a way to connect deeply without words. With each kiss, there is a quiet intensity as he expresses his feelings through the simple act of touch, offering a rare window into his guarded heart.

When in public or in the presence of others, Haldir is more restrained offering quick, fleeting pecks to the lips —a gentle brush of affection that does not draw attention but still conveys his fondness. These kisses are soft and respectful of the space between them, as he knows the importance of maintaining composure when around others. However, even these brief pecks are filled with meaning, offering a quiet promise of affection that lingers long after the moment has passed.

In private, however, Haldir allows himself to fully immerse in the act of kissing. There is no rush when they are alone together. He pulls his s/o close, his hands gently resting on their hips, keeping them within his embrace as he kisses them with a deep, slow intensity. His kisses are firm, his lips moving with purpose, but always at a leisurely pace —each kiss a silent declaration of his feelings, as if the act itself speaks louder than words ever could. He takes his time, caressing their lips as though he wants to imprint the sensation on his soul. In these moments, Haldir is entirely present, his emotional guard lowered as he expresses the tenderness and depth of his love. It's a vulnerability he only shares with them, and it is through these intimate moments that he allows his softer, more affectionate side to shine through. Haldir's kisses are not just about passion-they are about connection, trust, and the rare vulnerability he allows himself to experience with someone who holds his heart.

What's their favorite part of their s/o? Haldir’s favorite parts of his s/o are their eyes, voice, and hands—each a silent language of its own, one that he deeply cherishes. His connection to them is more than physical, as he is acutely attuned to the nuances of their emotions and expressions. First, it’s their eyes that captivate him. He sees their eyes as windows to their soul, a reflection of their innermost feelings, whether those feelings are joy, sorrow, passion, or vulnerability. Haldir is drawn to the way their gaze can speak volumes without uttering a single word. Their eyes hold a depth that both comforts and intrigues him. They give him insight into their heart, and it is in those moments of silent understanding that he feels most connected to them. Whether they are soft and loving or bright with excitement, Haldir finds a profound beauty in the way their emotions shine through their gaze, speaking directly to his own heart.

Haldir is also deeply moved by the sound of their voice. Their voice has the ability to soothe him after long, exhausting days or to stir him with quiet passion during more intimate moments. He finds that their tone, cadence, and the words they speak hold power—whether they are offering reassurance, sharing a laugh, or simply offering a comforting silence. Their voice becomes a source of grounding for him, one that calms his restless mind or brings warmth to his soul. In the quiet of their conversations, their words are often like a balm, soothing him in ways that nothing else can.

Physically, Haldir is particularly drawn to their hands—hands that can be both gentle and capable, creative and comforting. He admires the way their hands move with such grace and purpose, whether they are crafting something beautiful, offering him a comforting touch, or simply holding his. He finds solace in the simple act of their hand in his, and it is in those moments that he feels truly at peace. Their hands embody a quiet strength, and Haldir treasures how they convey care and affection. Whether their hands are skilled with a bow, as delicate as they may be in weaving or playing an instrument, or simply placed gently on his shoulder in reassurance, he feels a profound connection in these subtle, physical gestures. For Haldir, these parts of his s/o—eyes, voice, and hands—hold a quiet yet profound significance. They are the ways in which he connects with them on a deeper level, understanding their soul and finding comfort in their presence. To him, they are not just physical features, but symbols of the bond they share, a connection he holds precious and rare.

Are they protective? Absolutely. Haldir’s protective instincts are not only a product of his upbringing as a warrior and his role as a Marchwarden of Lothlórien, but also a manifestation of his deep affection and commitment to his s/o. He views protection as a fundamental part of his duty—not just to his people, but to those he loves. This instinct is both practical and emotional, driven by an intense desire to ensure their safety, happiness, and well-being. With his s/o, Haldir’s protectiveness knows no bounds. He’s ever-watchful, scanning the horizon, ensuring that they’re safe from physical harm, and even safeguarding their emotional well-being. Whether it’s ensuring they don’t overexert themselves, watching over them during dangerous missions, or simply making sure they have everything they need, Haldir’s attentiveness is constant. He values their safety above all else and, at times, this can lead him to be somewhat overbearing. It isn’t that he doubts their abilities; rather, he feels an overwhelming responsibility to shield them from any harm, as he views his protective role as a way to express his devotion.

Haldir can be fiercely stubborn when it comes to his s/o’s safety. If they are determined to take risks or face danger alone, he will not hesitate to intervene, even if it means an argument or disagreement. While he understands their independence, his love for them often leads him to feel the need to shield them from the harsh realities of the world, whether it’s protecting them from the physical threats that lurk in Lothlórien or from emotional pain. This protective nature can sometimes lead him to insist on accompanying them when they would prefer to go alone, or he might try to remove potential sources of distress, even if it feels unnecessary to them. To Haldir, love and protection are inseparable. He doesn’t see these instincts as overbearing but as an expression of his deep, unwavering commitment. For him, there is no greater priority than ensuring that his s/o is safe, both in body and spirit. Even if they protest or argue, he will always stand firm, knowing that it is his love that drives this need to protect them. In his eyes, being with someone means being there for them through everything, and that often means protecting them—even if it’s from themselves.

How far will they go to take care of their sick s/o? When his s/o falls ill, Haldir’s devotion to their well-being becomes absolute. His usual stoic nature, grounded in duty and responsibility, would give way to an intensity of care that might surprise those who know him best. Haldir’s protective instincts come alive with an urgency to ensure his s/o’s health and comfort. While he is rarely expressive about his emotions, his concern for their illness would be apparent in every action he takes. Haldir would leave no stone unturned in his quest to see them recover. If the sickness is one that can be treated with the natural resources of Lothlórien, he would scour the forest for rare herbs, consulting the ancient knowledge passed down by his people. He would even go as far as consulting Galadriel herself, seeking her wisdom and guidance, knowing that her knowledge of healing could be invaluable. No length would be too great for him, and he would rely on every resource available to him in Lothlórien to ensure his s/o’s recovery. Throughout the illness, Haldir would be ever-present at their side, offering gentle care in ways that might seem out of character for someone so steadfast and composed. He would prepare meals, ensure they have enough rest, and even hold vigil at their bedside. His hands, usually so firm and unyielding in battle, would be surprisingly tender as he helps them with even the smallest of tasks. Whether it’s adjusting blankets or offering a comforting touch, he would ensure that they never feel alone or abandoned during their recovery.

Though he is not one to easily show his vulnerability, Haldir would stay with them for as long as needed, disregarding his own duties as a Marchwarden. His responsibilities would feel secondary to the care of his s/o—something he would never hesitate to prioritize. He would dismiss any personal discomfort, whether it’s lack of sleep or the demands of his role in Lothlórien, in favor of their healing. If the illness persists, Haldir would remain unwavering in his determination, refusing to leave their side until he’s certain that they are out of danger. In his eyes, no sacrifice is too great for someone he loves. His sense of duty to them would outshine all other obligations, as their well-being would become his sole focus. His actions would speak louder than any words, demonstrating his commitment and love in the most intimate and selfless ways possible. For Haldir, the love he feels for his s/o would be woven into every act of care, no matter how small.

How do they cheer their s/o up when they're down? When his s/o is feeling down, Haldir’s response is one of quiet strength and careful observation. Rather than offering grand gestures, he takes a more subtle, instinctive approach, knowing that what his s/o needs is a sense of calm and emotional support rather than a whirlwind of energy or distractions. His perceptive nature allows him to pick up on even the slightest cues, whether it’s a shift in tone, a quiet sadness in their eyes, or a change in their posture. From these subtle signs, he can discern exactly how to best comfort them.

Haldir may take his s/o on a peaceful walk through the tranquil woods of Lothlórien, where the golden leaves shimmer in the soft sunlight. In these moments, there’s no rush, no expectation—just the comforting presence of the forest and the sound of their footsteps on the soft earth. As they walk, he might share quiet words of encouragement, offering reassurance or wisdom that stems from his own experiences. His words would not be flowery or overly emotional, but instead would be steady and calm, speaking to the heart in a way that makes them feel understood and supported. He would speak from a place of deep knowing, reminding them that they are not alone in their struggles. Alternatively, if his s/o doesn’t feel like talking, Haldir would simply sit beside them, offering silent support. In these moments, he wouldn’t push for conversation or try to force a smile, but rather would sit in companionable silence, offering his presence as a steady anchor. His proximity is a reminder that no matter what, he’s there with them, sharing in the weight of whatever they’re facing. His presence alone would be a source of comfort—his hand may rest gently on theirs, or his eyes may meet theirs with a silent promise that he is there, unwavering, through both the light and dark times.

On rare occasions, when he senses his s/o could use a distraction, Haldir’s dry, wry sense of humor may come into play. It’s not often that he allows his humor to shine through, but when it does, it’s a welcome surprise. His jokes are subtle, and while they may carry an edge of sarcasm, they’re never mean-spirited. Instead, they are clever and thoughtful, aimed at bringing a smile or a light-hearted moment in the midst of sadness. A rare chuckle or a fleeting smile from his s/o would be enough to remind him that, despite his seriousness, he can still bring joy to those he loves. Through it all, Haldir’s approach to cheering up his s/o is deeply understated. He may not be the loudest or most overtly expressive partner, but his methods are grounded in empathy and attentiveness. His quiet but unwavering support makes it clear to his s/o that they are not alone, and that whatever difficulty they’re facing, he will stand beside them—strong, calm, and steady.

How do they react when they find out their s/o is dead? Haldir’s reaction to the death of his s/o would be a profound and crushing blow, though it would be expressed in ways that are quiet, stoic, and largely internalized. His grief would not be loud or outwardly dramatic, but rather the kind of sorrow that settles deep within, silently consuming him. While he may not openly show the depth of his pain to others, it would be evident in the way he withdraws even further into himself. He is a warrior, a protector, and someone who has long carried the weight of responsibility, so the emotional toll of such a loss would be kept tightly bound beneath a shield of stoicism.

The facade of duty and strength would remain outwardly intact, as his role as Marchwarden demands unwavering composure. He would continue to perform his duties, but everything would feel hollow, as if something essential was now missing from his life. His days might pass in a blur of motions—still efficient, still resolute—but devoid of the spark and warmth that his s/o once brought to his world. He may even find himself going through the motions mechanically, performing his responsibilities with quiet precision but without the passion or light he once had when they were by his side. Internally, the pain of the loss would gnaw at him constantly, and his heart would be heavy with sorrow. He would likely become even more withdrawn, retreating further into solitude. There would be moments, when alone in the quiet of the woods or beneath the canopy of stars, when the walls he so carefully built would crumble, and his grief would come crashing in waves. But even then, Haldir would be unlikely to express it openly to others. His solitude would be his only solace, and he would keep his sorrow locked away, perhaps even from himself, except in those rare moments when he is entirely alone.

In private, Haldir would honor his s/o’s memory in quiet, deeply personal ways. He might plant a tree in their name, marking a part of the forest where they once walked together, as a living memorial to their presence in his life. The act would be quiet, meaningful, and intimate, a testament to the love they shared and the impact they had on him. If Haldir is alone and the weight of his grief becomes unbearable, he might retreat to a secluded spot, far away from others, and sing a soft lament in their honor—a song filled with sorrow, but also reverence. This mournful tune, filled with the weight of his feelings, would echo through the trees, a tribute to what was lost. Even though Haldir would never show the full extent of his pain to others, the loss of his s/o would leave an indelible mark on his soul. It would linger with him, shaping his actions, his decisions, and his worldview for the rest of his life. In a way, he would carry their memory with him wherever he went—quiet, unspoken, but always there. While he would continue to fulfill his duties with unwavering dedication, the joy and love he once had would be irreparably altered. The person who once filled that space in his heart would be gone, and Haldir would be left to face the world with the weight of that loss, enduring the passage of time while carrying the memory of the one he loved in silence.

What makes them worry about their s/o the most? Haldir’s primary concern for his s/o revolves around their safety and well-being, particularly given the dangers that lie beyond the borders of Lothlórien. As a Marchwarden and protector, he is acutely aware of the threats that the outside world holds—whether it be from hostile forces, wild creatures, or the lingering dangers of war. He understands the vulnerability of those he cares for, and this knowledge manifests in a constant, quiet worry that never truly dissipates. His fears are not limited to physical harm alone. Haldir is also deeply protective of his s/o’s emotional well-being. He knows the harsh realities of life, the toll that loss and sorrow can take on a soul, and he dreads the thought of his s/o suffering emotional pain or distress, especially from forces outside his control. The thought that someone could manipulate or cause them harm—whether through deceit, betrayal, or simply by their inability to navigate the world as cautiously as he does—keeps him on edge.

Haldir is particularly concerned about their interactions with outsiders. His distrust of those unfamiliar to him, shaped by years of duty and protecting Lothlórien, makes him wary of anyone who might come into contact with his s/o. He is protective to the point of being overbearing, questioning the intentions of others, and feeling a need to shield his s/o from potential harm or exploitation. This protective instinct can make him seem possessive at times, as he may want to keep them within the safety of Lothlórien’s borders or ensure they do not venture into situations that could be dangerous or emotionally taxing. In moments when his s/o is outside his direct reach, Haldir’s mind races with all the possibilities of harm that could come their way. His loyalty to them, paired with his inherent sense of duty, makes him uneasy when he cannot personally guard them. Whether they are traveling alone, dealing with unfamiliar individuals, or even simply facing a challenging situation, he worries that they are exposed to risks that he cannot prevent. It is this helplessness, this inability to protect them at all times, that causes him the greatest anxiety. Though Haldir may never openly admit the depth of his worry, it is always present in the way he watches over them, the way he quietly anticipates their needs, and in the careful, thoughtful way he approaches their safety. His love for them is both a source of strength and vulnerability, and the weight of caring so deeply for someone in such a dangerous world is a constant burden on his heart.

How often do they stare lovingly at their s/o?Haldir’s gaze is not one to be openly displayed, as he is a creature of duty and restraint, often keeping his emotions in check. However, in rare moments of vulnerability, when he believes no one is watching, his eyes will soften with a tenderness that he does not easily express aloud. These stolen glances are a reflection of his deep affection, a private treasure he keeps for himself. His admiration is most evident when his s/o is engaged in something that brings them joy or peace—whether they are lost in conversation, lost in a moment of quiet contemplation, or simply going about their day. At these times, Haldir’s gaze lingers, drawn to the subtle ways they move, the expressions that flicker across their face, or the light in their eyes. He finds beauty in their every action, whether they are simply reading a book or tending to something with gentle hands. His eyes follow them with an unspoken fondness that speaks volumes without a single word being exchanged

Though he may not openly show it, his heart swells in these moments. He admires the strength in their posture, the warmth in their smile, or the way they move through the world with grace and purpose. It is a quiet adoration, an acknowledgment of all they are—both the external and the internal qualities that make them unique. These moments of gaze are rare, often fleeting, but filled with a quiet intensity that only Haldir can understand. While his public demeanor remains composed and reserved, these private moments when he allows himself to stare lovingly at his s/o are his way of silently communicating his deep love and admiration for them—an expression of affection he reserves for his one true companion. His gaze is an intimate bond between them, one that doesn’t require words, only the shared understanding of the depth of his feelings.

How do they impress their s/o? Haldir impresses his s/o not with grand gestures or overt displays of affection, but through the quiet strength and unwavering dedication that defines him. His poise and grace are evident in everything he does, from the way he moves with an effortless elegance through the forests of Lothlórien to the calm confidence he exhibits as a leader. It is the subtlety of his actions that leaves a lasting impact. One of the ways Haldir captures his s/o’s admiration is through his fierce yet calm dedication to his duties. Whether it’s in the defense of Lothlórien or guiding others through the perilous woods, he exudes a quiet confidence in his skills, allowing his s/o to feel safe and protected under his watch. His capability, both as a warrior and a leader, leaves them in awe of his inner strength and discipline.

His deep knowledge of Elven history and lore also plays a role in impressing his s/o. He possesses a wisdom that comes from centuries of experience, and when he speaks of Lothlórien’s ancient trees or the rich culture of the Elves, his s/o is entranced by his ability to connect them to the beauty and depth of their world. His stories are not mere recitations but offer insight into his soul, and each word is a window into his heart. The way he appreciates even the smallest details—be it the sound of the wind in the leaves or the intricacies of a well-crafted bow—shows his sensitivity to beauty in all things, making his s/o feel as though they’re seeing the world through his eyes. Perhaps most impressively, Haldir’s attentiveness and devotion are palpable in the smallest, most thoughtful gestures. He seems to instinctively know what his s/o needs, whether it’s a comforting touch after a long day or a word of encouragement when they feel uncertain. His ability to anticipate their needs—whether emotional or physical—demonstrates a care that goes beyond simple affection. He never demands anything in return, and his actions show a profound respect and understanding of who they are.

In private, Haldir’s love takes on a more intimate, tender form. He finds comfort in the simplicity of small gestures that are shared when they are alone. Whether it’s gently braiding his s/o’s hair, running his fingers through the strands with quiet care, or simply holding them close during a long, peaceful cuddle, these moments of closeness speak volumes about his love. The act of braiding hair is an especially personal way for him to show tenderness, a delicate task that requires patience and attention to detail. His hands, which are so often used for battle, become instruments of care and affection when it comes to his s/o. He also expresses his love through slow, lingering kisses. These quiet moments allow him to reveal a side of himself that is rarely seen by others. His kisses are never rushed but are filled with deep affection, a way for him to connect on a more intimate level when they are alone. When his s/o is in his arms, he may offer small, soft kisses, an expression of his quiet devotion that grows with each passing moment. When Haldir cares for someone, it’s not a matter of duty—it’s a quiet devotion that manifests in the smallest of acts. His s/o may be impressed not by the overt declarations of love, but by the steady, reliable presence he offers, the way he supports them in every way without hesitation. It’s a love that’s built on actions that leave no room for doubt: Haldir is someone they can trust, admire, and rely upon.

Extra bonus (these parts just for fun, love writing them 😈🙈)

➳ He’s a sucker for forehead kisses. It’s his go-to way of showing affection without saying anything. If his s/o is upset, a soft press of his lips to their forehead is his quiet reassurance that everything will be okay.

➳ He gives surprisingly heartfelt compliments. Though he’s not one for flowery words, when he does speak about his s/o, his honesty and depth of feeling make his words unforgettable. A simple “You are the light in my life” from him carries more weight than a thousand poems.

➳ He secretly loves when s/o fall asleep on him. Whether it’s during a quiet moment in the woods or by the fire, Haldir will freeze at first but then soften completely, wrapping an arm around them and holding them close.

➳ He blushes easily around them. Though he tries to maintain his stoic demeanor, a loving look or unexpected compliment from his s/o can leave him flustered and adorably red-faced.

➳ He secretly loves when they call him by a pet name. He’ll roll his eyes and pretend it’s ridiculous, but deep down, it makes him feel warm and cherished.

➳ He always has to have the last word. Whether it’s a minor disagreement or a full-blown debate, Haldir will find a way to deliver a closing remark, even if it’s muttered under his breath as he walks away.

➳ He’s a master of pointed silence. When he knows he’s right (which is always, in his mind), he’ll cross his arms and give you the most condescending look until you cave. That raised eyebrow could win any argument without him saying a word.

➳ He’s passive-aggressively polite when he’s annoyed. He’ll say things like, “Of course, you’re entirely correct,” while pointedly adjusting his cloak with a dramatic flourish that screams otherwise.

➳ He’s a stickler for details. If someone tries to generalize in an argument, he’ll interject with, “Actually…” and proceed to deliver an overly specific, smug correction that no one asked for.

➳ He’ll never admit he’s lost an argument. If it happens, he’ll deflect with, “This isn’t worth my time,” or, “We have more important things to do,” and walk away with his head high, pretending he never cared.

➳ He secretly loves when someone stands their ground. As much as he loves being right, he respects people who don’t give in easily—especially his s/o. Their ability to challenge him and hold firm in their beliefs not only impresses him but also stirs something deeper within. The fiery determination they show in an argument is, admittedly, a big turn-on for him. While he would never openly admit it, the clash of wits leaves him both exhilarated and quietly captivated. Their eventual resolution—whether it’s a compromise or his reluctant surrender—becomes all the sweeter because of the tension and passion that led up to it. Deep down, he relishes the challenge, finding it endlessly alluring.

➳ Haldir has a stare that could kill—literally. His resting face is so intense and deadpan that when he’s not actively engaging in conversation, it looks like he’s trying to burn a hole through whoever is in front of him. It’s a look so sharp that it makes everyone uncomfortable, though he’s often unaware of how intimidating it is. People know to stay out of his way when he’s in his “zone,” but secretly, he doesn’t mind the intimidation—it’s a power he quietly enjoys.

➳ He absolutely hates small, irritating sounds. The constant ticking of a clock, the tapping of a finger, or the rustling of papers will drive him mad. It grinds on him in a way that few things do. He won’t show it openly, but it’s enough to make him restless and irritable. If something is making noise that annoys him, he’ll often “fix” it in subtle ways—maybe clearing his throat loudly or repositioning to get farther away from it. You’re guaranteed to see a twitch in his eye if he can’t escape the noise.

➳ He’s constantly pretending to hate romantic gestures, but secretly he loves them. He’ll act like a stoic warrior when his s/o gives him a thoughtful gift or says something sweet, responding with a simple “It’s nothing” or “You shouldn’t have.” But when he’s alone, he’ll secretly admire the gift or replay the words in his head, smiling faintly to himself.

➳ Haldir secretly enjoys being pampered by his s/o. He’s used to being the one in charge, taking care of others, but in private, he enjoys when his s/o takes care of him. Whether it’s massaging his shoulders after a long day or simply sitting with him in quiet comfort, he allows himself to be vulnerable in these moments, enjoying the closeness it brings.

➳ Haldir gets easily annoyed by unnecessary noise. Whether it’s a clanging sword, loud voices, or the rustling of a branch out of place, Haldir can be very sensitive to disruptive sounds. His heightened senses, honed over centuries of living in the forests, make him attuned to even the smallest disturbances, and it can put him on edge if he’s trying to focus.

➳ He absolutely despises being fussed over, but deep down, he loves it. Haldir would never ask for attention, and if anyone tries to pamper him, he’ll act all grumpy about it. He might snap at them or roll his eyes, but he secretly enjoys being cared for. If someone offers to give him a shoulder rub or a warm drink, he’ll act like he doesn’t need it—yet he’ll find himself looking forward to it.

➳ He’s a soft grumpy, the kind of person who grumbles about everything but secretly enjoys every bit of it. He’ll roll his eyes if someone asks for his help but will do it without a second thought, muttering under his breath the entire time. But once the task is done, you can tell he’s secretly pleased with himself. His grumpiness is a mask for his deep care and attention to detail.

➳ Big cuddles—he pretends to hate them, but he secretly loves them. While Haldir would never admit it, he’s a big fan of cuddles. He often acts gruff or distant when his s/o tries to pull him into a cozy embrace, rolling his eyes or muttering about “discomfort” and “wasting time.” However, when he’s actually in the embrace, he’s completely relaxed, often sighing contentedly and letting himself fall into the warmth of the hug. It’s one of the few times he lets his guard down, but he’ll continue to grumble about it afterward to maintain his tough exterior.

➳ Secretly, he’s a sucker for affection—but he’ll never ask for it. Haldir is very proud and would rather suffer in silence than admit that he craves touch or emotional warmth. But every now and then, he’ll lean into someone’s touch, or he’ll respond to a soft gesture of affection with a genuine warmth that he struggles to hide. He’ll always play it off, pretending that he didn’t want it, but deep down, he secretly enjoys it and looks forward to those moments where he doesn’t have to be “the strong one.”

➳ Haldir is basically a grumpy cat. Much like a cat, he’ll silently judge you, disappear into his own space for hours, and then come out for affection on his terms. He won’t give you attention just because you want it, but if he’s in the right mood (or if he’s just bored), he’ll begrudgingly acknowledge you, usually with a quiet grumble and an eye roll. But like a cat, when he does decide to get affectionate, it’s on his own schedule—and he expects you to deal with his mood swings.

➳ He cherishes his alone time more than anything. While Haldir cares deeply for those around him, he thrives in solitude. Whether he’s taking a walk through the woods or simply sitting in quiet contemplation, he needs moments where he can disconnect from the world and recharge. If he’s in a group for too long, he’ll start looking like he’s about to explode from overstimulation. Being alone is his way of maintaining balance and peace.

➳ Haldir’s not one for small talk, but he values meaningful conversations. When he does speak, it’s usually with purpose. Small talk and idle chatter are foreign to him. However, if someone engages him in a deep, thoughtful conversation, he will open up—showing his intelligence, wisdom, and sometimes even his more philosophical side. These conversations are some of the few times he allows himself to relax.

➳ Haldir is surprisingly good at reading body language. His ability to understand people doesn’t just come from his long years of experience but also from his deep empathy. He can easily read someone’s mood or intentions just from a glance at their posture, their facial expression, or the way they move. This makes him an excellent strategist and confidant.

➳ Haldir’s private smile is like a rare treasure. He doesn’t smile easily, but when he does, it’s soft, almost imperceptible—a small upward curve of his lips, as if he’s sharing a secret with the world. It’s usually reserved for his closest companions or his s/o, and it always feels like a moment of pure connection.

➳ Haldir has a very specific way of organizing his things. Everything in his quarters is meticulously arranged—his weapons are polished and aligned, his cloak folded precisely, and even his books or scrolls are neatly stacked. It’s a reflection of his need for order and control, a way to counterbalance the chaos of his responsibilities.

➳ He hates being complimented, but he’s way too proud not to show a tiny smile when it happens. Compliments, especially about his appearance or abilities, make Haldir uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to handle praise and will often respond with a curt, “It’s nothing,” or brush it off as if it doesn’t matter. But if you look closely, you’ll catch that small, barely perceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s not immune to flattery, after all—he just won’t admit it.

➳ Haldir’s hair is always impeccably maintained, but only because of a habit from his youth. As a child, he was often the one tasked with braiding and styling his siblings’ hair, a role he found strangely soothing. Over time, it became a ritual for him—now, he spends an unusually long time on his own hair to make sure it’s perfect, almost like a small, quiet act of self-care.

➳ Haldir finds it hard to turn down a challenge, even when it’s trivial. Whether it’s an archery contest or a bet on something as minor as who can hold their breath the longest, if someone challenges him, Haldir can’t resist rising to the occasion. It’s not about the prize—it’s the satisfaction of proving himself.

➳ Haldir is not great with children, but he tries really hard. He’s awkward and overly serious when interacting with younger elves, and sometimes, he tries to be “fun” by telling them old war stories or showing off his combat skills. It comes off as unintentionally creepy, though, because the stories are always more intense and somber than the kids expect. He’ll then awkwardly try to change the subject when he realizes how uncomfortable they are.

➳ Haldir likes to be the one to fix things, even when it’s not necessary. If something breaks or goes wrong around him—whether it’s a weapon, a piece of armor, or even something as small as a broken clasp—he’ll immediately take over the repair, even if it’s something simple that doesn’t need fixing. He finds comfort in being the one who solves problems, and if given the chance, he’ll fix something just to show his usefulness. But when someone else takes care of it without his input, he’ll sulk quietly for a bit.

➳ He gets ridiculously flustered when complimented. If someone calls him handsome or brave, his immediate reaction is to scoff or roll his eyes. But if you look closely, his ears turn bright red, and he suddenly has a lot to say about unrelated topics.

For Other characters headcanons so far.