#and hoping for something cool with the other hand

[gf2bellamy]

hello!!! i love your spencer reid fics!!! i'm sorry if you've written something like this before or don't want to lololol pls disregard if so! I would highly appreciate if you wrote an argument fic with spencer, and it just escalates out of nowhere and he yells at reader (😞) and he chooses to sleep on the couch for the night, but he hears her having a nightmare from the bedroom and goes to comfort her ? n she feels very guilty and sad over bothering him again after he was mad and hes like no my baby darling i love u 4ever heart eyes emoji, sorry for my ramble i just love angst to fluff hurt comfort and i want to be babied by spencer sigh,,, love your stuff again and have a great day !

anger — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader having a nigthmare ( no explicit detail of what it is ) , reader and spencer having a fight , emotions run high a/n: hii !! i hope you like this <3 i loved writing this !!

Spencer Reid never yelled.

You knew this with the same certainty as you knew the way he mumbled equations in his sleep or how his hands always hesitated for half a second before touching you , simply because he still got nervous around you. His voice was a living thing, shifting effortlessly between lecture-hall projection and late-night murmurs against your skin, but it always remained controlled.

Until tonight.

It wasn’t shouting—not really. But the way his words turned razor-sharp at the edges, the way his voice cracked over a single syllable —it might as well have been a yell.

His hand raked through his hair, leaving it standing in chaotic tufts. In another moment, you might have smiled at how boyish it made him look. But now, with his shoulders rigid and his breaths coming too fast, all you could think was:

I did that.

The argument had started over something simple—his recklessness in the field, the way he threw himself into danger without hesitation. But then, as arguments often did, it spiraled. Old wounds were opened, and before either of you could stop it, the conversation had turned into something far uglier. 

Now, standing in the suffocating silence of your apartment, you had nothing left to say.

So you turned away, retreating to the bathroom, the click of the door behind you sounding far too final. You leaned against it, your breath shuddering as you pressed your palms against the cool wood. A single tear slipped free before you could stop it, and you swiped it away angrily, as if your own emotions were betraying you. 

Your reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror caught you off guard - eyes glassy and red-rimmed.

On the other side of the door, Spencer stood frozen for a long moment before exhaling sharply. He dragged his hands down his face, guilt already gnawing at him. Instead of following you, he sank onto the couch dropping his head into his hands. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, caught between regret and exhaustion, but eventually, he moved. With stiff motions, he grabbed the throw blanket draped over the armrest—the one you always curled under during movie nights—and tugged it over himself before lying down.

When you finally emerged, the apartment was quiet. Your steps were slow as you made your way toward the bedroom, but you stopped when you passed the living room. 

There he was. Spencer, stretched out on the couch. Your chest tightened at the sight, a fresh wave of hurt crashing over you.

He’d rather sleep here, cramped and restless, than share a bed with you. 

For a second, you considered going to him. You could reach out, brush your fingers through his hair, murmur an apology—anything to bridge this gap. But the stubborn ache in your heart held you back. 

So you turned away, slipping into the bedroom alone. The bed felt too big, too cold without him, and as you curled into your usual spot, you stared at the empty space beside you.

Spencer was tossing and turning. 

A car passed outside, headlights sweeping across the wall. For a fleeting moment, the light caught on the framed photo on the end table—your smiling faces at JJ's wedding, his arm slung carelessly around your shoulders.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes. The statistics on successful conflict resolution ran through his mind on a loop (87% of couples reconcile within 48 hours, 63% report stronger bonds post-reconciliation) but the numbers turned to ash before they could comfort him.

He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to sleep without you.

The silence shattered with a whimper.

The sheets rustled violently down the hall, followed by a choked gasp that sent ice flooding his veins. Before his mind could catch up, he was moving—the blanket pooling at his feet, as he moved toward the bedroom.

The sight before him made his stomach twist. 

You were asleep, but barely. Your body twitched under the covers, your fingers clutching at the sheets. A pained expression flickered across your face, your breath coming in uneven gasps. 

A nightmare. 

Spencer crossed the room in two strides. He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, his hand hovering over your shoulder before he finally let it rest there, his touch feather-light. 

"Hey—" His voice cracked as he reached for you, hands hovering—too afraid to startle, too desperate not to touch. Your skin was fever-hot under his fingertips when he finally brushed them along your arm.

You didn’t wake. 

Your breathing hitched, a quiet sound of distress escaping your lips, and something in Spencer’s chest cracked open. He squeezed your shoulder gently, his other hand brushing the hair back from your forehead. 

Then, you shot upright with a gasp, your eyes flying open, heart hammering against your ribs. For a disoriented second, the room spun—until your gaze landed on Spencer.

The first tear slipped down your cheek.

Then his arms were around you, crushing you against him so tightly you could feel his heartbeat stuttering against your sternum. His lips moved against your hair, whispering words too fractured to make sense—"I'm here, you're safe, I've got you"— as you clutched at his back.

Then, barely audible, you whispered, “I’m sorry for earlier.” 

Spencer stilled. 

Of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it. Not when your breaths were still uneven, not when he could feel the faint tremor in your hands. Guilt twisted sharply in his chest. 

You swallowed hard, your voice fraying at the edges. “I really didn’t mean to be overbearing—” 

“Hey, stop.” His hand cradled the back of your head, his thumb brushing the nape of your neck.

You were sorry? After he’d been the one to raise his voice, after he’d let his frustration push him to sleep on the couch like some petulant child? After you’d been the one to wake up trembling from a nightmare, and his pride had kept him from coming to you sooner?  

He shifted, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands. Your eyes were glassy in the faint moonlight, your lower lip caught between your teeth like you were fighting to keep it from trembling. 

God, he’d been an idiot. 

“Look at me,” he whispered. When your gaze flicked up to his, he held it, his thumbs sweeping over your cheeks. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who—” His voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have let it get that far. I shouldn’t have acted like that.” 

You shook your head slightly, but he pressed on, his forehead dipping to rest against yours. 

“I hate fighting with you,” he admitted, the words raw. “And I hate that I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me tonight.” 

A shaky breath escaped you, your hands lifting to grip his wrists. 

“I just worry,” you whispered. 

Spencer’s chest tightened. Of course you did. After everything he’d seen in the field, after every close call, how could you not? 

Spencer's thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone as he whispered, "I know. And I'll be more careful. I promise."

The words settled between you like a vow.

You searched his eyes - those warm, hazel eyes that usually sparkled with facts and theories, now darkened with remorse. Your fingers twisted slightly in the fabric of his worn sweatshirt as you asked, so softly it nearly broke him, "Will you sleep here with me?" 

Spencer's breath caught. The question, so small and tentative, landed like a physical blow. That you even had to ask - that his childish anger had made you doubt whether he'd stay - sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing through him. 

You were asking permission for something that should have been unquestionable. That his anger had carved this hesitation into you, made you doubt your place in his arms.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice cracking as he gathered you closer. His lips pressed against your forehead, lingering there as if he could imprint the truth through touch alone. "You never have to ask. I'm not going anywhere." 

The bed dipped as he slid beneath the covers. His arms encircled you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His knees tucked behind yours, his heartbeat steady against your shoulder blades, his nose buried in your hair. 

The warm press of his palms against your stomach, fingers splaying possessively calmed you down. The steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine too.

His nose brushed the nape of your neck.The familiar scent of your shampoo mixed with the salt of dried tears sent another wave of guilt crashing through him. He pressed his lips to the sensitive spot behind your ear.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into the darkness, the words muffled against your skin. "For the couch. For making you feel like I wouldn't want this." His hand found yours, intertwining your fingers and squeezing gently. "There's nowhere I'd rather be." 

You turned in his embrace, your nose brushing against his.

Spencer's hand came up to cradle your jaw, his touch feather-light. "Next time I'm being an idiot," he whispered, "just come get me, okay? Even if I'm mad. Even if I'm stubborn." A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips. "Especially then." 

His nose brushed yours again.

"Drag me back. Yell at me. Throw a book at my head if you have to." A quiet laugh shook his frame, as you smiled at the sound.

You didn't trust your voice not to break so you nodded, pressing closer. Spencer's fingers began a soothing pattern along your spine.

As sleep finally claimed you both, Spencer pressed one last kiss to your temple, his arms tightening slightly around you.

[system-to-the-madness]

Slipping through my Fingers - Viktor x Reader

Pairing: Viktor (Arcane) x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: angst/fluff Word Count: 7 449 Warnings: no use of (y/n), Viktor behaves like an ass in the beginning, self-doubts Summary: Your routine of checking up on Viktor, who fell asleep in the lab takes an unexpected turn Prompts: enemies (not really) to lovers A/N: For @spongelll (let me know if you want to be tagged in any future Bucky and or/Viktor stuff) Before writing: I have so many long ideas, but I know I can’t finish them, so I’m trying to write something short and sweet here.

You feel like an intruder in your own laboratory, as you quietly crank open the heavy, double winged door, peeking inside. The lights are turned off, safe for the one on the wide desk at the far end of the room. And there, in the halo of a lamp that bravely beats on against the oppressive push of the darkness of the late hour, sits Viktor. His back is to the door, his cane leaning against the table next to him, and his head? hanging so low over his notes that you know he must be asleep.

The smile on your lips is accompanied by a tucking in your chest, that is not entirely positive. Another night he spends in the lab, another night he misses out on his soft bed, doubtlessly the same academy-sponsored bed sheets in his dorm room staying cool for another night, just like the ones in your own dorm room.

The thought, that it probably isn’t good for him to never take off that chest brace, or the one for his knee, pushes into your mind, and for a short, delirious moment you consider waking him, walking over, shaking his shoulder, telling him to go to his room and rest properly. Sitting like that can’t be good for his neck either. It isn’t. You’ve seen him enough times, after nights like this one, how he spends the next day rolling his head from left to right, shrugging his shoulders, hoping to get rid of the painful tensions in them.

But before you even step into the room fully, you already know that you will not wake him, less for his sake than for yours. You’re selfish, maybe, not wanting to be met with the harsh and unforgiving stare and a scoff that tells you not to bother him while he is working. You have enough of these reactions memorized as it is, and each one feels like the sting of a needle in your soul, needles that get pushed in a little further each time another one gets added, another scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand, a gaze averted too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand looking at someone he so clearly deems below himself by so much.

And it hurts. You wish it didn’t, that you could be indifferent to his jabs and degradations, but you aren’t. Maybe, because you don’t understand why he is like this towards you. Everyone else he treats with the respect any living being inherently deserves, everyone, without exceptions. Sure, he rolls his eyes at the naive questions of first year students, but he answers them patiently. He sometimes assumes too much experience from his assistants and shakes his head at them when he has to explain again. But you, who is not his assistant but his equal in the laboratory, you he treats as if you should know every one of his complex thoughts and understand them without him having to explain.

Maybe it was a compliment, and you really try to see it as such, but somewhere along the line his reactions to your questions become a painful sting, an experience you try to avoid. Where he is kind a gentle with others, he is harsh and prickly with you, his patience thinning into anger as if you were intentionally not understanding his leaps in thoughts. You have gotten better at finding the thin lines that connect one idea to the next inside his mind, but sometimes you still have to ask, lest the situation become dangerous while working with something as powerful as HexTech, and each of his annoyed reactions is another needle added to your heart, which feels like a pincushion by now.

It irritates you, his insistence to keep you at arm’s length, ensuring you can never become more than a co-worker, even though you try, try becoming something like a friend, the way you became friends with Jayce and Sky so easily. Even when friendship isn’t what you wish for, deep down in your heart, not when you look at his whiskey-golden eyes or his tousled hair that refuses to obey the restrictions of any product he ever might have tried using to flatten it down, not when you see the adorably delighted grin on his lips whenever an experiment ended up working out the way he had planned it. His distance irritates you all the more, seeing how he tries to engage with everyone else, trying to find a place to fit in, with his science and HexTech-experiments, a place that accepts him for him, and not a crooked, perverted version of himself, made to fit into the tight frame of societal expectations. You wonder what it is about you that makes him push you away, if it is a misunderstanding, or just you as a person. You wish he wouldn’t look down on you, shush you harshly, ignore you, make you feel like you are worth less than you are, but whatever it is about you that makes him act this way, even if you knew, you would not change it. You like the way you are, and even if he hurts you, maybe more than he is aware of, maybe even more than he could forgive himself for, you would rather stay true to yourself than let him bend you into a person you do not wish to be. 

Which leads you here, standing in the dimly lit lab holding a thin blanket, instead of waking him and sending him to his room to sleep. A thin blanket, which you have gotten used to keeping around for moments like this, moments when Viktor falls asleep in the lab as if it were the only place that offers him the peace to shut his eyes. Quietly you walk over to him, careful to keep the clicking of your hard-soled shoes to a minimum, vigilant not to disturb him. 

His head is sunken to his chest, chocolate-brown strands of hair having fallen into his face, and your fingers tingle with the urge to brush them away, out of his eyes, tuck them behind his ear, or maybe just to feel them against your skin. Of course you don’t reach out, instead take a moment longer to admire his sleeping form. For once the crease between his brows has smoothed out, the problems in his experiments and equations forgotten momentarily while he has escaped to the realm of dreams, and you wonder which pictures paint themselves behind his eyelids. You catch yourself wishing your portrait is hung in his mind, not even big, you know it wouldn’t be, but maybe a small acknowledgment, a footnote in his memory of the work you accomplished together.

You shoo the thought away, reaching past him, and move the cup next to his notebook a safe distance away from his hand and the edge of the desk. You have seen Viktor fall asleep at his desk often enough to know that sometimes he flinches in his sleep, and you don’t want to risk him pouring the remaining contents of his cup over his notes.

For a moment you linger, hesitate as you look at the pen in his hand. It’s still touched to the paper, already having left some lines that don’t belong between the neatly written calculations. A glance at his face, and you make your decision, very slowly reaching out. You almost hold your breath as your fingers close around the back end of the pen, and- you’re lucky, Viktor’s hold on the pen isn’t tight. Carefully you pull the pen out of his hand, his fingers only twitching once, trying to grasp at what is no longer there, but then his hand relaxes and falls to the desk, more relaxed than before.

Quickly you check to see if the intrusion into his space has woken him up, but Viktor’s eyes are still closed, his breath still deep and even, blissfully unaware of the care he receives by the very same hands he so often refuses to acknowledge. His long lashes rest against his faintly freckled cheeks, and for a moment you can’t help but think that the ladies of Piltover would certainly kill for lashes as full and long as Viktor’s. Maybe it’s for the best that he hides away behind books and lab equipment; you’re certain he could throw the high society of the city into love-drunk chaos if he used the charms, you know he possesses, for evil.

You know he has charms because you have been unfortunate to have witness him weaponize it during a meeting discussing the funding for future HexTech funding, and in equal parts shock and amusement you found his charms had worked. So, he can be charming, you concluded afterwards, and simply consciously decides not to be with you.

Jerk.

The word pushes so close to your lips, tinted with unjustified admiration, that it almost spills over, before you swallow it back down into a hidden place in your chest, the deepest part of your heart, where you never have to acknowledge it again.

Taking a deep breath, you turn away, unfolding the thin blanket next to Viktor. This is the most difficult part - covering him with it, without him noticing. But not once in the many times you have done him this favour has he ever woken, so your nerves are not nearly as on edge as the first few times. Indeed, this time too, he doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing, keeps dreaming of you-don’t-know-what. And maybe you don’t even want to know. 

For a moment you stand and look at him, wondering why after all this dismissive behaviour towards you, you still care, still try to melt the ice he has piled up in blocks between you.

Maybe it’s because you feel attracted to his brilliance, you think. But then again, Jayce is brilliant too, and what you feel towards him is so different from the gravity Viktor’s character exerts on you. Maybe it’s because he is beautiful, not like a fairy tale prince, but more like the brilliant scientist who struggled his whole life to be allowed to conduct the studies his heart aches to perform with the goal to acquire the knowledge to help the people. Well, he is that scientist, isn’t he. Or maybe it’s his kindness, the one he shows everyone but you, the one you almost enviously watch him hand out to the people in his life, while you hide in the corner with a smile on your face, like the child that snuck in to see a play, hiding under the seats while watching their favourite fairy tale unfold before their very eyes, maybe the one about the kind scientist. 

In the end, you conclude, it doesn’t matter why you ended up with your feelings so entangled in non-sense, the answer to the why wouldn’t change the fact, which is that you care for Viktor and he not for you. But you are not yet ready to let go of that care, even when you long have given up hope.

Instead, you adjust the blanket a little to cover him fully, and step back. Tomorrow morning, when you come in to resume your work, your own equations and calculations, the blanket will sit neatly folded on the corner of Viktor’s table, while he is leaning over his notebooks, pen in one hand, a steaming cup of hot tea in the other. He will not mention the blanket, not even when you grab it on your way to your lunch break. If he will acknowledge your presence beyond the discussion of his latest findings, it will be to tell you to close the door, or to demand you should breathe more quietly.

An inaudible sigh frees itself from your throat without your permission, and then you reach to his desk lamp, dimming the light. It’s too dark now to work, but just right for napping. Should Viktor wake up before the sunlight of a new day floods the laboratory high above the city, he will neither wake to darkness nor to blinding light.

With a last glance you check the still peacefully sleeping Viktor and his desk. The cup is safe from being pushed over, the pen no longer drawing lines over his notebook, the blanket covering Victor to keep him warm though the night. Everything is as it should be. Well, should be beyond the fact that Viktor is sleeping here, instead of his bed.

You turn to leave, are halfway across the room, when suddenly the sound of your name being spoken breaks the silence and makes you freeze.

~*~

It’s the distinct feeling of something slipping through his fingers, something intangible, something he cannot put into words. Maybe it’s not even something physical, never was, just a feeling, but Viktor’s fingers try to keep holding on, try to keep this something in his palm, but it slips, slips away beyond where he can reach it.

No, he realises with the panic setting in of a realisation that comes too late, not something. It’s you, he’s losing. He knows it. Isn’t this what you wanted, a part of his mind mocks him. He isn’t sure why he would ever treat you with anything but the purest affection, the gentlest words, the most heartfelt reassurances, but he does. He never lets the warmth in his heart bleed into his words, much less his actions.

You irritate him, with your sweetness, how you never treat him like someone who needs help, but rather someone you care for. It’s dangerous, why can’t you see that? You wouldn’t want him, not really. He knows this much. Why do you keep being so kind to him, when all you do, knowingly or not, is bind his heart to you, each understanding word, every question about his work, even the smallest gestures of holding open a door, not to mention the big ones, the blankets you cover him with when he fell asleep at his desk, and the lunchboxes you put next to his notes, are one sling of the rope after the other binding his heart to you, a tangle of his soul to your very being.

He tried to keep you away, a wordless warning that you wouldn’t want him, not with his unrelenting focus on his work, not with his broken body and his distracted mind, not with how much less he is of what you deserve. But you stay around, and it kills him inside every time he forces himself not to react to how sweet you are to him, instead of taking your face between his hands, which - he is sure - could cover your whole face.

He wishes he could be delicate with you, as soft and caring as you are with him, but to keep you safe he grows thorns and sharp edges, and even when he scratches you, you still push through.

Things get even more difficult, infinitely more torturous when you stop being sweet. When the caring, human side of you melts away into the cool, analytical side that juggles formulas and theories and numbers and ideas through the room as if you had never done anything else. Underneath your hands working chalk against blackboard walls, brilliance takes shape in the form of equations. The way you write them down is like light, refracting in a drop of water, making what seemed dull and well known suddenly like an explosion of colour and possibilities, and Viktor hates himself every time he doesn’t tell you that without your approaches to HexTech he never could have made progress in his own work.

But between the sweetness of your character and the brilliance fall a million other things that make him want to wrap his heart around you and never let you go. The way you laugh, especially when you feel like you don’t have to hide it for reasons of politeness. The way you jump up stairs or storm down corridors when you have an idea you need to write down. The way you explain, gesticulating, voice tight with excitement. The way you respect and admire the people you work with, encouraging, supporting, ever curious for new insights, new approaches. And there is so much more of you, things Viktor can’t even begin to understand while he keeps himself at arm’s length.

Last week you brushed his arm by accident, and the short contact, really just the sensation of his shirt being pressed to his skin for a split second has made him strangely aware of your physicality- you are real. You are human. Your skin is soft, even though he may never touch it. Your hands might be warm, like his, or maybe they’re cool. They might be cool, considering you often wear a layer more than him, as if you’re cold. He suspects the clean smell of simple soap to cling to you, even though he has never allowed himself to lean in far enough to inhale it. Beneath your skin there is blood rushing, breath filling your lungs, a heart beating in your chest, and it hurts knowing those are parts of you he will never feel. Even if you were to let him, he can’t let himself. For your sake. For your safety. 

Then why- then why is there panic now in the way his fingers tighten around nothing, grasping for you, the thing he has sworn himself to never reach for? Why is his heart racing, why does the warmth that suddenly engulfs him feel like it’s the last time he will ever feel its comfort?

Panic surged through him, and rises, rises, constricts his breath, claws at his throat, makes him gag and thrash against the darkness that swallows him. It’s dark and warm, but soon enough the warmth will fade, and you will be gone.

And then?

Then what?

What is he without you but a heart unravelled, torn to pieces by his own cowardice? Why does he have to be the strong one, he wonders, his head light as he drowns in dark warmth. Why does he have to protect you? Can’t he let himself fall into your arms, which you have been holding out so willingly for so long? You offer him your arm, offer yourself as a crutch, so when you offer, why does he insist on refusing to lay his weight on you?

He sputters at the despair filling his lungs, reaches and reaches for what has slipped through his fingers.

Why can he not allow himself to accept your offer? Because he thinks there is nothing he can give you in return. But can he not support you, too? You help him walk, and he catches you, should you ever stumble. He will carry his weight, not put more on you than he must, but he can accept your help, can he not? Can he not put his heart into your hands? Would you let him hold yours in return? He would hold it carefully, the way one holds a baby bird in the hollow of their hands. He would hold your heart, and if you let him, he would hold you, too.

All of you.

Not just the parts he sees now, not just the parts he likes, the parts that fit him.

All of you.

But you’re slipping through his fingers, just as he allows himself to feel, just as he allows himself to tear down the walls he tried to build. And his fingers close around nothing, his chest fills with warmth he knows will evaporate soon enough into the darkness beyond his eyelids, and in one last, desperate plea, your name falls from his lips.

~*~

It’s just a whisper, your name spoken in the silence of the dimly lit laboratory, and for a moment you think you just imagined Viktor’s familiar voice sounding out your name. He hardly ever uses it, the times he does, so rare and few between, you sometimes wonder if he even remembers it. But now it bridges the short distance between where he sits, and where you are on your way towards the door. It reaches out, brushes against you and then evaporates into nothingness, but is enough to make you halt your steps, wondering if maybe you yourself have fallen asleep and are dreaming up a world in which he cared enough to know your name. 

Just as you come to the conclusion that your own, sleep-deprived mind played a trick on you, there is the faint sound of fabric rustling, before your name is spoken again, clearer this time, more than a whisper, almost desperate, Viktor’s accent wrapping thickly into the vowels and consonants, as if making it his own, something only he gets to call you. 

You want to stand your ground, refuse turning around and tell him “You shouldn’t sleep in the lab, Viktor. Go to bed.” But you don’t. Maybe you can’t. You can’t ever be strict or curt with him, even when he deserves it. So instead, you turn around, your heart hammering hard in your chest.

Why?

Because you have been caught in the act of caring for someone who discards every service as irrelevant, worse, less than that? Or because his voice sounds so frail, so scared, but is still enough to make the air around you vibrate, fill the high-ceiling room with the sudden awareness that it is just you and him here, him wrapped into the blanket you put over him, your name wrapped in his gentle voice. Gentle… something he has never been with you. It makes alarm bells ring in your mind, and your racing heart is over-written by sudden concern. 

“Viktor,” you breath the quiet reply as you twist, turning to look back at him. 

He has sat up in his chair, turned enough to look at you over his shoulder, his face shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable. The blanket you so carefully pulled over his shoulders has slipped down to where it catches in his elbows that remain propped up on the table.

For a moment you just look at each other, hesitant, neither of you sure where this is going, a confrontation you had attempted to avoid, one Viktor couldn’t deny having anticipated. But you don’t know that, don’t know of the panic that surged in his chest at the thought you might slip from between his fingers, not even aware that was where you had been, thinking you were separated by oceans he had filled with buckets upon buckets of indifference.

You expect a scolding, a scoff, a “you’re too loud” or “why’d you wake me”, at least a roll of his eyes and him to turn away, so when he lifts his hand of the table and reaches out, a feeble attempt to bridge the meters between you, you are not sure what to make of it. All you do is stare at his hand for a moment, stare at the way he stretches, reaches for you, a silent, unvoiced plea that you almost swear you just imagine in the gesture.

Hesitating another moment, you finally turn around fully, slowly walking back over, but when you reach him, his eyes never leaving your face, you don’t take his hand, just consider it for a moment before abandoning the idea. He makes the decision for you, wrapping his fingers, long and warm and blotted with ink stains, around yours, pulling you closer. There is a tension in his shoulders, that begins to fall away as soon as his skin is against yours, a tension that loosens with every inch you close.

“You’re still here,” he observes, looking up at you from where he sits, his head finally turned enough towards the light to have his face lit up.

His eyes shine golden, but they lack the sharp edge he usually considers you with. Instead, they are open, like he forgot to lock the gates to his soul this time before looking at you. Behind them, there is vulnerability you are not used to seeing from him, and even after years of knowing him, you are not sure you have ever seen him like this, laid bare, every feeling in the open. But you don’t know how to read him. You know the closed version of him, and the carefully friendly version he shares with the others close to him, but this Viktor is a book written in a language you have never seen before. It is all right there, right before your eyes, pleading you to understand, and you lack the experience with him to do so. It’s painful and frustrating, because you are certain, in this moment, that you will never get another chance, will never get the time to decode the signs that put together the emotions he shows you now. 

A flicker of understanding brushes over his face, his lips lift in a small smile, as if he had heard your thoughts, your internal scolding of not holding a dictionary for his most inner motions ready at hand.

“You’re still here,” he repeats, and you don’t know what to answer.

It doesn’t seem like he expects an answer though, because he gets up from his chair, his hand still closed around yours, and stands before you. The blanket you so carefully had wrapped him in unravelled itself, slipped from his lap, caught against his trousers in something that made it almost seem reluctant to follow the physics of gravity, before piling at his feet.

Now that he stands, Viktor is taller than you, and you almost have to tilt your head a little to look into his face. His expression is still open, still unguarded maybe for the first time since you met him, and his mouth opens as if to say something, maybe explain himself.

And then he falls forwards. 

At first you think he lost his balance, or collapsed, but the moment his body comes to meet yours, you realise it’s none of that. He still stands, carries his own weight, but is leaning against you, his arms, thin but surprisingly strong, come around you, pulling you into him. Not harsh, not oppressive, not in a way that wouldn’t allow you immediate escape, but steady, present, intentional.

He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing nothing he didn’t mean to, and he lets you know, let’s you take in the shock for a moment, before his arms wrap tighter around you, his feet move him closer, and one of his hands travels to the spot between your shoulder blades, holding you against him, his hands warm enough to bleed unfamiliar comfort through your jacket, right into your skin.

You’re still hesitating, completely overwhelmed and so confused. What is this, what does this mean? Why does he let you in, searches your touch?

You give in without meaning to, let your own arms circle around him, not as tight as he holds you, but with just enough strength to signal him you want this, want him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you let your head fall against him, let your temple rest against his vest.

He’s warm, you realise the longer the contact gets drawn out. Even the parts of his body where you feel the rigid brace over his torso are warm, hard metal digging into your stomach, and doubtlessly into his as well.

You can’t help but allow yourself to be overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your senses, the shape of his chest against yours, uneven and interrupted by metal hidden underneath the silky fabric of his shirt, adorned with hard, metal buttons, the weight of his arms around you, the caress of his hands, holding you, confident in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. The fabric of his vest is smooth under your fingertips, the buttons on the back stretching the fabric around his slim waist, a waist that now, that you got your arms around it, you realise isn’t really that slim, only in comparison to the rest of the body. Something to hold on to, someone to sink into. Somehow you had always imagined Viktor to be more fragile than he is, now, that his arms are holding you to him. But there is nothing fragile about his body, only lean muscle and soft skin and warmth that engulfs you in way you hadn’t even dared dreaming about.

Then you feel his lips against your forehead, plush and soft, the brush of his nose against your hair, the tickle of beard stubble he ignored for a day too long on the skin underneath. His lips linger, make your breath hitch, and then stop as your hold your breath, waiting, not capable of imagining what could possibly have tempted him enough to do that. But his lips stay pressed to your skin, soft, caressing, his breath fanning over your face, reminding you to take a breath of your own before your lungs ache for oxygen.

You could swear you feel a soundless chuckle in his chest, as if it amuses him that you cannot fathom what is happening, that he holds you as if he intended to never let go, but what you don’t know is the pain that makes his chest ache along with his amusement, pain over having made you believe he could ever want anything other than being this close to you. 

You stand like this for a long time, his body steady and warm against yours, while you are stiff from surprise and disbelief. But he waits, waits for the tension to fall away, waits until you relax enough to let your body melt against him. And finally, finally it feels like he is complete. Your touch, the way you mould yourself against him, fills every creak and crevance in his torn, little heart and he holds you a little tighter, breaths a little deeper, and closes his eyes so tight he thinks he might never get them open again. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t, as long as it meant you never had to step away from him.

But you do eventually. Not before not a long while has passed, not before not your hearts have gotten so used to feeling each other’s rhythms against ribs and metal braces that they calmed down to a calm duet of affection that doesn’t need words to make the other body understand.

You do understand, at least that’s what Viktor hopes, because he isn’t strong enough to find a verbal language to express the fear he holds so tight in his chest. The fear that he is too much trouble for a free soul like yours, or maybe not enough of everything you desire. And he most certainly doesn’t know how to tell you that despite every word and every gesture, every action and rejection he used to make you believe he wouldn’t care, he loves you.

He will figure out that it takes just three words, but sometimes the simplest solutions seem the most difficult to find under the rubble of grand declarations and impossibly tight-wound feelings.

So, he doesn’t have the words to answer the questions that swim in your eyes when you pull away to look at him. Your hands are on his waist, pushing yourself away from him, like he once pushed himself away from you, but now the stuffy air that separates you from him, even if it’s just a few inches, feels like a cruel abyss, cold and insurmountable.

He knows you deserve better, deserve to know why he was once so distant and what made this distance turn into a burning fire of need to feel you by his side, but he doesn’t know how to do better, and you don’t demand him to be better either. You search his face, for something he wishes he could phrase, but you don’t need words it seems, finding your answers in his eyes, because you reach up, cupping his cheek in your palm, just a short contact of your fingers against his skin and- you smile. Viktor swears the sun just rose right in front of him, warm and gentle and so absolutely necessary for life as he knows it, beautiful enough for him to be able to push aside the fear of getting burned. 

Your fingers drop away again, a chill replacing their brushed caress, and finally Viktor can speak, even if it’s not what you deserve to be told, only what he selfishly wants to take. 

“Stay with me,” he breathes, and a shiver runs down your spine as you look up into those golden irises that have burned themselves so deep into your mind you can even see them when you close your eyes. “Stay with me.”

You blink, slowly regaining a sense of your surroundings, which had melted away the moment Viktor’s hand had met yours, and you remember where you are, why you are here, the blanket pooling around Viktor’s ankles. 

“Not here,” you tell him, and he almost startles, you feel the shock ripple through his body as if coming to the same realisation as you: You’re still standing at his desk in his lab. He looks like he has been torn out of a dream, blinking at you before suddenly looking away, his eyes scanning the walls of books and windows and blackboards. “Not tonight.”

When he looks back at you, his gaze has changed, and you brace for what you had been waiting for the whole time: him pushing you away again, reeling back in the vulnerability and shutting the gates to his soul, never to open them for you again. 

When he reaches back out to you, mirroring the way you hold him by the waist, you can tell he relishes in your surprise. 

“Not here,” he repeats your words back at you, his eyes still soft, and he leans in a little closer. “Not tonight. Not here tonight. Where then?”

You understand what he’s going for, even if it’s not what you had meant. At the same time, you cannot deny that what he’s asking is what you want to ask but haven’t allowed yourself. Instead, you had tried making it sound like it’s about the time rather the place. But Viktor sees through you, even through the mask you put on so that what’s inside your soul doesn’t scare him away. Either he has sharper eyes than you had realised until now or he simply knows no fear. While for now you assume the latter, the truth lies in the former.

His question still hangs between you, his “th” more a “d” due to his accent, and even though the familiar sound of it tries coaxing you to speak your mind, you cannot admit that right now all you want is to curl up against him, or around him, on your bed, so you remain silent.

He looks at you, as if your reply is written in your eyes, and maybe it is, because he nods, as if to agree, or maybe he decided for himself what he wants to do, because he pulls away and reaches for the button of the desk lamp, switching it off.

In the darkness that engulfs you instantly your ears feel like their hearing has improved a hundred-fold, hearing him move as he picks up the blanket from the floor and throws it on his chair, even when all you can think about is how cold you feel where his hands had rested moments ago.

In the absolute dark Viktor’s hand finds yours, not unlike the first touch he shared with you tonight - no, not just tonight, but ever. You hear the clicking of his cane, as it hits the floor and then he tucks at your hand, guiding you towards the door you slipped through like a thief in the night. The only thing you have stolen though is Viktor’s heart, but that was long before tonight. Although perhaps it could be said that tonight’s loot is nobody other than the brilliant scientist himself, stolen away from his desk by the realization gained in a nightmare that he must not let love slip through his fingers. 

As Viktor leads you through the corridors of the Academy, you barely pay attention to anything but his hand in yours, larger, with long fingers that close around yours in a certainty and confidence you find yourself admiring. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that you admire him. You don’t pay much mind where he brings you, trusting him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you or do anything you object. 

When he stops in front of his dorm room door, you’re calm, almost as if the way he had held you before had drained all the nerves from your body, and so you let him lead you inside, kick your shoes off next to the door, and follow him to the bed, onto which he pulls you down on top of him. His arms come back around you, holding you in place when you try shifting off him, worried you might hurt him with your weight. 

“Stay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath like an intoxicating mist on your skin.

“I’m heavy,” you attempt to argue weakly, “I’ll hurt you.”

His arms tighten on you, pulling you closer, and you can hear more than see him shake his head.

“Stay.” A single word, a command, a plea.

“Your braces-”

Viktor sighs, and for a moment you wonder if this is where he kicks you back out of his life as his arms loosen around you, and you push up to lean over him.

“You care-” 

too much, is what you’re certain he wanted to say, but he just stares at you, as you’re propped up over him, and if you weren’t waiting for rejection, you might have closed the gap and kissed him. 

But the last two words never come, swallowed up in affection and disbelieving bliss as his aureate eyes read the concern in yours. Concern that shifts as you get distracted by the specks of bronze in his irises, the light freckles that dot over his nose and cheeks all the way down to his neck, where they disappear under the collar of his shirt. They’re so faint you never noticed them until you almost had your nose pressed to them, and you find you love every single one of them, wish you could lean down to show them - show Viktor - your affection with the brush of your lips.

“You care.” Viktor’s mind feels like a scratched record, unable to come up with any new words, only repeating the ones his throat had already fought to rasp out, and he regrets the way your eyes jump from where they were running over the skin of his neck back to his eyes. Their caress was soft and appreciative, and he vows to himself to ask you to do it again, just not tonight. Maybe under bright sunlight where he can see your eyes shine and make out the baby hair that grows where your face ends and your hair begins. 

It is as if his words have torn you out of your stupor, and quickly you sit up.

“You have to change out of the braces,” you tell him, and Viktor shakes his head in defeat, before obeying your order, limping to the bathroom to change.

You watch him disappear, and suddenly you feel too awkward to move. Your body suddenly is heavy with sleep, but you resist the temptation of his soft looking pillow, the one that is sure to wrap you in his scent, and instead stay seated, waiting for him to come back.

When he does, his hair is tousled from pulling his shirt over his head, the clothes he is wearing now looking soft and comfortable, not unlike the ones you had thrown on before sneaking into the laboratory to take care of him.

The memory of how the evening started makes a smile tuck at your lips, and Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, in equal parts amused and curious.

“Won’t you share your thoughts,” he asks, glad to finally have access to his vocabulary again. Most of it anyways.

“Just-” You watch as he sits down next to you, before laying down and reaching his hands out for you; an invitation to come back into his arms. You don’t hesitate. “When I came into the lab, I wanted to make sure you would sleep at least a little more comfortably.”

Viktor pulls you against his chest, now a lot softer than a few minutes ago with the brace. His chest expands and deflates evenly as he shifts you to lay half on top of him. It is the first time you are so close to him, so intimate in his bed even before having tasted his kiss or spoken words of confessions. Still, it feels natural, like you belong, like you are meant to be in his arms. He feels the same.

“I’m sure I’ll sleep more comfortably tonight than any night before,” he admits, an affectionate glint in his eyes that makes your knees weak. “And…” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “I do hope it’s just the first night of many.”

Your heart jumps and your cheeks heat up, so you drop your head to his shoulder, hiding the embarrassment of hearing words you had dreamt about hearing for so long. His hands rub your back in slow, firm circles, but the quiet laugh that rumbles in his chest gives away not just his amusement at your reaction but also his melting anxiety about your answer.

“Fine,” you agree, your words muffled against his shirt. “Only the first.”

A shimmer of fear remains as you bid your good night to him, curled against his warm body, that things will be different in the morning, that his resentment will have returned, that he might kick you out or have disappeared by the time you wake. But Viktor still holds you tight when you wake up, brushing his nose against your cheek and smiling at you as if there’s a secret only the two of you know.

Brushes of his nose against your cheek that morning turn to brushes of his hands against yours throughout the day and the next weeks, then to brushes against your elbow, brushes of his nose against your hair, his lips against your cheeks and finally an explanation of what had changed so suddenly before you take the leap and press your lips to his in a kiss that neither of you would have dared hoping for three months ago.

It’s easy to take your time, to slowly work up from one display of affection to the next, because you know you’re in the right place, and there is no haste.

And life goes on.

Different, and yet the same. Still equations and formulas paint themselves against the blackboards in the laboratory, directed by your hand, and still Viktor watches you, watches the brilliant colours of unlocking nature’s secrets coming to life through you, but he no longer turns his gaze away, when you look over to him. He no longer sends you away when you offer him lunchboxes, but invites you to sit with him, or even joins you for lunch outside in the gardens.

He lets himself lean on you, even if it’s not much, it eases the weight he sometimes feels on his shoulders, and he catches you, when you stumble through nights of little sleep or low moods. And even though it is perhaps the one thing nobody else notices, it's the one thing that makes the biggest difference to him, and to you: he no longer sleeps in the lab. Even when he stays late, there is always a point in which his body aches for sleep, sleep in the arms of the one person he trusts most, the one person he loves with more of his heart than he ever thought was possible to give.

So, he sneaks down the corridors on those nights when he hasn’t pulled you back into his own room, tries to mute the sound of his cane against the tiles as he moves towards your door and slips in, like an intruder. But he isn’t. Not when it’s your arms he falls into, not when it’s your body that presses to him and tells him he is home.

A/N: This turned out not short (for me) and only sweet towards the end. Also, I feel like I was on drugs while writing this (I promise, I wasn't).

[yulin-pop]

⤷ ✧ 𝐋𝐞𝐞𝐜𝐡 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲

order 89 | one-shot| Jade+Floyd | Fem reader

❀ NOTE: sorry to keep @kkalimarii waiting for this, a bit rushed but I hope my vision was visioning. While I was gone you dropped new art (now I have to go write a fic for it too LOL)

You hesitated before walking through the door, you looked down at yourself before looking back to which Floyd smiles at you.

He leans down to your level, “Are ya scared or something?” You shake your head then you feel a hand on your back.

“You have nothing to be afraid of.” Jade flashes a pristine smile.

“There’s a lot to be afraid of which includes you!”

Jade’s hand pushes you in and the door slams behind you. You held your breath as you walked down the hall.

“Make sure to smile and introduce yourself.” Floyd said, whispering in your ear.

You cry in your head, looking back at the decisions that brought you to a Leech family get together.

~

“Hey Shrimpy,” Floyd called while wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind you, “Are you busy this weekend?”

You were startled but you figured Floyd would pop up eventually since you’re in Mostro Lounge, just dining alone. You put down your phone, you knew there was no getting out of a conversation with Floyd. “As far as I know, not at all.” You looked up at him.

“Cool, you’re coming with me then.” Then he walked off. He was unpredictable as always, you couldn’t begin to think what he was going to drag you into. Your calls to him for more context and to come back were useless.

You figured you’ll ask him about it the next time you see him.

The door swung wide open and Floyd slumped down on the chair. “Jade, tell Ma and Pops we have a plus one for this weekend.”

The other twin nodded his head, “I almost let it slip my mind. Who did you decide to invite?”

“I just walked out and saw Shrimpy sitting there so I picked her.” Floyd laughed.

You were pretty much clueless on what event you’d be attending until you got a text from Jade.

Jade

I’ve cleared us to leave campus for this weekend with the Headmage. Rest assured in that regard. Meet us in the mirror room Saturday at 3 PM. Of course, dress in formal attire.

You

Okay

But one little thing

Where are we going?

Jade

Apologies for not informing you sooner

You’ll be joining us for our annual banquet, an important day for our family.

You

What are we celebrating?

Jade

The banquet is to honor the alliance and uphold the relations between families.

You

???

You didn’t know what to think, it seemed like one big joke everyone knew about but you. You knew it was too late to back out. “Do I even have any formal clothes?” You asked yourself out loud, Ace leaned over and skimmed over your texts with Jade.

“What’s happening with you and the twins?” He was just as surprised as you were. You pushed him away from your phone and pulled it close to your chest.

“I don’t even know. Floyd asked if I was busy this weekend and said I’m going somewhere with him. Apparently it’s a family banquet?”

“I’d be scared if I were you. You know what I heard about their family?” He brought you in closer to whisper in your ear. "I hear they’re even more messed up than Octavinelle. The only reason they got so powerful and rich was taking out other families, like literally taking out. Before they were two rival families that were brought together because the son and daughter fell in love. Now the two most influential families fused to become that thing.”

You gasped and covered your mouth before leaning in to ask a question. “So they’re like… aquatic mafia?”

Ace nodded his head in all seriousness.

“And I’m gonna meet them this weekend?! I wonder what they’re like in person.” You put your hand on your chin and thought.

Maybe one eye color came from the mom and the other came from the dad. Most likely the twins took after their dad the most in appearance and height. The mom can’t be that tall, probably wears heels to compensate. Maybe she wears fur coats and scarves like the mafia wives do in movies. You couldn’t even begin to think how they would act, given they raised the Leech twins and they’re mafia.

You snapped back from your thoughts and you realized Floyd had his arm around you while Jade put his hand on your shoulder, both slightly shaking you.

You tilted your head up and laid your eyes on a muscular man with sunglasses, you couldn’t see his eyes but you were certain his glare alone would kill a man, there were several notable scars across his face making him even more menacing. His hair was two toned but grey and blue unlike the twins. They seem to have hair more like the tall woman with flawless skin. You could tell she doesn’t need makeup to stand out. When you look closer, her sharp features like her eyes and nose were much more alike to the twins. She was adorned with pearls and gold that you knew couldn’t be fake. Despite her extravagant heels, she still wasn’t as tall as her husband. Her mouth curled into a giant smile.

“Oh this is the girl.” She cooed, “I already know your name.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

She’s beautiful!

“Hello it’s nice to meet you my name is [name]—“ You stuck your hand out for a hand shake but the girl pulled you into a hug.

“You two are almost catching up to me now.” The tallest man went over to the twins and simultaneously ruffled the top of their heads. Floyd reluctantly nodded while Jade smiled awkwardly while greeting him back.

You were about to choke from how hard she was squeezing you, it was like Floyd if he wasn’t holding back— actually if Jade and Floyd were both trying to squeeze you at once is a better way to describe it.

Floyd watched and pouted until Jade put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Mom, humans are quite fragile so be cautious with the strength used.” She turned her head and let go of you.

She put her hand against her cheek and smiled, “How silly of me, I’m sorry for that dear. But…” She put her arm around Jade’s neck and brought him into a hug.

Floyd, while trying to fix his hair, was pulled into a hug with the other arm. “I missed your adorable faces. My little boys look so grown!” She cooed.

“I still can’t beat her…”

“I didn’t know you could get any stronger…”

They both remarked in apprehensive voices. Though you were still regaining your breath from her embrace, you thought it was funny how the twins were overpowered by their mom. Though you turned your attention to their father, who you haven’t spoken to yet.

“Hello it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leech, my name is [Name], thank you for inviting me.” You tried your best to be polite.

Seemingly it worked, “You’re a sweet one, the pleasures all mine. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Besides Azul we hear about you the most.” He was friendlier than he looked. His toothy grin revealed his jagged teeth much like the rest of his family.

You smiled back, “Only good things I hope.”

Once Jade and Floyd escaped from their mother’s embrace, they went up next to you.

“Tell the boys to call home more or text back faster.” Their mom pouted and crossed her arms, “But I guess they forget or are too busy anymore… I’m sure whatever it is, they're doing it related to their education.”

You smiled, they really aren’t aware of their violent tendencies exerted towards their classmates. Though given they’re the ones who raised them it’s likely their fault.

“How are they in class? What sports do you partake in? What foods do you like? Which one do you talk to more? How long did it take until you could tell the two of them apart?” More and more questions bombarded you from the mother alone until her husband came up and gruff yet gentle placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Honey, she can’t understand a word you’re saying.” He softly spoke to her and she covered her mouth in realization. You could make out a smile behind her hand and her husband smiled back gently.

“Apologies for my lack of composure. I’m just happy to hear my boys have friends besides Azul.” She admitted, the twins cranking their heads in response.

“It must be hard for you, poor girl.” Their dad added making their expressions contort.

“Jeez, can’t you lay off for one sec?” Floyd muttered with apprehension before silencing himself. Jade shared a similar attitude but stayed silent. You could tell there was no talking back for them, nobody would talk back to mafia parents after all.

Mrs. Leech grabbed your arms and glided her hands down to yours, “Look at your outfit, dear did no one tell you the color scheme we chose this year?” She fussed for a quick second and turned towards her sons. You couldn’t see her expression but Floyd slouched and Jade avoided her gaze. “No matter, I’m sure we have something that will work. Follow me, we’ll find something.”

She led you away with a brief remark to the rest of her family and left only the men of the family.

“Wearing all white to our banquet it’s like she’s trying to get married to one of y—“

“Don’t get it twisted.”

“It’s not something to be overthought.”

Mr. Leech let out a hard laugh before patting their backs, “It’s lonely without you boys. Your teenage years are precious, so tell me all about it.” He gently moved them.

Jade opened his eyes and spoke up. “All has been adequate. We’ve been sticking by Azul and performing duties as vice housewarden is no chore. I’m happy to have this responsibility.“

Floyd chimed in, “I’ve been focusing on basketball lately, no diff since when you last checked up on us.”

His expression remained unwavered, he leaned in to whisper “Don’t lie, how many fights have you gotten into? Not including each other.”

Father like son and that certainly applies in this situation, but in this case it’s less like fights and more like attacks.

Enough time passed to where Jade began to wonder where you were, Jade and Floyd went off to greet family members. “Hey, Jade, any idea when Shrimpy is coming back?”

“None at all, she’s with Mom after all.” Jade said back then moving to greet other family members. Even realizing Floyd had managed to sneak away.

Floyd skipping out isn’t out of character but he should know better, must’ve gotten bored and went off to find more interesting things.

“Floyd… I told you I still need to change back.” You firmly said but his grip on your wrist only tightened.

He didn’t even look back at you, “Mama wouldn’t let you change out of it, you look too good anyway.” He stated.

You coughed at his words, “What did you say?”

He stopped and looked back at you, “I said my mom wouldn’t let you and you look good in that dress.”

Your eyes flickered between him and his hand at your wrist, you thought too deeply into his words. He’s just saying that as flattery, or as a joke. It’s not something to be taken seriously but you couldn’t deny how warm your face felt.

“Let me introduce you to my family, they all want to know about you, Shrimpy.” He pulled you along again with no resistance on your end. He tugged you along until he felt you stop, he smiled back but realized where the real resistance came from.

Jade gently intertwined his fingers with yours and stood firm. “There you two are, I was feeling so lonely.”

“Jade!” Both you and Floyd called out with different tones.

Floyd, with a tug of his arm, groaned and pulled you closer, “Butt out you prick…”

Jade, with a defiant step, laughed and got closer to you two with the same grip on you, “You need to greet everyone else yourself, don’t be rude. May I add, you look stunning in that dress. It’s a blessing to see you like this.”

You couldn’t react with how your wrist was being crushed by one and the other being squeezed until it was numb, you couldn’t feel either of your hands.

The proud parents of two stood far from the sight but undoubtedly focused. “Hard to believe Floyd has the upper hand in this. I always thought Jade was more of a lady’s type.” The mother of the twins said with a hint of pride and sarcasm.

“That may be true, they may be very different but if you look closer they’re very similar too.”

“Ah, so basically they have the same chances?”

Just as the father opened his mouth to speak, Floyd tugged at you hard enough for you to trip over your own feet only staying off the floor thanks to Jade’s reflexes.

“[Name], are you alright?” Jade said before looking back at Floyd.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you just let go!” Floyd said in response to his glare.

His father then spoke up again, “More or less.”

[icyowl]

You discover Dragon!Sylus

Pairing: Dragon!Sylus x reader

Request: none

A/N: not proofread. LADS is my current obsession, however I don't have the game so forgive me if it's not lore-accurate. Thank you for being so patient with me :). 2k.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

He always knew you’d be his undoing, he just didn’t think it would be so literal. Perhaps it was one too many resonances, or maybe the depth of your bond had reached some sort of fever pitch.

It began with a headache. Nothing noticeable - given his line of work, headaches were too common - but devolved into a skull-wrenching migraine. Candlelight was too bright, the needle of the recordplayer was too loud, the continuous air conditioning couldn’t keep him cool, even the scratch of the softest silk dress shirt nagged at his irritability.

No hospital would see him, and no doctor could help him given his physiology. The only thing to do was wait it out in the dark cave of his bedroom and hope it didn’t kill him.

It looked like it well might.

The phone on his nightstand screamed, but he used one hand to keep his head from splitting open and used the other to reach for it anyways. He’d permitted only your calls - you soothed the gouge behind his eyes and eased the booms in his chest. Sylus was soothing you before you had a chance to speak.

“I’m alright,” he grimaced at the pain in his throat and the gruff in his voice, “just a cold.”

“Sylus, what’s going on with you? You’ve never asked me to stay away and you sound like you’re really sick.”

“I’m fine, sweetie, i’m sorry if it’s made you upset.”

You paused, gathering strength, then whispered, “did I do something wrong?”

“No. Fuck,” he flexed his jaw through a groan when his head throbbed, “never.”

The ache in his chest ignited, expanding and pressing against his ribs and biting into his sternum. Was the great leader really going to be done in by a heartattack?

“Sylus?!” You called. His voice had turned into something unrecognizable.

The truth was worse. His eyes were open but his vision was little more than vague swaths of browns, blacks, and reds. Fire singed his nerves until it was all he could do to keep from shouting. A slow heartbeat plugged his ears. His fist gripped the sheets, ripping it under his nails. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“It’s too late!”

“I need to go.” He swallowed though saliva was impossible to find. “I’ll call you when it passes, promise.”

A harsh crash berated your ears just before the line cut out. Keys were in your hand, shoes in your feet, and jacket forgotten even before the screen timed out.

—

Sylus’s estate loomed dark and massive even against the pitch of night. Whistling wind, thunder, and rain broke up the perfect quiet. Shivers broke out across your skin. Still, you paused. The burgundy front door was wide open, tilting back and forth amidst the occasional gust. Nothing else dared make itself known.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Luke:

GET OUT OF THERE NOW

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t. Worry strangled the survival instinct clawing around under your skin, allowing you the courage to ease the door wider. Sylus’s entryway looked mostly normal, with only the rug slightly off kilter and the lights out, save for the wood panel near the door sheered off its hinges, exposing the house’s raw flesh underneath. Wires were tangled, mangled, or missing. The few that remained crackled and arced.

Someone had destroyed the electrical box.

You crept farther into the lair. With each room, the carnage got worse. Furniture lay overturned, paintings were thrown on the floor, broken glass from vases, windows, and tables forced you to zigzag, even a marble statue the size of you had been thrown through a wall.

You braced yourself on the wall only to hiss and jerk back when a splinter dug into your palm.

A crack of lightning jerked your head up. Though fleeting, the new light let you grasp the details of your surroundings.

Blood.

Smearing the rich wood floor, spattering the walls and ceilings, dripping off a chair’s broken arm. Blood everywhere.

You swallowed the cry of his name. Speaking would only alert your presence to the enemy, perhaps distract Sylus, and kill the element of surprise you still had. The intruders hadn’t seen you yet, and the lack of bodies meant Sylus was still fighting them. He could take care of himself.

Another bright flash glinted off the wall of guns adjecent to you. Who would break in and leave the weapons alone?

Avoiding more glass, you hustled to the last remaining room: Sylus’s bedroom. Blood continued, as did damage to the walls. Something sinister skittered up your neck when the cuts in the wall arced in a ragged quintet. . . claw marks.

The thing in here with Sylus wasn’t a person, but a monster.

You ran to him room, restraint evaporating, throwing yourself through the doorway and crying his name. . .

“Stay back!” Someone yelled, freezing you. A moment later your mind caught up and whispered to you where a double-toned voice had roared. That was Sylus.

The bed was mostly intact, though the sheets laid on the floor in a shredded heap and the gossamer canopy had been ripped off the ceiling. Your heart wilted in your chest - he’d never yelled at you like that. A shift in the shadows on the far side of the bed drew your attention.

“Sorry, my love.” Sylus tried again, this time more normal. It still sounded like a ghost lived in his throat, but now it resembled your Sylus. “I don’t mean to scare you but. . . I need you to listen to me.”

“O-okay. I will, but. . . I want to help you. The wanderer-”

“There is no wanderer.”

“Then-”

“Yes. Everything you saw was me.”

Silence impregnated the space between you and the shadow on the other side of the bed. What could you say? What should you do? Sweat shimmered on your upper lip in the flash of a lightning strike and the canon shot of thunder made you flinch.

“It’s okay that you’re scared-”

“I’m not-”

“I can hear your heart, smell your cortisol-”

“What?” That was not one of Sylus’s abilities.

You could hear the heavy breath befor every sentence, “I know what’s happening - I’ll be fine. Go. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“No!” You exclaimed. How could he send you away?

“No?”

“I know you’re hurt.” you said, spotting more red on the ceiling. Altogether, he’d bled enough for several men. “I want to help, if I can.”

“I don’t want you to fear me.” Then, he let out a bitter, half-broken moan. It turned your heart to thorns.

“I don’t. I love you.” You said, taking a step into the room.

Unbeknownst to you, the man zeroed in on the soundless tap of your foot on the floor. His eyes glowed. You were right there, close enough to get - to hunt - to catch - to take - Sylus held a clawed hand to his face. Her voice - focus on her voice. Hear how worried she is for you. “I do too, but. . . just. . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You think you might?”

“I don’t want to, but. . . I’m not certain I can help it right now.”

“Let’s just take a breath. We’ll work this out together.”

“I don’t know.”

“I know you’d do it for me-”

“I would.” He replied without a breath. Sylus imagined you transforming as he was: scared, pained, ashamed, but still oh so beautiful, adorned in the flesh of his species. Fuck, you had him there. He’d have a difficult time containing himself if he knew you were hiding something like this from him.

“So. . .” you pressed, “what can I do.”

“Just. . . I need a moment to think.” Sylus had you right there, willing to help him amongst a bloodbath and house full of carnage. . . he couldn’t survive if he messed up such a precarious moment.

Something beastial knocked against his cage. Damn, not now. Pain skyrocketed. The inside of his eyelids turned white. If he knew the snarl he let out, he’d hate himself for it, but he didn’t bother to hear anything through the ripple of scales under his tearing flesh. Tearing, bursting, surging, the match lit behind his eyes finally caught and exploded. He felt the bone erupting from his skull, brought a hand up to shield himself from your gaze, and shouted to try and stop you but it was too late.

The massive stony tail curled on the floor between you was the first thing you saw. His entire lower body had erupted in black plates and armor, pulsing with glowing fissures of red. Feet and hands were thick, clawed, and razor sharp, like a wanderer’s. His pale chest, neck, and chin was interrupted by jagged bolts of red that all led to a swirling ruby imbedded in his chest that seemed to breathe with him. Stone even framed his face. Spearing up from atop his head were the cause of his scream: a crown of two lethal, rocky antlers. Blood stained his hair and ran down his face from the fresh wounds.

People had always called Sylus a monster.

You’d just met his eyes when he slammed them shut and cried out - roared - again. The sound more than his appearance was what pushed you back, but not far enough to miss the grotesque push of his antlers further out of his skull. The transformation must have nicked an artery, because more blood dripped from his forehead and a small spray burst out, covering your shirt. He let out a final, quiet snarl as his pain settled, showing off four large canines that turned silver in the flashing light outside.

You both stared at the blood covering each other for a long time. Sylus held a clawed hand up to his face and used the other one to shuffle away from you.

“I was never supposed to let you see this. Forgive me.”

A reply was impossible, but, being the kind heart that was still so obvious, he took your silence as disgust. A new kind of discomfort showed on the part of his face you could still see.

“There’s keys on the kitchen counter. Take whatever you want. I won’t contact you again. It’ll be like I was never there-“

“Sylus,” you whispered, moving to sit on the ground. It stopped him dead. “It’s. . . okay. Who cares what you look like. I just. . . I’m worried. You’re clearly in a lot of pain and can’t seem to stop-“

Now it was your turn to gasp. You’d closed your fist, pulling at the cut and causing your own rush of blood down your arm. Sylus gave no warning that he’d been affected by the sight of your blood, but in a single second you’d been pounced on, taken down until your back pressed into the wood floor and Sylus was over you: leg between yours, tail hugging your ankle, one clawed hand pining your good wrist to the ground while the other held your wounded palm up for intense scrutiny. Sylus’s eyes didn’t look different, but you knew he wasn’t there when he brushed his nose up the major artery on your wrist, then licked the blood rushing to greet his warm lips.

The taste of your blood engorged his pupils, but you only caught sight of it for a moment before he slammed them shut and yanked your hand down to the floor.

He’d always been good with words, but now they were a desperate rush. “My deepest apology. I didn’t mean to. I saw you were hurt and I-“

“Sylus. Breathe.” You tried. He followed your command, and a little sanity returned to him. Your blood wasn’t the only thing he could hear anymore, and it finally seemed like the transformation had subsided. Pain faded to soreness.

Even with the weight and danger of his claws, he relented when you moved your good hand from the ground to wipe some blood drying on his cheek. He took a long inhale, closing his eyes and easing into your touch. Then, Sylus’s tail caressed your calf, a gentle, unconscious kiss on his part. It was warm and kind, just like the real kiss he’d given you the day before. Despite being covered in rough, sharp armor, he’d yet to even scratch you, and his eyes hadn’t changed - they still watched you for any hint at a need or wish. Only his exterior had changed. “You’re beautiful.” You breathed.

Sylus gasped under his breath. The very notion was incomprehensible. You? Calling him that? Now? He rushed out another quiet apology when his tail slithered around your waist and pulled it flush against his. You didn’t retreat, however. All he could find was a genuine, if not sheepish, smile gazing up at him. Sylus didn’t dare breathe when he felt your fingers touch at the plates on his neck, and he heart all but stopped when you thumbed at his lip, asking for permission.

How could he say no?

“You’re certain?” He asked. You nodded. So, he eased back his lips to let you touch the fangs there, slick and waiting. Sylus, try as he might, couldn’t stop the quaky shiver nor the bone-deep rumble when your fingertip stroked the steel-like enamel. Your eyes were so curious when you saw the glow of the gem in his chest. Fcking hell if he wasn’t in love before, he sure was now, if only because the innocent look in your gaze did something to the blood in his body. His evol was ready to explode. He hoped his voice sounded normal when you took your hand away and all he could say was: “do you know how fascinating you are?”

You watched him hold your wrist, careful to keep his claws off your skin, and kiss you there. “I don’t know about fascinating. . . but. . . when you can, can I get a bandaid?”

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which paige takes her pen pal on a date

a date.

that’s all it was. a date.

a first date.

to say paige was nervous was an understatement. she didn’t know what to plan for a date, let alone a first one. when was the last time she went on a date?

it’s been a week since you’ve met and paige is pacing back and forth her shared dorm living room. azzi and kk are sat on the couch, munching on some popcorn like they were watching some kind of television show.

“if you keep pacing i’m pretty sure you’ll burn a hole in the ground.”

paige freezes in her spot, turning to glare at azzi. “i’m not pacing.”

“girl boo! yes you are!” kk grabs paige by her shoulders and forces her to sit down. “we get it, you’re nervous—”

“—i’m not nervous,” paige interrupts.

“bookie be so for real right now,” kk deadpans, not believing paige at all.

“okay! fine, i’m nervous. so fucking nervous cause she’s so pretty and like what if she hates me after this? what if she realized i wasn’t as cool as the letters made me out to be?” paige spiraled and her friends hadn’t seen her like this before. 

“okay, let’s just calm down. paige, you’ve been texting and calling nonstop since meeting in person. if she didn’t like you then she wouldn’t be doing that.”

they were right. 

she was nervous. 

paige bueckers has never been this nervous in her life.

not before a championship game, even before her first game back from her injury. 

but now? she’s sat on her bed, phone in one hand, a notebook filled with scribbled-out ideas in the other? she was freaking out.

for some reason, this felt bigger than anything she had ever faced in the court.

she had spent the past half hour staring at a blank text message, trying to come up with something casual, something cool. but every time she types something, she immediately deleted it.

“hey, wanna go out some time?”

(nope, too vague.)

“i was thinking we could go out to dinner this weekend?”

(ugh, too basic.)

“what’s up? wanna go to the gym with me?”

(really? a gym?)

she groaned, flopping onto her back and staring at the ceiling. this shouldn’t be this hard. she had spent months writing you letters, talking about everything from childhood stories to her most embarrassing moments. and yet, not that she had the chance to actually take you on a real date, her brain was short-circuiting.

she eventually goes with her gut, writing a short note and taping it on your door with a single rose. she knocks on the door and runs away, not wanting you to see her yet.

you open the door to find nothing there, but as you were about to close the door, you notice the rose, then the note.

y/n,

i would love to take you out on a date tonight. pick you up at six? dress casual but comfortable.

text me your answer.

-p

paige was pacing in her room, hoping to get a message from you. minutes later, she hears a ding. scrambling for her phone, she sees a message.

it’s a date.

she jumps, pumping her fist in the air.

before she knew it, she was outside of your dorm building, leaning against her car, waiting for you to come out.

you walk out shortly after and paige thought you were the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen.

“hey.”

“hi,” paige replied, opening the passenger side door for you. hopping into the driver’s seat, she drives to your destination, not telling you where no matter how many times you ask.

your eyes light up when you saw her pulling into the parking lot.

“the arcade!”

paige smiled so big, loving how excited you looked. “yup! you ready to get your ass beat?”

“oh we'll see about that!”

the arcade was buzzing with noise—bells ringing, kids shouting, the hum of old-school machines filling the air. paige handed you a game card, fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary. she pretended not to notice the way her heart jump at the contact. 

“alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “what’s first?”

“you pick,” you challenged.

paige grinned, “say less.”

she led you straight to the basketball shooting game. “figured i’d start with a little warm up.”

you rolled your eyes in feign annoyance, but you were smiling. “of course you picked this one.”

paige swiped the card and grabbed the ball, effortlessly sinking shot after shot. by the time the timer had ran out, she had nearly doubled the previous high score.

she turned to you looking smug. “think you could beat that?”

you crossed your arms, “i know i can.”

paige swiped the card for you, watching you take the ball and to her absolute horror, you started sinking shot after shot like a pro. 

“wait-what?” paige watched with wide eyes as the scoreboard ticked up. 

the buzzer sounds and you barely just surpassed her score, then turned to her with a smirk. “i thought you were the professional one here?”

paige blinked, “okay, hold up—who are you?”

you laughed, “i may have forgotten to mention i played basketball in high school.”

paige groaned, running a hand down her face. “you sandbagged me.”

“maybe a little,” you admitted, grinning.

paige laughed, shaking her head. “okay, that was actually kind of hot, but i will be getting revenge.”

for the next hour, the two of you went back and forth, competing in everything from skee-ball to air hockey. paige had expected to be the dominant one, but you held your own, matching her win for win. she had never met someone who could actually keep up with her competitive side without being obnoxious about it.

by the time you made your way to the claw machine, paige was down my one game.

“alright, i have one last challenge,” she said. “if i win you a prize, i get bonus points and we call it a tie.”

you raised an eyebrow, “or you could just admit i won.”

“not happening.”

you laughed as paige swiped the card and maneuvered the claw toward a stuffed blue dinosaur in the corner. she focused, tongue poking out slightly as she adjusted the controls.

“serious question,” you said, watching her concentrate. “are you this competitive about everything?”

paige didn’t look away from the claw. “only when it matters.”

she pressed the button. the claw descended… grabbed the dinosaur… and promptly dropped it before it could reach the chute.

paige stared, “are you kidding me?”

you burst out laughing. “so close.”

paige sighed dramatically. “alright, fine. you win. but only because the machine is rigged.”

“sure it is,” you teased.

paige shook her head, smiling as she turned to you. “you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“a little,” you admitted.

she smirked. “guess i’ll just have to redeem myself at ice cream.”

the two of you walked to the ice cream shop down the street, the air crisp but not too cold. paige felt the nerves from earlier completely disappear. the date had gone better than she could’ve hoped, and the best part?

it felt easy.

she stole a glance at you as you debated between flavors, your nose scrunching slightly in thought.

she liked this. she liked you.

once you both had your ice cream, you found a bench outside to sit on.

“so,” paige said between bites. “did i do okay? you know, for a first date?”

you smiled at her. “you did great, p.”

her heart flipped at the nickname, at the warmth in your voice.

“good,” she said, leaning back against the bench, looking up at the sky. “because i’d really like to do it again.”

you nudged her playfully. “only if you’re ready to lose again.”

paige chuckled, shaking her head. “we’ll see about that.”

and as she sat there beside you, eating ice cream under the city lights, she realized something—

this was the best win she’d ever had.

[earthchica]

Gym Bae

terry richmond x black, fem!/plus size reader

warnings: slight ANGST, working out, jealousy, argument, kissing & more.

note: Should I write a complete fic out of this?

-

The gym was bustling with familiar faces, the sound of clanking weights and rhythmic thumping music filling the space. You stepped inside, excitement bubbling up at the thought of seeing Terry.

Terry was your gym bae, a tall, light-skinned man with a muscular build that made your heart race. He was sweet, thoughtful, funny, and had the sexiest eyes, big ears, and juicy, plump lips.

You couldn’t help but wonder what feeling those on yours would be like.

Today, though, as you walked past the cardio machines, you spotted him chatting with a tall, brown-skinned woman who seemed to have a little too much interest in him.

A twinge of jealousy twisted in your stomach, and you quickly went to a private yoga room at the back of the gym, hoping to sort through your feelings.

You rolled out your mat, trying to focus on your breathing, but all you could think about was Terry and that woman. Just as you were almost finished, you heard the door creak open.

You glanced over your shoulder, and there he was—Terry, looking even more handsome up close.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he grinned, his gaze catching yours. Your heart fluttered, and you tried to play it cool, pretending the twinge of jealousy didn’t bother you.

“What’s up, T?” you replied, keeping your tone light and casual. “You weren’t at the weights today,” he noted.

“I was hoping we could spot each other,” Terry added, and you shrugged, hiding your conflicted emotions.

“Just needed some zen time, I guess.” You answered, wrapping your yoga mat up.

Terry stepped closer, his presence enveloping you. “Zen time? Nah… you in here hiding from me?” he teased, a playful glint in his eye.

“Boy, please!” you joked back, crossing your arms. He chuckled softly then, and you felt that familiar spark between you that made your heart smile.

The next gym day rolled around, and you were determined to be a little bolder. You’d been working hard, and when you arrived, you saw Terry across the gym talking to the same woman again.

So you asked one of the gym bros to help you this time with your form, and as you glanced over at Terry, you caught a glimpse of jealousy dancing in his eyes.

Feeling a surge of pettiness, you flashed a bright smile at the guy spotting you. Terry watched the interaction with a frown, and a moment later, he stormed over.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” Terry asked, leaving the other woman hanging. You could see the fire in his eyes, and your heart raced as he gestured toward the yoga room.

You followed, your stomach flipping with anticipation. Once inside, the tension was palpable. “What’s with all that, huh? You don’t need his help,” Terry said, his voice slightly defensive.

You raised an eyebrow. “And why do you care?”

“Because I like working out with you! I thought you liked working out with me too,” Terry shot back, arms crossing his chest.

“Maybe I do, but I wasn’t about to sit around like some damn lost puppy and watch you while you flirt with that girl. I found someone else,” you countered, frustration creeping into your tone.

"So what you're saying, jealous?" Terry laughed.

"I can say the same for you," you said before you knew it. You were both in a silly argument, jealous and prideful, caught up in feelings that had been brewing for too long.

Suddenly, the air thickened with tension before you could process what was happening. Both of you stared at each other eyes intensely, and Terry moved closer.

His body towered over you, his light eyes searching yours for permission. You leaned, and he leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a heated kiss, pouring all of that bottled-up frustration into something electric and passionate.

His hands gripped your waist, and you melted into him, forgetting the jealousy and worries that had plagued you moments before. Terry's lips found their way to your neck, kissing down the delicate, dark brown skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Terry," you moaned.

You felt blissful, lost in the moment, finally uncovering the spark that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to ignite.

"Fuck, the way you moan my name" As he pulled back, the playful banter returned.

“So you're gonna work out with me next time? Or do I need to teach you a lesson?” His grin was contagious, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

"How about both?" You whispered.

[lucygraysboy]

the cowboy listens intently to every word that leaves lucy gray’s mouth, his eyes brimming with concern as they linger on her face, trying to decipher if she truly is okay. the altercation was absolutely vile and disgusting, the things billy taupe had said beyond hurtful. he doesn’t want them to affect her self-esteem. “i see… your ex-companion doesn’t really take no for an answer, does he? looks like, in his head, you were more than just friends or crushes. that’s probably why he got so upset when he saw me. up until that moment, he thought he could still convince you to date him.” he finds himself nodding his head in agreement with lucy gray’s words, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins but it’s slowly cooling down. “exactly. you don’t need a boyfriend. i mean, look at yourself, you’re running this farm all on your own, growing vegetables and fruits in your garden, you have so many talents and you can protect yourself just fine. even if i hadn’t intervened, you still would have sent that guy on his merry way. you don’t need a man, definitely not one who tries to change you or shut you up.” she deserves so much better than billy taupe, so much better than him, too. “wish that’s what my ma would’ve done, just stayed single after my pa’s death. but she thought she needed a man and ended up with a bad one. a low life, gambler and cheater. don’t settle.” 

laughing softly when lucy gray admits she liked the things he’d done and said out there on the porch, billy grows bashful and even blushes faintly. “no need to apologize, doll. i enjoyed myself quite a bit when you basically told him that he was the problem and a weak man who can’t stand it when a woman’s loud. you was doin’ a great job tearin’ him a new one. you did so good. i’m very proud of you. you stood your ground,” he praises, wrapping his arms around her petite frame and hugging her, lips brushing against her dark curls. she’s so brave and truly doesn’t deserve the words billy taupe threw at her. “i just feel bad ‘bout cussin’ in front of a lady.” he looses his grip on her and pulls back, offering her another sweet smile. it doesn’t matter how he’s only known her for a few days. he’s already so in love with her that he can barely breathe when she’s around, his heart certain of it, now more than ever. but their time together will soon be ending and he can’t leave her with a broken heart or hopes and promises, she really does deserve so much better.

“you didn’t have to make me breakfast. why, thank you. and all i did in return was sleep in. so sorry ‘bout that. your bed’s just real comfy. oh, and it’s oats, too! i love oats an’ you make the best ones!” he cheerfully exclaims, checking out the contents of his bowl, his mouth watering at the mere sight. his eyes alight. he’ll never take having food on the table, made especially for him, for granted. “course, i am. you saved my life out there in the yard, then i saved yours in the lake and now we’re responsible for each other, bound together for the rest of our lives. or as long as you want me. i’ll always protect you, lucy gray.” hearing she admires it in a person, he proudly puffs out his chest and beams at her. “you don’t have to thank me for that. that’s what we do, we defend each other.” he loves her, how could he just stand by while another man is disrespecting her. it’s only when she kisses his cheek, small hand tugging his shirt, that his world just… combusts. he’s never experienced anything like this before, this warmth of a thousand suns spreading throughout his limbs, seeping into his very bones. his cheeks flush and the brightest of smiles spreads over his lips. “thank you,” he mumbles, his tongue suddenly twisted and thick, oddly heavy in his dry mouth. he sits down just so that he doesn’t faint and picks up the spoon instantly, diving in to keep himself from saying something stupid like i love you. “mm, so delicious! is that maple syrup i’m tastin’? lucy gray, this is insanely good,” he praises, pale blue eyes locking on her over the table, lips still turned up into a smile. he lowers his spoon for a moment, just marveling at her. “you look real beautiful today.” she always does. 

"ex...something. more like a companion. an ex companion cause i didn't officially date him. the preacher wouldn't allow that... thankfully," for once in her life... thankfully, the preacher held her back, "but almost. considerin' at one time i thought i'd might have to settle for him." forced herself to find something cute about him, tricked herself into it because she was thinking he'd be the one she'd have to be trapped with. "but i realized, i don't have to settle for no one. and 'specially not someone who treated me like him." when they were about to become a secret thing and then he went kissin' other girls and those times where he told her she needs to stop wearin' makeup or pressuring her to sneak off with him somewhere to lose her virginity 'to someone worth losing it to'. billy taupe can really be a downright creep. meanwhile, his little brother is sweet as can be sadly enough.

"oh i don't mind, i'm sorry you had to hear that," her getting angry and yelling back at the likes of billy taupe. though she can't help but admit ... "i actually liked it, you know. when you told him to shut the cuss word up." she laughs, then doe eyes pause, becoming wider with alertness and love at the way his hand delicately brushes curls behind her ear. how beautiful of a feeling is it to experience a bad example of a man run into an example of a good man and have him hold her hand? where did he come from and how did he land up here? it's usually the bad men she tends to get tangled up with.

lucy gray swears she's about to suffocate on the beauty of it. that frustrating powerful feeling growing, multiplying in her chest for this boy. that was all scary in itself, she was just a few days into knowing him. there has to be a bad part somewhere, she's telling herself. and besides that, he might not even like her like that. she might not even be his type like that. "why, of course i didn't leave you out sweetheart." a playful smile pulls at her lips then doe eyes look up at him, turning into endearment. he sounds so innocent saying that. she didn't know any man in the world could have an innocence about him– ironic it's the most wanted one, too.

she begins to feel as fiercely protective over him as he was for her back there... like he's this misunderstood animal she's took under her wing, she found him, so anyone who dares tells her he's worthy of slander and punishment can go through her first. "you're like me... protective." giving his hand a squeeze, stopping at the table in front of his bowl of oats mixed with maple syrup. and she admires that. "i sure admire that in a person." truly like they're made out of the same star. "thank you sweetheart, i appreciate you comin' to my defense like that." she pushes herself up on her tip toes and still has to gently tug him down here to kiss him on the cheek. "i foreshadowed, makin' you a nice bowl of oats as my gift," she jokes, smoothing her skirt down from behind and sitting down. "and thank you for the words of encouragement." what a sweet fellow, thinking a woman should be outspoken... now how she's supposed to hold her heart back from leaping out of her chest when he runs to her defense, sends billy taupe running and lets her know the way she is is perfectly acceptable.

[dovespovies]

Honey?

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

First time you saw his face ( kinda?)

warning - nothing

Though people would call you crazy if you said you were letting a vigilante stay at your place as a token of gratitude—after he saved you from that lunatic of a man—you didn’t quite hate it. 

Not at all.

After the chaos of the invasion that scarred you for life, Red Hood was generous enough to buy you a new vase. When you came back from work—tired, irritated, and so heated you could’ve killed someone—you found the table, where your antique store vase once stood, now occupied by a new one. And not to mention, a few flowers spilling out of it. You froze in shock but immediately knew who was responsible.  

"I’m sorry for the suddenness, but I hope you like it."

—Red Hood.  

You smiled to yourself as you leaned in to smell the flowers. This vase wasn’t vintage like your old one, but it was intricate. Expensive, even. You picked up one of the blooms and sat on the floor beside the table, tracing the delicate patterns of the petals. Unbeknownst to you, Hood was right outside your window, watching with a faint smile of his own.  

It wasn’t clear how the two of you had grown so close. But after the night he saved your life, you’d developed an attachment to him. Not seeing his face or knowing his identity had faded into the background because, somehow, you found yourself constantly trying to please him—even impress him. Not that you’d ever admit it. But during your conversations, or the half-watched episodes of your show (when he stumbled through your window bleeding), you noticed his genuine interest in the books you read. And so, you read even more, annotating lines and paying extra attention—just so you could show him, Yeah, I’m cool too.  

The first time you got a glimpse of his face started like any other night—except he showed up hours earlier. You were making pasta when a loud thump made you jump out of your skin. Hesitantly, you walked toward the noise, only to find an exhausted and injured Red Hood lying on his side, blood pooling around him.  

Gasping, you immediately grabbed a towel and the first aid kit, crouching beside him—nearly tripping in your haste.  

"Hey, what happened?" Your voice was soft but frantic.  

He flinched at your sudden presence, as if he hadn’t expected you. 

“Hey… just… rough day," he winced, shifting to face you.  

And that’s when your breath caught.  

The right side of his helmet was broken, revealing a glimpse of his beautiful (what?) profile. Your throat tightened as you swallowed hard, frozen in place. He noticed your stillness and met your gaze—his eyes so deep you swore you could drown in them. His face was flushed, lips slightly swollen from biting down too hard.  

He hadn’t even realized until you snapped back to reality, clearing your throat and scrambling through the aid kit.  

"Uh… here, sit up for me…"

He obliged without protest, knowing arguing was pointless. A furrow creased his brow—then he felt the air against his exposed skin. His eyes widened, and for a brief moment, he covered his face with his palm. But then, slowly, he lowered his hand and looked straight at you as you cleaned the wound on his chest.  

He cleared his throat.  

"I’m sorry," you muttered, avoiding eye contact. "I saw your face… I didn’t mean—"

"It’s okay," he cut in, voice calm.  

Your eyes flicked up in surprise, questions burning on your tongue.  

A small smile tugged at his lips. "It’s you… I don’t mind."  

You wanted to crawl out of your skin. For some reason, that was far more flustering than you expected. You smiled shyly, suddenly feeling small under his unfairly attractive presence. You hadn’t even seen his full face—but if just this much was this beautiful, you could only imagine what the rest looked like.  

After cleaning his wound, you stood, mumbling something about getting him food and water.  

But then he grabbed your wrist, stopping you.  

"Thank you, honey… for everything."  

Why was he being so—whatever this was?  

You smiled. "You’re welcome."

You could’ve said it was nothing, but you left it at that. He grinned, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he nodded. You turned toward the kitchen, biting your lip to stifle the stupid, giddy smile threatening to take over your face.

As you brought him pasta and juice, he was staring out the window. In that moment, you realized just how comfortable he was with you.

And you were with him, too.

The thought made your heart do a silly little flip.

Thank you!

[dismalflo]

Hey! Love your writing 🩵. I’m not sure if your requests are open, but I’ve had this idea floating around

I struggle with a lot of chronic pain issues, so I think it would be cool to see a fic along the lines of reader and Remus being the ones in pain and either James and Sirius doting on them or reader and Remus fondly being exasperated from the others shenanigans

If you can’t that’s fine but I’d love to see it 🩵🩵

hi lovely! thank you sm for the request, i hope you enjoy! <3

poly!marauders x reader who has chronic pain ✩ 1k words

cw: fluff, established relationship, mentions of general pains and tiredness

Leaning against the kitchen counter, you pull in a big breath before switching on the kettle. It’s one of those days where the ache is bone deep and everything is taking far more energy than it should. Before the kettle gets half the chance to bring the water to the boil, you hear the front door open and three sets of footsteps follow. 

Two of the pairs pause in the living room, soft murmurs floating through the air—low, tender, like a shared secret between the boys. But the third set? They’re heading straight for you, and you don't even turn, focusing on the task at hand.

There's an exaggerated gasp from behind you, followed by the sound of footsteps halting in the doorway.

 “What is your problem?” Sirius demands, a mock sternness to his tone.

“Hello to you too, Siri.” you say, glancing over your shoulder.

He makes his way over to you at that, wrapping his arms around you from behind and murmuring a sweet “Hello” against your cheek where he presses a kiss. 

“I’ll ask again, what is your problem, doll?” 

“I just wanted some tea.” you admit while flashing him a guilty smile.

His jaw drops in exaggerated shock. “I’m very offended. I could’ve done that for you.”

“You weren’t here, Sirius,” you deadpan.

He waves your comment off with a flourish. “You have two charming, lovely men at your beck and call,” he says with a grin, gently nudging you toward the door that leads to the living room. “And there’s a charming, lovely man on the sofa who would very much appreciate a cuddle.”

With a final squeeze around your waist, Sirius lets go and shuffles back into the kitchen, already in the process of finishing the tea. He glances over his shoulder, an affectionate gleam in his eyes. “So stop stealing our jobs, you menace,” he teases, a playful grin tugging at his lips. 

As you step into the living room, the sight before you makes your heart flutter. James is leaning over the back of the sofa, his arms wrapped around Remus' shoulders, whispering something in his ear. Remus’ lips curl into a soft smile, his eyes rolling playfully at whatever James is saying.

“You two are ridiculous,” you mutter under your breath, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you make your way over to the couch and sink down beside Remus. But as you do, you feel a sharp flicker of pain, and judging by the way both boys immediately turn to look at you, it’s clear you didn’t hide it as well as you thought.

James straightens, concern flashing in his eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he says, quickly pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before hurrying off toward the kitchen to join Sirius.

You shuffle closer to Remus, instinctively seeking his warmth and comfort.

"Are you alright?" you ask.

Remus nods, but the smile he tries to offer is weak. “I’m fine… just tired. My knee’s been bothering me more today.” He lifts a hand to gently rest on your cheek, his thumb sweeping back and forth in soothing motions. “And you?” he murmurs.

 “If I tell you, can you not tell Sirius and James?” He narrows his eyes at you but nods. Remus understands that for as much as the other boys care about you both, sometimes they can be a bit overbearing with their doting. “It’s a bit worse than yesterday.” 

He decides immediately then that you could benefit from their doting today. 

“Have you had some painkillers?” 

Before you can reply, James and Sirius re-enter the room, each carrying a steaming cup of tea and a small army of snacks. James places a cup in front of you, his brow furrowed in quiet concern. There’s the unmistakable rustle of a packet of painkillers in his hand, as though the boys can somehow sense exactly what you need.

Remus clears his throat, interrupting the quiet around you. “Dovey says the pain’s worse today.”

The traitor.

You turn to glare at him, but the sharp motion sends a twinge of discomfort through your side. Your jaw drops in playful betrayal, and you shoot him a look that mixes indignation and mock offense.

Remus stifles a laugh, his eyes crinkling in amusement as he watches your reaction

James, ever the doting hero, doesn't even notice the playful betrayal in your glare. He simply places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. “Right then, painkillers, tea, snacks. You’re going to be pampered whether you like it or not.” He hands you the cup of tea, his expression serious, but there’s the smallest hint of mischief in his eyes.

Sirius drops onto the sofa beside Remus with a dramatic sigh. “We’re at your service, gorgeous,” he says, his voice a playful mix of teasing and sincerity, a wide grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Now, what else do you need? A blanket? Foot rub? A serenade?”

You let out a soft groan, rolling your eyes—but it’s clear you’re fighting a smile.

“I don’t need anything,” you mutter, though the warmth in your voice betrays your true feelings.

“But we want to,” James pouts, sounding not unlike a child denied a toy. He pauses for a moment, his face lighting up with the sudden spark of an idea. “What about… you and Remus have a bath? With all the fancy soaks and everything.”

The idea immediately appeals to you—the warm, fragrant water sounds like absolute heaven. You turn to Remus for his approval, and he meets your gaze with a soft smile and a look that’s full of affection. There’s no hesitation in his nod.

“That sounds really nice, actually,” you agree.

Before you can even blink, James and Sirius are back on their feet, practically racing toward the bathroom.

“Give us twenty minutes!” one of them calls over their shoulder.

You share a fond smile with Remus, his arm pulling you close as you both exchange an affectionate eye-roll.

[personapeters]

✰ 𝐛𝐟!𝐣𝐣 𝐱 𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤!𝐠𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

— sweet boyfriend jj and his ‘full kook’ girlfriend

rating: sfw — cw: none

— boyfriend jj who… was absolutely amazed when he first entered your house, gawking at the high ceilings and shiny decor that sat on the shelves, once reaching out to touch your father’s most prized pieces that sat atop a marble pedistal, to which you quickly said, “oh no, babe, don’t touch that — he’d kill us both,” softly grabbing his curious hands and redirecting them elsewhere.

— boyfriend jj who… wasn't your parent's favorite at first, his reputation on the island proceeding him. they felt you could do much better than a pogue, let alone that pogue, but that didn't stop him from trying to make the best impression possible. he fixed himself up as best as he could when he first met them, even turning his typically backwards cap forwards, saying it made him ‘look more professional’ — professional at what? you don’t know.

— boyfriend jj who… hates when you spend money on him. he appreciates the sentiment, but hates how it makes him feel like he’s using you, even though he knows he isn’t. sure, he’s stolen plenty of cash and random valuables before, but never would he ever want that from you. plus, he wants to provide for you.

— boyfriend jj who… lets you pamper him whenever you’re doing a self care day — plucking his eyebrows as you straddle his lap with his hands on your hips, applying matching face masks which he always says are too cold, fully manicuring his nails with a clear coat of polish; any and everything you did to yourself. at first, he pretended to hate it, but it soon became his favorite thing to do.

— boyfriend jj who… defended you like it was his job to his friends when they first heard about you, though he didn’t understand why he had to. his friends said you’re simply too much of a kook for him, and the hypocrisy pissed him off: “yeah, like sarah ‘n kie weren’t raised on figure eight, too — what’s the difference?”

— boyfriend jj who… introduced you to sarah and kiara with high hopes that you would get along well — an assumption he made based off the fact that you’re all kook girls who were somehow 'slumming it' with pogues like him and his friends. despite their preconceived idea of you at first, you became pretty cool with all the girls once they got to know you, cleo included.

— boyfriend jj who… never involves you in any of his criminal activities, saying he doesn’t want to be the reason ‘y/n, the golden girl’ earns a criminal record. though he almost came around once when you pointed out how your pristine image could probably exempt you as a suspect in just about anything: “that’s not… okay, that’s not not true, but… no, no, stop — s’not happening.”

— boyfriend jj who… managed to unintentionally change your style alot. you're usually dressed up in designer bandeaus and expensive sandals, but after the two of you started dating, you've traded alot of your attire for his (which he loves); his caps, old t-shirts — he even saved up to buy you a smaller version of his boots to wear whenever the two of you get into something messy outdoors; he's converted you into his own 'mini-me'.

— boyfriend jj who… often second guesses if he's good enough for you — he's heard the snide comments other kooks have made about your relationship, saying there's no way a guy like him got a girl like you. he doesn’t know how he landed you either, and deep down is dreading the day you ‘come to your senses’ and leave him.

— boyfriend jj who… had his first taste of what a normal family felt like with you — every dinner, movie night, outing; jj was invited and he always showed up with a smile. at first, he was hesitant because he felt like he was intruding or as though he didn't fit in, but after a while, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

— boyfriend jj who… isn't the biggest fan of dressing up, but does what he must whenever he goes out to dinner with your family or even just visits your home. you assured him he could wear whatever he wants, what makes him comfortable, but he feels so out of place whenever he does so he chooses not to.

— boyfriend jj who… turned a-lot of his life around for you, though it took some time. his friends weren’t big fans of him spending most nights with you instead of running all across the island, getting into whatever it was they got into. they missed him always being around, but also understood that he was doing what was ultimately best for him and were honestly grateful he had you.

— boyfriend jj who… got a second job and picked up every possible shift just to save up to get you a gift for your birthday: a dainty gold necklace. he beamed with so much pride when he gave it to you, watching nervously as you opened it; “i—i bought it, it’s not, like, stolen or nothin’,” he said with a bashful grin, causing you to laugh at the sentiment of a legally obtained present.

— boyfriend jj who… every once in a while, has a breakdown — one where he tells you that he fears one day you’ll realize he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll leave him for someone of your own status who can do more for you than he ever could. you reassure him that there’s no one you would want to be with other than him, though he still has his worries.

— boyfriend jj who… takes you on little dates across the cut, showing you all his favorite spots and things to do like cliff jumping, riding a dirt-bike or exploring abandoned houses. he always apologizes for them not being as ‘nice as you’re used to’, but you always shut him up immediately, telling him there’s nothing you want more than to just be with him.

 personapeters 2025 — all rights reserved • masterlist

[gguk-n]

Loved You First (Oliver Bearman x Reader)

Series Masterlist

Falling in love with your best friend is a tale as old as time and Ollie found himself in the middle of it. He had loved her since they were in primary, since they sat next to each other in class. The only person Y/N would share her things with and Ollie thought he was special. He would always carry an extra piece of candy for her, growing up.

Y/N was the one cheering the loudest for him, giving him the motivation. He knew he was unbelievably in love with Y/N when he saw her introduce Issac Hadjar, his competitor, as her boyfriend and he felt his world shatter. He could feel a deep ache begin in his chest and it would only get worse as time went on. He had always known that he felt different about her, but he wasn't sure if that was love. But now, he knew and it was the worst possible timing.

Ollie had hoped that they would eventually break up and he could make her fall in love with him. But as time went on, things didn't seem to cool down. They were the hottest couple in the F2 paddock and soon F1 paddock.

Ollie didn't consider himself to be a drinker and he despised the fact that people drowned their feelings in alcohol. But here he was, drinking god knows which bottle as Kimi tried to get the bottle away from him. "It's bad for you" he reasoned. "What's bad for me is the feelings I have for her" Ollie cried. "Mate, you need better ways of coping" Kimi sighed as he succeeded in taking the bottle away. "Let's get you home" Kimi spoke while putting the bottle away. But when he turned, Ollie was gone. Kimi wondered how far a drunk man can go and that question was answered about half an hour later when he got a call from Y/N. "Hey, Andrea" she spoke. "Don't worry Ollie's at my place. He came here drunk and crashed." she continued. "Thank god. I was worried I lost him" Kimi spoke. "Guessed since Ollie said something about Kimi being worried" she said. "If he's okay than I'll hang up" Kimi said. "Bye" Y/N greeted him and than cut the call.

Oliver had shown up about 10 minutes ago crying. Y/N still had no clue what this was about but he kept singing Loved You First by One Direction as she tried to pry his hands off her, while failing colossally. She resigned herself to the uncomfortable position with this 6 feet something man around her waist. "Don't leave" he blubbered as Y/N patted his back, trying to sooth him, from what, she is yet to find out.

[novaursa]

hi! just wanted to let you know how much I adore your work!

Can i request an aegon the younger and jaehaera (reader insert)?

So after the war when aegon is placed on the throne, everyone is deciding what to do with the last remaining child of alicent aka reader. Cregan and council propose a marriage and during the younger years aegon is very closed off and a little cold towards reader because he's still traumatized while reader tries to befriend and make up for her family's part in the war. As they get older there's an attempt on aegons life and reader selflessly puts herself in harm's way to protect him and from there he slowly starts to fall for her.

Please fill free to change or move around my request! I wouldn't mind at all and appreciate whatever you want to add or not. Thank you! :)

The Last Daughter

Requests are closed

- Summary: It was a marriage of duty that was crafted to hold the bleeding realm together. With years it became something more.

- Pairing: aunt!reader/Aegon III Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: ❤️

The halls of the Red Keep echoed with a stillness that was neither peace nor victory, but something fractured and uncertain. The war had ended. Rhaenyra was dead. So too were Aegon the Elder, Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, and all the children caught in the storm they never chose. The Iron Throne, melted and re-forged in quiet judgment, now belonged to a boy who had seen more than any child ever should. Aegon Targaryen, the younger—your nephew, your king, and your future husband.

You sat quietly in the solar, velvet skirts pooling around your feet, hands folded over each other as the lords debated your fate like you were some burden no one knew what to do with. The fire cracked, casting specters over the oak table, where Lord Cregan Stark stood with his arms crossed like he’d rather be back in the snow. Grand Maester Orwyle shuffled his parchments while Corlys Velaryon cleared his throat and leaned forward.

“She is the last of Queen Alicent’s line,” Corlys said, not looking at you. “The girl has no allies, no ambition—she is of no threat to His Grace.”

Cregan’s voice cut through, cool and final. “Then wed her to him. Let her loyalty be bound in blood.”

“A marriage?” Orwyle blinked, adjusting his spectacles. “She is his aunt.”

“They’re all related,” muttered Cregan. “The boy needs grounding. Someone who knows both sides of this war. And she—” his sharp grey eyes flicked to you— “has been quiet. Obedient. Kept her head down while the realm burned.”

You met his gaze steadily. You didn’t flinch. You hadn't flinched since the day they dragged your mother away in chains, sobbing for her sons and grandsons. You hadn’t cried when Aemond’s body was not returned, nor when Daeron’s head was never found. You remained. And that, apparently, was enough.

The proposal was made to Aegon. He said nothing at first—just looked past you with that pale, haunted expression he always wore, lips drawn tight, as if words were dangerous. When he finally spoke, it was not to you.

“If I must,” he said. “Then fine.”

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even kindness. It was duty.

The first years were cold. Your marriage was not a marriage in truth—no shared chambers, no gentle touches, no soft words in the quiet of night. He dined alone more often than not, and when he did attend court, he barely acknowledged you. You tried. Gods know you tried. You approached with calm, with compassion, with hope that he might see you as more than your mother’s daughter.

“Aegon,” you’d said once, approaching him in the gardens where he sat beneath the maple tree like a shadow lost to time. “Do you want company?”

His silver eyes lifted to yours, dull and distant. “No.”

Still, you sat, folding your hands in your lap, and watched the last winter snow melt on the stone paths. You asked nothing more.

“I wasn’t part of the war,” you said after a long pause, voice low. “I was locked in my chambers when it all happened. I didn’t want any of it.”

“You’re still her daughter,” he replied, tone clipped. “You carry her face.”

It stung. Of course it did. But you only nodded, whispering, “And you carry hers,” before rising and leaving him to his silence.

It wasn’t until the dagger came that things began to shift.

You were walking beside him, down the narrow hall behind the council chamber, his maester droning on about tax reforms and ports when it happened. A servant—no, a knight disguised as one—lunged from the shadows, blade gleaming.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe.

You threw yourself forward, a blur of silk and desperation, and caught the dagger in your side before it could reach Aegon. There was blood—so much blood—and a scream from the maester, and steel flashing as guards rushed in. You crumpled to the floor, pain lancing through you like fire, clutching the wound just below your ribs.

Aegon was at your side in moments, hands trembling as he pressed them to your wound. You had never seen him afraid—not like this. His eyes were wide, lips pale, voice cracking as he called for help.

“Why?” he whispered, brushing your blood-slick hair from your face. “Why would you do that?”

You tried to smile through the pain. “Because you’re my king.”

“No,” he said, almost angry. “No, that’s not… You didn’t have to.”

You touched his cheek, leaving a smear of crimson there. “I wanted to.”

The days that followed were hazy, full of bitter herbs and fever dreams, but Aegon never left. You woke once to find him asleep in the chair beside your bed, head tilted, mouth slack, your hand still in his. Another time, you stirred to find him reading aloud from one of the books you had spoken of months ago—books he had dismissed as dull.

And when your fever finally broke, he leaned forward, brushing a curl from your brow with infinite gentleness. “You scared me,” he murmured.

“You care?” you asked, voice hoarse.

His smile was faint, but it was real. “More than I realized.”

He changed after that.

Not all at once—there were still days when he disappeared into the gardens or rode off for hours with no word. But there were also quiet mornings where he let you sit with him in the solar, his hand lightly resting over yours. Evenings when he asked for your thoughts on council matters. Nights where he lingered outside your chamber door, unsure but hopeful.

He kissed you for the first time during the first spring frost, his lips cold and trembling against yours. It was soft, unsure, like he was afraid you might vanish. You kissed him back with your whole soul.

“You’re not her,” he whispered against your lips. “You never were.”

“And you’re not Rhaenyra,” you replied. “You’re just Aegon. And that’s who I want.”

The ghost of a smile curved his lips, the frost catching in his hair like a crown of starlight.

And for the first time, he let himself believe it.

[haikyu-mp4]

Ice cold – Sakusa x reader wc 1030 – gn!reader hockey player x figure skater au

You always thought ice was cold until you met Sakusa Kiyoomi, one of Tokyo’s up-and-coming stars in figure skating.

In addition to his immense talent, you had never seen anyone more beautiful. It was practically love at first sight. “Good practice?” you asked him cheerily while tightening the locks on your hockey skates.

Sakusa barely turned his head to glance at you, already putting a mask back on that he had left by his neon-coloured jacket on the railing. “Yes.”

“Nice.” You watched him go, mimicking chills as he left before returning to your business. Physically, at least. Your mind was somewhere else…

Even during the post-game dinner about a week later, you kept zoning out while the team laughed and talked louder than anyone else in the diner.

You didn’t even realise you were leaning so hard on your palm that it squished your cheek into a mumble. “Do you think his lips are cold?”

The one who sat beside you looked incredulous, staring at you for a second before answering, then checking to see if anyone else was also concerned. “Whose?”

“Sakusa Kiyomiiiii,” you groaned, finally moving from your position to rest your face on your arms, which you had crossed on the table.

“Right, because he’s suuuch a charmer,” the one across from you drawled sarcastically.

You frowned. “He smells good. He has good posture.”

“And you must’ve taken two too many pucks to the head.”

“Maybe Cupid switched from arrows to pucks. Creative liberty.”

“Did you do something to your hair?”

Sakusa sighed and put his mask on, leaning back a bit when you stood up to look at him closer.

“It looks good,” you added.

“Thank you,” he said, so slow it reminded you of Snape in Harry Potter. He attempted to walk past you while also trying to avoid brushing against your hockey uniform. Don’t know how often they wash those.

“How long have you skated?” you asked, cheeks rounding to accommodate your smile.

“Long.”

Accepting defeat for now, you gave him space to pass. “See you next time!”

“Preferably not.”

“Sa-“

“Can I help you?” he practically barked, making you draw a huge breath and purse your lips.

Silence drew a hard wall between you two, daring you to answer him.

“I just… think you’re cool.”

He blinked once, twice… and then lifted a hand to point at his chest. “Me?”

Gesturing at the lack of other people around him, you nodded with something resembling sympathy.

“You think I’m cool?”

“Hella.”

Sakusa scoffed at your stereotypical lack of proper vocabulary, turning his face away to hide anything that could be mistaken for a blush. He definitely wasn’t charmed by a hockey player. “I have to go,” he announced with no further explanation as to why.

“Oh, okay. See you around.”

If anyone saw Sakusa glancing over his shoulder at you while walking away, they couldn’t prove it.

You and your teammates were warming up once again, skating rounds and barely avoiding each other in passing. That’s when your sixth sense kicked in, and your head whipped around to find Sakusa passing by on his way out.

“Sakusa! Hey! Over here!” you yelled, waving your arms so he’d notice you despite the hockey helmet.

He stopped, silently blinking and trying not to notice all the other skaters watching the interaction.

“See what I can do!” you yelled again, holding out your hands as if telling him to wait before skating to one end of the rink. Kicking off when Sakusa hadn’t moved from his spot, you grinned as you did your best at copying one of the moves you’d seen Sakusa do. It wasn’t a jump, but it sure felt graceful.

Sakusa hoped he looked calm and collected despite not feeling like it. While watching you, he cracked a small smile, then quickly returned to being the fake nonchalanter he was. He gave you a meek thumbs-up as you looked at him for his reaction.

“Good job,” he complimented you before turning and leaving. “Bye, y/n.”

“What a dick,” one of your teammates said with a scowl, bumping into your shoulder to catch your attention. However, you didn’t seem discouraged. Quite the opposite, you looked elated.

“He said my name,” you whispered.

“You don’t like me,” Sakusa’s voice boomed through the hallway where you followed behind him, struggling to keep up with his pace in your hockey gear.

“Yes, I do.”

“No. Stop wasting your time.”

“Please, Sakusa! Give me a chance!” you begged, feeling just as pathetic as you probably looked. “I’ve liked you for so long. You’re an amazing skater and seem like a great person.”

Abruptly, almost making you stumble, Sakusa turned around to face you. “What in the world have I done to make you think I’m so great?”

You gulped, maintaining eye contact lest you lose any courage. “You’re so strong, even though your build doesn’t look like it. Your hair is always styled and even looks good after training. You do extra rounds when the children come around to watch you because you enjoy how they marvel, and you study here at the rink because you like it cold. You smell… incredible, despite favouring a bottle of disinfectant more than the jocks favour a bottle of beer.”

You took a break from rambling to breathe and take in the visible effect your words had on Sakusa. He stood up straighter, lips parting gradually as you went on and pupils dilating, speechless.

“I like everything about you, even when you pretend not to enjoy my poor attempts at figure skating. Please, give me a chance.” Your body slumped a little at finally expressing all these thoughts. “One date, and if we don’t enjoy ourselves, I won’t bother you.”

Sakusa looked at the wall with no purpose but avoiding your pleading eyes. His heart was racing, running laps as if chasing every word you rambled. He couldn’t quite believe someone had noticed all these things about him, and he certainly couldn’t believe someone liked all of them.

“Fine,” he finally answered. You audibly gasped, stars in your eyes. “One date.”

Let me tell you, it wasn’t just one date.

masterlist

/dedicated to @sharkissm for hyping it up<3

[bjwmastermind-writes]

shared desk part 3 ~ bucky barnes x f!reader

This is part three of shared desk! You can check out the prior chapters on my masterlist!

A/N: I have kept you waiting for so long for this!! here you go the official date date!! I don't even know what to say, its gone off the rails completely. I just couldn't stop typing.

mentions: lots of flirting my dudes, unprotected sex, p/v, couch sex my dudes on a really awful couch, I guess some slight angst or vulnerable moment between reader and bucky. If you think I'm missing any important mentions let me know

minors dni. if you're under 18 don't interact with this fic or my blog. I'm not responsible for what you choose to do.

do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

as always, i hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing this! no fr, I hope you do enjoy this.

The next morning, he’s already at the desk when you arrive—unusual for him. There's a cup of coffee waiting beside your chair.

"I didn’t know what coffee you like, so I just… went safe," Bucky says with a soft chuckle, his eyes not quite meeting yours.

You smile, taking a sip. "This is good. I like it."

He nods, relief flickering across his face before both of you settle into your usual rhythm. The clack of keys, occasional sips, the faint hum of low conversation and machines around you. Comfortable silence.

But something’s shifting under the surface—bubbling just beneath—and you can feel it coming before he even says anything.

"Hey…" he blurts, breaking the silence. “Can we talk about the kiss?”

You glance up, fingers pausing mid-sentence in your email. “Yeah. What’s up, Buck?”

His hand runs through his hair. Nervous. “I mean, we can talk later if you're busy—”

“It’s just an email. Tell me.”

He hesitates, then exhales. “I didn’t plan on doing it—it just happened.”

Your brow lifts. “Oh shit. Was that not meant to happen? You wanna pretend it didn’t?”

“What? No. No, nothing like that.” He shakes his head quickly. “Just… in my mind, I’d planned it differently.”

A beat.

You lean back in your chair, coffee in hand. “Well… sometimes things come out even better unplanned.”

That stops him. You see it in his eyes—how the words hit and settle. He looks at you like he’s thinking about kissing you again, right here, right now. But he just nods, slowly.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah. You’re right."

It goes back to silent. You finish the email and he goes back to his work except he blurts out again.

“So… listen,” he starts, clearing his throat. “My idea was, uh… to walk you home, of course. So you don’t get murdered late at night.”

A small laugh escapes you, the kind that tugs at the corner of your lips despite trying to keep it cool. He keeps going, nervous energy in full swing.

“But really—I just wanted to ask you out. Like, actually out. A proper date. A nice one. Or not formal, if you’re not into formal. It doesn’t have to be, I just—something that’s not a coworking lunch. Though those are nice too. I like those. We can still do those—”

“Buck,” you interrupt, amusement dancing in your eyes, “you’re going off.”

“Right. Sorry.” He exhales, cheeks a little pink. “I just wanted to do things right. In order.”

You raise a brow, playful. “Didn’t know you were a control freak.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Really? You didn’t notice ‘til now?”

You both laugh—and it’s a little too loud for the quiet, focused vibe of the coworking space. A few people glance over. One guy near the printer gives you both a look that definitely says get a room.

After a beat, you lean in just slightly, your voice soft but sure.

“So this proper date… is it still in the plan?”

He looks at you like he’s been waiting to be asked that exact question.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

After the laughter settles, you both ease back into work. But it’s different now—there’s this buzz in the air. Something warm and giddy threading through the glances you sneak at each other when you think the other isn't looking. He catches you once. Smiles. You smile back.

When noon rolls around, it’s almost expected—you pack up your things at the same time, exchange a casual, “Lunch?” and head toward the elevator like you haven’t done this a dozen times before. Except this time feels different.

Inside the elevator, it’s quiet. That kind of intimate quiet where the silence isn’t awkward, just full of potential.

A strand of hair slips into your face as you look down at your phone.

He reaches out, slow but certain, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers graze along your jaw as he does it, featherlight.

“It was in the way,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “Control freak.”

“Guilty,” he says, not even pretending to deny it.

You both laugh again, a softer one this time, as the elevator dings open.

The day ends earlier than expected—his work got rescheduled, your deadline moved. There’s no real reason to head home together… but he waits anyway. You walk out side by side.

“You really ate this hero role up, huh?” you tease as you cross the street. “You won’t let me walk home alone from now on?”

“Not if I can help it,” he says, simply.

Your heart tugs a little.

The sun’s lower in the sky now, casting a soft gold light over everything. It’s quiet when you reach your door. That moment again—lingering.

You turn to him, voice low, a smile tugging at your lips. “So… what’s this proper date you’ve got in mind?”

He leans in slightly, like it’s a secret only for you.

“That depends. You like Italian?”

“I do.”

A small, satisfied nod. “Good. Friday? I’ll pick you up.”

And just like that… the not-a-date lunches are officially retired.

Friday evening 

Across town, Bucky’s staring at his reflection like it owes him money.

He holds up a button-down. Frowns. Too formal.

Switches to a basic black Henley. Classic. Safe.

Switches again. Tries it with a jacket. Then without. Then back again.

“You are spiraling,” he mutters, annoyed with himself. “It’s just dinner.”

He shuts the door and heads over to your place—though not before stopping by a flower shop to pick up a small bouquet.

———

You’re in your room, chaos at full volume.

Half your closet is on the bed. Your hair’s half-done. Your playlist is jumping between calm and hype like it’s trying to match your heart rate. You hold up two outfits—one a bit flirty, one a little more classic.

You go with the flirty one. You stare in the mirror and re-apply your lip gloss twice. You mutter to yourself, “It’s just a date. Not like you haven’t seen the guy every day this week.

Bucky rings and it’s go time. You answer through the machine that’ll be down in a second.  

Still, you check the mirror one more time before heading out. 

———

“Hey,” you say with a smile that is both confident and quietly nervous.

He looks at you like you just stepped out of a dream. “You look… wow.”

You glance him over and grin. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He offers you the bouquet, a little awkward but sincere. “I, uh… got these. Figured flowers were required.”

“They absolutely are,” you tease, taking them. “Good to know you’re a traditionalist.”

He scratches the back of his neck, still trying to recover. “So… I have some news for you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He gestures toward the curb. “We’re going on my motorcycle.”

You lean out to look. And there it is. The beast. Matte black. Loud. Aggressive. The opposite of what you pictured when you heard “nice Italian dinner.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh… oh no no no.”

“I have a helmet for you,” he says, holding up the one he brought.

“This could’ve been a nice warning, Barnes.”

He gives you that half-grin, the smug one. “You would’ve canceled.”

“Damn right I would’ve.”

He sets the helmet on your head—your perfectly styled hair that you spent a reasonable amount of time on.

“It’s going to ruin my hair,” you grumble.

“Impossible,” he says without missing a beat.

But somehow—you don’t. Somehow, minutes later, you’re on the back of his bike, clinging to him like your life depends on it. (It might.)

“Hold on,” he calls over his shoulder.

You tighten your arms around his waist, muttering, “Believe me, I am.”

The engine growls beneath you, a deep rumble that vibrates through your bones. The city blurs past—neon signs, headlights, the fading pink of sunset melting into dusk.

Your arms are wrapped tight around his waist, and you lean in close, yelling over the noise, “I HATE YOU!”

He doesn’t respond.

But you know.

You know he’s smiling.

You can’t see his face, but you can feel the grin spreading across it. That cocky, smug little smirk he wears when he knows he’s won.

Your hair whips around you, wind cutting past your cheeks like laughter, and despite yourself… a laugh escapes your lips too.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exhilarating.

And it’s a little bit too much fun.

You pull up to the restaurant, a cozy little Italian spot glowing warmly on the corner. As you take the helmet off, hair a mess, you glare at him.

He holds up a hand, gesturing—may I?

You nod, and he gently runs his fingers through your hair, trying to fix the damage the helmet caused. His touch is light. Careful.

“I still hate you,” you mutter, breathless.

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Didn’t hear you complain back there.”

“You couldn’t hear anything over my screaming.”

He opens the door for you with a little bow. “C’mon. I’ll make it up to you. There’s pasta with your name on it.”

———

Inside, the restaurant is warm and low-lit, all exposed brick and hanging lights. It smells like heaven—garlic, fresh herbs, something sizzling in a pan.

The host greets Bucky like he’s a regular. You raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me this is your go-to first date spot.”

He smiles innocently. “Would it be a red flag if it was?”

“Depends. How many helmets do you carry around?”

He laughs, head tipping back just slightly, and gestures for you to walk ahead.

Once seated, the waiter leaves a bottle of wine and two menus. You both open them at the same time… and neither of you looks down.

You’re watching each other instead.

“You gonna pick for both of us too, or are we back to equal rights now?”

“You’re welcome to order for me, if that’s your thing.”

You hum, pretending to think. “Something with anchovies, then.”

He looks horrified.

You grin. “Power shift complete.”

He’s still smiling when he pours the wine.

The pasta arrives, steaming and rich, and for a few quiet seconds, it’s just the clink of silverware and shared smiles over wine.

“Okay,” you say, after a sip, “you’ve told me your favorite band. But what’s your comfort movie?”

He lifts his brows, chewing thoughtfully. “The Great Escape.”

You blink. “Really?”

He shrugs, grinning. “There’s something satisfying about the plan. The tension. Also—motorcycles.”

You laugh. “Of course.”

You keep going—music, food, things you’d never eat. He tries to pretend he isn’t picky, but you catch the face he makes when you mention oysters.

Then, in a lull, you glance over at him, playful but curious.

“So what was your plan?”

He blinks. “Plan?”

“You said you had one,” you remind him. “With me.”

He exhales, chuckling softly. “God, yeah. I mean—there were rules. No kissing until at least the second date. Keep it casual. Let things unfold naturally.”

You smirk. “And how’s that going?”

He looks at you like he wants to say something smart—but then just admits, “I wrecked it the second I met you.”

The silence after that is warm, charged.

Then he blurts, almost without thinking, “Which, statistically, is ridiculous for someone my age.”

You blink. “Your age?”

He winces, realizing what he’s done. “Shit. No. I didn’t mean—forget I said that.”

You lean in, eyes narrowed. “What, are you older than you look? What are we talking here—mid-forties? Fifty?”

He mutters something.

You lean closer. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

He sighs, looking anywhere but at you. “I’m… technically… one hundred and seven.”

You stare at him. Then you smile, slow and wicked.

“So if I asked for your birth year, would I need to use Roman numerals?”

He groans, but you see the corner of his mouth twitching.

You add, “Do I need to puree your food from now on?”

“Okay, enough,” he laughs, covering his face with one hand.

The table shakes with your laughter. And underneath it, his hand finds yours. Warm. Solid. Grounding.

“Are you going to let me pay this time?” you ask, tilting your head.

He shakes his head immediately, brows furrowed like you just insulted him. He gets to the check before you can even pretend to reach for it.

“What kind of gentleman would I be?” he says, almost scolding—but there’s a warmth behind it.

That makes you blush. The way he says it. The way he means it. He is a gentleman—truly. The kind you’ve only read about. The kind that makes you pause and wonder if this is real.

He’s folding the receipt away when he glances up and catches the look on your face—just for a second like you forgot to hide it. Like you're lost in a thought you didn’t mean to let show.

“What?” he asks gently, a trace of amusement in his voice. “You’re looking at me like I just grew another metal arm.”

You laugh, soft and breathy, shaking your head. “Nothing. Just… you’re kind of unfair.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Unfair?”

You nod. “Too good. Like you stepped out of some daydream or something.”

His eyes soften. No teasing this time. Just honesty.

“I think that about you,” he says quietly, “all the time.”

Then, even softer—almost like he’s admitting it to himself more than to you. “Which is probably why I keep messing up my plan.”

 After the check is paid you step outside into the crisp night. The city hums around you, but it all feels muted—like you're wrapped in some kind of bubble.

He hands you the helmet.

“Still worried I’ll fall off?” you tease.

He just smirks. “Not worried. Just prepared.”

You take it, slide it on, and glance up at him through your lashes. The helmet’s too big and makes your hair puff awkwardly, but you’re smiling—and that smile hits him like it always does.

He huffs a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. “Come here,” he murmurs, stepping closer.

His hands reach up—one warm, one cool—and gently adjust the strap under your chin. He’s careful and focused, thumbs brushing your jaw as he fastens it just right.

“There,” he says, voice low. “Wouldn’t want you flying off and blaming me.”

You’re close enough to see the flecks of gray in his stubble, the softness in his eyes, the way he lingers just a second too long.

Too good, he thinks. Too good to be mine.

You swing your leg over and wrap your arms around his waist. There’s no joking this time, no pretending you’re terrified. You just lean in. You breathe him in. He feels it.

And for the ride home, it’s quiet. The wind against your jacket, the rhythm of the engine beneath you, your cheek against his back.

He feels your arms around him, your grip tightens slightly on turns, and it’s… grounding. Intimate. It's almost like he could believe he belongs somewhere.

When he parks outside your building, you swing your leg off and remove the helmet, hair mussed and cheeks pink from the wind.

He watches you, that same quiet look in his eyes as always.

You hand him back the helmet. “You wanna come up for a second? You said you needed to use the bathroom, remember?”

He hesitates—but only for half a second. “Right. Yeah. Bathroom.”

Inside, the apartment is dim and calm. You flick on a low lamp in the corner and start to gesture toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s just—”

But you don’t finish the sentence.

Because when you turn, he’s already looking at you.

He steps forward. “I had a whole plan, you know.”

You smirk. “Yeah? How’s it going?”

He’s close now, one hand finding your waist, the other brushing your arm. “Totally wrecked it.”

And then he kisses you.

Slow. Focused. A little desperate—like he’s been holding it in for too long and something just gave way.

You reach behind you, fumbling the door closed without breaking the kiss. Shoes half-kicked off, jackets forgotten. You both laugh softly as you stumble over your bag and bump into a table, don’t care.

You barely make it past the entryway before you fall into each other again.

The kiss grows hungrier. Your back hits the couch, or maybe his back—you’re not sure who landed first. All you know is you’re straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your breath uneven.

His hands roam—your waist, your thighs, your back. Yours are in his hair, his jaw, gripping the edges of his shirt like it might anchor you.

Then his vibranium hand slips into your hair—cool and sure. He tugs, just enough to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat.

His mouth finds your neck.

You gasp, fingers tightening in his shirt. He exhales against your skin, and it sends another shiver through you. His hands grip your waist firmly.

“You’re really bad at following plans,” you murmur, breathless.

He grins against your throat. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.” His hands find your zipper and pull it down—slow, careful.

You stop him—not to push him away, but to shift.

Wordlessly, you slide off his lap and stand in front of him.

He watches you with eyes dark, hungry, locked in place—like if he blinked, he might miss it. Like you’re something he’s been starving for.

You let the straps of your dress slip from your shoulders. Let it fall in one clean motion, pooling softly at your feet.

You stand there in your underwear—bare skin kissed by the soft lamp light—and for a beat, he just stares.

Like you’re something holy.

Then he reaches for you. No hesitation. No teasing. Just raw, reverent need. He pulls you back onto his lap, your knees on either side of him.

His hands are everywhere—your thighs, your waist, your back—gripping, grounding, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

His voice is low, almost wrecked.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

And he says it like it’s killing him. Like it’s been on the tip of his tongue since the moment he first saw you.

You reach for him, fingers finding the edge of his jacket. He lets you pull it off without a word.

Then comes the shirt—your hands slipping beneath the hem, dragging it up over his chest, his shoulders, and finally off.

And—holy shit.

You blink.

Fuck me.

Why was he hiding all of that under his clothes?

Defined, scarred, solid. Like he was carved from something real. Something earned.

Your breath catches. And suddenly? The whole “I’m a hundred” thing feels like absolute bullshit.

“Seriously,” you mutter, eyes wide. “There’s no way.”

He raises a brow, amused. “No way what?”

“That you’re a hundred. Bullshit.”

He laughs, soft and a little breathless, but you’re not really listening anymore.

Your hands find his chest, running slowly over warm skin, the lines of muscle, the scar on his shoulder—faint, but deep—and the place where metal meets flesh, the seam where his vibranium arm connects. You pause there, not to inspect, not to question—just to feel it.

You’re not studying him. You’re admiring him.

Your hand lifts, soft, fingertips brushing along the edge of it. Just to feel. Just to understand.

And that’s when you feel him shift.

Not visibly. Not loudly. Just a subtle change in his breathing. A tension in his jaw.

You glance up—and his eyes are on you, guarded now. Watching you watch him.

Like he’s waiting. For judgment. For you to flinch. For the part where you see the damage and pull away.

Like he’s had people look at him like that before—and it never ended well.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t pull back.

Your fingers trace the line where metal meets flesh, soft and slow. You look at him—not with pity, not with fear. Just… awe.

“You’re not a monster,” you whisper. “Not even close.”

He exhales, shaky. Like he didn’t know he’d been holding his breath.

You press a soft kiss against his lips —hands pressed to his chest, your body close—he kisses you back like something unlocked inside him. Like he’s not afraid of being seen anymore.

The kiss deepens, slow but intense, your mouths moving together.

His hands return to your body—warm, solid, reverent. One curls around your waist, holding you steady. The other, vibranium and sure, cups the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, closer, like he still doesn’t believe you’re really here.

You shift against him, your thighs straddling his hips again, and he groans into your mouth—quiet, rough, needy. It unravels everything.

The heat grows. His hands explore—your back, your sides, under the edge of your bra, then, with a smooth flick of his fingers, he unhooks it with one hand. Effortless.

You blink, breath catching. “Show-off.”

He grins against your skin. “You’re welcome.”

You grind down against him and he groans—low, sharp, like he’s unraveling beneath you.

“Won’t this mess up your plan?” you murmur against his lips, breath shaky.

He pauses just barely, eyes flicking open, dazed.

“…What plan?”

His voice is ragged. Like he genuinely forgot it ever existed. Because you wrecked it.

“You sure you want this?”

He groans when you nod, like the permission undoes him.

You barely get the word “yes” out before he’s kissing you again— It’s messy now, deep and heated, his mouth hot against yours, all tongue and teeth and hunger.

Your hips grind against his and he gasps, hands flying to your waist, gripping tight like he’s barely holding it together.

You tug at the waistband of his pants and he helps—shoving them down without grace, without care, because nothing matters now except skin and friction and you.

He curses under his breath when you sink down onto him, head falling back against the couch, eyes blown wide.

“Fuck,” he breathes—raw, reverent. “You feel…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s too busy watching the way your mouth parts in a moan as you move—slow at first, teasing, and then faster, harder.

Your hands are everywhere—his chest, his shoulders, the edge of the couch for balance. He fills you completely, and the stretch has you gasping, clinging to him as you move. Your hands claw at his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle. He loves it.

Your pace quickens and so does his grip, guiding your hips with both hands like he needs this to last but knows it won’t.

His grip on your hips is possessive, guiding your rhythm, dragging you down harder with every roll of your body.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls, voice hoarse, head tipping forward to nip at your collarbone, your jaw, your shoulder.

You tug at his hair, and he groans again—louder this time, shameless.

The couch creaks.  The room’s too hot, too perfect.

He shifts, hands gripping your thighs as he flips you—your back hitting the cushions, legs still wrapped around him as he settles between them.

Now he’s on top. And he doesn’t slow down.

He thrusts into you deep, steady, relentless—his eyes locked on yours like he wants to watch the way you fall apart.

You arch beneath him, breath shattered, hands gripping anything you can—his shoulders, his arms, the couch cushions, your sanity.

He lowers his head, mouth trailing hot across your collarbone before his teeth sink lightly into the curve of your neck. Not too hard—but enough to make your breath hitch, enough to mark.

His hips snap harder. His grip tightens.

He’s groaning against your skin, biting, licking, losing it as your moans rise in pitch, your nails dragging down his back.

You feel it building—fast and sharp.

“Bucky—” you gasp, voice breaking.

“I know,” he growls, voice wrecked. “I know—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

And you don’t. Neither of you do.

You come together like a crash—loud, clinging, uncoordinated—his mouth still on your neck, your back arching, both of you trembling through it.

The couch groans in protest, a final creak under the weight of your bodies and everything that’s been boiling over between you.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the sound of your breathing. His heartbeat against your chest.

And the way neither of you dares to move just yet.

He collapses onto you with a low groan, forehead damp, breath still catching in his throat.

His weight is heavy, but not crushing—just solid. Comforting.

He rests his head against your chest, cheek pressed between your tits, one arm draped lazily over your waist.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just breathing. The sound of it filling the room as your heartbeats slowly, slowly return to something almost normal.

You brush a hand through his hair—sweaty, soft, a little wild—and smile to yourself.

“So,” you murmur, voice hoarse. “Still think you’re too old for this?”

He groans into your chest. “Don’t start.”

You laugh softly. “No, seriously. Should I call a medic? Or a chiropractor?”

He pinches your hip, but he doesn’t move. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

He hums, lips brushing your skin. “A little.”

The couch creaks beneath you again and you both wince.

You look at the state of it—cushions everywhere, throw blanket on the floor along the rest of your discarded clothes. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “So we definitely killed the couch.”

Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“You wanna move to the bed?” you ask, fingers lazily tracing circles along his spine.

“Can’t,” he mumbles.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

You grin. “You’re seriously going to pass out on my tits?”

“Best pillow I’ve ever had.”

You giggle softly, but you don’t push him off. You just let your hand keep stroking his back, slower now, as his breathing evens out and the weight of him starts to feel like something more than just exhaustion.

Like comfort. Like trust.

Like maybe he’s safe here.

You shift under him, trying to get comfortable—but there’s no hope. The couch is broken, cushions askew, and your back is already protesting.

Still, you don’t move.

His head is still tucked against your chest, one arm slung heavy around your waist, and his breathing has slowed into the kind of deep, steady rhythm that says he’s out.

You stare at the ceiling, the room dim and quiet around you, the air still thick with sweat and warmth and everything you didn’t say out loud.

You try to wiggle your leg. Nope. Trapped.

You sigh.

It’s the worst sleep you’ve ever had.

Your shoulder aches. The couch dips weirdly to one side. Your neck’s at a horrible angle.

But his arm tightens slightly in his sleep.

You smile. Close your eyes.

And fall asleep anyway.

Hope you enjoyed your read just as much as I enjoyed writing this for y'all, let me know what you think!

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[lolkency]

Homecoming

⋮ you and your boyfriend sneak off into the parking garage at your uni’s homecoming game

❥ gojo x reader

cw: fingering, choking, sexual intercourse, public indecency

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . .

KAISEN UNIVERSITY

The sun had set and it was finally cooling down a bit. You, your boyfriend Gojo, and friends Geto and Shoko sat in the student section of your university’s homecoming game. Your other classmate Nanami was also tagging along with you, but he had gone to get hotdogs.

Although your eyes were on the game, you could feel your boyfriend growing antsy beside you. You sighed and turned to him,

"What is it Toru?" You blinked up at him. His lips were turned into a mischievous smirk, and that could only mean trouble.

He whispered down into your ear "You look so good right now in those shorts, I wanna rip 'em off of you...now".

With the loud rambunctious sounds of the stadium, you barely made out his whispers, but you could use your context clues. "Now?" you questioned.

He nodded, using his puppy dog eyes, a vibrant blue.

'Need...you...now’ he mouthed with a pout.

"What about Ieiri and Suguru or Kento when he comes back? We can't just leave the game to fuck" you frustratingly whispered. Gojo rolled his eyes and pointed over at Shoko and Geto on the other side of you. They were in their own world.

"C'mon let's just shake on it, if our team wins you give me 50 bucks, if they don't...I'll pay you" Shoko negotiated.

"No, I don't care who wins, besides our team ALWAYS wins. Why would I do that to myself” Geto retorted with an eye roll.

You looked back over to Satoru, "What about Kento? He's getting us hotdogs, I'm kinda hungry" you questioned.

"Baby, please" he whined, looking down at his light wash jeans, a tint slowly formed.

"Oh my God, you're such a horn ball" you secretly loved it, you just liked to hear him beg.

"Please" his bright blue eyes glistened in the moonlight. How could you say no to that?

"Okay, but I wanna at least stop for a water, I need something on my stomach." You rolled your eyes.

"I can think of something to put in your st-" your hand grabbed his crotch before he could finish his sentence.

"Shush" you took your hand away and turned to your two bickering friends.

"Guys, me and Toru are gonna go get us some water. I know the lines are long though, since Kento still hasn't come back, so it might take a while, but we'll be back" you cheesed, hoping your over explanation didn't allude to your lie.

"What if I raised the price?" Shoko questioned.

"That doesn't even make sense, it would be better if you low- you know what..."

You turned to Gojo, "they're not even listening" you shrugged.

"Let's go before I change my mind" you sighed, even though your panties soaked at the thought of fucking your boyfriend in public.

Getting up from your seats, Gojo pushed you in front of him, to hide his erection, but you knew it was also because he was a little horn ball and wanted some friction against him.

By the time you made it out of the bleachers, through crowds of people and saw the line for the water, you decided to just head straight to the parking garage.

"You know this is insane, right" you looked over at your boyfriend, a big grin plastered on his face. He had moved beside you, since he no longer had to hide himself, in fact he was on full display.

"I don't see anything wrong with this" he shrugged.

"Yeah yeah, get your keys out to find the car" you ordered, getting antsy yourself.

He pulled his keys from his jeans, a beeping sound and light flicker signaled you to the car.

He had parked at the very top of the garage, the moonlight reflected off of his dark blue Mercedes Benz .

Gojo opened the door for you, and walked to the other side, before you both slipped into the back seat.

His lips immediately smashed into yours. You kissed him back, creating a steady rhythm between you. His tongue darted out, gaining access to explore your mouth.

He cupped your face with both his hands, soft against your skin in contrast to his rough and urgent kisses.

Your hands moved to palm him in his jeans, a whimper escaped him, against your lips. You smiled into the kiss, sucking his bottom lip before biting it, granting you another whimper, quieter than before.

You held the tent in his pants tighter, his hands moved from your face, down to the sides of your body.

Once he reached the bottom of your shirt, he broke the kiss, pulling it over your head and tossing it to the front. His lips curved into a smirk, as he looked down at your bare chest, you weren't wearing a bra.

The hem of his shirt was in your hands in seconds, pulling it over his head. His chiseled yet lean upper body on display. You could even see a slight tan line on his arms from sitting in the sun earlier.

Gojo reconnected the kiss, using both hands to undo your shorts, sliding them down your legs along with your panties and tossing them to the front.

His ring and middle fingers attached to your lips, dipping down into your cunt to capture your essence, spreading you open.

"You're such a liar, acting like you didn't wanna fuck me too" he teased through his kisses, as his fingers slid up to your clit.

When you didn't give him a response, he pressed down harder onto the sensitive bud, slowly moving in a circular motion. Gojo broke the kiss to see your face, your eyebrows knitted together, mouth agape, saliva glistening in the moonlight.

"Mmm, yeah so what maybe I was a little horny, but you were desperate" you looked up at him, his fingers still pleasuring you at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"Desperate huh?" He questioned, dipping two fingers inside you.

"Fuck" you grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

Your mouths reconnected, teeth bumping together. Gojo's digits sunk deeper inside you, moving in a beckoning motion.

He took in the moans you poured into his mouth, a smirk forming in the kiss. You hated when he proved you right, but you were too horny to be stubborn.

The pace of his fingers gradually increased, coaxing you towards your orgasm. His kisses were feverishly rough.

"Mmm" you moaned into his mouth, he let out a groan in response. Lifting from the kiss once again, his pretty blue eyes stared back at you.

"Come on cum for me" he pleaded, quickening his pace, sounds of your pleasure filled the vehicle. The tips of his fingers repeatedly pressed against your sweet spot.

He sensed you were almost there, he loved the way you looked , unraveled for him. Gojo rubbed his thumb against your clit, moving in swift circular motions, whilst pumping your insides.

The palms of your hands rested on the seat, as your hips moved on their own, bucking against his fingers for more pleasure.

"Baby I'm gonna c-" you arched your back, pushing yourself further onto his hand, as your climax washed over you. He slowly fingered you down from your high, your hips jerking from the overstimulation.

Once his fingers slipped out, your juices spilled onto the leather seats, he took his hand into his mouth, lapping at it like a puppy, eyes never leaving yours.

Your hands hastily moved to his jeans, unbuckling them, and slipping into his underwear to release him. His tip dripped with precum, brushing it with your thumb, you felt him twitch with anticipation.

"Please" he whispered, he was always so demanding until it came to himself being pleasure, he became a whiny mess, and oh how you loved it.

"Hmm? I couldn't hear you" you smiled up at him, his piercing eyes begging you to fuck him.

"Please baby please" he whined, moving a hand to cup your face, bringing you into a quick kiss. You sighed, you couldn't tease him much longer.

"Scoot over so I can sit on it" you ordered.

Gojo slid his body towards the middle of the backseat, as much as he could comfortably, settling into a manspread.

As soon as he was positioned, you pulled his pants as far as they could down his legs. You slipped your shoes off and threw a leg over him, your heat right above his tip.

Your lips pressed against his, giving him a quick peck and a smile before slowly entering the tip. He let out a soft 'fuck' and immediately moved his hands to your hips, pushing you further onto him.

His eyes darkened with need, lifting and slamming you back onto him. Up and down, up and down, his pace, tantalizingly slow.

You took his hands and placed them onto your breasts. Gojo increased the pace, his dick sliding in and out of you, each time hitting your cervix.

Your nipples hardened at the stimulation, as he kneaded both of your breasts.

“Fuck you don’t know what you do to me baby” he sighed, taking one of your breasts into his mouth. You kept your pace on top of him as his tongue swirled around your areola, sucking on your hardened nipple, before releasing it with a ‘pop’,

“Mmmh” you moaned, grabbing his jaw to get a better view of his pretty face. He stared at you through his long white lashes, his face red and flushed. You bent your head down, giving him a small peck, and grabbed both of his hands to hold your hips again.

“Use me Satoru” you ordered. Gojo lifted you off of him just to slam you back down, jerking his hip up to me you half way. The sounds of your skin colliding, spread throughout the car, and maybe even throughout the top of the garage, but at this point you didn’t care.

The tip of his dick bruised your cervix with each contact, your eyes never left his. Gojo’s pace gradually increased, to the point you felt the car shaking, the knot in your stomach unraveling again.

“Fuck baby” you cried, tears filling your eyes, he thought you were so beautiful like that, disheveled and whiny.

“Mmm” he moaned, you could tell he was close too, his grip around your hips tightened, fingers digging into your skin.

With your hands holding his shoulders for stability, you dug your nails into him, your climax was so close. Gojo lifted his hip from the seat again, pounding into your cunt, before a wave of pleasure washed over you.

He continued his relentless pursuit, using your hole like pocket pussy. His whimpers were music to your ears, words barely coherent, “choke me baby please” he whined.

You took your hands from his shoulders, your only means of balance and delicately wrapped them around his neck, thumbs pressing onto his larynx.

“Harder” his voice slightly audible, his soft blue eyes pleaded. Your mind was all over the place still in a daze from your climax, and the repetitive overstimulation in your cunt.

You nodded, pressing harder onto his throat, until you felt his length twitch inside you, releasing his seed into your hole. You squeezed yourself around him, soaking it all up, tears ran down his cheeks.

Taking your hands from his throat, you bent down to kiss his lips and salty face. You always felt bad for choking him after, even though he’d beg for it.

Rubbing his throat with your thumb, you hoped it wouldn’t bruise too quickly or else your friends would know what you’d been up to.

“I love you baby” your boyfriend croaked, voice hoarse.

“I love you more, Toru” you smiled.

✎ enjoy this bc this will be the last car scene i ever write, my brain was in shambles drafting this omg.

also legends say nanami is still in line getting hotdogs

sorry for any typos i’ll fix em when i get the time, hope you liked my mediocre writing<3

-ciara💻

[lilangelbud]

The classroom was silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of his polished shoes against the linoleum floor. His presence alone was enough to command attention, but today, something felt different. The air was heavier, charged with an unspoken tension that made it hard to breathe. You shifted in your seat, your pencil hovering uncertainly over your notebook. His gaze lingered on you a fraction too long, and your stomach tightened.

“Today,” he began, his voice smooth and deliberate, “we’ll be discussing power dynamics. The subtle interplay of influence and control, and how easily they can be… manipulated.” His words hung in the air, dripping with implication.

You couldn’t help but feel like he was speaking directly to you. Your classmates were oblivious, scribbling notes with their heads down, but you caught the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He prowled the front of the room, his tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders as if it were molded to him. He stopped just in front of your desk, his shadow falling over your paper.

“You,” he said, his tone low but firm. “Come here, please.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Me? You glanced around, half-hoping someone else would stand, but the room was still. Reluctantly, you rose from your seat, your legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. He gestured to the space beside him at the front of the class, and you walked forward, your footsteps echoing in the silence.

“Stand here,” he instructed, his voice calm but undeniably commanding. You obeyed, facing the room. The sea of curious eyes staring back at you made your skin crawl. He stepped behind you, his presence looming like a storm cloud. You could feel the heat of his body, even though he wasn’t touching you.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, “let’s talk about control.” His hands settled on your shoulders, firm but not harsh. You flinched at the contact, but he didn’t let go. “Control isn’t just about authority. It’s about understanding what drives people. Their desires, their fears… their weaknesses.”

His fingers trailed down your arms, sending shivers down your spine. You could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, and your breath hitched. His touch was deliberate, almost clinical, as if he were studying you like a specimen. The class watched in rapt silence, their pens frozen mid-stroke.

“Influence,” he continued, his voice like velvet, “is a… private thing. Intimate, even.” His hands slid to your waist, and you stiffened. He tightened his grip, pulling you back until you could feel the solid plane of his chest against your back. Your pulse raced, and you tried to step forward, but he held you firmly in place.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “You’ll only make it worse.”

Your cheeks burned, and you clenched your fists at your sides. What is he doing? The room felt impossibly small, the walls closing in around you. The other students were statues, their faces unreadable. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but something held you back. Fear? Curiosity? You weren’t sure.

“See how easy it is?” he said, his voice like a purr now. “To bend someone to your will?” His hands moved to your hips, and he guided you forward until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. You stared at the wood grain, your mind racing. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. “Now, let’s see if we can take this… further.”

Before you could react, he bent you over the desk, your chest pressing against the cool surface. Your hands scrabbled for purchase, but he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand. The other slipped under the hem of your skirt, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin of your thighs. You gasped, your body betraying you with a shiver of anticipation.

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice dripping with false reassurance. “Relax. This is just… instructional.”

His fingers traced higher, and you bit your lip to stifle a moan. The class was silent, their breaths held as they watched the scene unfold. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but there was something else too. A thrill, dangerous and electric, coursing through your veins.

“You see,” he said, his tone calm, almost conversational, “when you understand someone’s desires, you can make them do… anything.” His fingers dipped lower, and you tensed, your nails digging into the wood. “Even things they never thought they’d want.”

His touch was firm, unrelenting, and you couldn’t suppress the soft whimper that escaped your lips. He chuckled darkly, and you hated how the sound sent a shiver down your spine. His free hand slipped beneath your blouse, his fingers brushing against your stomach before moving higher. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the overwhelming sensations.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded, his voice sharp now. “Look at them. They’re your audience, after all.”

Reluctantly, you obeyed, meeting the gaze of your classmates. Their expressions ranged from shock to intrigue, but no one moved to intervene. You felt a hot tear slide down your cheek, but he didn’t seem to care. His fingers worked with practiced precision, stroking and teasing until your hips bucked involuntarily.

“There we go,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re starting to understand now, aren’t you?”

You wanted to deny it, to scream, to fight, but your body betrayed you. A low moan escaped your lips, and you heard a few sharp intakes of breath from the class. He chuckled, the sound dark and self-satisfied.

“Good girl,” he purred. “Now let’s show them what happens when you lose control.”

His hand moved to the waistband of your panties, and you tensed, your heart pounding in your chest. This can’t be happening. But it was, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and you finally found your voice.

“Please…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He paused, his lips brushing your ear. “Please what?” he murmured, his tone mocking. “Tell me what you want.”

You hesitated, your mind racing. But before you could answer, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you’d like me to decide for you?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as his fingers teased the edge of what you thought you could bear. The room was dead silent, waiting for your next move. But the choice—if there even was one—wasn’t yours to make.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── This one is a little different but I really enjoyed writing it <333

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