#fancy golden lamp

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[shotmrmiller]

simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)

[misswynters]

Ma Meilleure Amour

featuring. ekko x fem!reader

a/n. doing my duty as a writer to fill the ekko tag with fics of him only (it’s translated to my best love)

inspired by. the song Ma Meilleure Ennemie and the scene with ekko and jinx in act iii (listen to it while reading)

Everything felt different. The streets of Zaun had the ever-present haze of smog seem softer, its grim edge dulled by the warm hum of neon lights. The streets bustled with life, as they always did, but the night gave the chaos a certain charm. The glow of green and pink signs reflected off damp cobblestones, while the occasional flicker of a malfunctioning lamp sent ripples of color through shallow puddles.

You walked side by side with Ekko, your steps slow and aimless, as if the two of you had all the time in the world. You didn’t, of course. With how Zaun always had a way of reminding you that the clock never stopped ticking. But right now, under the swirl of lights and the faint hiss of steam vents, it felt like time had paused just for the two of you.

Ekko’s hand brushed against yours every so often, and though he wasn’t one to initiate touch easily, you could tell he didn’t mind the closeness. He always had this way of being effortlessly cool, his swagger and wit making it seem like nothing fazed him. But you knew him better than most. You saw the weight he carried, the pressure of being a leader, a fighter, and a kid all at once. And tonight, you were determined to remind him what it felt like to just…be.

“Ever think Zaun’s kinda pretty at night?” you mused, breaking the comfortable silence.

Ekko glanced at you, one eyebrow raised, before looking around. “Pretty? Dunno if I’d call it that. More like…gritty with a side of a green glow.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the one waxing poetic about this place,” he shot back, his grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, maybe I’m seeing it through rose-colored glasses. Or maybe I just like walking around with you.”

That earned a chuckle from him, the sound low and warm. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned closer to you. “Well, when you put it that way…” The two of you wandered through winding alleys and across rickety bridges, the air thick with the scent of metal and oil. Every so often, Ekko would point out a shortcut he’d used for one of his time-bending escapades or share a story about an adventure with the Firelights.

But then he led you down a narrow path you hadn’t noticed before, his fingers brushing yours briefly to guide you. At the end of the path, you stepped into a beautiful hidden oasis. A rooftop garden tucked away from Zaun’s usual grit and grime. The first thing you noticed was the lights. Strings of mismatched lanterns crisscrossed the space, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. Tiny fairy lights were woven through the vines that climbed up makeshift trellises, their warm flicker like little stars in the night. The plants themselves were a mix of scrappy greenery and surprisingly vibrant flowers, their colors popping against the muted tones of the city below.

“Woah…” you breathed, turning to him with wide eyes.

He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the faint blush on his cheeks gave him away. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a spot I’ve been working on.”

“Are you kidding? It’s perfect,” you said, your voice filled with awe.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting away from yours. “Figured it’d be nice to have a place to get away, y’know? Somewhere quiet.”

You stepped forward, taking it all in. A small wooden bench sat in the center of the garden, its surface worn but sturdy. Around it, the plants swayed gently in the cool breeze, their leaves catching the light just enough to shimmer.

“Come on,” Ekko said, his hand lightly brushing the small of your back as he guided you to the bench. “I didn’t bring you here just to stand around.”

You sat down, the wood creaking softly under your weight. Ekko settled beside you, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet hum of the lights and the distant sounds of Zaun filling the space. It was a working pattern. There was always a comfortable silence between the two of you.

“How long have you been working on this?” you asked softly.

“Couple months,” he said, leaning back with his arms stretched across the bench. “Takes a while to get plants to grow in a place like this. But I dunno…it feels good to build something, y’know? Instead of just tearing things down.”

You glanced at him, your chest tightening at the softness in his voice. Ekko didn’t let people see this side of him often though. I mean this was the boy who dreamed of a better Zaun, the one who carried the weight of his community on his shoulders.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, resting your head against his shoulder. “Just like you.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and a little shy. “You’re laying it on thick tonight, huh?”

“Just telling the truth,” you said, closing your eyes as his warmth seeped into you.

The two of you sat like that for a while, wrapped up in the stillness of the garden. Ekko’s hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt natural, like you were always meant to fit together.

“Hey,” he said after a while, his voice quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For, y’know…being here.”

You lifted your head to look at him, your heart aching at the sincerity in his eyes. “Of course,” you said softly while winking. “You’re worth it, Ekko.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a moment, the golden light casting shadows across his face. Then he smiled. It was real, genuine smile that made your chest feel light and full all at once.

“C’mere,” he said, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. His arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on your shoulder as you leaned into him.

“This is nice,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “It is.”

There it was again, the comfortable silence. The garden was quiet, bathed in the golden light of the mismatched lanterns. You rested your head on Ekko’s shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath against you. His fingers were still intertwined with yours, his thumb brushing small, absentminded circles against your knuckles.

It was peaceful, almost too perfect for Zaun, where tranquility was a rare luxury. The hum of distant machinery and the faint chatter of the streets below were a backdrop to your own private world. You thought this was it, that the night couldn’t get any better. But Ekko had other plans.

Suddenly, he shifted away from you, his weight leaving the bench as he stood. His warmth leaving your body. You blinked up at him, confused as he turned to face you, his signature grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He extended a hand toward you, palm up, the glow of the garden lights reflecting in his dark eyes.

“Dance with me,” he said, his voice soft but brimming with an irresistible playfulness.

You tilted your head, a laugh escaping you. “Dance? Here?”

“Why not?” He wiggled his fingers, urging you to take his hand.

You hesitated, glancing around. “Ekko, there’s no music.”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

Reaching into his pocket, Ekko pulled out a small, beaten up speaker, a relic salvaged from some forgotten corner of Zaun. He fiddled with it for a moment before a warm melody crackled to life, filling the air with a gentle rhythm.

You stared at him in disbelief, your lips parting in surprise. “You planned this?”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing miserably as a proud smile broke through. “Maybe.”

Shaking your head with a soft laugh, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his palm grounding you. “Alright, Clockstopper,” you teased. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ekko pulled you to your feet, guiding you to the center of the garden. The music swelled around you, soft and sweet, a contrast to the chaos of Zaun. His other hand found its place on your waist, and he held you close, his movements easy and unhurried. At first, you tried to match his rhythm, your steps tentative as you followed his lead. But it wasn’t long before your foot accidentally landed on his.

“Oh, sorry!” you gasped, pulling back slightly.

Ekko winced dramatically, clutching his chest as if you’d mortally wounded him. “You’re killing me here,” he said, his voice laced with mock pain.

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“Baby?” He laughed, spinning you unexpectedly. You stumbled slightly but caught yourself, the sound of your shared laughter echoing in the garden.

The two of you continued like that, swaying and spinning under the lanterns. Every so often, you’d step on his foot again, and he’d exaggerate his reaction, making you laugh until your cheeks hurt. But then, as the song shifted to a slower melody, Ekko’s movements became gentler, more deliberate. He pulled you closer, your bodies impossibly near. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the faint scent of zauns atmosphere lingering on him. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. The golden light reflected in his eyes, making them shimmer like they held their own constellation. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something raw and real that made your heart stutter.

“Ekko…” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned in slowly, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft and sweet, filled with everything words couldn’t express. Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer as his arms wrapped around your waist. The world seemed to tilt, the glow of the lanterns and the soft hum of the music swirling around you in a haze of light and sound.

Time felt irrelevant—ironic, considering who you were with. All that mattered was the way he held you, the way his lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice steady and sure.

Your heart swelled at his words, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the lights around you. Smiling, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too,” you said, the words as natural as breathing.

Ekko grinned, his hands tightening around your waist as he pressed a series of quick, playful kisses to your face—your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. Each kiss was accompanied by a soft giggle from you, his affection spilling over in a way that was so uniquely him.

“Ekko, stop,” you laughed, trying to pull away as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Never,” he said, his voice full of mock defiance as he caught your lips in another kiss.

The two of you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world forgotten. The music played on, the lights flickered, and Zaun’s ever-present hum seemed softer, almost distant. As the night stretched on, you found yourselves back on the bench, your head resting on Ekko’s shoulder as he absentmindedly played with your fingers. The garden felt like a dream, a little slice of peace carved out of the chaos. And in that moment, with Ekko by your side and the glow of the lanterns above you, everything felt right. Almost perfect.

banners. @anitalenia

taglist. @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @thesevi0lentdelights

[aureatelys]

red wine leather

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!reader w.c.: 4k a/n: inspired by what i affectionately call The Dom Chair™️ from 11x9, formally requested by @mggslover and @solardrop, and ty @minswriting for enabling me <3

c.w. 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, softdom!hotch, dom/sub dynamics, established relationship, thigh riding, p in v riding, unprotected sex, degradation, dirty talk, some brat taming

summary: Aaron notices your special interest in the new chair in his office.

read below or on ao3 here <3

When you first spot the leather wingback chair in Aaron’s office, you think nothing of it.

Tucked in the corner of his at-home office, because Aaron still hasn’t decided where he wanted to place it, the sleek wine-red leather had caught your eye when you had come home right after it was delivered. It was fancy, elegant even, as if it belonged in an old timey library or law office and required a cup of coffee to fully enjoy.

“Just in case I have any impromptu meetings at home,” Aaron had said when you asked about it. “It’s more elaborate than I usually go for but it’s about time we decorated around here, right?”

You were too busy swooning at Aaron calling your newly shared apartment a home to research into the fact that the chair cost nearly your entire paycheck. When you had finally confronted him about it, he successfully distracted you by easily picking you up with an arm around your waist and taking three steps down the hallway to christen your new bedroom.

It’s a fancy chair, we deserve a fancy chair, is what you told yourself every time you walked past the office, the red leather glinting from the golden light of Aaron’s desk lamp while he worked late into the night.

So you’re not exactly sure why your brain short circuits, causing you to stop dead in your tracks, when you step into his office to drop off a glass of water and spot him sitting in the aforementioned swanky leather chair, clearly having had moved it from where it was beginning to gather dust in the corner of the room to behind his desk.

He’s still wearing his suit, having had come home only minutes before and hurriedly kissing your cheek before muttering something about an online meeting he was running late for. Your heart had sung when he said that, even with the office door clicking shut behind him, because he could have easily sat through the meeting in his actual office, but he knew how important it was to you to be home by 7.

Aaron has always looked handsome in his suits, almost unfairly so. Nearly six days out of the week he’s learned to be prepared for you to nearly jump him as soon as he walks through the door as you mumbled something against his pulse point about how hot he looks but you need him to not be wearing it right now.

His tie is loosened, hair a little tousled from running his hands through them after his meeting, leaning back against that goddamn leather chair with that near constant furrow in his brow, and you want nothing more than to climb into his lap and kiss him senseless.

Crawling on the carpet on all fours until you’re kneeling in between his legs doesn’t sound so bad either.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” The familiar low timbre of Aaron’s voice breaks you out of your perverted thoughts, though it does nothing to quell the sudden fire burning in your chest that seemed to melt down between your legs.

You finally budge from where you had stood frozen in the doorway, leaning over his desk to place the glass of water in a clear spot between all the files and papers scattered about. You try not to think about the way Aaron had knocked all those reports and pens off in one clean sweep of his arm to bend you over the week prior.  “No problem. Meeting go okay?”

“It was fine.” Based off of the crease in between his eyebrows, you knew that it was definitely the opposite of fine, but you also knew about the unspoken promise to not talk about work as soon as you both stepped through the front door. “Ready for dinner? I can help.”

Aaron crosses his legs then, your eyes immediately drawn in to the way his slacks tighten over his thick thighs, or how his button-up shirt stretches over his chest the more he leans back into the chair, the white fabric complementing the red leather

“Yeah, sure,” you croak, throat suddenly feeling dry.

You watch as he pauses, the leftover frustration from his meeting melting into something else—curious and a little bit darker.

“Or are you in the mood for something else?”

You laugh uneasily, a nervous tic of yours. “What?”

The weight of his stare as he rakes over you is heavy, taking in the way the hem of your pajama shorts brush against the soft expanse of your thighs and the way an old shirt of his clings to you. And because Aaron is Aaron, he can surely tell that your breathing has deepened and the imperceptible shifting of your weight.

You can tell he’s thinking, thoughts running over themselves as he comes to the same conclusion that you have suddenly found yourself thrown into. He straightens up and clasps his hands to rest in his lap, something smug tugging at the corner of his lips as he meets your gaze.

“Come here.”

Your breath gets caught in your chest at the low tone, usually reserved for nights where he patiently and meticulously takes you apart until you’re a babbling, shivering mess. As if you couldn’t help it, heat immediately pools in the pit of your stomach, a steadily growing ache between your thighs making itself known.

Your feet move of their own accord, your head suddenly feeling foggy as you step closer and closer into Aaron’s office, the faint comforting hint of his cologne gnawing away at the worry running through your brain on how you’re going to explain that you’re getting aroused just from him sitting in a chair.

Aaron pushes the chair back so you could stand in front of him, the dull edge of his desk digging into the back of your thighs. Despite him having to crane his neck to look at you, your knees buckle at the steadfast way he’s meeting your eyes.

It hits you then. The expensive fabric of his suit, tailored perfectly to his body, and the way the high backing of the chair made him appear taller, bigger, as if announcing and bragging about his presence. It all made Aaron seem more commanding to you, imposing and self-assured in a way that not even witnessing him lead the room during a high-strung case could demonstrate. The rich woodsy smell of the leather is stronger up close, mixing in with his cologne and making you feel faint.  

The room is quiet besides the hum of the air conditioner, doing absolutely nothing to help the way your body temperature has increased at least ten degrees.

And then he’s looking down at his lap and then back up at you, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head in a silent question that makes your face heat up impossibly more, something akin to embarrassment tingling at the back of your neck.

You have no choice but to climb into his lap, your knees coming up to rest against his hips as you straddle his thighs. The squeak of the leather, obviously still not having been broken in, was almost obnoxiously loud, yet paled in comparison to your heart thrumming in your ears.

Your arms instinctively come to wrap around Aaron’s broad shoulders as his hands rest on your hips, a finger dipping underneath the hem of your shirt to rub at the small of your back and causing a shiver to run up your spine.

“I know you like watching me work at my desk but I’m assuming that can’t be the only reason why you’re like this.”

You shake your head, words stuck in your throat.

He hums, mock-sympathetic, as his hand moves underneath your shirt, smoothing his palm up your side and thumb barely tracing the underside of your breast. The callouses on his fingers and the nearly unbearable heat of his palm has you squirming in his lap, causing your shorts to ride up even further until they’re bunching around you. You watch as Aaron’s eyes narrow, just like you knew they would.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You knew Aaron loved you, constantly showering you with affection and checking in with you at any chance he could get. He’s the most wonderful man you’ve ever known and he knew you like the back of his hand.

Which is exactly why the condescending tone that nearly drips from his low voice and the way he tightens his hold on you has your body melting into him, shame and arousal mixing together so suddenly that you want nothing more than to grind down onto his lap.

“The chair…” you bite out, your eyes drifting from his impenetrable stare to the wall behind Aaron’s head, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as you can feel the way your panties have started clinging to you, melding to you from your wetness.

A hand comes to grasp at your chin to redirect your gaze back to him, not hard, but forceful enough that the action has you shifting in place again in an attempt to douse the ache in between your thighs.  

“And what about the chair?” Amusement dances in his eyes despite his own arousal clear as day.

You’ve never shied away from sex, clearly since you had to make the first move, but you’ve always had trouble articulating exactly what you wanted from him and he knew it. God, he’s so annoying.

You flounder a bit, mouth opening and closing, because you’re not even sure what you want yourself.

Aaron seems to take pity on you as he tuts and lifts you up by your hips, spreading his own legs even further and maneuvering you back until you were straddling his right thigh with one foot on the ground and the other kneeling in between his legs on the chair. He lifts his leg at the same time you move down, causing you to gasp at the sudden onslaught of pressure against your throbbing pussy.

“You want to ride me in this chair?” He whispers, his voice a low rumble that you swear you could feel in your own chest. “Or you’re feeling so needy you’re willing to ride my thigh?”

A whine bubbles out of you and then Aaron leans in to finally, finally kiss you.

Despite the firm grip he has on your hips and the hard muscle of his thigh against your core, his lips are undeniably soft, if not a little chapped. The way his mouth seamlessly moves against yours, as if reminding you that you didn’t have to be so shy around him, makes affection bloom in your chest.

And then he’s pulling away, leaning back against the chair with lips so deliciously slick that you’d almost be content with just making out for the rest of the night. His hands move from your hips to stretch out on the armrests, your skin suddenly cold despite feeling like you were about to spontaneously combust.

He raises an eyebrow again, a smirk slowly taking over his face. If you didn’t know him the way you did, you wouldn’t have noticed the way his chest was just barely heaving or the way his gaze kept drifting to your nipples poking through your shirt.

“I want to see just how needy you are,” he says casually, as if you two were sitting on the couch and catching up on how your day was. “And then maybe I’ll fuck you.”

You’re tempted to ignore him, thinking about swiftly undoing his slacks and sliding down his cock, but you shrink under his intense stare. The way the ache between your legs grows stronger at his off-handedness spurs you on.

You experimentally move your hips back and forth, using Aaron’s shoulders as leverage, as a strangled moan rises out of you. He’s not even tensing his thigh but just finally getting some kind of pressure against your aching clit as you feel yourself getting wetter, the fabric of your panties clinging to you as your shorts get bunched up underneath you with every movement, was causing a fire to spread underneath your skin.

Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed by the pressure building in the pit of your stomach and the molten heat of Aaron’s gaze on you as you rut against him.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” And then he’s tensing his thigh, causing your breath to catch and your hips to stutter. “I want to hear you.”

And so you don’t hold back because the hardness of his thigh, the muscle he’s earned from running almost every morning, combined with the seam of your shorts, rubs deliciously against your clit and has you whimpering pathetically.

“Aaron…” you gasp, hands tightening on his shoulders. Your hips and lower back are starting to ache, but the fact that you’re grinding on your boyfriend’s leg like an animal in heat has your brain feeling heady.

Aaron, that bastard, is still sitting there and watching you, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. His fingers are twitching against the armrests and his lips are parted, nearly panting from how aroused he was just from watching you bring yourself off on him.

When you glance down and notice his cock straining against his pants, inches away from your knee, your mouth waters. The thought of kneeling in between his legs while he sits on the leather chair, the tufted back painting him to look almost like royalty while your mouth was stuffed with his cock has your eyes nearly rolling in the back of your head and your hips to grind even faster against him.

When your knee brushes against his thick bulge, Aaron lets out a throaty groan, finally sitting up so his hands can come to grab at your hips to help tug you back and forth against his thigh. You moan at the change in pace, your own thighs starting to squeeze around his. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. I can feel how wet you are.”

You let out another whimper, because he’s right, you can feel the way you’ve soaked through your shorts and undoubtedly leaving a wet spot on his dress pants. Your hips move faster at that thought, tension coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.

He moves one of his hands from your hip to the back of your neck, grabbing you to bring your foreheads together, breaths intermingling and forcing you to meet his gaze again. That familiar comforting brown of his eyes was completely gone and instead overtaken by his pupils, the blaze in them threatening to swallow you whole.  “Ready for me to fuck you? For me to bury my fat cock in your pussy so I can fill you up with my come?”

“God, yes,” you exhaled. “Please, I need it.”

“Oh, you need it now, don’t you? Need me to come inside you so you can feel it dripping out of you?”

You’re gasping, breathless now from both the arousal and exertion of rutting against him, and you’re so fucking close. “Yes, yes, fuck, Aaron—"

His hands come to push you back, lifting you off his thigh, and you’re about to knock his hands away so you can fucking come when you watch with a dazed expression as he scrambles to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his slacks. He lifts his hips up to push them down with his briefs, and then his cock pops out, a delicious angry red with precum beading at the slit.

“Come here.” He does not need to tell you twice.

You scoot closer into his lap, your knees sliding uncomfortably against the leather, and then you’re tugging the fabric of your pants aside, briefly running the head of his cock through your slick folds with a whimper, before sinking down onto Aaron’s thick cock with no warning.

He mutters a curse, head falling back against the chair and exposing the tendons in his neck as he clenches his jaw. “God, you’re still so fucking tight for me.”

You hiss at the slight stretch, because no matter how wet you were, Aaron’s cock was still so fucking thick. You felt dizzy, mind spinning with every inch of his cock pushing inside of you, but Christ, it felt so fucking good finally being filled.

He has his fingers wrapped around the fabric of your shorts by your hips, most likely so he doesn’t hurt you, but also so he could make sure you wouldn’t move until he was ready. When you’re finally seated in his lap, his cock fully inside of you, he lets out a growl that has a shiver running up your spine, unconsciously clenching around him before you could help it.

When you notice that he’s still leaning his head back, his neck deliciously exposed, you can’t help yourself when you lean forward to kiss along his jawline, detecting the barely there stubble, your hands leaving his broad shoulders to run your palms along his chest.

If possible, Aaron tenses more, his hands on your hips clenching and unclenching. “Honey, if you keep doing that, I’m not going to last,” he rasps.

You smile against his throat, heart thumping erratically that had nothing to do with the fact that you knew you were about to get fucked within an inch of your life. You tell yourself it’s just because he makes it so easy, he knows not to tempt you with this, when you feign innocence and say “Old age catching up with you? I thought you said you were going to fuck me.”

A pause, long enough that has the skin on the back of your neck prickling and you starting to second guess your words, before he’s suddenly lifting you and slamming his hips up into you, driving his cock deeper than you expected.

The action knocks the breath out of you, your hands scrambling on his chest before grasping at the lapels of his suit jacket. Even though he’s barely touched you, essentially hasn’t touched you at all, you feel your entire being unraveling, nearly melting at his touch.

“You’re such a,” he grunts, thrusting up into you again, “brat.” He grinds into you, filling you up to the hilt and grinding into you, causing you to curse and sit up straighter to press your forehead back against his. “If only I wasn’t fucking your sweet pussy, I’d be fucking that pretty mouth of yours.”

You can feel your thighs shaking, your heart nearly beating out of your chest, and you desperately wish that he would fucking move already. “Aaron…”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His hands slide down from your hips to underneath your ass, grabbing a possessive hold of you so he could lift you off his lap so he could push you back down on his cock, starting a steady rhythm that has your mouth dropping open and your head tilting back. “Doesn’t it feel better when I’m doing all the work and fucking you instead of having to rub against me like a dirty girl?”

“God, yes,” you gasp, choke out, because Aaron has started fucking into you so mercilessly that you can’t do anything except just take it.

The filthy wet sounds of him plunging into you, his hips slapping against your flesh, and the broken strangled noises you make while he grunts into your ear fill the room. Aaron’s belt, still undone and wrapped around his slacks that have pooled around his knees, clink with each thrust, while the leather of chair continues to squeak.

Despite the way you wanted to let your eyes flutter shut, overcome with finally having that ache in your core being filled and white-hot pleasure zinging up your spine, the sight before you was even more intoxicating.

Aaron, who loved to fuck you until you were a limp pile in his arms, was gazing into you in that intense way he always does, as if studying every eye roll and twitch to memory. There was a light sheen of sweat over his face, causing his hair to fall into his eyes, and the sight of his parted lips as he panted, resolute in his desire to prioritize your pleasure over his didn’t help the tight coil in your stomach that was burning you from the inside out.

Your eyes are suddenly drawn to his arms—the muscles from lifting you up on and off his cock straining against the sleeves of his dress shirt. His forearms, always thick and riddled with deliciously prominent veins, were the perfect anchor point for your hands when he was rutting into you until you couldn’t breathe. His hands, large and full of silent strength, were always gentle with you even when you were begging for more.

You grab at his forearms now as you try to meet his thrusts, shoving your hips down even harder every time he canted up, and when his rhythm falters and his cock nudges deeper into you, you think your mind goes blank and you begin babbling out a mix of curses and breathless mutters of his name.

You’re close, and he knows it—he always knows it. One of his hands releases the death grip he has on your ass, and you watch in disbelief as he doesn’t even struggle. In fact, he continues to hold you up, snaking his other hand in between your bodies to rub at your clit.

“Christ, sweetheart, you’re so wet,” he breathes. He’s right—his thick fingers gliding over your clit and your pussy with ease, your wetness undoubtedly dripping down his cock and emitting the filthiest noises you’ve ever heard. “You always take my cock so well, don’t you honey?”

You nod repeatedly, eyes screwed shut as you desperately chase your orgasm steadily creeping up on you. Aaron knows you, putting the most perfect amount of pressure as he rubs your clit in tight circles and continues pumping into you.

He lets go of you completely as he chases his own orgasm, no longer needing to hold you up as he grunts and fucks up into you. He takes a hold of the back of your neck, possessive again, as he presses your foreheads against each other and his breath fans over your face. His brows are furrowed, focused, as he deliberately holds you in place. “That’s it, you’re going to come all over me and then I’ll come inside you and fill you up, just the way you like.”

Jesus Christ, both of you were going to feel this in the morning—your thighs aching and shaking as you attempt to hold your position hovering over his lap, knees pressed uncomfortably into the leather chair while Aaron’s thighs strain to pound into you.

But you don’t care, God, you don’t fucking care.

“Aaron, fuck, oh my God—” you gasp, chest heaving, as you cry out and your orgasm crashes over you. Blood rushes through your ears, brain fizzling out, as you’re distantly aware of your breath stuttering and your walls clenching and spasming around his cock.

Aaron, that bastard, continues fucking up into you, albeit more shallowly, his thumb catching on your clit and watching with heat in his gaze as you shudder through your aftershocks.

And then, while you’re still catching your breath, he picks up a frantic pace, his grip on the back of your neck tightening and causing another shiver to run through your body. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, hips stuttering, and then he’s coming inside of you with a deep, heavy groan.

You whimper when you feel his cock twitching inside of you, pulsating with each drop of come spilling into your cunt. Your grip on his forearms loosens as you slump against him, your entire body feeling loose and pliant.

His breath tickles against your ear as he tries to catch his breath, rubbing soothing circles against your hip before gently pushing at your shoulders so you were sitting back and he could get a look at you.

When you blearily blink up at him, he’s tenderly brushing your hair away from your face and gazing into you with so much affection that your heart feels like it’s seizing.

“Can I assume you like the chair then?” he asks, voice deliciously raspy, wearing a small smile curled with exhaustion.

“Ugh, shut up,” you mumble, attempting to push at his shoulders despite your arms feeling like noodles. He takes it in stride, smile growing wider. “I don’t think I can do this again, I think your old age is contagious.”

Aaron huffs. You can tell he’s trying not to roll his eyes at you. “I’m sure we can think of something.”

Your mind flashes back to your earlier thought; crawling on your hands and knees until you were settled in between his thighs and keeping his cock warm with your mouth, maybe while he was on a video call. You hide your own giddy smile as you push your face into Aaron’s neck, making a mental note to bring it up before his next at-home meeting.

taglist (pls lmk if you would like to be added): @kiwriteswords @knitmeatardis @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna <3

[t4kalcvr]

PRAISE THE SINNER

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 2,190 ) genre :: dark romance, erotica, obsession, && worship. content contains :: extremely spicy read 🌶️, explicit content, power play (dom!reader), body worship, jinu’s praise kink, && mutual stalking. (possibly more) requested by : @theshadowsden

(๑>؂•̀๑)

the first time she touched his hand, he almost flinched.

not because it hurt — no, it was the opposite. it was warm. grounding. like being yanked back into a body he thought he’d long since shed. her palm pressed to his just for a moment at the fan sign table, fingers curling delicately around his.

��you’re my favorite,” she said, voice silk-wrapped and low, like she didn’t care about the cameras, like it wasn’t a line.

and then:

“you have the kindest eyes.”

he laughed, of course. smiled. played the part. there were fans all around them. a line still forming behind her. another question scribbled on a post-it. a staff member waving a sharpie at his other hand.

but when he blinked, something flickered behind his own reflection. golden. hungry. ancient.

she came again. and again. three events in a row. always front row. always her name on the sign-up list — not her real one, but one he’d memorized anyway. always something new to say:

“you speak like poetry.”

“your fingers look like they play the stars.”

“you don’t belong in this world, do you?”

and that time, he froze. because how did she know?

he’d been watching her long before the fan signs. tucked behind tinted windows. listening in on her voice messages. glimpsing her across subway platforms. it was the way she moved — slow, self-assured, like someone who knew they were being watched and didn’t mind it. like bait. like ritual.

he told himself it was part of the job. gwi-ma wanted souls primed for collection. but jinu? jinu wanted something else.

he wanted her praise.

and now, standing three aisles behind her in a dimly-lit convenience store, he watches her fingers ghost over a pack of spicy ramen. some scallions. sesame oil. glass noodles.

“late dinner?” he asks, stepping forward at last.

she turns.

and god — her face lights up like she summoned him.

“jinu?”

her voice breaks on his name like it’s already been whispered against pillows. like she’s been thinking it in the dark. and then, she says it again, softer this time.

“you’re even prettier in hoodies.”

his stomach coils. he blinks — too slow — and his eyes flash gold before he can stop it.

she doesn’t notice. or maybe she does. she’s still smiling. still radiant. still reaching up to tug the edge of his sleeve like it’s hers to hold.

“you followed me?” she teases. “am i being hunted?”

his grin is slow. crooked. nothing human lives in it.

“maybe i’m just hungry.”

her eyes scan his face, and for a second, he wonders if she knows. really knows.

and then she tilts her head and says, “well… if you’re not doing anything, you should come over. i just did a dinner run.”

his breath stutters. the world tips.

she gestures to the bag in her hand. “ramen, banchan, probably too much chili oil. nothing fancy.”

he follows her out the door, eyes glowing dim beneath the streetlights.

“sure,” he murmurs. “i like what’s on the menu tonight.”

but what he means is, i like you.

what he means is, i’ve been starving.

what he means is, you will be his meal.

and he knows—knows in the marrow of him—that their menus will not match. hers may hold spice and comfort. his holds skin, soul, surrender.

your apartment is dim and humming. a single lamp in the corner casts soft light across the kitchen, and you move through it like you’ve done this a thousand times — like letting idols into your space is nothing new. like letting monsters in is normal.

you kick off your shoes. open a cabinet. let the bags fall against the counter like you’re not being watched.

but he is watching.

jinu sits at your kitchen table like a painting about to come alive — hoodie off, patterns hidden, but eyes glowing faint with something greedy. not gold, not yet. just the simmer. just the flicker.

he doesn’t blink when you glance back at him.

“you okay?” you ask, lips curling softly.

“yeah,” he lies, voice rough. “just… can’t believe i’m here.”

you smile like you already knew he would be.

like you planned it.

you cook quietly. fast. ramen boiling, oil popping in the pan. he watches your hands — how precise they are, how sure. like you’re crafting something holy. like you know exactly how to serve a man his own undoing.

he thinks about your voice at the fan signs. the things you said.

you have the kindest eyes.

you speak like poetry.

you don’t belong in this world, do you?

and now he’s here. still not sure if you invited him or summoned him.

“set the table?” you ask.

“yeah,” he says again, and rises a little too quickly. his fingers brush yours when he grabs the bowls, and his breath stutters.

you don’t react. but your smirk deepens.

you sit across from him. eat. talk. soft things. silly things. your knees brush once, and neither of you pulls back. you blow on your noodles, and he swears he could die from the way your lips pout, from the heat of your gaze when you meet his eyes mid-sip.

and then it happens.

you lift your chopsticks. pick up a small bite of kimchi. and reach across the table.

“here,” you say, voice low. “open.”

he does.

the taste hits. sharp. sweet. and your eyes don’t leave his as he chews.

“you’re cute when you’re quiet,” you murmur.

he swallows hard.

“gimme your desire,” he almost says out loud. but his throat is dry. his jaw tense. his pulse isn’t beating right — not in time with anything human.

you finish your meal like nothing’s wrong. like you’re not driving him to madness.

and then you stand.

he thinks you’re just clearing the plates. he reaches for his — polite, nervous — but you stop him.

instead, you lean down. not from the front, but behind. both arms around his shoulders. one hand on his chest, the other ghosting beneath his jaw.

you press your nose to his neck and inhale.

“you smell sweet,” you whisper. “like you’ve been thinking about me.”

jinu breaks.

his eyes flash bright, glowing hot and holy. patterns pulse beneath the fabric of his shirt. he grips the edge of the table like he might shatter it.

“you’re lost in my daze,” you breathe into his ear. “yeah… you can’t look away.”

and he can’t.

you feel his breath hitch. feel the tension in his spine. his restraint cracking wide open.

“can i show you something?” he whispers. his voice isn’t just his anymore — it’s laced with something deeper. something old. something that doesn’t belong in a room like this.

you don’t pull back.

“show me,” you murmur. “but only if you beg.”

he turns slowly, breath ragged, pupils blown wide.

“gimme your desire,” he says, finally, voice wrecked.

and when you kiss him — softly at first, then with every inch of heat you’ve been holding back — he groans like it hurts.

he wants to ruin you.

but you’re the one who’s about to ruin him.

the kiss deepens fast. ugly. hot. full of hunger. your hand in his hair, his fingers pressing into your back like he needs you closer, and somehow, it’s still not close enough.

the plates are forgotten. the lights blur.

your mouths part, catch, meet again with teeth.

he moans into it — not dramatic, not performative — just a low, helpless sound from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s never been kissed like this. like he’s never needed anything the way he needs your mouth on his, over and over and over.

you start pulling.

he follows.

your bodies fumble down the hallway, breath heavy, lips red. his jacket drops somewhere. your fingers drag along the wall. his hand is at your hip now, holding it, gripping it like an anchor he doesn’t want to let go of.

you make it to the couch.

he falls first.

legs splayed, chest heaving, eyes dark and star-bright. and you? you climb over him like you were always meant to — knees on either side of his thighs, your palms braced against his chest.

“fuck,” he breathes.

you lean in. kiss him again — harder this time, deeper. your tongue brushes his. he gasps.

his hands fly to your waist, squeezing tight. grounding himself. and that’s when you smile, teeth sharp behind lips slick with him.

“these hands,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to speak against his mouth, “they’re so big.”

he twitches beneath you.

you rock once. slow. deliberate.

“strong, too. god, jinu…”

he groans — louder now. more than he means to. more than he wants to. like it escapes him.

you don’t let up.

you trail your fingers along his knuckles, then down his wrists, feeling the tension in every inch of him. your lips move to his neck, dragging, biting. not enough to hurt. enough to claim.

he’s trembling under you.

and then, like it slips from somewhere in the back of his skull, he whispers it:

“don’t you know i’m here to save you?”

you stop. eyes lock. a quiet settles.

then your lips curl.

“baby,” you whisper, voice silk over sin, “you’re the one who needs saving.”

his breath catches. his eyes glow again — gold, wild, hungry.

and then you’re kissing again.

harder now. messier. your hips grinding down just enough to make him growl against your mouth. his fingers dig into your waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“now we running wild,” he gasps, head thrown back against the couch, hands sliding lower.

and you hum. slow. wicked.

because yes — now he’s ruined.

and it’s only just begun.

his body feels too hot beneath yours. not in temperature, but pressure — like something caged, coiled, waiting to snap. his hands still cling to your waist, but the strength in them is shaking now. unsteady. like he doesn’t know how to hold you without falling apart.

“so strong. you hold me like i belong to you.”

your hips grind once more, and he gasps.

“slow,” you murmur, lips brushing his jaw. “let me take my time.”

his throat bobs. he nods. barely.

you press your hands to his chest and feel it — the way his heart doesn’t beat like yours. it pulses. deep. ancient. like the thud of war drums buried beneath the ocean.

“i worship your chest,” you start, fingers splayed over it. “how it rises when you breathe. how it shakes when i touch you.”

you want to hear that rhythm tremble.

you continue with his collarbone. your lips graze it like a prayer. you drag your tongue down the hollow of his throat, feel him shudder. he fists the edge of the couch. he whimpers.

“you don’t even know,” you whisper, “how good you are like this.”

he turns his head to the side, panting. glowing. wrecked.

but you don’t stop.

you unbutton his shirt slow, letting each glowing pattern reveal itself like a secret. symbols carved in motionless flame. down his chest. across his ribs. curling down his stomach like temptation incarnate.

you trace one. “these marks,” you whisper, reverent. “they’re beautiful. even when they’re cursed.”

you press kisses to every single one.

soft. deliberate.

his body jerks beneath you, and you hum.

“you— you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he pants.

you do.

“so strong,” you say, lips moving over his skin. “so beautiful. you were made to be worshipped.”

“f-fuck,” he breathes.

you sit up for a moment just to look at him — shirt undone, marks glowing, his mouth parted like he’s praying for something he doesn’t understand.

and then you say it.

“you know i’m the only one who’ll love your sins.”

he stares at you like you just cut open his soul.

and maybe you did.

“say it again,” he pleads.

you do — slowly, softer this time, your lips brushing his ear:

“i love your sins.”

you drag your hands down his stomach, trace the lines of his hips, then lower — slow, intentional, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. he bucks, but you press a hand to his chest and hold him there.

“i worship this too,” you whisper. “the way you ache. the way you hold it in. the way your body begs even when your mouth stays shut.”

his breath catches. his eyes flutter shut.

but you lean close. your mouth finds his ear.

“feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin.”

he lets out a sound that isn’t human.

his hips lift into your touch. his chest heaves. and when your lips meet his again, it’s not hunger. it’s offering.

you take him in your hands. stroke slow. worshipful. and he melts.

moaning. trembling. gasping your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

and still — as you praise every inch of him — his hips, his ribs, the slope of his neck, the sound of his cries — he doesn’t just fall apart.

he offers himself to you.

and you take him.

as slow and as sweet as he deserves.

you love him like he’s never been touched right.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HEEEEELP I LOVED WRITING THIS ITS SO AHHHHHH, THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST (guys they always requested an abby fic soooooooooo) I HAD SO MUCH FUUUN !!!! next up with either be the twin sin part three orrr a requested baby fic by an anon requester!!! ENJOY THIS READ !!! oh yeah AND IM GOING TO SLEEP, SO GOODNIGHT GUYS, I WILL CONTINUE FEEDING YALL TOMORROWWWW !!

ko-fi 🎧

look here for more reads 📚 !!

permanent 🔖 :: @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique

[rosachae]

bitches and courtrooms | daniela avanzini x reader

⁍ song: illegal - pinkpantheress ⁍ requested: yes! thank you anon ⁍ genre: business firm lawyer AU ⁍ a/n: to the anon who requested this, i hope this tickles your fancy. i fear i might've gone off prompt a little bit (no arranged marriage titbits) but when i started, i just kept going lol. sorry if this isn't quite what you were looking for ⁍ wc: 4.2k ⁍ warnings: curt language, suggestive, maybe somewhat nsfw? prepare to be blue balled ⁍ synopsis:

daniela avanzini is frustrating. a cold, meticulous, condescending litigation lawyer from a large business firm. when her firm does a merger with y/n's, y/n is forced to deal with her shenanigans until finally the tension between them snaps.

the brooklyn apartment glowed with that soft, golden warmth that only happened when the overheads were off and the lamps were doing all the work. the windows were cracked just enough to let in the hum of the city.  sirens in the distance, a car horn somewhere below, the faint buzz of a deli sign flickering across the street.

a half-empty bottle of red sat on the coffee table next to a bowl of popcorn and a very defeated-looking pack of chocolate-covered almonds. two wine glasses rested within easy reach, both smudged from laughter and lipstick. harry styles hummed quietly from manon’s speaker in the corner, some deep cut with just enough heartbreak in it to feel appropriate for a thursday night.

sophia was curled into the corner of the couch, mid-rant about a date gone catastrophically wrong. she waved a makeup brush like it was a weapon, eyes wide with disbelief.

“—and then he says, and i quote, ‘the heeseung experience does not do coffee on the first date.’ like he was pitching himself for the bachelor or something. like who the hell does that? and in third person?? ”

manon, sprawled on the opposite end with her legs thrown over a velvet ottoman, snorted into her glass. the candle flickering on the windowsill smelled vaguely like overpriced sandalwood and fading ambition.

they were in peak wine night mode. then the front door slammed open.

“—and that’s my cue,” manon muttered, already reaching for the remote to lower the music. “brace yourself.”

y/n burst through the door like a category five storm in business casual. jacket slung over one arm, hair wind-tossed and slightly undone, shoes in hand like she’d just come from battle.

“you would not believe the flaming pile of bullshit i just had to stand through for three hours.”

“hi y/n,” sophia said, calmly sipping her wine. “how was court?”

“court was a dumpster fire soaked in gasoline, and guess who brought the match? daniela fucking avanzini.”

manon exchanged a glance with sophia, then scooted over to make room on the couch. y/n threw herself down like the cushions would swallow her whole. 

“daniela again?” manon asked, handing her the wine bottle without being asked.

“she was there. at my trial. uninvited. just… looming like a designer-clad vulture. and then, as i’m leaving, she decides to give me a TED Talk on everything i did wrong. like i asked for her commentary.” she scoffs, taking the wine bottle from manon without a hitch. and then she grumbled. “bitch.”

sophia was already refilling her glass. “so, another love confession from your work nemesis.”

“she is not my nemesis. and it is not love.”

“okay.”

“she’s a smug, frozen robot in heels who thrives on making my life miserable.”

“and yet you always bring her up with the emotional intensity of a jane austen protagonist,” sophia said.

“i do not—”

“you do,” manon added, leaning back, wine glass in hand. “i’ve seen less tension in crime dramas.”

y/n groaned, covering her face. “she acts like i lost the case because i tripped over my own shoes or something. like it had nothing to do with the fact that my client is a walking federal indictment.”

“you did trip over your own shoes at the bar exam,” manon pointed out helpfully.

“that was her fault.”

“was it?” sophia asked, raising an eyebrow.

but y/n didn’t answer. for a moment, she just sat there, jaw tight, mind spinning. the scene replayed itself behind her eyes. every word, every glance, every infuriating detail.

the courtroom was too quiet. the kind of quiet that sank into your bones, made every breath feel like a betrayal. y/n stood there, shoulders square, jaw locked, while the judge read the verdict.

“guilty on all counts.”

her client didn’t even react. not really. he probably saw it coming too. the case had been a mess from the start. too much surveillance footage, too many witnesses, and a paper trail that could’ve wrapped the entire defense table in red tape. it was a loss she’d seen coming weeks ago. but that didn’t make it sting any less.

she nodded once, stiff, to her client as the bailiff stepped in. then she gathered her files, quick and sharp, refusing to let anyone see just how much it burned.

the hallway outside was cooler, quieter. she moved fast, the echo of her shoes trailing behind her. she was almost at the elevator when a voice sliced through the space like a scalpel.

“you overplayed the expert witness.”

she stopped walking. sighed.

“jesus christ.”

“you should’ve gone after him in voir dire,” the voice continued, smooth, detached. “by the time you got him on cross, the jury already liked him.”

y/n turned, slowly. of course it was her.

daniela leaned against the wall like she owned the place, coffee in one hand, every inch of her poised and flawless. her blouse and tailored suit pants hugged her figure perfectly, and the blazer she wore looked like it had been stitched just for her. sharp, couture, effortlessly commanding attention. her dark brown curls framed her face, contrasting with her smooth, glowing skin. hazel-brown eyes caught the light just right, sharp and unreadable, with a small beauty mark perched above her right eyebrow. her full, plump lips were set in a knowing smirk, and the gold hoop earrings she wore somehow managed to make her look even more polished and put-together. she was the kind of gorgeous you didn’t forget, even if you wanted to.

 god, how much y/n wanted to.

“thanks for the unsolicited feedback,” y/n said flatly. “been waiting all day to get condescended to.”

“just figured you’d want to know where you went wrong. might help next time.”

“what, you taking pity on me now?”

“no. i just hate watching sloppy strategy.”

y/n exhaled, sharp through her nose. it was always like this with daniela. ever since the bar exam. ever since that cursed morning when they both showed up at the same testing center, late, frazzled, blaming each other for everything from bad signage to stolen parking spots.

“you still bringing up voir dire like it’s the golden ticket to every case?”

“when it’s the reason you lost? absolutely.”

“you really watched the whole thing?”

daniela sipped her coffee. “some of it. you’re hard to ignore when you’re flailing.”

“wow. really leaning into the ice queen thing today, huh?”

“just telling the truth.”

“well, here’s some truth back — you’re a bitch.”

“you're still listening.”

that made y/n pause. for a second, she almost — almost — slapped the latina up the face. but she supposed that was a little treat for another day. she was a professional. always has been, always would be. instead she turned toward the elevator, jabbing the button roughly.

“see you around, avanzini.”

“you will.”

the doors slid open. y/n stepped in without looking back, but she felt daniela’s gaze like a weight between her shoulder blades the whole way down.

y/n shook her head, forcing herself out of the spiral. at that point, all she wanted was to forget. forget the lousy court hearing, the botched trial, the inevitable outcome. she was fiercely competitive, maddeningly so. losing the case mattered more to her than any petty rivalry with insufferable lawyers from other firms. so why did daniela’s smug, honeyed gaze bother her so damn much? it made her want to tear her hair out.

she let out a low hum and glanced toward the kitchen.

“do we have anything stronger than red wine?”

manon laughed softly, one brow raised. “aiming for straight-up legal amnesia, huh?” she stood up, setting her glass down on the coffee table. “i don’t know about that, but we’ve got something stashed in the kitchen. might help dull the daniela-shaped hole in your brain.”

y/n groaned and let her body flop sideways, body feeling suddenly heavy under the weight of the day. she sprawled out until her head was resting in sophia’s lap. sophia, ever the comforter, began gently patting her hair.

“please tell me it’s not some hipster single malt that costs more than our rent.”

“nah,” manon said with a grin. “just the cheap stuff that does the trick. come on, let’s get you out of lawyer mode for the night.”

sophia smiled down at y/n, voice soft and warm. “yeah, tonight’s about forgetting courtrooms, verdicts, and that insufferable ice queen.”

y/n nodded, feeling the tight knot in her shoulders begin to ease. “okay, i’m in. whiskey and bad tv it is.”

manon flicked off the lamps, leaving only the soft glow of fairy lights to cast warm, cozy shadows across the room. she paused the harry styles playlist and switched on the tv, its colorful rgb hues washing over them as bella swan’s familiar, slightly moody face filled the screen.

“perfect. wine night just got an upgrade.”

__

“…this merger will be good for us. for both of us. effective immediately, starting tomorrow, we’ll be sharing their office space.”

y/n was already having a shit morning. too much red wine and whiskey the night before. woke up with a headache and a bad mood, rolled off the wrong side of the bed, then promptly tripped over a shoe she’d left in the doorway. somehow, she still managed to pull herself together and make it to the office at exactly 9:00 a.m.

now she wished she’d stayed home.

she stood on the far side of the managing partner’s desk, arms crossed, expression flat, while he rubbed at his temples like he was prepping for a storm. and maybe he was. he knew her well enough to expect an explosion the second the news hit.

their firm was merging with a rival, k.e. legal.

daniela’s firm.

y/n paced in front of gong yoo’s desk, her expression etched with pure displeasure.

“you can’t be serious. them? of all firms?”

“y/n, you have to understand—this isn’t a bad thing. it’s a competitive field, what we do. and if we keep taking hits like the one you took yesterday, we’re going to need the backup.”

she knew what he meant. their firm was mid-tier at best, scrappy and stubborn, with a reputation for going after powerful corporations. daniela, on the other hand, was a high-profile corporate litigator at a significantly more successful firm. sleek. efficient. ruthless.

the merger made sense on paper. but y/n couldn’t shake the sting. because of all the firms to lean on—why did it have to be hers?

“you’re seriously bringing up yesterday’s shitshow as an excuse?” y/n snapped. “i’ve worked my ass off for years securing wins in court. yesterday’s trial was rigged from the start. unreal.”

gong yoo sighed. maybe for the tenth time since she’d stormed in.

“that’s not what i meant, y/n. my point is, their firm has resources we don’t. influence we don’t. losing costs too much. winning doesn’t pay enough. this merger gives us financial stability. and unless you’re eager to lose your job over budget cuts…”

she didn’t answer right away. the fight in her cooled, just a notch.

finally, she stopped pacing. dropped into the chair across from him with a heavy exhale.

“why now?” y/n asked, brows drawn tight. “why are they even open to this merger? what could they possibly want from us?”

gong yoo hesitated, then let out a low hum.

“you.”

she blinked. “me?”

“from what i understand, avanzini specifically requested you work with her team. you know how it goes, y/n. when someone of her stature speaks, management listens.”

of course they did.

everyone listened to daniela avanzini.

daniela and her spotless record.

daniela and that uncanny, almost supernatural ability to sway an entire courtroom with nothing but her voice and a well-timed look.

and now, apparently, she wanted y/n on her team.

whatever that meant.

she probably just wanted to humiliate her some more. to make her life a living hell more than she already did. gloat in her face, remind her how inferior she is. 

y/n groaned. 

someone kill her now. 

__

it was almost like daniela took some kind of sick pleasure in annoying y/n.

it’d been a month since the merger. since then, daniela had found endless ways to needle her.

like showing up unannounced in y/n’s office with a smug grin, casually dropping legal jargon that y/n barely recognized, just to watch her stumble. 

or assigning y/n to impossible deadlines, then sending a pointed message asking if she was “really sure she wanted to handle such a complex case alone.” 

there were the endless “friendly” debates over courtroom strategies that always ended with daniela dismissing y/n’s ideas with a raised eyebrow and a quiet, “interesting, but let me handle this.” 

and of course, there was that one time daniela casually suggested they share the same office space. of course, when daniela spoke, people listened. 

every day since had been a constant reminder that y/n was under daniela’s watchful, teasing gaze. it was subtle, relentless, impossible to ignore. now that her desk sat just inches from daniela’s in their cramped shared office, ignoring it was downright impossible. especially when daniela looked that good.

for all her provocations and shenanigans, daniela was stunning in a way words couldn’t capture. a quiet, effortless kind of gorgeous that made y/n’s chest tighten every time she caught her eye.

her eyes seemed to shift color with the light, but it was when the glow from her computer screen lit up her face that y/n noticed them most. honey-colored, warm and impossible to look away from. they were deceiving. soft and inviting, despite the sharp edge beneath her polished exterior. even through all of daniela’s teasing and sharp remarks, y/n couldn’t help but shiver when those eyes met hers, quietly unraveling something she wasn’t ready to face.

then there was the skirts. unassuming, respectable. but she didn’t miss the way they seemed to kite a little higher on her thighs when they were alone. 

some part of y/n felt guilty. disgusting. but those feelings disappeared the day she realized that maybe, it was intended afterall. 

one afternoon, y/n was buried under a pile of case files when daniela appeared at her desk, leaning over with that infuriating smirk. she dropped a folder right in front of y/n, so close their hands brushed. “thought you might need this,” she said, voice low and deliberate.

y/n looked up, heart hammering. not  from the work, but from the way daniela’s eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unreadable. it wasn’t just a simple gesture. it never was. her plump lips tilted up at the corners, and y/n had to fight the urge of looking down. 

later, when y/n caught daniela watching her from across the room, the way her gaze held a trace of something more—something carefully controlled—y/n couldn’t deny it anymore. every tease, every challenge, every glance wasn’t just to get under her skin. it was purposeful.

and suddenly, the game felt a lot more dangerous.

it all came to a standstill on a friday afternoon. 

“aw, are you sure you can’t make it? we can wait…?” manon’s voice sounded through the office, somewhat staticy from y/n’s speaker. 

y/n sighed. it was the third night that week that daniela dropped files onto her desk, something about preparing for an upcoming case. but of course, it was always too much. here she sat at 8pm, the office already emptying. as far as she knew, it was just her. maybe some stragglers getting ready to go home for the night, but she couldn’t care less. she grumbled. 

“yeah, sorry manz. you know how it is.”

manon audibly sighed on the other end of the line, a combination of pity and empathetic frustration. 

“queen bitch keeping you late again with nonsense? honestly, y/n, i don’t know how you put up with it.”

“yeah… me neither.”

it was then the office door creaked open, and daniela stepped in. she grazed her eyes over y/n for the briefest second, a coy smirk tilting her lips, before she shut the door behind herself with a click. 

y/n rolled her eyes instinctively and turned back to the papers on her desk. yet still, she couldn’t help but follow daniela’s figure in her peripheral. couldn’t help but watch as she mulled around her own desk before walking over to the photocopier. 

manon’s voice breaking the silence had her diverting her attention away. 

“okay, well just call me when you’re on your way home? i miss doing stuff together. you’ve been stuck at the office like everyday this week.”

y/n, despite whatever frustration spewed inside her from the mere presence of the latina woman across the room, felt a fond grin cross her lips. 

“of course, manz. see you later. have fun tonight.”

and that was it. manon’s voice, along with the low crackle of static, vanished with a press of a button. for a moment, the room settled into a still, muted quiet. just the soft rustle of paper and the occasional hum and click of the photocopier in the corner.

then, daniela broke the silence.

“something’s wrong with the machine.”

y/n looked up. daniela was frowning at the copier, tapping its screen with increasing frustration as a series of dull beeps and the unmistakable crunch of a paper jam followed. with a quiet sigh, y/n set her pen down and stood.

she crossed the room and crouched beside the machine, peering into its inner workings. daniela didn’t say anything. she just watched. her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her lips pressed into a flat line. her gaze stayed fixed on y/n, sharp and unreadable, like she was trying to figure something out.

then, she hummed. y/n nearly bumped her head against the photocopier in surprise. 

“manz,” daniela said, leaning her weight against the desk behind her with infuriating ease. “that your girlfriend?”

y/n didn’t even glance at her. “what’s it to you?”

“just wondering how anyone could find something worth loving in a mess like you.”

y/n stood slowly, turning to face her. the sting of the words didn’t land quite right. too familiar, too rehearsed. honestly, she was surprised it had taken this long to boil over. to finally, finally snap under the weight of daniela’s constant jabs and smirks.

she glared. “you think you’re special or something? getting off on being a bitch all the time?”

daniela’s smile didn’t waver. in fact, it widened. her gaze flicked down, then back up, deliberately slow. calculating.

“who said i wasn’t?”

y/n’s breath hitched. just for a second. because there was something else in daniela’s voice now. lower, silkier. less bite, more pull. her posture hadn’t changed, but her eyes… her eyes were doing something else entirely.

“you really don’t get it, do you?” daniela went on, stepping closer. “i don’t tease just anyone.”

y/n held her ground, though her heart kicked up a little. “could’ve fooled me.”

“no,” daniela murmured, now close enough that y/n could smell her perfume—subtle, heady, expensive. “i don’t waste my time on people who don’t matter.”

their eyes locked. heat crackled in the air between them. y/n could feel it coiling low in her stomach, that sharp tug of something dangerous and electric.

“so what,” y/n said, voice lower now, more controlled, “this is your idea of flirting?”

daniela’s lips curved. “depends. is it working?”

for a beat, neither of them moved. just the soft hum of the copier behind them, still jammed and forgotten. 

daniela’s smile turned lazy, like she already had the answer. like she always did.

but y/n didn’t move. didn’t flinch.

she crossed her arms instead, cocked her head. “you’re really out here acting like i should be flattered.”

“i mean,” daniela drawled, “you are looking at me like you want to either kill me or climb me, so.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

“too late.”

there was a glint in daniela’s eye now. something wolfish. she leaned in just enough to crowd y/n’s space, but not enough to touch. not quite. her voice dropped a note.

“come on, sweetheart. all this fire just for me?”

y/n gave her a slow, cold once-over. “no, i save it for every walking red flag with a superiority complex.”

daniela’s tongue clicked against her teeth. “cute. but let’s not pretend you don’t like it when someone pushes your buttons.”

“and let’s not pretend you’re special for thinking you can.”

that made daniela’s smile twitch. tight, like it bit the inside of her cheek.

“you really think you’re hard to read, huh?”

“no,” y/n said flatly. “i just think you’re bad at reading.”

daniela stepped in a little closer, the air between them stretched so tight it could’ve snapped. their knees almost touched. y/n didn’t move back. refused to give her that satisfaction.

“i could make you melt,” daniela said, soft and sure, like it was fact.

“and i could break your nose,” y/n replied, dry. “so i guess we both have our talents.”

a beat of silence. daniela laughed—low, from her throat, like it genuinely caught her off guard. her eyes never left y/n’s.

“you’re trouble.”

“you’re predictable.”

“and yet here you are.”

“only because your stupid ass jammed the copier.”

then daniela tilted her head. just slightly, but enough. like she was savoring the tension, dragging it out like a game she had no intention of losing. like the challenge itself was a reward. she looked at y/n the way someone might look at a storm on the horizon.  inevitable, thrilling, dangerous.

and y/n gave her what she wanted.

“all this bite on you,” daniela murmured. “where was that confidence when your ass was getting dragged across the courtroom floor? pathetic.”

it was stupid. so stupid that that was what did it. not the smirks. not the flirting. not the month of passive-aggressive remarks and veiled jabs. but that. the reminder that she’d lost. that she hadn’t been the sharpest one in the room that day.

y/n had always been a competitor. she could take teasing. she could take flirting. but being called pathetic?

no. not from her.

she moved without thinking.

one second, daniela was lounging in her space like she owned it. the next, y/n had her by the front of her blazer, yanked her forward, and spun them. swift, sharp, practiced.

now it was daniela’s back pressed hard against the edge of the photocopier, her eyes slightly wider, breath catching as y/n closed in.

“try saying that again,” y/n said, her voice low, lethal. “see what happens.”

her breath was hot against daniela’s mouth, close enough to kiss, but rigid with restraint. y/n wasn’t caving. not yet. not completely.

daniela didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away.

her lips parted just slightly, like she was about to say something— maybe another jab, maybe something worse— but nothing came out. she was looking at y/n like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to push again or surrender.

the silence between them pulsed. the air was thick with it. rage, heat, tension so tight it could’ve cracked the machine behind them.

y/n’s hand was still gripping her lapel.

“what’s wrong?” she whispered, mouth barely an inch from daniela’s. “not so smug now?”

daniela let out a breathless laugh, low and rough, her eyes darker now—almost daring.

“you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

y/n’s grip on her blazer tightened.

“i can’t stand you.”

something shifted in daniela’s gaze. like everything she’d said, everything she was, had been leading to this exact second. a trap she’d set and stepped into willingly. her voice dropped to a whisper, lips grazing the edge of y/n’s.

so close, so maddeningly close, the heat of her breath brushing against y/n’s skin.

“then do something about it.”

y/n didn’t need a second invitation.

in one swift motion, she spun daniela around. the sound of fabric shifting, the gasp that caught in daniela’s throat, the hard thud of hips meeting the photocopier. it all blurred together.

her hand tangled in daniela’s hair, gripping a fistful of sleek black curls. she pushed her down, just enough. not hard. just firm. commanding.

daniela’s cheek hit the cool surface of the copier, lips parted against the glass. the machine whirred helplessly beneath them, paper jamming deeper with every second.

but neither of them cared.

y/n hovered behind her, breathing hard.

her voice, when she spoke, was low and steady and sharp enough to cut.

“this what you wanted?”

daniela’s eyes flicked sideways, barely able to meet hers in the reflection of the scanner glass.

“getting there,” she murmured.

y/n leaned down, lips brushing just behind daniela’s ear.

“then shut up and take it.”

daniela shivered.

but she didn’t say another word.

[love-hs28]

Late Nights and Close Calls

Summary: You and Peter sneak a bottle of champagne from one of your dad’s - Tony Stark’s - parties at the Avengers Tower. Giggling and hanging out in your room, one quiet moment leads to you almost confessing your feelings to your best friend. 

Mcu!Peter Parker x Stark!Reader Fluff 1.2k Words Posted on: 2-19-2025 masterlist

The bass from the party downstairs thrums through the walls of the Avengers Tower, muffled but insistent, like the pulse of New York City itself. You lean against the door to your bedroom, biting back a grin as Peter scrambles to follow you inside and shut the door behind him, cradling a stolen bottle of champagne like it was radioactive. 

“I can’t believe you actually went through with it,” you whisper, your voice tinged with awe and laughter. You walk over to your bed and flop down on the mattress, Peter quick to follow. 

He turns to face you, his boyish grin equal parts triumph and nervous energy. “What can I say? I thrive under pressure.” He wiggles the bottle in his hands. “Besides, it’s not like Mr. Stark’s going to miss one bottle right?” You know he’s trying to convince both himself and you of this. 

You let out a snort of laughter, crossing your legs as you got comfortable on your bed and as Peter sat next to you, leaning against the wall. “I sure hope not. We’re dead if he catches us. And by ‘we’, I mean you.” 

Peter smirks, a teasing edge in his voice. “Good to know where your loyalties lie, Stark.” 

You roll your eyes, but are unable to hide your smile as you reach and grab two mismatched mugs from your nightstand. One of them has a Spider-Man design on it that Peter had jokingly given you as a birthday present, and he secretly smiled to himself at the realization that you’d actually been using it. 

“Here. Fancy drinking glasses for our super-classy operation.” 

Peter chuckles and pops the cork with a loud pop, making both of you jump and laugh. Bubbles froth over the top, and he quickly pours some into the mugs in your hands, spilling more than he probably should. 

“To bad decisions and avoiding your dad’s wrath,” Peter says, setting the bottle on the nightstand to grab his mug from you, holding it up in a mock toast. 

“To bad influences,” you shoot back, clinking your mug against his. You both take a sip, eyes smiling at each other over the tops of the cups.

The champagne was sweet and fizzy, a little stronger than you had expected, but the warmth it brought to your chest was welcome. You scoot over you so you’re sitting next to Peter, your shoulders close enough to touch every time one of you moves. 

“This is way better than listening to my dad schmooze with a bunch of billionaires,” you say after a minute or two of talking, tipping your mug towards Peter and resting your head on his shoulder for a moment. 

“You mean you’re not interested in talks about stock portfolios and advanced AI?” Peter quips, raising a teasing eyebrow. 

You laugh, the sound light and easy thanks to the drink. “Not even a little.” 

The two of you settle into a rhythm of a familiar banter and conversation, the champagne loosening any nerves. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed this much. Peter was good at that - at making you forget the weight of expectations, the constant pressure to be more than just the Tony Stark’s daughter. 

Somewhere in the middle of a story about one of Peter’s disastrous attempts to ask a girl to homecoming freshman year, you found yourself staring at him. His face was animated, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. The soft glow of the city lights through your window and your desk lamp cast golden highlights in his hair, and his eyes—warm and expressive—crinkled at the corners when he laughed. It was one of your favorite things about him. 

You didn’t realize you were smiling until Peter stopped mid-sentence, turning his head to meet your gaze. 

“What?” he asks, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone. 

You shake your head, heart fluttering in a way you didn’t quite know how to handle. Damn, this champagne was making it hard to think… it totally wasn’t Peter that was causing your brain to short-circuit, right? 

“Nothing. Just… you’re really great, you know that right? I’m glad you're my best friend.” 

Peter blushes, looking at his mug and trying, but failing, to suppress a smile. “Thanks, y/n. I’m glad you’re my best friend too.” 

He turns his head to look at you again, and your breath catches, the words hanging between the two of you like a live wire. For a moment, you think he might say something more—something that you were also thinking, something that would change your friendship forever. 

Another moment of silence passes as you just stare into each other’s eyes. You get a sudden urge of confidence, thanks to the effects of the alcohol neither of you were very familiar with. 

“Peter, I–” 

A loud boom from outside causes you both to jump, and your heads turn to look out your window, where you see an array of fireworks going off, some in the shape of Iron Man’s helmet. It was as if Tony was listening in on you and purposely stopped you from saying what you were about to confess.

Great timing, dad. Thanks a lot.

Peter laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Your dad sure knows how to throw a party,” he turns to meet your eyes, but looks away quickly with a shy smile, still blushing from your almost-confession. 

You laugh softly, also avoiding Peter’s gaze and fixing your stare to your mug. “No kidding.” You didn’t know if you were thankful for the interruption or should yell at your dad later for setting off his stupid fireworks. Maybe it was for the better, though; Peter seemed to want to ignore it, so maybe you should too. 

What you hadn’t noticed, though, was that Peter had also been staring at you all night, just as much as you were staring at him, if not more. 

Thankfully, the effects of the champagne hadn’t quite faded yet, so the awkwardness between you two faded as quickly as it had appeared; something that always seemed to be happening to the two of you. 

You bump your shoulder against Peter’s. “Wanna head back out there?” 

Peter smiles at you, taking a sip of his champagne. “Nah, I’d rather stay here with you. Besides, I think it would be pretty obvious that we’ve been, you know, having fun up here.” 

You blush at the accidental insinuation that Peter had just made, but you knew he only meant that you had been drinking. He seemed oblivious to it though, so you decided not to make a joke about it and spare yourselves any more awkwardness. 

“True,” you say with a soft laugh, “I’d rather be here too, anyways. You don’t totally suck to hang out with.” 

Peter laughs softly and it’s his turn to bump your shoulder with his, the slight contact almost making you shiver. “Yeah, yeah, you’re not so bad yourself.” 

You spent the next hour or two doing the same thing you always did—making each other laugh and testing the hell out of Peter. And, even though neither of you said what you were really thinking, it was okay. You knew there would be other moments—other nights like this where the words might finally spill out. 

For now, this was enough.

Thank you for reading! My first mcu!peter fic yay!! I have lots more in my drafts lol, so lmk if u wanna see more of himmmm. Tom Holland was my first ever celebrity crush and I am a MASSIVE Marvel fan, so this Peter holds a special place in my heart :) Again, thanks for readin and I hope you liked itttt! xoxo

[growthhyp]

I was looking at a rummage sale and saw this amulet with a bear on it. I am a geeky guy do you think it will make me look cool or hot at all?

The Bear Amulet

You blinked, squinting at the sudden burst of light as you stepped out of the cool, shadowy alley and into the sunlit garage sale. The concrete underfoot was a stark contrast to the cobblestone street behind you, a patchwork of greasy stains and discarded rubber. You were a geek through and through, more comfortable with circuits than crowds, but something had drawn you here today. Perhaps it was the curiosity of what treasures the neighbors had deemed worthless. Or maybe it was the towering figure of the burly man, his arms folded over a chest that could double as a shelf, watching over the assortment of knickknacks and dust-covered relics like a modern-day Viking guarding his hoard.

Your eyes scanned the tables, passing over chipped mugs, yellowed paperbacks, and a lamp that looked like it hadn't seen electricity since the '70s. Nothing caught your fancy until your gaze fell upon a small, wooden amulet nestled among a pile of costume jewelry. A bear was carved into its surface, its fierce gaze seemingly boring into yours. The moment your fingers brushed against the rough wood, an inexplicable pull tugged at your core. Without a second thought, you plucked it from its resting place and held it up to the light. It was cheap, probably not even real wood, but there was something… mesmerizing about it. The bear's eyes seemed to gleam with a life of their own, and before you knew it, you were fishing out a few bucks to claim it as yours.

Back in your home, the air-conditioned bliss was a welcome respite from the heat outside. You sat cross-legged on the floor, the amulet lying in the palm of your hand. As the chilly air hit the metal, the room was filled with a faint, golden glow. The bear's eyes grew brighter, almost taunting you to put it on. With a shrug, you slipped the leather thong over your neck, feeling the weight of the amulet settle between your collarbones. Looking into your bedroom mirror, you couldn't help but smirk at your reflection. The geek with the bear necklace was a new look for you, but there was something… right about it. The bear's gaze seemed to meet yours in the mirror, and you felt a strange kinship with the beast.

Days turned into weeks, and the hair growth was undeniable. It started as a faint shadow on your cheeks, but before you knew it, your chin was adorned with a thick, dark beard that rivaled that of any Viking. Your chest grew more hairy, and your back and arms were covered in a furry pelt that thickened by the day. The heat was unbearable; you found yourself shedding layers of clothing whenever you could, leaving you in nothing but your boxers at home. The air was thick with the scent of male musk, a heady aroma that filled every corner of your home. Despite the initial shock, you couldn't deny the allure of this newfound virility. You felt powerful, like you could take on the world with nothing but your bare hands.

Then, one sweltering afternoon, as you lay on your couch, the amulet's odor grew too potent to ignore. It hung around your neck, a constant reminder of the transformation it had brought upon you. With a grimace, you took it off and headed to the bathroom. The warm water of the sink washed away the grime and sweat, and as the wooden veneer began to dissolve, the true nature of the amulet revealed itself. Underneath the cruddy exterior, a gleaming gold bear shone back at you, its eyes set with glittering emeralds. You gasped, realizing you had been wearing a fortune around your neck, all this time. The amulet was no mere trinket but a relic of value far beyond your wildest dreams.

As you dried your hands, a sudden heat surged through your veins, and your cock twitched in your shorts, demanding attention. You couldn't fight the urge anymore; you pulled it out, feeling its hardness like a steel rod, pulsating with the beat of your heart. The moment your hand wrapped around your shaft, your body began to change.

You couldn't believe what was happening. You had never felt this kind of all-consuming lust before. Each stroke of your hand sent waves of pleasure through you, and as the precum leaked from the tip of your cock, it seemed to sizzle in the air like liquid fire. Your voice had dropped an octave, now a gruff rumble that matched the primal desires burning within you. The amulet grew warm against your chest, its bear seeming to roar in approval of your transformation.

As you stroked, your body began to shift and contort. Your muscles bulged outwards, tearing through your clothes like they were made of tissue paper. Your chest grew so wide that your ribs felt like they could crack, and your abs became a series of rock-hard slabs that rippled with every breath. Your biceps and triceps swelled to the size of bowling balls, your veins popping with the pressure of the blood surging through them. Your legs grew thick and powerful, and you felt as if you could crush concrete with a single flex.

The bear on the amulet grew more defined, the gold seemingly alive as it absorbed the light in the room. Your cock was now a monstrous appendage, stretching to lengths you never thought possible. You jerked it harder, feeling the power of the transformation coursing through every inch of you. The precum was a river now, lubricating the furious pace of your hand as you worked towards climax. Your mind was rewritten with each stroke, your love for computers and fading like a distant memory. All you could think of now was the gym, the heavy weights, the grunts of effort and the sweet scent of sweat.

As the pressure built, so did the heat. Your skin was on fire, not from embarrassment, but from the raw power that surged through your veins. Each grunt grew deeper, more primal, until it was a roar that matched the bear on the amulet. Your cock was a living thing in your hand, a beast that demanded to be fed with pleasure until it could take no more.

With a final, guttural grunt, you erupted. Cum shot out of you like a geyser, painting the floor with sticky ropes of white-hot ecstasy. The moment of release was accompanied by a final, earth-shattering shift in your body. Your cock grew even larger, reaching down to your knees as you stumbled backward, the weight of your newfound manhood almost too much to bear. The muscles across your chest and back bulged, stretching your skin taut as you flexed, feeling the power that now coursed through you. You had become a creature of pure, unbridled strength, a man that could bend steel bars and hoist cars with ease.

Your eyes snapped open, the world coming into focus with newfound clarity. You looked down at your transformed body and couldn't help but smirk at the reflection of the Adonis that now stood before you. The bear on the amulet seemed to be smiling back, as if proud of the beast it had created. You felt like a god, your confidence soaring through the stratosphere. You flexed your arms, the muscles popping and dancing under your skin like a symphony of power, and you grunted in satisfaction. The sound reverberated through the room, a declaration of dominance that sent a shiver down your spine.

[kiame-sama]

MALLEUS’S GREAT GRANDMOTHER IS ALIVE???? Poor reader is NOT getting a break the moment she steps foot on Brior valley soil LMAO

Also the way you wrote “rook’s ENTIRE family” scared me ngl because god damn I bet he has a large ass family 💀

I can see Cater’s sister’s dressing up reader like a doll like 25 times in one day

The moment Kalim’s family meets the human, reader comes out with new golden jewelry due to the al-asim family gifting her so many like I can just see it now

Malefica and Maleficent are two different dragons. Malefica is his grandmother. Maleficent is his Great Grandmother. Maleanor (his mother) was killed. Malleus is thinking of names that start with 'Malle' or 'Male' for his and the Human's young to keep up the naming tradition (Mallechite for example). That is three Dragons who want to keep the Human, pray the Human never visits Briar Valley because that is three Dragons who see the Human as their Hoard (Given Malleus is part of Malefica's hoard as her grandson, and both are part of Maleficent's Hoard as her descendants) since Hoards among dragon families often overlap. Those Dragons are not letting go of the Human EVER. Practically attached at the hip, especially Maleficent and Malleus. Malleus because that is HIS Human and Maleficent because she misses her Humans.

Rook comes from a large family as he is a Drider and can have several dozen hatchlings if the eggs all survive. Rook is the 8th of 10 siblings. Not to mention his uncles and aunts who have their own families. His siblings are constantly bugging him for details despite the fact he didn't talk with them very much before the Human due to how much his family likes to spread out and live in different places. It is not uncommon for a Hunt to randomly leave home in search of their fixation, but Rook bringing the Human back home to his parents may be the first time the ENTIRE family comes together. They are all almost vibrating with how excited they are. There will be squabbles between siblings over the Human, who is actively hiding under Rook.

Cater has two older sisters, and he is the only Nymph of his family that chose to be male (as Nymphs have no set gender and simply choose what resonates most with them). They will happily use the Human as a dress up doll since cay-cay doesn't like being the doll. They are all Lake Water Nymphs but his sisters have more lake green hair. Cater's two Mothers will adore the Human and will praise their son for finding such a cute little thing. The sisters will ensure they get their fair share of time with the Human, they kay even kick Cater out of dress-up time and this will upset him deeply.

The Al-Asim are attempting to seal a marriage contract between Kalim and the Human, especially after Kalim's father learns Kalim granted a wish for the Human and somehow they didn't die from it. He believes this granted wish is an answer to his prayers and will give any wealth to secure the two in matrimony. Want gemstones? You get gemstones. Want a fancy new car? You get a fancy new car. Want a Diamond lamp (that totally isn't being planned as your and Kalim's child's lamp?) Please, take it! They would rather you have it on hand for reasons. Doesn't matter the Human's gender, Genies can successfully have young with ANYONE regardless of gender or fertility. They want another Al-Asim.

[mangostarjam]

kiss me at midnight — haikyuu, miya atsumu x f!reader, established relationship, reader is called "babe" and "baby", fluff, suggestive, 1.2k words

Your hand is in his face before you realize it.

"Mmrph!"

It's so fucking dark.

"'Tsumu?" you whisper, squinting at the shadowy lump next to you. Your boyfriend's familiar fingers wrap around your wrist. "What is it? What's happening?"

Miya Atsumu finally frees his face from your hand. You wince at the wet saliva rapidly drying on your fingers. "Babe," he huffs, "didja hafta shove me?"

"You're the one who did something weird," you shoot back quietly, though your half-asleep brain can't quite remember what that thing was. "Did you… lick my hand?"

"Do ya want me to?" Atsumu asks curiously, his large hand sliding up to your fingers. He drops your hand immediately, and even in the dim moonlight filtering into the bedroom you can see him make a face. "Eugh, why's your hand wet?"

Oh, god. Fondness blooms in your chest even as you blink yourself more awake.

You laugh. You can't help it. "You licked it! Why are you acting all surprised?"

"Oh," Atsumu props himself up on an elbow and flicks on his bedside lamp. You squint at the sudden light, shivering against the cool rush of air beneath the blankets as he shifts. "That's 'cause ya put your hand on my face! Jeez, babe, I know ya like touchin' me, but watch the goods."

"I hate you," you laugh. Atsumu grins down fondly at you, backlit by his lamp. Golden strands drift up in a messy tangle, his bed head somehow terrible even though you've only been asleep for — "'Tsumu, why are we awake right now? It's not even midnight!"

His grin grows sheepish. "It's New Year's Eve."

"So? We should be asleep!"

Your boyfriend's half lidded gaze sweeps over your form — you're wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of shorts, nothing fancy, so there's no reason for him to be looking at you like that. He licks his lips. "Don't you wanna… ring in the new year?"

"No," you say, rolling your eyes. "What, are you planning on jacking off for the next —" you squint at the clock, "— forty minutes? I think your dick might get hand burn or something."

"Well, I was hopin' it'd be in somewhere wetter than my hand," Atsumu mumbles, flopping back into his pillow with a thump. He pulls the blankets back up over your shoulders and grins when you relent and snuggle close.

He's so warm and solid and he smells like your citrus body wash, which he swears he never touches except your bottle always ends up emptying way too fast. You slip your hand up beneath his shirt and smooth along the muscles of his back, smiling to yourself as he presses a kiss to the side of your head.

"I thought you didn't care about new years," you mumble into his neck. "You were whining about your beauty sleep during dinner."

"I wasn't whining," Atsumu splutters. You snicker into his skin and then you kiss him, a featherlight brush against the pulse fluttering in his neck. His grip tightens on your hip. "I was bein' considerate! You had a long day at work, right? I thought ya might wanna have a quiet night. I was givin' you an out."

"What part of waking me up before midnight counts as 'considerate'?" you ask curiously.

"Well, if I made ya cum a few times, you'd be more relaxed and we can both rest easy," Atsumu says.

"And you didn't think of this before we fell asleep earlier?"

Atsumu sneaks his hand down and pinches your butt, grinning into your hair when you yelp and swat at him reflexively. "Sorry, nope," he says. You can feel him half hard against your thigh. "But I can make it up to you."

"I'm sure you could," you breathe, leaning up to kiss the smile off his face. "Is this why you offered to let us get 'beauty sleep' instead of meeting our friends at the shrine tonight?"

"Swear I wanted to let you rest," Atsumu murmurs between kisses. He licks into your mouth with a hum, catching your bottom lip between his teeth as he groans. "My girlfriend's just way too hot. Have you seen her smile? Makes me get butterflies."

"Flirt," you pull back with a grin. He brushes your hair away from your face as you yawn, jaw cracking with the force of it. "Sorry. That wasn't very sexy of me."

Atsumu laughs and kisses the tip of your nose. "You'll always be sexy to me. Want me to turn off the light?"

"Don't you like being able to see me when we fuck?"

Your boyfriend gasps. "Language!"

"Shut up," you laugh. "You're the one with the filthy mouth."

Atsumu just grins, lopsided and soft. He presses a kiss to your forehead. "You really are tired, aren'tcha? Let's go back to sleep. Sorry I woke ya up."

You open your mouth to protest — you can feel him hard against your thigh, and your insides are warm enough to generate some sparks if he just keeps kissing you — but a yawn interrupts you before you can get any words out. Atsumu snorts and reaches behind him to slap the lamp off.

"Sorry, 'Tsumu," you mumble. He tugs you into him, rolling onto his back so that you can rest your head on his chest, tucked into his side. "I can wake you up with a blowjob or something."

"Don't worry 'bout it, baby," Atsumu says quietly. His arm is heavy around your waist, and you feel his other hand shuffling beneath the blankets before he finds one of yours and clasps it above his heart. "I just wanna wake up next to you."

"Is that your only new year's resolution?" you ask sleepily. His heart beats a rhythm you feel in your bones, deep and sure. An anchor to keep you from drifting away.

Atsumu hums. "I wanna win Setter of the Year," he says. "And I wanna get Omi-Omi to give me a high five during a match."

"You should be more realistic. Kiyoomi-kun might spike a ball to the back of your head if you're not careful," you say. "You're definitely getting Setter of the Year, though. You're amazing."

Atsumu chuckles and squeezes your hand. "What about you, babe? Any resolutions?"

"I guess I want to drink more water," you muse, "or else Suna will keep sending me hydration memes."

"I can help ya with that," Atsumu says. Your voices are both low, creeping towards sleep. "Anything else?"

"Mm… not that I can think of. Do you have more?"

It's quiet for a bit. You think maybe he's fallen asleep, with the way his breathing is so even, but he squeezes your hand and his heartbeat thunks in his chest.

"I wanna keep wakin' up next to you," Atsumu says. "For the rest of our lives."

You stop breathing.

"I didn't get you a ring yet," he mumbles. "'Samu said I'd pick something stupid."

"Atsumu…"

He squeezes your hand again. "Think I'll make that one come true, too?"

You shift and he's loose, lets you move to prop yourself above him, keeps his hand carefully at your side in case you need help balancing. "Atsumu," you whisper.

"Is it time to kiss for midnight?"

His eyes are glimmering in the moonlight, deep warm pools you could sink into forever.

"Yeah," you say, barely glancing at the clock. "Yeah, I think you've got that one in the bag."

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 1 , CH 2 , CH 3 , CH 4

Hyun-tak rang the bell of her house, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, a worn-out bandage peeking beneath one sleeve. He kicked absently at a loose stone near the steps, half-watching it skip across the pavement.

Y/N had texted him an hour ago:

“I got the new game. Come over. I want to beat you at it.”

He scoffed when he read it—because she never beat him. But he came anyway. Of course he did.

The door opened before he could knock again.

“Oh, Hyun-tak,” her mom greeted with a smile that he’d seen since he was a kid. “She just stepped out to grab something from the corner store. Won’t be long.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“You know where to go.”

He did.

He always did.

---

Hyun-tak stepped inside like muscle memory—no need to be shown around, no hesitation. He toed off his sneakers at the door, left them neatly beside hers (his always looked too big next to her tiny ones), and made his way past the kitchen that always smelled like vanilla or soup, depending on the day.

Everything about the house was warm in a way his own never was. Quiet, yes. But never cold.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, pausing at her door. It was already half-open, like it knew he was coming.

Her room hadn't changed much over the years. He'd practically grown up in it—seen it evolve from stuffed animals and glitter pens to books stacked in uneven piles and posters from bands he’d never bothered to remember the names of.

His hoodie was still draped over the back of her chair—the one she always stole because she claimed it was “more comfortable than hers.”

Her lamp was on, the light golden and warm. The window cracked slightly, letting in the soft rustle of late spring air.

It was familiar. Safe.

So he didn’t think twice before stepping in, letting the soft click of the door behind him melt into the quiet.

---

That’s when he noticed it.

On the desk.

A diary—open.

Like a secret waiting.

It was nothing fancy. Just a simple notebook with a little ribbon bookmark fraying at the ends. A pen lay across the middle like she’d just gotten up mid-sentence.

He didn’t mean to read it. Really. He knew how to respect someone's privacy, and the last thing he wanted was to be that guy. The kind who snoops or pokes around where he doesn’t belong.

Still, he scoffed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

She wrote in a diary? Like, actually sat down and scribbled her thoughts like some melodramatic protagonist in a coming-of-age film?

It was kind of hilarious.

So very her.

He shook his head and turned away from the desk, plopping down onto her bed like he’d done a hundred times before—arms behind his head, phone out, screen glowing dimly in the warm afternoon light.

Scroll. Tap. Scroll.

Nothing interesting.

The room was quiet. A breeze filtered through the half-cracked window, rustling the curtains gently. The scent of her shampoo lingered faintly on the pillow beside him. A plushie he’d once won for her at a festival stared at him from the shelf, its button eyes crooked and faded.

Everything about her room was familiar. Everything about her felt familiar.

So why did he suddenly feel… restless?

He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

But even in the stillness, the image of the open diary crept back into his mind. The pen lying across the page. Her handwriting. That soft curl at the end of her Y’s.

He sat up.

Looked over his shoulder.

The diary hadn’t moved, of course. Still open. Still quiet. Still waiting.

"...Tch." He rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowed.

It was probably just grocery lists or doodles. Maybe drama about classmates. Probably something stupid like “Today I got mad at Hyun-tak because he stole my chips again.”

That made him grin.

And then… the grin faded.

Because even as he thought it, something inside him whispered that it might not be that simple.

That maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t about chips. Or games. Or classes. Maybe she’d written about something else. Something more.

Before he could stop himself, he stood.

Three steps. That’s all it took to be in front of the desk again.

He didn’t sit down. Just stood there, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes dropping to the page like they were being pulled.

Just one line.

One peek.

That wouldn’t hurt, right? But his curiosity got the better of him and he picked up her diary, sat back on her bed, swung one leg up, leaned against the wall, and opened it.

The first page.

The handwriting was exactly like hers—wide loops, occasional doodles in the margins, sometimes a heart where a dot should be.

And then—he began to read.

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

March 5th, 2013

Dear Diary!!

My mom gwot me this DIARYYY todayyyyyy 🍭 she said it’s for “Writting yur thoughtz and feelings” but that’s kindaaa borinngg??? ☹️

So I’m gonna use it to write about important things

!!Like Hyun-Tak!! 😡

Today he was sooo meeean to me like always 🙄🙄 he said I’m dumb because I forgot my scarf and then he was like

“Tch. You're so stupid. Wear this or you’ll get sick and cry again.”

AND THEN 😤

He put HIS red scarf on me!!! HIS!! It smelt like snack crumbs and him. It was warm 🧣

I looked like a tomato 🍅🍅🍅

and he laughed at me

so I kicked his shoe

but he didn’t get mad???

he just grinned and said

“Don’t lose it or I’m never talking to you again forever.”

so I held onto it SOOOO tight like a SUPERHERO cape 🦸‍♀️

Then at lunch I got milk on my kimbap and I almost criEDDD but then

HE GAVE ME HIS!!

but it was the gross tunaa one so maybe he was gonna throw it anyway

BUT I LOVE THE TUNA ONE!!! So maybe it was TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️

Mama says boys are mean when they like you

but Hyun-Tak is mean ALL the time

SO maybe he LOVES ME the MOSTEST 😤💖

OR maybe he is just a JERK 🙄🙄

(but like… a cute jerk??? shhhh)

Anyway I hope we stay best frends FOREVER and EVER and get married or maybe be astronauts. But I don’t wanna go to space if he’s not going 😣

Okayyy bye diary!!!

Love, Y/N (AGE 5 AND 65 DAYS)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak stared at the page for a long time. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. But it definitely wasn’t this.

A chaos of crooked letters and sparkly doodles. Misspelled words, snack-related heartbreak, heroic scarf ceremonies, and—him.

Laced through every sentence, like he’d always been there. All over it. Everywhere.

It felt like flipping open a snow globe of their childhood. Messy. Loud. Blurry. But inexplicably… warm.

Too warm.

He shifted against the headboard, the bedsheets rustling softly beneath him, one hand still resting on the open page like it might flutter away if he let go.

His eyes drifted again to the part she’d written in huge letters—TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️, underlined twice, like a secret shout through glitter pen and breathless belief. The ink had faded just slightly, the hearts smudged at the corners like they’d been touched too many times.

He rolled his eyes. “Tch... idiot.”

But the corners of his mouth gave him away. Just a little. A quiet curve, barely there—but honest. Gentle.

The memory came without asking.

His younger self—scrawny, grumpy, still learning how to tie his own laces—muttering while tugging a too-big scarf around her neck with all the finesse of a grizzly bear.

Checking, double-checking, triple-checking that her ears were covered. Calling her stupid while handing over the better half of his lunch.

Pushing boys off swings who made her cry.

Staring at the ground while walking her home, as if the silence between them had its own language.

He hadn’t known she was writing it all down. Hadn’t known she remembered.

He reached out and brushed his thumb over the messy little heart she’d doodled beside his name. Lopsided. Unapologetic.

Age 5 and 65 days.

Who even counts days like that?

But she did.

Because she was the kind of person who measured everything. Moments. Moods. Melon bread halves. He just never noticed it until now.

He closed the diary carefully, the pages whispering shut like they were tucking themselves in for the night. The edges were soft, worn from being opened and reopened too many times.

He held it for a moment longer, just resting in his lap like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And then, as his fingers slipped to the next page, he caught the header in bubble letters:

March 6th, 2013

Today Hyun-tak got mad because I licked his lollipop. BUT—

A laugh—a real one—escaped him, sharp and quiet like a secret.

He snorted, shaking his head.

“Of course she kept going.”

And without even thinking about it, he turned the page.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Let me know what you think <333 for now let's just say that the emojis in the diary entries are doodles.

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex

[jam3sacaster]

“Don’t think I’ll go easy on ‘ya.”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by my sweet @harveysgirl101 🩷 / A budding pop star already caught in controversy, you reluctantly accept an offer to appear on Declan…

18+ FANFIC / Smut mention, angsty, intense chemistry. Reader character aged at 21. 🫶🏽

“Marvellous. Thank you.” You beam towards the young Corinium producer, sporting the most impressive mullet. Graciously accepting a bubbling champagne flute, you took a large gulp and stared at yourself in the dressing room mirror. Golden tanned skin, peroxide blonde hair preened into tremendous hoops and the most terrifyingly intimidating outfit — a black latex dress that hugged your voluptuous figure, ruby red lipstick and hooped earrings so large they resembled satellite dishes. “An hour ‘till showtime. Take some time to relax.” The young man informed you, to which you took another painful swig of champagne and nodded in response.

-

Confidently striding through Corinium’s orange-adorned hallways, the man that would be tearing you to shreds in approximately fifty-eight minutes turned a corner, completely indulged in his notes of preparation. “Oh Declan, hello.” You articulate, running a hand across the taut rubber of your dress. “My God, it’s not fancy dress, ya’ do know that?” The Irishman sniggered, his gaze not quite meeting yours. Unsurprising, you didn’t find his vitriolic criticism amusing. “I did hope, Mr O’Hara, that tonight’s interview would be one of personal gain, me to clear my name and boost my career and you to boost your… whatever you call this.” You quickly retorted, folding silken arms together across your chest. Declan raised a hazelnut eyebrow — more so in admiration at your counter-attack than vexation.

“My interviews aren’t to boost anyone’s careers, sweetheart. You can take one step out of line, look behind your shoulder and think no one’s watching. But I’ll have seen. And that’s when I strike.” He snapped, pointing a finger at you in an almost accusatory manner. You’re sure that any other individual being reprimanded by Declan in this way would’ve taken a rather harsh gulp of embarrassment, but you were too quick-witted to let it phase you. Instead, you take a hold of his finger, pushing it back towards him. “That’s the talk of a man that’s either not getting any at home, or has a very small penis.” Snickering heartily as you quip.

This one hit close to home — first remark, not second, he can assure you. It had been a few months now since Maud had packed her bags for London. Not that it made much difference. She was too busy pining after Rupert Campbell-Black to notice something as simple as the colour of his socks, let alone to have sex with him. “God, ‘ya are as fuckin’ insufferable as they say ‘ya are.” Declan tuts towards you, bringing his stack of documents to his face and flicking his eyes over a headline. “Excuse me, miss? Makeup are ready for you.” The mulleted producer softly mutters. Presenting him with a gentle nod, you begin to walk past Declan, but stop momentarily, whispering into his ear, “If you are sexually repressed, Mr O’Hara, you know where to find me. I wouldn’t mind giving you a ride.”

-

Nonchalantly peeling a strip of leather from the makeup artists decaying chair, you breathed in the cloying dust of the mattifying powder being swept across your nose. The makeup artist was a dowdy woman — sunflower-yellow skirt clashing with an emerald green jumper. Closing your eyes as she brushed a rather fetching violet eyeshadow across your lids, you heard the door open. A gentle voice exchanged with the artist, and the door promptly shut again. “Thought I’d better get her out of here before ‘ya lamped her. Are ‘ya actually allowed to be on ya’ own with makeup artists anymore?” The irritating Irishman spoke from behind you. Keeping your eyes closed and grunting out a deep exhale, you could only wish you’d have lit a cigarette before round two.

“Are you actually allowed to be on your own with me in here? Don’t think Lord Baddingham would be too pleased at you threatening his guests.” You mutter, opening your eyes only to very quickly light your much-desired cigarette, taking an elongated puff, and clamping your eyes shut again. “Closing ya’ eyes won’t make me go away. I won’t leave ya’ alone.” He speaks again, ignoring your pathetic jibe. “Like an irritating rash.” You retort, mumbling. Declan couldn’t help but smirk. Maud’s insults towards him were cruel — mean-spirited, intended to humiliate him. Yours, however, were different. You came back at him so quickly, and with such vigour, that he felt he had almost met his match.

Stretching his calloused hand toward the door handle, he spun on his heels and paused momentarily. “I don’t have a small cock, by the way.” Declan titters, prompting you to open your eyes and glare at him with huge, glimmering eyes. “Shame. I was hoping a man so intimidatingly sexy would have one downside, at least.” Raising your leg up as you speak, admiring your frighteningly tall stiletto and revealing to Declan your lack of underwear. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on ‘ya.” He huffed, focused entirely on the sight of your exposed cunt. “In the interview… or now?” You tease, standing from your chair and taking another puff of your cigarette. Without looking back, Declan reached behind him to lock the door.

[fairydustttx]

Cologne. Pt 1.

Luca x reader

“Oh, babe, at least leave the scent of your cologne”

Warnings: None except the odd mention of random pastry dishes that sounded fancy to me.

Wc: 2893

Summary: While staging in Copenhagen to develop pastry skills, reader forms an unexpected connection with Luca, a dedicated and quietly intense pastry chef. Amid rainy streets and flour-covered kitchens, something tender unfolds—shaping both their craft and their hearts in ways they didn’t anticipate.

Copenhagen smells like softened cobblestones and pine needles after the rain. On mornings after a heavy drizzle, you can hear the bicycles gliding past the canals like clock hands sweeping the city forward. There’s always coffee in the air—dark, strong, a little bitter—and the tang of yeast wafting from open bakery doors. The light hits the city sideways in June, soft and low, never too bright. It made it easy to stay in bed longer than you should’ve.

That’s how the memory of Copenhagen sticks: rain on the windows, Luca’s elbow brushing yours while cooking, his laugh low and warm, the glow of his kitchen lamp haloing him in golden light.

You and Marcus had been sent by Carmy to stage in Copenhagen for three months. He wanted you to sharpen your pastry skills—"lamination bootcamp," he called it. Luca was a pastry chef through and through, he moved like clockwork—precise, quiet, impossible to read.

At first, he was intimidating. Not because he was cruel or unkind, but because he was so absorbed. Distant, even. Focused in a way that made you second-guess every touch of sugar or slice of pâte sucrée. He spoke to Marcus in short bursts—mostly about technique, temperature, fermentation time. It was mentorship at arm’s length, but it was mentorship nonetheless.

You were never sure if he noticed you. Until he did.

It started with glances. His eyes lingering when you folded croissant dough. A quiet hum of approval when you piped choux with steadier hands. He began asking you questions. Short ones. Thoughtful ones.

“Why that glaze?”

“Did you taste that before plating?”

“What do you want this to feel like?”

That last question floored you. Not taste like. Not look like. Feel like.

Nobody had ever asked you that before.

It was also your first time being truly seen like that in a kitchen—by someone who wasn’t there to compete, command, or correct. Luca watched you in a way that made your skin buzz. You didn’t know what to call it yet. You just knew that you wanted to keep showing him things. Keep being near him.

You’d never really understood men. You’d had flirtations, a few forgettable situationships, but nothing that carved out space in your chest like this. You’d certainly never fallen for a pastry chef in a foreign country while trying not to burn puff pastry.

And yet, here you were.

It had been a long night in the kitchen—eleven hours of frangipane tarts, spun sugar, quenelles, and notes scribbled in flour.

When Marcus suggested a drink after, your feet were aching but your heart buzzed with adrenaline. You looked at Luca, expecting a polite decline, but instead, he gave you a quiet nod and held the door.

The bar was tiny—tucked behind a yellow-painted building with crooked windows and flickering candlelight. You ordered something herbal you couldn’t pronounce. Luca got a stout and an order of fries with aioli that arrived like an art piece: golden, laced with sea salt, served on a wooden board.

The three of you sat cramped around a corner table, warm from the kitchen and the drinks. Marcus was mid-story about a pastry fail at The Bear when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then stood, already tugging on his coat.

“My train’s in ten,” he said with a quick smile. “If I miss it again, I’m sleeping on the bakery floor.”

You grinned. “Bet you'd make it look cozy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe. You two good?”

Luca gave a short nod. “We’ll finish up.”

Marcus gave you a look—curious, faintly amused—but didn’t say anything more. Just tipped his head, then disappeared into the night.

You tried to resist, but Luca pushed the last fry toward you with two fingers and a sly, crooked grin.

“Are you judging me right now?” you asked, biting down on the hot crisp.

“Always,” he replied, his eyes bright.

You left the bar close to midnight. The city had gone still, lights casting long shadows over cobbled alleyways. You wandered along the canals, arms brushing occasionally, Luca lighting a cigarette and keeping it between two careful fingers. When he smoked, he leaned back like he was listening to the wind.

You tried to sound casual. “I don’t usually do this.”

He arched a brow. “Do what?”

“Let someone in.”

He paused, the ember of his cigarette glowing orange. “That what I’m doing?”

“Kind of.”

The silence was longer after that. But it wasn’t empty.

At one point, you stopped on a narrow bridge, chilled from the mist, and he gave you his scarf—soft, gray, faintly smelling of vanilla and clove. You remember thinking you might never give it back.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The pastry kitchen had wide windows and white walls. Everything echoed slightly—spoons on marble, music from someone’s playlist in the background. You, Marcus, and Luca moved like you’d been rehearsing for years.

One Tuesday afternoon, the three of you were plating a hazelnut dacquoise with poached rhubarb. Marcus was humming, spooning something too generously onto the slate.

“That smear’s committing crimes against pastry,” Luca deadpanned, glancing over his shoulder.

You choked on a laugh. “Brutal.”

Marcus just grinned. “Hey man, abstract plating is a movement.”

“Yeah, a messy one,” Luca replied, nudging the plate back into his hands.

You worked beside Luca most days, often in silence. Not because you didn’t want to talk—but because it was easy not to. His presence was steady. He didn’t crowd. He watched your hands as you piped and rolled and tempered. Once, as you were fussing over a too-thick tuile, he reached over and gently pressed your fingers flat.

“Don’t force it,” he said. “It’ll fold itself if you let it.”

Your eyes met. He didn’t move his hand.

Marcus caught the look and cleared his throat softly from across the table, eyes flicking between you and Luca before returning to his own plating like nothing happened.

You blushed, fingers fumbling the spatula. Luca didn’t say anything—just kept zesting lemon over the meringue, that small, knowing smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Later that night, as you both stepped out into the chill, Marcus pulled his beanie low over his ears and glanced sideways at you.

“You and Luca… working pretty in sync lately,” he said casually.

You shrugged, trying for neutral. “He’s just focused. Serious about pastry.”

Marcus nodded, then gave a short laugh under his breath. “Sure. Just saying—Carmy didn’t send us out here to fall in love with other chefs.”

Your head snapped toward him. “It’s not—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off gently. “I’m not judging. Just saying. If it is something... I get it.”

You relaxed a little, stuffing your hands in your pockets.

“It’s probably nothing,” you muttered.

Marcus raised a brow. “Okay. But when it is like that, I want full details.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It started with a storm.

Not the kind that rattled windows, but the slow, steady kind—thick clouds and the hush of Copenhagen darkening early. You’d stayed late in the kitchen, finishing a batch of pâte à choux for the morning, the room warm with the scent of vanilla and steam. Luca was still there, of course. He always was.

He was plating something when you walked over—carefully placing petals around a quenelle of frozen mousse. You didn’t say anything, just watched. His movements were hypnotic. Measured. Thoughtful.

“You stayed late,” he said quietly, not looking up.

“So did you.”

He glanced at you then. Whatever was in his eyes—it wasn’t passing anymore.

You didn’t mean to reach for him, but you did. Just your fingers brushing his, barely a touch. He didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” you said.

“I do,” he replied, voice barely audible. “I’ve just been trying to do it carefully.”

The air between you tightened. You looked at his hands—his stupid beautiful hands, stained faintly with beet juice and flour—and then up at his face.

He stepped in slowly. No rush, no uncertainty. Just… gravity.

The kiss was quiet. Soft. A hand at your waist, the other cupping your jaw with startling tenderness. You could taste the hint of coffee on his mouth, the citrus from earlier, the warmth of him grounding you completely.

He pulled back just a little, forehead resting against yours.

“This okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. I wanted that.”

“I know,” he murmured. “So did I.”

There was no dramatic confession. No sweeping declarations. Just the warmth of his thumb grazing your cheek, and the way the kitchen suddenly felt like the safest place in the world.

After that, it did become something. Quietly. Naturally.

You never defined it out loud, and neither of you needed to.

It lived in the soft details: in the way Luca started saving the last clean apron for you. In how he’d tap your shoulder mid-shift and hold out a spoon—“taste”—without needing to explain. In how you found your toothbrush waiting in a little cup by his sink one morning, like it had always been there.

You started walking to work together. Sometimes in silence, sometimes trading stories in the low light of dawn, your shoes echoing against the cobblestone. He never asked about what came next. But he always walked a little slower the closer you got to the kitchen door.

Nørrebro turned colder. The windows fogged up faster. He taught you how he liked his eggs on slow Sunday mornings—poached, on toast, with way too much black pepper. You learned he talked in his sleep. Not much, just faint murmurs in Danish that made you smile into his shoulder.

At night, he would rest his head in your lap on the sofa, eyes closed, hands still moving like they were folding pastry in a dream. You’d run your fingers through his hair, neither of you saying what you both knew.

This wasn’t forever.

You’d always known, even in the beginning, even as you kissed behind the bakery after closing. The return flight was booked. Carmy was waiting. Your life in Chicago, loud and restless, didn’t have room for slow mornings and tea kettles and Luca’s quiet hand resting over yours in bed.

And Luca knew it, too.

He didn’t try to stop you. Didn’t pretend. But sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d study you like he was trying to fix the shape of you in his mind forever—like he was already practicing how to miss you.

You never told him not to.

Instead, you just tried to memorize everything: the low rasp of his voice when he was tired. The way he’d bump your shoulder gently when you got something right. The way he said your name, like it tasted different to him than it did to anyone else.

Marcus noticed all of it, of course.

He wasn’t close enough with Luca to tease or pry, but he caught the little things—how you’d catch yourself smiling when Luca was near, how your hands lingered longer on shared tasks, how Luca seemed… softer around you, a little less distant. Marcus never said much, just nodded quietly when you met his eyes in the kitchen and gave you a look that said, “I see you. I’m happy for you.”

You never said goodbye yet. But the goodbye lived between every quiet kiss. Every careful touch. Every time he handed you his scarf without asking, like it was the only part of him he could send home with you.

You wore it anyway.

And you never asked for more than what he could give—because even this small, fleeting thing, wrapped in rain and soft pastry, was already more than you’d ever expected to find here.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Luca’s apartment was small but lived-in: two bedrooms, shelves sagging with old cookbooks, dried pasta hanging over the kitchen doorframe like garlands. The balcony overlooked a quiet side street, lit by warm lamps and the occasional blinking bike light. Rain pattered outside like soft percussion.

You were leaving tomorrow. Back to Chicago. Back to the line. Back to Carmy’s world.

He was rolling pasta dough on the counter, dusting flour in slow, practiced motions. You sat at the table, suitcase half-zipped, heart in your throat.

“You packed?” he asked without turning around.

“Mostly.”

He nodded. The rain made the silence louder.

He served pasta with butter and herbs, a wedge of cheese shaved over top. You sat across from him, eyes tracing the lines of his collarbone where it peeked above his sweater.

“Do you think Carmy would be pissed?” you asked finally.

He looked up. “That we’ve been sleeping together?”

“That I’ve been in your bed for most of the time I’ve been here.”

He shrugged, smiling slightly. “Only if it ruined your lamination.”

“It didn’t.”

“Then I’d say you’re fine.”

You smiled. But it didn’t reach all the way.

Later, you stood by the window while he washed dishes. The city behind you blurred with rain. You didn’t want to leave. But you also didn’t know how to stay.

“Say it,” you whispered.

He paused. “Say what?”

“That you don’t want me to go.”

He dried his hands, stepped behind you, rested his forehead against yours.

“I want you to stay,” he said softly. “But I don’t want to ask. Because if I ask, you’ll feel like you have to choose. And I don’t want to be something you resent.”

Your throat tightened.

“You wouldn’t be,” you said.

He kissed you—slow and searching, like the taste of butter melting between sugar layers. You didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning was gray. Damp. The kind of weather that makes you nostalgic even while you’re still living in the moment.

Marcus was down the street at a café, balancing two coffees and a paper bag stuffed with croissants. You and Luca walked down together in silence.

“He came,” you said to Marcus.

Marcus glanced between you two. “Oh. He came-came.”

You blushed.

He grinned. “Carmy’s gonna love this.”

Luca stepped forward and pulled something from his coat—a flattened, half-used cigarette. He slipped it into your palm without a word.

“Something to remember me by,” he said.

You looked at it, then at him. “I won’t forget.”

Marcus came up beside you both, clearing his throat.

“Hey, it’s been real,” he said, with a small smile. “I’m glad you two found something here. Even if it’s short.”

Luca nodded. “Yeah. It’s been good. Take care of yourself Marcus.”

Marcus laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I will. And you? Keep killing it in the kitchen.”

Luca’s smile was warm but tinged with sadness. “Always.”

You hugged Luca tightly, heart against his chest.

“This was not the plan,” you whispered.

“The best things never are,” he murmured back.

You kissed once, deeply, ignoring the people walking by.

Then Marcus tugged your arm. “Come on, lover girl.”

You pulled away slowly.

He nodded, eyes full of something fierce and sad.

“Maybe someday,” he said. “Maybe in another life.”

You smiled through the sting.

“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe in another life.”

And then you turned toward the train—toward your future, your life waiting in Chicago—with Luca’s scarf still wrapped around your neck, and a piece of him folded inside your heart.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Chicago hits you hard. The Bear is chaos. It’s sharp angles, constant noise, and sticky floors. Carmy is more stressed than ever. Sydney is more brilliant. And Marcus keeps throwing you knowing looks whenever your phone buzzes.

But the pastries you make now—they’re different. You can feel it. The lamination sings. The caramel layers fold like silk. You work with your whole body. Like someone who has felt something soft, and decided to chase that texture again and again.

Most nights, you collapse in bed. Some nights, you remember the weight of Luca’s scarf. The hush of Danish streets. The way he watched you—not like a teacher, or a chef—but like someone seeing something he didn’t want to lose.

You’d never been in love before. Not really. Not like this.

And now, even the memory of it shapes you.

Ten days after returning, you finish cleaning your station late. The restaurant is empty, silent. Your phone buzzes.

Luca [1:27 AM]

Still think about your hands when I plate. Hope that’s not weird.

You laugh, too loud, alone under the buzzing fluorescents. You don’t respond right away. You just hold the phone to your chest, breathing in butter and powdered sugar and something like longing.

The ghost of Copenhagen lingers. A scarf in your closet. A cigarette in your drawer. A boy who smelled like yeast and cloves, who kissed you like sugar melting on the tongue.

And in the quiet—like the last note of a song—you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’ll find your way back.

[ms--lobotomy]

zerking my horits silly style

Summary: You wake up in Horus's bed. Whatever happened? Word Count: 715 Content Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Intox, Dub(?)con, Primarch Aura Fuckery, i don't know bro Image Credit: @squishyowl

Your eyes blinked open. The first thing you saw through blurry vision was the light sifting through the curtains, dappling the room in golden sunlight. A soft bed rested at your side, and a massive, warm weight lay behind you and at your other side. Your body stiffened. A low, resonant chuckle came from behind you-- one that you recognized immediately.

“Horus-?” you asked groggily, moving one hand up to wipe your eyes.

“No need to say it twice,” he said, his hand cupping your belly and pulling you closer to him. His chest was hairy against your back. You couldn’t deny the warm feeling bubbling up in you, hand precariously close to the underside of your breast. His large face nuzzled into the back of your neck, the feeling of his nose pressing against you sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled. His breath was warm on your back.

“Horus,” you mumbled weakly again, forgetting to heed his words. Your head pounded, and you put a hand to it as you tried to remember what got you here.

“What is it, little beloved? Do we have a problem?” Horus asked, his voice gentle against the back of your neck. 

“What… happened?” you mumbled in an attempt to turn over towards him. As you tried in vain, you felt a second arm slink underneath you. His hand had found its way to your outer thigh. It trailed up and down against soft, uncovered skin. What…?

“You don’t remember?” he mused. “You were really drunk last night, you know? I took you to bed myself. Wanted to make sure you stayed out of trouble.” You heard a small smile on his lips as he talked, his chest rising and falling against your back, the top of your legs. He chuckled, and your body bounced against him.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you attempted to make sense of last night. Horus was nice enough to pour you a few glasses of wine, but a few glasses shouldn’t have…

“Heh,” Horus chuffed against you, “don’t tense up, little lady. Your clothes are on the table. You took them off, you know? It was a whole thing last night.”

“What…?” you asked, in disbelief. You looked at the table in front of you. There were a few unmarked, opaque containers and an ornate lamp. In other words, nothing of the fancy white dress of your planet.

“Where…?”

“Oh, it’s behind me,” Horus said, pressing you closer to him. “Rest up a bit, won’t you? Last night was rough on you. I had to step in, keep you safe.”

You sighed and closed your eyes. Despite your best efforts, your heart thrummed in your chest while the events you remembered of the past night flashed through your head. Negotiations were going in your favor, you swore-! In the finest silks your planet could offer, the two of you talked over drinks about what would become of your planet. The Imperium of Man, they said. Your memory was a little hazy after two or three drinks. Was Imperial wine supposed to affect the human mind like that?

“I told you. Rest.”

There was something different about his voice this time. You felt it through your body, flowing through you like the blood in your veins, tight in your throat as your heart thumped even louder in your chest. It felt like he was taking his soul in his hands, grasping it tightly. At any moment, it would explode into pieces.

You shook in his arms. Any words that would’ve left your mouth evaporated into thin air. Any tension in your body quickly dissipated, giving way to a deep sense of calm. You breathed in deep, sucking in the still air of the room. Still, something nagged at the back of your head. 

“I…” you started, your head pounding. A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed. 

“Good girl,” he replied. His hand grasped your soft breast, cupping it gently and brushing over your nipple with his thumb. His other trailed its way between your thighs. You shuddered, but he paid no mind. Instead, he hummed softly. He pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck as he searched for your clit.

“Now just relax, and let me have you.” 

“Okay.”

Taglist: @bispecsual @justeverythingnothingelse @bleedingichorhearts @nekotaetae @historitor-bookshelf

[aspenmissing]

Jayce x Reader experience their first times in a relationship, like: Their first kiss / the first time saying "I love you" / The first time telling someone, that they're in a relationship / Etc.

With much fluff and comfort 🫶

ᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 3505 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ!! ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜᴛᴇꜱᴛ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀ! (ɪ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ) ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ!!!

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ

FIRST DATE

Jayce had insisted on something simple. No extravagant dinners, no fancy galas—just the two of them, somewhere quiet.

So, they ended up on the rooftop of one of Piltover’s tallest buildings, a picnic laid out between them. The city glittered below, its golden lights stretching out in all directions, while above them, the stars flickered faintly against the vast night sky. The wind carried the distant hum of airships and the occasional burst of laughter from the streets far below, but up here, it was just them.

“This is nice,” Y/N admitted, leaning back on her hands, letting the cool evening air kiss her skin.

Jayce chuckled. “You sound surprised.”

She tilted her head. “I just expected something… grander. This is surprisingly thoughtful.”

He scoffed, nudging her with his knee. “I can be thoughtful, you know.”

She smirked. “I’m just saying, Councilman.”

Jayce rolled his eyes but grinned anyway. He watched her for a moment, something soft and unreadable in his gaze before he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary. “I just wanted to spend time with you. No distractions. No responsibilities.”

Y/N felt her heart stutter, a warmth creeping into her chest that had nothing to do with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn’t like this was their first time alone together, but somehow, this was different. More deliberate. More real.

“Well,” she murmured, a small smile playing at her lips, “mission accomplished.”

Jayce exhaled, something like relief flickering across his face before he leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the stars. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think the city lights were brighter than the stars. That they were better somehow.”

Y/N turned her head to him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “And now?”

He was quiet for a beat before glancing at her, his warm brown eyes reflecting the sky. “Now, I think they don’t even come close.”

She swallowed, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her sleeve.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city hummed beneath them, a world of expectations and duty waiting below, but up here, it didn’t matter. Up here, they could just be Jayce and Y/N, two people caught somewhere between what was and what could be.

Jayce shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers, and she found she didn’t mind the closeness. In fact, she welcomed it.

Maybe this thing between them was still new, still uncertain.

But in this moment, under the starlit sky, it felt like the start of something neither of them would ever want to forget.

FIRST "I LOVE YOU"

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t grand. It just… happened.

Jayce was hunched over his desk, deep in thought, his brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath. The dim glow of the lamp cast warm shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion clinging to his features. He had been at it for hours, tools scattered haphazardly around him, notes filled with scribbled equations stacked precariously to one side.

Y/N, watching from the doorway, sighed softly. She knew how he got like this—wrapped up in his work, pushing himself past reason. Without a word, she stepped forward and set a warm cup of tea beside him.

Jayce glanced up at the quiet gesture, his tired eyes immediately softening at the sight of her. He reached for the cup, fingers curling around the warmth, and let out a slow breath.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he murmured, the words slipping out so naturally, so effortlessly, that he barely noticed them. Then, without a second thought—“Love you.”

The pen in Y/N’s hand nearly snapped in half.

Jayce blinked, suddenly registering what he had just said. The gears in his head ground to a halt, panic flickering across his face. His grip on the cup tightened.

“Uh—”

“I love you too.”

Silence.

Thick and brimming with something unspoken, something fragile yet overwhelming. The weight of those three little words lingered between them, hanging in the air like static before a storm.

Jayce stared at her, stunned, before his lips parted, his expression shifting from shock to something softer—something so utterly full of warmth it made her chest ache.

Then, he smiled.

Not his usual confident grin, not the smirk he wore in the Council chambers or the easy one he flashed in passing. No, this was different. It was wide and bright, filled with something raw and real, and it made Y/N’s heart stutter in her chest.

“Yeah?” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, like he needed to hear her say it again.

She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah.”

Jayce exhaled, relief and happiness flooding his features, and in the next second, he was pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her shoulder. His body was warm, solid, his embrace something that felt like home.

“You just… said it,” she mumbled against his shoulder, half in disbelief, half in awe.

He huffed a laugh. “You did too.”

Y/N smiled, closing her eyes, breathing him in. Maybe it hadn’t been planned, maybe it hadn’t been some grand declaration—but maybe, just maybe, this was better.

Because it was them. And it was real.

FIRST KISS

It happened during one of their late-night walks through Piltover’s upper districts. The streets were quieter at this hour, the usual bustle of the city dimmed to a peaceful hum. Gas lamps lined the walkways, casting a golden glow over the cobblestone streets, and the crisp night air carried the faint scent of metal and oil from the distant workshops.

Jayce had been rambling about something—an experiment gone wrong, a prototype behaving unpredictably—but exhaustion clung to his voice, slowing his usual enthusiasm. Y/N had been content to listen, enjoying the rhythmic sound of his voice, until he nearly tripped over his own feet mid-step.

She caught his arm instinctively, steadying him before raising a smug eyebrow. “Wow. I knew you were tired, but this is a new level of tragic.”

Jayce groaned, rubbing his face before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. “Unfair. How do you look perfectly composed while I’m out here fighting for my life?”

Y/N smirked. “Maybe you’re just a mess.”

He huffed, kicking at a loose stone on the path. “Or maybe you always look flawless. It’s annoying.”

She snorted. “Flawless? High praise, Councilman.”

“I mean it.”

The weight in his voice made her pause. She turned to him fully, expecting to throw out another teasing remark, but the way he was looking at her made the words tangle in her throat.

Jayce was not a subtle man. He never had been. When he wanted something, he made it clear, whether it was a new invention, a seat on the Council, or—apparently—her.

His gaze was steady, unwavering, the usual playfulness in his expression giving way to something softer, something almost hesitant.

“Can I kiss you?”

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before rolling her eyes. “You’re asking now?”

“Hey,” he said, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips, “I like to be respectful.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You—”

But before she could finish, he closed the space between them.

His lips met hers, warm and eager, a little clumsy in the way first kisses often were. It wasn’t perfectly timed, nor was it practiced—but it was real. His hands hovered at her waist, unsure, as if he didn’t want to push too far, but the way he leaned into her, the way he let out the faintest sigh against her lips, told her everything she needed to know.

Y/N melted into him without thinking, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. The city faded away—the distant sound of an airship passing overhead, the occasional flicker of street lamps, the world beyond this moment.

When they finally broke apart, Jayce’s breath was warm against her lips, his grin widening as he searched her face. “So… was that okay?”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”

He chuckled, his hands finding hers, lacing their fingers together with an ease that made her chest tighten. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m your idiot now.”

And with the city glittering around them, their world just a little bit smaller, Y/N found she didn’t mind one bit.

FIRST TIME TELLING SOMEONE

Viktor was the first to know.

It wasn’t that they had planned to tell him first—he was just too damn observant.

Jayce was hunched over his desk, fidgeting with a prototype, but he wasn’t really paying attention to it. His fingers idly twisted a bolt between his thumb and forefinger, his focus entirely elsewhere. Across the lab, Y/N was sorting through notes, flipping through pages and occasionally tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear.

She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it, but Jayce did.

He noticed the way she bit her lip in concentration, the way her brows furrowed ever so slightly when she came across something particularly dense. He could watch her for hours and never get bored.

And apparently, he had been watching her for too long.

Viktor sighed loudly and set down his notes with an air of exasperation.

“So,” he drawled, tapping a finger on the table, “how long have you two been together?”

Jayce choked on his coffee.

Y/N, still flipping through papers, arched a brow. “What makes you think we’re—”

Viktor shot her a flat look. “Please. The way he watches you like a lovesick puppy, the way you pretend not to care when he does something reckless? You are not as discreet as you think.”

Jayce wiped his mouth, still sputtering. “I—what? That’s not—I don’t—”

Y/N smirked, folding her arms. “Lovesick puppy, huh?”

Viktor tilted his head, unimpressed. “Tell me, Jayce, when was the last time you looked at research notes with that much longing?”

Jayce spluttered, gripping his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “That is not—You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Viktor snorted. “Oh, of course. I must be imagining things.” He turned to Y/N. “And you? The lingering glances? The way you subtly guide him away from his own worst decisions?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Completely unrelated, I’m sure.”

Y/N pursed her lips, feigning thoughtfulness. “Well… maybe he has a point.”

Jayce shot her a betrayed look. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged. “You are reckless. Someone has to keep you alive.”

“I am perfectly capable of keeping myself alive.”

Viktor scoffed. “Debatable.”

Jayce groaned, setting his coffee down. “Okay, fine. Yes. We’re together. It’s recent, alright?”

Viktor leaned back, smirking. “Congratulations.” Then, with an entirely too smug expression, he added, “Try not to be insufferable.”

Jayce rolled his eyes. “Too late for that.”

Y/N grinned, nudging his side. “You’re the one who kept staring at me.”

Viktor hummed, already returning to his notes. “Yes, do keep up the public displays of affection. It will make my work so much more enjoyable.”

Jayce sighed, rubbing his temples. “I hate both of you.”

Y/N chuckled. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

Viktor, flipping a page, didn’t even look up. “Yes, yes. Very cute. Now go be disgusting somewhere else.”

Jayce groaned, but when Y/N grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, he found that, honestly?

He didn’t mind one bit.

FIRST ARGUMENT

It started with frustration and ended in regret.

Jayce had been spending too much time in the Council chambers, drowning in politics, buried under the weight of expectations. The man who once spent his days in the lab, grease-stained and full of boundless ideas, was now tethered to long meetings and diplomatic battles. Y/N felt the shift like a slow-moving storm, creeping in until the space between them wasn’t just physical—it was something heavier, something unspoken.

She wasn’t one for confrontation. She wasn’t the type to demand attention, to force someone to make space for her. But when Jayce cancelled yet another evening together with a half-hearted I’ll make it up to you, something inside her snapped.

“You’re always busy, Jayce. I get it. But when do I become a priority?”

Jayce, still shuffling through papers on his desk, let out a sharp sigh. He didn’t even look at her. “Y/N, come on. Not now.”

Her stomach twisted. Not now. It was always not now.

She crossed her arms, refusing to let this go. “Then when?” Her voice rose, her frustration bubbling over. “Because I’ve been waiting. And waiting. And every time I think we’ll finally get time together, you have another meeting, another crisis, another—whatever the hell this is!” She gestured to the Council reports strewn across his desk, the documents that had replaced her.

Jayce dragged a hand down his face, his own patience fraying at the edges. “I’m trying to build something here, Y/N. A future. For both of us. Do you not understand that?”

Something in her cracked.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Don’t make this about me not understanding. This is about you not making time. For me. For us.”

His shoulders stiffened. He finally met her gaze, frustration flashing in his eyes. “I don’t have the luxury of making time whenever I want, Y/N. I have responsibilities! The Council, Piltover—”

She let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, of course. Piltover.” She threw up her hands. “How stupid of me to think I could compete with an entire city.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s what it feels like, Jayce!” Her voice cracked, raw with emotion. “You fight for this city like it’s the only thing that matters, and I get it, I do, but when was the last time you fought for us?”

Jayce exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of his desk as if grounding himself. His jaw tightened. “I’m doing everything I can.” His voice was quieter, but still taut with frustration. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then don’t make me feel like I have to!” She shouted, her own breath uneven, her heart hammering in her chest.

The words slammed between them like a force of their own, vibrating in the air.

For the first time, Jayce didn’t have an immediate retort. He just stared at her—at the hurt in her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly, how she was barely keeping herself together.

The weight of it all crashed into him at once.

The exhaustion, the guilt, the fear of losing her.

His hands curled into fists, his breath unsteady. Then, with a deep inhale, he let go of whatever pride had been holding him back.

He took a step forward.

Y/N tensed, expecting more words, another excuse. But instead, she felt his arms wrap around her, his warmth pressing against her like an apology he didn’t know how to say.

Her breath hitched.

“I’ll do better,” he whispered against her temple, voice rough, like he was barely holding himself together. “I promise.”

She wanted to stay angry. Wanted to tell him that promises were easy to make and even easier to break. But as his arms tightened around her, as she felt the way his body sagged slightly, like he needed this just as much as she did, she let out a slow breath.

“…Okay,” she murmured, leaning into him. Then, after a beat, she added, “But you owe me dinner. A real one. No cancellations.”

Jayce let out a soft chuckle against her hair, his hold on her tightening just a little. “Deal.”

He held her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded, and in that moment, she believed him.

Because if there was one thing Jayce had always been, it was someone who tried.

FIRST TIME SLEEPING TOGETHER

They didn’t plan on it.

Jayce had invited Y/N over after a long day, swearing up and down that this time, he wouldn’t get caught up in work, that this time, he’d make time for her. And he tried—he really did.

They ordered food, talked between bites, let the warmth of each other’s presence ease the weight of the day. Laughter came easily between them, the kind that settled deep in their bones, smoothing over the exhaustion clinging to their bodies. Y/N listened as Jayce vented about the latest Council debates, his voice animated despite the tired lines beneath his eyes. She offered teasing quips, grounding him, making him forget about the weight on his shoulders for a little while.

The conversation drifted into quieter things. Their childhoods, their dreams, the parts of themselves that rarely got the chance to breathe.

And then, somewhere between the warmth of the fireplace and the steady comfort of being near each other, exhaustion crept in like a slow tide, pulling them under before they even realized it.

Y/N curled into his side without a second thought, resting her head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. Jayce, for once, didn’t overthink things—didn’t worry about meetings, expectations, or anything beyond the steady warmth of her against him.

His arm draped around her shoulders, pulling her closer, his fingers idly tracing slow, absentminded circles against her back. She barely registered the touch, but something about it lulled her deeper into rest.

Neither of them noticed when their conversation faded into comfortable silence.

Neither of them noticed when their blinks became longer, breaths slowing in sync.

And neither of them noticed when sleep claimed them completely.

=

The morning light streamed in through the wide windows, golden rays stretching across the floorboards and casting a warm glow over the room. The fireplace had long since burned down, leaving only the faintest hint of lingering heat in the air. The city outside was already stirring, but here, in the quiet of Jayce’s home, time moved slower.

Y/N stirred, the weight of sleep still clinging to her limbs, and as she shifted, she became acutely aware of how warm and solid the body beside her was.

Her eyes cracked open, and realization set in.

She was completely tangled up in Jayce—his arm curled protectively around her waist, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath her cheek. One of her legs was slotted between his, and his other hand rested lightly on her hip, as if even in sleep, he refused to let her drift too far away.

For a brief moment, she simply existed there, letting herself savor the warmth of him, the way his body fit against hers so naturally.

It was easy. Too easy.

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze settling on his face—soft, unguarded in sleep, his normally furrowed brow relaxed, his lips parted just slightly. His hair was a mess, strands sticking up in a way that made him look boyish, and she felt something stir in her chest at the sight.

He always looked so much younger like this. Like the weight of the world wasn’t pressing down on his shoulders for once.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

She should probably get up. Should probably untangle herself from his arms, make some coffee, pretend like this wasn’t something that made her chest feel too full.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she shifted just enough to tuck herself closer, burying her face against his collarbone with a quiet sigh.

Jayce groaned slightly in his sleep, shifting before his hold on her instinctively tightened. His body curled in toward her, his breath ghosting against her temple. A deep inhale, then a lazy mumble:

“Mmm… five more minutes.”

Y/N smirked, her voice still heavy with sleep. “I wasn’t even trying to move.”

Jayce cracked one eye open, blinking at her with unfocused, sleep-drunk hazel eyes. His grip on her didn’t loosen, and if anything, he only curled around her more. “…Good.” He let his eyes fall shut again, pressing his face into her hair. “Stay.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. He probably didn’t even realize what he was saying, caught in that half-awake state where thoughts and feelings blurred together without pretence.

But she liked the way it sounded.

“You talk in your sleep a lot, don’t you?” she teased, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

Jayce hummed, lips twitching into a lazy smirk. “Only when I’m dreaming about my amazing girlfriend.”

She rolled her eyes, but the fondness in them betrayed her. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm.” His arm flexed around her, pulling her impossibly closer, his lips brushing against her temple. “Though I gotta say… this is even better than the dream.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, shaking her head slightly as she let herself settle against him once more.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in warmth, in golden morning light, in something that felt almost too good to be real.

But it was real. And it was theirs.

Yeah.

She could get used to this.

[kathlare]

second chances

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Lando makes a bold, heartfelt gesture by flying to New York to surprise Amelie and try to fix their fractured relationship.

Wordcount: 2.0 k

Warnings: just fluff

full masterlist // request over here!

November 28th, 2023 - New York City, NY

Lando hadn’t slept much since Abu Dhabi.

The lights of New York City flickered below him as the plane began its descent. His mind raced with thoughts of Amelie—her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. He had spent the entire flight rehearsing what he was going to say, running through every possible outcome. None of them felt good enough, but he knew he couldn’t let her slip away. Not this time.

The party in Abu Dhabi had been a blur of music, drinks, and noise. He hadn’t meant to call her, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue and made him reckless. Her voice, tinged with hurt and frustration, still echoed in his head.

So here he was, thousands of miles from Monaco, standing outside her apartment in the crisp November air, holding a bag of groceries and a bouquet of white roses—her favorite, if he remembered correctly.

It was risky. He didn’t know if she would even hear him out, but he wasn’t ready to let her go.

Lando adjusted his grip on the bouquet, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He checked his watch—7:13 PM. Amelie’s rehearsal was supposed to end at six, but he knew how these things went. She was probably stuck in some last-minute run-through or chatting with her team about the upcoming Jingle Ball performance. He took a steadying breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he fumbled with the keycard her assistant had reluctantly handed over earlier that day.

The apartment smelled like her—a mix of vanilla and something floral he couldn’t quite place. It was warm and cozy, lit with soft golden tones from the table lamps she had scattered around the living room. Her piano sat by the window, sheet music messily stacked on top. It was so distinctly Amelie that it made his chest ache.

He set the groceries on the kitchen counter and got to work, methodically pulling out the ingredients for the dinner he’d planned. Pasta—simple, comforting, and, according to Amelie, the one thing he hadn’t managed to screw up the last time he cooked for her. He found her pots and pans easily, rummaging through drawers for utensils while trying not to snoop too much.

The plan was straightforward: make dinner, pour some wine, and wait. Wait for her to come home. Wait for her to give him a chance to explain.

As the sauce simmered and the smell of garlic filled the apartment, Lando tried to distract himself by setting the table. He placed two plates, folded napkins, and lit a couple of candles he found in a drawer. The roses sat in a vase in the center, and he took a step back to admire his work. It wasn’t fancy—he wasn’t a romantic by nature—but it was real. And that’s what he needed her to see.

By the time he heard the click of the front door, his palms were sweating, and his heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. He turned, wiping his hands on a dish towel as Amelie stepped inside, her bag slung over her shoulder, her hair a little messy from the cold wind outside.

She froze when she saw him, her keys halfway to the counter.

Her eyes widened, a mix of surprise and confusion flashing across her face. —Lando?—

—Hey.— His voice came out softer than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. He gave her a tentative smile, gesturing toward the table. —I, uh... made dinner.—

Amelie blinked, still standing by the door as if unsure whether to stay or leave. —What are you doing here?—

—I came to see you,— he admitted, stepping closer. —I needed to see you. To talk.—

She set her bag down slowly, her gaze flicking between him and the table, then to the roses in the vase. —Lando, you can’t just show up here...—

—I know,— he interrupted, raising his hands. —I know, and I’m sorry. But I had to. After Abu Dhabi... after what I said... I couldn’t let it end like that.—

Her expression softened for a split second, but then she crossed her arms over her chest, her walls going back up. —You were drunk,— she said flatly. —You didn’t even know what you were saying.—

—I did,— he countered, his voice firm. —Maybe I was drunk, but everything I said? I meant it. Every word.—

Amelie exhaled, running a hand through her hair as she leaned against the counter. —Lando, this... whatever we’re doing... it’s not working. I told you that.—

—I know you did.— He stepped closer, his voice quieter now. —And I get it. I haven’t exactly been the best at showing you how much this matters to me. But it does, Amelie. You matter to me.—

She looked away, her jaw tightening. —We’ve been here before, haven’t we? You show up, you say the right things, and then... nothing changes.—

—That’s not fair,— he said, his tone pained. —You know it’s not like that. Things were different back then. I was an idiot, I didn’t know how to handle...—

—You didn’t know how to handle me being busy?— she cut in, her voice sharp. —You didn’t know how to handle the fact that I have a life outside of you?—

Lando flinched but held his ground. —I wasn’t ready then,— he admitted. —But I am now. I know I screwed up before, and I’m not asking you to forget that. I’m asking for a chance to do it right this time.—

Amelie shook her head, her arms still crossed as she studied him. ��And what does ‘right’ even mean, Lando? Are we still sneaking around, pretending this is nothing? Because I can’t keep doing that.—

He took another step closer, closing the distance between them. —No,— he said firmly. —I don’t want to sneak around anymore. I want this to be real, Amelie. I want us to be real.—

Her eyes searched his, and for a moment, he thought he saw something crack in her armor. But then she shook her head again, letting out a shaky laugh. —You’re saying all the right things now, but what happens when the season starts again? When you’re flying around the world and I’m stuck here or on tour? What happens when it gets hard?—

—It’s always going to be hard,— he admitted, his voice steady. —But I’m willing to fight for this. For you. I’ll do whatever it takes, Amelie. Just... please. Don’t shut me out.—

Silence hung between them, heavy and uncertain.

Finally, she sighed, her arms dropping to her sides. —You’re exhausting, you know that?—

A small smile tugged at his lips. —You’re not exactly easy, either.—

That earned him a faint smile in return, and he felt a flicker of hope.

Amelie glanced at the table, then back at him. —You made pasta?—

He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. —It’s the only thing I know how to make without burning the kitchen down.—

She let out a soft laugh, and for the first time that evening, he saw her shoulders relax.

Amelie stepped closer to the table, tracing her fingers over the edge of the vase holding the roses. Her expression softened, but there was still a hint of hesitation in her eyes.

—You really came all the way here for this?— she asked, her voice quieter now.

Lando nodded, stepping up beside her. —I came all the way here for you.—

She glanced at him, her lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to suppress a smile. —You’re lucky I’m starving. If this pasta is as bad as the last time, though, I’m kicking you out.—

Lando grinned, the tension in his chest easing slightly. —Deal. But fair warning, it’s actually decent this time.—

She rolled her eyes but allowed him to pull out her chair. Once she was seated, he poured them each a glass of wine and took the seat across from her. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the apartment were the clink of forks against plates and the occasional hum of approval from Amelie.

—Okay,— she said finally, setting her fork down and leaning back in her chair. —I’ll admit it. This is good. You’ve improved.—

Lando smirked. —I told you. I’ve been practicing. Turns out, I had a lot of time to kill after races.—

Amelie tilted her head, studying him. —You didn’t have to do all of this, you know.—

—I did,— Lando said simply, meeting her gaze. —Because you’re worth it. And because I needed you to see that I’m not the same guy I was back then. I don’t just want to be someone you hook up with when things feel easy. I want to be there when things are hard, too.—

Her expression softened, and she picked up her wine glass, taking a slow sip as if to buy herself time. —It’s not that simple, Lando. You can’t just show up with pasta and roses and expect me to forget everything that happened.—

—I’m not asking you to forget,— he replied, his voice steady. —I’m asking you to give me a chance to prove that I’ve learned from it. That I can be better for you.—

She studied him for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. —You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?—

—Completely,— he said without hesitation. —I’ve spent the last few years trying to convince myself I was fine without you. But I wasn’t. I missed you, Amelie. More than I can put into words. And when I saw you again in Mexico... it all came back. I don’t want to mess this up again.—

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Instead, she looked down at her plate, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. Lando leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he continued.

—I know I hurt you before,— he said softly. —And I hate that I was the reason you felt that way. But I’m here now, and I’m telling you... I want this. I want us.—

Her eyes flicked back up to meet his, and he saw the vulnerability there, the fear she was trying so hard to hide. —And what if it doesn’t work? What if we just end up hurting each other all over again?—

—Then we’ll deal with it together,— he said, his voice unwavering. —But I’d rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what could’ve been.—

The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Amelie set her glass down and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she regarded him with a mix of skepticism and something softer, something warmer.

—You’re really laying it all out there, aren’t you?— she said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Lando chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. —Yeah, well, I figured subtlety hasn’t exactly worked for me in the past.—

Her smile widened slightly, and for the first time that evening, he felt a flicker of hope. She reached for the roses in the vase, gently touching one of the petals. —You remembered these are my favorite.—

—Of course I did,— he said, his tone soft. —I remember everything about you.—

She glanced up at him, her eyes searching his face for something. Whatever it was, she must have found it, because she let out a quiet sigh and sat back in her chair.

For what felt like an eternity, her blue eyes searching his face for any hint of insincerity. Lando held her gaze, willing her to see how much he meant every word. Finally, she set her wine glass down with a soft clink and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

—You’re serious about this?— she asked quietly, her voice no longer sharp but cautious, as if daring to believe him.

Lando nodded, leaning forward as well, his forearms resting on the edge of the table. —Completely. I’ve thought about this, about us, every single day since we ended things. And I’m not here to mess around, Amelie. I’m here because I want to do it right this time.—

A small smile tugged at her lips, almost reluctant, and she let out a breathy laugh. —You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.—

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. —Maybe a little. I had a long flight to think it over.—

Her smile widened slightly, but she still didn’t drop her guard entirely. —So, what now? You’re just going to sweep me off my feet and promise the world?—

—Something like that,— he teased, his lips quirking up into a smirk. Then, more seriously, he added, —But I’m not promising perfection. I’m promising effort. I know it’s not going to be easy, and I know we’ll have moments where it feels impossible. But I’m willing to fight for it, for you, if you’ll let me.—

Amelie looked down at the table, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine glass. She seemed to be weighing his words, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. After a moment, she glanced up at him, her expression softening.

—You’re really something, Lando Norris,— she murmured, shaking her head with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

—Is that a good thing?— he asked, his grin tentative.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest as she gave him a long, assessing look. Then, out of nowhere, she smirked. —Why are you sitting all the way over there?—

The question caught him off guard, and his brows furrowed in confusion. —What do you mean?—

She gestured to the small gap between them, raising an eyebrow. —I mean, you’re sitting all the way over there like we’re at some formal business dinner. Move closer, Lando.—

He blinked, a slow grin spreading across his face as he realized she was teasing him. —You could’ve just asked nicely.—

—Where’s the fun in that?— she shot back, her smirk turning playful.

Lando didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed his plate and wine glass, scooting his chair around the corner of the table until he was seated beside her. Close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, close enough that their knees brushed under the table. He set his things down and looked at her, his heart racing as he reached for her hand.

Amelie glanced down at their joined hands, her fingers hesitating for a brief moment before curling around his. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through him, and he realized just how much he’d missed this, missed her.

—Better?— he asked, his voice soft.

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. —Better.—

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the soft glow of the candles casting warm shadows across the room. Lando traced circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. He knew they still had a lot to talk about, a lot to work through, but for now, he was content to just be here with her.

Eventually, Amelie broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. —You really mean it, don’t you?—

—Every word,— he said without hesitation, meeting her gaze. —I’m not here to play games, Amelie. I’m here because I want this, want you.—

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if trying to find any cracks in his resolve. But when she spoke again, her voice was steady, her words laced with cautious hope.

—Okay.—

His heart skipped a beat. —Okay?—

She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. —Okay. Let’s try this. But if you screw up, Norris, I’m not giving you another chance.—

—I won’t screw up,— he promised, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. —Not this time.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of fondness in her expression. —You’d better not.—

Lando couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face, and before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a soft, tentative kiss. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head, deepening the kiss just enough to make his heart race.

When they finally broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, and she was looking at him with an expression that made his chest ache in the best way.

—You’re lucky the pasta was good,— she teased, her voice light.

Lando laughed, the sound warm and genuine. —Noted. Good pasta, good kisses. Got it.—

She rolled her eyes again, but she was smiling, and for the first time in a long time, Lando felt like maybe, just maybe, they had a real shot at making this work.