#getting a little silly with it as it were

[kashverse]

mamakuna showing babykuna pictures of dadkuna and mamakuna when they started dating to then getting married : 3

this was such a sweet thing to write, thank you for requesting :)

sometimes, when you feel particularly sentimental, you like to take out an old shoebox hidden in the back of your closet—a silly little memory box from when you and sukuna were still young, brimming with more ambition than the capitalist machine could ever contain.

and, naturally, babykuna, with her insatiable curiosity and her obsessive love for anything you do, wiggles herself onto your lap, her chubby hands grabbing at the pictures you pull out. "what’s this one, mama?" she asks excitedly, waving around a photo.

it’s an old one. a bit worn at the edges. you smile fondly as you look at it—it's from back when you and sukuna were just coworkers, sitting stiffly in a boardroom, surrounded by serious-looking people in suits. your hair is neatly pulled back, and sukuna’s? a disaster. 

"this was when papa and i worked together at our old job," you explain, pointing to yourselves. babykuna squints at the picture, then at her father sitting beside you, who is watching the two of you with amusement. "papa looks like he fought a tornado," she says matter-of-factly. sukuna scoffs. "it was called having style."

"it was called oversleeping and showing up late," you correct, laughing. sukuna grumbles under his breath, but babykuna is already diving into the box again, plucking out another picture. this one is years later—in front of the building of sukuna's newly formed company. his tie is a bit loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he's beaming—really beaming—in a way he wasn't in the last picture. "this is when papa started his own company," you explain, brushing your fingers over the photo.

"he looks so happy!" babykuna giggles. "yeah," you chuckle, nudging sukuna. "he was so happy he picked me up and spun me around right after this was taken."

"that’s called celebrating," sukuna says smugly. babykuna nods seriously, then turns back to the box.

next, she pulls out a photobooth strip—four little snapshots.

first one: you and sukuna sitting side by side, a little stiff but comfortable.

second one: sukuna leaning in a little closer, you both mid-laugh.

third one: you two are cheek to cheek now, eyes crinkled with amusement.

fourth one: sukuna halfway through biting your cheek. your face is a picture of betrayal.

"papa, why are you eating mama?!" babykuna exclaims, horrified. "i was just showing my love," sukuna grins.

"with your teeth?!"

"yep."

"ew."

you sigh, shaking your head, but the next picture has you laughing immediately. it’s a shot of you and sukuna in matching santa costumes, both looking like you were dragged into this against your will. your mouth is open mid-yell, probably reacting to sukuna biting your cheek—again. "uncle gojo's birthday party," you say, still laughing.

babykuna stares at the photo. "papa," she says slowly.

"yeah?"

"why do you keep biting mama?!"

"i like the way she tastes."

"ewwww!"

and then finally—she finds the last set of photos. polaroids, from your wedding. not the big, polished, magazine-worthy shots hung around your home—these ones are natural, candid, genuine. one where you and sukuna are laughing mid-toast, your glasses clinking together. one where sukuna is helping you fix your veil, an unexpectedly soft look on his face. one where you’re leaning against his chest, eyes closed, his arms wrapped around you. babykuna gasps dramatically. "mama, papa, you look so boo-tiful."

"yeah?" sukuna murmurs, looking over the photos with a soft smirk. babykuna nods. "like princess and dragon."

you snort. “who's who?” 

she blinks. 

"…obviously papa is the dragon."

sukuna grins, ruffling her hair. "damn right."

babykuna presses the photos to her chest, looking between you and sukuna with the happiest little smile. "i wanna keep these forever."

sukuna leans back, watching the two of you gush over the memories, and realizes something - he's already won everything he's ever wanted.

[no-144444]

the trouble with racing- o.piastri

summary: a the first race of the season, oscar figures something out that could change his life forever.

pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You had always loved going to races, especially to see Oscar win. Home races were a big deal, and against your better judgement, you allowed Max to drag you along. You hadn’t seen him in years, not since he left F2 and left you behind. No text, no calls, just a note saying he couldn't do it anymore. Couldn’t love you anymore. Max was your brother in law, he’d married your sister years ago, and you two had bonded over your shared love of racing, but he’d never understood why you wouldn’t go to a GP. He also didn’t get why you wouldn’t let your daughter anywhere near the sport, when she already loved it so much, but to each their own. 

“Come on P,” you smiled, holding her hand and pulling her away from the gates of the paddock. All you had to do was get through the weekend. Just babysit Poppy and take care of Mia, and you’d be fine, right?

“Can we visit uncle Lando?” she asked and you grimaced. 

“We’ll see, first we should put all our stuff in Redbull, yeah?” you smiled at her and she nodded, running on to catch up with Max as he walked through the paddock. Your sister, busy pregnant with her second child, had decided to stay home and not fly, thereby giving Max a reason to beg you to help him out and take care of P. You had reluctantly agreed, and that’s how you ended up in the McLaren Motorhome, chatting to Lando. You’d met him a few times before, just in passing with Max, or at P’s birthday parties. He was sweet. 

“And how’s my favourite girl doing?” he asked, taking Mia out of your arms. 

You chuckled, watching the exchange. 

“Hi,” her meek little voice made Lando smile and laugh. 

“Hi Mia,” he waved. “Do you want to have a look at my car?

She nodded. 

“Do you want to sit in my car?” 

She nodded vigorously. 

“You don’t have to-” you started but he cut you off. 

“It’s fine, mechanics are done with it anyways. Onward we go!” he giggled, and you followed behind the two with P beside you. 

“I want to talk to Oscar!” P smiled. 

“He’s in the garage, you can go say hi,” Lando informed her and she ran ahead, straight for the garage. 

You felt your anxiety spike. He wouldn’t say anything, surely? He had nothing to say when he left. He should have nothing to say now. 

Lando and Mia got on like two peas in a pod, and you took all the photos while he talked to her about the different parts of the steering wheel and how it all worked. 

“Y/n?” Nicole’s voice brought you out of your bubble, and you felt yourself stiffen. “Is that you?” 

You turned around to see her shocked face, Hattie, Eddie, Mae, and Tim all standing behind her, the same surprised look. 

“Hi,” you smiled awkwardly. “How are you guys?”

“We’re good,” Nicole nodded, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that you were here. “H-How are you?”

“I’m good, thank you,” you nodded. 

“W-What are you doing here?” she asked. 

“Max Verstappen is my brother in law,” you explained. “He needed help with P-”

Just then, Poppy came bounding in, Oscar hot on her tail and wrapped her arms around your midriff.  “Auntie Y/n, am I allowed to root for two teams?” 

You smiled down at her, playing with her hair as she leant against you. “Of course, once one of them is Max.”

She looked at you, unamused. “Of course it is silly!” 

You chuckled. 

“Mom!” Mia giggled. “Look, I’m a racer!”

You turned back to Lando and Mia and saw her with her hands on the steering wheel, Lando dying of laughter as he took photos. You chuckled. “Well done baby.”

You turned back to see a horrified look on Oscar’s face, and the rest of his family looking at you surprised. “Well, it was nice to see you, but I’d better get back to Redbull,” you smiled before turning back to Lando. “Thank you Lan, she loves this stuff.”

He nodded, taking her out of the car and handing her to you. “See you later,” he called as you three left. 

Fuck. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

The Piastri’s were stunned into a sort of shocked silence. Nicole was looking at her son, a million thoughts running through her head. 

“Lando,” Oscar spoke up. “Who’s kid is that?”

“Mia?” he asked, his face hardened. “Y/n’s.”

“How old is she?” Nicole rushed out. “Is Y/n married? Does Mia have a dad-?”

“Mia’s four,” he answered, calm and calculated. “Y/n’s been single since she found out, and Mia does have a dad; Oscar.” 

And Oscar’s world crumbled. He thought he was doing the best thing for you, getting you out of his insane life before it all got too crazy for you. He thought he was fixing things by leaving you behind. But all this time, he could’ve been a dad. He could’ve been there for you, while you were pregnant, while you were exhausted with a newborn, while you were alone. There hadn’t been a day that had gone by where he didn’t think about you, and wished you were still there with him, but it was his choice, and he made it. He started at the floor, trying to process it all. That kid was half him, half you. Mia. That was the name you’d both decided on if you ever got pregnant and it was a girl. You still had him in mind when you were naming her. 

“Oscar,” Lando’s voice was low. “Y/n has spend four fucking years without you, because that’s what you wanted. You wanted her to leave, so she left. She’s happy, after being very unhappy for a really long time. Do not fuck this up for her. Yes, you have a right to your child, but just think about the fact that she’s been doing fine without you for four years.”

“I-I… Can I talk to her?” he asked no one in particular. “I never knew.” 

“You blocked her on everything, how was she supposed to tell you?” Lando scolded. 

“Quali starts in 15 minutes,” Nicole interjected. “I’ll go speak to her.” 

“No,” Oscar sighed. “I’ll talk to her after. Let me sort this out, alright?” 

She nodded.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Pole position didn’t taste as good as he wanted it to, especially when it also meant he had about 2 extra hours of interviews. He just wanted to see you. He just wanted to talk to you. He wanted to see Mia. 

He rushed to the RedBull garage, searching high and low for you until he ran into Max. 

“Hey mate,” Max smiled. “Alright?”

“Where’s Y/n?” he asked, frantic. 

“My sister in law?” he questioned and Oscar nodded. “She went back to the hotel.” 

“Which hotel?” 

“I’ll drive with you, come on,” Max offered and Oscar took it. “Why do you need her?” 

“I just… we have to talk about some things,” Oscar explained as they sat in the back of a car, driving towards the hotel. “We went to school together.”

“No way!” Max chuckled, not getting the fact that Oscar was seriously stressed and nervous. “That’s so fun, she dated a guy called Oscar for like five years and they met in high school,” Max’s head suddenly swivelled to meet Oscar’s eyes. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Oscar lied. “No, we were just friends.” 

“Good, whoever that Oscar is, is the one that left her high and dry when she got pregnant,” he scoffed. “Dickhead.”

That didn’t exactly help the pit of guilt in Oscar’s stomach, but he nodded along anyway. 

The rest of the car journey was easy, both of them just chatting about the race tomorrow. When they got to the hotel, Max told him your room number, and Oscar was shooting off towards it. He stood in the elevator, it was a surreal feeling to find out that you had a kid, and he was also about to see the love of his life for the second time in four years. 

He knocked on the door, and herald giggles from Mia, and his heart swelled. You opened the door a crack and smiled in his general direction, but then you realised it was him, grabbed a keycard and came out, closing the door behind you. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” he admitted. “I never knew-”

“I know and I’m sorry- I didn’t want to just… spring it on you like this but I knew you’d have to find out eventually- only Lando knows you’re her dad, and I wanted to tell you, I-I just… It never felt like the right time-”

“I’m her dad?” he questioned, his eyes filling with tears. You nodded, crossing your arms. “All this time and I could've been a dad?”

“I wanted to tell you, I swear, I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to baby trap you or anything, so I let it be and I just got more and more anxious about it, so I just stopped coming to GPs. I know this is a lot and I’m sorry-” you felt yourself tearing up. You knew Oscar wanted to be dad more than anything at all, but you were terrified. He’d broken up with you using a note. 

He wrapped his arms around you, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why you’re apologising. I’m the asshole. I should’ve been here, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t. I love you-”

“Osc-”

“No, I do. I only broke up with you because Zak told me ‘no distractions or realtionships’ and even then I couldn’t break up with you in person, I had to do it with a fucking note. I’ve loved you since we met in school, and I’m sorry that I let you go through this alone. If you’ll let me, I want to be in her life, and maybe yours too.”

Your features eased gently, but he knew what it meant. He knew you like the back of his hand, still. “I’m not sure about my life, but you do have a daughter who definitely would love a dad like you.”

“An F1 driver?” he questioned.

“No,” you chuckled. “A good person, come on,” you ushered him in, revealing Mia on the bed in her pyjamas, freshly bathed as she read a book. “Mia,” you spoke gently. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet-”

“Oscar Piastri!” she cheered. “Pole position!”

He chuckled and looked at you quizzically, as you smiled. 

“She got the racing bug from you,” you smiled at her, your voice low so she couldn’t hear. He beamed with pride. 

“Is she into karting?” he asked and you rolled your eyes. 

“Only three days a week,” you sighed. “She loves it, as much as you did.”

He nodded. “Hi Mia, what book have you got there?” 

“The ABC’s of racing,” she explained. 

“Do you mind if I read it to you tonight instead of your mom?” he offered and she nodded, beaming with excitement. 

He looked at you with a hopeful smile and you nodded, giving him the go-ahead. As you watched him sit beside her in bed, reading to her until she fell asleep against him, as much as your heart was full, you couldn’t escape that unmistakable dread that bubbled in your stomach. Oscar could leave again, you'd just be heartbroken. You had to be smart about this, not let him near you, just let him be a dad to Mia. 

You could do that, right?

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[vrystalius]

hiii there, i was wondering if we please get some more recruiter/salesman cutesy stuff?? you’re such a good writer (love your work) and we do NOT have enough fics of him being an enamoured wife guy on this app. thank you <3 😔

Secret Love Notes.

You keep slipping small love notes into all his pockets and suitcases to remind him that his wife loves him no matter what.

Pairing: Recruiter/Gong Yoo x wife!reader

Summary: You leave small love notes all over for him to find and he cherishes every single one of them.

Words: 0.7k, short and sweet!

Genre: fluff <33

Your husband never admits it out loud to you, but he notices how you slip little love notes into his pocket when folding up the laundry or when packing him a bento box. They have cute little encouragements and affirmations written on them along with some doodles of you two together, holding hands, kissing and whatnot.

You think you’re being sneaky by crouching a little when approaching his coat hung up by the entrance, stuffing a small folded note into his chest pocket.

Whenever he is about to go out the door, you hand him his leather suitcase and a colourful bento box you packed for him. Once you found out Gong Yo only plain loaves of bread or sometimes even nothing at all, you always insisted on packing some food for him so your poor husband can eat something home cooked every day.

Even if the box doesn’t match his aesthetics, he savours every bite and would never shy away from letting out a loud hum of content.

Gong Yoo sat comfortably on a wooden bench by the metro station, well aware of the two mobsters following him the whole day, but who cares?

He leisurely opened up the bento box. His face brightened up at the sight of another small love letter presented to him.

“Keep it up! You’re going great ♡ Your wife loves you ~ ☆ “

Accompanied by your sweet words was a chibi doodle of you doing a heart with your index finger and thumb and him as a chibi too, holding a pair of chopsticks and giving you a wink. He chuckled quietly to himself and folded the note to keep it in his pocket by his heart.

Once, after successfully recruiting a new player, Gong Yoo handed the confused and wounded man your love note with a confident smirk. That man was lucky to have escaped the games but was kind of confused on why a handsome looking salesman gave him a love letter that reminded him to “stay hydrated!! ☆ (drinking coffee doesn’t count >:( )”

He tries to leave behind as many love notes as you lovingly prepare for him, but his doodles were kind of wonky and presented you in a rather disturbing light.

Sticking to his trusty craft of origami your husband instead began leaving small paper roses for you to find as a way to leave his own love messages.

A paper rose in the fridge, in the pocket of your jacket, in your bag and on your pillow; they change colours based on the day too. Blue and red are the most frequent and popular ones though for some reason. Probably because those are the only kinds of coloured paper he owns.

After every day you leave letters behind for him, Gong Yoo always tries to come home on time to properly thank you for them. Pampering you is his favourite activity, meaning you get banned from the kitchen and forcibly made comfortable on your bed or couch with cushions and blankets to keep you warm and cozy.

To return the favour of you preparing bento for him, he’ll cook you a fine dinner that could rival that of high-end restaurants. Afterwards, he’ll make himself comfortable right next to you to plant well deserved kisses all over your face and body and let his hand travel over your body freely, tracing invisible patterns.

A man like him should not be holding a woman like you, that’s what he’s always thinking. You are way too good for him, too gentle, kind, loving, too much of everything good.

“I love you. More than letters or silly paper roses can convey. Allow me to demonstrate just how much I love my wife, hmm?”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

The amount of smut and non-con about this man is INSANE, I just need to live my silly life as a wife with him where we snuggle on the couch like a boring cuddle every night and then go to sleep while he read a book and I knit like grandparents 🫶😭 Anyways, hope you enjoyed it anon!!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[inbabylontheywept]

Babylon and the Duck of Butter

I have a gift for falling in love with random objects. One time, my aunt got me a little rubber chicken, and whenever I squoze it, a little egg thing popped out. Very silly. Except that chicken became something like my best friend. I carried it with me to school, and I kept it with me in my pocket, and whatever social hazards there were about Being The Guy Who Got Stressed Whenever His Rubber Chicken Was Missing were far outweighed by being The Guy Who ALWAYS Had a Rubber Chicken On Him. There's a lot of comedic opportunity that comes with always having a good prop on your person.

Of course, the chicken did eventually. Explode. And such was my grief that I did not eat for 36 hours. This was very stressful for many people. Mostly my mom. I was a very strange child to work with. She took parenting so incredibly seriously, and then I'd pitch her these curve balls like refusing to eat for a day and a half because my rubber chicken died. No parenting book tells you what to do when that happens. You just have to feel it in your heart.

A less tragic story of an object that I fell in love with was a large, foam toad that I found in a trinket shop. The toad was the size of a very large grapefruit. Much too large to carry with me to school (thank god) but enough that I could move it around the house, to keep me company during my solitary pursuits. If I was reading, the toad was there, and if I was tinkering with legos, the toad was there, and even when I slept, I would wrap the toad up in layers and layers of blankets, and then spoon it. I did this until the rubber coating on the foam started to wear out, and the foam started to get brittle and break down and leak this repulsive yellow powder. Then I simply put the toad in the playroom and would consult it on matters of great importance. Eventually I stopped doing that, and someone took the opportunity to dispose of it. Not sure who. By the time I noticed its absence, too much time had passed for me to actually be sad. As an adult, part of me thinks I would have maybe liked burying the toad, but part of me also thinks I might have refused to part with the toad, which would have resulted in it leaking more repulsive yellow powder into the house. So I understand why that decision was made. 

I want to state that this does not happen often, and it does not happen on purpose. I don't choose to fall in love with random objects. And it's always a little bit embarrassing when it happens. 

Which brings me to my wife. 

Before meeting my wife, I did not often go to places with crowds. I didn't really think of it as avoiding them - those places just didn't seem fun to me. But she liked those places, and I really liked her, and being with someone who really likes something can kind of sell you on liking it too, so I'd take her to places and watch her Visibly Enjoy the Fair and go: Alright. The fair is pretty sweet.  

Which is a thing that happened. After fourish months of dating, I took her to the fair. And she fell very visibly in love with a large series of quilts, and she stayed near them for a while, which she thought was very embarrassing, and I got to pretend to be understanding as an outsider, because I thought it would be much more impressive than also being the type of person that would fall in love with a quilt. 

Do not do this. The gods punishment for my hubris was that the room next to the quilts was full of butter sculptures, which was an entirely new thing to me, and I immediately fell embarrassingly in love with all of them. It was like the biggest, sappiest non-sexual crush you've ever had, but not only did the other person not recipropcate, they could not, because they were made of butter. I actually got yelled at for pressing my face against the glass, which is fair, but also, I hadn't realized I was pressing my face on the glass, I just started leaning forward because after approximately 30 minutes of staring wistfully at a cow made of butter my legs got tired. And I think I should be given some grace for that.

Anyway. My wife was very patient with me taking more time to look at the butter sculptures than the average person might spent at the Louvre, and she also felt much less embarrassed over falling in love with a quilt, and we had a good laugh about it on the ferris wheel. 

A few weeks after that was my birthday. And I don't know what I expected, exactly - but I did not expect what she did. 

Dear reader, she made me a butter sculpture. Of a duck.

She picked a duck, because our first kiss was at a Japanese friendship garden. It was our second date, and she'd made up her mind not to do any kissing until the third date, but as we sat on the grass, a duck walked past me, and I'd just seen the hold-duck-gentle-like-hamgurber meme,

so I sort of impulsively reached out and snatched it. I honestly didn't think it would work. I don't know who was more flabbergasted, me or the duck. But we looked at each other, and then I looked at her, and then she looked at the duck, and she looked so incredibly envious that I assumed that must have wanted the duck so I just handed it to her.

It turned out she was actually envious of the ability to just grab a duck as it walked by, but she accepted the duck and stroked it a few times before releasing it. (She also made up her mind to kiss me in that moment, which was very nice.)  

Anyway.

She made me a butter duck of my own. Obviously, I fell in love with it immediately. I cleared out all of the freezer-portion of my mini fridge, and I put the duck in there, and for the next several months, when I felt sad, or lonely, I would open the door up and spent some quality time. Just me and my duck.

But this is, of course, not the end of the story. 

Because.

After several months. 

The mini fridge died. 

I really didn't use it that often. It was mostly my duck storage container. But one day, I walked by it, and it struck me that it wasn't humming. So I opened the door, and it was just. Far, far too late. The duck was dead. Dead dead. Turned into a foul-smelling slime dead. 

I cried. I did. After the rubber chicken thing, I thought I had changed, but I had not changed, and the unexpected death of my butter buddy left me pretty shook. I texted my then-girlfriend now-wife about how sad I was, and she actually came over to help me say goodbye. We didn't even bother scraping the duck out of the mini-fridge, we just said our goodbyes to both and threw them together in the nice dumpster behind the chapel, because it seemed appropriate to put it in God's dumpster. And it did actually help quite a bit. I certainly did not go 36 hours without eating again. 

And that was, for some time, the end of the butter duck. 

However. Three (or four?) years ago, for my birthday, my wife was looking around thrift stores. And she found something interesting. 

The original butter duck had an odd pose. She'd sculpted it laying flat, intending to raise it up later. But the butter was less flexible than she thought, and she was afraid of cracking it so she left it down which left the duck with a very elongated, very in-motion appearance. And she found a brass statue of a duck in the same, running posture.

It wasn't the original. But it was oddly on the nose. It was a yellow brass, it had the same strange posture, the same crude little face feathers. 

I think it was $3, but it remains perhaps the most thoughtful gift I have ever received. I got very choked up when I unwrapped Butter Duck, The UnDying. 

Pic provided.

[luveline]

hiiii was hoping you could write reader tries makeup for the first time and is a bit self-conscious about it with poly! Just something sweet and fluffy. Thank you, love your other fics btw.

The article you read said that this sort of stuff is best to attempt in small amounts. If you aren’t used to foundation, try a liquid concealer and a skin tint —that way you can spread it as thin as you like. It says foundation, skin tints, or any kind of face makeup tends to look ‘cakey’ at first because you aren’t used to it and neither is your skin, but makeup doesn’t have to look perfect up close. Honestly, it’s a friendly, assuring article, and it actually gives you the confidence to buy a skin tint, a concealer, a mascara, and a lip gloss. There’s even a cherry-scented finishing spray that promises to melt everything together. 

You figure you’ll try it all while the boys are out. That way, if it looks too cakey or bad or just plain silly, you can wipe it away and hide the evidence. 

You wet your little sponge as the magazine says. You’ve moisturised and waited for it to dry down. With a breath, you smooth the skin tint into the back of your hand and start to dot it into your face gently, a little all over. Acting fast, you pick up your sponge and dab it across your cheeks. 

It’s nerve-wracking, though it’s not like you can’t fix it if it goes wrong. You feel embarrassingly out of your depth, and you would prefer this goes well. 

The first issue is your nose. It looks a little cakey at the nostrils, the skin tint, so you wipe it with your finger and make it worse. Eyes wide, you dab it again with your sponge and relax when it spreads out. 

Neck, you think. The magazine said don’t forget to smooth it down your neck, or you’ll get a ‘tarty’ line. You dab it down and assess in the mirror. 

… it doesn’t look too bad. 

Smiling gently, you press a little of the lip gloss onto the back of your hand and debate the next tip. It’s a sheer one, and it can give a ‘pop’ of colour to your cheeks if you’re careful. Why not, you think eventually, tapping a little of it into the bell of your cheeks. 

Things are definitely going too well. You look odd, maybe, but the sponge is great. Everything smooths out. 

Mascara is much harder than the skin stuff. Your eyes water as the wand approaches. It takes ages to actually touch the mascara to your eyelashes, and then it looks sort of clumpy, spider-webby, but the article said you can wipe it off and try again. The second time you almost blind yourself, teeth gritted as you realise there’s mascara all under your eye. You take it off with a wet-wipe and dap the skin around your eyes with your sponge to fix the mess. It looks darker, still, but eventually you get the mascara on and your eyelashes look longer and… 

You smile at yourself in the mirror. 

You look really cute. 

You turn your face one way and then another, smile growing wider. Your skin looks even, your eyes look bigger, and— the gloss! You pick it up and squeeze some onto your lips, rubbing them together, cleaning the corners with your pinky finger.  

The door slams open downstairs with a colossal bang, and you jump so hard you send the mirror careening across and off of the bed. With the open door comes a wave of noise, laughter loud and ringing. 

“What have you boys done now?” you murmur to yourself.

You leave your makeup on the bed. For a second, you debate hiding it back in the pink drugstore bag and wiping the makeup off before heading downstairs. You look cute, but what if they don’t like it? None of them have ever told you to wear it before. Sirius wears it more often than you. He might have a laugh when he sees it. 

“Baby!” one of them yells, laughing hard enough to disguise their voice. “You have to come down here!” 

You fret. That’s Sirius calling, his giggling sweet enough to make you wish you were sitting in his lap, but suddenly you’re overthinking things. Just because you think the makeup looks alright doesn’t mean it really does, and the boys are already laughing. You don’t wanna give them another reason. 

“Are you up there?” Sirius calls again. “Sweetheart?” 

“I’m coming!” you call back. 

“I was getting worried you weren’t here! Come on, you have to see this!” 

You go without thinking. At the bottom of the stairs, James and Sirius are crowded together, their laughter beyond reason —there are tears streaming down James’ face from laughing so hard, and Sirius is clutching him as though worried he’s gonna fall over. 

Remus is laughing too, but he’s not so obscene about it. “Hey, Y/N,” he says nicely, “you okay?” 

“What’s so funny?” 

Sirius unfolds a newspaper you hadn’t noticed clutched in his arm. “Every time I look I’m sure I’ll piss myself.” 

You all look down at the newspaper. Immediately, James is whining and laughing so hard you reach out to steady him, laughing yourself as he falls into your shoulder. “Christ,” he squeezes out. “Life is so– so perfect.“

On the front page of the local Daily Argus is a full-colour photo of Lucius Malfoy being arrested, two police officers behind him, his wrists cuffed and his face wane of colour. 

DON'T THINK HIS FATHER WILL BE HEARING ABOUT THIS ONE —Lucius Malfoy, 26, business owner and young entrepreneur arrested for fraud and conspiracy yesterday night at his offices in the Sacred Families building. Malfoy, when asked to give a statement, said his father will be hearing about this, whatever that means. 

“But what’s–”

Sirius points at Lucius’ crotch, pointing out that his trousers are slipping down his thighs, and he’s wearing boxers with his girlfriend Narcissa’s face on them. Narcissa, as in, Sirius’ older cousin. 

“What the fuck,” you say with a giggle of your own. You hate Sirius’ family and anyone related to them, so seeing Lucius down for the count is especially satisfying. “You can see his–”

“I know!” Sirius almost screams, his laugh increasingly high-pitched. 

You giggle and begin wiping the tears off of James’ cheek. “You guys are too much,” you murmur. 

“We came right back to show you,” Sirius says. 

“I’m thrilled.” You tip James’ head up to finish cleaning off his cheeks. “That’s so funny, you’re terrible,” you say, beaming as James finally tears his gaze from the paper. The mirth in his expression settles, but his smile does this strange wobble before he’s holding you by the back of the neck gently.

“Fucking hell,” he says. 

“Don’t–”

“Fucking– You’re lovely,” he blurts out, tipping your head back, all the manner of someone who’s just struck gold. “What have you done?” 

“It’s just makeup.” 

This piques the interest of the other two, Sirius’ laughter finally petering out, and Remus stepping into the light to have a look. “Aw,” Remus says, “you look–”

“Fucking amazing,” Sirius interrupts, his head tipping to the side, his vengeful glee transformed into what can only be described as adoration, “you look fucking amazing, shit–”

“Her cheeks,” James says, which should make you laugh, especially when Sirius and Remus both hum simultaneous agreement, like there really is something special about them. 

“It’s just– I’ve never– it looks silly,” you get out. 

“It does not.” James rubs a hand down your shoulder, as though cleaning you up to better show you off. “Now this is front page material. When did you even learn to do this?” 

“I– today,” you say, heat emanating from your chest to the very tips of your ears. 

“It looks great!” James says, cupping your cheek. 

“Well don’t mess it up, Prongs!” Sirius says.

“It’s okay, it’s not like it’s for anything,” you say. 

“It’s for my camera,” Sirius says, attempting to slip past James to get upstairs.

Thankfully, Remus prevents him. “Stop,” Remus says. 

“Please,” you second. 

“I need to remember!”

“I’ll do it again,” you promise. 

Three boys melting. “You will?” James asks softly. 

You tip your face forward. “Sure, especially if I look better–”

“Hey, hey, who said that?” Remus asks. 

“Don’t be silly,” James says. 

“I really should have a picture,” Sirius says. “We can blow it up like a poster girl. We’ll have it in the bedroom.” 

“That is not funny,” Remus says. 

“Perfectly chaste!” Sirius denies. “Though how I’m expected to think chaste thoughts when she looks like that is another thing. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s practically obscene.” 

“Sirius.” 

Sirius gives you a smile, “I’m just teasing,” he says, though there’s a little bit of something in his dark eyes that says otherwise, just enough to make you shiver, pleased. 

James goes back to holding your cheek, and it’s much too warm now —you break away from the lot of them and make your way to the kitchen. 

“Where are you going?” Remus asks, to your surprised delight. 

“I need a drink,” you say. 

“Well, I’ll get you one,” Sirius says. 

“That’s okay, I think I can do it myself.” 

“But should you have to?” 

From behind you, you hear the subtle jab of an elbow and the less subtle screech of pain. “Fuck off, Prongs, you know she looks insane.” 

A boyish giggle echoes. “Front page for sure.” 

A more relaxed hum. “And now she’ll never wear it again, ‘cos of all the fuss.” 

You wouldn’t necessarily agree. It’s not like they don’t make you feel beautiful, Sirius stood in the doorway clutching his heart the day before yesterday when you got out of the shower citing a sudden shock from how “otherworldly” you looked while your hair was wet, James calls you beautiful more than he uses your name, and you catch Remus looking at you all pleased and flushed multiple times a week, but it’s still different to have had them all at the same time. So yeah, you’ll wear makeup again. You might even reapply the lip gloss you’ve nibbled off. Just to see what they think. 

[bunnybeaches]

141 s/o’s love language is bicep chewing

Price literally could care less. He’s been with you for so long that at this point he’s used to it. Whether it be laying in bed or while he’s working, you’re always nomming on that bicep.

”Honey I’m almost done I promise” John adjusts his glasses as he types away at his laptop in bed. He’s been working all night and frankly you’re tired of it, so you do what you always do. Bite on your favorite chew toy, his bicep.

“Oh dove you really couldn’t help yourself could you? Give me two more minutes” John just chuckles as you chew on his arm. Seems he’s just as stubborn as you are.

Now Johnny will chew on you right back. This man has absolutely no shame. Two playful idiots chewing on each other? sign this man up!! Will absolutely get turned on by this doesn’t matter when or where.

He’s wearing that shirt. That one compression shirt that hugs everything soooo perfectly. His stupidly perfect pecs, toned abs, and god those arms. Those biceps. You can’t help but take a small bite!

“Did ye just bite me?” Johnny stares at you with a dumbfounded expression before he’s tackling you to the ground. Chewing on your arms, soft tummy and your amazing thighs. “Don’t start a fight ye can’t win my love.”

Sweet baby Kyle doesn’t even notice you being silly. Thinks it’s something you do to calm yourself down. At the market? nom. Training? nom. Everywhere? nom.

“Baby can you hand me the list please? I want to see what’s on it.” Kyle looks at you but your mouth is on the bicep of his right arm. Not even chewing your mouth just gently resting there. He stops pushing the cart and moves to stroke your hair. “You ok love? The shoppings almost done then we can go home” He lets you chew or relax your mouth for however long you need.

Simon completely ignores you. You could bite him hard and man wouldn’t even bat an eye. Just like John he’s used to his silly wife’s antics.

Simon lets out the heaviest sigh you’ve ever heard. You really were trying to watch a movie (key word trying) and you decided you needed a little snack. No not that snack, your husband’s delicious bicep. Nothing not a word or anything after you bit down. Your husband just keeps watching the movie. Nothing can get him huh?

Anon i hope i did your ask justice! i accidentally lost it whoops

[silentstaresfanficandfanart]

you know this post seems a lil sad to me, cause when I was stuck in a corn maze I only managed to get out because there was an enthusiastic effort amongst everyone in the corn maze to help one another get through it, pointing the way and offering hints and asking questions When I was in the dmv so miserably early the doors hadn't even opened yet people were bringing over big buckets for others to sit on, and when inside there were so many random acts of kindness between the individuals there and silly little interactions that by the time I finally got my driving test done there was an air of kinship in the air and I only got out so quickly because another person realized she'd gotten something wrong paperwork wise and gave me her place in line

And when I hurt my wrist as a kid everyone kindly held open doors for me at every turn When my mom and I got stranded in the middle of no where thanks to a car issue like 5 different people stopped by our car and asked if we were okay, offered to help, (we were waiting for the repair guys or something like that) and warned us "its a bad area so be careful" and yet not once did anything bad happen at all, every person we saw was kind and worried for our wellbeing...(which while that does make me wonder what on earth they were trying to warn us about it did give me the impression at the time that perhaps they just all had some sort of beef with other, but i was a little kid so I wouldnt really know, it seemed to me like it was in fact a much nicer than average area)

When tragedy strikes don't people rush out to help?

When there's a hurricaine, a fire, a tornado, an earthquake, don't neighbors rush to help and protect one another? don't we try to save each other? don't we express heartache and rage when the first response ISINT to help? Why is it that our first response is rage? grief? heartbreak? when the first response to a bad situation is to take advantage of it or to abandon those suffering, or worse yet, to yank them back down?

Because we are social animals Crabs dont likely understand why they cant get out or even that theyre forcing the other crabs to stay in the bucket when they yank and pull, they just think its a way to pull themselves up, they dont have enough going on to grasp how physics works or to be cruel and want others to suffer with them.

Selfishness does exist, but it's not the rule

it's the exception, and we shout and point when it happens.

Of course we notice, because kindness is the rule

do we know the names of every single individual to ever save another human life? let alone to save thousands? Have we memorized the names of heroes who eradicated disease or created safety guidelines or fought for rights and for goodness in this world? Is it not the names of those we revile that we focus on most

telling our children of their crimes?

Why don't we focus more on every hero? Because theres just too many of them, because being a good decent human being is the norm.

Maybe not perfect, maybe even a pretty messed up human being but with a good heart, goodness knows I know a lot of people who while you might not say "thats a great person" you'd also never call them cruel or evil, just that they could use some help or deserve better lives.

I truly believe humans for the most part are good, and I say this without denying the evil exists. I am vividly, horrifically aware of the darkness in this world, but I refuse to let that define our race because to do so would be to excuse those who chose to do the wrong thing.

I believe humans are above all else, defined by the fact we can chose right or wrong. I dont want those who do evil to be the ones who represent us, in my mind or in anyone elses mind

They are the exception to a kinder rule.

this is just a me ramble though , my opinion thats not more valuable than anyone elses, just one I felt like sharing, because maybe it will bring someone some relief...

I used to feel guilty as a child for being human, for being something as horrible as that, and I know maybe some others did or do too

But remember please like mewtwo once said, its not the circumstances of your birth which defines you, but what you do with the gift of life.

we are not evil we are capable of it.

we are not good

we are capable of it.

and we will do both in our lives.

but I have been pleasantly surprised now that I'm older and know more about the world to see that in fact the world isint just like in history books overflowing with grief and pain, and convinced that since everyone said children were naive and unaware, that it must be worse than I could ever imagine

but in fact the world is full of the mundane, and every day normal people go about their lives and chose to be decent to one another and often do much more kindness than we will ever know.

I'm glad we arent crabs in a bucket

i love you all

people are like "if you put crabs in a bucket they can't escape because they keep pulling each other back in, this is called crab bucket mentality and describes why people don't help each other" and never acknowledge that crabs do not naturally occur in buckets, a human with more power had to put them there

[ditzydoe444]

Perv Jason with Puppy reader who falls asleep on the couch in an oversized shirt and short, but no underwear of any kind, which leads to him lifting up her shirt or pulling down her shorts to take pictures of her while she sleeps

MDNI 18+

jason came over for dinner as you insisted to cook for him as a way to ‘thank’ him for all of his hard work. after dinner you forced him to watch one of your favourite silly cartoon shows, despite it being your favourite you were clearly tired enough to fall asleep.

jason couldn’t help but to stare, you were wearing an oversized shirt and tiny shorts with your bare legs out. he knew he shouldn’t, but being so damn close to you and smelling your sweet perfume drove jason insane. he couldn’t help but to admire the view, your smooth bare legs so close to his, and how you were so blissfully unaware of his perverted thoughts.

as you snuggled deeper into the couch, your shirt and shorts rose up, exposing how you weren’t wearing anything underneath, even panties.

jason knew you were a deep sleeper, he’s heard you talk about and seen it first hand. this wasn’t the first time you were asleep around him. on halloween you had invited him to watch scary movies together, only to fall asleep within the first one. you wore the tiniest pair of pyjamas and was just innocently sleeping beside him, he couldn’t help but to slide his hands under his briefs to get some sort of release.

this time however, he wanted something more permanent, not some temporary release. he couldn’t help himself from gently pulling up the hem of your shirt, making it expose even more. he knew it shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself from taking a few pictures. you wore the tiniest shorts but with no panties meaning at the right angle he would see your bare cunt. slowly, he pulled up her short just a little bit to get a glimpse of more skin, snapping photos on his phone.

jason went home that night with a secret folder in his phone that that he would jerk off to.

[meinii]

“you’re my safe place”

sypnosis: life has been rough on you these past days so you find some comfort in Sylus’ arms ♡

content: fluff, nicknames (sweetie, kitten)

୨୧･｡｡･♡･∴･♡･｡｡･୨୧

you’ve been under the weather lately—nothing really seemed to go your way, and your mind was all over the place. Sylus knew, which is why he was now brushing your hair as you sat at the vanity he had bought just for you. you had mentioned wanting one, but your house was too small—so, of course, his mansion had space for it

“you’ve been quiet,” he said, his eyes locking onto your tired face in the mirror “is something bothering you, sweetie?”

you smiled slightly at the nickname, enjoying his soft touch

“it’s just been hard, you know? I never seem to be doing enough” you fidgeted with your hands as he neatly braided your hair

he wrapped your hands in his as he lowered himself to your height

“not enough?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “are we talking about the same person? you always do so much without giving yourself credit”

you wrapped your arms around him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. his strong arms pulled you in, one hand gently stroking your hair

“now stop saying silly things. let’s get you to bed”

he picked you up and carried you both to bed, laying your bodies under the comfy, colorful blankets you had gotten him because ‘his room is too dark and needs more color’

“you’re my safe place” you murmured, looking into his eyes

“I’m afraid you’re the only one who would say that, kitten” he whispered, holding you tighter

as your eyes fluttered closed, you felt the steady rise and fall of Sylus’ chest beneath your cheek, his warmth grounding you. his fingers continued their gentle strokes through your hair, lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days

“get some rest” he murmured against your forehead, his voice low and soothing

you sighed, nuzzling closer, letting the comfort of his presence wash over you. the weight of the day, the doubt lingering in your chest—it all felt a little lighter with him here

“will you stay?” you whispered, barely audible, but he heard you anyway

his arms tightened around you in response “where else would I be?”

a small smile played at your lips as sleep finally pulled you under. the last thing you registered was the soft press of his lips against your temple and the steady beat of his heart—a quiet reminder that you were never truly alone

[meadow-lands-faerie]

"Everyone does silly things like skip over cracks! It's just a fun little superstition"

Has it been seen as a literal life or death action from your brain since you were 6 years old?

"You're supposed to wash your hands regularly, that's a common thing!"

Have you ever washed them so often you lost count, and you only felt clean if you got them to be red raw and bleed?

There's normal, there's getting a lil weird but hey it's just a quirk, and there's "You seriously need to talk to someone about this".

"everyone experiences [symptom]" how many times does it have to be explained that it's often about the frequency of the symptom, not the symptom itself

[cleo-fox]

Conquer

Part 3 of 5

Series Masterlist

Series Summary: The king intends to take a bride. You just never thought it would be you. (Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Chapter Summary: Loki proposes a challenge and your plan goes very awry.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

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

Chapter Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, edging, teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, orgasm delay, semi-public sex, light Dom/sub, light bondage, sex toys, oral sex (see series masterlist for series warnings)

A/N: Woof, sorry for the delay on this chapter. It was surprisingly challenging to write and it took me a minute to figure it out. But it's here! Lemme know what you think!

Loki only calls you ‘wife’ when he has sex on his mind—he knows it gets you riled up.

He doesn’t usually break it out at the breakfast table, though.

“I’ve noticed something, wife.” His eyes are glittering in a way that always signals he’s up to no good.

You cross one leg over the other and try to keep your expression neutral, even as your stomach jumps and your heart beats just a little faster. “What’s that?”

His gaze sweeps along your legs, the corner of his mouth twitching like he has a direct line to your thoughts. “You are an enthusiastic participant in our marital relations, but you rely entirely on me to initiate them.”

He waits a beat and your stomach drops. In retrospect, it was a bit silly to think he wouldn’t notice this. Loki always notices.

“Now, why is that?” he continues.

It’s a question that you don’t particularly want to answer. You suspect that he knows this, based on the laughter dancing in his eyes. 

You clear your throat. “Maybe it’s because you unironically use phrases like ‘marital relations.’”

He taps a finger against his lips. “Interesting deflection.”

“It’s not a deflection.”

“You forget, my love, that I am the god of lies.”

You press your lips together and take a sip of water. “Have you considered that it’s maybe a little challenging being the soulmate of the guy who took over the planet?”

You expect him to be angry: you don’t expect the spectacular eye roll or the exaggerated sigh. “Are you really still upset about that?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you really going to pretend it wasn’t a big deal?”

“You can’t deny that things are much improved under my rule.” The way he says this suggests that he’s had a version of this conversation before. “Surely you’ve seen the statistics.”

“I’ve read your propaganda, yes,” you say, idly poking your fork at the fruit on your plate.

He scowls. “It’s not propaganda, it’s verifiable facts—” 

“Conveniently hand-picked by your PR team. That’s kind of telling, if you ask me.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s about to go into a lengthy monologue that he’s tired of having to recite, but as he looks at your face, his expression slowly changes from annoyed to something more amused. “You’re goading me.”

You shrug. “I’m just calling it as I see it.”

“Lies do not become you, wife.” His expression is sharp, but there’s a hungry kind of approval in his gaze that makes your stomach flip. 

“I rather think you’re enjoying yourself, your majesty.”

You’ve only ever used his title sparingly—it’s his equivalent of calling you “wife” and it’s generally a surefire way to ensure that you end your conversation either underneath or on top of him.

For a moment, it seems like one of those outcomes might be in your immediate future—there’s a familiar glitter of hunger in his eyes as his gaze drops again to your legs. 

He licks his lips. “One of these days, I will put you over my knee and punish you the way that you deserve.”

An electric kind of desire crackles through you as you contemplate the logistics of letting him fuck you on the breakfast table.

“But not today.”

Your gaze snaps immediately to his. He smirks like he knows that you were expecting this conversation to go in a very different direction.

“Today I’d like to propose a little experiment,” he continues.

You regard him warily. “What sort of experiment?”

“As I mentioned earlier, the burden of initiating our physical relations has fallen entirely on me.” He takes a sip of his water. “I am putting that burden on you for today.”

“So, what—we’re not having sex unless I start it?”

“Precisely. And you’re going to have to tell me exactly what you want in order to get it.”

Your heart pounds hard against your ribs, but you try to look completely unaffected as desire and annoyance wage yet another war inside you. “And what if I don’t feel like playing your stupid games?”

“You will.” He says it confidently as he glances at the clock. “I’ve business to attend to.” His smile is entirely too sharp as he rises from his chair. “I trust you’ll keep yourself occupied.”

You bite back a scowl as he leaves you alone with your thoughts and a dull, persistent ache throbbing between your legs.

The trouble is that initiating sex means admitting you want him.

Granted, you have begged for him many times during sex. But it’s one thing to admit that you want him when he’s been edging you for the better part of an hour; it's something else to admit to wanting him without that specific kind of pressure as a motivating factor. It requires acknowledging a vulnerability, something you are all too reluctant to do around Loki.

At first, you think you’ll just give up sex for the day. Worst case scenario: there’s no sex. Slightly better case scenario: he gives in out of sheer desperation and you get to have sex without admitting you want him. The second scenario seems most likely—if you had to pit your sex drive against his, you would wager that his is higher. It’s simple. Easy.

Later, you will acknowledge that this was perhaps slightly delusional on your part.

The fact that you didn’t really take into account is that your body is expecting sex. You’ve been getting it on the daily—often multiple times in one day—since your wedding. It probably should have occurred to you that quitting cold turkey would not go well.

Unfortunately, that seems to be a lesson that the universe is determined to make you learn through experience.

It’s early afternoon when you start to realize that you’re going to need a different plan. The dull ache between your legs has not abated and has instead turned into the kind of specific ache that you know you’re not going to be able to take care of on your own.

And if this were any other time, Loki probably would have already found some way to get you alone and mostly undressed—his ability to pick up on these moods of yours is keen to an inconvenient degree.

But there’s no sign of him today.

You pace your room for a while. The ache between your legs persists and you know if you don’t do something about it, it’s only going to get worse.

A plan slowly emerges in the heady haze of your slowly increasing desire. You could probably goad him into getting you off once or twice—enough to bring your desire to something more manageable. It wouldn’t be the same as sex, so you wouldn’t be admitting to any kind of vulnerability and it would clear your head enough to give you time to figure out the rest of the day.

Later, you will acknowledge that this was a very poorly thought out plan and doomed to failure from the start. Right now, though, it seems like a fine idea.

You put on a dress that you know he likes—a flowing green thing that clings to your breasts and hips in an appealing way. You don’t bother with underwear. 

You’re not quite sure where he’s meeting or who’s in attendance, but that doesn’t worry you too much. You’ve found that your new status means that people don’t often question you, which makes it relatively easy to wander wherever you’d like.

You find him eventually in one of the rooms on the first floor, accompanied by an array of important looking people that you don’t recognize. His gaze finds you almost immediately, though he waits for a break in the conversation to address you.

“Darling, what a surprise.” The glimmer in his eyes tells you it is not at all a surprise.

“Sorry to interrupt.” You give the others an apologetic smile before glancing back at Loki. “I need to speak with you privately when you have a moment.”

“Of course, my love.” His eyes darken just a shade and your cunt pulses in a kind of answer. “Wait for me in the library and I’ll be with you shortly.”

You give him a perfunctory smile and stalk off to the library just a few doors down.

You can feel the slickness building between your legs, the muscles of your cunt flexing and aching in a blend of need and anticipation. There’s a couch by the window—that will suit your purposes well enough. You sit down and wait, fidgeting with the skirt of your dress.

You expect him to draw it out as long as possible, but he must be just as eager as you are because he strolls into the room five minutes later.

“What troubles you, darling?” His voice is gently mocking, his expression infuriatingly smug. He knows exactly why you’re here.

“Shut up,” you say through gritted teeth. “You know why I’m here, so let’s make it quick.”

“Oh, that’s not what we agreed on,” he purrs, eyes darkening with want as he approaches you. “You have to tell me what you want.”

As soon as he’s near enough, you tug him down to the couch and straddle his lap, guiding his hand up your skirt to your bare cunt. “I want you to make me come.”

You’re hoping that your boldness and lack of underwear will throw him off enough that he won’t notice that you’re being intentional with your wording and leaving yourself a very tidy out.

“Oh, darling, you’re soaking.” He drags his fingers along the length of your cunt, carefully circling your clit. “Poor thing, no wonder you’re so needy.” 

You sigh, your hips rolling with his hand. “More.”

“Needy and greedy,” he muses, sliding a finger inside you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I love it when you’re like this.”

He pulls you into a deep kiss, tongue pressing into your mouth, tangling with yours. You moan, rocking your hips against his hand as he slips a second finger inside you.

“You need me, don’t you?” he breathes against your lips. “No one else makes you feel like this. Even when you touch yourself, your fingers can’t quite reach this little spot the way I can.” His fingers curl, pressing hard against that soft, aching spot that has been throbbing all day. You keen, fingernails digging into the leather on his shoulders as your hips grind against his hand. 

“Yes, just like that,” you gasp. 

“You need me so badly that you can’t even manage a full day without my touch.” His thumb presses just a little harder on your clit. “And interrupting a meeting of global importance to beg me to fuck you in the library where anyone might walk in—”

You’re entering the final stretch right before your orgasm and you can tell that it’s going to be good—the pressure inside you is too intense for it not to be. 

And then Loki decides to up the ante.

“It just goes to show how much of a slut you are for my cock.”

It’s like trying to douse a fire with gasoline.

Loki’s fingers curl again and your mouth goes slack as you let out a low whimper. 

“I know that noise.” His smile is hungry. “You’re about to come for me.”

You nod, rolling your hips in time with the wave that’s rising within you.

“Let me hear you.” He leans in and nips sharply at your earlobe. “Scream for me.”

It’s like being hit by a hurricane. You are dimly aware that you’re moaning loud enough to be heard unless he’s been a gentleman and cast a silencing spell on the room, but your capacity to care about anything other than the euphoria flooding your entire nervous system is somewhere below zero.

“Such a good girl,” he purrs, as he works you through it. “So fucking filthy,”

You’d intended to make your exit quickly, but you didn’t bank on how good his fingers would feel or how easily he’d be able to coax you to another orgasm. You claw desperately at his chest, and he gives you a self-satisfied smirk.

“What? Another one so soon?” he says, his brow furrowing in mock concern. “Is your poor little cunt really so needy?”

“Don’t stop.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but you don’t care. You can’t care about anything other than the rising pressure in your hips and the way your clit is thrumming with pleasure.

“Oh, I’m not going to stop until I’ve thoroughly claimed this sweet cunt.”

“Yes. Fuck.” You hold your breath as your orgasm makes its final ascent.

“That’s it.” His eyes are shining. “Come for me.”

The second one hits you just as hard and then blends almost seamlessly into a third that makes stars burst behind your eyelids and your thighs tremble. You lean into him, gasping and panting as he murmurs more filthy praise in your ear.

But you snap back to reality when he reaches for the buttons of your dress. You need to move quickly if you want your plan to work and you know that if he manages to get his cock out, it’s all over for you.

“Shall I take you on the desk?” He slips the first button, staring greedily at the exposed skin. “Or against that window?”

Both options sound too appealing, but you’re not going to tell him that. You reluctantly pull away from him and stand on legs that are much too wobbly. Remember the plan. Focus.

For once in his life, Loki looks a little baffled.

“Well,” you say, making a rather sad attempt to straighten your dress. “Would you look at the time.”

His eyes narrow almost immediately. “What are you playing at?”

“Nothing,” you say brightly. “I just didn’t realize it was so late and I don’t want to keep you from your meeting.”

He catches on right away—you can tell from the glint in his eyes and the slight twitch of his lips. He seems conflicted about how he feels about it, though, which you’re not expecting. There’s annoyance, certainly—that was always a given—but there’s also a kind of hungry delight, almost like you’d surprised him a little.

Almost like he finds it…attractive.

You weren’t expecting that at all.

He stands slowly, his gaze traveling shamelessly up and down your body, bringing still more slickness to your cunt. 

“You may come to regret this little stunt, my love.” His voice is deadly soft and you’re reminded suddenly of a shark considering his prey. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Perhaps you should have negotiated more favorable terms this morning.” Your voice is calm and cool, but there’s an inferno of desire blazing inside you.

“I think I will particularly enjoy silencing that smart mouth later tonight,” he says, eyeing the open button on your dress.

“If I allow it.” You smile sweetly at him as his expression darkens even further. “After all, you did put that burden on me for today, your majesty. And I did only say that I wanted you to make me come, which you have.”

The look that he gives you is lustful in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Your cunt clenches tightly around nothing and suddenly the relief that you’d just found from his fingers doesn’t seem anywhere near enough.

And if you don’t get out of here soon, your entire plan will go up in flames in favor of riding his cock until you both collapse.

“I’ll take my leave,” you say, buttoning your dress.

His gaze trails possessively over your body. “Yes, you’ll want to rest up—I suspect you’ll be begging me to claim my prize by the time I return to our rooms.”

“We’ll see.” There’s no conviction in your voice and you can tell that he hears it, so you turn quickly on your heel and leave with a mumbled goodbye before he can convince you to change your mind.

This entire episode has given you new insight into why Loki is like this as his default. The control is heady and intoxicating and your head fizzes like you’ve drunk too much champagne. You feel sexy and desirable. Powerful. You think of him quietly stewing away in his meeting downstairs, plagued by thoughts of you and trying to hide it from the others. You think of him storming upstairs, control fraying, his cock rock hard and aching for you. You think about what he’ll do to you as payback for leaving him wanting.

The entire purpose of this exercise was to find an outlet for your arousal and clear your head; instead, you find that you’re hornier than you were before the library.

Your entire plan has failed rather spectacularly, but you can’t convince yourself to be mad about it.

The hours pass slowly. You’re not sure if he’s intentionally delaying his return or if he’s genuinely busy—either way, it does you no favors. You try reading, but you end up rereading the same paragraph and thinking about sex instead of following the story. As afternoon fades into evening, you undress and don a silk robe. The fabric whispers against your skin, only heightening your arousal.

The sun is almost fully set when you hear the door open and the heavy tread of familiar boots on the floor. You stay seated on the couch, staring out the floor to ceiling window, waiting.

“I suppose you think you’re very clever.”

Goosebumps spring up along the column of your spine. His voice is low and stern, his presence already commanding. Slickness floods your cunt in anticipation. You slowly turn to face him, your chin tilted up in slight defiance.

“I consider it appropriate payback for the gala,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow as he continues to walk closer. “And do you recall how hard you came after the gala?”

You mirror his skeptical expression. “Then wouldn’t I be doing you a favor by teasing you like this if it means you come harder later?”

The look he gives you is intoxicating. “You are disobedient and impertinent.”

You smirk. “And you love it.”

“Not as much as I love putting you back in line.”

You stand and walk toward him, stopping a few inches away. “Then why don’t you?”

He chuckles low in his throat. “You know that’s not what we agreed to, my love. The move is yours.”

Privately, you’re delighted that he seems prepared to continue to play the game. 

“I didn’t take you to be so passive,” —you pause and lick your lips— “your majesty.”

Perhaps more extraordinary than the fire in his eyes is his stillness—save for the tight clench of his jaw and his sharp intake of breath, he is completely motionless as his eyes tell the story of a man who is barely holding himself back from his greatest desire.

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, finally.

You huff out a soft laugh. “Are you?” You lick your lips. “Perhaps I should test that.”

You pull the sash of your robe and let it fall from your shoulders to your feet in a heap. You stand in front of him, completely naked. His eyes devour you and his fingers flex against his thighs like he’s barely holding back from touching you.

“Still a man of your word?” you ask, your eyes wide and innocent.

The muscle in his jaw twitches. “Yes.”

You nod thoughtfully. “I see.”

And then you slowly sink to your knees.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “What about now?”

“Yes.” There’s a dark rasp in his voice and his fingers are tensed like claws against his thighs.

You’re getting to him. You love it.

You take your time undoing his trousers, letting your fingers graze against the hard length of his erection whenever the opportunity presents itself. You almost feel a little bad when you finally free his cock—he is desperately hard, the flushed and engorged tip already slick with precome.

“Oh, have you been like this all afternoon?” you say casually. “Poor thing.”

“Watch your tone,” he says sharply.

“I suppose that was rather inconsiderate of me to just leave you like that,” you muse, taking his cock in your hand and reveling in his sharp exhale and the way he throbs hot and hard as you begin to stroke him. “I didn’t realize you’d be so hard.”

“You are playing with fire, my love.” His voice is rough and husky with wanting.

“I don’t think it’s wrong to make you work for it.”

“You would dare to give orders to a king?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Am I not your queen?”

“My queen does not command me.”

Early on, you might have been intimidated by the hunger in his eyes and the sternness in his voice, but now you can’t help but find it arousing. Somewhere along the way, pushing him to his limit became like a drug and now you can’t get enough.

“And why not, your majesty?” you say, gently squeezing his shaft as you stroke him. “You tease me like this all the time. Isn't it only fair for me to have a turn?”

“I don’t need to justify myself. I’m king.” He says this with authority, but you can tell he’s fighting to keep his expression neutral. There’s a catch in his voice and his eyes flutter shut for a moment as his hips rock into your hand.

You look up at him again. “Perhaps you ought to,” you say. “Seeing as I’m currently holding your fate in my hands.”

He gives you a smirk that is entirely too confident for your liking. “I think you’re underestimating my resilience.”

You bring your lips up to the head of his cock, letting the very tip of your tongue brush against it. He inhales sharply.

“Am I?” you say, punctuating the question with a second featherlight kiss against his cock. “I’m not sure that you’ve considered all the tools I have at my disposal.”

He stares down at you imperiously and you return his look with wide, innocent eyes as you part your lips and take him into your mouth, slowly swirling your tongue around the head of his cock in a way that you know he enjoys. His fingers flex against his thighs and you hum as the sharp taste of his precome glides over your tongue.

“You are a wicked, disobedient tease,” he growls, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of your head. “And you don’t even care, do you? You just want to get those pretty lips around my cock.”

You draw back slightly to look up at him. “You could stand to be more flattering if you want me to let you come in my mouth.”

He chuckles, eyes darkening with want. “Is it not flattering to say that your mouth makes me forget myself?”

You press a kiss to the tip of his cock, letting your tongue flick against it, but not quite bringing him back into your mouth. “It’s a start.”

“You don’t know what effect you have on me, do you?” His hand strokes your cheek as you continue lazily kissing his cock.

“You certainly do your best to act annoyed with me.”

He laughs, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, half the fun of these little games are your attempts to outwit me. Chaos and schemes only add to my power, but when you are the perpetrator?” He gives you a long, hungry look. “That makes me rock hard.”

Your breath catches slightly as you stroke your tongue over the tip of his cock. “Keep talking.”

“I spent the rest of that meeting driven to utter distraction because I could not stop thinking about how good it was going to feel to sink my cock into your dripping cunt.”

You gently suck the tip of his cock into your mouth and release it. 

“And then I come back here and you mouth off at me, strip, and get on your knees to suck my cock.” He hisses slightly as you tease the head of his cock with the very tip of your tongue.

“Are you going to beg for me, Loki?” You press a soft kiss against his cock.

“A god doesn’t beg,” he says hoarsely. 

“But you could,” you say softly, teasing the tip of his cock again.

“You may force me to reconsider that notion, yes.”

“Do you want me to suck your cock, Loki?” you ask in that same soft voice. “Do you want to come in my mouth?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Yes.”

You intended to hold out for longer, but you didn’t expect him to say…well, any of that, really. And the other, less convenient reality is that your ability to deny yourself the pleasure of his body and touch is eroding well past the point of resistance. You’ve waited long enough. You want him.

You take his cock fully into your mouth and begin to move.

Loki groans, his eyes half lidded and lips parted as he looks down at you. “Fuck, you’re divine. I’m going to worship your cunt after this.”

You moan on his cock, widening your legs slightly. You slip your fingers between your legs, letting your index finger roll against your aching clit.

Loki stares down at you with a renewed hunger. “Are you touching yourself?”

You moan an affirmative, your fingers moving faster on your clit as you suck harder on his cock.

“Filthy girl.” His hand grips the back of your head, his hips jerking slightly. “After this, I’m going to make you come harder than you did after the gala. I’m going to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

You moan again on his cock, flicking your tongue over the tip on every upstroke, making his grip on your head tighten. Your jaw starts to ache after a few minutes, but the little noises he’s making are so worth it. Your cunt keeps getting slicker and slicker under your fingers and you feel yourself starting to edge closer to your own end.

“Fuck.” Loki is panting, his composure completely lost. “If you keep—fuck—I’m so fucking close—”

You could be cruel and make him wait, but he’s so beautiful with his head thrown back and his green eyes fluttering shut against the wave of pleasure you’re building for him that you can’t help but want to give him everything. You hollow your cheeks and take him as deep as you can.

His hand tightens against your scalp and he groans deeply as his hot release fills your mouth. You swallow it greedily, slowing to a halt.

The moment you take your mouth off his cock, he’s pulling you to your feet and holding you flush against him, his mouth covering yours in a deep and slow kiss.

Something about kissing him seems to emphasize the building need of your own body. “Fuck me, Loki.” You breathe your plea against his lips, twining your fingers in his hair. “I need you.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little before sweeping you into his arms and carrying you purposefully toward the bed.

He sets you down on the bed and you expect him to follow you immediately, pressing his body against yours. Instead, invisible bonds curl around your wrists and ankles, gently tugging until you’re spread eagled on the bed. You barely repress a shiver as he kneels next to you. He means business and historically, that’s always ended quite well for you.

There’s a flash of green and a slim vibrator materializes in his hands. He runs the head of it gently along your exposed cunt, pausing just above your clit.

And it’s not until you feel the same invisible bonds wind around your hips to hold the vibrator in place that you realize that this is not going the way you thought.

As though he can read your thoughts, Loki glances at the clock. “Oh, dear, is that really the time?” he says lazily, his mouth curling into a sly smile.

“You wouldn’t,” you say, your heart pounding hard because of course he would.

“I’m afraid I can’t miss this meeting. Shouldn’t be more than an hour, though.”

“Loki—”

He clicks his fingers and the vibrator hums to life, close enough to your clit to stoke the flames of desire, but not close or strong enough to get you over the edge.

“I hate you,” you groan, rocking your hips up, searching for relief. “You are the worst.”

“Oh, I certainly hope your attitude improves by the time I return,” he tuts as he tucks his cock back into his trousers. “It’d be a shame if you had to wait even longer.”

“You said you liked it when I tried to outwit you.”

He chuckles, leaning in close enough to kiss you. “I do. I like seeing how clever you are and I love carrying out consequences.”

You scowl. “You’re awful.”

He smirks and kisses you, drawing back before you can try to pull him deeper. “Be good. I’ve heard that good things come to those who wait.”

“Loki—”

He casts one last smug look at you before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

He’s gone for a little over an hour, but it feels like an eternity.

The vibrator is enough to keep you wet and aching, but not enough to get you off. The bonds are comfortable, but there doesn’t seem to be any give that would allow you to wiggle out or adjust the vibrator, no matter how much you writhe against the mattress. Sometimes, the intensity seems to increase just slightly and you thrust your hips forward, trying to get more, only to have it diminish just as quickly.

It’s agonizing, certainly, but you know that the payoff is going to be nothing short of spectacular. And privately…you kind of like it, though you’ll never admit that to him.

You’re not quite sure if you should act relieved or annoyed when Loki returns, so you end up settling on a strange combination of both when the door finally clicks open and he walks in smirking.

“Well,” he says far too brightly for your liking, “have you learned your lesson?”  

“Yeah, to check your schedule before I try something like that again,” you say before you can really think it through.

He tuts, lips pursing as he frowns. “Ooh, there’s that attitude again. Shall I leave you for another hour?”

You shut your mouth and look away, not quite able to hide your scowl. “No.”

He chuckles. “I thought so.”

He sits down on the bed next to you and runs his fingers along your cunt, his smile turning wicked.  “I see that you enjoyed the little toy. You’re so much wetter than when I left you.”

Your scowl deepens. “Because you’ve been teasing me for an hour!”

“Teasing you?” He scoffs. “Nonsense. I left it running for an hour, you should be quite satisfied.”

“You know full well that you left it on the lowest speed and barely touching my clit.”

His eyes glimmer in the way that they often do when you've strolled right into his trap. “Ah, I see. So you needed something a little more like this.”

He places the vibrator firmly against your clit and the faint hum suddenly accelerates to a steady, throbbing pulse that immediately draws a strangled moan from your throat.

“And perhaps a little of this—” He slides two fingers inside of you and your eyes roll to the back of your head at the intense sensation.

“Oh fuck.” Any notion you had of acting aloof and cool has evaporated. Your body warms to him too quickly, too naturally. A casual stroke of his fingers has you arching into his touch, a whimper trapped in your throat.

“Oh dear,” he says, almost nonchalantly. “You seem to be reacting quite strongly. Are you sure I should continue?”

“Please don’t stop.” You say it all in a rush, like it’s one long word.

“Don’t stop?”

“Don’t stop. Please.” You whimper, your hips rolling so that your clit rubs right against the vibrator. Loki’s fingers curl and you arch as something completely unintelligible comes out of your mouth.

“You need this. You’ve needed this all day.” His eyes shine as his fingers thrust faster. “But not as much as you need my cock. You’re desperate for my cock.”

You nod, half lost to pleasure.

“You’ve been such a tease. Such a fucking brat.” The vibrator’s speed increases and you whine. “I ought to punish you, remind you who’s in charge. Make you get on your knees and beg and still leave you wanting for release.”

You whimper, now so deliciously close that you’re starting to shake.

“Luckily for you,” he says, “I have been thinking of you coming all over my cock for hours. So instead of leaving you wanting, I’m going to fuck you until you’ve milked every drop from my cock and you’re going to take it all like a good girl.” His eyes darken. “Now come for me before I change my mind.”

You don’t need to be told twice—you barely need to be told once. The muscles of your cunt flutter against his thrusting fingers and then your orgasm unfurls.

It’s spectacular, setting off a chain reaction of pleasure on every nerve ending, your body shaking as you cry out.

“There you go.” His gaze is hungry, roving over your body, the god of your undoing. He presses the vibrator just a little harder against your clit and you feel that familiar ache stir again just below your belly.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” He’s smirking, but there’s a flicker of awe in his expression, like he can’t quite believe his luck. “Once wasn’t enough for you. You need to come again like the greedy little slut that you are.”

The sparks inside you are fluttering and flickering again, until they catch and send you soaring back into the stratosphere. Your back bows and you cry out as you come.

You’re still shaking when he crawls between your legs moments later, peppering your thighs with messy kisses and spreading your cunt open. The bonds on your wrists and ankles release the moment his mouth touches your cunt and you bury your hands in his hair. You moan as he circles and sucks at your clit and his fingers thrust inside of you.

You look at him nestled between your legs, eyes glazed with desire and it almost sends you over the edge. 

“God, I love your mouth,” you blurt out before you can think about it. “You’re so good at this, it feels so fucking good—”

You’re not sure if it’s the praise or his talent, but the moment you say that, your orgasm begins to crest.

“Fuck, Loki. Fuck, I’m gonna—oh fuck.”

It bursts like a firework and courses through your body like liquid gold, somehow simultaneously frantic and leisurely. You’re dimly aware that you’re moaning with every shuddering roll of your body, praising his mouth and tongue in a way that you know will embarrass you later.

“I told you it would be worth it,” he says after he coaxes the last shudder from you a few minutes later. “I don’t think I’ve heard you scream like that before.”

You don’t even bother opening your eyes. “Bragging is an unattractive quality.”

He tuts. “There’s that attitude again. You know, you’re lucky I didn’t deny you after all your teasing and backtalk.”

You look up at him, eyes hazy. “You like making me come too much to follow through on that.”

He chuckles darkly. “That mouth is going to get you in trouble, wife.”

Sated as you are, the name still lights that spark in your belly. “If you say so, your majesty.”

Within seconds, he’s on you, mouth plundering yours. Your hands fumble with the buckles and clasps on his clothes.

“Help me out,” you say, shoving his surcoat off his shoulders. 

“What was it you said earlier?” He smirks and rolls you both over so he’s on his back. “Ah, yes: work for it.”

You scowl and tug at the fabric. You could just undo his belt and take out his cock, but it’s not enough. You need to feel all of him, need the heat of his skin on yours as he presses inside you.

“You are such an ass.” You yank his shirt over his head.

He laughs. “You want me so badly, you’re shaking.”

He’s right, but you’re not going to concede it. “You want me just as bad. You’ve been holding back from me all day and you can’t stand it. You're desperate to be inside me.

His gaze darkens, but he flicks his wrist and you feel the fabric vanish beneath you.

“Well played, wife,” he says, propping himself up against the headboard. “Now ride me and show me why you deserve to come on my cock.”

You straddle his lap, guiding him to your entrance. “Oh, stop it. We both know you fucking love it when I come on your cock.”

You sink down on him and you both groan. After an extended day of teasing and delays, he cock feels like it’s pressing against every aching part inside of you, soothing a need you’ve felt all day. He nuzzles his face against your neck, nipping at the tender skin of your pulse point. His hands map the expanse of your back and skim down your hips to squeeze your ass.

His hips rock incrementally against you. He wants you to move, to fuck him, and for a moment, you feel drunk on the power.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and raise yourself up on his cock before sinking back down. Your pace is glacial, designed to tease, to drive him wild.

But on the third stroke, he smacks your ass, eyes blazing. “I said ride me.”

It sets off something inside you and you increase your pace before you can second guess it. You catch a glimpse of a feral smile before he pulls you into a rough kiss as you sink back down on him. Your teeth bump against his and you nip hard at his lower lip, which only seems to egg him on.

You’re supposed to be riding him, but his hips are driving up into you just as hard, his firm grip urging you on. Your head tips back as the pressure inside you continues to build. His head dips to your neck, teeth scraping along your collarbone and then down to your breast. He laves his tongue over your nipple and it plucks at the winding coil of pleasure in your hips, your cunt squeezing tighter and tighter on his cock. You whimper and he takes the bud of your nipple between his teeth and tugs ever so slightly.

Your cunt clenches as you creep closer to the edge. He lets out a sharp breath through his teeth as he starts approaching his own end.

“Fuck—”

With a snarl, he flips you to your back in one fluid motion, draping your legs over his broad shoulders. His pace turns rough and a little frantic but he’s hitting a spot that makes your toes curl and your pleas turn even more desperate.

“Fuck—please, please, please—”

His eyes are wild. “Show me what I’ve been missing all day. Let me feel you come. Soak my cock like a good girl.”

His fingers find your clit and suddenly, the rising sensation within you is blossoming into something more akin to a supernova. His hips snap hard against you and the feeling inside you swells and then shatters.

You are vaguely aware that you’re shouting his name as you quake in his arms and your cunt clenches around his cock. Loki moans above you, his jaw going slack and his brow furrowing, his pace slowing slightly like he’s trying to hold back, trying to make it last.

But another wave rolls through you and he shudders and before you can think about it, you’re slipping your legs off his shoulders and around his waist so you can pull him close.

“Come for me.” You whisper it like it’s a secret and he kisses you like he hears. His hips snap hard against you and then he’s kissing you in between Asgardian words you don’t recognize and words that might be your name until it all dissolves into a long groan that he breathes against your lips as he comes so hard that he shakes.

It’s a long moment before he finally eases out and tonight he gives you a long and lingering kiss before he does. Your legs shake as you lie panting on the bed, listening to him shuffle around the room. He must be getting ready for bed. 

You always hate this part. It’s not that you expect or even want affection from him, but sometimes it seems so…businesslike, so transactional. Surely it’s not strange to wish it could be something more, even though it can’t be.

“Sit up.”

You turn your head to look at him, fully prepared to lay into him for telling you what to do, but instead, you find him standing at the side of the bed with a full glass of water.

Something inside you softens just a little. 

“Oh, I’m okay,” you say. “It was just really intense.”

He gives you a dry look. “Humor me.”

Any other time, you might have shot back a sarcastic reply, but there’s something strangely disarming about seeing him standing there buck naked and offering you water. And maybe that little ache of loneliness you felt earlier has made you a little soft. 

You sit up and take the glass from him. “Thanks.”

He sits down next to you on the edge of the bed. “I’ve sent for dinner as well,” he says, absently tracing a finger along your spine. “It’s quite late.”

You take a sip of water. “Do I have to get out of bed for it?”

“So long as you keep the crumbs to your side.”

You wave your hand at him. “You can magic them away.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a circus pony.”

You give him a dry look. “What’s the point of having magic if you can’t use it to spoil your wife?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss against your shoulder. “Have I not spoiled you enough already today?”

“That stunt with the vibrator was pretty rude.”

He scoffs. “No more rude than getting off on my fingers and leaving me in a meeting for four hours.”

You lean against him and he drapes an arm around your waist. “You of all people should know that turnabout is fair play.”

You’re teasing each other, you realize. It strikes you as a quaintly domestic scene—a couple tangled up together and talking after sex. It’s…kind of nice, in an odd way. 

Almost normal.

Much later, when he’s curled up behind you in bed and the lights are out, he asks a question that you suspect has been on his mind all evening: “What did you think of our experiment?”

You know there’s a reason why he waited until now to ask you this. You can hear it in the careful way he’s asking, how he’s trying to hide that little note of hope.

The urge to be sarcastic or sharp is suspiciously absent.

“Well,” you say, letting the word hang there in the dark for just a moment. “My legs still feel like jello. Kind of hard to argue with those results.”

It’s only when you feel him relax that you realize he was bracing himself for something sharper. The thought stops you. You’d never thought anything you said mattered to him like that.

“Perhaps it’s an experiment we ought to repeat.” He says it casually, but there’s a subtle note of hope that sparks a strange feeling of sympathy.

You nod before you can talk yourself out of it. “Yeah.” The silence prickles at you in a way it never has before. “Maybe Tuesdays, if that works?”

He’s trying to hide it, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “As her majesty commands.”

Next chapter coming soon

[kurooangel]

₊˚⊹  babysitting .ᐟ

featuring       ᰔ  kuroo tetsuro, miya atsumu, sakusa kiyoomi.

warnings       ᰔ  fluff. a baby piss on atsumu. characters on their early 20s. masterlist.

★ kuroo tetsuro ; his sister was busy and, well, he didn't mind spending time of his nephew. the only problem was that he doesn't has the slightest idea of how taking care of a year old baby. he runs a hand through his hair while he sees you feeding the baby, and he knows you're holding back a smug smile because of how stained of apple puree he is.

"how can you do it so good?" he groans, taking off his stained shirt. "because you have to do it with love, tetsu" you chuckle, making the airplane with the spoon for the baby. "I was doing it with love, but then that little devil throw me the spoon. the full spoon" he throws his shirt in the wash machine and stays beside you, watching how you seem so natural with his nephew. "wanna try again?" you say softly, a sweet smile on your face that he can't resist. kuroo takes the spoon from your hand and gently approaches it to his nephew, who starts crying and throws him the full spoon again, cheek and abs stained with puree. "okay, I get it, he hates me"

★ miya atsumu ; he was extremely happy about having a nephew. osamu didn't trust him at all to take care of his baby without messing anything up, but he needed to open the restaurant again and his wife needed to rest, so he trusted that you put some sense in his brother's head this while you've been dating.

"who is the cutest miya ever? that's right, me! but you're the second, don't worry" he says holding the baby. you were changing his nappy and while you were throwing it in the trash, he grabbed the baby and raised him in his arms. you snorted at his words and shook your head amused, but you raised an eyebrow when you saw his shocked face and his wet shirt. "did he...?" you hold back a laugh. "pissed on me? yeah, and he has great accuracy" he mumbles, paled face.

★ sakusa kiyoomi ; omi thinks babies are weird. tiny, silly, little humans who depend to everything and cry a lot. he didn't mind having your sister's baby at your place, tho. he looks from away, watching you play with him, and he makes eyes contact with the small girl. she giggles and crawls towards him, hugging his leg.

"hi" he says, an eyebrow arched and he glances you quickly, a silent ask for help. "omi omi!" your niece says, giggling at your boyfriend's name. he holds her, eyes squinted while she forms an 'o' with her mouth because of the sudden height. "do you like uncle kiyoomi?" you say playfully, leaning against his side. "tall! very high!" she laughs again. "she likes you" you kiss his cheek, and you tease with a soft smile. "so stop looking at her like she's an alien, this little thing is called a baby"

[sai-int]

So, my favorite headcanon for Simon Riley is that he's an incredibly silly guy, but through trauma and shit, the only way he can express his silliness is subtly like with his shitty jokes and one liners.

All of this to say that I think he would have a great time mildly gaslighting his friends for pranks as well as occasionally doing something so out of character in a secluded area with the specific intention of getting caught, just so he can tell his victim that no one will believe them.

His most common victim is Johnny, and like Simon said, no one ever believes him.

THIS but it starts with johnny, then it spreads to the rest of the 141...

simon knows he’s the easiest target. the man is loud, expressive, reactive, which makes it so much worse when no one ever believes him. the gaslighting starts small. missing gear, things moving an inch to the left when johnny swears he just put them down, ghost walking into a room seconds after soap saw him leave it.

soap: "ye were just here-"

ghost: "no, i wasn’t."

soap: "ye-"

ghost: "y'sure y'sleepin' enough, sergeant?"

but then simon gets bored and starts pulling bigger stunts. like the time johnny walks into price's office looking for something and catches simon, full tac gear, standing on top of price’s desk, balancing on one foot, arms outstretched like he’s doing some kind of weird fucking yoga pose.

"steamin' jesus-what the fuck- the desk??"

simon just turns his head slowly to look at him, holds eye contact for a long moment, then-

"what desk?"

-before stepping down and leaving without another word.

johnny tries to tell price.

soap: "he was on yer desk-"

price: "uh-huh."

soap: "just stood there, like a fuckin' bird-"

price: "right."

soap: "ye dinnae believe me."

price: "not even a little."

ghost: "sounds like a you problem, mate."

next, it’s gaz. and simon takes an entirely different approach with him. gaz is logical, grounded, harder to mess with, but simon finds the perfect way.

he mirrors him.

gaz reaches for his coffee? simon reaches at the same time, like he was waiting for it.

gaz crosses his arms? simon crosses his arms, same angle, same stance, eyes locked dead on him.

gaz starts to say something? simon says the same thing moments later, like some kind of demonic mime act.

it gets so bad that one day, gaz just snaps.

gaz: "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?"

ghost: "dunno what you mean, mate."

but price? price takes the longest to crack.

because simon knows that man is unshakable. he knows it’ll take something subtle, something long-term.

so he starts misquoting things.

price: "all due respect, i've been running ops since before you were born-"

ghost: "no, yeah, i get it. 'live, laugh, love,' an' all that."

price: "…what."

or:

price: "we’re not outta the woods yet-"

ghost: "yeah, yeah. "an apple a day keeps the wolves in the henhouse."

price: "that’s- no. what? that’s not-"

it takes weeks. weeks of price catching simon slipping complete nonsense into casual conversation, weeks of simon saying it all with that flat, deadpan expression. weeks of price trying to correct him-

price: "that’s not how the saying goes."

ghost: "yeah it is."

price: "no, it’s not-"

ghost: "okay, boss."

-and never getting anywhere.

until finally, one day, price just exhales hard, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters,

price: "i fucking hate you."

ghost? just shrugs.

"s'all water under the fridge, cap."

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your braids flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her daughter, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[lessi-lover]

before we broke (2) II p.bueckers x reader

set in 2019, bit of a prequel and some high school flashbacks!

before we broke II p.bueckers x reader 2.7k

“you’re too slow!” paige called over her shoulder, her blonde hair catching the wind as she sprinted ahead of you. you whined in exasperation as she kept running, desperately trying to catch up with her as she ran faster towards her house.

“i am not!” you shot back, pushing yourself harder because you were determined not to let her win another one of your silly competitions today. you were always trying to keep up with her. she was faster and stronger, always a little bit ahead, but she never left you behind. not really.

finally with your last burst of energy, you lunged forward attempting to tackle her to the ground. both of you tumbled into the grass, giggling as you caught your breath. she turned onto her back, your body somehow ending on top of her.

“you cheated.” she accused of you, but there was no real bite to it. she couldn't pretend to be annoyed by you if she tried. “did not!” you huffed, staring down at the blonde in an adorable attempt to gain your innocence back. your hands migrated to your hips as you tried to stand your ground.

paige sprawled out on the grass, squinted up at you with an exaggerated look that told you she wasn't falling for your miss innocence act, her nose scrunching up in that way it always did when she was pretending to be serious.

"you're just mad cause i won p." you teased her, leaning over to press the weight of your hands into her shoulders. "nah," she said, turning her head to look at you. "i just like messing with you tiny." she teased, tapping your thigh with a grin, clearly enjoying her large height growth she'd had over the summer which unfortunately you had not been graced with.

flipping her hips easily she forced your body to the ground as the two of you rolled around on the grass. "get off me!" you demanded as she now sat on top of you, your hands naturally pinned under her knees.

paige only grinned wider, clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i actually think i like it up here.” you groaned dramatically, thrashing your hips around under her hold, but she barely even budged. “this is so unfair. you're crushing me under your weight.”

paige gasped placing a hand over her chest. "what was that?" paige questioned and you recognised the look she was giving you. you smirked despite the position, still struggling under her. “if the shoe fits.” paige let out a scoff in mock offense, shifting her weight just slightly to press down on you even more. “oh, now you’ve done it.”

your eyes widened in horror. “paige, no-” before you could even think about rolling out from underneath her, her hands shot to your sides again, fingers expertly digging in as she threatened the spots she knew made you squirm the most. you shrieked, kicking and wriggling under her as she dug into your skin, paige pulling loud laughter out of both of you.

"paige madison! get off her right this instant!" the voice cut through your laughter and you both freeze. paige immediately lifted her weight off you, though her grin remained obnoxious and true, you couldn’t help but sigh in relief that paige's dad had come to your timely rescue.

“i wasn’t doing anything dad!” paige protested, holding up her hands innocently, but you both knew better. you could still feel the faint sensation where her fingers had been moments ago. "you know better than to pick on her! she's half your size on a good day!" bob continued, ushering the two of you inside. apparently he’d been calling you in for dinner for the last twenty minutes, though neither of you had taken the time to hear him.

if there was anyone who could keep up with paige in a not so literal sense, it was you. it wasn't because you were the same though, the two of you worked together because you couldn't be more different.

paige’s world revolved around basketball. when she wasn’t out on the court, she was lost dreaming about the game. you could almost see it in her eyes, the way she could see herself dribbling down the court, passing defenders, and making that perfect shot just as the buzzer goes off. she loved the adrenaline when she made a great play and the satisfaction of pushing herself to be better.

if she wasn’t practicing, or running drills, she was either watching a game or talking about basketball, thinking about basketball, or just looking at basketball. it was like she could never get enough of it, could never tear her eyes away from it and unfortunately this meant you were dragged into it more than you'd like.

although you were nothing like paige. while she was always on the move, you were the kind of person who wanted to just sit back and observe, because you wanted time to appreciate the small details in life. you were always content to step back and just let the moment simply exist.

you were far too busy to find entertainment in a sport when you could instead find it in the pages of your next book. you had always loved what books offered you, the escape books gave you; the way they could take you to another world where nothing else mattered for a while. reading was much more appealing than spending hours running across a court when rather you could be swept away and be completely oblivious from the real world.

paige on the other hand could barely stay seated for a minute, let alone force herself to read. there wasn't a moment she was still or thoughtless, much to your frustration of her constant need to be active. you might have always been watching the world, but paige wanted to live it, to always be moving, she wanted to experience everything. if she wasn't thinking about a game, she was thinking about the next one because her mind was constantly racing with new ideas to burn her energy off.

she was loudmouthed, brazen and completely unapologetic about it. she didn’t hesitate to make her voice heard, regardless of who was around. she was fast and unfiltered like a river that couldn’t stop flowing. if she had something to say, she said it with a sharp tongue and without a second thought about how it would land.

you were kind, forgiving and always looking for the good in people even if it was just simply not there. you found reasons to believe in them, to give them a chance. where you saw the good, paige saw the game. if someone showed her even the slightest bit of disrespect, she would be the first to call them out because she's unafraid to confront anyone who crossed her. but you? you always believed that people aren't defined by their worst mistakes, something you were always keen to remind the blonde of.

it was a quality that sometimes made you seem naive in a way. after all, the world wasn’t always kind and it could be easy to get hurt if you weren’t being careful. but you didn’t mind. paige would sometimes roll her eyes at you. but deep down, she respected it. she respected the way you didn’t give up on people, no matter how many times they would let you down.

paige thrived off attention, loved the way she could make people laugh with just a few words, or get them to follow her lead without a second thought. paige was loud, and not in the subtle kind of way that people just add in when describing a person. no, she made sure everyone knew she was there.

she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and if you didn’t hear her the first time, she'd make sure you did the second. it wasn't just the way she talked; it was the way she carried herself. paige was untouchable, like she knew something everyone else didn't.

although if anyone tried to pick on you, paige was there in an instant, stepping in without any hesitation. she’d give them one look and suddenly they’d be backing the hell off, realising they’d just made a very bad choice of whom to mess with. it wasn’t like she had to prove anything, she never had to lift a finger when it came to defending you.

paige was the spark to your match, the fire to your ice and in the end, that was what made you both work so well.

when it came to you paige knew she had you hooked, she never felt the need to fight for attention from her best friend because you always gave it to her willingly. she’d always keep things level and even though she was full of herself in the best way possible, you were always there to ground her.

"no paige please i don't want to!" you whined, your feet scraping against the gravel as she pulled you by the hem of your shirt across the backyard. “come on, you know you want to!” paige smiled, tossing the basketball up and down in her hands as she stationed you next to the hoop.

she was leaning against the metal pole, clearly waiting for you to move. this was just another thing she could do to prepare for her game tomorrow, something to keep her head down. for you though, it was a different story.

“p, i really don’t feel like it today.” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to look serious even though you knew you weren’t convincing anyone. “don’t be lame!” she shot back, throwing the ball which gracefully hit your knees and bounced away.

"oh no! i guess we can't play, i'll see you tomorrow though bye paige!" you went to turn around before the blonde caught your wrist. “don’t pull that with me.” she said, reaching out to pull your arm and drag you back toward the court. “you know you’re not getting away with it.”

you sighed again but she wasn’t having any of it. before you knew it, the ball was being placed into your hands. “come on, just a quick game. if you win, i’ll leave you alone for a whole hour. but if i win..” she trailed off, giving you that knowing look. you knew exactly what that meant. if you won, she’d let you go, but if she won, you’d have to put up with her little training sessions for the rest of the day.

“you’re impossible,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you reluctantly bounced the ball once. “it’s not impossible if you actually try,” paige retorted, eyebrows raised at your questionable dribbling abilities. “you know, maybe you are as bad at basketball as you claim.”

“paige!” you snapped, but she was already running past you, the ball now in her hands and a look of smugness on her face. she was fast, too fast. you barely had time to react before she was shooting a perfect three into the basket.

“oh, i’m sorry, was i supposed to let you just shoot?” she teased, pretending to throw it back to you. “this is so unfair,” you said, trying to get the ball back, but she was already moving again, making another sharp move that had you scrambling to defend. “seriously, paige! can you slow down a little?”

“nah,” she laughed, answering to your complaints without sparing you a glance. “you’re keeping up just fine.” she gave you a wink and a quick spin around your body, flicking the ball into the hoop once more. “three-nothing,” she said, barely even out of breath in comparison to your frustratingly red complexion.

“tired? please, you can’t be tired yet!” she teased, her grin never faltering as she put up another shot. “not until i’ve completely wiped you out.” she dropped the ball into your hands with a shove to your back. “now, let's see if you can keep up."

you groaned, but deep down, you knew you were going to have fun. it didn’t matter how many times you tried to pull away or how much you insisted you weren’t in the mood, paige was always going to win. she had a way of making everything seem fun, no matter how much you tried to act uninterested. maybe it was fun because it was paige.

“you’re relentless, you know that right?” you muttered, your smile now matching hers as you bounced the ball a couple of times. “and that’s why you love me,” she smiled back, pulling you into a headlock and kissing your cheek. “now stop wasting time and get moving!”

as much as paige’s mind was always thinking about basketball, it was always just a little more consumed by you. it wasn’t the kind of thing she would ever admitted out loud, but everyone could see it. paige was intense and if there was one thing that could compete with her obsession for the game, it was you.

her whole demeanor would change when you were around; she’d become a little less brash, a little softer spoken, but still with that spark in her eye, the same spark she had when she was on the court. the difference was, this time, it wasn’t basketball she was thinking about. it was you.

she never let on just how much you meant to her, unless you asked of course. to paige, showing vulnerability was a weakness, and that wasn’t something she allowed herself to be bar her best friend. she liked to be the strong one, the girl who could take on anything and anyone. but when it came to you, she didn’t need to play those games. you made her forget about all that.

you were the constant in her chaotic life, the one thing she knew she could always count on, no matter what. you weren’t like anyone else. there was no mistaking the way her eyes followed you around, always scanning for you in a room full of people.

she couldn’t help herself and she was always drawn to you. she did try to resist, she pretended not to care, but the truth was, she couldn't stop herself from being completely infatuated by you. it wasn’t something she could turn off, no matter how hard she tried.

paige knew exactly what you were to her. you were the calm wrapped tightly around her freed storm, the subtle stillness she silently craved that nothing could ever come close too. basketball was her passion, sure, but you were her obsession in the best possible way. you were different, and she loved that about you. she loved the way you made her think, made her want to be better, made her feel like there was more to life than just winning a game.

and as much as you two could drive each other mad, there was always an understanding between you and paige. people could see it, the way you both complemented each other without even trying.

those close to you had always known you were a package deal, always together, always at each other’s side. your parents loved seeing how effortlessly you had grown up side by side over the years, how you balanced each other out so naturally. she helped you when life felt too heavy, when everything threatened to pull you under and you were her voice of reason when she needed it.

so when the visits stopped and the mentions of each other grew scarce, everyone noticed. no one could quite grasp what had happened between the two of you, especially when it seemed so sudden.

eventually you had erased every memory of each other, brushing your friends and family off with a vague excuse that you had just drifted apart before college. it was easier than explaining that it wasn’t distance or time pulling you apart, it was something far more complicated, something neither of you could find the words for.

and no matter how hard you both tried to move on, to pretend everything was fine, that bitter feeling lingered like a knife beneath the surface, a secret only the two of you shared. blood drawn, yet cuts unequal. the secret still held you both pitifully in its grip, even as you tried to erase the pain it had caused you both.

~

[prythiansprincess]

— a taste of the divine.

NAVIGATION // inbox. tags. writing. library. moodboard.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader.

song inspiration: the summoning by sleep token.

author’s note: vampire! mattheo has been on my mind for ages and now i've finally written something so hedonistic and self-indulgent solely inspired by the fact that the man looks good drenched in blood. sink your teeth in.

Everything in the world is about sex — except sex. Sex is about power. 

At an early age, you learned how to wield your sexuality like a weapon. After working as a courtesan for as long as you have, you quickly realized that men were truly only capable of categorizing women in one of two ways: the Virgin: an embodiment of purity, innocence, and virtue or the Whore: an incarnation of seduction, manipulation, and promiscuity. 

To be desirable, you were expected to walk a fine line and maintain a perfect balance between the two. Lean too close to the right and you’re classified a prude. Swing too far to the left and you’re labeled a slut. The difference lies in whether or not you know how to play the game. 

Given your line of work, it was in your best interest to become a top player. According to the Madam, you had a gift when it came to enticing clients. In reality, you were merely observant. The ability to accurately read people was a necessity in the game of seduction. 

To seduce someone, you need to know their dreams, their hopes, and most importantly, their desires. Most clients were motivated by a fantasy. It was your job to become that fantasy and you were quite good at your job. 

Ironically enough, the Madam always said that there were only two types of clients. The majority sought after instant gratification; a quick fuck, a one night stand, a memory to get himself off to while he lies next to his wife longing for the glory days of when his cock still worked. They were easier to please. The latter, on the other hand, proved to be a little more difficult. The naive ones that believed in silly fairy tales like making love, sighing dreamily about romance and intimacy and connection while inevitably setting themselves up for disappointment. 

You were more realistic. For you, sex has always been tit-for-tat. You never offered more than you received. Until Lord Riddle. 

You should have known Mattheo was trouble from the moment you laid eyes on him.

The first thing that you noticed about the young lord is that he preferred his own company. Every time you came across him in the Underworld, he was always alone. Mattheo never interacted with the other clients. Not out of shame like most of the first timers at the club, but out of observance. He was gauging his surroundings, judging the others around him in stoic silence, and filing them away in neat little categories in his mind. In other words, Lord Riddle was a predator sizing up his prey. Just like you. 

Usually, it only took a single interaction for you to figure out what type of person someone was. You could easily tell which clients possessed great wealth, political advantage, or secrets so terrible that you could easily exploit for your own advantage. Needless to say, this special skill of yours made you the most infamous courtesan in all of London and subsequently, the Madam’s favorite. 

But as you observed the mysterious stranger from across the room, you were surprised to come across something that you haven’t encountered for a very long time — a challenge. 

“Great choice,” the Madam praised from over your shoulder. “Would you like to be introduced?” 

“No,” you answered as you lazily sipped on a glass of champagne. “Lord Riddle will make his move when the time is right.” 

Three nights passed before Lord Riddle made his approach. The Underworld was filled to the brim with gyrating bodies, their sticky and sweaty limbs pressed against one another as they danced to the seductive crooning of the singer on stage. The red spotlight bathed the crowd in a hazy light as smoke curled through the dancefloor. 

“Not a fan of the crowd, I take it?” Lord Riddle drawled as he smoothly sidled up to your side. 

“I prefer to watch,” you replied nonchalantly as you sipped champagne. “Clearly, I’m not alone in that, my lord.” 

Lord Riddle smirked seductively, drawing you in like a predator toying with his prey. As you firmly held his gaze, you finally allowed yourself to truly take him in. Looking at Mattheo was like looking at a masterpiece — the dark and seductive eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the angular jaw, and the tall and lean body that towered over your own were all pieces of a work of art that deserved to be immortalized in a museum. Suffice to say that he was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. 

Still, there was more to Lord Riddle than just an aesthetically pleasing appearance. There was a presence about him, a certain magnetism that pulled you into his orbit. You felt drawn to him in a way that you had never felt with anyone else before. 

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” His voice was husky — smoky almost and it sounded like silk to your ears. Lord Riddle held out a gloved hand and flashed his charming smile. “My name is Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You shook his covered hand, noting the ancient heirloom ring sitting snugly on his right ring finger. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. My name is Y/N.” 

Mattheo extended your hand up to his mouth and placed a chaste kiss on the back of your palm. The coolness of his lips against your skin sent shivers up your spine. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Y/N,” he purred. “And please, call me Mattheo.” 

With a sly smile, you swiped a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to your newfound companion. Mattheo took a graceful sip, his intense gaze drinking you in. 

“What brings you up here tonight, Mattheo?” You gestured to the lower level of the club where the atmosphere shifted into a hedonistic maelstrom. “Surely you would much rather partake in the revelries happening down there.” 

Mattheo leaned closer and the strong scent of cinnamon and tobacco enveloped you from all sides. “Something tells me that the main event is right here,” he whispered as he caged you against the banister until all you could see, feel, and hear was him. “With you.” 

Unperturbed, you flashed him a seductive grin. “Smart and handsome,” you quipped as you smoothed the lapels of his velvet suit jacket. Mattheo trailed your touch with that intense gaze, his eyes following a path down the hard plane of his chest, which was exposed beneath an unbuttoned black dress shirt. The silver cross chain around his neck glimmered underneath the dim club lights. “Perhaps I’ve found the cure to my perpetual boredom.” 

“If you’re bored, then you’re more than welcome to play with me.” 

You raised a perfectly manicured brow. “Is that a proposition, my lord?” 

Mattheo was the perfect picture of sensuality as he closed the gap between you. “Not the type that you think,” he murmured softly. “After all, I am a gentleman so I intend to do this properly with you.” 

You raised your chin defiantly. “I can be proper.” 

His dark chuckle caressed your skin. “Somehow I doubt that,” Mattheo gibed. “Be that as it may, my offer is quite simple. I request your company for dinner tomorrow evening at my estate.” 

“For what purpose?” 

“I would like to get to know you,” Mattheo explained. “Preferably without the smoke and mirrors of this place. You’ll find that I’m a simple man with simple taste. I do not require such pageantry. What I want is the pleasure of your company over dinner and drinks.” 

“A date?” You reiterated with intrigue. “That’s not the way we do things around here.” 

Mattheo smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll make an exception for me, love.” 

“What makes you so sure of that?” 

“I intrigue you,” he simply stated. “I am a complete mystery to you. A puzzle of sorts. You like to solve puzzles. All you have to do to find the missing piece is accept.” 

“If I do,” you proposed in a neutral tone, your gaze flickering up to this magnanimous man. “Will I finally have the full picture of who you are, Lord Riddle?” 

Mattheo bowed and kissed your hand once more. “Come and find out, love.”

The wrought iron gates creaked as the carriage rounded the Riddle Estate. The ancestral home was imposing, its pointed arches and towering spires looming ominously against the backdrop of the full moon. The lawn was meticulously maintained, every hedge trimmed and shaped to perfection. 

The carriage came to a stop in front of an ornately carved wooden door. You thanked the coachman and climbed the steps one by one, careful not to step on your scarlet silk dress. As if on cue, the doors opened of its own accord. A servant awaited you inside, his stern expression fixed as he welcomed you into the home. 

“Welcome, Miss Y/N,” he rasped out. “Lord Riddle awaits you on the terrace. Follow me, please.” 

“Thank you for having me,” you said graciously as he led you through the luxurious home. You took a moment to appreciate the intricate artwork that lined the walls. “The estate is quite beautiful. From what I understand, this place holds a lot of history. Everything has been preserved from when the Prince resided here. Is that correct?” 

The man’s expression transformed from indifference to delight. “Before it became the Riddle Estate, this ancestral home was called Carfax. To honor its history, the Riddles have maintained the furnishings in its original state from when the Prince first purchased the property in the nineteenth century.” 

“Lord Riddle is quite right to do so,” you said in admiration. “There’s a certain melancholy to this place that I find quite charming.” The man nodded in appreciation. “Haunting, even.” 

“The only thing that haunts these four walls now are me,” Mattheo said when you reached the terrace. His dimpled smile was as charming and haunting as his home. “Thank you for guiding Miss Y/N, Nigel. That’ll be all for the night.” 

You curtsied as the man called Nigel bowed. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Y/N,” Nigel said in parting. “Perhaps I may give you a tour of this grand home and discuss its historic importance when my lord allows it.” 

“That would be lovely,” you accepted with a smile. “Thank you, Nigel.” 

Mattheo watched in amusement, his brows quirking as he watched the man depart. “I’m impressed,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve managed to charm Nigel. I haven’t seen him smile in decades.” 

“I’ve been told I have a certain appeal.” 

“Speaking of,” Mattheo drawled as he surveyed you. His gaze snagged on where the silk accentuated your curves. “You look quite ravishing tonight.” 

You allowed a demure smile as you discretely scrutinized him. “I could say the same of you.” 

In all honesty, ravishing might be an understatement when it came to Mattheo. The silk button down he donned tonight was as dark as sin. At first, you thought it was black until the candlelight flickered through the fabric. Then you realized that it was a crimson so dark it appeared onyx like dried blood. His trousers were black and neatly pressed and on his feet were expensive leather shoes. The same cross chain dangled from his neck, disappearing underneath his shirt. You desperately wanted to trace it with your tongue. 

Mattheo rested his gloved hand on your lower back, guiding you gently to your seat. “You’re just in time,” he said in a pleased tone. “Dinner is ready.” 

As you settled into your seat, you had to admit that this wasn’t at all what you expected. You envisioned a grand and ostentatious six course meal served by servants while you and Mattheo were seated on opposite ends of an expensive mahogany table. In comparison, this was intimate and cozy. You were surprised to find that you preferred this much more. 

Dinner was a delicious serving of filet mignon, asparagus, and parmesan crusted potatoes that Mattheo served you himself. It was better than any meal you had ever had. To top it off, the wine he paired with the food was a rich vintage that was probably older than both of you combined. 

The conversation flowed easily between you. Mattheo was curious about you and asked questions at any given opportunity. He wanted to know your hobbies, your friends, your aspirations. It was more than anyone had ever inquired about you in a long time. 

“How did you come to work for the club?” 

You tensed at the question, but smoothly brushed over the reaction with a sip of wine. “My father was an alcoholic and a gambler. The drunker he got, the higher he bet. Unfortunately, luck never seemed to be on his side. One day, he lost a bet against a very powerful man. My father was given three days to repay his debt. Failure to do so would mean forfeiting his life. When I was eight, he sold me to the Madam and the rest is history.” 

Mattheo listened intently, captivated by your story. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his eyes, which you appreciated. You hated when people treated you like some broken little bird. The story wasn’t meant to elicit sympathy. It was a shitty thing, yes. But shitty things happened all the time. 

Even to little girls who didn’t deserve it. 

The fact of the matter was that you were the most influential courtesan in London while your father had drank himself into an early grave. You had accomplished more than he ever did in his sorry life. Because of him, you learned to read men with pinpoint accuracy so you would never be at one’s mercy again.

“Did your father ever show remorse for what he had done?” Mattheo asked curiously. 

You snorted. “That would require him to have a conscience. Besides, I neither want nor need his remorse. He died the way that he lived — drowning in liquor and debt.” 

“And the powerful man?” 

“Six feet under,” you declared nonchalantly. The governor was the first in a long line of men that met their demise by your hand. “May his soul burn in hell."

Dark eyes sparked with understanding. In the light, they almost looked crimson. “Who would be so bold to execute such a powerful man?” 

“A little girl with a grudge.” 

Pleased, Mattheo kissed your knuckles. He cleared the plates away and beckoned you to follow him. “Come, love. I want to show you something.” 

You followed Mattheo back into his home and walked through a maze of floors and hallways before you reached the west wing of the estate. He pushed open a heavy wooden door and led you into what looked like an office. Despite the extravagance of the rest of the house, the office was simple yet elegant. 

Crimson curtains reflected the moonlight, a breeze rippling through them like a phantom wind. Artifacts and artwork littered every corner of the room, including the mahogany desk positioned against the back wall. Important documents were arranged in organized stacks, but beside them were sketches and drawings of varying shape and color. 

“Everything there is to know about me is in this room,” Mattheo explained. “You said you wanted a full picture of me, so I’m giving you what I promised.”

The part of you that harbored mistrust was alarmed by his openness. “Why?” 

“To show you that I am true to my word. I will always be true to my word,” he emphasized. “Especially when it comes to you.” 

“I still don’t understand.” 

“Your madam told me about a special talent of yours.” 

“I wouldn’t call it a talent. I’m just terribly observant. If you know where to look, most people are an open book.” 

Mattheo fixed his gaze on you. “Read me then, love.”

“Most men can’t handle the truth.” 

“I’m not like most men.”

Between the lines, the true meaning of his statement revealed itself. This room was the very core of who he was and now he was inviting you in. Mattheo was putting himself wholly and utterly at your mercy. To scrutinize, to inspect, to judge. He knew how important it was for you to have the upper hand and he was willingly offering it to you. 

In silent acceptance, you surveyed the room with unveiled scrutiny. Your gaze snagged on a few interesting things. The family crest stamped on official documents. The trinkets and tokens originating from all around the world. The stoic portrait sitting above the mantelpiece. The picture of a dark haired boy that bore a great resemblance to the man before you peeking out from a discarded album. 

They all contained a piece of the puzzle that was Mattheo Riddle. 

“You’re wealthy, but not in the same sense that the rest of the club’s clientele are. You hail from old money, the type of generational wealth that most likely traces back to nobility. You’re well traveled and highly intellectual. You pick up interests left and right and you’ve probably studied at a handful of prestigious universities around the world, but you can never stick to just one topic. You have an older sibling that you have a very complicated relationship with. You’re guarded and extremely selective about the people you let in because you’re afraid of showing them the man beneath the mask. You don’t want control. You need it. Probably because you’ve felt out of control your whole life.” 

“That’s a clever trick,” Mattheo drawled as he appeared in front of you in the blink of an eye. You sucked in a breath as he pressed you against the wooden desk, resting his hands above your waist. “Is that all your instincts tell you about me?” 

“You say that you aren’t like most men, because you aren’t a man at all. You’re something else entirely. Something dark. Something dangerous.” 

Red eyes glimmered underneath the moonlight. “What am I?” Mattheo rasped as he pressed his hips against yours. “Tell me, love.” 

You held your chin high and looked him in the eyes. “You’re a vampire.” 

The mask slipped as Mattheo transformed before you. His eyes were as red as blood, dark veins forming on his pale skin. You gasped when his canines elongated, sharp and lethal and deadly. He could probably drain you of life and you wouldn’t even know it until it was too late.

“How did you figure it out?”

“You wear gloves because your skin is as cold as ice, your eyes are crimson in certain lights, and you speak like you’ve lived a thousand different lives. Plus, you’ve been staring at my neck all night like you’re just waiting for the chance to sink your teeth in.” 

“Are you scared?” 

“No.” 

“You should be,” Mattheo drawled. “I have lived for five hundred years and never once have I experienced bloodlust like this in all of my existence. Your blood calls to me. I knew it from the first night I laid my eyes on you.” 

The admission should have frightened you, but instead in some strange way you understood. On any other occasion, you never would have allowed yourself to be alone in a strange home with a strange man, but for some reason, you felt compelled to accept. Whether by fate or kismet or destiny, you knew that you were meant to be here tonight. 

Mattheo caressed your throat and buried his nose in the crook of your neck to inhale the heavenly scent. “Tell me love,” he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly. “What do you desire most in life?” 

There was no hesitation in your voice when you spoke. “Power.” 

“I could give that to you,” Mattheo promised. “I could give you power beyond what you could ever imagine. All you have to do is say yes.” 

“What are you asking for in exchange?” 

“You,” Mattheo said simply. “I want you. Bind yourself to me and you will never feel powerless again. I will worship you like the goddess that you are. I will devote myself to you for eternity. I will be yours and you will be mine.” 

“You want me to be your consort?” 

Dark eyes flickered with desire. “No, darling,” he purred smoothly. “I want you to be my equal. Equal in wealth, equal in beauty, equal in power.” 

The idea thrilled you. Being an influential courtesan was one thing, but becoming an immortal vampire with immense riches and power would provide security that not even the Madam could offer. You thought about the little girl that you were — scared and helpless as your father ripped you away from the only life you’d ever known. If you accepted Mattheo’s offer, you would never have to feel that way again. You would be untouchable.

"Why me?"

"Because you are beautiful and bloodthirsty. Because you are clever and cunning. Because you clawed your way into a better future despite the pull of the past," Mattheo declared with certainty. "Because in all my existence, I have never met anyone quite like you."

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Sharp fangs caressed your neck as Mattheo dragged his canines against your skin. “The pull between us. I never believed in the concept of mates, but even I could not deny the call of the bond. I have searched for you for centuries and I was not even aware of it until I finally found you.” 

“Is that what it is?” Since that first night at the club, you had felt inexplicably drawn to Mattheo. Even then you knew it was more than attraction. It was like every fiber of your being yearned for him. “You’re my mate?” 

Mattheo nodded. “Only if you accept the bond.” 

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, I accept.” 

“I will have to turn you,” Mattheo explained carefully. “The ritual will be painful. I will drink of your blood and you will drink of mine. Once the venom courses through your veins, the pain will be excruciating, but I will be with you every step of the way.” He caressed your cheek, his expression softening. “Do you trust me, love?” 

Strangely enough, you did. You knew that Mattheo would stay true to his word. 

With a nod, the ritual began. Mattheo fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back. He hummed against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses up the column of your throat before settling on a spot at the junction of your collarbone. His dark eyes flicked up to yours as his fangs elongated. Mattheo watched for signs of hesitation, but found none. 

You gasped as he sank his teeth into your flesh, eyes fluttering shut as the sting of the bite took hold. Mattheo moaned as he drank your blood. The venom spread like wildfire in your veins, scorching your entire being from head to toe. It felt like your blood was boiling. You screamed as tremors rocked your body, phantom hands taking hold of your bones and breaking them over and over again. You screamed as the pain spread, but Mattheo stayed focused and retrieved a dagger from his desk drawer. 

In one swift move, he cut his palm open and held it over your mouth. “Drink, my love,” Mattheo instructed. “It will ease the pain.” 

Desperate, you lapped up Mattheo’s blood with urgency. The metallic taste filled your mouth, but you couldn’t help but drink deeper as it turned sweet and heady, tasting like wine on your tongue. The more you drank, the better you felt. It was almost as though his blood was the antidote to the pain. 

“That’s it,” Mattheo murmured. “You’re doing so well, my love. Just a little more.” You sucked on his palm shamelessly, blood dripping down the front of your dress. “That’s a good girl.” 

Mattheo wiped his blood from the corner of your mouth before crashing his lips against yours. You groaned as he pressed you against the desk, his hands gripping your waist while you kissed him back with equal fervor. Passion sparked between you as Mattheo scrambled to taste as much of you as he could. 

His soft pants echoed in your ears as he desperately chased after your kisses, blood staining both of your mouths. A euphoric feeling washed over you like a wave, chasing the pain away and replacing it with a surge of pleasure. Every touch felt heightened, your senses shifting into overdrive as Mattheo pulled away. 

You whined at the loss, which made him grin apologetically. “The ritual isn’t complete yet, my love.” 

Mattheo flipped the dagger in his hand and beckoned you over to the middle of the room. He pulled out the expensive rug and carelessly tossed it aside before kneeling on the wooden floorboards. You mirrored the gesture and watched as Mattheo pulled you against him, placing the dagger in your hand. He produced a grimoire and skimmed through the pages until he found the right one. 

“We must draw the ancient bonding runes,” Mattheo explained as he pointed at the carvings illustrated on the grimoire. “They will signify our eternal union. Once we carve them, there’s no going back.” 

You gripped the dagger tightly. “Together?” 

Mattheo smiled. “Together, my love.” 

Carefully, the two of you carved the runes into the floor. The carvings glowed as mist and fog rose up from the wooden floorboards. You shivered as the temperature dropped, an eerie wind blowing through the crimson curtains. As you finished the last rune, you and Mattheo turned to face each other. 

Blood stained his hand as he reached up to caress your cheek, his eyes black with desire. You could feel the ritual sinking into your bones, changing the very core of your being. The bond physically took hold as the connection stretched taut between the two of you. The scarlet string glowed and the end of your thread reached towards Mattheo.

“What do we do now?” 

Mattheo’s fiery gaze flickered up to you. “Now we consummate the union.” 

Your breathing slowed as Mattheo drew you close, his face mere inches away from yours. Desire burned through you like a living flame. At that moment, nothing existed but him. 

“I want you, Mattheo,” you breathed. “My mate.” 

You groaned as Mattheo kissed you deeply, his hands finding refuge in your hips. The taste of him was intoxicating, sweeter than any wine you had ever consumed. You groaned as he parted your lips with his tongue and placed you over his lap. The kisses grew desperate, like you couldn’t get enough of one another. Mattheo pulled down the straps of your dress, kissing every inch of skin he had access to. 

“Let me worship you like you deserve,” he murmured in reverence. 

His eyes remained fixated on you as he laid you atop the runes, its glow bathing both of you in scarlet light. Mattheo took his time lavishing your body with kisses, marking every inch of you with his mouth. You moaned as his dark head disappeared between your legs, his sharp canines tickling the inside of your thighs. He took your lace panties off with his teeth and hooked your legs over his shoulders. 

The anticipation was almost too much to bear until Mattheo finally put his mouth on you. He eagerly feasted, his hunger evident in the way he buried his tongue in your cunt. You tugged at his curls as he licked and sucked, lapping up your arousal with unbroken focus. When his tongue flicked over your clit, you bucked against his mouth and shamelessly moaned his name. 

“You’re a fucking goddess, Y/N,” Mattheo declared. 

The sight of him between your thighs, his mouth dripping with blood and cum while his eyes burned with carnal passion was enough to send you over the edge, but you didn’t want to come without him. You wanted to do this right. You wanted to do this together.

“I need you,” you pleaded as you tugged at his belt. “Please, Mattheo.” 

“You never have to beg,” Mattheo answered as he undressed. “I’m yours, Y/N.” 

With bated breath, you watched in anticipation as Mattheo crawled over you, his gaze wild and hungry. He groaned when you tugged him down by his curls, his mouth meeting yours in a heated frenzy. His hard length pressed against your center as you parted your legs for him, greedily wrapping them around his waist while you grinded deliciously against his cock. 

The friction was divine, but you needed more. So much more. Mattheo growled into your mouth as he guided your hand towards his impressive length, chuckling softly when your eyes widened at his size. Crimson bled into soft chocolate eyes as Mattheo lined himself up at your entrance. 

“You’re fucking exquisite,” he whispered in reverence as he traced your jaw. “I have waited for you for centuries and it was worth every second.” 

You whimpered as he eased into you, his cock stretching your walls as you adjusted to his length. Praises flowed from Mattheo’s mouth as he pushed inside, giving you inch after inch until he was fully sheathed in your pussy. The pressure was painful at first, but it soon gave way to pleasure. 

“I feel so full,” you groaned as Mattheo kissed your neck. “So full of you, Mattheo.” 

“Is it as heavenly for you as it is for me, love?” 

In response, you secured your legs around his waist and pushed him in further, making the both of you moan in satisfaction. 

“Does that answer your question?” 

A cheeky grin appeared on Mattheo’s handsome face. “You’re absolutely sinful, but don’t get too cocky. I’m going to ruin you for every other man.” 

“You already have,” you responded as Mattheo moved slowly, dragging his cock in and out of you until you actually whined from the absence. “No man could ever measure up. There is no one like you, Mattheo.” 

The declaration seemed to unleash something inside of Mattheo. His movements, once slow and calculated, turned frenzied and frantic. His hands were all over your body, his fangs dragging up the column of your throat while his form enveloped you whole until you couldn’t tell where you began and where he ended. 

You matched his rhythm, rocking your hips to the frenetic pace. Mattheo hissed as you clawed at his back and slammed harder into you, seeming to know exactly what you needed without you speaking it into existence. The ancient runes glowed and your blood hummed in agreement, accepting the final binding of the ritual. 

“Do you feel that, love?” Mattheo grunted, his sweat matted curls plastered to his forehead. “That’s my power flowing into you. With it, you will be unstoppable.” 

Your back arched against the floor as energy surged through your veins, electrifying every cell in your body. The scarlet thread between you and Mattheo twined itself into an unbreakable connection, connecting your mind, body, and soul together. 

A shiver skittered down your spine as you looked into a pair of crimson eyes. “We will be unstoppable. My mate, my love, my Y/N.” 

The pleasure was overwhelming. You tugged Mattheo down to you, panting into his mouth as you kissed him. “So close,” you breathed. “I’m so close.”

Your gums ached as fangs began to elongate from your mouth. Mattheo watched proudly, his handsome face bathed in awe at the transformation. 

“Surrender to it,” he whispered softly. “Bite me, my love.” 

The words gave you pause, but as soon as he spoke them, hunger and bloodlust seemed to awaken in your veins. 

“Drink from my blood,” Mattheo encouraged. “Mark me. Claim me. Devour me.” 

Without hesitation, you sank your teeth into the side of his neck. The thirst was unquenchable and you drank deeply, greedy for the taste of his blood. Mattheo’s hips stuttered as he moaned erotically, his release close. 

“That’s it, Y/N.” Mattheo encouraged as blood dribbled down his neck. His fingers swiped over your clit, rubbing stimulating circles and making you feel untethered. “Surrender yourself to me completely. Come for me, my love.” 

A whip of lightning lashed at your body, searing you from head to toe as you toppled over the edge. The orgasm was white and blinding, seizing your very being with pleasure. Mattheo kissed you through the comedown, letting you ride it out as you clawed at his back and arms. 

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Watch the way you undo me.” 

Mattheo was a man ruined. As soon as your gazes met, he threw his head back and roared in pleasure. The way he looked when he came, perfect curls mussed and sex tousled, abs straining as he emptied himself inside of you, and mouth open as your name left his lips, was something that would be ingrained into your mind for the rest of time. 

The bond settled between you then, signaling the completion of the ritual. You were now connected to Mattheo in every way possible. The courtesan who once vowed never to give herself to a man now found herself bonded. 

Mattheo embraced you in his arms, holding you close. You pressed your cheek against his solid chest and found comfort in his touch.

“What happens now?” 

“I devour you again and again,” Mattheo responded cheekily. “And once more before the sun rises."

You chuckled softly. “After that?”

“You decide, my love.” He declared with no qualms. “You are in control of your story now.” 

“And if I said the little girl with the grudge wanted to burn the whole world down?” 

Crimson eyes met yours. “Then I’ll help her light the match.”

Mattheo meant it. You knew it in your very bones. With a smile, you settled into his arms. Feeling safe. Feeling loved. Feeling like you could rule the world. He gave you that. Your mate. 

As your eyes fluttered close, one thought flashed through your once cynical mind. 

Perhaps sex wasn’t always about power.

Perhaps, on rare occasions, sex was about so much more.