#got a smart trash can too

[airasora]

Me: *talks excitedly about finally owning a robot vacuum and mop* Very much NEW friend: "You're a bit of a nerd, huh?" Me: "How dare you! I am a HUGE nerd!"

[doomed2repeat]

Just saw this quote from Luke, and as much as I love him and think he did an amazing job with Colin…I need him to stop talking about Colin this way 😭😭😭

Nicola’s right that Luke has no ego, because some of the things he’s said- saying Colin isn’t as funny as Ben, saying Colin would be one and done as an author, and downplaying Colin’s intelligence… and then also saying that he’s the most like his character…the insecurity and self-depreciation in this…😭😭😭

Anyway this is a rare “I reject the actors take” moment from them, just like I reject Nicola wanting the baby to be named “Elliot.” Colin is a published author, witty, curious, a world traveler. He literally makes Pen laugh with his wordplay, and she’s impressed with his writing, his mind. They’re a clever couple. It doesn’t have to be one or the other, and I don’t like it when people act like it is, even if it’s Luke! 😩

[wandering-tides]

IT's CHOCO-BERU!!!!

Screaming, throwing, Crying,

HE LOOKS SO FINE!!

Looking at him heals my heart, My Beautiful, Handsome, Pretty Prince :3

I love him so much, you have no idea 🥰

[ghostofaminaanima]

pre-schooler (5) reverse engineers steps of paper airplane found on floor, hands out creations to classmates at lunch break - 3 teachers dead 17 wounded

[xcziel]

my mental acrobatics: what if he posted that song title in particular for himself as a kind of meta-commentary to show he knows it actually wasn't his win?

[the-mad-owl]

Can someone who genuinely thinks Taylor Swift is good recommend me like 3 songs. I'm trying so hard to understand what people like about her rn but I'm not getting through a single song because - I don't like using that word but I do not have any other description - the lyrics are so cringy. Maybe I'm just listening to the wrong songs. 🫠

[yanderedrabbles]

On the topic of 90s specific jobs, I'm thinking phone sex operator x clingy, antisocial yandere. A guy who only wants a nice voice in his ear telling him to come, but who finds himself calling you again and again just to ask about your day.

Who somehow figures out from your area code that you live close by. Who keeps telling himself to let it just be a fantasy, there's no way you're as hot as you sound, even as he drives over to your town and sets up camp in the record store.

You said you liked vinyls (cute, even if you do listen to too much Nirvana) and there's a new album coming out today, so you've got to show up eventually.

A guy who spends hours browsing the store, drifting closer to the register whenever a female customer shows up. Just to hear them say "thank you."

No luck though. The day is almost over and you still haven't pitched.

He's ready to give up. Go home and call you and pretend he didn't have such an embarrassing lapse in judgement.

But then he finally hears it.

Your voice. Clearer without the static of a shitty landline, just as sweet as it always is.

"Thank you!'

He starts getting hard from just those two words. A full Pavlovian response to hearing you.

But when he rushes to the door, you're already gone. Still no clue what you look like.

Shit. Fuck.

It's fine though. He's a smart guy. He can figure this out.

A little digging through the trash after hours and he finds your receipt. All the albums you told him you were interested in buying.

And would you look at that? It has your address on it.

Thinking of a yandere who's too shy to ever get a girl and too possessive to ever keep one. At the end of his tether. A man can only fuck his fist to your voice for so long before he starts wanting the real thing. Dumb of you to not realise that, doll.

Real fucking dumb. But don't worry. He'll teach you a lesson you won't forget.

[snail-day]

You got this, Nerdjo!

Part One // Next Part // Masterlist

Gojo Satoru was not stalking you. He just happened to be standing in the board games aisle of the popular bookstore near campus. At the same time you were. For the third time this week. Total coincidence. Really. He was just hear for an expansion pack. For Dice. Okay maybe he is here for you. He's been thinking about you since the moment he saw you checking out the Gundam section last week. Really. He wanted to give you his opinion but...he didn't want to seem like a total dick. A mansplainer of sorts.

Oh god, there you are again. Picking up a game. Oh you look so focused. So beautiful. So smart. Wait, is that - oh no. Not that one.

You were reaching for a notoriously convoluted board game, one even Redditors have many complaints about, and before he could stop himself, his feet were moving. Mouth was moving. Everything was moving except his common sense.

Okay, Satoru. Tap the shoulder. Speak. Be your usual charming self. It's just a girl. A very pretty girl. Say something. Be normal.

He tapped your shoulder. Lightly. You turned to look at him with the kind of expression one might give to a stranger who had absolutely no business tapping them in a bookstore. Which, honestly, he didn't have the business to do. Then cleared his throat - loudly, awkwardly - and blurted out:

"Ireallydontthinkyoushouldpickupthatgametherulesaredifficultactuallytherulesdon'tevenmakesenseImeanwhoevencameupwiththem - "

Oh my god. Oh my god. Did I just say that out loud? What did I just say?

First, your brows knit together slowly as you blinked, turning towards him with a touch of confusion and offense on your face.

“You don’t think I can understand… the rules?”

Shitshitshit

His heart dropped straight to his ass.

Going to throw up. Going to throw up. Going to throw up.

How am I fumbling this bad?

He could practically see the social bar above his head draining to zero. As your very pretty, bright eyes stared up at him. He wondered just where did you get those eyes from? His future mother-in-law or father-in-law? Wait no don't be fucking weird.

“No, oh god no! I didn’t mean - uh, that’s not - I think you could totally get it! I mean, you probably solve logic puzzles for fun! You look like you’re really good at thinking! Wait, not that you look like a nerd, but - uh - like, in a hot way - shit, no, I mean - "

End me. Just smite me down right here between Settlers of Catan and Uno.

Waving his hands now, panicking in real time. You, somehow composed, just turned the game box over and calmly read the back, letting him spiral like a dying Beyblade.

“I just meant - it’s a bad game,” he added weakly. “Like, the win condition is unclear and the rulebook has typos and there’s no official errata - it's just, um… bad design.”

You finally looked back up at him. “So what game would you recommend?”

For a second, Gojo just stood there.

You're still talking to me. Oh god. Oh no. You, beautiful and stunning, want my opinion. My professional opinion. I can’t screw this up

“S-Splendor,” Satoru blurted, voice cracking at the edges. “Or maybe Wingspan? No wait. Cascadia? Or - do you like deck-building mechanics? I could make a whole list. I actually have a spreadsheet. A whole reddit. ”

You absolute loser.

But you were… smiling. Just a little. And nodding like you were genuinely interested.

Gojo, poor nerd Gojo, practically short-circuited on the spot.

You ended up leaving the store with a board game you didn’t plan on buying. Not because of the game, really. But because the tall, twitchy, white-haired guy with far too much enthusiasm had somehow roped you into a monologue about probability mechanics, game balance, and “that one time my friend Nanami rage quit a co-op dungeon crawl.”

He was… weird. But kind of charming. In a feral raccoon digging through your trash for affection kind of way.

“So, uh,” he said, hovering beside you outside the store, practically bouncing on his heels, “if you ever want to, y’know, play a game or something - like, totally casually, not like, a date, unless you want it to be, which - no pressure - uh - I just thought maybe you’d be into - um…”

He trailed off. Heart thundering. Couldn't even ask Reddit for Advice You stared. He swallowed. Blinking rapidly, those pretty-blues darted anywhere but you.

“…I run a D&D campaign,” Satoru said suddenly. “Every Friday night. Very low-commitment! Very chill! High-level story arcs. I made all the NPCs. I do voices. I - it’s cool. I swear.”

What are you doing what are you DOING you weren’t supposed to tell them about the campaign yet they’ll think you’re weird this is why you don’t have a girlfriend Satoru you idiot -

But you smiled. Then handed him your phone - little charm dangling off the case. Something cute. You probably picked out without a second thought. God, he’d kill to have matching phone charms with you.

“…Add your number,” you said. “Text me the details.”

He blinked at the phone, questioning how he is worthy enough to text you. Then promptly fumbled it, typed his name with three emojis, deleted them, re-added one, panicked, backspaced everything, and tried again.

You mentioned you had class.

Right. You're busy. That's fine. Yes. He has your number. Oh god why is his heart pounding so loud. Can you hear it? Could you feel it when his hand brushed against yours?

Satoru nodded too fast. Rushed words as you trailed away with a wave. He was left there wondering what your major was. Who you knew. If you'd actually show up next Friday. If he’d just imagined all of this.

When he finally texted you later, it read:

Hey it’s Gojo from the bookstore 🧠 I asked my party and there’s a spot open in the campaign 👀 you’d be perfect. Unless you hate fun. Then we can just play Wingspan lol anyway let me know!! pls 🥺

And before you could even respond, another message came in.

also pls ignore any typos i'm at the gym 💪getting ready for all those monsters we're going to be slayin ⚔️

Friday night. Gojo’s apartment. He had cleaned. Like, deep cleaned. Scrubbed corners no one would ever look at. Decorated the bathroom. Lit a candle that smelled like vanilla and cedar. (He may or may not have spent an hour on Reddit reading forums titled “What candle scents make girls fall in love with you?” and this one had the best upvotes.)

He had set the scene. Maps unfurled like ancient scrolls of destiny. Dice sets lined up in a neat little rainbow offering to the gods of chance. Snacks meticulously arranged in what was supposed to be a dragon shape, though now it looked like a pile with tiny wings. Still. It was the thought that counted.

Everything was ready.

You're coming. Oh god. You're really coming. You're gonna sit here. With me. Maybe next to me. Or maybe not. No - no, no, you can sit next to Shoko. Or Nanami. Shit. What if you like Nanami? Oh my god, what if you like Nanami and not me? He’s got that broody thing.

He paced.

Screw it. Just play my campaign. Laugh at my jokes. Please. Just - please think I’m cool. Just once. Please don’t see through how desperate I am.

He adjusted his glasses. Then adjusted them again. Re-checked his rulebooks even though he wrote half the notes inside them himself. He’d already rehearsed your character’s intro fifteen times. But he did it again.

“…and as the tavern door creaks open, a figure steps through the mist. Cloaked in shadows, yet - no. No, too dramatic. They’ll think I’m trying too hard. Which I am, but like, subtle. Okay. Again - ”

His voice cracked mid-practice. He flopped down into his DM chair, then stood up again two seconds later, muttering, “Nope, can’t sit. Gonna combust.”

They’re gonna be here soon. They’re gonna walk through that door and I’m gonna die. Literally die. Headlines: Local Dungeon Master Dies When Pretty Person Shows Up.

The doorbell buzzed. Satoru physically jolted. Then stood there frozen in front of the door, hands out like he was about to catch a falling star. Or a live grenade.

Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Just breathe. Be normal. Don’t say anything weird. Don't tell them about the custom soundtrack you made for their backstory. Don't confess anything emotionally compromising in the first five minutes.

He opened the door. A stupid smile formed on his face.

Is he blushing? Please don't be blushing. Oh no. They’re even cuter than I remembered. I’m so screwed.

Wearing the coziest hoodie. Carrying a dice bag. Smiling. Beside you - because of course - was Geto Suguru. Satoru’s longtime friend. Fellow player. Tall. Cool. Calm. Hair tied back in a lazy bun that somehow made him hotter. That bastard. Satoru barely had time to panic before you laughed at something Geto said. A soft, amused laugh that curled around Gojo’s ribs and squeezed.

Then it happened. You looked at Geto. Blushed. Just the faintest pink brushing your cheeks. Just a second too long of eye contact. Just enough to punch Satoru square in his already fragile, overly romantic, nerdy heart.

You don’t like him. Right? No. It’s just warm. It’s almost summer. The hallway’s probably stuffy. Your hoodie’s too thick. That’s it. That’s all it is.

“Hey,” you greeted, blissfully unaware of his internal collapse.

“H-Hey!” Satoru yelped, voice cracking at a completely unnecessary octave. “You made it! That’s so cool. That’s - you look. Uh. Dice. You brought dice. Awesome. Good job.”

What the hell are you saying? Shut up.

Geto smiled at him. That smug, easy smile that Satoru had seen melt hearts and start trouble since freshman year.

“You didn’t tell me your new player was cute,” he said, tone maddeningly casual. You blinked. Satoru stopped breathing.

“Oh,” you said, voice softening, eyes flicking away. A little flustered. “Um. Thanks.”

You’re just being polite. That’s not real. That wasn’t real. Right?

Satoru forced a smile that came out more like a grimace. His brain was melting. His heart was clawing against his ribs.

“Haha! Yeah. So anyway! Let’s, uh. Go. Sit. Down. And have a drink. Or a seat. Or both. Whatever people do. When they enter rooms. With other people.”

Oh my god, please shut up. Please shut up. You’re going to die here and your ghost will be a virgin forever.

a/n: if you see any mistakes...no you don't totally not editing this while getting ready for wicked...totally not

[invincibledc]

My birthday is tomorrow…. Can I get some Raccoon! Reader? Pretty please? 🥺

LITTLE RASCAL

BATFAMILY X RACCOON!READER

summary: such a little rascal, but that little rascal belong to the Waynes.

info: raccoon!reader is a small child of the age of 5-6. Adopted into the family, Damian found you in a dumpster and declared you as a Wayne, the other batboys have no saying other to accept the child. POV switch up cause I didn't even notice myself.

genre: short story

word count: 608

a/n: despite me being busy, here. ALSO HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Having a raccoon-baby sibling is crazy! The batboys have to babysit their adopted animal shifter who is a raccoon the next minute and a small child the next.

Dick keeps them dressed in onesies with his hero merch.

Jason always makes sure they are mostly fed and out of trouble.

Tim makes them have their nap time and most of the time distracts them with some puzzles that they are smart at despite the speech impediment.

Then Damian, the one that always buys them clothes, and most snacks, and just a spoiling big brother who adores how cute his baby sibling is!

And now, here they are, now freshly five years old, or five in a half, always doing reckless things like the racasl they are.

As much as the Batboys love them, they are such a kid to take care of.

Certainly, a little raccoon child was running around the streets of Gotham City, fully in raccoon form. The small raccoon jumped across fire escapes of apartments, running through other things like alleyways. Finally, they found a motherload, a trashcan with fresh thrown-out food from a pastry shop.

The raccoon chirped, smiling wide as their grubby greedy hands grabbed a clean cupcake. Inching the sweet treat into their mouth, they were suddenly grabbed up by a tight grip.

Jason narrowed his eyes at the animal shifter as the raccoon shifted into y/n. A cute little chubby child that loves to eat, oh how their greed disgusts Jason.

“I knew I should've gotten that damned child leash,” Jason says, leaving the alley as y/n screams, throwing a tantrum with their broken English.

“Ja-Ja lets y/n down! Y/n go down! Down!” their chubby hands smack Jason’s buff arm that's holding them. But of course, it had no effect as Jason put the small child in front of him—sitting calmly despite the angry child whose raccoon ears were flat against their head and arms crossed with a puff.

“Keep poutin' you brat, that won't let me let you eat straight trash from dumpsters.” he puts a small helmet on you and puts his significant one on as well. Jason rode down quickly to the Wayne manor, as they made it up there. Y/n was still petty and pissed. How dare their older human brother do this to them?! How dare he! Shame on them all!

Y/n must’ve spaced out so much, that now they are in timeout, facing the wall as they looked back to see the whole family consulting each other.

“We have to buy a child leash.”

“That’s too dangerous! What if they strangle themselves!” Damian exclaims, slamming his hand onto the table.

“But think about it, the pros of a child leash is that they don't get lost and run into traffic,” Dick says with a soft grin, placing a hand on the youngest brother’s shoulder. Damian gave him a quick face before nodding.

“I can comply with this 'child' leash then.”

Tim nodded along, “Plus, when on a mission, they don't go wild and get injured.” now all the boys nodded as Bruce stayed quiet watching his sons agree. Looking to the side to see you kicking the wall, Bruce got up and went over to you. You looked at him, ringed tail creased under your legs, neatly between them as you fully turned to him.

“Papa!” you lifted your arms, getting picked up by the man whose eyes softened despite his stoic nature. “Then it settles.”

The boys looked at their father, seeing Bruce let out a smile as you smiled, just happy to get out of time out.

“This little rascal needs a leash.”

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want to Retire - Idia Shroud x reader

You write a novel that reads like a dumpster fire and while trying to delete the draft, you accidentally get isekai’d into it. Now, as the villainess you have to get Idia Shroud on your side as well as survive high society. You have your work cut out for you.

Series Masterlist

You’ve lived a life. A noble life, full of honor, glory, and caffeine-fueled late-night writing sessions.

You're an aspiring author.

An aspiring author who, unfortunately, just created the most stupid novel plot of all time.

At least, that’s how it feels. You sit back, staring at your screen, utterly defeated as your latest creation flickers mockingly before you.

You’ve named it: "The Battle for Genius Prince Idia’s Hand" (working title, don’t judge). And wow, it’s a mess.

Here’s the breakdown of your disaster:

You’ve got your heroine—a girl so sweet she’s practically made of sugar, like one of those cookies that look good but crumble the second you bite into them. Naturally, she’s fighting for the affection of your male lead, Prince Idia, who is a socially awkward, genius mechanic prince (because you thought it’d be fun to make him hot and bad with people).

Then there’s the villainess. Ah, the villainess. She’s smart, sharp-tongued, and has enough sass to level a small city. Her entire personality? Sabotage. And she’s also after Idia—because apparently, that’s the only thing women in this story care about. (You regret this immensely.)

But oh no! Plot twist! Idia gets kidnapped by some unnamed evil force (you’ll figure it out later). The heroine? Well, instead of rescuing him, she falls for some Bland Prince. You don’t even know why. You think his name might be Greg. Or Gerald. Honestly, he’s that unremarkable.

Meanwhile, the villainess doesn’t even care anymore about Idia. Instead, she’s full-on dedicated to ruining the heroine’s new, bland romance because… well, that’s her whole schtick.

It’s… awful.

You sit back, hands in your hair, groaning aloud. “What is this? Who would even read this?”

You glance at your notes. They’re a chaotic mess of random scribbles: “Idia = genius, but hates people,” “Villainess needs more fire,” and “Heroine? Too boring. Spice her up. Maybe dragons?”

Yeah. This isn’t working.

You slump in your chair, utterly defeated. The characters are good, great even! But the plot? Oh, the plot is a dumpster fire. No, worse. It’s a flaming dumpster floating down a river of bad decisions. You can’t believe you spent hours writing this.

That’s it. You’re scrapping the entire thing. You’ll keep the characters, sure. But the story? Gone. Deleted. No one needs to suffer through this mess.

Determined, you crack your knuckles and reach for the keyboard, ready to hit the big red “DELETE” button on your disasterpiece.

“Say goodbye to this trash heap,” you mutter, “and hello to some actual good writing.”

But, alas, the universe has other plans.

Just as your finger hovers over the delete key, the worst possible thing happens. Your elbow, as if possessed by the forces of chaos itself, nudges the precariously balanced coffee cup on your desk. The liquid inside, which you had so carefully placed right next to your laptop like a ticking time bomb, tips. In slow motion, you watch the dark, caffeinated doom spill over the edge and land directly onto your keyboard.

“No, no, no, no, NO!” you shout, lunging forward, but it’s too late.

The coffee floods your keys like a tidal wave of misfortune. Your laptop makes a sickening little noise, a soft bzzt, and the screen flickers ominously. You sit there, frozen in horror, watching your computer sizzle as if it’s been cursed by the gods of terrible life choices.

And then—just when you think it couldn’t get worse—it gets worse.

There’s a small, but very real, spark. You flinch back, because nothing good ever comes from sparks. The screen flickers violently, the keys start to buzz, and then—before you can even process what’s happening—you feel it.

ZAP!

Electricity courses through your body. Your vision flashes white, your muscles seize, and in one horrifyingly comedic moment, you realize you’re being electrocuted by your own laptop.

You’d scream if you could, but all you manage is a high-pitched whimper before everything goes black.

Dead. You’re dead. Killed by your own coffee and a poorly thought-out novel. Fantastic.

You blink your eyes open, your head pounding like you’ve been hit with a ton of bricks—or, more likely, an electrical charge. Slowly, your vision clears, and you find yourself… staring at an unfamiliar, ornately decorated ceiling.

Where the hell are you?

You sit up with a groan, and that’s when it hits you: the bed. It’s massive, plush, and absurdly luxurious—definitely not your usual ratty mattress. Panic sets in, and you scramble out of bed, only to catch your reflection in a nearby mirror.

It’s not your reflection.

Oh.

Oh, Shit.

Staring back at you is her. The villainess. The sharp-tongued, drama-fueled antagonist of your novel. The one with a penchant for ruining lives and stealing the spotlight. The one you made up.

You gasp, gripping the sides of the mirror. “No. NO.” You stare at the dark hair cascading over your shoulders, the perfectly arched brows, and the terrifyingly intense smirk that seems to have a life of its own. “Why am I her? Why this of all characters?”

You step back from the mirror and slap your cheeks, half hoping that’ll wake you up from this fever dream. It doesn’t. You’re still stuck in the body of the villainess, and with each passing second, reality—or whatever twisted version of it this is—sinks in deeper.

“Of course,” you mutter, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Of course this is my life now. I write the dumbest novel in existence, and this is what I get.” You pace in front of the mirror, ranting to no one in particular. “Who even thinks it’s a good idea to make me the villainess? Me?! I didn’t sign up for this!”

After a few minutes of thoroughly berating yourself—and by extension, the cosmic forces that brought you here—you finally stop, resting your hands on your hips.

“Okay. Fine. FINE. I’ll play your stupid game, universe.” You throw one last glare at your reflection. “But I’m not tormenting the heroine. Nope. She can have her stupid one-sided rivalry for all I care. I want nothing to do with this mess.”

The decision made, you shake your head and take a deep breath. “Alright, what’s next?” You glance around the villainess’s extravagant room, trying to figure out your next move. And then, a lightbulb goes off in your head.

Prince Idia.

In your novel, he’s socially awkward, reclusive, and definitely doesn’t deserve to get caught up in this disaster. He’s just collateral damage in your sorry excuse for a plot, and honestly? You feel kinda bad about it.

You snap your fingers. “That’s it. I’ll find Prince Idia. Save him or something. Maybe I can even get a reward for rescuing a royal!” You’re feeling pretty good about this plan—much better than sticking around and causing drama with the heroine, at least.

With a dramatic flourish (you are still the villainess, after all), you head for the door, ready to track down Idia and redeem yourself in whatever twisted way you can manage. Who knows, maybe this whole situation won’t be as bad as you thought.

Or… maybe it’ll be even worse. But you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

After what feels like hours of arguing with your stubborn, uptight butler—who is absolutely convinced that your decision to head straight for the abandoned palace at the edge of town is the worst idea you’ve ever had—you finally break free.

“If anyone was kidnapped, that’s where they’d be!” you shout over your shoulder as you march toward your carriage, ignoring his protests about "safety" and "reckless behavior."

Butler or not, you’re on a mission. And after a bumpy ride to the palace, here you are, standing at the entrance, waiting for the traps or menacing guards to pounce.

...Nothing.

It’s strangely anticlimactic, actually. You push open the door, expecting maybe a cackle or some ominous fog. But no, just dust and an eerie silence. You frown, stepping cautiously inside.

“What kind of royal abduction is this? Budget cuts?”

Just as you’re about to chalk this whole thing up to a monumental waste of time, you hear it—a low curse, followed by the distinct sound of tinkering. You freeze, listening closer.

Definitely someone messing with something.

Your hand instinctively reaches for your trusty gun (bless past-you for deciding guns belonged in this novel), and with practiced ease, you pull it out and slam open the nearest door.

"Hands up!" you yell, pointing the barrel directly at—

A very, very scared Prince Idia, crouching beside what looks like a half-assembled mechanical gadget. His wide, shocked eyes meet yours, and he lets out a startled yelp, nearly knocking over the tools scattered around him.

"Wh-What the hell?!" you blurt, lowering the gun slightly. This was not the daring rescue scene you imagined.

Idia flinches, awkwardly raising his hands. “I—uh, I don’t know who you are, but how did you even find me?!” he stammers, looking at you like you just kicked his favorite gaming console.

"How did I—? Are you kidding me?" You gesture dramatically with the gun, still in shock. "I’m one of the people you were supposed to choose from! Remember? The whole ‘Battle for the Hand of Prince Idia’ thing?”

He blinks at you, deadpan. “Oh… Oh, no,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back. I staged this whole thing for a reason.” He crosses his arms, stubborn. “I’ll just stay here with my gadgets. You can go back to… whatever you do.”

You stare at him, flabbergasted. “What do you mean you staged this?” You glance around the dusty, decrepit palace. “This is your brilliant escape plan? Hiding out in the palace equivalent of a haunted IKEA?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s quiet, it’s out of the way, and no one bothers me here. I didn’t get kidnapped, okay? I just—didn’t want to deal with all the royal court nonsense.” He shrugs, as if staging a fake kidnapping is the most logical thing in the world.

“You do realize that Ortho is still at the palace, right? Your little brother? Alone? Without you?” You raise an eyebrow, watching the slow dawning horror creep across Idia’s face.

“Yeah, so?” He huffs. “He’s the Crown Prince now. I’m sure he’s fine—"

“Bro,” you interrupt, “have you seen high society? Ortho’s gonna get eaten alive. Not to mention the other princes aren’t just gonna let him waltz around with a crown on his head without making his life miserable.”

Idia’s eyes go wide, his brain clearly working overtime as the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh… Oh no. I didn’t think of that.”

You nod sagely. “Yeah. Big oops.”

He stares at the ground, looking like he’s physically shrinking under the weight of his own bad decisions. And then—something unthinkable happens.

“Help me,” he says, his voice desperate. He looks up at you with pleading eyes. “Please. I’ll—I’ll make you anything you want, build you gadgets, whatever you need! Just help me navigate high society while I… hide in the shadows or whatever.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you… Are you asking me to pose as your fake fiancée?”

Idia flushes crimson, his hands flailing. “N-No! Well, maybe? Yes. I mean, yeah, but it’s not like I want to—" He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Just… ugh. Yes. Please.”

You cross your arms, tapping your chin. “Hmm. Fake engagement, huh? Alright, but only if you give me a beach house when this farce is over and Ortho officially takes the crown.”

Idia looks up at you, blinking in surprise. “A beach house? That’s your condition?”

You smirk. “Hey, I know what I want. So, do we have a deal?”

He hesitates for a moment, but then sighs, defeated. “Fine. You get the beach house. Just… make sure no one talks to me. Or atleast, you have to handle almost all the talking.”

With a satisfied nod, you extend your hand. “Deal.”

Idia, still red-faced and awkward, shakes your hand. You can’t help but wonder what sort of chaos you’ve just agreed to—but at least you’re getting a beach house out of it.

Sneaking Idia back to your manor wasn’t the most glamorous affair. He insisted on wearing a cloak, “for dramatic effect,” even though the streets were practically empty.

"You know, for a guy who's supposed to be a genius, you're real bad at blending in," you deadpan as he stumbles over his own cloak.

"It’s supposed to make me inconspicuous," Idia mutters, pulling the hood down further. "People see a cloak, they assume you’re some weirdo and leave you alone. It’s basic stealth mechanics."

“Uh-huh. And tripping on it helps too?”

“Shut up.”

Once inside the manor, you sit him down to discuss the details of how you’re going to spin this whole ‘rescue’ thing. Idia, now a little more at ease, starts fiddling with some gadget he pulled from one of his cloak’s hidden pockets. You can't tell if he's actually paying attention, but you figure you’d better get started.

"Okay," you say, leaning in like you’re about to hatch the greatest scheme of your life. "We need a story. Something grand. Heroic. Full of intrigue, mystery—"

“Or we could just say I, uh, got lost?” Idia offers halfheartedly. “And you happened to find me by accident. That sounds more plausible.”

You shoot him a look. "Idia, this is high society. No one ‘just gets lost for 3 months.’ We need something more exciting. Like, I fought off a band of rogue kidnappers—"

“Did you now?”

“And there was this epic battle—"

“With what? Your sense of direction?”

You glare. “Focus. We need an alibi."

Idia sighs. “Fine, whatever. Make it sound cool, but not too cool. If it’s too impressive, people will start thinking I owe you something.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I already have an idea of what you owe me,” you say, smirking.

His eyes narrow in suspicion, but you move on.

"Alright, so I 'bravely' tracked you down to the abandoned palace—"

"Because obviously that's where I'd be hiding," Idia interrupts sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"—and I singlehandedly defeated a gang of ruthless kidnappers, saving you from a life of captivity. You, overwhelmed by my gallantry, are forever in my debt—"

Idia snorts. "Forever in your debt? Yeah, right. You're more likely to find me dead than in your debt."

“Just go with it. It’s a good story.”

Eventually, you both settle on a suitably ridiculous tale where you, after days of tireless investigation, heroically rescued him from an evil plot to overthrow the royal family. It's unnecessarily elaborate, full of conveniently absent witnesses and a dramatic escape from a non-existent dungeon. The whole thing’s so ridiculous, you almost feel bad for making anyone listen to it.

“Right,” you say, standing up. “Now we just need to sell this at court.”

When you arrive at the palace, Idia hangs back while you step forward, playing your part as the "heroic rescuer." Ortho’s the first one to spot you, and when his eyes land on Idia, they widen with shock and excitement.

“Brother!” Ortho shouts, practically flying over to tackle Idia in a hug. “I knew you’d come back!”

Idia, not really one for public displays of affection, awkwardly pats Ortho’s head. “Yeah, yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it,” he grumbles, though you can see the tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I was, uh, working on some top-secret stuff. Y’know, important genius-level projects.”

Ortho beams. “That sounds just like you!”

You have to hold back a snicker. Yeah, real “top-secret.” Like avoiding social interaction at all costs.

Soon, you’re ushered into the royal court. The king—who clearly knows something is up—doesn't look remotely surprised by the "revelation" that Idia was never actually kidnapped. But, because royal politics are weird, he plays along.

“So, Prince Idia,” the king says, raising an eyebrow, “I suppose you’ll want the Crown Prince title back now that you’ve returned?”

Idia freezes, panic flashing in his eyes. "Uh, absolutely not. Hard pass. Nope. Ortho’s got it handled, right? He can keep the whole… crown… thing.”

Ortho nods eagerly from behind him. “I’ve got it covered!”

The king sighs but nods. “Very well. And what about you?” He turns to you. “Surely, a brave soul such as yourself deserves a reward.”

Here it comes. You’ve rehearsed this with Idia, but now that you’re on the spot, you can’t help the dramatic flair in your voice as you clasp your hands together and say, “All I ask… is for Prince Idia’s hand.”

The king looks thoroughly amused, while Idia, beside you, is turning a very interesting shade of red.

“What?” Idia hisses under his breath. “That was not the line.”

You grin, leaning closer. “Yeah, but you have to admit, it’s funnier this way.”

To his credit, Idia doesn’t collapse on the spot, though he does look like he’s reconsidering his life choices.

Meanwhile, from across the room, you catch the third prince—your so-called "male lead"—glaring daggers at you. He looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel, while the heroine next to him is scandalized beyond belief.

“B-but Idia’s hand was supposed to be won!” she protests, clearly flustered.

You tilt your head innocently. “Oh? Not satisfied with the third Prince?” you ask, batting your lashes at her.

Her face goes red, and the Bland Prince—whoever he is—looks equally scandalized.

Next to you, Idia quietly high-fives you behind his back.

“Nice one,” he whispers.

As you both walk away from the court, Idia glances over at you, his usual sarcasm softened by relief. “You know, I really thought I’d end up hating this whole scheme, but you’re not bad at playing the part.”

You chuckle, nudging him. “Told you it’d be fun. And now I get a beach house, so it’s a win-win.”

Idia sighs but can’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me go to any more parties, okay?”

“Deal.”

You’re sitting across from Idia in the study, supposedly "spending time together" to prove to the world how deeply smitten you both are. In reality, though, you’re plotting out your beach house retirement plan, while Idia is hunched over his latest gadget, muttering like a mad scientist.

"Okay, so if I tweak this—boom, self-repairing AI drone. Easy. The idiots at court would never get it," he whispers to himself, eyes glued to the wires and gears he's fiddling with.

You’re busy doodling floor plans of your dream beach house, adding an extra pool for fun. “Yeah, totally, sweetheart,” you mumble, pretending to listen. This fake relationship thing is going swimmingly.

That’s when the door flies open, and in waltzes the male lead—of course he doesn't knock. The guy practically drips entitlement as he saunters in, admiring himself in the reflection of a spoon he’s for some reason carrying.

Without missing a beat, you and Idia scramble to look like actual lovers. You slide closer to him, casually tossing an arm over his shoulders, and he—already flustered—just stiffens like he’s been caught in a trap.

“I see you two are enjoying each other’s company,” the male lead says, not even looking up from his spoon reflection. “I came to invite you to the tea party. You know, with all the nobles. The whole ‘Idia’s too traumatized to socialize’ excuse isn’t gonna fly anymore. It’s been three months.”

Idia’s eyes widen, and you can practically hear his soul leave his body. You give him a reassuring nudge.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper. “I’ll do all the talking. You just have to sit there, sip tea, maybe nibble on a pastry, and nod at Ortho. I’ve got the rest covered.”

Idia doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Sure, sure, as long as I don’t have to, like, interact.”

The two of you arrive at the tea party, and the moment you step into the garden, you realize you're absolutely screwed. It’s not a tea party at all—it’s some weird medieval Olympics with archery targets set up, and a bunch of nobles are taking turns shooting arrows while their wives cheer them on.

“What… is this?” you whisper, horrified. “Why are there archery targets at a tea party? Is this... a misogyny power trip?”

Idia looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. He’s already backing away slowly, trying to make his great escape, but you grab him by the back of his cloak before he can bolt.

He shoots you a look like you’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “This... is not a tea party. You said tea and pastries. Where are the pastries?!”

“I didn’t know!” you hiss back. “I thought we’d just sip tea and gossip about whose cousin married whose horse!”

Before either of you can make another move, the heroine spots you and immediately latches onto your arm, dragging you to the tea table. At the same time, the male lead grabs Idia and hauls him over to the archery side.

"Wait—no—uh—" Idia stammers, but he’s already been thrown into the testosterone-fueled chaos of nobles trying to outdo each other.

Thinking fast, you impulsively declare, “I’ll be the one doing the archery! For my fiancé, of course. You know, because those thugs that kidnapped him? They had bows too!”

Idia, catching on, immediately puts on his best terrified expression. “Y-Yeah! Bows! I’m… I’m still traumatized! Please don’t make me relive it.”

The crowd collectively gasps, and you inwardly pat yourself on the back. Nailed it.

Somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about archery, you end up winning the whole thing. Turns out, none of the nobles have actually seen a bow before. You didn’t even hit the bullseye—you just got the arrow near the target, which was apparently enough to impress them.

The prize? A complex-looking mechanical device, something straight out of Idia’s dream workshop. You look at it, completely clueless, before handing it over to him.

“Uh, here. I have no idea what to do with this.”

Idia stares at the device, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re… giving it to me?” He looks touched but also suspicious. “You’re not gonna ask for some crazy favor in return?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s all yours. Consider it a thank-you for not leaving me to deal with this disaster alone.”

He blinks, clearly not used to receiving gifts without strings attached. “Well… uh, thanks. And… good job on the archery. You, uh, really sold the ‘traumatized fiancé’ bit.”

Before you can respond, the rest of the nobles start talking about "true love," and you can practically feel the heroine’s eyes boring holes into you. She’s fuming, glaring at the male lead—who, by the way, didn’t win—and looks like she’s about five seconds away from tearing out her hair.

You shoot her a smug grin, thoroughly enjoying her frustration. Idia, who’s been watching the whole thing with mild amusement, lightly bumps you with his elbow.

“Thanks for… you know, saving me from whatever that was. And for giving me this… thing,” he says, holding up the device.

“No problem,” you reply, smirking. “I think we’re pulling off this whole ‘smitten lovers’ thing pretty well.”

Idia snorts, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah, well, if you keep dragging me to ‘tea parties’ like this, we’re gonna need to come up with a better plan. Preferably one where I don’t have to socialize with archery-obsessed nobles.”

“Deal,” you laugh. "Next time, I'll find a real tea party."

"Please don't."

You’re lounging on a comfy chair, lazily chatting with Ortho, who’s happily explaining some new contraption he and Idia worked on. You’re half-listening, more focused on sipping tea and enjoying the rare moment of peace in this chaotic castle.

That is, until Idia suddenly appears in front of you, looking unusually determined. He stands there, awkwardly shifting his weight, before thrusting his hand out in front of you.

Without thinking, you blink up at him and, in your confusion, place your chin on his outstretched palm. You give him a questioning look, waiting for further instruction.

Idia’s face immediately flushes a deep red. “W-What are you doing?! That’s not—I didn’t—gah!”

Ortho’s trying not to laugh, but it’s clear he’s barely holding it together.

“What?” you ask innocently. “You held out your hand, so I thought…”

Idia runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered, before spluttering, “I—no, I was asking for your gun!”

“Oh. Right.” Without hesitation, you hand him the trusty weapon you always keep on hand, because at this point, you’ve learned to never question what Idia needs. It’s always better that way.

“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing it like he’s on a mission and rushing off to whatever secret lair he retreats to.

You glance at Ortho, who’s giggling to himself. “Do you think I should be worried about that?”

“Nah,” Ortho says with a cheerful shrug. “He’s probably just making modifications. He’ll be fine!”

The next day, your luck runs out. Just when you were hoping for another peaceful afternoon, the heroine arrives for a surprise visit, dragging along her little posse of noble followers. You’re seated in a stiff parlor chair, forced to endure the barrage of small talk and fake smiles, feeling as if the universe is punishing you for all the nonsense you wrote in that novel.

One of the heroine’s cronies leans in with a sickeningly sweet voice, “Oh my, Lady Heroine, I just love your new gown. You look positively radiant. Unlike some people who seem to… dress for comfort, I suppose.”

You shoot her a withering glare, but it’s hard to focus when the heroine herself joins in, adding with a falsely sympathetic tone, “It must be so difficult for you, pretending to fit into high society. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be, keeping up appearances.”

You’re just about to snap back when, suddenly, the door bursts open. In comes Idia, holding your gun, looking both determined and completely out of his element. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wonder what kind of chaos he’s about to unleash.

Before you can ask, he walks straight over to you and hands it to you, his expression serious. “Here. I finished the modifications.”

Your jaw drops as Idia starts rattling off a list of improvements. “So, I increased the firepower by 30%, added a cooling mechanism so it doesn’t overheat, and now it’s got an auto-targeting system that can scan multiple threats at once. Oh, and I swapped the trigger to be more responsive, so you won’t have any lag—”

You can’t help but notice how animated he looks. His usual deadpan expression is replaced by a lively spark in his eyes as he talks about all the intricate details. He’s completely in his element, and you find yourself enchanted by the way he speaks. It’s rare to see him so passionate, so alive.

The moment is shattered when he finally notices the others in the room. His face drains of color, and he gives a forced smile that screams I don't want to be here. Without another word, he turns on his heel and flees the room. But you notice something strange—he had been holding your hand the entire time. His grip, tight and warm, leaves a lingering sensation even after he’s gone.

You’re left holding your newly modified gun, your face heating up as you process what just happened. The heroine's entourage are all staring at you with wide eyes, as if they’ve just witnessed the most romantic moment of the century. Even the butler, who’s usually the epitome of professionalism, is grinning like he’s just uncovered the secret to eternal happiness. The maids nearby are giggling behind their hands, clearly entertained.

You glance down at the gun, then back to where Idia disappeared. Great, you think to yourself. How am I supposed to survive this?

As if reading your mind, the heroine gives you a smug smile. “It seems your fiancé is quite… attached. How charming.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the sudden rush of blood to your cheeks. “Yeah, he’s a real romantic,” you mutter sarcastically.

But even as you try to brush it off, your thoughts keep returning to that sparkle in Idia’s eyes, the way he had held your hand, and the way his enthusiasm had made your heart skip a beat. Maybe this royal con is going to be more complicated than you expected… but also, maybe not as bad as you feared.

Dragging Idia to get fitted for the imperial ball is like trying to drag a cat into a bathtub. He’s actively resisting, feet planted as you haul him toward the tailor with all the enthusiasm of a man being led to the gallows.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he groans, leaning back so far you think he might just throw himself on the floor in protest. “An angel loses its wings every time you make me do this. Do you want heaven to be wingless? Is that what you want? To singlehandedly destroy heaven?”

“I’m aiming to open a black market for wings, yes,” you say, deadpan, yanking him forward. “The profits will be incredible.”

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, shuffling along behind you, still resisting like a particularly stubborn mule. “Just put me in a broom closet with a bag of chips and leave me there. I don’t need to go to this ball. No one wants to see me.”

“I do,” you quip. “I’m dragging you into society, one unwilling step at a time.”

By the time you actually manage to get him dressed, you feel like you’ve aged five years. But when you take a step back to admire the result, it’s worth it. Idia looks stunning, even if he’s fidgeting like his clothes are secretly made of fire ants. He’s basically the human version of a rare collectible: usually hidden away, but absolutely jaw-dropping when you finally get to see him.

“Alright, Prince Drama,” you say, exhaling, “I’m going to get dressed. Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone.”

When you return, you immediately notice something’s up. Ortho’s whispering something to Idia, and whatever it is, it’s causing a nuclear-level blush to spread across his face. He’s stiff as a board, and when he turns around and sees you in your ball attire, he goes straight from “mildly panicked” to “catastrophic system error.”

Without warning, he chucks a flower at you. Just full-on throws it like it’s a projectile weapon.

“Here,” he croaks out, his voice cracking halfway through.

You blink, catching the flower mid-air with one hand. “Uh, thanks? Were you... trying to plant this on me?”

Idia’s face somehow manages to get even redder. “No—I mean yes—I mean—” He looks around for help, but Ortho just gives him an unhelpful thumbs up from the corner.

You grin, deciding to help the poor guy out. “Why don’t you pin it in my hair instead?”

His hands shake as he fumbles with the pin, and you’re pretty sure he’s using every ounce of self-control not to stab you in the scalp. You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the whole situation is just too funny. Especially when Ortho gives you a conspiratorial wink from behind Idia’s back like he’s this close to winning a bet.

The ball itself is, as expected, a social hellscape. You and Idia survive by sticking together like conjoined twins, fending off the waves of nosy nobles and fake smiles. You can practically see the stress radiating off of Idia, his expression one of pure misery.

And then, the king makes his grand address, signaling the start of the first dance. You feel Idia stiffen beside you.

“Oh no,” he mutters, “Oh no. This is where it all goes downhill. I’ll trip, I’ll break my leg, and then they’ll throw me in the royal dungeon for embarrassing the family.”

“Relax,” you say, squeezing his hand. “It’s just one dance. I’ll lead, you follow. Easy.”

“I hate this,” he mumbles as you drag him onto the floor. “I hate everything about this. I should have just set myself on fire and gotten out of it that way.”

But despite his protests, you manage to lead him through the first few steps of the waltz. To your surprise, he’s not completely hopeless. He stumbles a little at first, but with you guiding him, he starts to get the hang of it.

“You’re doing great,” you say encouragingly.

“Stop lying,” he grumbles. “I’m one misstep away from taking us both out like a bowling ball hitting pins.”

The music continues, and with every turn and spin, you notice the room around you fading into the background. For a moment, it’s just you and Idia, navigating the intricate steps of the dance together. He’s still anxious, but he’s keeping up, and more importantly, you can tell he’s starting to trust you. He’s letting you take the lead, and for someone like Idia, that’s huge.

From Idia’s perspective, this entire ball is a waking nightmare. He’s completely out of his element, surrounded by people he’d normally go to great lengths to avoid. But then there’s you. You’re handling everything with this... ease, this grace that he can’t even begin to comprehend. You’re not just dancing with him, you’re actively navigating the minefield of court politics like it’s no big deal.

And you don’t need to do this. This isn’t your problem—it’s Ortho’s succession, not yours. But you’re here, by his side, going all out to make sure Ortho’s future is secure. Idia’s heart twists in his chest. He doesn’t get it. You’re way too cool for this. Too cool for him. You wink at him mid-spin, and he feels like his brain’s short-circuiting.

"Oh no. I like them. Like, really like them. And soon, they’ll be gone. This whole engagement is just for show. After Ortho’s investiture, we’ll go back to our separate lives, right?"

He swallows hard, trying not to freak out, but it’s too late. He’s in way too deep.

After the dance, you lead him off the floor and start mingling with the other nobles, making alliances and doing your whole “political mastermind” thing. Idia stands awkwardly to the side, trying to blend into the wallpaper, but his eyes keep following you. You don’t have to do all this for Ortho, but you are. And that’s... that’s really cool. He admires you, he can’t help it.

And then—oh no. The lower nobles. They spot him and beeline toward him like sharks smelling blood. Before he can make a break for it, they swarm around him, throwing party invitations at him like confetti.

“Prince Idia, you simply must attend our garden soirée next week,” one of them gushes, eyes sparkling.

“And our evening gala!” another pipes up. “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course!”

Idia’s face goes pale, and he shoots you a look that screams, HELP ME.

You swoop in like a knight in shining armor. “Ah, yes, well, unfortunately, Idia can’t attend. He’s... uh... allergic to sunlight.”

The nobles stare at you, blinking in confusion. Idia stares at you too, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“Allergic to... sunlight?” one noble repeats, frowning.

You facepalm. Smooth. “I mean... it’s a joke! Ha! Obviously! What I meant to say is... uh...” You scramble for an excuse. “I need a nap.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I—uh—can’t sleep without him,” you blurt out. “It’s, uh, a couple thing.”

The nobles blink at you again, thoroughly bewildered.

You grab Idia’s arm, muttering, “We’re leaving,” and make a quick exit, practically dragging him behind you.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, you let out a groan. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that. ‘Allergic to sunlight’? Really?”

Idia is doubled over laughing, completely losing it. “You what?!” he howls. “You need a nap? And you can’t sleep without me?!”

“Shut up!” you say, cheeks burning. “I was trying to save you!”

“You saved me? More like doomed me!” He wheezes between laughs, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, you are terrible at this. You make me look good, and that’s saying something.”

You glare at him, but his laughter is so infectious that you can’t stay mad. And honestly? He looks free. Unbridled, even. It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh so openly, so without reservation, that it almost makes you forget how embarrassing the situation was.

Almost.

It's finally time for Ortho's investiture, and to say you feel unprepared would be an understatement. Not for any political reason—you've long since mastered the art of navigating court intrigue. No, the issue is far more personal, far more heart-wrenching. After today, once Ortho is declared Crown Prince, Idia will no longer have any excuse to stay in the spotlight. He'll retreat, back into the shadows, probably even fake his own kidnapping to get out of any future public events. And you?

You'll finally get that peaceful beach house you’ve been dreaming about.

But the thought doesn’t feel like a reward. It feels bitter. You don’t want that beach house—not if it means losing Idia. The man who’s wormed his way into your heart with his sarcasm, awkwardness, and hidden kindness.

But you know he’s not someone you can tie down. Idia doesn’t do well with permanence. And as much as your heart begged to hold on to him, you also know he’d likely slip through your fingers if you tried.

So you do what any self-respecting person would in this situation: put on a brave face, slip into your formal attire, and prepare to smile your way through heartbreak.

When you walk out to greet Idia, he’s already dressed in his formal robes, looking every bit the reluctant royal. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, but he says nothing, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

You muster up the strength to smile and reach for his hand. “Ready?”

He nods, but neither of you can meet the other’s eyes.

From Idia’s perspective, today should feel like a victory. He’s been planning for Ortho’s investiture for months, and now that the day is finally here, he should be feeling nothing but relief. But no—he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s not about Ortho. His little brother is brilliant, and Idia knows the kingdom is in good hands.

No, what he’s not ready for is letting you go.

If someone had told him a year ago that he would care about someone—want someone—so desperately, he would’ve locked them up in a mental facility. But here he is, standing on the precipice of his worst nightmare.

You, who shine in every public setting, who effortlessly charm everyone around you, are going to move on. He knows he can’t tie you down with his reclusive lifestyle, his constant desire to escape from the world. How could he? You’re everything he’s not—bright, resplendent, beloved. He can’t ask you to give up your life for him.

But when you come out and take his hand, his heart skips a beat. Neither of you are able to look each other in the eye, but the gesture says more than any words could.

The investiture itself goes off without a hitch. Ortho’s speech is flawless, full of the hope and wisdom of a ruler who will no doubt lead the kingdom into a golden age. You’re so proud of him—of the boy who’s become like a little brother to you.

But even as you smile and clap with the rest of the court, you feel a heaviness in your chest that has nothing to do with the political spectacle unfolding before you.

A few tears slip down your cheeks, and you don’t even know if they’re from the overwhelming pride you feel for Ortho or the quiet heartbreak you’ve been trying to suppress all day.

Before you can wipe them away, Idia silently hands you his handkerchief. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, and that just makes the ache in your heart a little worse.

You take it with a quiet, “Thanks,” dabbing at your eyes, and you both stand there in tense silence, watching as the formalities continue around you.

Once the investiture concludes and the guests filter out, you and Idia retreat to a balcony to catch your breath. The sky is darkening, and the cool evening breeze does little to soothe the heaviness you feel in the pit of your stomach.

Idia breaks the silence first. "I've, uh... already arranged the beach house. It’s in your name now."

You blink, looking over at him. His voice cracks slightly, and when you finally turn to face him fully, you realize that he looks like the very picture of heartbreak. He’s not meeting your eyes, staring out into the distance as if it’ll keep him from falling apart.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Idia... do you want me to leave?”

He freezes, still not looking at you. "I... I want you to be happy. I mean, that's the whole point, right? The beach house, everything—you’ve been wanting that for ages."

“I didn’t ask if you wanted me to be happy,” you say quietly. “I asked if you want me to stay or go.”

The silence between you stretches, heavy and suffocating. You hold your breath, waiting for him to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“I... I don’t know what I’m gonna do if you’re not here anymore.”

That’s all the confirmation you need. Before he can say anything else, you step forward, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss. For a split second, he stiffens, shocked, but then he melts into it, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

It’s everything you needed and more—sweet, desperate, and filled with all the words neither of you have been able to say. When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily.

“Come with me,” you whisper. “To the beach house. We can... we can figure everything out from there.”

Idia lets out a watery laugh, one that’s half-disbelief, half-relief. “You really want a shut-in like me hanging around your dream house? You’re gonna get sick of me in a week.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I don’t think I could ever get sick of you. So... what do you say?”

He hesitates for a moment, then gives a small nod, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Yeah... okay. I’ll come with you.”

And just like that, the weight that’s been pressing down on your chest all day lifts. It’s not the end—it’s a new beginning. One where you and Idia don’t have to part ways, where you can move forward together.

As you both stand there on the balcony, holding each other close, the world feels a little less daunting, and the future a little brighter.

The grand hall is slowly emptying out, nobles drifting away after offering their congratulations to Ortho. You and Idia maneuver through the lingering crowd, dodging overly-friendly dukes and avoiding eye contact with barons hoping to extend the festivities.

Idia clings to your arm like a cat being dragged to the vet, mumbling, “Please tell me we’re not about to be emotionally ambushed again.”

You smirk. “Relax. It’s just Ortho.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say before things get sentimental and I have to deal with ‘feelings.’”

You spot Ortho standing near the dais, still wearing the ceremonial robes from his investiture. Despite the long night, he looks bright-eyed, waving cheerfully at some departing courtiers. When he catches sight of you two, his face breaks into the biggest grin, and he hurries over like an eager puppy.

“There you are!” Ortho beams, practically glowing with excitement. “I was worried you left without saying goodbye.”

“Us? Leave without saying goodbye?” you tease. “What kind of villains do you think we are?”

“Exactly the kind who would sneak away in the middle of a banquet,” Idia mutters under his breath. “And you know what? That plan still sounds great.”

Ortho rolls his eyes fondly. “You’re impossible, brother.”

“Only when I’m awake.”

“Anyway,” you cut in, shooting Idia a playful glare before turning back to Ortho, “we wanted to talk to you before we go.”

Ortho’s smile falters, just a bit. “You’re leaving already?”

You nod, squeezing Idia’s arm. “Yeah. We’re heading to the beach house.”

Ortho tilts his head, curious but not upset. “You’re moving there?”

“For a while, yeah,” you explain gently. “Idia and I need a break from all the court politics. But don’t worry. We’ll visit you. Often.”

Idia shifts beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh... It’s not like I’m leaving forever or anything. Just... you know, temporarily escaping society.”

Ortho laughs, but there’s a softness in his gaze now. “I get it. I don’t blame you for wanting to leave all this behind for a bit.”

You take a step closer, voice lowering. “And hey... I know you’ve got a lot on your plate now. But we’re still family. If you need anything—anything—we’ll be here for you.”

Ortho’s grin returns, full force. “I know. I’m really glad you two have each other. Honestly, I was worried for a long time that Idia might never find someone willing to put up with him.”

“Gee, thanks,” Idia deadpans. “Glad my personal development arc has been so inspiring for you.”

“But seriously,” Ortho says, his expression softening again. “Thank you. You’ve done more for us than you had to. I know you could have just... gone back to your world or left things as they were. But you stayed. And you helped him.”

Oh no. Not this again. That suspicious prickle starts in your eyes, and you blink rapidly to fend off the tears. Not now. Not in public.

“You’re not... making me cry,” you insist, even as your voice wobbles. “This is just... allergy season.”

“Oh no, it’s happening,” Idia groans dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t cry. If you cry, Ortho’s gonna cry, and if Ortho cries, the nobles will definitely blame me.”

“Shut up, you big baby,” you sniffle, swatting his arm before pulling Ortho into a hug. “Come here, you. Group hug, now.”

Ortho barely has time to react before you’ve wrapped him up in your arms. He laughs, squeezing you back. You reach out blindly and grab Idia’s sleeve, yanking him into the fray.

“Wait—wait, what—!” Idia stumbles forward, sandwiched awkwardly between you and Ortho. “This is... I don’t...”

“Shhh,” you whisper, patting his back. “Feel the love.”

“This is emotional ambush!” Idia protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I want it on record that I was forced into this.”

“Noted,” Ortho says with a laugh, hugging both of you tighter. “But you’re not getting out of it.”

For a moment, the three of you just stand there, huddled together in a ridiculous knot of limbs, nobles glancing your way but tactfully avoiding comment.

Idia mutters into your ear, “This... this is basically treason against introverts.”

You grin. “Consider it penance for being emotionally stunted.”

“You’re both the worst,” he grumbles, but his arms stay wrapped around you.

Eventually, you pull back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “We’ll be back soon, Ortho. I promise.”

“I know.” Ortho smiles warmly, giving you one last squeeze. “And when you do, I’ll make sure you never have to attend another dull court event again.”

Idia perks up at that. “Oh. Now that’s what I call incentive.”

With one last shared laugh, the three of you break apart. Ortho steps back, standing tall and proud in his new role, though his smile still holds all the warmth of a little brother seeing his family off.

“Take care of him,” Ortho says quietly, glancing meaningfully at you.

“I plan to,” you reply, meeting his gaze with a small, reassuring smile.

“And you,” Ortho adds, looking at Idia. “Don’t screw this up.”

Idia gapes, indignant. “I—why does everyone assume I’m the one who’s going to screw it up?!”

You and Ortho exchange amused glances before both of you answer in perfect unison:

“Because you will.”

Idia groans. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”

With that, you bid Ortho one final goodbye, tugging Idia along before anyone else can rope you into small talk. As you leave the grand hall and step out into the cool night air, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

Idia sighs in relief. “Well, that’s over. Time to hibernate for the next decade.”

You chuckle, lacing your fingers through his. “Hibernation in the beach house?”

“Hell yeah.”

And with that, the two of you set off into the night, leaving the court behind—for now.

Oh, what happened to the heroine and the male lead, you ask? Let’s rewind a few months before Ortho’s investiture—back when they were still blissfully unaware of the elaborate downfall that awaited them.

You knew that the heroine and the male lead would try to make a spectacle of themselves during Ortho’s rise to power. The way they pranced around, flaunting their superficial charm and good looks like they owned the place—it was insufferable. And, of course, they were always scheming in the background, hoping to secure power and glory for themselves. You couldn’t stand it.

So, you set up the perfect trap.

It began at a lavish gala, one of those unnecessarily extravagant events where nobles gathered to network, gossip, and throw subtle insults at each other. You arrived fashionably late, as any proper duchess would, with Idia reluctantly in tow, mumbling under his breath about how every social event felt like “one of those long quests with zero rewards.”

“The rewards are emotional, Idia,” you whisper, linking arms with him.

“Yeah, emotional damage,” he mutters.

You suppress a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. Tonight is the night. You had planted the seeds weeks ago, a few well-placed rumors, some whispered insinuations, and a letter you’d accidentally left behind in a well-trafficked corridor. It was all coming together like a beautifully chaotic symphony, and now, the climax.

You spot the heroine first, her radiant smile masking the venom beneath. She’s making a grand entrance, arm-in-arm with the male lead, who, as always, looks like he’s stepped straight out of a romance novel. His hair is perfect, his jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. But you know better. They’re both so predictable.

“They’ve arrived,” you murmur to Idia.

He gives you a blank stare. “Yeah, cool, I’m just here to not die of social exhaustion. Whatever you’re planning... don’t tell me. I don’t wanna be involved.”

“Suit yourself,” you reply with a grin.

You watch them mingle, waiting for the right moment. And there it is—the heroine, attempting to cozy up to the king, laughing a little too loudly at one of his mediocre jokes. You slip through the crowd, making your way to where a certain nosy noblewoman is holding court. A noblewoman known for her love of gossip and her even greater love of ruining people’s lives with it.

Perfect.

You lean in, feigning concern. “Oh, My Lady... I probably shouldn’t say this, but I heard the strangest thing about the heroine. You won’t believe it.”

Her eyes gleam with curiosity. “Do tell, my dear.”

“Well,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “there’s talk that the heroine and the male lead are involved in some... unsavory business dealings. Something about embezzling funds from the royal coffers for their own gain? I don’t know how true it is, of course... but it would explain some things, wouldn’t it?”

You leave the rest unsaid, letting her imagination do the rest. The best part? It’s all technically true. You had orchestrated it so well, the heroine and the male lead had no idea that their “private” meetings and “innocent” financial maneuvers were anything but secret.

She gasps, her fan snapping shut. “I knew there was something off about them! Oh, the gall! I must inform the king immediately!”

And just like that, the gossip spreads like wildfire. Within minutes, the entire room is buzzing with scandalous whispers. The heroine and the male lead notice the shift, the way people start looking at them, and for the first time, they’re on the back foot. They try to smile, but their unease is palpable.

You sit back, watching the chaos unfold, sipping your wine as nobles begin to distance themselves from the pair, shooting them suspicious glances.

Idia sidles up next to you, looking around at the suddenly tense atmosphere. “What... what did you do?”

“Who, me?” You bat your eyelashes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He gives you a side-eye. “You’re terrifying.”

“You knew that when you asked me to be your fake fiancée.”

The next day, official inquiries are launched into the heroine and the male lead’s finances, and though they try to clear their names, it’s no use. The damage is done. Their reputations are ruined beyond repair, and they’re forced to withdraw from court life entirely. A fitting end for their ambitions.

Which brings you to the present...

It’s a peaceful morning in your beach house, and you’re sitting on the veranda, enjoying your coffee while the sun rises over the horizon. The sound of waves crashing against the shore is your only company, and for once, there’s no looming political intrigue or royal drama to worry about.

That is, until Idia stumbles out of the bedroom, his hair a messy blue cloud, his eyes half-closed with sleep. He groans as he sees you, one hand on the wall to steady himself. “Why are you up so early? It’s like... the middle of the night.”

“It’s 10 AM,” you reply with a laugh.

“Exactly,” he grumbles, shuffling over to you. Without another word, he flops down beside you, his head immediately finding its way to your neck. He nuzzles into you, muttering something unintelligible, and you chuckle softly, patting him on the cheek.

“You’re such a big baby in the morning,” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

Despite being married for the past two years, Idia’s face turns tomato-red every time you do something affectionate. He blushes furiously now, burying his face in the crook of your neck to hide it.

“Y-You’re unfair,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “Saying stuff like that... it’s embarrassing.”

You grin. “But you’re so cute.”

“I’m not cute. I’m a grown man. And you’re a villain for making me get up before noon.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Maybe, but I’m your villain. So deal with it.”

Idia groans dramatically but makes no effort to move away, too comfortable where he is. You continue sipping your coffee, enjoying the moment of peace, when he finally speaks again, a little softer this time.

“Y’know... you really did a number on the heroine and the male lead. They’re still laying low, huh?”

“Maybe the rumor I spread was truly a masterpiece,” you say with a smirk, remembering how perfectly everything had gone according to plan.

Idia snorts. “A masterpiece of destruction, maybe.”

You chuckle, pressing another kiss to his forehead. He sighs contentedly, the two of you basking in the quiet comfort of your shared life. It’s moments like this that remind you just how far you’ve come together, from court intrigue and scandal to peaceful mornings at your beach house.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

For the next part,

[imhaechanshoe]

thinking of hyuntak with a cute nerdy girlfriend

Title: The Glasses Don’t Mean Weak

Pairing: Gotak x Shy Nerdy Girlfriend (OC)

Gotak had no idea what Juntae was thinking when he introduced him to her—quiet, wide-eyed, always hiding behind too-big glasses and a stack of books.

“She’s cool,” Juntae had said casually. “Kinda weird, but smart. She helps me cheat.”

Gotak didn’t like quiet girls. They made him feel loud, too much. But there was something about her that didn’t feel fake. She didn’t flinch when he talked, and that was rare.

She started tagging along sometimes—nervous, always half a step behind—but she laughed at his dumb jokes and brought him spicy snacks in cute little plastic containers.

And eventually, he started waiting for her after class. Not that he’d say it out loud.

It happened on a Thursday.

He was walking back from the corner store, stupidly alone. He should’ve known better. A couple of guys from a nearby school who didn’t like him were already waiting in the alleyway.

“Where’s your little study buddy now, huh?” one of them sneered.

Gotak smirked, dropped his bag, and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t need her for this.”

He got in two hits before someone caught him in the ribs. Hard.

Then again, in the jaw.

It was getting bad. He was on one knee when he heard a voice—soft, furious, and terrifying in its calm.

“Hey.”

His attackers turned just as she stepped into the alley.

Gotak blinked. “What the hell are you doing here—?”

She didn’t answer.

She moved.

Fast.

One of the guys went down with a swift kick to the knee, the other got flipped—flipped—into a trash pile.

She moved like water, sharp and perfect. Years of training behind every controlled motion. And then it was just them, the alley suddenly silent except for Gotak’s ragged breathing.

She stood over him, frowning.

“You okay?” she asked gently, offering her hand.

Gotak just stared.

“You can fight?”

She helped him up, brushing dirt from his hoodie.

“I was going to tell you. Just… didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“Weird?” he wheezed. “You just did a Jackie Chan on those bastards.”

Her cheeks turned red.

“I do taekwondo. Since I was six.”

Gotak couldn’t stop grinning. His lip was bleeding, and he was definitely going to feel that kick tomorrow, but he still laughed.

“I think I just fell in love.”

She buried her face in her sleeve to hide the smile.

That night, he texted Juntae:

bro. you didn’t tell me she was a damn ninja

thanks. i owe you.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

wake up call - spencer reid fem!reader

a night partying turns the morning into one big whirlwind of figuring out how the hell you ended up in your coworker's bed

genre: fluff wc: 1.4k warnings: bau!reader, odd!reader, reader momentarily thinks she slept with spencer, reader walks in on spencer in a towel, embarrassment a/n: this is for my build a fic!!! thank you so much for 500 followers i can't believe it i feel famous💗 side note: this is dedicated to my baby @esote-rika i love you so much mwah mwah

see polls here

The funny—or rather, awful—thing about drinking is that it almost never leads you to good places. It leaves you floaty, giggly (more so than usual), and without any feel for what’s appropriate. Boundaries are tossed out of every window, crashing harshly onto the street below and ruining everything in its path. Shy demeanors flake away to reveal unfortunately weird girls.

Fun and games, they say. It starts with partying with your coworkers and ends with one big group of drunk idiots. Drooling on each other, placing far too much trust in each other’s unsturdy hands.

Far too wasted and stumbly for your own good, you couldn’t possibly drive yourself home.

You knew that.

Yet…

Your eyes flutter open as the flurry of memories from the night previous remain that—a flurry. Each snapshot of laughter and secret spilling lasts only a moment each. Looking down at your legs tangled within sheets that aren’t yours, you realize you don’t know how you got here. And, more importantly, you don’t know where you are. You scan the room with hazy eyes.

Navy blue walls, wooden old furniture, scientific posters on the walls, books.

Spencer?

Yes, it was his apartment that said partying took place but why are you still here at—you look to the small clock on his nightstand—6:47am?

It’s not like you could’ve possibly…

Could you? Surely not, right?

Of course you think he’s smart, awkward, totally your type, but that doesn’t mean anything.

You think he’s adorable because, well, you have eyes.

But at the current moment you’re not sure you can place your trust in them.

So, does that mean you’ve slept with your coworker?

Your eyes drop to your legs again, this time noticing that they’re still covered by sheer black tights. That’s a good sign. One you’ll take to heart happily.

When your feet hit the ground, you’re unsure where you should go.

The side of the bed you hadn’t slept on is slightly disturbed. The pillow has the imprint of a person in it. You wonder if he slept alongside you for the entire night. You wonder if he felt it every time you repositioned yourself.

It’s not something to put thought into, you conclude.

With not one teensy ounce of consideration or any form of forethought, you pad toward the door and slip through. The remnants of last night litter the floor. A trash bag sits by the leather couch, filled with bottles and wine corks and paper cups. A blanketed silhouette haunts the couch. She’s blonde, pink lipstick faded and smeared in a not-so-fashionable manner. Soft snores fall against the leather.

Penelope.

Your graceless feet stumble back toward the bedroom that’s not yours. Frantic eyes search the room like it’s the first time you’re seeing it (it’s the second). Your shaky hands push the door closed, letting it softly click.

On the (not so) off chance you really did sleep with Spencer, Garcia is not the first person you want to know. Although, who is?

Not relevant.

Finding a spot on the floor, you cover your face. A soft groan passes your lips—a groan filled with pure self hatred. Because how did you end up here? In a very abstract way, you suppose it’s beautiful how every tiny decision—spontaneous or planned—affects where you end up. In a very realistic way, it sucks.

You think your impulse control accounts for at least half of the places you end up. As if to prove that point, you stand and walk to what you know leads to the bathroom. Mindlessly, your hand finds the doorknob of the bathroom door.

When it swings open, you’re welcomed with the sight of Spencer. Half naked and afraid—mortified really. In only his boxers.

You squeal, eyes being covered by your hands as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—uh—!”

“It’s okay! Really—I should’ve…” his jaw goes slack when he realizes that you’re actually the one to blame. Not that he’d ever develop the capability to blame you for absolutely anything.

Spencer stares at you, standing there with your eyes covered and head low. His eyes trail over your crumpled clothes, your sweater, your shorts, your tights.

“I’m really sorry, I should’ve knocked or at least stepped really loud or—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” You can practically hear him shaking his head.

You nod and squeak, “I’ll leave.”

Your back is to him in an instant. Cheeks hot to the touch, you let out a long breath. You feel as though this whole morning has been plucked from your own personal nightmares. First, waking up with no memory as to what (or who) you spent the night doing. And then the horror you just caused.

You wipe smeared mascara from your under-eye, loathing yourself a little more every second that passes.

The door creaks open slowly before the silhouette of your coworker peeks out. Now, he’s in a hoodie and sweatpants—possibly the most casual you’ve seen him. Clearing your throat, you look down at your feet.

“I’m really sorry,” you mumble before going on a pure tangent, “I woke up and didn’t know where I was or how I got there or why I got there… and then I saw Garcia and then walked in on— well… you know.”

Spencer clears his throat in the same way you just did. “I know.”

You lift your head to find his eyes–wide and innocent.

“I’m really sorry!”

“It’s okay! I promise. I—I mean, you’ve seen other guys… like that.”

While he’s not lying a big lie, that’s not relevant information, is it? “Well, I— Yes… but I— That’s not—!”

“I just meant—!”

And then… silence.

Filled with awkwardness and tension, the room falls into utter quiet. You swallow to hopefully ease the queasy feeling settling in your gut. You’re unsure whether it’s caused by your liver trying to survive or by the man in front of you (and how you can now picture him naked). That is not a thing you’re trying to do, by the way.

“I know… what you meant,” you mutter softly, an awkward half-smirk finding your lips.

His eyes sweep over your face, taking his time to properly inspect each feature–eyes, nose, lips. This might be the first time you’ve been this close. In numerous ways.

You watch as his hand raises slowly to your face. Time is nothing but a unique concept understood only by the ones who crafted it. Slowly, gently, the pad of his thumb swipes away black product from your under-eye. It’s as if the slope of your cheek was sculpted for the purpose of slipping into place with the other half—him. Perhaps one lump of clay formed both of you. Those thoughts are redundant, anyway. Why not let them overtake you, even if only for a moment?

But the thought that still plagues you is if anything happened last night.

“What… uh… happened last night?” you ask shakily.

Spencer’s brows draw together. And his hand drops, cheeks pink. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, a frown haunting your lips.

His teeth dig into his lower lip so hard you think it could pierce the velvet skin.

Your mouth opens and closes several times, making you look like the closest thing to a fish out of water. But then you manage, in a high pitched mumble, “did we sleep together?”

Based solely on the comical widening of his eyes, you presume no. And you now want to curl up in a ball and roll under the nearest rock and set up camp for life.

His head profusely, insistently, shakes. “No, no, no! I would never– uh– you were intoxicated, I wouldn’t—”

“Okay!” you squeak, lips pressed into a thin line. That rock is starting to sound really homey.

He nods, his awkward smile mimicking yours. He clears his throat like he remembers something, and then walks to the side of his bed—the one you slept on. He leans down and picks up a pair of black Mary Jane flats. Yours.

He brings them to you and places them in your unsturdy hands. Your eyes meet and, frankly, you have to force yourself to look away. “Thank you,” you say to the floor.

You feel him nod.

With a lift of your head and the flats, you bid him farewell with a small smile.

And then you’re sneaking past Garcia, shoes dangling from your hand and eyeliner smudged.

A total cliché.

[toxicanonymity]

the condom.

Javi P x f!reader x Steve Murphy | 1k words | masterlist

WARNINGS: 18+ real nasty pwp. toxic mean javi, implied angst, heavy degradation, gaping, cumplay, dubcon breeding, daddy kink.

Javi gives you the old, “we were never official.”

“So I can fuck someone else, too?” You ask.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he tilts his head and gives you those big, condescending eyes. “you know I don't share, right?” He gently lifts your chin and chuckles at your scowl. “How's this," he offers. "Do what you want, and we’ll see what happens.”

“You just said you don't share,” you remind him.

“Maybe I do,” he shrugs. “Won't know unless you try it.” He smooths his mustache. “who knows “ he muses, “Maybe it'll turn me on.”

He takes your hand and puts it on the front of his jeans.

He's stiff.

“How many narcos could you take in one night?” he asks, and massages himself with your hand. “Take them two at a time?” His cock swells, tightening his already straining jeans.

“I’d never fuck a narco!” You protest.

“but you're talking like you want to,” he challenges.

“No I wasn't,” you shake your head. He tightens his hand around your jaw.

“Do it,” he challenges, then lowers his voice. “See if I want that dirty, used-up cunt.”

His fingers squeeze into the hollows of your cheeks and you open your mouth to accept his spit.

He elongates his torso as he gets his wallet out of his tight jeans. “Here,” he says as he opens it.

He tosses a strip of small foil packages to you.

Something you'd never seen him wear.

—-----

“How d’you think he’d feel if it was you?” You ask Steve, sitting on his knee after he's dried your tears.

He’d gotten you to laugh by musing about which narco you could fuck and where. It kept getting more detailed, and the chuckles became more sparse. “He could fold ya right in half, stuff ya like a turkey,” he’d finished with a low whistle, then got lost in his thoughts. “If ya can take it, that is,” he added in a low voice. His eyes scanned your body and he sucked in air through his nose as he moved his hand just an inch up your thigh. “Think ya can take a big ol’ cock, even bigger than jav?” He'd asked.

“How much bigger?” You'd asked.

“Guess ya’d have to find out,” Steve cooed.

And thus your question.

“Hm," Steve's brow furrows. “you plannin’ on tellin'?”

“You wouldn't tell?” you ask, hardly believing you've arrived at this possibility.

“Hell no,” Steve confirms and slides his hand up your thigh. "Mmm," he hums at a low pitch as his hand nears the humid heat between your legs.

“You want this dick, is that what I'm hearin’?” He looks down at the hard shape in his pants then reads your eyes. You reach for the thick, hard bratwurst visible down his inseam.

A zap of need makes you nod.

—-

Javi gets home less than an hour after Steve leaves. You're fresh out of the shower but haven't had a chance to take out the trash.

“You're clean,” Javi observes with a skeptical arch of one eyebrow.

“Don't you like me clean?” You ask.

“Open,” his hand on your jaw makes you open his mouth. He looks you over carefully, and his nostrils twitch.

“on the bed. All fours,” he commands. He lifts up your dress and pulls down your panties. Before he touches you, he pulls the panties all the way off and sniffs them before throwing them aside.

He gets down on his knees to examine your cunt. “Well someone fucked you wide open,” he notes.

“Javi…” you protest, unsure what to say

He works three fingers into your hole and it burns without enough lube.

“Bet I could fit my whole hand,” he muses, but withdraws his fingers and leaves you gaping.

“I can see your cervix,” he says. “Must’ve been one big cock. You were smart, though. I can smell the latex.” You look back at him, cheeks burning. His nostrils flare and he draws in a chest full of air. “I've got one guess,” he mutters as he stands up. He goes to the restroom and fishes the used condom out of the trash. Full of Steve and still slippery.

Javi returns, sniffing the condom. “You fucked my partner,” he observes a little too calmly with a raise of his eyebrows. He unfurls the condom, lifts it up to the light, and tilts it, admiring the liquid as it moves under the translucent tan.

Javi holds the rim of the condom gently between his teeth as he swiftly takes off his belt and pulls his jeans down. He stands, cock erect, and takes the condom from his mouth.

Javi pumps his cock a few times and demands, “how'd you do it?”

You put yourself face down, ass-up.”

“Like that?” He asks. He's sweating and his heart rate is up.

You nod.

He nods like he's impressed. Sarcasm. The sweet stench of cum draws your eyes to crotch level, where Javi is suiting up in Steve's condom, inside-out.

Your mouth is shape and your face is cold. The latex wrapping Javi's cock is coated in his partner's cream. He pumps himself, fist gliding over the cum, spreading it evenly along his shaft.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Told you it might turn me on,” he answers. “Never wanted to breed someone so bad.”

“What?” You ask. “Javi, this is–”

He kneels onto the bed and gets behind you. “Yeah, he's got a real big one,” Javi says as he lines himself up at your tired hole. He pushes his cum-coated length into you and says, “real big.”

He withdraws enough length to admire steve’s cum creeping out of your hole, then slams his hips into you. He pulls on your hips as he fucks you harder. “Daddy Murphy,” he says. “Hope he shows up for you,” his words hop to the rhythm of his thrusts. He gasps and sighs. “Yeah…. Just like that,” he coos, admiring his work where your bodies are joined. Cum is frothing out around his cock as he pounds you. “put a baby in you,” he says, “oh, baby.” The smell of cum and latex is heavy in the air. “When your belly starts to grow,” he pants, “you gonna tell him he's daddy?”

You moan in response.

“Who's daddy?” Javi asks.

“You are,” you reply as a reflex.

“And who else?” He asks

“Steve,” you reply.

“That's right,” Javi pants. “Can't wait to see your tits grow,” he gushes, “watch him watch you filling out…” he pulls you back hard and slams into you, bottoming out deep as he cums.

He lets you collapse onto the bed and pulls out of your wrecked pussy. The condom is ripped and froth is everywhere.

“Guess it turned me on after all ” he admits. “I'll run you a shower.”

----

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Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment. I need all the dope(amine) I can get rn. Love y'all! ♥️

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Trying this ~

[auroralwriting]

his little finger

spencer reid x fem!hothead!reader

part two here

spencer has you wrapped around his finger; you'd do anything he said without question. your team can't quite understand it. little do they know you and spencer have an unsaid.. thing.

warnings: reader has a hot temper? is that a warning? | words: 1k short but sweet!

You were known to have a confident personality. You never let anyone shake you, that's why the team loved you so much. You were the sole, beating heart of Aaron Hotchner's team; you never let them give up. Not only, but you were kind of a badass. You knew how to profile amazingly, and you could hold your own if an unsub got a little too rough.

Something else you were known for? A hot temper.

Okay, maybe it could go a little bad sometimes, but you truly meant well. Like that time you accidentally made a teenage boy cry. To be fair, he was a potential unsub. He actually was the unsub, so not all was a total failure.

Today was different for you. The coffee shop you frequented before work was closed due to issues with the electrical systems. That put a chip in your day. How was one to thrive without coffee? Next, you forgot your badge at home, making you late for work since you had to retrieve it to even get into the building. That put a dent in your day.

Derek was known to be a funny guy. Not the kind of funny guy you'd actually laugh at, but the kind who kind of pissed you off sometimes. Yeah, that kind. While he meant well at heart, it just royally pissed you off. You couldn't help that!

You leaned your elbows on the table, listening to the coffee pour into your cup. "Hello my little fox," Penelope greeted, her face frowning when she saw the look on yours. "What's wrong?"

"Bad day so far," You muttered. "Everything's just going wrong."

"It's only seven," Derek said as he walked in, smile on his face. "Come on, sugar. Go on and sit down at your desk. I know how you like your coffee." You thanked Derek quickly as you went to your desk. It was right next to Spencer.

Oh, Spencer. The boy who fell hard for you, who made you fall for him. Neither of you knew that, though, your crushes remaining secret still. "Y/n," Spencer frowned, "what's wrong?"

"It's alright, Spence," You forced a small, pathetic smile. "Just a bad morning."

Spencer gave you a half smile, "Positive attitudes actually give you a higher likelihood of having a better day by ten to thirty percent," Spencer rambled, "and that actually is the same for social connections, being a twenty to forty percent. You're on the right track."

You loved Spencer's rambles. They were adorable. "Thanks, Spence." You smiled.

A few minutes later, Morgan came to your desk with your coffee in hand. "For you, sugar." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. You quickly took a generous sip.

It left your lips quicker than it entered. You spit it out into the trash can next to your dest, face turning sour at the taste. It was so bitter, so salty. "What the hell, Morgan?!" You cried out, "What is this?"

"Salt, sugar." He teased.

Your face turned hot, "How old are you, six?" His face slowly fell as you became angrier, "Genuinely, how old are you? Because last I checked, children don't have jobs."

"Hey," Derek tried to calm you down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to actually upset you."

"Oh, of course you didn't!" You replied with sarcasm dripping from your lips. "You just don't get when people don't want you to make them feel worse!"

Derek's face fell into a frown. You didn't mean to hurt his feelings, but you couldn't stop your words. "Y/n," Spencer said firmly, "Sit down, now."

Before you could even think, you followed his command. The whole event caught Penelope, Emily, Rossi, and JJ's attention. JJ was quick to rush over, grabbing your coffee. "I'll get you the right one, it's okay." She comforted as Emily quickly lead Derek away. Rossi and Garcia decided to mind their own business, smart.

You groaned, head in your hands. Spencer was quick to kneel by you, taking your hands into his own. "Y/n," He said softly, "Take a deep breath. I know, I know." You followed his instructions, inhaling and holding it like he demonstrated, softly letting it out after. "Good job, sweetheart, do it again for me, okay?"

After a few more times, your face cooled off. You closed your eyes, sighing. "I didn't mean to hurt his feelings."

"I know, he knows, too." Spencer assured. "He knows he was out of line. You reacted the same way anyone would. It's alright."

Spencer raised his hand to your face, softly brushing your cheek with his thumb. JJ walked over, unsure if she was ruining.. something?

"Hey, I got you your coffee," She hesitantly spoke. You looked up, reaching out quickly.

"Thanks," You mumbled, taking a cautious sip. When you realized the taste was right, you took a bigger sip, sighing at the warmth flooding down your throat.

Spencer gave you a small smile, "See? It's okay now."

You nodded with a smile, thanking him softly. He went back to his desk, re-opening his report. You did the same, clicking your pen open.

"Okay, now what the hell was that?" Derek asked, the previous team members crowding around Rossi's desk.

"I felt like I was walking in on them," JJ mumbled awkwardly. "The tension was so strong I thought it was gonna slice me clean in half."

Emily smiled, "I bet they're in love or something, only love can make a person react like that. She would've bitten anyone else's head off." Everyone mumbled in agreement.

"I bet two weeks," Rossi said after a moment.

"Nah, knowing Reid, it's gotta be more like three." Derek shook his head.

Emily laughed, "I bet a week and a half. Y/n's too badass to not admit it first."

"I don't think they ever will until we do for them." Penelope sighed, knowing how stubborn both individuals were.

"I say one week, solid." JJ nodded. "I felt that tension."

Hotch's voice came out of nowhere, "Four days."

Everyone turned around, shocked. "Hotch, you sure about that?" Derek asked, a slight tease in his voice. "You know them."

"I do," He nodded, "Four days. You'll see I'm right."

[wetpussyju1ce]

Alpha!König x Omega!fem reader (smaller than König)

original post

for @ohdrey89

+18. mdni.

könig and his tiny soon to be heat partner are a cute pair. since the day König shoved his whole knot inside her, his brain chemistry shifted and he's been stupid for her ever since. absolutely awe struck w her. he can't help it. now when she's all calm, asking him if he'd be willing to help her fix some fences to keep foxes away from her chickens, as if the day before his mind and whole being wasn't blinded with so much pleasure he felt reborn. she can't be asking him that so… so casual when he feels like he'd die if he stays away from her for too long.

he definitely knows he has some underlying issues if he's feeling this affected by them having sex for the first time. or maybe it's love. he'd like to think it is. because she's funny, smart, kind and pretty, and her pussy is the wettest, warmest and tightest he's ever been in. so yeah, she's definitely a catch. and she seems like she likes him to a degree, because even after their little excapade at the cottage, she still smiles at him and holds his arm or squeezes his thigh when they're all gathered up before dinner in his pack house.

his heart hammers in his chest and he feels his balls throb whenever she bats her pretty eyelashes at him or teases him. she asks him to help her with the most random things, things that require heavy lifting around her own little garden and cottage. and he does it. because why the fuck would he say no?

and she knows what she's doing too, sits on a bench with her chin resting on her palms as her elbows rest on her knees, watching the massive Alpha chop enough wood to last 3 winters, just because she asked. and he's sweating through his t-shirt, the fabric sticking to his freckled and scarred skin under. and she's just taking it all in. the bulging biceps, the big hands, the massive shoulders, his thighs that are as thick as trunks and the bulge between his legs, her absolute wet dream, live in the flesh.

when he's done, he's panting and his t-shirt is drenched, so he takes it off and she grins like the cat that got the cream. She offers him water off her cute pink pitcher, and he drinks like half of it. when he's done. she takes the water back inside the house, with him following her, his t-shirt in his hands. he stands in her small kitchen awkwardly, too big, too out of place for her soft and cozy home. that is until she tells him to leave the t-shirt on the floor, she'll wash it later. and he's about to disagree because he can wash it himself but then she's slowly lifting her tiny t-shirt over her chest, and he chokes on his spit.

His eyes immediately land on her small breasts and he can't breathe.

König doesn't even realise he's already crossed the kitchen and now has her flat down on her dinner table, his mouth licking and sucking, taking his fill out of her chest. And he's moaning, big warm rough hands holding her still as she laughs and moans on the table.

He frantically unbuttons her shorts and pulls the zipper down, before he can pull down her shorts and underwear in one go he remembers his manners and looks up, “Can– Can I eat you out? Please?”

“Yes,” She grins and he doesn't waste another second, pulling her clothes down in one go. he gets his head between her legs, buries it as far he can go, his nose nudging her clit as he licks broad stripes over her wet lips, then shoved his tongue in.

One thing the Omega learned about König is that when he wants something, he does it fully, wholeheartedly, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries. If he wants to eat her pussy, he will, with everything he's got.

The Omega quickly startes to trash under his filthy mouth, she grips his hair and pulls, her legs shaking as he messily drinks her slick between her legs. The noises he makes are loud and wet. She gets momentarily worries he may drown down there, considering she leaks a lot, like so much, especially when he's involved. But all König does is feast on her sweet cunt, drinking out of her as if she was the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, and she may as well be considering his dick is about to rip through his jeans, his knot tingling and ready to swell.

Her mind is foggy, her eyes are rolling at the back of her head as he eats her out and thumbs at her nipples with one hand at the same time, he's not giving her time or space to breathe. With every exhale she moans, and when he ears finally stop ringing she realises he's been speaking to her. Or at least saying something and she makes a small confused sound, looks down her body and tries to listen over the sound of him loudly and sloppily drinking everything she has to offer, and finally picks up something. König is another planet, his brain shut down and all he can repeat over and over again are praises for her, and her pussy; "You taste so good, so good-- So sweet and warm and tight-- Please come on my face, please I want it--"

That's it. That's all it took for her to squirt all over his face, shouting in her small cottage, writhing on her dinner table that she definitely needs to clean later. König is over the moon, unashamedly moaning with his head between her legs, he doesn't give a shit about breathing when she's covering his whole face with her slick, marking him up. He doesn't even realise he's also coming in his trousers, ruining his boxers with a horrifying amount of cum, but he'll deal with that later, after he gets his fill.

[revelboo]

KO, having delusions of domestic bliss: I wonder what my human is up to today

Human: *screaming*

Breakdown: STOP RUNNING IM NOT GOING TO HURT YOU *lying*

My Favorite Accident Pt 12

Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Tucking and rolling over the edge might not have been your best plan. Banging every bit of yourself as you tumble and slide all the way to the bottom and land upside down in a pile of trash that’s accumulated there, you’re dazed. Wheezing and sore, you stare up at the massive jerk leaning out to scowl down at you. “You alive down there? Cause I’m going to kill you,” he snarls, sliding a big ped over the edge. Panicking when you realize he’s coming down after you, you’re clawing like mad to roll and get to your feet, ignoring your aching body screaming as you hear him sliding down and you hope he scrapes all the paint off his alien ass.

• Driving through town, Knockout’s processor is humming. Trying to figure out where you might be and annoyed with himself for not chipping you with a GPS. Sure, you might have been furious about it to begin with, but it would be coming in handy right now. Where would a human kidnapper take their victim? Away from town? To their home? Has no idea and he’s never been so angry before. At you, at himself, and at whoever’s taken you. Because even if he arrives too late, he’s going to enjoy seeing what all he can do to a human while keeping them alive and conscious to watch. And feel.

• Sliding down the embankment, Breakdown falls to a knee at the bottom, lip curled to bare his denta. And he’s lunging upright, charging after your fleeing form. Because you’re headed straight for a tunnel leading underground and he’s had enough. Not chasing you in there. Frag that. Arm lifting, he fires at the tunnel before you get anywhere close and you try to change direction and fall on your butt with a terrified yelp. “Got you,” he snarls, lunging and seizing you before you can make a run for it. Almost dropping you when you scream.

• Frantically clawing at his too tight grip, you’re aware of the hitching noise you’re making. That you can’t breathe with him squeezing your ribs. And you suck in a shuddering breath when he eases his grip ever so slightly instead of squeezing harder. Staring up at him, you want to be defiant. To go out brave instead of cowering like an animal. The best you can do is extending an arm, middle finger raised and his optics narrow. While he probably doesn’t know what that means, he apparently gets that it’s rude. But then, you’ve always been more impulsive than smart. Acting before bothering to think.

• Tires screeching when he hears the weapons discharge in the distance, he heads that way. Because he recognizes those weapons. Breakdown. And the big mech is too close to town. Never wanders anywhere near humans, completely disinterested in them. But if he’s nearby, maybe he can help search for you. They can cover more ground together even though he’s not sure how to explain you to Breakdown. Knows the other mech won’t understand why he’s invested in your well-being. Even he’s not that sure anymore. Likes you even if he doesn’t want to examine that too closely. You’re only human, but you matter to him. Doesn’t want to lose you so soon.

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