#hair care optimization

[ladyamericanasstuff]

[lelianaslefthand]

just remembered when someone made a tiktok saying that everyone who thinks astarion didnt have white hair/light eyes before being turned was stupid and wrong and they used my pre-vampire astarion post as an example and kept it up behind them the entire time they explained (irrelevant) moon elf lore now im irritated about it again

[fromdove]

“you’re bleeding on my bath mat.”

“technically,” dick says, biting back a wince, “we bought that bath mat.”

you glare at him. he’s sitting shirtless on the closed toilet lid like it’s a throne, hair damp with sweat and blood, black suit unzipped and pooling around his waist. his lip is split, knuckles scraped, and he’s got the nerve to be smiling.

“that doesn’t make it better.”

“no, but it makes it ours.”

you mutter something unflattering under your breath as you kneel beside him with the first-aid kit. “what happened?”

“some guy had a knife.”

“and you didn’t?”

“i had... optimism.”

“idiot,” you sigh, tilting his face toward the light. the cut on his cheekbone is shallow but angry. he winces anyway. you try not to think about how pretty he still looks like this, bloodied and cocky, grinning like he won a prizefight instead of nearly getting gutted in an alley.

“you worry too much,” he murmurs.

“you bleed too much.”

“fair point.”

he stays still as you clean the wound, but his eyes never leave your face. there’s a softness there that doesn’t match the bruises. like he’s memorizing your every frown. every sigh.

“you gonna kiss it better?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

“i’m gonna disinfect it,” you reply, deadpan. “if you’re lucky.”

he groans when the antiseptic hits, the sound dramatic enough to make you pause.

“you’re the worst nurse,” he complains, slouching dramatically. “i came here for comfort.”

“you came here for sympathy and post-fight cuddles.”

“and pancakes.”

“you’re not getting pancakes.”

“...you’re so mean to me.”

you set the bottle down and look at him. his lashes are dark and damp, his lip swollen, cheekbone starting to swell. and still—he looks at you like you’re gravity.

“you’re lucky i like you,” you say, softening despite yourself.

“you love me.”

you lean in, slow and careful, and kiss the corner of his mouth—right where it doesn’t hurt. he exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath since he climbed through your window. your hands find his jaw, cradling him gently. his own fingers twitch like he wants to touch you back, but he doesn’t move.

“you’re bleeding on me,” you whisper when you pull back.

“technically,” dick grins, lips brushing yours again, “we’re even now.”

and then he kisses you properly—bruised mouth and all.

[goofygubegubler]

𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆?

Inexperienced doesn’t mean incapable—especially when you’re bent over and begging him to go deeper.

wc: 2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex, mild dominance/submission dynamics, inexperienced but eager Spencer, praise kink, slight hair pulling, deep penetration, overstimulation, mild dirty talk

A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)

Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.

You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.

And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.

"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.

"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.

His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.

But not tonight.

You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."

His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.

He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."

"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."

"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.

"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."

You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.

Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”

A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”

A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.

“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.

“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.

“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.

“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.

Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.

“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.

The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.

Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."

You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."

Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."

He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."

[sixeyesonathiel]

finally birthing male manipulator satoru with girl failure reader wwww

gojo satoru was used to getting what he wanted.

and he wanted you.

not in some deep, profound way—god, no. not at first. it started as a game. a challenge. a passing amusement that piqued his interest one random thursday morning when you stammered out an apology after bumping into his desk, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. he watched you trip over your own words, clutch your pen like a lifeline, and tuck your legs up onto the chair like you could shrink out of existence if you tried hard enough.

prime target. textbook girlfailure behavior. he could spot it from a mile away.

this was supposed to be easy.

he’d start small. nothing too intense. just a little white knight routine—softboy edition. give you just enough attention to get you spinning. love-bomb in casual doses. trauma-dump-lite over late-night fries. maybe let his voice go quiet and vulnerable one evening and say, “you remind me of someone i cared about.” glance away, bite his lip, look just the right amount of broken. play the victim just enough to make you feel like you had to fix him.

he’d make you think he saw you. that he understood you.

except you, with your messy hair and oversized hoodie sleeves pulled over twitchy fingers, dodged every single one of his perfectly curated attempts like your avoidant attachment style was running military-grade defense protocols.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asked one afternoon, leaning a little too close to your desk, silver hair slightly tousled, reading glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, his voice low and silky. lips curved into a smile that’d made stronger girls fold. “you looked a little sad today. i worry about you sometimes.”

you blinked up at him, lashes fluttering like you couldn’t believe he was talking to you. your throat worked around a half-swallowed gulp. then your face shifted. shutters slammed down. you forced a grin, lopsided and sharp around the edges.

“yeah, i’m just like this. it’s seasonal depression, but, y’know… year-round. i’m fine.”

you said it so matter-of-factly. like he was asking about the weather.

satoru froze, his hand briefly twitching near his glasses as he pushed them up slowly, searching for meaning in a world that had suddenly gone sideways.

what the actual hell.

okay. maybe you needed more.

he started sitting next to you in class. always coincidentally. elbows brushing, knees knocking. his thigh warm where it grazed yours. he sent you memes at 1:37 a.m. with captions like “us fr?” and “ur literally me,” despite you barely replying to half of them. he offered his jacket when the AC kicked on and watched the way you hesitated, blushed, and then said, “i run on spite, not warmth.”

and then, the pièce de résistance:

“i just feel like… you’re different,” he said one evening outside the library. the campus was quiet, sky the kind of inky navy that made everything feel more cinematic. he stood with hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, a calculated slouch, glasses slightly askew, hair falling across his forehead. his voice dipped low, coaxing. “everyone else is so fake. but you? you’re real. you’ve got this… broken, beautiful thing going on.”

you tilted your head. stared. then squinted at him like he was a suspiciously priced antique. “did you get that line off tiktok?”

he flinched.

bro.

he ran a hand through his hair. a slow, dramatic drag of fingers. girls walking by giggled. he didn’t look up. he was malfunctioning.

he was trying. actually trying. not just running a script. not just playing games. he was pulling every page from the softboy manipulator playbook and rewriting it with style. the gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss starter pack, optimized for 2025.

and still. you met his carefully calculated charm with self-deprecating jokes, sarcasm, and the kind of deadpan delivery that made him question if he was losing it.

“you should save that line for someone without warranty issues,” you said, staring at him with a crooked little smile. “i come pre-broken.”

he left that encounter walking in slow motion, hoodie sleeves dragged over his hands, mouth set in a pout. if a sad indie movie montage started playing around him, he wouldn’t have questioned it.

here’s the thing, though: you liked him.

it was obvious.

he saw it in the way your gaze flickered to his mouth when he talked. the way your fingers curled tight around your notebook when he leaned in too close. the way your breath hitched just slightly when he used your name in a sentence. you were down bad.

but you were also your own worst enemy.

years of romantic misfires and silent yearning had turned you into a master of avoidance. you would rather make a joke about your emotional damage than let someone touch your heart. rather ghost your feelings than face them.

and it was frying his entire nervous system.

one night, 2:14 a.m., satoru lay on his bed staring at your latest post: a blurry picture of your cat with the caption “me.” it had two likes.

he stared at it longer than any man should. took a screenshot. set it as his lock screen for five minutes. unironically laughed.

then groaned and stuffed his face into his pillow.

“no,” he muttered. “no. she’s the one who canceled our group study session with ‘sorry i’m busy disappointing my ancestors.’”

and yet.

he kept thinking about the way your voice dropped to a whisper when you didn’t think anyone was listening. the way you fiddled with your sleeves when you were nervous. how you always sat at the edge of a group like you weren’t sure you belonged there.

you never clung to him. never fed into his savior complex. never let him be the one who "fixed" you.

and for some reason, that made him want to try harder.

not because it was a game anymore. because… well. because you were infuriating. weird. unpredictable. not like the others. god, maybe you were even kind of funny.

whatever. it wasn’t that deep.

gojo satoru: male manipulator dodged by the one girl who wanted him back… just enough to sabotage it.

and now he’s the one thinking way too hard about someone who won’t even sit next to him two days in a row.

he doesn’t like you.

he just… finds you interesting.

that’s all.

shut up.

[isuggestforcefem]

What I'm about to say is going to sound absolutely fucking insane but I need someone to hear me out on this one and unfortunately you are that person. Delete this if you want but I need someone to know what was revealed to me via divine intervention. This is gonna be a long one

I, as a cis boy, think the optimal strategy is to transition into a femme-presenting trans man or a lesboy or whatever you want to call it.

Now, you may be thinking, "what the fuck????" That's fair. I'm gonna try and break it down for you anyway.

I don't see anything wrong with being a boy. I'm fine as it is. However, I think being a girl could potentially be neat. So I transition into a girl, get estrogen and bottom surgery and whatnot, and bada-bing, bada-boom.

However, I can already convincingly pass as a girl. My voice is pretty androgynous and I have what some would consider a feminine build. Narrow shoulders, long hair, the works. I could still easily go by he/him even if I took estrogen because I'm already pretty androgynous.

"Why transition in the first place?" you might be asking, and I have a very simple reason for this. I want to be a lesbian. I literally cannot picture myself to be intimate with a woman as a man, and I've learned a lot about dating women from the best: lesbians. I want to follow in their footsteps and idolize women in sapphic doodles like the many lesbians before me. I also think I'm overdue for a much-needed hardware update.

Now, why would I still want to pass as a man? Well, as much as I love boobs, I don't think they suit me. Maybe a little bit, but I don't want em too big, y'know? It would also make most social interactions unchanged. I'm still just some guy. I like that energy about me. Also I got some pretty conservative family members. As long as they aren't trying to pull down my pants, I'd still be the same person to them. I'd still be the same person to me, too. I also wouldn't have to change clothes. I already wear what some might mistake for a dysphoria hoodie because it's a pretty thick and large jacket. But I am not giving up those pockets for shit. Also I don't think my skull shape passes too well? It kinda does but in an uncanny valley kinda way. My face can pass but I'm not 100% on the skull.

And, even if I transition, I can still be forcefemmed, but now with so many different layers. I'd still have that femmable egg energy. I could make the detrans kink gender-affirming. I'm still a boymoding trans girl, which is like one of the prime targets from what I've gathered (mainly from this blog). There's so many layers to it, so many things that could be done. I'm starting to think this section is a little too horny for this blog. I can't really tell.

I have contemplated this for roughly six hours and this is what I have. This solution satisfies all the conflicting ideals I have about being trans. I don't think it'd fix transphobia or anything, but I'd probably end up meeting one bigot who thinks I'm trans anyway so I might as well, eh?

Well, I guess I do still have a few problems, such as actually having to care about my looks, the expenses, shaving, ect. But other than that I'd say it's pretty airtight. This might be the new meta

Eggs are inventing new ways to be eggs in my dms I see

[solxamber]

Receiving Gifts on White Day with: Pomefiore

go here for other dorms

Vil Schoenheit

The moment you open the door, you are met with perfection.

Vil stands there like a vision—poised, radiant, and utterly breathtaking. He’s holding an immaculately wrapped gift box, the soft scent of roses and vanilla lingering in the air around him. The morning sun catches in his golden hair just right, as if nature itself understands that lighting must always be optimal for Vil Schoenheit.

"Good morning, darling," he greets, voice as smooth as silk. His violet gaze sweeps over you, and he hums in approval. "Even when you’ve just woken up, you manage to be beautiful."

Your brain? Gone.

He hands you the gift box, watching expectantly as you unwrap it. Inside is an array of handcrafted chocolates—each piece a miniature masterpiece, adorned with delicate gold leaf and intricate designs. They look too perfect to eat.

“You made these?” you ask, slightly in awe.

“Of course.” Vil tilts his chin, looking pleased by your reaction. “I refuse to give my beloved anything less than perfection.”

You take a careful bite, and the flavor explodes across your tongue—smooth, rich, and utterly decadent. Your knees almost buckle.

“Vil,” you whisper. “These taste expensive.”

He smirks. “They are expensive. Do you think I would let you eat anything subpar?”

You swallow, still reeling from the sheer level of effort he put into this. “You really went all out.”

Vil exhales softly, stepping closer. His fingers brush against your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "Of course I did," he murmurs. "Because you are worth every bit of effort, and more."

And then, just as your heart completely melts, he leans in—pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead.

You are never recovering from this.

Rook Hunt

You don’t even fully open the door before Rook is already sweeping into a dramatic bow.

"Ah, mon trésor, my radiant light in this world! How blessed am I to bask in your presence on this most divine morning!"

You barely have time to blink before flower petals—where did they come from!?—flutter through the air around him. It’s as if he planned stage effects for this exact moment.

"Rook," you say slowly, staring at the spectacle before you. "Did you… did you set up a whole romantic scene just for delivering a gift?"

He gasps, clutching his chest as if you’ve just wounded him. "Ma chérie! Do you truly think I would offer you anything less than an experience befitting of your magnificence?"

Before you can begin to process that, he presents you with a gift—an exquisitely wrapped box tied with silk ribbon. His eyes sparkle as he watches you open it. Inside are the most beautiful chocolates you’ve ever seen, hand-painted with delicate landscapes, stars, and even tiny portraits of things he knows you love.

"Rook…" Your heart swells. "These are stunning."

He smiles, warmth radiating from him. "Ah, but they pale in comparison to the beauty of your smile, mon amour."

And then—because he is Rook Hunt—he swoops in, gently taking your hand and pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. The gesture is so sweet and so sincere that your face immediately heats up.

"You—" You stammer, gripping the box. "You’re unbelievable."

He only laughs, absolutely delighted. "Ah, but you adore me for it, non?"

….Unfortunately, he’s completely right

Epel Felmier

The moment you open the door, Epel is already looking away, rubbing the back of his neck like he's seriously debating running for it. In his hands is a slightly crumpled gift bag, which he shoves into your hands like it's a live grenade.

“H-Here,” he mutters, still refusing to look at you.

You blink, opening the bag to find a box of handmade chocolates—surprisingly neat—with a little note inside.

You pull it out, reading: “I tried real hard on these, so if you don’t like ‘em, at least pretend ya do. – Epel.”

Your heart melts.

“Epel.” You grin. “You made these yourself?”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “Duh. What, ya think I’d just buy somethin’ for my partner?”

You take a bite—and immediately pause.

“…Epel.” You stare at the chocolate. “These are amazing."

His ears go red. “Quit exaggeratin’.”

“I’m serious. These taste like they came from a professional chocolatier.”

Epel scowls, still embarrassed. “I was trained by Vil, y’know. Had to make sure they were perfect.”

Your chest tightens. “Wait. You practiced for this?”

His blush deepens. “Maybe.”

You stare at him, then suddenly grab his collar and kiss his cheek.

Epel freezes.

Then, very quietly: “Aw, hell.”

You laugh, stepping back. “Happy White Day, Epel.”

He groans, face fully red. “Ain’t nothin’ happy about you makin’ me feel all flustered first thing in the mornin’…”

….You are absolutely going to do it again.

Masterlist

[kxsagi]

pro football player!bllk with girlfailure gf 🙏

“𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝”

a/n: reader is me i fear because i had apple maps on and turned left when siri said turn right (i ain’t ever living that down)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, aiku oliver

isagi yoichi

"i’m not saying you're a disaster, love, but i just saw the smoke coming from the toaster and knew you tried to make soup again." 

yoichi is genuinely concerned for your wellbeing on a daily basis. he’s in the peak of his athletic prime – eating clean, training consistently, and optimizing performance… and then there’s you, googling “can i eat expired pudding if i microwave it?” 

he keeps track of your life with the dedication of a world cup coach. daily alarms set for you. calendar events for you. a literal google doc titled "how to not die this week – for my girlfriend." 

“yoichi, i accidentally took a sleeping pill instead of my vitamin again. at 2pm.” “... okay, stay on the phone while i cancel your dentist appointment and put you in bed.” 

when you showed up to one of his games wearing a shirt with his face on it, backwards, he didn’t even blink. he just fixed it for you mid-tunnel entrance like he was adjusting his jersey. 

he tells reporters, “she keeps me grounded.” what he means is you walked into a glass wall yesterday trying to wave at a squirrel. 

itoshi rin

"you’ve burned water. explain to me how that’s even physically possible." 

rin is the definition of organized. you? you just poured orange juice into your cereal because you were “half-awake and the cartons looked the same.” 

he constantly looks like he’s asking god why he’s being tested. but despite the judgmental sighs and eternal frown, he never lets anyone else talk down to you. 

“i couldn’t figure out how to put gas in the car so i called triple A and cried.” “... i’m going to show you how to do it. we’re going right now. bring your notebook.” 

he sets emergency funds aside just for your monthly “life mistake.” like the time you bought a fake designer purse that turned out to be a lunchbox. 

but he remembers everything. your favorite candy. how you like your grilled cheese (burnt, apparently). which socks help when you’re overwhelmed. 

once you got lost in IKEA and called rin in a panic. he tracked you down like joe goldberg.  

itoshi sae

"i make millions a year and my girlfriend just got stuck in a revolving door." 

sae is rich, classy, and elegant. you once mistook a bidet for a drinking fountain. opposites, baby. 

he acts all nonchalant and "ugh," but he's always silently picking up the pieces after you’ve caused another minor catastrophe. 

“i thought the microwave was the oven and now the plastic is part of my dinner.” “okay. i’m ordering sushi. don’t eat it. i mean it.” 

he’s weirdly patient with you. will roast you endlessly, but also brush your hair out of your face while saying “idiot” in the gentlest voice ever. 

once, you tripped walking up the stadium stairs and spilled a nacho tray onto a stranger. he didn’t even blink. just pulled out his black card and paid for all the ruined food. 

“do i like her because she’s cute? no. it’s the comedy. i never know what she’ll break next.” 

nagi seishiro

"wait… you were supposed to go to work today? oh no." 

you both forgot what day it was and slept through a meeting. your lives are one long nap and an accidental door dash order. 

nagi genuinely doesn’t care about your failures. he just kind of blinks and goes “eh, sounds annoying. let’s lie down.” 

“sei, i think i broke the vacuum.” “cool. guess we don’t clean now.” 

you once forgot to bring your passport to the airport. he forgot his shoes. you were that couple. the airline staff pitied you. 

he lets you stack your chaos on top of his. gets a little spark in his eyes when you mess something up. “you’re funny,” he says as you spill water on your laptop. 

surprisingly supportive. doesn’t fix things, but he’ll cuddle you while you cry about them. 

“i ruined the job interview.” “eh. next one. let’s get ice cream.” 

mikage reo

"my baby can’t do taxes or read maps, but she’s hot so it’s fine." 

he’s so ridiculously rich and competent, and you’re just trying to remember your email password from middle school. 

constantly watching you with an amused expression like “wow. she’s really out here giving it her best. adorable.” like you said “i think i wanna become an astronaut” and he started looking up NASA internships. 

“reo, i tried to meal prep and now there’s rice in the ceiling fan.” “that’s talent. you want a private chef?” 

he buys you a new phone every time you drop one in the toilet. it’s happened four times. 

he sends you voice notes like “baby, remember to eat today” and you reply “does chocolate count?” and he’s like “only if you eat six.” 

will absolutely drop $30k on something to make your life easier and then call it a “just because you’re a princess” gift. 

kaiser michael

"schatz, why are you crying?" "i tried to braid my hair and now there’s a comb stuck in the wall." 

kaiser is such a showoff. pro athlete, media darling, good with money, sharp as hell. you? you tried to fix the wi-fi by blowing on it like a nintendo cartridge. 

he lives for your mess. he thinks it’s hilarious. he’ll walk into a room you destroyed and be like “wow. modern art. you’ve outdone yourself.” 

“kaiser, i accidentally sent my manager a meme instead of my availability.” “did they laugh? no? then resend with context.” 

he’ll bully you for your mistakes but then drop everything to help you anyway. “you’re lucky i like you. and that you look hot when confused.” 

secretly addicted to you needing him. will pout if you fix something yourself. 

“you didn’t call me when your sink broke?” “i googled it.” “what the hell. i was emotionally prepared to be your hero.” 

shidou ryusei

"guess what i just did!" "lit something on fire?" "how did you know!?" 

you two are absolute chaos. you keep failing at life and he cheers you on like it’s a sport. 

“i just sent an angry email to the wrong person.” “HELL YEAH BABY. make it worse! want me to reply with a meme?” 

he loves how you panic over small things while he eggs you on. “i lost my shoe!” “go barefoot! embrace the primal life!” 

he brings out your most unhinged side and encourages your impulsive decisions. “should i dye my hair pink?” “only if you let me do it with kitchen bleach.” 

somehow, when you’re both together, things work?? the disasters cancel out??? or at least no one’s bored. 

“she’s dumb, and she’s mine. and if anyone says anything else i’ll headbutt them into next week.” 

aiku oliver

"you’re not a failure. you just have a very… creative approach to life. and gravity." 

he’s the charming, cocky pretty boy captain and you once fell down an escalator because you were texting. 

he calls you “baby” in that teasing voice every time you mess something up. “baby… you really locked yourself out again?” “yes…” “adorable. hold on, let me come save your helpless little ass.” 

literally spoils you rotten to compensate for your chaos. you messed up your entire skincare routine and he booked you a five-star spa appointment. 

jokes that you’re his "clumsy little gremlin" and kisses your forehead after you bump into a pole. 

also weirdly proud of your fails. tells his teammates about them like fun facts. “my girl once put dish soap in the laundry machine. we had bubbles for hours." 

he likes that you need him. not in a weird possessive way, just in the fun way. 

“she keeps life spicy. also, she accidentally started a fire once by microwaving foil.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[heartsiebyul]

Twisted Wonderland characters when their lover refuses to let them get up for school, clinging to them during a lazy morning in bed.

(Featuring: Cater, Ruggie, Jamil, Azul, Rook, Epel, Lilia, and Ortho)

Cater Diamond

“Aww~ (m/n), you’re too cute in the morning.”

He’s got one leg out of bed and his phone in hand—was about to snap a mirror selfie for Magicam until you latched onto him like a sleepy koala.

“Stay please” you grumble into his chest.

Cater giggles and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You tryna make me late so we can be hot messes together?”

He ends up tossing his phone to the side and wraps both arms around you. “Fine, fine! A few more minutes~ but if I get bedhead, it’s on you, kay?”

(You both end up rushing to class, him brushing your hair with his fingers.)

Ruggie Bucchi

“Ugh, not this again…”

You’re wrapped around him like a burrito and groaning, “Five more minutes…”

Ruggie wants to get up and get his day started, but the way you nuzzle your face into his chest? Yeah. He’s not made of stone.

“Fine, fine,” he huffs. “But if we’re late, you’re carrying my chores for the day.”

Of course, he ends up dozing off beside you instead, fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back.

(You both show up to class super late.)

Jamil Viper

“(m/n), I need to get up.”

“Nooo. You're too warm. I’ll cry if you move.”

He sighs, but you can feel him melting a little at your dramatic whining.

“This is emotional blackmail,” he mutters, even as his arms pull you closer.

The rare peace in your touch makes it hard to move anyway.

He gets up after a long pause, combing his fingers through your hair and kissing your forehead before whispering, “I’ll make it quick. Stay cozy, alright?”

Azul Ashengrotto

“Darling, I really must—”

“You’re not allowed,” you murmur, locking your legs around his.

He stutters, eyes wide and pink-faced. “W-We’ll be late!”

You simply tighten your hold and kiss his jaw. Azul goes quiet, sighs shakily, and gives in.

“Very well. Just this once…” he says, kissing your forehead and burying his face in your neck.

When he shows up late, he's fully composed, but there are pillow creases on his cheek and a content smile on his face.

Rook Hunt

“Ah, mon amour, you are radiant even in slumber!”

You groan and cling harder. “Nooo, sleep.”

He laughs gently and brushes his fingers through your hair. “Then let me be your willing prisoner this morning.”

He hums softly while you doze against his chest, whispering how beautiful the sunrise is on your skin.

He arrives at class smiling like he just came from a romantic date despite being late.

Epel Felmier

“(m-m/n)! Let go!”

You yank him back down and murmur against his shoulder, “Please… just a little longer.”

His ears flush red almost instantly. “Agh—y-you’re so clingy in the morning, it’s not fair!”

He squirms a little, trying to resist, but your warmth wins. With a soft, defeated sigh, he nestles closer and wraps an arm around you.

“Just five minutes. That’s it,” he grumbles.

(You both oversleep. Badly. Vil is furious.)

Lilia Vanrouge

“Oh~? My darling doesn’t want me to leave~?”

You groan, arms tightening around his waist as you bury your face into his chest. “You’re warm. Stay please.”

He chuckles, the sound soft and low in the quiet morning light. “You sure know how to charm an old man.”

Instead of pulling away, he melts into your embrace, shifting to get more comfortable. His fingers trace lazy circles against your cheek as he begins to hum a gentle, nostalgic lullaby. His voice is soft, tender, full of quiet affection.

You sigh contentedly, nuzzling closer as your breathing syncs with his.

(You both miss the first two periods entirely. Not that either of you cares.)

Ortho Shroud (Platonic)

“Good morning, (m/n)! You’ve exceeded your optimal rest cycle by 17 minutes and 42 seconds!”

You groan dramatically, flopping your arm over his metal frame. “Ortho… five more minutes. I’m tired.”

He pauses, fans whirring. “That is outside your usual behavior pattern. Are you feeling unwell?"

“No. Just lazy. Stay here with me?”

There’s a long pause. Then he floats closer and gently tucks your blanket around you. “...Understood. I will stay and monitor you for symptoms!”

He floats beside you quietly, projecting soothing music until you start snoring again.

Later, Ortho politely explains to the teacher that he stayed behind to protect a friend’s emotional wellbeing. He gets excused. You don’t. But it was worth it.

And that’s the end! I hope you all enjoyed this headcanon. Honestly, I had so much fun writing it! If you have any requests, feel free to let me know! <3

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤTAIL ME TO CHURCHㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Kurt Wagner x Fem Angel Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be With An Angel Darling?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Kurt saw you for the first time during a mission with the X-Men. You descended from sky like a gothic renaissance painting—glowing, regal, beautiful. Your voice rang out like a celestial choir that also wanted him dead. The moment your six cute, fluttering winged eyes turned toward him in horror, he was smitten.

You called him “demon spawn” with such elegance, he actually got flustered.

“Thou reek of sulfur and failure.”

“Thank you—wait, what?”

He tried to introduce himself and offer a hand. You floated over it. Not past it. Over it. Like his existence was something sticky you didn’t want to step in.

He 100% thinks he’s in love.

Logan says he’s into being insulted.

You say he’s “a furry manifestation of God’s worst joke.”

He tells people you’re just shy.

Your floating eyes adore him. They blink sweetly when he’s around, chirp like pigeons, and one of them even gave him a flower once. You hate that. You punish them by making them watch sermons.

Kurt talks to them like they’re cats.

“Hallo, kleiner augenfreunde! Did she tell you about me? No? She never stops talking about me—of course she did!”

You’re the opposite of what people expect an angel to be. You’re a narcissist with zero patience, a superiority complex the size of the sun, and no internal monologue.

You insist you loathe Kurt. Disgusting little demon.

But every time he prays, you mysteriously appear to scold him for “appropriating sacred rituals.”

Girl, why were you watching him pray?

This man’s main character flaw is blind optimism. You spit on his face (literally), and he’ll say, “She’s warming up to me.” You explode a building because he touched your wing, and he’ll smile through the blood.

“She said I was a disgrace. That’s two steps up from unholy vermin!”

Everyone else is watching this like a horror rom-com trainwreck.

You know everything about him. His birth year. His favorite food. The exact softness of his tail.

You dream about strangling him. Or marrying him. Or both.

You followed him to confession once and stood behind the priest, breathing dramatically. He nearly cried.

Your inner monologue: Stupid fuzzy rat. If he smiles at me again I swear to God I will decapitate him in my dreams and also braid his hair and also kiss him once and then kill him again.

Kurt is unwavering. You try to push him off a building? Teleports back.

You insult his tail? Offers to let you touch it.

You call him "an eldritch wet cat in spandex"? He blushes.

Eventually, you start talking to him without barbs. Just a little. One of your eyes starts hovering around him even when you’re not there. You start appearing to protect him, but only under the guise of “killing him later.”

“Touch him, and I’ll annihilate your bloodline. He’s mine to destroy.”

Kurt: beaming “She cares.”

He once walks in on you lecturing a broken mirror for reflecting you “incorrectly.” You’re in a silk robe, surrounded by fire.

He shrugs and offers you tea.

You start screaming about how tea is beneath you. He hands you your favorite kind. You stare.

You drink it.

Your floating eyes blink rapidly.

You’ve never sneezed in front of anyone. Because angels don’t sneeze. You told everyone this. Loudly. Often. But one day during a mission briefing, something in the dusty abandoned chapel hits your nose wrong and—

You let out the most pathetic, high-pitched “chu!”

And then immediately disintegrate a pew from embarrassment.

Kurt, blinking: “Gesundheit?”

You, glowing with shame: “I will erase this moment from your mind and soul, you putrid blue salamander.”

The floating eyes start circling him apologetically.

He still thinks about that sneeze at night. It was adorable.

One day He gives you a gift. Wrapped in silver paper, tied with a ribbon that matches your hair.

Inside: a custom eye mask. Six of them. Tiny. Embroidered with golden wings.

“For your augenfreunde. So they may sleep better, ja?”

You go feral. Shouting, flying ten feet in the air, glowing bright enough to cause minor sunburns. You accuse him of mocking your “divine protectors.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course. I will humbly accept any punishment you deem worthy.”

You glare at him.

You take the masks.

You tell him they’re “being incinerated.”

You lie.

That night, the little eyes float in a circle, sleeping peacefully in their tiny angeli masks.

Once during combat, your hair gets scorched. Not completely—but enough to reveal one eye. You freeze. Everyone freezes.

You’re panting, hurt, vulnerable.

Kurt immediately teleports in front of you, covering your face with his own tattered cloak.

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, reverent, not even trying to hide the awe.

You slap him.

You scream.

You kick him so hard he crashes into a tree and apologizes for being in your presence.

You vanish for three weeks.

When you return, your hair is longer.

Your eyes flutter around Kurt like shy children.

You still call him a disgrace, but now your voice wavers.

The first time you touch him you were injured. Bleeding golden-blue ichor that shimmers like mercury. You insist you’re fine.

You start to collapse.

He catches you.

You slap his chest. “Unhand me, heretic!”

But you don’t teleport away. You don’t fly off.

You just… sit there. On his lap trembling.

He whispers a prayer.

You roll your eyes so hard one of your floating ones spins in the air.

But your hand?

It grips his tail gently.

And when he flinches, thinking you’ll bite it off?

You curl your fingers around it and squeeze.

“Disgusting appendage… warm.”

He nearly passes out.

You eventually let him hold your hand. Only because you were “cold.”

You get jealous when he flirts with anyone else—even if you were trying to murder him that morning.

And even though you still call him a demon in public, at night you whisper prayers of confusion to whatever god cursed you with affection for that thing.

Maenwhile, Kurt thanks God daily for letting him fall in love with a celestial nightmare in heels.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[littlepeach-world]

Baby on Board

Paring: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Summary: You and In-ho welcome your beautiful baby into the world.

Warnings: Emotional Intensity, Pregnancy and Childbirth, Past Trauma, Labor and Delivery, little angst idk, fluff, soft!inho, protective!inho, dad!inho, husband!inho

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: Just a short fic while I’m working on everyone’s request. Enjoy! 

Your life has been a tapestry of warmth, compassion, and an unwavering belief in the goodness of people. As you stand at the threshold of a new chapter, about to bring a new life into the world, you reflect on the journey that has brought you and your husband to this moment. His rigid exterior and commanding presence often mask a heart full of pain and love—a heart that you know intimately.

Before In-ho became the Front Man of the Squid Game, his life was scarred by a profound personal tragedy. You never knew his late wife, but you've seen the imprints of his loss in the silent sorrow that occasionally flickers in his eyes. His unborn child, too, was a loss that cut deeply into his soul. These memories, though rarely spoken about, have shaped the man he is today—authoritative, relentless, and emotionally guarded.

Despite this, you've come to understand that his ruthless pragmatism is a shield, a way to cope with the responsibilities that weigh heavily upon him. In-ho’s meticulous nature, his need for control and precision, all stem from his desire to prevent any further chaos or pain. Yet, beneath this exterior lies a man conflicted and complex, grappling with the shadows of his past and the duties of his present.

In-ho may rule the games with an iron fist, but your presence in his life brings a warmth that melts the ice around his heart. From the moment he fell in love with you, it was as if a light had pierced through the shrouded corners of his soul—a feeling he had never experienced before. Your own personality—a blend of empathy, nurturing, and optimism—complements his in ways that only destiny could orchestrate. Where he is methodical, you are spontaneous; where he is guarded, you are emotionally open.

Your relationship with him is a delicate balance of yin and yang. Your love is the sanctuary where In-ho can shed his armor, finding solace in the tenderness you offer. Through your creative pursuits and gentle spirit, you bring joy and beauty into his otherwise dark world, creating a space where both of you can breathe freely.

When you revealed to In-ho that you were pregnant, he was initially shocked, the news surfacing deep-seated fears and emotions. But that shock quickly turned into an all-encompassing happiness, deepening the love he felt for you. The idea of bringing a new life into the world—and into his life—was a prospect that filled his heart with newfound hope.

From that moment forward, In-ho became even more overprotective. His attention to your needs and desire to be near you at all times intensified. Never wanting to be away from you, he shadowed your every move, ensuring safety and comfort surrounded you, almost as if it were his new mission. This vigilant presence revealed the depths of his transformation—a man once cloaked in detachment, now a devoted protector with love as his guiding force.

Inho did everything for you. Whether it was cooking your meals, washing your hair, or changing your clothes, he took on each task with unwavering dedication, determined that you should never have to lift a finger. He found immense pleasure in caring for you, meticulously attending to even the smallest details of your life to ensure your absolute comfort and well-being. Through his actions, Inho demonstrated the profound love and commitment that drove his every movement and decision, showcasing a depth of affection that transformed not only his life but yours as well.

The day you go into labor is a whirlwind of emotions. In-ho, usually so composed and in control, becomes your pillar of support despite his visible nerves. As the contractions grow stronger, you see the cracks in his confident façade. He hates seeing you in pain, and each twinge of discomfort you experience reflects in the worry etched on his face.

He holds your hand tightly as you make your way to the hospital, his words of comfort doing as much to soothe his own fears as they do to ease your anxiety. “You’ve got this,” he whispers, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “I’m here with you every step of the way.”

In the delivery room, the world narrows to just you, In-ho, and the impending arrival of your baby. The pain is intense, and as you push with all your strength, In-ho’s supportive voice fills the room.

“You can do it, my love. You're so strong,” he says, kissing your forehead.

Through gritted teeth, you sometimes snap at him, the pain overwhelming your usual patience. “You did this to me, In-ho! I hate you right now!” you yell, tears streaming down your face.

In-ho only holds you tighter, a gentle smile on his lips. “I know, sweetheart. I know. You're doing amazing, and I love you so much,” he assures, his voice unwavering as he brushes a strand of hair from your face.

Finally, with one last push, the room fills with the sound of your baby’s first cry. Relief washes over both of you. In-ho kisses you deeply, tears of pride in his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs against your lips. He then looks toward the doctor, who is offering him scissors to cut the umbilical cord.

His hands tremble slightly as he takes the scissors, but his resolve is clear. With a determined and loving expression, he cuts the cord, solidifying his role as a father. The doctor then takes the baby to perform the standard tests and clean them up.

In-ho refuses to leave the baby’s side, his eyes never straying from the tiny, precious form. He watches intently, his heart racing with every movement and sound, ensuring that everything is perfect. He holds his breath as the doctors perform their tests, only releasing it when told that everything is fine.

When the doctor hands you the baby first, In-ho’s heart swells with pride and love as he watches you hold your newborn for the first time. He’s overcome with emotion, tears stinging his eyes as he sees you cradling the tiny life you both created.

You gaze at him, a silent understanding passing between you, knowing that this moment is as monumental for him as it is for you. After a few precious moments, you gently pass the baby to him.

His breath catches in his throat as he gazes into the eyes of his newborn for the first time. A soft gasp escapes his lips as his eyes fill with tears.

"Hello, little one," he whispers, his voice filled with awe and tenderness. He brushes a gentle finger across the baby's cheek, marveling at the soft, delicate skin. "I love you more than words can say." The look on his face is one of pure adoration and vulnerability, a side of In-ho rarely seen by the outside world.

As you both sit on the hospital bed, you, still exhausted, lay your head on In-ho’s shoulder while he cradles your newborn for the first time. Tears stream down his face, unable to contain the flood of emotions.

“Thank you for letting me be a dad,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I vow to always love and protect you both, no matter what.”

Together, you gaze at the tiny, fragile life you've brought into the world, with a sense of completion and wholeness. The strong and determined man you fell in love with remains, but now he has also become a loving husband and devoted father. Inho reflects deeply on how empty and mundane his life was before you came into it, realizing with gratitude how you, have illuminated every shadowed corner of his existence.

Even with his steely resolve, he often feels unworthy of someone as extraordinary as you. He questions what you see in him and marvels at his fortune of ending up with someone so perfect. Inho silently vows to cherish and adore you like a queen for all the days of his life, promising to honor and protect you and your newborn with every fiber of his being.

Your journey together, sculpted by balance, unwavering support, and profound understanding, stands as a testament to the enduring power of love. Inho has never experienced a love as deep and transformative as the one he shares with you and your child. The connection and devotion he feels are unparalleled, a symphony he wishes to nurture forever.

In a world often enveloped in darkness, your love is the light that guides him—a beacon of hope and warmth he desperately clings to. As you both embark on this new chapter, you face the future hand-in-hand, with a bond so strong that no tragedy can sever it.

[x-cellhealth]

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[joemama-2]

𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 & 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚

・❥・ pairing: veteran! levi x fem reader

╰┈➤ synopsis: known as ‘marley’s darling’, your father, a high-ranking marleyan diplomat, introduced you as his pride and joy since you were out the womb. dazzling smiles, coy and subtly flirtatious remarks, an innocent but seductive allure that keeps you in the eyes of the public. with concerns for your safety, your father hires levi ackerman as your personal bodyguard, a war hero to some, a warm criminal to others. the same man who fought against your people.

・❥・ wc: 7k

・❥・ tags/warnings: age gap, levi is in his late thirties, reader is 26, angst, fluff, smut, alcohol, drugs, war veteran! levi, reader takes inspo from marilyn monroe, mentions of ptsd, depression, death, post! war, prejudice, guns, knives, violence, reader is marleyan, slow burn, sorta opposites attract?, dark themes, cussing, gross men, no titans! modern au, may have some canon divergent elements (e.g. levi has both legs still lol)

・❥・ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

“Don’t you already have bodyguards? Multiple of them?” 

“Yes, but apparently I’m this one’s specific responsibility.” You sip from your mimosa, leaning back casually in the pool chair. The summer rays of the warm Sunday morning shine down on your little posse. Circular black shades obscure your vision, wearing a red checkered, halter, one-piece swimsuit. White manicured toes wiggling out in front of you, gazing at your French tips. God, I need a new set.  

“Is he handsome?” Isabella asks, smiling dreamily. Resting her chin on her palm, she moved a strand of red hair away from her light hazel eyes. 

You playfully roll your eyes, having grown accustomed to your best friend’s antics after years of friendship. “He is. However, he's a little on the short side.”

“Well, height isn’t everything, Y/N.” Naomi sits to your right. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She holds a cool glass of soda, opting away from any alcoholic beverages. It’s a running joke between you three, one where you and Isabella would call her the prude of the group.

“Oh, it totally is!” Isabella huffs, leaning over to look at Naomi. “A man should be tall. Tall, handsome, strong—” 

“Rich,” you add. 

“Kind,” Naomi tacks on, giving you a look. 

“And charming,” Isabella finishes off, leaning back in her chair.

You sip your mimosa once more, head tilting up towards the sky. “Well, I just met him. I can’t exactly say he’s my dream man. In fact, I’m already growing slightly irritated with his presence.”

“What? Why?” Isabella asks, standing up. She stretches before stepping into the jacuzzi. 

“Why?” You echo back in disbelief, scoffing. “For one, he’ll be all on my ass 24/7.”

Naomi pats your arm. “It’s for your protection, Y/N. It may not be completely ideal, but try to look at it from the bright side.”

You love Naomi. However, her optimism and headstrong, realistic ways of thinking tend to get on your nerves. But you suppose it’s much needed with you three. While she’s the more measured, grounded one, Isabella is all heart and heat—led by whims, wild dreams, and red wine. A flirty, extroverted bimbo, labeled by some. And you? You’re somewhere in between. Sweet enough to charm a room, sharp enough to carve through it if you had to.

You glance at Naomi and give her a soft, sarcastic smile. “The bright side? Sure. Maybe he’ll be so bored of guarding me, he’ll ask to be reassigned.”

“I don’t think anyone could be bored of guarding you,” Isabella calls from the jacuzzi, flipping her wet hair back with theatrical flair. “You’re chaos in lipstick.”

“And diamonds,” you remind her, raising your glass. “Don’t forget the diamonds.”

Naomi shakes her head but smiles all the same. “Just be careful around him, okay? Especially if he’s been assigned by your father. You know how he operates. He doesn’t place people unless they serve more than one purpose.”

You go still for a moment, her words settling over the group. You swirl the mimosa in your glass, the citrusy scent tickling your nose as your lips press into a faint smile, one without amusement. “Yeah,” you murmur, “I know.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the weight of unspoken truths to stretch between the three of you.

Isabella tries to lift the mood. “Well, if he’s cute, maybe you’ll get over it. Who knows—maybe he’ll fall hopelessly in love with you, and it’ll all turn into some scandalous forbidden romance.”

You laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “If he’s smart, he’ll keep his distance.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow slightly behind her sunglasses. “You think he’s dangerous?”

You shrug, setting your glass down on the small table beside you. “I think he’s not just a bodyguard. And I think my father doesn’t hand me off to strangers unless they’re there to report back.”

Isabella sinks deeper into the water, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Then why does it feel like this one’s different?”

Because he is. You’re not sure why yet, but something about Levi Ackerman is…off-script. Off-brand. Like he’s not here to play the part your father gave him, but hasn’t told anyone what script he’s reading from. Or maybe that’s just your own trust issues coming into play, rearing its ugly head. 

“I don’t trust him,” you finally say. “But I don’t think he trusts me, either.”

Naomi tilts her head. “Then you’re a perfect match.”

You snort, reaching for your glass again. “God forbid.” But still, your mind drifts back to the moment he looked at you—not with lust, not with obedience, but with evaluation. Like he was dissecting the game before even agreeing to play. 

“Well,” Isabella wonders, tilting her head. “Where’s this short man now?”

“Meeting with my father in his study.” 

Isabella’s face lights up. “Do you think he likes redheads?”

“Sure. Or one of those Eldian freaks.” You laugh, Isabella joining in. It takes a few seconds for you both to realize the mistake you unintentionally made. Glancing at Naomi from the corner of your eye, you tone down your laughter as you notice her awkwardly looking away. 

Damn it. 

“It’s okay,” she’s quick to placate you, head shaking. “It was a joke. It was funny.”

“Dammit, I’m sorry, Naomi. It just…I didn’t mean that. I know you’re…you know, too. That was insensitive of me.”

Isabella frowns, scratching her neck. “I’m sorry, dearie.”

Naomi waves it off with a small smile, but her fingers tighten slightly around the condensation of her soda glass. “Seriously, it’s fine,” she says, eyes still averted. “You’re not the first to say it without thinking. Probably won’t be the last.”

The silence that follows isn’t hostile, it’s just… heavy. A little too honest for a summer morning by the pool.

You sit up a little straighter, mimosa forgotten. “No, but I should’ve thought. Especially around you. You know I don’t actually—” You stop yourself, biting back the hollow defense that it was just a slip. That it didn’t mean anything. Because it did mean something. To her. And if Naomi didn’t always speak up when she should, you sure as hell needed to.

Naomi finally looks at you, meeting your gaze. Her smile is faint, but warmer this time. “It’s okay,” she says again, more softly. “I know where your heart is. I just… I guess sometimes I wish people wouldn’t use ‘Eldian’ like it’s a slur. Even if it’s just for a punchline.”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat that you weren’t expecting. Guilt always hits harder when it’s deserved. “You’re right,” you say, quieter now. “I’ve grown up hearing it tossed around like nothing. I guess some of it is still stuck without me realizing.”

Naomi leans back in her seat, exhaling slowly, as if releasing something she’s been holding onto for a while. “It gets exhausting,” she admits. “Having to constantly remind people you’re not less than. That your blood doesn’t define you.”

Isabella’s expression softens, her usual airy playfulness dimming to something more grounded. “We’ll do better,” she says, and for once there’s no dramatics—just sincerity.

You glance between your friends, two women who’ve stood beside you through everything—your father’s schemes, the unbearable galas, the endless expectations—and wonder how many other things you’ve overlooked.

Then Naomi shifts the mood with a small laugh, nudging her soda glass toward the edge of the table. “But if he does like redheads, Isabella, please don’t seduce him on the first day. Let the man settle in.”

Isabella gasps, hand over her heart. “I would never—well, maybe just a little harmless flirting.”

You roll your eyes, tension easing from your shoulders. “God, imagine him trying to flirt back. He’d probably just grunt and walk away.”

Naomi chuckles. “Sounds like your type.”

You throw your head back with a groan. “Don’t start.”

But despite the heat, despite the awkward moment that still lingers in the edges of your conscience, the day begins to feel lighter again. There’s still so much unspoken between the three of you—but maybe that’s the thing about friendship in a world like yours. You learn when to speak, when to listen, and when to simply stay.

“This is Coco. You treat her as if she were me. With respect, pride, and dignity. I expect you to lay your life on the line for her, as well.”

Levi’s arms cross, staring down at the tiny Pomeranian in your arms. You’ve even got the little thing wearing some pink sweater, a sparkly collar around her neck. “Coco,” he repeats lowly, not bothering to hold back a grimace as you bring the dog up close and personal to his face. 

When he tries to pull back, you smile. “Don’t worry. She just needs to get accustomed to your smell. Almost like I do, too.”

Levi scowls, leaning ever so slightly away from the tiny dog’s excited sniffs. “I’m not getting close enough for either of you to ‘adjust.’”

“She likes you already,” you tease, nuzzling Coco’s head affectionately. “See how she didn’t bark? That’s rare. She only likes people with good instincts.”

“Or maybe she just knows I could punt her halfway across the garden.”

Your jaw drops. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His eyes narrow. “Try me.”

Coco lets out a dainty sneeze, wiggling in your arms, her fluffy tail wagging. Levi’s scowl deepens as you coo at her and plant a kiss on the top of her head like she’s royalty.

You look up at him with a sweet, dangerous smile. “If anything happens to her under your watch, I’ll tell my father you laid a hand on me.”

He stares at you, deadpan. “So you’re threatening me now.”

You shrug. “No, I’m just stating facts.”

He glances down at Coco again, who stares back with big, sparkling eyes and a crooked little smile.

“…She blinks weird.”

“She’s got a lazy eye. Don’t be rude.”

Levi exhales through his nose, hands resting on his hips. “Great. I’m babysitting a glorified dust mop with attitude.”

“And she bites.”

He raises a brow. “So do I.”

You grin. “I’m counting on it.” 

You follow your remark with an airy chuckle, walking through the foyer of the estate and into the kitchen. Levi follows. You open a pantry door that reveals seven rows of varying dog foods, treats, toys, bowls, and collars. “This is where her food is. I’ll show you her room later.”

“Your dog has her own room?” He asks in veiled disbelief. 

“Why, of course. She’s just as important, if not more, than anyone else here.”

Levi follows the sweep of your hand with a blank stare, as if processing the absurdity before him. “Right,” he mutters. “Priorities.”

You bend down to grab a bag of organic grain-free kibble, the kind that smells vaguely like roasted chicken and bankruptcy. “She also has very specific dietary restrictions. No wheat, no soy, no artificial preservatives. And she eats twice a day—sharp times, Levi. Eight a.m. and six p.m. Not a minute later.”

He watches you pour a sample into a tiny, crystal-trimmed bowl that probably costs more than a person’s monthly salary. “You know, there are political prisoners in internment camps who eat less gourmet than this.”

You glance at him, head tilting. “And that’s Coco’s fault, how?”

He doesn’t respond. He just blinks slowly, like he’s trying to disassociate from the moment.

You straighten up and gesture for him to follow again. “Come. I’ll show you her closet.”

“Her closet.”

You nod, already halfway out of the kitchen. “Yes. You need to familiarize yourself with her outfits. She doesn’t repeat looks unless it’s for rainy days, and even then, only in rotation. Oh, and she has allergies, so avoid the lavender detergent on her bedsheets.”

Levi stands there for a beat longer, as if silently cursing whatever life decision led him to this point. “Do I get hazard pay for this?” he finally mutters, trailing after you and the prancing fluff ball upstairs like a man walking toward his doom.

“I didn’t know my father hired such a comedian.” You smile, looking back over your shoulder at him. “Have you tried stand-up?” Your hand curls around the doorknob, twisting it open. 

Levi doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. He just stares at you with that same unimpressed expression, as if your joke barely registered on his humor scale. “Only if the stage’s on fire,” he mutters. “And I’m dragging someone off it.”

You laugh anyway, amused by the dry delivery, the way his voice stays low and flat. “So that’s a no?”

The door swings open, revealing Coco’s room. Or rather—Coco’s suite. The small space is decked out in pastel pinks, custom pet furniture, plush carpeting, and a miniature chandelier hanging delicately from the ceiling. One wall displays an array of dog couture, another holds framed photos of Coco at various events, some of which Levi suspects had a guest list and press coverage.

You step aside proudly, gesturing. “Welcome to the queen’s quarters.”

Levi exhales slowly through his nose, staring into the room like he’s just found out this dog lives better than most humans. “She’s got better security than the embassy,” he comments.

“And now she has you,” you tease, nudging his arm lightly as you move past him again. “Aren’t we lucky?”

He looks down at the tiny pink bed with Coco’s name embroidered in gold thread, then back at you. “You mean me, right?”

You grin over your shoulder. “No, I meant her.”

Levi watches you trot around the room, grabbing a pair of nail clippers and a small comb. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Watching you fuss over your dog’s appearance as if she were your own child. Maybe in a way to you, she is. Levi’s always felt weird about people treating animals—especially tiny dogs like this one—with such lavishness. And some people can barely afford food on the table. 

“Your father never mentioned anything about this dog in my contract,” he decides to speak up, head tilting slightly. 

You glance up from where you’ve crouched beside Coco’s plush vanity stool, pausing mid-brush. “Is that so?” you hum, like it’s mildly interesting but not surprising. “Well, consider her an extension of me. Where I go, she goes. When I’m out, she stays with someone I trust. That someone is you.”

Levi’s arms remain crossed, his gaze fixed on you with a slow-burning skepticism. “I’m not a dog sitter.”

You stand and walk toward him, the nail clippers swinging loosely from your fingers. “No,” you agree, stepping close—close enough for Coco to bark once from her seat like she’s watching a drama unfold. “You’re my bodyguard. Which means you protect what matters to me. And Coco matters.”

Levi exhales, more out of habit than exasperation. “I thought I was protecting you from political threats. Not from… chipped nails and improperly brushed fur.”

You shrug, eyes glittering with amusement. “Threats come in many forms, Mr. Ackerman. A single snag in Coco’s coat could be a national tragedy. Now hold her.”

He gives you a look like you’ve lost your mind. “You’re serious.”

You place Coco delicately into his arms, ignoring how rigid he becomes. “Completely.”

As you return to her vanity to grab her tiny sunglasses, Levi stares down at the fluffy dog in his arms, now yawning in a way he’s sure is mocking him. His nose twitches, already feeling his allergies begin to act up. Walking back over, you slide the sunglasses onto her face. “So, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

Levi shifts uncomfortably with the delicate weight in his arms. He cleared his throat with a small grunt. “What do you know?”

“What should I know?” You easily reply back, innocently raising your eyebrow and holding back a small smile behind your hand. 

Your attitude really ticks him off. It’s like you never fully answer what he asks you, like you’re trained to veil yourself behind an alluring persona. “I’ve been assigned to protect you, that’s all you need to know.”

“Oh? Secretive man, aren’t you?” 

“Reserved,” he corrects. 

You hum in response, eyes trailing leisurely down his stiff posture, the way his hands hover just slightly off Coco’s fluffy pink sweater like he’s afraid of contaminating her, or himself. He’s already visibly uncomfortable, the dog nestled against his broad chest with all the ceremony of a royal child, and yet you can tell he’d rather be anywhere else. It makes you smile.

“Well, reserved,” you say, tone breezy as ever as you gently reach out to adjust Coco’s sparkly sunglasses. “That doesn’t help me sleep any easier at night. You’ll be shadowing me, probably listening to every private call and watching every awkward wardrobe change. I’d think the least you could offer me is your favorite color. Or—I don’t know—what you do when you’re not threatening men in suits with your eyes.”

Levi’s jaw tightens, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I don’t need you to sleep easier. I need you to stay alive.”

You blink once, lips parted slightly at the bluntness of it. His voice is low, calm, but edged with something colder than you expected. A kind of calculated disinterest. You wonder if that’s how he’s been trained—or if that’s just how he is. The silence between you stretches long enough for Coco to give a huff, burying her snout into his arm like even she’s growing bored. You cross your arms.

“You know,” you murmur after a moment, voice a touch softer, “for a guy who’s supposed to be keeping me alive, you sure seem like you can’t stand being around me.”

“I don’t need to like you to do my job,” he says coolly, handing Coco back to you with the delicacy of someone handling an explosive.

You cradle the dog with ease, pressing a kiss to her head as she lets out a yip of approval. “Mm. That’s a shame. I was hoping we’d at least be friends.”

Levi gives you a once-over. Not suggestive. Not admiring. Just assessing. “Friends don’t let friends carry designer rats in rhinestones.”

You gasp dramatically, hugging Coco closer to your chest. “How dare you? She’s royalty.”

“She’s shedding on my shirt.”

“Your shirt should feel honored.”

Levi turns to leave the room, muttering under his breath as he goes, “This is going to be a long assignment.”

You scoff, trailing after him with Coco in your arms. “I’m counting on it, short king.”

The look he throws over his shoulder could freeze the sun.

It’s later that night that you find yourself dressed up. Hair styled neatly into pin curls, wearing your signature red lip, a neutral, subtle gray shadow coating your lids. Your figure is adorned in a satin, champagne, form-fitting gown that reaches just past your knees, with an off-the-shoulder neckline. You’re wearing a diamond choker with a shawl draped loosely across your arms. In your hand, you hold a small, jeweled clutch. And finally, you’ve topped the outfit off with red, pointed-toed, stiletto heels. 

Your father is dressed in his usual, steam-pressed suit, hair neatly swooped back. His hand finds your lower back as he leads you into the high-end casino he’s been invited to for the night. Usually, casinos aren’t your thing. Too rowdy and gross for your liking, but you have nothing else on your agenda for the night. Flashes blind your vision, people shouting out your name or your father’s. A flank of his men crowd you both as you enter, Levi closely packed to your right. 

It’s the kind of casino only the important can get into, hence the tight security and lavish building. 

Crystal chandeliers hang from the gilded ceiling like falling stars, refracting light off rows of polished marble floors and deep velvet carpets. The air smells faintly of expensive cigars and stronger egos, underscored by the delicate sound of piano keys humming in the background. Every man in this room is either rich or pretending to be. Every woman sparkles under the weight of diamonds too big to be discreet. You fit right in—and you know it.

Your father nods to familiar faces, shaking hands and murmuring greetings with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His grip on your lower back tightens as the two of you walk deeper into the opulence, a silent reminder: be charming, be seen, but don’t speak unless you have to. Levi trails behind. He blends in well in his tailored black suit, but there’s something about him that doesn’t quite match the rest of this place—maybe it’s his perpetual scowl, or the way his eyes never stop scanning the room. He’s not here for the champagne or the poker. He’s here to calculate threats. To make sure no one gets too close to you.

“Smile,” your father murmurs as you pass a pair of high-ranking politicians. “Senator Moreau’s daughter is here tonight. Keep your head high.”

You do as you’re told, turning just enough to offer a warm, practiced smile to the right people. Levi’s eyes meet yours briefly in the reflection of a mirror near the bar. 

After a while, your father excuses himself to a private table with the hosts, flanked by security. He gives Levi a nod, a silent command to watch closely over you. You’re left standing alone near the bar with Levi hovering by your side.

“Do I look like I’m enjoying myself?” you ask without looking at him, nursing a glass of something that tastes like flowers and money.

“You look like you’re about to rob this place blind,” he replies dryly, watching the room.

You laugh softly. “Flattering. But I think you just mean I look expensive.”

“No,” he says. “I mean, you look dangerous.”

Your smile lingers a moment longer before you take another sip, letting the tension between you settle somewhere behind your ribs. “You know,” you say slowly, turning to face him more directly, “you could at least pretend you’re having a good time.”

“I’m not paid to pretend,” he says, eyes still on the crowd.

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” You glance toward the roulette tables where a crowd has gathered, already making your way toward it with a small tilt of your head. “Because this is my favorite part.”

He follows without protest, his expression unreadable. And as the casino lights dance off your diamond choker and the slit of your dress glides with every step, you feel the burn of his gaze again, unmoving, attentive, and just maybe a little curious.

“Hello, boys,” you greet the small group of four men who meticulously play whatever game they’re glued to. Hand drifting to the shoulder of one in particular. “My sweet James, I haven’t seen you in ages.” With a smile, you lean in to plant a tiny kiss on his cheek. 

James Starton—son of a shipping magnate, heir to a fortune you could recite the layers of in your sleep—grins widely when he sees you. His golden Rolex glints under the lights as he chuckles, reaching up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips just left a trace. “Y/N. As stunning as ever,” he says, leaning back in his seat with practiced ease. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us common folk.”

The other three men offer you similar greetings, none as familiar as James's, but polite enough. They each take a moment to rake their eyes over your figure, the way the satin clings to you like a second skin. You can feel Levi’s presence close behind, a solid shadow that seems to grow heavier the longer you linger.

“I could never forget you, James,” you purr, fingers lightly trailing across the back of his chair as you circle to the empty one beside him. “But you know how it is. Daddy keeps me busy, and this city doesn’t exactly run itself.”

James laughs. “Well, I hope you’re here to play. We could use a little more luck at the table.” He gestures to the chips in front of him, plenty of them, because, of course, he’s doing well tonight. But then again, James always likes to look like he’s winning, whether he is or not.

You cross your legs as you sit, angling yourself just enough to maintain control of the room—and the conversation. “Maybe I’ll play a few hands,” you muse, glancing at the dealer. “If only for the company.”

Levi doesn’t move, but you know he’s dutifully watching. You can feel the tension radiating off of him like heat. The way his gaze probably narrows at how close James leans, or how you’re toying with the man’s cufflink like it’s a nervous tic.

James leans in just slightly, voice low. “And who’s that, then?” He nods in Levi’s direction without bothering to hide the amusement in his tone. “New arm candy? Your type’s changed.”

You smile sweetly, flicking your eyes up at Levi before returning your gaze to James. “Bodyguard,” you say simply. “And you’d do well to remember that.”

The warning is soft, almost playful—but not quite. It’s enough to make James raise his hands in surrender, even as he chuckles. “Duly noted.”

Levi remains resolute, unreadable, and silent. But when you catch his eye again, just for a moment, you could swear there’s a flicker of something there.

Levi can’t even count the number of times he’s checked his wristwatch throughout the night, holding back groans of annoyance as he’s forced to spend the entirety of his time following after you like a lost puppy. And it’s no better for him since you seem to be just a peachy, social butterfly. There hasn’t been a single minute you weren’t talking to someone, either approaching or being approached. Of course, the blatant nasty stares thrown his way piss him off even more. He ignores them to the best of his ability, but even he has his limits. Your father has been nowhere to be seen for the past few hours, and he’s debating whether or not he should just call it a night himself. He knows for sure, however, that you’re on your fourth glass of champagne and your cheeks look more flushed, definitely not the pretty pink-red blush you applied to the apples of your cheeks before leaving the estate. 

He’s unsure if this job of his entails making sure you’re not getting shit-faced. As long as you’re in one piece, everything should be good, right? 

At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself. Just keep her breathing, Levi. That’s all you’re here for. But then you laugh—loud and carefree—throwing your head back, fingers lightly brushing the arm of a tall, square-jawed politician’s son. The guy’s been hanging around your table for the past half hour, saying too many words and standing too damn close. Levi watches your champagne flute teeter in your hand as you wave it around mid-conversation, the golden liquid dangerously close to splashing over the rim.

That’s four glasses, he reminds himself. Almost five. He knows because he counted. Keeps count of everything when he’s bored out of his mind. Which is every second you’re not sitting down quietly or keeping to yourself, which, apparently, is never.

Still, he does nothing. Not yet. He’s not exactly your babysitter. If anything, it’s his job to be invisible—out of the way, just close enough to act if things go south. And this? This is just champagne and annoying men with soft hands and louder mouths. It isn’t a threat.

Until you start to sway just slightly when you get up from the table.

Levi is at your side before you can even blink. “I think it’s time to sit down,” he says, his voice low and steady as he grips your elbow, not tightly, but firm enough to halt you.

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “Am I wobbling?” you ask sweetly, drawing out the word like it’s part of some performance. “You know, I think the floor here is uneven.”

“Yeah,” Levi mutters. “That must be it.”

The man you were speaking with raises a brow at Levi’s interruption, but one look from the bodyguard has him shifting back in his seat. Not wanting to pick a fight. Smart.

“You’re really no fun at all, Levi,” you pout, but you don’t resist when he guides you toward a quieter corner of the casino.

“Not here to be fun,” he grumbles, pulling out a chair for you anyway. “Here to make sure you don’t end up passed out in someone’s Bentley.”

You sit with a dramatic sigh, smoothing your hands over your dress. “You’re too uptight. Have a drink. Loosen up.”

He doesn’t respond. Just crosses his arms and stands beside you like a stone wall.

But he does notice the way your smile fades a little after a few quiet moments. How your gaze trails toward the floor instead of the crowd now. And how your fingers slowly start to fidget with the edge of your clutch. Maybe you are a little drunk. Or maybe you’re just tired.

Either way, Levi doesn’t question it. Not his job. 

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters lowly under his breath, looking at the newcomer.  

The man standing before you is exactly the type Levi’s has grown to despise—tall, smug, with a perfectly bleached smile and a designer suit tailored to say I’ve never worked a real day in my life. He reeks of money, cologne, and confidence he clearly didn’t earn. Levi doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up, unsure if it’s with affection. You plaster on your most charming smile, the same one you’ve been wearing all night like a mask. “Hello, darling,” you purr, tilting your head just slightly. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“And miss a chance to run into you again?” the man replies, stepping closer as if Levi doesn’t exist. “Not a chance.”

Levi shifts subtly, just enough to stand half a step closer to you. Not touching, not speaking, but clearly there.

The man finally acknowledges him with a passing glance, tone dropping a notch. “Your new shadow?”

“He prefers bodyguard,” you say dryly, sipping the last of your champagne. “But yes.”

“Seems a little tense,” the man muses, eyes raking over Levi without a hint of concern. “Relax, man. You’re not needed here.”

Levi stares back, unblinking. “Try something stupid. You’ll see how needed I am.”

The smile on the man’s face falters just enough to satisfy him.

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Alright, boys, no pissing contest tonight. I already have a headache.”

“Then maybe I can walk you out, give you some air?” the man offers, extending his hand.

Levi tenses, but he doesn’t move. Not until you decide.

You pause—a moment too long—before setting your empty glass down. “Tempting,” you hum, “but I’ve already got company tonight.” Your hand brushes Levi’s arm ever so lightly. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

“Aww, well that’s not fun.”

“I’m always fun with you, Michael.” 

Michael’s grin returns, smug and knowing. He steps back just enough to give you one final once-over, eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders, the long stretch of leg revealed by the slit of your gown. “That you are,” he says smoothly. “I’ll hold you to that. Another time.”

You don’t answer—just offer a wink and a flick of your fingers as a farewell, already turning your back to him. Levi doesn’t move until Michael is a good five strides away, swallowed up by the casino crowd and whatever other equally self-obsessed suits are waiting for him.

Only then does he finally exhale, sharp and quiet. “Friends like that, huh?” he mutters.

You shrug, barely glancing at him. “He’s harmless. Annoying, but harmless.”

Levi scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ve got a strange definition of harmless.”

You glance sideways at him, watching the stiff line of his jaw, the way his eyes are still scanning the room. Still on edge. “You really don’t like him.”

“I don’t like most of them,” he replies flatly.

“Most of whom?”

“The men who think they know you. Who think they’re entitled to touch you, look at you like you’re already theirs. Makes me sick.”

You blink at that—caught off guard not by the words themselves, but by the way he says them. Not possessively, not jealously. Just matter-of-fact, like it’s a truth he carries around all the time and only now decided to share. For a moment, you say nothing. Just let the silence settle again. And then, softer, “Is that part of your job too?”

Levi turns to you, expression unreadable. “No,” he says. “That part’s just me.”

And somehow, that answer makes your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“Don’t play father,” you sigh softly and stand up. 

Levi’s hands automatically move out, hovering above, actually holding your arms. “Forgive me for hoping you’d have a little more respect for yourself.”

You chuckle, eyebrow raised. “Self-respect?” You echo, fingers dancing up along his broad shoulders. “My, if I didn’t have any of that, I would’ve had my time with you the minute I met you.”

“I still barely know you.”

“Does that mean you wouldn’t be opposed?” Your arms wrap fully around his neck, he feels the soft tingle of your breath fan across his cheek as you lean in. The tip of your nose skims his jawline. 

His face remains stony, arms stiff by his sides. After a few seconds, he gently untangles your arms from his neck, stepping back enough for some space between you two. “You’re drunk, we’ll go find your father, then head back.”

The tip of your lip downturns into a frown. However, before you can respond, yet another manly voice interrupts. 

“Her father is already waiting for her outside.”

You both look to your right. Standing there, an average-height man, his blonde hair parted to the side, it reaches just before the end of his ears. Light blue eyes darting between Levi and you, narrowing just slightly in suspicion. He steps forward wordlessly, taking your hand in his and subtly stepping between you two. Levi’s own suspicion rises, confused by the way this man nonchalantly laces his fingers in yours. You twitch briefly. 

“You must be the new guy,” he says, chin tilting up like he’s silently one-upping him. 

Levi already doesn’t like him. 

“Oh, Daniel. I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Your father sent me abroad, remember? Today’s my first day back.”

“Oh, right,” you hum, heavy-lidded eyes looking back at Levi. “Well, here’s the newest addition.”

“I can see that,” Daniel focuses on the other man across from him, lip briefly moving up in a self-satisfied smirk. He only offers Levi a nod. “Daniel Foster. Head of security for the Suzukis.”

Head of security. Levi doesn’t need to ask the obvious, the guy already seems to be trying to display some shitty air of dominance over him already. Levi crosses his arms. “Levi.”

Daniel’s smile tightens, but he keeps his tone casual, almost too casual for the tension in the room. “Levi, huh? Heard a bit about you already. Can’t say I’m thrilled to have competition, but it is what it is. Just wish it wasn’t someone of your background.”

Levi doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes locked on Daniel’s with a cool, assessing gaze. There’s something about Daniel, the way he moves, the ease in his voice, that reeks of control, authority, and a hint of entitlement. Not the type to back down easily. Not the type he can stand to be in a room with. 

You tug lightly on Daniel’s hand, your voice soft but firm. “Let’s not start a turf war tonight, boys.”

Daniel glances at you with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. Just making sure you get home safe.”

Levi’s jaw tightens. “Same here.”

A quiet moment passes, the three of you standing there under the dim casino lights, an unspoken challenge hanging between Levi and Daniel like a thin wire ready to snap. You clear your throat, stepping between them with a graceful but commanding presence. “Enough of that. Tonight’s over. Let’s get out of here.”

Daniel gives Levi a final look, nods once, and then turns toward the exit, pulling you gently along. Levi falls back, watching the two of you go, his mind already working through the layers beneath this simple encounter.

The ride back home is a silent one. Sitting in the blacked-out limousine are you, Makoto, Daniel, and Levi. Unfortunately for the other two men, they’re made to sit next to one another, directly across from you and your father. You’re leaning against the door, eyes closed and softly snoozing. Makoto is on your left, holding a small glass of Brandy, looking out the tinted windows. 

“So,” Makoto speaks up, swallowing his dark liquor and looking at the two across from him. “Daniel, I don’t think you’ve formally met Levi here.”

“Not that I mind,” Daniel shrugs, grinning. 

Levi’s jaw clenches. 

“Well, he’s Y/N’s personal guard. There may be times I’ll have you two work together. So I want no issues between you two.”

Levi doesn’t break eye contact with Makoto, even as he feels the weight of Daniel’s smirk settle beside him like a bad itch.

“Understood,” Levi replies flatly, voice cool and unreadable. His arms are crossed, legs slightly apart, posture steady and grounded.

Daniel chuckles under his breath and leans back, one arm resting casually along the leather seat. “Don’t worry, sir. I play nice when I have to. Long as he knows his place, I don’t see why there’d be any trouble.”

Levi turns his head slowly toward Daniel, the flicker of a glare igniting in his steely gaze. “I don’t take up much space,” he says, voice quiet and edged, “but I don’t move for people like you.”

Makoto raises an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Good,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s about time someone made things interesting around here.”

The silence afterward is tense but calm. Heavy. You’re still asleep, blissfully unaware, your head resting against the cool glass as the city lights blur by. And Makoto, ever the puppet master, just sits back and enjoys the quiet unraveling.

When you all get back, Makoto easily exits the car. Barely moving a wave of his hand towards your slumped figure, silently communicating the order to have someone get you out of the car. Levi takes a step forward, but Daniel beats him. Opening your side of the car and carefully maneuvering you into his arms, bridal style. 

Levi halts mid-step, jaw ticking as Daniel effortlessly lifts you into his arms like he’s done it a hundred times before. You stir faintly against Daniel’s chest, murmuring something incoherent as your head nuzzles into his shoulder, completely unaware of the tension thickening behind you. “Got her,” Daniel says, glancing over his shoulder at Levi with an irritating air of familiarity. “She’s used to me doing this.”

Levi doesn’t respond immediately—he simply watches. The way Daniel’s grip is secure but deliberately gentle, the way his stride toward the estate is confident, unbothered, like he owns the ground he walks on. Like he owns you.

Levi follows at a steady pace, fists tucked into his coat pockets.

Used to it, huh?

Something about that doesn’t sit right. Maybe it’s the implication that you need rescuing this often, or maybe it’s just the casual claim Daniel seems to be making over you. Makoto is already gone, vanished behind the estate doors, leaving Levi and Daniel alone with the weight of unspoken rivalry between them. The massive entrance opens at their approach, and Daniel doesn’t wait. He strides up the grand staircase, taking you toward your wing without a second glance.

Levi stops at the base of the stairs, eyes tracking the retreating pair. 

A strange feeling resides in his gut, jaw clenching tightly. He doesn’t exactly understand why he feels so utterly put off by this guy and the way he acts towards you. It’s like he’s trying to engage in a competition of sorts, one Levi did not sign up for. Must be the way people around here work. It would probably be best not to think too much of it. After all, he’s been sought out specifically for your help. Not some pompous, Ken-looking asshole like Daniel. 

Still, as Levi watched Daniel disappear down the hallway with you in his arms, that uneasy feeling in his gut refuses to settle. It coils like a slow burn in his stomach, fed by the smug glint in Daniel’s eyes and the way you unconsciously leaned into his touch, like your body knew him—trusted him.

Levi scoffs under his breath.

He doesn’t get people like Daniel. The polished, playboy types who waltz through life with effortless charm and empty grins, hiding ambition behind every compliment and promise. He’s seen too many of them in the military and on the field—too many snakes in custom-tailored suits pretending to protect what they only want to possess. The thought irritates him more than it should. Because this isn’t his game. He’s not here to win hearts or charm anyone. He’s here to protect. To observe. To keep you alive.

And yet.

Why the hell does it matter who carries you to bed?

Levi rolls his shoulders back and exhales slowly through his nose, trying to shake the tension that’s settled deep in his bones. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t. He heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. Reading his watch, it says 2:00 am. It doesn’t help that he’s been trying to fix his disordered sleeping. 

So, with a turn of his heel, he exits the estate, heading back to the less-than-glamorous place he calls his home. 

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[mrsfancyferrari]

Heavy Love

Summary: Carlos got a surgery of his appendix but that doesn't stop him from treating his girl how he usually does

Song: Heavy Love - Odetari

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 4.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed, a sterile symphony that did little to soothe the anxiety churning in your stomach.

Carlos lay in the bed, pale but smiling, a testament to the surgery that had sliced through his appendix just days ago. You sat beside him, a vigil, your hand hovering just above his, afraid to touch too hard.

"You okay, babe?" he asked, his voice a little weaker than usual, but with that familiar teasing glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, just... thinking," you replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Thinking about how much better you're going to feel when you're fully recovered."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made you wince internally. "You think I don't feel good now? I've got you here, fussing over me like a mother hen. What could be better?"

You shot him a playful glare. "Don't get cute. You nearly died. A burst appendix is not a joke, Carlos."

"I know, I know," he conceded, his smile softening. He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. "But I'm here, thanks to you. You got me to the hospital in time."

You squeezed his hand gently, relief washing over you. "I was so scared."

The days that followed were a blur of cautious optimism and tireless care. You transformed into his personal nurse, meticulously following the doctor's instructions, making sure he took his medication, and preparing bland, easily digestible meals.

You read to him, watched movies with him, and kept him company during the endless hours of boredom.

But a strange tension had settled between you, a quiet distance born out of your fear. You were so acutely aware of his fragile state, of the stitches holding his abdomen together, that you hesitated to be the same way you were before.

Intimacy, once a natural and joyous part of your relationship, now felt like walking on eggshells.

He noticed, of course. Carlos always noticed.

"You're being weird," he said one evening as you were settling him in for the night.

"Weird how?" you asked, avoiding his gaze as you adjusted his pillows.

"Like you're afraid to breathe too loud in case I shatter," he chuckled.

"Don't be silly," you mumbled, fiddling with the remote control.

"Come on, be honest. You're acting like I'm made of glass. I appreciate the care, I really do. But you're treating me like I'm some delicate porcelain doll."

You finally met his eyes, your own filled with a mixture of worry and guilt. "I just… I don't want to hurt you. You're still recovering. What if I accidentally put pressure on your stitches, or something?"

He sighed, reaching for your hand again. "You're not going to hurt me. I know you're being careful."

"But…" you started to protest.

"But nothing," he interrupted gently. "I miss you. I miss us. And I'm not talking about running a marathon or anything. I just miss being close."

Your heart ached at his words. You missed it too, more than you could say. You missed the way he would pull you into his arms, the warmth of his body against yours, the feeling of being completely and utterly safe.

But the fear was a powerful force, a constant reminder of his recent brush with mortality.

"I don't know, Carlos," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "I'm just so afraid of doing something wrong."

He pulled you closer, his arm carefully encircling your waist. "Hey," he murmured, his voice soothing. "Look at me. I know you're scared. But I'm okay. I promise. And I trust you. I trust you to be careful."

He leaned in and kissed you softly, a chaste, lingering kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn't the passionate, all-consuming kisses you were used to, but it was enough to remind you of the deep connection you shared.

"Please," he whispered against your lips. "Don't let this surgery change everything between us."

Over the next few weeks, you started to relax, to trust yourself and trust Carlos. You still took precautions, of course. You avoided strenuous activities and made sure he didn't overexert himself. But you also allowed yourselves to rediscover the intimacy you had lost.

Slowly, tentatively, you began to rebuild the bridge that fear had threatened to destroy. You started with simple things – cuddling on the couch while watching movies, holding hands during walks, sharing gentle kisses.

You talked, really talked, about your fears and anxieties, and about the importance of physical touch in your relationship.

One evening, as you were preparing dinner, Carlos came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You stiffened slightly, your muscles tensing in anticipation.

"Relax," he whispered in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "I just want to hold you."

You leaned back against him, letting his warmth seep into you. "Are you sure you're okay?" you asked, your voice still laced with concern.

He chuckled. "I'm fine. You're not going to break me by standing here."

You closed your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. "I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he replied, squeezing you tighter. "More than a functioning appendix can ever express."

You laughed, the sound lighter and more joyful than it had been in weeks.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached your eyes. "You don't have to ask."

He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, passionate kiss that deepened with each passing moment. You ran your fingers through his hair, relishing the feel of his body against yours.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he looked at you with a hopeful expression. "Can we…?" he started, then hesitated. "Can we be… closer?"

You knew what he was asking. The fear was still there, lurking in the back of your mind, but it was no longer as overwhelming as it had been. You trusted him, and you trusted yourself.

"Yes," you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. "But we take it slow, okay? And if anything hurts, you tell me immediately."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Deal."

"Wait until after dinner though," you muttered, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "I don't want to get distracted and burn the food."

Carlos pouted, his eyes drifting to the tray of hospital cuisine that had been delivered earlier. "But I hate this hospital food," he begged.

"Nope, you have to eat," you said firmly, placing a hand on his cheek. "Do it for me." You tried to make it sound like a playful dare, but the underlying concern was clear.

He groaned, his eyes drifting to the tray of hospital food that looked as appealing as a soggy cardboard box. "Come on," he whined. "You know how much I hate this stuff."

"I do," you said, your voice laced with amusement. "But it's part of the deal. You want to get better, right?"

With a dramatic sigh, he picked up his plastic fork and poked at the lifeless pile of food on his tray. "Fine," he grumbled, taking a tiny bite. "But you're going to pay for this later."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension between you momentarily easing. "How about I make you a deal?" you suggested. "If you eat all of this, I'll give you a little something extra to make it worth your while."

His eyes lit up. "What kind of extra?"

You leaned closer, your breath tickling his ear. "The kind of extra that involves me, you, and a lot of gentle touches."

He swallowed hard, the food suddenly seeming a bit more palatable. "Deal," he said, attacking the meal with renewed enthusiasm.

Each bite he took was a silent declaration of his love and desire for you, his stomach grumbling in protest but his resolve unwavering. You watched him with a smile, feeling a thrill of excitement building in your core.

As he worked his way through the meal, you couldn't help but let your mind wander to the promise you had made. Your body grew warm with anticipation, and you felt the familiar ache between your legs.

You had missed this, the thrill of the chase, the delicious buildup to something so much more satisfying than any meal could ever be.

When the last bite was gone, he looked at you expectantly. "Well?"

You took a deep breath, your hand shaking slightly as you reached for the tray. "Alright, you win," you said, setting it aside. "But only because you ate all your food."

He grinned mischievously. "I'm not just playing for fun, you know," he murmured, his hand sliding down to your waist, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

You felt your cheeks flush as you turned to face him. "What do you mean?"

Carlos' grin grew wider, his eyes darkening with desire. "I mean, I've missed feeling your body against mine, your breath on my skin, your touch driving me wild."

His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb tracing your jawline. "I want you, all of you. But we're going to take it slow, just like you said."

Your heart raced as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, tentative kiss. His movements were cautious, as if he was afraid to startle you or cause him any pain.

You melted into him, the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours sending waves of need crashing through your body. Your hands found his shoulders, holding him close, as you deepened the kiss.

"Carlos," you murmured against his mouth, your voice filled with a desperation that had been building for weeks.

He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes for any signs of doubt. "Are you sure?"

You nodded, your pulse pounding in your throat. "Yes. I need this. We need this."

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. "Okay, then. But…" he paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "We have to be careful. I don't want to rip my stitches."

You chuckled, relief flooding through you. "Believe me, I'm acutely aware of your stitches. We'll take it very, very slow."

He nodded, his eyes still filled with that hopeful look that made you want to do anything for him.

You moved closer, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose before trailing your lips down to the corner of his mouth, feeling the stubble of his unshaven cheek against your skin.

His eyes fluttered closed, a contented sigh escaping his lips as you continued to explore his face with gentle pecks.

"I've missed this," he whispered, his hand moving to the small of your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, feeling the same longing. "Me too."

Taking his hand in yours, you led him to the bedroom, the dim light of the hallway casting shadows that danced across the wall. The room was filled with the faint scent of his cologne, a comforting reminder of the life you shared before the surgery.

You helped him onto the bed, his weight shifting the mattress beneath you as he settled in, wincing slightly at the movement.

You took a moment to admire him, his strong frame now marred by the surgery scar that snaked under the bandages across his abdomen.

The sight of it brought back the fear of that night, the helplessness you felt as you watched the doctor's face grow grim with the news of his condition. But here he was, alive and with you, and that was all that mattered.

"Lay down," you instructed softly, your voice a gentle command that made him comply without question.

The bedroom was a sanctuary, a place where you had shared countless moments of passion before the surgery. Now, it was a battleground of nerves and anticipation. You approached him with the grace of a gazelle, each step measured and careful.

"I'm okay," he reassured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the air. "Really."

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the last few weeks slowly lifting from your shoulders. You straddled his legs, his hands coming up to rest gently on your thighs.

The fabric of your pajamas was the only barrier between his skin and yours, a barrier that was suddenly unbearable.

"Can I take these off?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"If you promise to be gentle," he said with a hint of a smirk.

You nodded, your fingers trembling slightly as you began to peel back the bandages. The stark white of the gauze was a stark contrast to the tanned skin of his stomach.

You took a moment to examine the neat line of his incision, the skin around it slightly pink and tender. You kissed it softly, feeling the warmth of his body under your lips.

"Careful," he warned, his eyes half-closed with pleasure.

You nodded, taking in the sight of his body before you. You had seen him naked countless times before, but this was different. There was a newfound respect, a newfound gentleness in the way you regarded his body now.

Each scar, each imperfection, was a testament to his strength and the life you had together.

You began to kiss him again, starting at his forehead, moving down to his cheeks, his neck, his collarbone. Each kiss was a declaration of your love and your care, a promise to be gentle, to cherish him.

Your mouth found the pulse at the base of his neck, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that matched yours. You felt his breathing quicken, his body responding to your touch.

He reached up, his hand cupping the back of your head as he guided your mouth back to his. His kisses grew more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours, a silent plea for more.

You felt your body come alive, the ache between your legs growing more intense.

As you kissed him, you felt his hand slide under the fabric of your shirt, his fingertips brushing against the bare skin of your back. He groaned, the sound resonating through your body like a physical caress.

It was a sound that had always made you melt, a sound that had always meant he wanted more, needed more, and now it was back, a sweet reminder of the passion you shared.

You pulled away for a moment, looking into his eyes. "Are you okay?" you asked, the question almost redundant as the desire in his gaze was answer enough.

He groaned, not from pain but from pure need. "More than okay," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Encouraged by his response, you allowed his hands to roam, feeling the warmth of his palms as they glided over your skin.

They traced the contours of your body, exploring every curve and dip with a reverence that made you feel cherished, desired despite his weakened state. His thumbs grazed the sensitive skin of your ribcage, sending shivers up your spine.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours.

You blushed, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "You make me feel like it," you whispered.

As your kisses grew more fervent, you became acutely aware of your weight, the softness of your body that you had always loved, and sometimes loathed. You shifted slightly, trying to balance yourself so that you weren't putting too much pressure on his stitches.

The thought of causing him pain was unbearable, so you carefully placed your hands on his chest, using your arms to hold yourself up as you kissed him.

"Put all your weight on me," Carlos murmured, his eyes open and searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You bit your bottom lip, feeling the heat of his body beneath you. The urge to give in was strong, but the fear of causing him pain held you back. "I don't want to hurt you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"Trust me, I've got you," he said, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. "I can handle it."

You took a deep breath and did as he asked, feeling the softness of your flesh pressing against the firmness of his abdomen. The sensation was strange at first, a mix of fear and excitement.

But as he kissed you harder, as his hands roamed over your back and his hips began to move slightly beneath you, the fear melted away, leaving only desire.

You felt the heat of his skin, the steady throb of his heart against your palms. His breaths grew quicker, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

The sensation was exquisite, a gentle reminder of the passion that had always burned between you. You could feel his erection growing, pressing against your center, but you held back, not wanting to push him too far, too fast.

"We can stop," you whispered, your voice laced with concern.

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours. "No, please don't stop." His voice was thick with need, the words a desperate plea.

You leaned back slightly, breaking the kiss to remove your shirt, revealing your braless breasts to the cool air of the room. His eyes followed the movement, dark with desire.

You watched as his hand hovered over the fabric of your pajama pants, his knuckles brushing against the swollen bud of your clit. You gasped, the sensation sending shockwaves through your body.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words as his hand slipped under the waistband, his fingers finding your slick heat. He stroked you gently, his movements tentative and careful, as if he was worried that even the slightest touch would shatter you.

But as he grew more confident, his touch grew bolder, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers delved deeper.

Your hips began to rock against his hand, the pleasure building with each stroke. You moaned into his neck, your teeth grazing his skin, leaving a trail of kisses along his collarbone.

His breaths grew shallower, his hand moving faster as he matched the rhythm of your movements.

"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice filled with amazement and hunger. "You're always so wet for me."

You felt your cheeks flush with heat at his words. "It's just… you make me feel so… alive."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your chest. "Good to know I still have that effect on you."

You leaned down to kiss him again, your tongues dancing together as your bodies grew more in sync. His other hand found your breast, his thumb brushing against the tightened peak of your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

As you reached down to undo the button of his pants, he stopped you, his hand covering yours. "Let me," he said, his voice strained with effort.

With trembling hands, he managed to open his fly, the sound of the zipper echoing in the quiet room. His erection sprang free, a testament to his desire.

You felt your own need growing, a warm ache that spread from your core to every part of your body. You reached out tentatively, wrapping your hand around his length, feeling the pulse of his blood beneath your fingertips.

"Careful," he warned, his voice tight with arousal.

You nodded, stroking him slowly, savoring the velvety feel of his skin against your palm. His eyes fell closed, his head tilting back into the pillow as he let out a low groan.

You watched him, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell, the way his abs tensed with each breath. You felt a strange mix of tenderness and hunger, a desire to both protect and claim him.

The sight of his scar, a stark reminder of his vulnerability, only served to fuel your passion.

As you worked your hand up and down his shaft, you leaned in to kiss him again, feeling his hips shift beneath you, urging you closer. The kiss grew deeper, his tongue sliding against yours in a silent demand for more.

Your body responded, arching into him, seeking the contact that you had been denied for so long.

"I need you," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, understanding the desperation in his words. You leaned back, sliding off his pants and boxers, exposing him fully to the cool air. His cock stood at attention, a silent plea for your touch.

You kissed your way down his body, your mouth worshipping every inch of his skin. Your breasts brushed against his thighs as you moved, sending waves of sensation through you.

Positioning yourself above him, you hovered, your pussy mere inches from his erection. His hands tightened on your thighs, urging you closer.

You paused, looking down at him, his eyes full of need. The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear, but the fear was still there, whispering in the back of your mind.

"I'm okay," he assured you, his voice strained with want. "I need you, baby. I need to feel you."

You took a deep breath and allowed yourself to sink down, feeling the tip of his cock press against your opening. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt through your body.

You hesitated, waiting for any sign of pain from him. When he only moaned in pleasure, you began to lower yourself, inch by delicious inch.

His cock slid into you, filling you completely. You bit your bottom lip to stifle a moan, feeling a mix of pleasure and relief. It had been too long since you had felt this connection, too long since you had been this intimate.

His eyes never left yours, his expression one of pure adoration.

"Oh, Carlos," you murmured, his name a prayer on your lips.

He groaned, his hips lifting slightly to meet yours. You began to move, the rhythm slow and steady. Each movement was a declaration of your love, a gentle dance that you both knew so well.

You could feel his cock stretching you, the sensation of fullness that you had missed for weeks. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and valley with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

You leaned back, sitting up straight as you rode him. The new angle allowed you to take him deeper, the feeling of him inside you making you dizzy with pleasure.

Your breasts bounced with each movement, the tips tightening with every stroke. His eyes never left you, drinking in the sight of your body, his hands moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs playing with your nipples.

The friction grew, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. The ache between your legs grew stronger, your body begging for release. You leaned back further, placing your hands on his thighs for support.

The new angle allowed you to grind against him, the pressure building with every move. You watched his face, the way his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth gritted with each thrust.

"Mi amor," he whispered, the Spanish endearment rolling off his tongue like a warm caress. His hand slid down to the small of your back, guiding you, urging you to move in a way that brought him the most pleasure.

You felt a warmth spread through your body, a gentle wave of passion that grew stronger with every beat of his heart. You knew he was holding back, trying not to let the pain of his recent surgery overwhelm him.

But you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed with each movement. It was a dance you knew well, a delicate balance of pleasure and pain.

Leaning forward, you kissed him again, your mouths moving in a silent conversation of love and lust. His hands found their way to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he urged you faster.

Your breasts pressed against his chest, the friction of your bodies setting your nerves alight. The room felt like it was spinning, the only anchor the warmth of his cock inside you.

"Más," he murmured, the word a plea that sent your body into overdrive. You picked up the pace, your hips moving in a rhythm that was as natural as breathing.

His breath grew ragged, his grip on your hips tightening as you rode him. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. "Te amo," he said, the words a declaration that sent a shiver down your spine. "I love you."

You felt the orgasm build, a coil of pleasure that grew tighter with each stroke. You whispered the words back, the English translation feeling inadequate next to the Spanish. But you knew he understood, knew that your love was as deep and vast as the ocean.

His eyes searched yours, the depths of his love and desire reflecting in their dark pools. You felt his muscles tense beneath you, his cock swell even further inside you.

You knew he was close, could feel the tremor in his hands, the way his hips jerked with each movement.

"I'm going to come," he warned, his voice tight with restraint.

You nodded, feeling the same urgency building within you. Your walls tightened around him, the sensation of his impending release sending you hurtling towards your own climax. His eyes never left yours, the connection between you palpable.

You felt the muscles in his abdomen contract, a silent promise of the pleasure to come.

With a final, deep thrust, you felt him release inside you, his warmth filling you completely. Your own orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure that made your vision blur and your body quiver.

You collapsed onto him, your chest heaving as you both fought to catch your breath. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as if he never wanted to let go.

The feel of his heart hammering against your cheek was a sweet symphony that only the two of you could understand.

"I love you," you murmured into his neck, feeling the sticky sweat on his skin.

"Te amo," he replied, his voice hoarse.

You remained still for a moment, basking in the afterglow, the fear of his fragility forgotten in the face of the overwhelming love you felt. But as your breathing slowed, the reality of his condition began to creep back in.

You lifted yourself off of him, careful not to cause any discomfort.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, your voice filled with concern.

He winced slightly as you moved, his hand coming to rest on the bandage across his stomach. "I'm okay," he assured you. "A little sore, but nothing I can't handle."

You kissed the spot gently, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. "Thank you," you whispered. "For letting me… for being so patient."

He chuckled, the sound a little strained. "What can I say, I'm a trooper."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in the room dissipating like mist in the morning sun. "Yes, you are," you said, your eyes sparkling with affection.

The days that followed were a gentle reawakening of your love, a rediscovery of the passion that had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. Each touch was a declaration of your care and desire, each kiss a promise that you would always be there for him.

One morning, you awoke to the feeling of his hand on your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. You rolled over to face him, his eyes already open, watching you with a soft smile.

"Morning," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you.

You returned the kiss, feeling the warmth of his breath on your cheek. "Morning," you murmured back.

He shifted, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. "Ready for round two?" he asked, his voice filled with mischief.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite yourself. "You're not going to let me have a break?" you said, feigning exasperation.

Carlos' grin widened, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "What? You don't want to?"

You playfully slapped his chest, unable to resist the flirty banter. "You're insatiable," you said, your voice filled with affection.

He chuckled, his grip tightening on your ass. "Only when it comes to you."

You felt a warm blush creep up your cheeks. "Well, if you promise to be gentle…"

"Always," he assured you, his voice a low, seductive rumble. . . .

[4mrplumi]

00. spiderwocky ── kid-buggy

‎‎ㅤㅤplatonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

your head slams against the mech’s ceiling, and your vision blurs for a second. a troubled robotic voice keeps reading out statistics, leftwing engine down, visors breaking off, remaining web fluid at 17%, and enemy still engaged.

you have to wince, pushing your head against the whiplash, slamming a half-ripped off metal leg at the large metallic eyeball staring keenly in your direction. mysterio’s been trouble before but… you’ve gotten soft. 

a thin wisp of gas permeates the suit’s vents, and sp//dr’s robotic droning takes an almost human, frantic quality. “air quality has been compromised,” it hisses,  “(name), pulling out of battle is optimal.” you’ve got to ignore it, you think with strain, a thin string of web leaping out at the building behind mysterio, there are people in more danger than you.

pulling harshly on the string, you can hear the noisy clank of metal as the mech-suit’s arm bolts creak under the pressure, and propel yourself at the sphere. and you do it again, to the left, again, from the right, while sp//dr’s voice reads out the remaining fluid clerically.

"16%", slam it into the concrete building next to you, it makes a dent, "15%", swing it into a billboard, people are screaming, "14%", jump up into the sky on your- the suit’s- good leg, "13%" shoot out two strings to the ground besides mysterio-

"12%", slam him into the concrete, shattering the road under him. you’re running out of air. the sphere breaks a little, curling inwards like a cracked egg. you have to disarm mysterio- before he floods the streets with the brain toxin that-

that’s currently bypassed your filtration systems.

the suit takes a staggering step towards a boy inside the vessel, his head encompassed by a globe of white, a single eye etched and staring. you barely hear his “you’re taller in person”, more focused on another voice whispering to you.

 ‘make me nothing’, it says, it’s your father's voice. no, it’s sp//dr’s voice. a hand reaches up on its own, crushing a drone, ‘i’m a teenage weapon’. it’s your voice, your head, sp//dr. you can barely breathe, another hand sending a drone flying into the thin walls around you. "safe inside the colours", his face looks at you in pity, admiration. 

it’s a familiar look.

you stiffen, your mind clearing to sp//dr’s warnings. ‘i don’t need your love, boy.’ the suit’s arm slams against his skull, and he falls to the ground, with a strangled; “my voice!”. 

the brain toxin begins to leave your systems, flushed out by a steady, furious buzz in your ears, your vision clearing as you approach the man. his face is exposed, a bloody, spectacled and oat-haired figure. he croaks to you; “i hate my voice,” as though you’d care of it, “you don’t know me- i’m just a fan…”

his voice becomes shaky, and he’s struggling to blabber out his words. you’re tempted to web his mouth shut. “but i could have been anything to you…”

“did you ever get the mix-disc i made you?” he slurs, his cracked glasses breaking.

you don’t wake up with a jolt. there’s no chain of anxiety that hits you, no spider-sense going off. you’re well tucked under heavy covers when you open your eyes, rigid in your sleep. not in the suit, you haven’t been in it for a while. it’s sill broken, and you’re not… not at work. not right now.

it doesn’t feel natural waking up in the manor. you’ve been opening your eyes to the posters your roommate put up on your walls, insisting on brighter decor. grown used to waking to sounds of chatter, maybe the radio, or the school bell telling you were devastatingly late to class and would be reprimanded for it.

you’re not used to waking up to neat wallpaper in a dark, old room. in the house you’ve barely lived in, barely wanted to live in. wayne manor is a sad place, and you're suddenly glad they send you away for most of the year.

summer vacations are the most miserable time of the year, everyone being sent home or off on vacation with their parents until they come back for next term. all the time you're stuck going to a manor you don’t want to be in, in a city you’re close to hating, with people who’ve made it too obvious they don’t want you here. they never say it to your face. but you know well enough.

but- but this time it’s different. this break, you won’t go to trouble tim with a puzzle you’d hope would interest him, one he’d take from you with a nod, and never think about again. you won’t go watch jason sneak into the pantry from a distance, trying to muster up the courage to talk to him and inevitably fail each time, as he swiftly left again. you won’t even offer to ask alfred if you could help him tend to the garden, only for him to smile pitiably gently at you and ask you if you’d 'rather not spend your time having more fun elsewhere'.

this time, you have work. something to do. someone to be.

you take to sauntering awake to a little desk in the corner of the room at five? four? in the morning, and sliding the drawer open to pull out a thick and scrappy diary. you’ve been writing in this since they first sent you off, since you were nine. 

"SP//DR BOT" graces the page you flip to, in bright paint-marker-blue. the picture of a poorly sketched, vaguely-humanoid mecha-suit follows, on which you scrawl with a drying pen. for the last seven months you've had someone to be. so you'd best get to it; kid-buggy.

₊˚⊹ a/n : first fic i've planned up to completion,, let's hope all goes well!! let me know if you want to be in the taglist <3

prologue tags @sirenetheblogger @kenyummy @selvyyr

[mahalachives]

Part 3: Goodbye, Shadowsinger

🕊️ TW: This chapter contains mentions of suicidal ideation and an attempted act of suicide. Please read with care and prioritize your well-being.

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

You woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed, as if the essence of autumn itself had infused your borrowed bones.

Sunlight streamed through amber-stained glass, painting warm patterns across the silk sheets that felt too soft, too decadent against your skin.

After two days of recovery from the arrow wound, your strength had fully returned—one benefit of this immortal body with its remarkable healing abilities.

A sharp knock on your door preceded Eris's entrance.

He swept in with predatory grace, amber eyes assessing you with that calculating precision that never softened. His auburn hair caught the morning light, gleaming like freshly minted copper.

"Ah, you're finally up," he remarked, leaning against the bedpost with deceptive casualness. "Good. I was beginning to think you might sleep through the century."

"Would that have been so terrible?" you asked with a small smile. "One less pyromaniac in the family to worry about."

A flicker of surprise crossed his features—so swift you might have imagined it. "Your brush with death has certainly improved your sense of humor. Though I'm not entirely convinced that's a good thing."

You sat up straighter, noting how he tracked the movement, ever watchful for weakness. "Are you here to check if I'm still alive or just to criticize my newfound optimism?"

"Both," he admitted with a small smirk. "And to inform you that I'm leaving for the Dawn Court within the hour. Diplomatic matters that Father insists can't wait."

"How thrilling for you," you replied. "A whole court of morning people. Your worst nightmare."

Eris actually chuckled, the sound rusty as if rarely used. "Indeed. Try not to burn down the castle while I'm gone. And please—" his expression grew serious, shadows haunting his eyes, "—don't do anything... reckless. Yesterday's incident with the Night Court has everyone on edge."

Your heart skipped. Eris gone. The perfect opportunity.

"I'll be on my absolute best behavior," you promised, unable to keep a grin from spreading across your face.

Eris's eyes narrowed slightly. "That expression doesn't inspire confidence."

"What expression?" You arranged your features into a mask of innocence that felt foreign on this face. "This is just my face."

"No, your face typically looks like you're contemplating which servant to set on fire next. This—" he gestured vaguely at your smile, "—is new and concerning."

You laughed, the sound startling both of you with its genuine mirth. "Go to your dawn gathering, brother. I promise the castle will still be standing when you return."

Eris studied you for another long moment, his amber eyes seeming to peer directly into your soul. Then he nodded once, a dismissive gesture belied by the faint concern lingering in his gaze. "Rest. Recover. Try to remember that you're the Lady of Autumn, not whatever you were babbling about during your fever."

"Of course," you agreed easily.

Too easily, apparently, because Eris's frown deepened.

"Goodbye, sister," he said finally. "Try not to cause an incident for at least a week."

After he left, you burst from the bed with boundless energy, startling poor Briar as she entered with your breakfast tray.

"My lady!" she gasped as several pastries tumbled to the floor, scattering flaky crumbs across the priceless carpet. "You shouldn't be up yet!"

"Nonsense!" you declared, spinning in a circle that sent your nightgown billowing around your legs. "I feel magnificent! Like I could fly! Or swim! Or—or—something equally improbable!"

Briar stared at you as if you'd grown a second head. "Swim? You once threatened to disembowel a gardener for suggesting we install a reflection pool."

"Did I?" You laughed. "Well, people change! Today, I want to embrace new experiences."

"While you're... recovering from a nearly fatal arrow wound?" Briar asked skeptically, nervously tucking a strand of copper-brown hair behind her ear.

"Exactly!" You clapped your hands together. "Nothing like almost dying to make you appreciate life's possibilities. Now, help me dress. Something practical."

Briar reluctantly assisted you into a simple outfit of fitted leathers and a flowing tunic in deep burgundy. As she worked, you couldn't stop grinning, planning your escape in your mind.

Eris was gone. The perfect time to execute your plan.

"My lady, you're..." Briar hesitated, her fingers stilling on the laces of your boots.

"Yes?" you prompted, twirling to face her.

"Humming," she finished, looking utterly bewildered. "And bouncing. Like a... like a..."

"Like a perfectly normal person enjoying a perfectly beautiful day?" you suggested brightly.

"Like someone who's either lost their mind or been replaced by an imposter," Briar muttered under her breath.

You winked at her. "Maybe both!"

Briar's eyes widened in alarm, and you laughed again, heading for the door. "I'm joking, Briar! Mostly. See you later! Or not. Who knows?"

You practically skipped through the castle corridors, drawing astonished stares from servants and guards alike.

The Lady of Autumn, known for her casual cruelty and perpetual sneer, bouncing through the halls with a smile that threatened to split her face in two.

By the time you reached the gardens, a small crowd of servants had found excuses to work nearby, stealing fascinated glances as you paced back and forth, muttering to yourself.

"I need to get home," you whispered, tapping your fingers against your thigh. "But how?"

You contemplated your options, oblivious to your growing audience.

"I could jump from the castle tower," you mused aloud, "but what if it just breaks every bone in this body without sending me back? Too risky."

A gardener nearly fell from his ladder, clutching a branch to stay upright.

"Poison?" you considered, shaking your head. "No, too slow. And knowing my luck, some healer would find an antidote before it worked."

Two maids exchanged alarmed glances.

"Fire?" You laughed softly. "Ironic, but too painful. Besides, someone would definitely notice if I set myself ablaze in the middle of the Autumn Court."

A guard coughed so violently that he had to remove his helmet.

"A blade?" You frowned, considering. "Quick, but messy. And I'd probably just end up wounded again with more hovering healers."

The head gardener was quietly ushering younger staff away from your vicinity.

"What I need," you declared to the rosebush in front of you, "is something guaranteed fatal but relatively peaceful. Something no one can interrupt."

Your eyes lit up suddenly.

"Water! Drowning!" The idea settled in your bones with perfect certainty. "Quick, effective, minimal pain... relatively speaking. And these fire-loving Fae would never think to look for me near water."

You spun around suddenly, catching at least seven servants pretending not to watch you. They all immediately became intensely interested in their tasks—polishing perfectly clean statues, pruning already immaculate hedges, and in one case, vigorously sweeping a patch of grass.

"You!" You pointed at a young female servant who had the misfortune of making eye contact. "Come here."

She approached cautiously, as one might approach a beautiful but notoriously bad-tempered wildcat. Her freckled face was pale with apprehension, hands twisting nervously in her apron. "Y-yes, my lady?"

"Is there a lake nearby? Preferably beyond Autumn Court borders, secluded, not frequently visited?"

The servant blinked rapidly. "A... lake, my lady?"

"Yes, a lake. Big hole in the ground filled with water?"

"Of course, my lady," she stammered. "There's the Azure Pool, about five miles beyond the western border. It's quite isolated. The water is said to have unusual properties—healing for some, visions for others."

Perfect. A magical lake. That had to increase your chances of successful inter-world transportation.

"Excellent!" you exclaimed, causing the servant to jump. "How would one get there?"

"Well..." the servant hesitated, clearly trying to determine if this was some sort of test. "You could winnow, my lady, or have one of the guards escort you—"

"Winnow!" you repeated excitedly. "Yes! Brilliant! How exactly does one do that?"

The servant's jaw dropped. "You... don't know how to winnow, my lady?"

"Of course I know," you scoffed, then leaned closer. "But explain it anyway. For clarity."

"It's... it's like folding space around yourself," the servant said slowly, still looking utterly confused. "You visualize where you want to go, gather your power, and sort of... push through reality?"

"Push through reality," you repeated thoughtfully. "Simple enough. Just visualize and... push."

"My lady, perhaps a guard escort would be—"

"Nonsense!" you declared. "I'm a High Fae of the Autumn Court! Winnowing is in my blood. Probably. How hard can it be?"

The servant's expression suggested she thought it could be very hard indeed, especially for someone who didn't even know the basics.

"Thank you for your assistance," you said, already turning away. "You've been most helpful."

"My lady," the servant called hesitantly, "may I ask why you need to find this lake?"

You turned back with a brilliant smile. "Swimming lessons!"

"But... you hate water," she said, then immediately looked like she regretted speaking.

"Do I?" you asked cheerfully. "Well, time for a change! Growth! Personal development! All that nonsense."

Behind you, several servants exchanged alarmed glances. One quietly made the sign to ward off madness.

"What a wonderful day to be alive," you announced to no one in particular. "For now, anyway!"

With that enigmatic statement, you strode purposefully toward the castle gates, leaving a wake of bewildered servants behind you. One elderly gardener crossed himself and muttered something about the end times.

Standing at the edge of the Autumn Court's formal boundaries, marked by a line of trees with leaves that burned perpetual gold, you gathered your courage.

Winnowing. How hard could it be, really?

You closed your eyes, picturing the Azure Pool as the servant had described it—clear blue-green water, isolated, beyond the western border. You gathered what you assumed was magic, feeling it rise within you like liquid fire coursing through your veins.

"Azure Pool," you whispered. "Take me to the Azure Pool. Please?"

Nothing happened.

You frowned, concentrating harder. "Azure Pool! Western border! Big magical lake! Come on!"

Still nothing.

"Fine," you muttered. "Be that way."

You tried a different approach, extending your awareness outward, feeling for the boundary between here and... somewhere else. There—a thin spot in reality, a place where the world seemed to fold in on itself. You pushed toward it with your mind, imagining yourself slipping through.

The world dissolved around you with a nauseating lurch.

Darkness engulfed you, a crushing pressure from all sides. For one terrifying moment, you were nowhere and everywhere, stretched impossibly thin across reality itself.

Then, with a jolt that knocked the air from your lungs, you rematerialized—tumbling forward onto soft grass. You lay there for a moment, gasping, the world spinning around you.

"That," you announced to the empty air, "was horrible. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend."

When your head finally stopped spinning, you pushed yourself up and looked around.

The Azure Pool lived up to its name.

Nestled in a clearing surrounded by ancient trees, the water glowed with an impossible blue-green luminescence that pulsed gently like a heartbeat. The surface was mirror-smooth, reflecting the cloud-dappled sky above. It seemed to call to you, welcoming you home.

Not this home. Your real home.

"Perfect," you whispered, approaching the edge.

No one in sight. No witnesses.

Just you and a magical lake that would hopefully send you back to your world.

You shrugged off your outer tunic, leaving only the fitted leathers underneath. Less to drag you down. The crisp autumn air raised goosebumps across your exposed skin, but you barely registered the chill. Your focus narrowed to the glowing water before you, its ethereal light casting strange patterns across your face.

Standing at the edge, you hesitated.

The mating bond, that golden thread connecting you to Azriel, pulled taut in your chest like a physical restraint. It seemed to know your intentions, throbbing with an almost sentient awareness that made your breath catch.

"Okay," you muttered, steeling yourself. "Just walk in, breathe in the water, and wake up in a hospital bed. Simple."

But was it simple? This world, for all its dangers and complications, had an undeniable beauty. Magic thrummed in the very air you breathed, in the trees that whispered secrets to the wind, in the blood that coursed through this borrowed body. A part of you recognized the wonder of it all, the chance to experience something humans only dreamed about.

The bond tugged sharply, as if in agreement, sending a lance of pain through your chest. Your hand flew up, pressing against your sternum.

"Stop it," you whispered to the invisible tether. "I don't belong here."

But did you? The mating bond wouldn't have formed unless there was... something.

Some connection, some compatibility between your soul and Azriel's. The thought was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

You took one step toward the water—then froze as an image flashed in your mind. Hazel eyes flecked with gold. Shadows that reached for you despite their master's will.

Azriel.

The mating bond thrummed more intensely, responding to even the thought of him. You felt his rejection anew, the cold dismissal, the formality that cut deeper than open hostility could have. But beneath that, you'd glimpsed something else—a flicker of recognition when your tears fell, a moment of genuine pain in those beautiful, ancient eyes.

The bond demanded closure. Even if he hated you. Even if he'd rejected you in front of everyone. You couldn't just disappear without saying goodbye.

"Fine," you sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "One quick, awkward goodbye to the shadowsinger who despises me, then back here for drowning. Great plan."

You closed your eyes again, but instead of visualizing a place, you focused on the golden thread of the mating bond. It pulled steadily northward, toward the Night Court, toward Azriel. You gathered your power again (more carefully this time, having learned from your first disastrous attempt) and let the bond guide you.

The world dissolved once more.

This time, the darkness felt less crushing, as if the bond was protecting you from the worst of the between-space.

You rematerialized with a softer landing, though still less than graceful. Your knees hit packed earth, and you pitched forward onto your hands. The ground beneath your palms was hard-packed and cold, the scent of pine and steel and male sweat filling your nostrils.

"Halt!" a deep voice commanded.

You looked up to find yourself surrounded by winged warriors, all with weapons drawn.

Illyrians, their massive battle-wings flared in threatening displays. The sound of those wings cutting through air raised the hair on your arms—a prehistoric, predatory sound that spoke to the most primitive parts of your brain. At their center stood Cassian, the commander you'd met during yesterday's disastrous dinner.

"Oh, hello again," you said brightly, pushing yourself up and dusting off your leathers. "Lovely day, isn't it? So sunny. Really brings out the threatening scowls on all your faces."

Cassian stared at you in disbelief. "You just winnowed to the edge of an Illyrian war-camp. Alone. Without warning or permission."

"Did I?" You glanced around. "Huh. I was aiming for 'wherever Azriel is.' The mating bond was supposed to guide me. Magical GPS and all that."

"Magical... what?" Cassian's brow furrowed.

"Never mind," you said, waving dismissively. "Is Azriel here? I need to speak with him."

Cassian's expression hardened. "He has no interest in speaking with you."

"I know," you sighed. "He hates me. But this is important."

"Important enough to risk starting another war?" Cassian asked coldly.

The bond tightened in your chest, a physical pain that radiated outward, stealing your breath. Your hand pressed against it instinctively, and something in your expression must have changed, because Cassian's eyes narrowed in recognition.

"I'm not here for war," you protested, your voice softening, all pretense falling away. "I just need to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Cassian's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Going somewhere?"

"Far, far away," you confirmed quietly. "Never to return. Which should make everyone happy, especially Azriel. So really, letting me see him is a win-win."

Cassian crossed his arms. "And I should trust you because...?"

"Please," you said softly, all bravado evaporating like morning mist. Your voice cracked on the word, betraying the desperation beneath your carefully constructed facade. "Five minutes. That's all I ask. Then I'll leave and never bother any of you again."

Your eyes, suddenly bright with unshed tears, met his. "I know I don't deserve it. I know what she—what I did to him was unforgivable. But I can't leave without saying goodbye. The bond won't let me."

You placed your hand over your heart, where the golden thread pulsed painfully with each heartbeat. "It hurts," you added, the simple admission costing you more than you cared to admit.

Something in your face—the naked vulnerability, perhaps, or the quiet desperation—made Cassian's expression soften fractionally. The scent of him shifted slightly, the aggressive edge giving way to cautious curiosity.

"You really are different," he said finally.

"So I've been told," you replied, trying for a smile that wobbled at the edges. "Is that a yes?"

Cassian sighed deeply, running a hand through his dark hair. "If you so much as flicker a flame in his direction, I'll drop you from a height that even High Fae can't survive. Clear?"

"Crystal," you agreed, relief flooding through you. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Cassian grumbled, gesturing for the other Illyrians to stand down. "Az is going to kill me for this."

He led you through the camp, winged warriors stopping their training to stare as you passed. The ground was hard-packed beneath your boots, worn smooth by centuries of Illyrian feet.

The air was crisp and cold, carrying the metallic scent of weapons and the earthy musk of male sweat. Fires burned in stone pits, the smoke carrying scents of cooking meat and pine. Everything about this place was wild, primal—the same way the warriors themselves were, with their predatory grace and ancient eyes.

The mating bond pulled more insistently with each step, the golden thread glowing brighter in your mind's eye, leading you unerringly toward Azriel. It thrummed between your ribs, a vibrating tension that grew tighter, more urgent as you approached.

"So," you said nervously as you walked, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your tunic, "how's life in the Night Court? Pleasant? Regular happiness meetings?"

Cassian shot you a sideways glance. "Are you always this chatty now, or is it just nerves?"

"Definitely nerves," you admitted quietly. "I'm not exactly good at goodbyes."

Your voice caught on the word, and the bond spasmed painfully in response. You suppressed a wince, but Cassian's sharp eyes missed nothing.

"Where exactly are you going that necessitates dramatic border-crossing farewells?" Cassian asked carefully.

"Home," you said simply. "Where I belong."

"And where is that?" he pressed.

"Would you believe... another world entirely?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Cassian studied your face for a long moment. "Actually, after yesterday's display, I might." He frowned slightly. "Does Az know about this... plan of yours?"

"No," you admitted. "And I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"Hmm," was all Cassian said as you entered a large clearing.

The training field opened up before you, a vast area of packed earth surrounded by training equipment and weapons racks. Illyrian warriors moved through drills in small groups, their wings creating gusts of wind with each powerful stroke. The sound was like distant thunder, a rhythmic percussion that vibrated in your chest.

And there, at the far end, stood Azriel.

Even from this distance, the sight of him made your heart stutter painfully in your chest. The shadowsinger moved with lethal grace as he demonstrated a complex blade maneuver to a group of young warriors. Shadows danced around him like living extensions of his body, coiling and stretching in hypnotic patterns. His power was a tangible thing, a cold pressure against your skin that raised goosebumps along your arms.

Beside him stood a slender female with golden-brown hair. She wore a simple dress the color of spring leaves, and smiled up at Azriel as he spoke. There was an easy comfort between them, a gentle familiarity that made your chest ache strangely. The scent of wildflowers surrounded her even at this distance, delicate and sweet amidst the harsher smells of the camp.

"That's Elain," Cassian murmured, noticing your gaze. "Feyre's sister."

"They look... close," you managed, hating the hint of jealousy that colored your voice. The mating bond twisted sharply in protest, as if insulted by the mere suggestion of a connection between Azriel and another female.

"They are," Cassian confirmed bluntly. "Az has been half in love with her for years."

The bond twisted again, the pain so intense it nearly doubled you over. You bit your lip hard to keep from crying out, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. Which was ridiculous—you had no claim on Azriel, no right to feel possessive. You didn't even belong in this world.

Before Cassian could say anything else, Azriel's head snapped up.

His shadows stilled completely, then surged forward like a tide, stretching toward you before he reined them back with visible effort. His eyes—those beautiful hazel eyes with flecks of gold—locked with yours across the training field, and the mating bond between you hummed to life, pulling taut and vibrant.

The pain vanished instantly, replaced by an awareness so intense it made you gasp. Every sense heightened, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive. His scent reached you even across the distance—night-chilled stone and cedar and male musk. The world narrowed to him alone, everything else fading into insignificance.

"He knows I'm here," you murmured, suddenly feeling small and uncertain.

Azriel said something to the warriors, then to Elain, who glanced curiously in your direction. He began walking toward you with measured steps, his face a mask of careful neutrality. His wings were folded tightly against his back, but shadows swirled around him in agitated patterns, betraying the emotion he refused to show.

Your palms grew damp with nervous sweat. Your heart raced in your chest, partly from the bond's insistent pull, partly from the fear of facing him after everything that had happened. Your mouth went dry, and you swallowed convulsively, trying to prepare yourself for his rejection.

When he reached you, he stopped at a careful distance, shadows swirling restlessly around him. He inclined his head slightly—a gesture of formal acknowledgment, nothing more. The scent of him was stronger now, wrapping around you like an invisible embrace that his body refused to give.

"My Lady," he said, his deep voice coolly professional. "This is unexpected."

Up close, you could see faint scars on his face, subtle markers of a life lived in violence. His wings were even more impressive than you remembered, powerful spans of membranous darkness that shifted slightly as he moved.

And on his chest—visible above the neckline of his training clothes—the edge of a scar that must have come from the burning your body's previous inhabitant had inflicted. The sight of it made your stomach clench with guilt and shame, though logically you knew you weren't responsible.

"I came to say goodbye," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers twisted nervously in front of you, a gesture of vulnerability that felt utterly foreign to this body accustomed to displays of power.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or disbelief—before it was hidden again behind walls of ice. His shadows, however, betrayed him, reaching toward you before he pulled them back with visible effort. The temperature around you dropped several degrees, as if his shadows absorbed the very heat from the air.

"I see," he said neutrally. "Is there a reason the Lady of the Autumn Court felt it necessary to cross territories for such a purpose?"

The formal way he referred to you—not by name, but by title—stung worse than outright hostility might have. It was as if you were a stranger, a political entity rather than a person. The bond between you spasmed painfully, and you had to fight to keep your expression neutral.

"The mating bond," you explained, your voice trembling slightly as you forced yourself to meet his gaze. "I couldn't... I couldn't leave without seeing you one last time."

His shadows coiled tighter, writhing with what looked almost like agitation. Several of them formed sharp, jagged shapes before smoothing out again, as if reflecting some inner conflict he refused to acknowledge.

"The bond is irrelevant," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "As I made clear yesterday. Is there anything else?"

The dismissal was so complete, so utterly final, that tears welled in your eyes unbidden. You blinked rapidly, but it was too late—they spilled over, tracking silently down your cheeks. The salt of them burned against your cold skin, their warmth a stark contrast to the ice in his eyes.

Something flashed in Azriel's eyes—not the cold indifference from before, but something almost like pain. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. His shadows reached for you again, stretching toward your tears as if to wipe them away before he harshly yanked them back.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, hastily wiping at your face. "I didn't mean to cry. I just... I wanted to apologize. For everything—"

"I have duties to attend to," he said abruptly, gesturing toward the training field where Elain waited, watching your interaction with open curiosity. "Cassian will escort you back to the border."

As if summoned by his name, Cassian stepped forward. "Time to go." he said.

You nodded, throat too tight for words. With one last look at Azriel—standing remote and unreachable despite being only feet away—you turned to follow Cassian.

You had taken only a few steps when Azriel's voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You glanced back, hope fluttering traitorously in your chest. The bond between you pulled painfully tight, as if trying to physically draw you back to him.

His face remained expressionless, but his shadows reached toward you, stretching across the distance between you. "May the Cauldron guide your path," he said formally, the traditional Fae farewell for travelers.

Not a declaration of feeling. Not even an acknowledgment of the bond. Just empty words, proper protocol. And yet... his eyes held yours a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering in their hazel depths.

"Thank you," you whispered, a fresh tear slipping down your cheek. "Goodbye, Azriel."

This time, he didn't watch you leave. He turned and walked back to the training field without another glance, rejoining Elain as if the encounter had never happened. Only his shadows lingered, stretching toward you until distance finally severed the connection.

As soon as you were out of Azriel's sight, something inside you shattered. A sob tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered. Then another. And another, until you were gasping for breath, tears streaming unchecked down your face.

You stumbled, nearly falling as your legs threatened to give out beneath the weight of your grief. The mating bond ached like an open wound in your chest, every heartbeat sending fresh pain radiating through your body. It was a physical agony, as if someone had reached into your ribcage and was slowly, methodically shredding your heart.

"Whoa, whoa," Cassian said, catching your elbow to steady you. His hand was warm, solid, an anchor in the storm of your emotions. "Breathe, just breathe."

But you couldn't stop. The sobs came harder, your shoulders shaking with their force. You covered your face with your hands, but it did nothing to stem the flow of tears that slipped between your fingers and dripped onto the forest floor. Each breath was a struggle, catching painfully in your throat.

"I'm s-sorry," you choked out between sobs. "I can't—I can't stop."

Cassian looked utterly bewildered, his wings shifting uncomfortably behind him. The sound of them rustling was like agitated whispers. His expression was almost comical—the mighty Illyrian warrior, commander of the Night Court armies, completely undone by one sobbing female.

"It's... um... it's okay?" he tried, awkwardly patting your back. "Just... let it out?"

Your breath hitched as you tried to control yourself. "I'm sorry—this is so embarrassing—"

"Don't apologize," Cassian said gruffly. "The bond rejection... it's brutal. I've seen it before."

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve, which did absolutely nothing as fresh tears immediately took their place. Your chest heaving with each ragged breath, your entire body trembling. "It's not just that," you said, your voice breaking. "It's everything. This world, this body, this life that isn't mine. And now him—the one person who could have maybe..." You couldn't finish the thought as another sob overtook you.

Cassian sighed deeply, then did something unexpected. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—surprisingly delicate for a battle-hardened warrior—and offered it to you.

"Here," he said. "Nesta makes me carry these. Says it's civilized."

The unexpected kindness only made you cry harder. You took the handkerchief with trembling fingers, trying and failing to dry your eyes. The delicate fabric was soft against your skin, smelling faintly of cedar and something distinctly female—Nesta's scent, you presumed.

"I'm getting tears all over your nice handkerchief," you said miserably.

To your surprise, Cassian chuckled. "I've had worse things on me. Much worse."

The mental image that conjured made you laugh through your tears—a wet, hiccuping sound that somehow made Cassian's shoulders relax. The scent of his relief was palpable, a subtle shift in his usual male musk.

"There we go," he said, relief evident in his voice. "Laughing and crying at the same time. Very efficient."

You hiccuped again, your breath coming in shuddering gasps as you tried to regain control. "I'm a m-mess."

"Yeah," Cassian agreed bluntly, but his eyes were kind. "But it's actually kind of... cute."

"Cute?" you repeated incredulously, knowing your face must be blotchy and swollen, your eyes red-rimmed. You could taste salt on your lips, feel the sticky tracks of tears drying on your cheeks.

"In a pathetic, helpless animal sort of way," he clarified with a grin. "Like a half-drowned kitten."

Despite everything, you found yourself laughing again—a watery, broken sound, but genuine. "You're terrible at comforting people."

"So I've been told," Cassian admitted cheerfully. "Repeatedly. By everyone I know."

You wiped your eyes again, breathing deeply to try to calm yourself. But the tears kept coming,

You wiped your eyes again, breathing deeply to try to calm yourself. But the tears kept coming, slower now but steady, as if your body was determined to purge every drop of grief it contained.

"Sorry," you murmured. "I can't seem to stop."

"It's the bond," Cassian explained, his voice softening. "When it's rejected... your body literally grieves."

"It hurts," you whispered, pressing a hand to your chest where the golden thread seemed to pulse with every beat of your breaking heart. The pain had a texture to it—jagged edges that tore at your insides with each breath, each heartbeat. "Like something's being torn out of me."

Cassian nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's why most Fae don't reject the bond, even when they'd rather not accept it right away. The cost is... significant."

You hadn't realized Azriel would be feeling this too—this tearing, ripping sensation in his chest. The thought made fresh tears spill down your cheeks.

"Does he feel it too?" you asked, your voice small.

Cassian hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Though he has centuries of practice hiding pain."

The two of you walked in silence for a while, your ragged breathing and occasional hiccuping sobs the only sounds. The forest around you deepened, tree limbs creating patterns of dappled shadow across the path. The scent of pine and earth surrounded you, grounding you in this moment, this world, even as you planned your escape from it.

You were vaguely aware of how absurd this must look—the Lady of Autumn Court, sobbing like a child while being escorted by the Night Court's general.

When you reached the border, marked by sentinel stones carved with runes, Cassian stopped. The stones hummed with ancient magic, the boundary between territories tangible as a change in pressure against your skin. The air itself felt different here—caught between autumn's golden warmth and night's cool embrace.

"This is as far as I go," he said. "Can you winnow back safely?"

"I'll manage," you assured him, though in truth you felt exhausted. The emotional toll of the encounter with Azriel had drained you as much as the winnowing itself. Your body felt hollow, wrung out, as if you'd run for miles.

You tried to hand back the handkerchief, now thoroughly soaked with tears.

"Keep it," Cassian said, grimacing slightly. "Consider it a souvenir of your visit to the Night Court."

"How thoughtful," you replied, managing a wobbly smile.

Cassian's expression grew serious. "Whatever you're planning... be careful."

"I will," you lied.

He studied your tear-stained face for a moment longer. "For what it's worth, I think he's making a mistake."

The unexpected words made your breath catch. "Why?"

"Because you're not who you were," Cassian said simply. "And bonds don't make mistakes. The Cauldron knows something he doesn't."

Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "Thank you, Cassian."

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the emotion of the moment. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I have a reputation to maintain."

With one final, awkward pat on your shoulder, Cassian turned and walked back toward the camp, his wings shifting restlessly against his back. The sound of them faded gradually, until only the whisper of the forest remained.

You stood at the border for a long moment, looking back at the Night Court territory—at the space where Azriel had stood, cold and remote and unreachable. The mating bond tugged painfully in your chest, urging you to return, to try again, to make him understand. Each pull was a physical sensation, like a hook embedded in your heart, drawing you back toward him.

But there was nothing more to say. He had made his feelings perfectly clear.

"Goodbye," you whispered one last time, though there was no one to hear it. The word tasted like ash on your tongue, final and irrevocable.

Then, gathering what remained of your strength, you focused on your destination—the Azure Pool.

The image was clearer now that you'd seen it, and the bond's pull had faded to a dull, persistent ache, making it easier to concentrate. You closed your eyes, visualizing the glowing water, the ancient trees, the isolation that would allow you to complete your journey home undisturbed.

You pushed through the fabric of reality, and the world dissolved around you once more. The darkness enveloped you, but this time it felt almost comforting, a temporary oblivion that numbed the pain in your chest. For one blissful moment, you were nowhere, nothing—just consciousness suspended between worlds.

Then, with a jolt that sent you to your knees, you rematerialized at the edge of the glowing pool.

You stumbled forward, the last of your strength draining away with the effort of winnowing. Fresh tears immediately welled, spilling down your already salt-stained cheeks. Your eyes burned, swollen and red-rimmed from crying. Your face felt hot and puffy, your breath still coming in those little hiccuping gasps that remained after a long bout of sobbing.

Looking down at your reflection in the still water, you barely recognized yourself. Your face was flushed and blotchy, eyes so puffy they appeared half their normal size, nose reddened, lips trembling with each unsteady breath.

The heartbreak was a physical pain now, radiating from your chest through your entire body.

Each breath hurt.

Each heartbeat sent fresh agony through the bond that stretched impossibly thin between you and Azriel. You pressed your hand to your sternum, as if you could somehow soothe the golden thread that seemed to be tearing itself apart inside you.

The water before you glowed with an ethereal blue-green light that pulsed like a heartbeat. It was uncannily alive, responding to your presence with subtle shifts in its luminescence. A gentle mist rose from its surface, carrying a scent that was both alien and strangely familiar—like the antiseptic of a hospital mixed with the mineral tang of magic.

"It's time," you whispered to yourself, your voice hoarse from crying. "Time to go home."

But even as you thought the words, doubt crept in.

You took a deep breath and stepped forward, the cool water lapping around your ankles. The sensation was strange—warmer than it should be, almost sentient in the way it curled around your skin. Another step, and it reached your knees, soaking through your leathers to caress your thighs with uncanny gentleness.

As you waded deeper, memories flashed through your mind—your childhood home, your first day of nursing school, the smell of antiseptic and sound of heart monitors.

Real memories, from your real life. The life you were returning to.

But other memories came too—Briar's surprised laughter, Eris's reluctant amusement, Cassian's awkward comfort. Connections formed in this strange world that somehow felt significant, as if they had always been a part of you, waiting to be discovered.

And Azriel.

His face when you cried—that brief moment when his mask had slipped, revealing something almost like pain. The way his shadows had reached for you, as if they recognized something in you that he refused to acknowledge. The flash of vulnerability in his eyes that contradicted every cold word from his lips.

The bond between you spasmed violently, as if sensing your intentions. The pain doubled you over, forcing a gasp from your lungs. It was fighting you, this golden thread, with everything it had.

"Please," you whispered, tears mingling with the glowing water. "Please just let me go."

The water reached your chest now, each breath slightly more difficult than the last. Just a few more steps, and you'd be fully submerged. One final breath, and then—home.

But was it that simple?

The pain in your chest suggested otherwise. The bond wasn't just stretching anymore—it was actively resisting, pulling back with a strength that surprised you. It didn't want to be severed. It was fighting for its survival, for your survival, with everything it had.

You closed your eyes, preparing for the plunge.

The memory of Azriel's face when you cried flashed in your mind—that brief moment when his mask had slipped, revealing something almost like pain. The way his shadows had reached for you when he thought you wouldn't notice. The flicker of recognition in his eyes when he admitted he knew you were different.

Strangely, that made it both harder and easier. Harder to leave what might have been. Easier to escape the pain of rejection.

"I'm sorry," you whispered to no one in particular. "But I have to go home."

With one final, deep breath, you plunged beneath the surface, letting the glowing waters close over your head.

The cold shocked your system, but you forced yourself to remain under, to release that precious breath and let the water in. The moment the water entered your mouth, time seemed to slow. You could feel each individual droplet as it passed your lips, slid down your throat, entered your lungs. It burned—not with the fire you expected, but with a cold so intense it might as well have been flame.

Pain blossomed in your chest, sharp and insistent, as your lungs fought against your mind's determination. Your body rebelled, instinct overriding intention as your limbs thrashed involuntarily. Your lungs spasmed, trying desperately to expel the foreign liquid. White spots danced across your vision as oxygen deprivation set in.

The mating bond flared to life with sudden, desperate intensity.

The golden thread burned like a live wire in your chest, pulsing with frantic energy. It was fighting harder now, clinging to your soul with everything it had.

Don't go, it seemed to whisper, though you knew it couldn't really speak. Stay. Belong. Live.

Darkness crept in from the edges of your vision, the glowing blue waters fading to gray, then black. Your body's struggles weakened, your limbs growing heavy, unresponsive. Your mind began to drift, consciousness slipping away like sand through fingers.

The last thing you felt was the mating bond, stretching painfully thin as consciousness slipped away. It was the final thread connecting you to that world, to that life, to him.

As it began to snap, one precious strand at a time, you felt an unexpected grief.

Not just for what was, but for what might have been.

Then nothing.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for diving headfirst into the angst ocean with me. I promise, there's a lifeboat coming... eventually. Until then: hold onto your feels, hydrate, and maybe scream into a pillow. You're doing amazing. 💔✨

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