#his voice is so soothing i love him so much

[revelboo]

Revel im coming to your door step begging and pleading for anything Bee related, one shot, hcs, smut fluff WHATEVER..just give me whatever you want and I'll DEVOUR IT. I'm on my period and hella emotional and i burn through all your fics so fast i just- UGH 😭

on another note i hope you're having a day far FAR better than me and just good over all, love you! n thank you!! 🫶🏻

Sure! Fluff and 18+ Mass displaced mech scenario 🌶️

Earthspark Bumblebee x Reader Scenarios

Comfort

• “You’re being quiet today.” There’s no judgement in his soft voice and you appreciate that so much. Just like he hadn’t complained when you’d caught his hand and pulled it to you, encouraging him to drape it across your middle. Enjoying the heat of his touch. Laying back against him under an apple tree and letting the sun warm you, you tip your head back against his heated chassis. “Everything okay?” Like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong and and you smile up at him.

• “Just a little off today,” you say, a hand resting on top of his. He’s been around you long enough to understand that for a week or so a month, you might be quieter than normal or even snap at him and feel immediately bad about it. And that you’re too embarrassed to talk about whatever it is. So he’d asked Dot and she’d told him. In excruciating detail what the problem most likely was. Giving him a lesson on human reproduction that he hadn’t really been expecting. Or particularly wanted.

• Tracing little circles on the back of his hand, you ask him for a story and he tells you about before the war. About a city that’s gone now, destroyed in the fighting, but that he remembers with such longing in his voice that your own chest aches. Relaxing against him, you let his touch and voice soothe away the discomfort and distract you.

Smut

• Warm palm sliding up your spine as you lay on your belly, legs dangling over the edge of the container he’d bent you over, your body’s humming where he’s been teasing you for what feels like forever. Can feel his erect spike leaving a damp trail against your inner thigh as he bends over you, mouth peppering soft kisses against the back of your neck. And he shifts against you, the head of his spike sliding so close to where you need him as he presses a soft bite against your neck, sucking and nipping the spot until you know he’s trying to leave a mark. Something he’d become obsessed with after finding out how easily he can mark you. “Bee, please,” you whimper, down to begging as his spike slides against you. Right there when you’re aching for him.

• Humming softly as his mouth slides to a new, lower spot, he reaches between your bodies to grip his spike and slide himself against your slick heat just to make you whimper again. Hurting to be inside you, but wanting to take his time with you. “You’re so wet for me aren’t you?” He growls, finding you and slowly driving deep. Smiling when you wiggle as much as you can in the position you’re in, trying to get him to move while he just wants to savor this. The feel of you wrapped so tight around his spike. “Tell me what you need.”

• “Fast,” you manage, resting your cheek on an arm and feeling his servos grip your hips. The first deep thrust a sharp snap of his hips before he’s growling against your neck, mouth and denta teasing your shoulder as moves inside you. Keeping you pinned where he wants you. Optics shuttering as he listens to the sounds you make. Those little gasps and moans, the wet sounds of his spike pumping inside you. Feeling you begin to squirm, trying to push back to meet his thrusts and he pins you better just to make you whine a protest. “Bee, please.” Squirming a hand under you to play with you until your hips are bucking, until you cry out and tighten on him. Fisting his spike so tightly and he keeps moving, hips snapping until he shakily catches himself on his forearms to keep from crushing you. Hips still rocking urgently as he fills you, pressing deep and groaning against your skin and fighting the urge to spark you. Every time it’s a little harder to resist and knows he’s going to have to have the discussion with you eventually. Because he wants it so bad. Wants to claim you so thoroughly you’ll never need anything but this, him.

[cherryxbooo]

Just us. Just this. Just love.

Summary: Days off for Oscar are rare, but whenever he does have one, the two of you love spending it with nothing but slow, lazy mornings.

Reader x Oscar Piastri

Genre: fluff

I woke up to the dim morning light barely filtering through the curtains.

The warmth beside me was familiar, Oscar’s arm draped lazily over my waist, his steady breathing tickling the back of my neck.

For a moment, I just stayed there, wrapped in the comfort of him, listening to the quiet hum of the world outside.

It was rare for him to have a morning off, and I was selfishly savoring every second of it.

No early training, no media duties, no team meetings. Just us.

I carefully turned over in his arms to face him, my movements slow and careful, not wanting to wake him up just yet.

His features were soft in sleep, his messy hair falling over his forehead, lips slightly parted.

He looked so peaceful like this, so different from the focused, determined driver everyone saw on race days.

I traced a light fingertip down his cheek, smiling to myself when he stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.

My heart swelled at the thought of how lucky I was to have him.

Despite everything, the fame, the pressure, and the constant travel, Oscar always made time for me.

He never made me feel like I was just a part of the background noise in his fast-paced world.

Just as I was about to settle back into the warmth of the blankets, he shifted, pulling me closer and mumbling something against my hair.

“Mmm, you’re staring love.” His voice was thick with sleep, groggy and low.

I giggled, tucking my face into his chest. “I am not.”

“You so are,” he argued, his arms tightening around me.

“Why are you awake? It’s early.”

“I like watching you sleep. You look cute when you’re not scowling at data sheets or wearing that severe‘ race mode’ face.”

Oscar let out a soft chuckle, his lips pressing a lazy kiss to the top of my head.

“Race mode face? That’s a new one.”

I hummed, tilting my chin up to look at him.

“It’s real, I swear. It’s the face you make when you’re so focused, your eyebrows practically fuse together.”

“Sounds attractive,” he mused, eyes finally fluttering open to meet mine.

“Very,” I teased, poking his cheek. “But I like sleepy Oscar better.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice was still laced with sleep, but there was a playful edge to it now.

“And why’s that?”

“Because sleepy Oscar is soft and cuddly and doesn’t mind staying in bed with me all morning,”

I replied, tangling my legs with his under the blankets.

He smirked. “I don’t mind staying in bed with you any time of the day.”

I rolled my eyes, though my heart swelled at his words.

“Good, because I don’t plan on moving anytime soon.”

He grinned, eyes full of something warm and lazy, before reaching over to pull the blankets higher around us.

“Fine by me.”

The morning was slow, soft, and wrapped in warmth, the kind of morning I never wanted to end.

Oscar and I stayed tangled up in each other, limbs lazily intertwined under the covers as the early sunlight peeked through the curtains.

His arms were snug around me, his fingers drawing absentminded patterns on my back, while my head rested comfortably against his chest.

His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear, a soothing rhythm that made me want to stay in bed forever.

Neither of us spoke much at first, just enjoying the peaceful quiet, exchanging sleepy kisses and whispered words that didn’t really mean much, but still felt important.

His lips brushed against my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, soft, feather-light pecks that made my heart squeeze in my chest.

I hummed contentedly, tilting my head up to steal another lazy kiss, but just as our lips met, my stomach decided to betray me with an embarrassingly loud growl.

Oscar froze for a second before bursting into laughter, his chest shaking beneath me.

“Wow,” he teased, running a hand through my hair.

“Didn’t realize I was dating a little gremlin.”

I groaned, burying my face in his chest to hide my embarrassment.

“Ignore it. I’m perfectly happy staying right here forever.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled, rubbing slow circles on my back.

“And what if I start listing all the breakfast foods you love? Pancakes… eggs… bacon… a warm croissant with butter…”

“Stop,” I whined dramatically, but I could already feel my resolve crumbling.

He grinned, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Come on, let’s get up babe. We’ll eat, and then we can be lazy the rest of the day.”

I sighed, finally giving in, though I made a show of stretching as dramatically as possible before sitting up with him.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But only because you promised we could be lazy later.”

Oscar smirked as he got out of bed, stretching his arms above his head.

“Deal.”

Still half-asleep, I shuffled behind him into the bathroom, where we moved around each other effortlessly, like we’d done this a hundred times before.

He automatically reached for my toothbrush, squeezing just the right amount of toothpaste onto it before handing it to me.

I raised an eyebrow, amused. “Taking care of me now?”

He simply shrugged, already brushing his own teeth. “Always.”

I smiled at his reflection in the mirror before starting to brush mine, our shoulders bumping lightly as we stood side by side.

The morning was quiet and easy, one of those moments that made me feel like we’d been doing this forever like we’d always been meant to.

After we finished, I reached for my hairbrush, but before I could, Oscar plucked it from my hands.

“Let me,” he said, tugging me gently to stand in front of him.

I turned, raising an amused brow.

“Oh? You offering to be my personal hairstylist now?”

He grinned. “Maybe. You’re a little high-maintenance, but I think I can handle it.”

I gasped, swatting at his arm, but he only laughed as he started brushing my hair.

His touch was careful, surprisingly gentle, like he was afraid of hurting me.

Every now and then, his fingers would graze my scalp, sending warm shivers down my spine.

“This is nice Osc,” I murmured, watching him through the mirror.

Oscar met my eyes, a small, proud smile playing on his lips. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “I think you’re actually pretty good at this.”

He tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Maybe I should quit racing and open a salon.”

I snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, babe.”

He chuckled, finishing up before setting the brush down.

Satisfied with his work, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“I like getting ready with you.”

I leaned back into him, my hands covering his. “Me too.”

Oscar pressed a lingering kiss to my cheek before pulling away.

“Alright, let’s get you fed before you start getting grumpy.”

I gasped, feigning offense as I turned to face him.

“I do not get grumpy.”

He gave me a knowing look.

“Tell that to that one time you almost cried because your pancakes took too long.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “That was one time.”

He smirked, lacing his fingers with mine as we walked out of the bathroom.

“And I learned to always keep snacks on me.”

I groaned, though I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He grinned, squeezing my hand.

And he was right, I didn’t. I loved him, more than I could ever put into words.

As we made our way to the kitchen, Oscar kept a firm grip on my hand, lazily swinging it back and forth between us.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft padding of our footsteps against the floor and the occasional yawn that slipped past my lips.

“Alright, chef,” I said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“What’s the plan? Pancakes? Eggs? A five-star gourmet breakfast?”

Oscar smirked as he opened the fridge. “How about toast?”

I gaped at him. “Toast? That’s it? I expected something a little more… grand.”

He turned, giving me an unimpressed look.

“Did you want breakfast or a three-course meal?”

I sighed dramatically. “Fine. But at least let’s make something fun.”

Oscar hummed, grabbing eggs, butter, and milk from the fridge. “Pancakes it is.”

I grinned, immediately moving to grab the flour and sugar from the pantry.

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

As we started prepping, Oscar wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, trapping me between him and the counter.

“Are you actually going to help, or are you just going to look cute and distract me?”

I tilted my head back against his shoulder, pretending to think.

“Mmm… a little of both?”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck before finally letting me go.

“Fine. But at least stir the batter.”

I happily took the whisk, dipping it into the mixture, but after a few turns, I felt Oscar’s hands settle on my waist again.

He leaned forward, chin resting on my shoulder as he watched me stir.

“You’re whisking too slow love,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

I scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like to do it instead, Mr. Professional Whisker?”

He grinned. “No, no. You’re doing great. Just… here.”

He reached around me, his hands guiding mine, and suddenly, we were whisking together, his chest pressed up against my back, his lips dangerously close to my ear.

“This feels like a really lame excuse to be all over me,”

I pointed out, fighting back a smile.

Oscar hummed, pretending to think. “Maybe. But are you complaining?”

“… No.”

“Exactly.”

I giggled, nudging him away playfully. “Okay, okay, I can take it from here.”

He backed away with a smirk but didn’t go far, staying close as he grabbed a pan and placed it on the stove.

“Fine. But if the pancakes suck, it’s on you.”

I rolled my eyes. “They won’t suck. Have some faith in your girl.”

As I poured the batter into the pan, I felt his hands on my waist again, and before I could react, he lifted me onto the counter effortlessly.

“Hey!” I squeaked, grabbing onto his shoulders.

“What was that for?”

Oscar smirked, standing between my legs as he settled his hands on my thighs.

“You looked too cute standing there. Had to put you somewhere I could admire you properly.”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my lips.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love me.”

I sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

Oscar gasped, clutching his chest like I had just mortally wounded him.

“Wow. That hurt.”

I giggled, wrapping my arms around his neck. “You’ll survive.”

He grinned, leaning in to steal a kiss, slow and sweet, as the smell of pancakes filled the air.

I melted into him, hands tangling in his hair, completely forgetting about breakfast for a moment.

Then, suddenly—

“Crap! The pancakes!”

Oscar and I both jumped apart, scrambling to grab the spatula as we turned back to the stove.

He flipped them just in time, revealing a perfectly golden-brown pancake.

I exhaled in relief. “Crisis averted.”

Oscar chuckled, peering over at me. “You were the one distracting me this time.”

I huffed. “You kissed me first.”

“Yeah, well, you kissed back.”

I rolled my eyes, bumping my shoulder against his.

“Whatever. Just focus before you burn our breakfast.”

Oscar smirked but didn’t argue, instead stacking the finished pancakes onto a plate before drizzling syrup over them.

Once everything was ready, he grabbed two forks, handing me one before hoisting himself up onto the counter next to me.

Instead of using his own plate, he cut a piece of pancake and held it up to my lips, wiggling his brows playfully.

“Say ahh.”

I gave him a look but still leaned in, taking the bite.

“Mmm,” I hummed dramatically.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. You make good pancakes.”

Oscar smirked. “Told you.”

We ate like that, sitting on the counter, sharing bites, laughing between mouthfuls, occasionally stopping for soft kisses in between.

The kitchen smelled like butter and syrup, and the warmth of the morning mixed with the warmth of being with him, making everything feel soft and golden.

And as Oscar reached over to wipe a smudge of syrup from the corner of my mouth, his touch lingering a second too long, I realized something.

I loved this. I loved him.

I also realized that I should cherish these moments with him the most.

After finishing off the last few bites of pancakes, Oscar stretched his arms over his head with a satisfied sigh.

“Alright, we should probably clean up before we slip into full food coma mode.”

I groaned dramatically, letting my head fall against his shoulder.

“Can’t we just leave it for later?”

He snorted. “Yeah, because future us is going to be super thrilled to walk into a kitchen full of dirty dishes.”

I huffed, kicking my legs lightly against the counter.

“Fine. But only if you help.”

Oscar smirked. “I was planning on making you do it all by yourself, but since you asked so nicely…”

I swatted his arm, making him chuckle as he hopped off the counter and reached for the plates.

“Alright, lazybones. You wash, I dry?”

I slid off the counter and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, resting my cheek against his back.

“You’re the best, you know that?”

Oscar chuckled, leaning back into me. “Yeah, yeah. Now get to washing.”

I rolled my eyes but did as he said, filling the sink with warm, soapy water and dunking the dishes in.

Oscar stood beside me, towel in hand, waiting to dry whatever I handed him.

It was quiet, the comfortable kind, with only the sound of running water and the occasional clinking of dishes breaking the silence.

Every now and then, Oscar would “accidentally” bump his hip against mine, and I’d retaliate by flicking a few soap bubbles his way.

After a particularly well-aimed flick that landed on his nose, he turned to me slowly, an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face.

“Oh, you’ve done it now love.”

I gasped, laughing as I tried to back away, but before I could escape, Oscar grabbed a handful of bubbles from the sink and wiped them across my cheek.

“OSCAR!” I squealed, swatting at him. “That is NOT how you clean dishes!”

He grinned. “Maybe not, but it’s a lot more fun babe.”

I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched up into a smile as I grabbed a towel and halfheartedly smacked his arm with it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Oscar wiggled his brows. “I know.”

With a dramatic sigh, I turned back to the sink and finished washing the last plate.

“Okay, all done. Can we be lazy now?”

Oscar threw the dish towel onto the counter and grabbed my hand.

“Finally. Come on.”

The second we reached the couch, I flopped down face-first into the cushions with an exaggerated groan.

“This is where I live now.”

Oscar chuckled, sitting beside me and tugging at my arm.

“Nope, you live here, with me.”

I let him pull me up until I was curled against his chest, his arms wrapping securely around me.

I sighed in contentment, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

“Mmm. This is nice.”

He hummed, running his fingers up and down my back in lazy strokes.

“Told you I’d make today a lazy day.”

I tilted my head up to look at him.

“You also forced me to clean the kitchen, so I don’t know if I fully trust you Osc.”

Oscar smirked. “That was an essential task. Now we can be lazy without guilt.”

I huffed, but I couldn’t argue with that logic. “Fine.”

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over us, tucking me further into his warmth.

“Better?”

I nodded, feeling sleepier by the second. “Much.”

Oscar pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Good.”

We sat there like that for a while, legs tangled together, his fingers tracing random patterns on my arm.

The TV was on, playing some random show we weren’t really paying attention to, but neither of us cared.

At some point, I let out a yawn, and Oscar chuckled, pulling me even closer.

“Getting sleepy on me already darling?”

I mumbled against his chest, my voice heavy with drowsiness.

“Maybe.”

He smiled, his lips grazing the top of my head.

“Then sleep. I’ll be right here.”

I sighed happily, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “Love you.”

His hold on me tightened just slightly, his voice softer than ever.

“Love you more.”

And just like that, with the warmth of his embrace, the soft hum of the TV in the background, and the slow rhythm of our heartbeats syncing together, I drifted off, wrapped up in the kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures or perfect moments.

Just us. Just this. Just love.

The end

[acmeangel]

♡ You're a member of Levi's Squad, and he asks you to marry him, when disaster strikes.

♡ SFW ♡ Canon!Levi x Fem!Reader ♡ One shot, a bit angsty, mentions of blood, injury, near-death experience ♡ Word count: 3019 ♡ Summary: After finally accepting that you're there to stay, Levi asks you to marry him. You're a member of his Squad, and being with him has always felt right. Not too long after, a dangerous scouting mission leaves you with a grave injury, and Levi is faced with the fear that you might not make it.

When Levi asked you to marry him, it wasn’t with some extravagant proposal or planned-out, grand romantic evening.

You both were lying in your bed in the barracks, your body half-draped on top of his, your fingers lazily playing with strands of his hair. His hands grazed up and down your back with a steady, soothing tempo.

You’d both returned from a scouting mission earlier that day — one with too many casualties, as there always seemed to be. Levi had recruited you to be on his Special Operations Squad years ago, based purely on your stats from previous missions with other squads. At first, he had respected you, much like he’d respected all of the members of Squad Levi; a group of people willing to join the riskiest regiment and put their lives on the line in the futile hope to save humanity.

Respect had eventually turned into friendship, which had then grown into something more. You two loved each other long before your romantic relationship had begun; so when it finally did, it felt natural, like it was always supposed to be that way.

In your bed, that night, he looked at you with a tender softness that bordered on melancholic. It was a look that he didn’t show often. His eyes revealed how deeply he cared for you, how much he wanted to shield you — who he saw as one of the last few truly good things left in this world — from the cruelty, violence, and destruction that ran rampant around you. It was a look that no one else ever got to see.

“I want to run something by you,” he stated, his voice level and smooth as ever.

“Oh, do tell, Captain.” You laughed, faintly, your eyes sparkling with a glint of amusement.

His hand traced up your back and slid around your neck, his thumb rubbing gentle, affectionate circles onto your skin.

“How would you feel about the two of us being together, like this, forever?” he asked, his gaze locking onto yours, an unusual stiffness in his expression. You couldn’t believe it, but he was actually nervous.

You blinked once, twice and tilted your head. “Levi, are you asking… me to marry you?”

You weren’t entirely surprised that this was how he’d phrased it — he’d never been one for verbosity or overly sentimental language. He’d showed his love for you more in his actions; in the way he always checked you for injuries at least three times after a mission, in the way he’d stroke the back of your hand with his thumb when he held it as you fell asleep, in the way he’d insist on giving you half of his own breakfast every morning so you’d have enough energy for the day.

“Yes, Y/N,” he’d said, his hand shifting to cup your cheek, his soft gray eyes settling into yours. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

You felt all of the blood rush to your head, your entire body overwhelmed with excitement, joy, and love for Levi.

“Yes,” you managed to say — and repeated the single word at least twenty times, as you leaned in to press your lips to his, peppering him over and over with kisses.

“Alright, alright,” he’d mumbled after the twentieth kiss, his cheeks then flushed with a soft pink blush.

You beamed with joy as you pulled your face back from his, your eyes glimmering with adoration.

“So,” you began, a hint of playfulness in your voice, raising your eyebrow, “do I get a ring then, or what?”

His lips pressed together, his gaze narrowing just a bit as he considered the question, a puff of air escaping his nose.

“Fine.” His voice was a low, dry mumble, but his lips bent into a small smile, the tension in his forehead releasing. He couldn’t help but give into every one of your requests, no matter what.

His eyes scanned around the room, looking for something suitable, before he reached out to the bedside table, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing as he took a paperclip from a stack of papers. Turning back to you, his fingers worked with precision to unravel the paper clip, the wire of which he used to form a nearly perfect circle. He took your hand, his touch gentle, and slid the makeshift paper clip ring onto your ring finger in one swift, delicate motion.

“How’s that?” His eyes studied your face, intently waiting for any sign of reaction. “Temporarily, anyway.”

Your cheeks blushed uncontrollably and you gleamed with a smile so wide it made the muscles in your face turn sore. Seeing you this way made him smile — a real smile.

“It’s perfect,” you’d whispered, practically choking the words out. “Much better than any stupid diamond I’ve ever seen.”

“Think we need to do the whole ceremony thing? Or can I just start calling you my wife now?” His brows scrunched together slightly as he waited for your answer, and you could tell how badly he wanted to skip the frills and formalities and simply be yours, eternally.

At the sound of the word ‘wife’ your chest swelled with affection, and your eyes became misty, blurring your vision of him.

“Screw the ceremony,” you whispered, your voice shaking with overflowing emotion. “We’re married, now.”

“Good,” he whispered back, his own voice fraught with feeling, as his thumbs brushed away the tears that had begun to roll down your cheeks. “I love you, Y/N. You know that.”

His eyes bore into yours, seeking confirmation. He didn’t say ‘I love you’ often, only when it really counted.

“I know,” you whispered. “I love you, too, Levi.”

******

It was only weeks after that — after the moment Levi decided, finally, that you would be by his side forever, that he knew you’d never leave him — that your squad was faced with a particularly dangerous mission.

It was another reconnaissance mission, much like all of the other Scouts’ missions had been, but no one could have anticipated the amount of Abnormals. The Scouts hadn’t reached a single objective before entire groups of Erwin’s formation had been wiped out by the Abnormals, which were making their way closer and closer to the center groups. Erwin had officially called for a retreat — something he rarely ever did, only when the situation was dire.

Levi Squad raced forward on horseback, galloping past the blurred, unidentifiable carnage of comrades; the once green fields had turned red and rotten.

Your gaze was fixated intently on Levi, catching glimpses of his profile as he led the squad forward — to anyone else, he looked entirely collected. But you knew him too well and had memorized all of his micro-expressions, and based on the tension in his jaw and the chilled intensity of his gaze, you knew he was worried, too. He’d often admitted that he never knew what the outcome of these missions would be, that no one did, and you could see his mind racing with that exact thought.

The pounding of impossibly large footsteps caused the ground to shake just slightly, enough to make your head whip around and see a group of Abnormals charging forward with unprecedented speed and force.

“Captain!” You’d called out, drawing Levi’s attention. He’d simply glanced over his shoulder and ordered to keep moving forward per Erwin’s command; based on the looks the rest of the squad exchanged, you knew they were unsure about this decision.

Before anyone could think or say another word, one of the Abnormals had surged forward and began to reach for Eld, whose blades were inexplicably jammed in his ODM gear. The panic in his eyes was enough to strike fear into anyone.

You sprung into action immediately — this was simply how you were. You never wasted time thinking, you only acted. It was reckless, perhaps, but you’d gotten results time and time again, and the thought of losing a friend without trying to save him was unacceptable to you.

This was one of the things Levi loved most about you, and it was also one of the things he wished so badly to change about you. He admired your selflessness, your fearlessness, the way you never seemed to be paralyzed by indecision. But, sometimes, it felt to him like only a matter of time before something terrible would happen to you.

You’d managed to sink a grappling hook into the Titan and propel yourself off of your horse, in the direction of Eld, knocking him out of the Titan’s path. You’d planned on being able to then reach the nape of the neck and put an end to this, but you were too rash, too impulsive to anticipate that the Titan’s next movement would whack your ODM wire to the side, bringing your body flinging through the air with it.

The rest, in your recollection, was more or less a blur. You knew that the Titan curled its fingers around your body, its grip bruising your skin and rendering you too immobile to fight back. You knew that you’d heard Levi yelling — actually yelling. You knew that the Titan had brought you to its mouth and managed to sink its teeth into the side of your body enough to make you lose consciousness, but not enough to kill you. You knew that Levi was the one who had intervened, who had saved your life. The last piece of memory you had was the sight of Levi’s face as he grabbed you from the Titan, a look that was so intense, fear-stricken, and furious, it bordered on crazed.

After getting you back onto the ground, Hange had ridden over on horseback and hoisted your limp body onto the horse, carrying you out of harm’s way.

Levi took care of that Titan himself — he made sure of it. Blinded by rage and agony, he slaughtered the Titan with a brutality he typically withheld. Normally, Levi did only as much has he had to in order to kill a Titan. This wasn’t fun for him, it wasn’t a game; he didn’t like fighting, he didn’t like being violent.

But this was different — he sliced the Titan apart, his movements a fevered, merciless haze, his vision red with bloodthirstiness. By the time he was done with the Titan, it was a mere pile of limbs, and he was drenched in its blood.

He’d finally reached the wagon that you’d been placed in, climbing into it with urgent movements, trailing Titan blood behind him. His pupils were constricted; his eyes were glowing with panic.

Your body was lying flat in the wagon, Hange and some of the other squad members hovering over you, attempting to tend to your wounds, their efforts proving futile. They’d managed to wrap a bandage over where the Titan had bit you, but you were bleeding through it with no sign of stopping. There wasn’t anything left to do until you all returned inside the walls.

“Get the fuck away from her! Don’t fucking touch her!” He shouted, his voice coarse and sharp, his arms effortlessly shoving everyone else away from your limp body. He stood over you, his eyes wild with emotion, his chest rising and falling with breaths so heavy it looked almost painful.

When he dropped to his knees beside you, his eyes caught sight of your hand, on the makeshift paperclip ring he had made you, that you’d refused to ever take off. An ice-cold chill rushed down his spine, so sharp it felt like it was actually ripping him apart from the inside out.

“Why is this wagon moving so damn slowly?!” He snarled to the rest of the squad, his eyes desperately glued to your face, while the others scrambled to try and speed the journey up as much as they could.

He grasped onto your hand with both of his as if the sheer force of his grip could heal you and bring you back to him. His eyes didn’t waver from your face once, his gaze burning into your skin, searching for even the slightest sign of life; all he was met with was your pale, sweat-glistened skin. You looked peaceful and it snapped his last thread of self-control — he wanted you to fight.

An uncontrollable, livid, primal growl escaped his mouth, unable to form any coherent words. Spit flung off his lips and into the wind, his expression was frenzied with helpless rage and despair.

The rest of the squad’s expressions froze. They’d never seen Levi be anything but stoic, apart from when he was actively slicing the nape of a Titan’s neck. Goosebumps dotted their skin as they simply watched, eyes wide, unsure of what to do. Levi had forgotten anyone else was even there; he cared about nothing in that moment but you.

He watched as your face turned paler, as your breathing became so shallow that it was hardly perceptible. You were slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do about it — for once, his strength meant nothing.

“No,” he barked, his voice gruff and strained, his grip on your hand tightening until his knuckles turned blazing white. “You won’t be taken from me. This shitty, goddamned world is not going to take you from me. You gave your word, Y/N. You said forever. Don’t back out on me now.”

His cries didn’t make a sound, but the sight of his back heaving raggedly and his hot tears dropping down onto your face was unmistakable. His face was twisted with anguish; his teeth were visibly clenched together so forcefully that they could’ve cracked. His hands began to involuntarily shake as they held onto your hand, the paperclip ring digging into his skin.

******

The next time you’d opened your eyes, you were confused. Your vision was blurry for a few moments, until you were met with the sight of the medical unit and you realized you were lying in one of the beds.

The next thing you saw was Levi’s face, the veins in neck tense with distress, the circles under his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them before. You took a deep breath, which hurt, and you felt the bandages around your waist expand and contract against your skin.

Upon seeing your eyes begin to faintly blink open, Levi moved to the edge of his chair, his hand urgently reaching out for yours, his eyes wildly moving across your face.

“Y/N?” His voice was raspy with disuse and lack of sleep, his tone pleading and tinged with hope.

“Levi…?” you whispered, groggily, your voice low and coarse.

His eyes fluttered closed with relief, his shoulders slumping as his head dropped down to your hand, holding it to his forehead with reverence. “Oh, thank god…” He whispered, his voice stilted with emotion.

Once Levi composed himself, and you began asking him questions, he explained to you, briefly, what had happened — he didn’t want to alarm or worry you with the more gruesome details until he was sure you were okay. All he told you was that a Titan had attacked you on the last scouting mission and that you’d been in the medical unit for weeks.

You’d learned later that the entire time, Levi had barely left your side. He’d sat in a chair next to you, watching you, talking to you, holding your hand, and urging you to wake up and come back to him. At night, he’d slept even less than usual, nodding off in his chair for only an hour or so here and there. Some of the other squad members could have sworn they’d even caught glimpses of Levi crying when he thought no one else was around.

The only time he ever left your side was if he had to go to briefings and meetings. When he did, he’d threaten medics into sitting by your side, outlining grave consequences for if anything happened to you while he was gone. He’d skipped meals, trainings, and anything else that wasn’t absolutely mandatory for him to attend.

After he’d finished helping you sip some water and become less groggy, he just looked at you, his eyes scanning over every centimeter of your face, as if making sure that you were really awake and stable and it wasn’t some insomnia-induced hallucination.

“You’re done with the Scouts,” he’d said, finally, his voice firm, unyielding — it wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Huh?” Your brows pressed together with confusion. “Who decided that? Erwin? What, does he think I’m useless now?”

“No, Y/N.” He shook his head, taking a soft breath before continuing. “I’m deciding it.”

“Levi-“

“No,” he cut you off before you can even think to object. His jaw clenched, his expression was fraught with concern. “Y/N. I thought you were… gone. It nearly killed me. This- nothing can ever happen to you again. You’re my wife. I need you to be here, with me. I need to know you’re safe, Y/N. I can’t- if you’d actually… Please, Y/N.”

For a moment, this surprised you. Outside of missions, Levi had never told you what to do or asked anything of you — he was protective, but not possessive. You being with him, caring for him, and loving him was more than he’d ever dared to hope for in his life. To him, you’d settle for him despite his most hidden scars, and it felt wrong to ever ask for more.

But he was asking you to do this. Begging you. For him.

“Okay,” your voice dipped to a gentle softness, your hand reaching out for his again, somewhat weakly. “Okay, Levi. I’ll leave the Scouts. Nothing will ever happen to me again. Everything’s going to be okay.”

A slow, uneven breath escaped his lips, as if expelling all of the fear and tension in his body. He collapsed into you, softly, his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he breathed, the words barely making a sound. “I love you, Y/N. More than you’ll ever know.”

He didn’t say it often, only when it really counted.

Masterlist

Requests are OPEN!

Requested by anonymous!

Taglist (message me to be added!): @leviykwim

[f1girliefics]

Love in the Fast Lane

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: A road trip turns into a heartfelt journey of love.

The hum of the engine was a soothing backdrop as Lewis drove, his sunglasses reflecting the sunlit highway stretching out ahead.

You sat in the passenger seat, your hand resting lightly on the console between you, and you couldn’t help but notice the smile playing on his lips.

He had been unusually quiet about the details of this trip, only saying he wanted to take you somewhere special.

“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” you asked, turning to look at him.

He glanced at you, his smile growing. “Where’s the fun in that? Just trust me.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Trusting you got me into a car at 6 AM with no coffee. I think I deserve a hint.”

“Alright, alright,” he said as he reached to squeeze your hand before putting his back on the wheel. “It’s somewhere I used to go before everything got... hectic. A place that helps me think, you know?”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you for bringing me along.”

“Where else would you be, Love?” he asked with a smile before you reached to change the music.

The rest of the drive was filled with easy conversation.

He pointed out random sights along the way.

A quirky roadside diner.

A vintage car that zipped past, and you teased him about how he couldn’t resist critiquing other drivers.

After a couple of hours, the car slowed as he turned onto a narrow, tree-lined road. The lush greenery enveloped the path, and you felt a thrill of anticipation.

“This is it?” you asked, peering out at the scenery.

“Not quite,” he said, his voice teasing. “We’ve got just a little more to go.”

The road opened to a breathtaking view of rolling hills, the sun painting the landscape in gold.

Lewis parked the car at a small overlook and got out, rounding the vehicle to open your door.

“Ever the gentleman,” you teased, taking his hand as you stepped out.

“Always.”

He led you to a spot where a blanket and a small picnic basket had been set up. You blinked in surprise, turning to him. “When did you do this?”

“Magic, and a little planning.”

You sat on the blanket, Lewis handed you your favourite soda.

Conversation between you two was always something extremely calming and natural.

As the sun began to set, casting everything in a beautiful, golden light, Lewis grew quieter.

You watched him, noticing the way he seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

“Hey,” you said softly, touching his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He looked at you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Is that so?”

He nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, velvet box.

Your breath caught as he opened it to reveal a stunning ring, the diamonds catching the sunlight even though there was not much sunlight left.

“Lucky that I get to spend my life with you,” he said, his voice steady but full of meaning and depth. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to ask you this, and I realized there’s no such thing as the perfect time. Every moment with you feels right.” Your heart was pounding as he took your hand. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, all you could do was nod. “Yes,” you managed to finally say, your voice breaking. “Yes, of course.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger, his hands steady even as yours trembled.

Then he pulled you into his arms, holding you close.

“Guess I’ll have to drive carefully on the way back,” he murmured into your hair.

You laughed through your tears of happiness, pulling back to look at him. “Why’s that?”

“Because now I’ve got my future wife in the car,” he said, his grin breaking through.

The rest of the evening was you going through Pinterest having to look at different wedding aesthetics, trying to find the most perfect one.

"Since you are a knight... can we hold the wedding in a castle?" you asked and Lewis laughed.

"So you can be the Princess and me the Knight in shining armour?"

"Or a nice Armani suit. I'm not forcing you into anything metal." Lewis nodded.

"We will do everything you want, Princess."

And as you drove back, you couldn't look away from your beautiful ring. A proud smile on his lips and a very happy one on yours.

[heliosunny]

hiii, your work is amazing and I love the way you portrait characters, could I maybe request yan!fyodor with a darling that struggles with self harm? how he would react to it if their darling hurt themselves as a coping mechanism or any other scenario but if it’s too dark you don’t have to write it of course i’ll understand! :)

There's nothing I wouldn't dare to try as long as I find it within reach darling.

Fyodor had always known you were fragile.

It was written in the way you carried yourself, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers twitching when you thought no one was watching. It was evident in the way your gaze would drift, lost in thoughts he could only assume were far darker than you let on.

But he never pried. Not immediately.

Why would he? A master strategist does not rip a secret from its hiding place. He waits, watching patiently, until it reveals itself.

And one evening, it did.

You had been careless. You thought you were alone. A moment of weakness, your sleeves rolled up just a little too far, and he saw.

A glimpse of red, raw skin.

His reaction was not dramatic. There was no sharp intake of breath, no widening of violet eyes in horror. Instead, he merely observed, head tilting ever so slightly, as if studying a fascinating piece of art.

"My love… what have you done?"

His voice was soft. Almost fond.

You flinched. Quickly, you yanked your sleeve down, but it was too late. His gaze had already captured you, held you prisoner in his quiet amusement.

You had seen many expressions from Fyodor, mockery, arrogance, that soft smirk when he was toying with someone before their inevitable downfall.

But this smile? This was different.

"You hurt yourself" he mused, stepping closer, hands still calmly tucked behind his back. "And yet, you try to hide it from me. How cruel, my dear."

"It’s not important."

His head tilted further, as if humoring you. "Not important?"

You didn’t answer. And that was fine. He already knew what came next. He never forbade you from doing it. No, that would be too simple, too obvious. Fyodor was far more patient than that.

Instead, he made you question it yourself.

"Tell me, my love…" he began one evening, seated comfortably in his chair as you stood across from him. His violet eyes flickered with quiet amusement. "Does it help?"

The way he spoke made you hesitate. He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t disgusted. If anything, he sounded… curious.

You swallowed. "Sometimes."

His lips curled in a thoughtful smile. "I see. You inflict pain upon yourself, yet the relief is fleeting. A temporary solution for a permanent suffering, no?"

You looked away.

"Then… why not something more effective?"

Your brows furrowed, confused. "What do you mean?"

Fyodor reached for your hand, gently, effortlessly. His fingers traced over your knuckles before flipping your palm upward.

"If pain is what soothes you" he murmured, "why not let me be the one to grant it?"

He did not hurt you, no. He merely suggested, the way a devil offers a deal—so tempting, so logical, that you could almost convince yourself it was your own idea.

"Wouldn’t it be easier, my dear? To leave such things in my hands?" His voice was velvet, wrapping around your ribs, coiling into your lungs.

"I could make it so much simpler for you."

You yanked your hand away.

"That’s— That’s not why I do it."

His laughter was soft. Patient.

"Oh? Then why?"

You hesitated.

Because you couldn’t answer. Not really.

-----

You hadn’t meant to meet him.

It was a brief moment, an accident born from circumstances neither of you controlled. You had merely been outside, alone for the first time in what felt like forever, when the infamous Dazai Osamu happened to cross your path.

His sharp brown eyes took you in too quickly, and you knew—he saw.

"Ah," he hummed, tilting his head. "I know that look."

Your breath caught. "What?"

"The look of someone trying very hard to pretend they’re fine."

It was… strange. He spoke so easily, as if he had known you for years.

For the first time, someone looked at you and didn’t try to control, didn’t try to manipulate. Dazai wasn’t kind, necessarily, but he was familiar. He understood in a way no one else had.

And for some reason, before you could stop yourself—you told him things you never told Fyodor.

You shouldn’t have.

Because Fyodor found out.

"You met Dazai."

His voice was calm.

You turned, heart hammering. He sat in his usual chair, fingers laced together, expression unreadable.

But you knew him well enough to recognize the shift in the air.

A quiet threat, veiled beneath his usual serenity.

"And?" you challenged, forcing yourself to stand your ground.

His lips curved. "And you spoke to him."

You didn’t respond.

"Why?"

A simple question. But one that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

"It was nothing important."

His gaze softened, and for some reason, that was worse.

"Ah… my love." He sighed, shaking his head. "You wound me."

He stood, approaching you with unhurried steps.

"I thought we had an understanding."

Your breath quickened.

"Do you not trust me?" he continued, voice gentle. "Do you believe I cannot soothe you in the way you need?"

You shook your head. "That’s not it—"

"Then why turn to him?" His fingers brushed against your cheek, a lover’s touch masking a noose tightening around your throat.

You clenched your fists. "It was a mistake."

"Yes," he agreed. "A mistake."

His gloved fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate—until they reached your wrist. His grip remained featherlight, but you knew he could break you if he wished.

"You understand why I cannot allow that again, don’t you?"

You nodded.

"Good girl."

And somehow, in that moment, you felt guilt.

Not because you had spoken to Dazai.

But because Fyodor had endured it. Had been patient with you, despite your transgressions.

Your lips parted, and before you could stop yourself—the words slipped out.

"I’m sorry."

His smile widened.

And just like that, the web wrapped tighter around you.

Because now, you were the one apologizing to him.

At first, Fyodor’s patience seemed unchanging. He remained soft-spoken, ever indulgent, a shepherd gently guiding you back into his arms. But something felt different. A shadow in the way his fingers lingered when he touched you. A weight in his gaze, as if he were waiting for something inevitable.

You thought you were imagining it.

Until one night, when you woke to find yourself not alone.

A dim candle flickered on the bedside table.

And Fyodor sat at the edge of the bed, watching you with violet eyes that gleamed in the low light.

"Did you think I wouldn’t know?"

Your blood ran cold. "Know what?"

His smile was faint.

"You tried again."

No... You had been careful. You had waited until you were alone, ensured that no trace of your actions could be found. Yet now, beneath the thin fabric of your sleeve, you felt the sting of fresh wounds.

He knew.

Before you could react, his hand latched onto your wrist.

His grip was like iron.

"Shall I see it for myself, then?" His voice was still calm, but there was something new beneath it. Something dark.

"L-Let go."

His fingers didn’t loosen. If anything, they tightened, fingertips digging into your pulse. You felt it. His power.

"You are testing me, my dear" he murmured, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

"I have been patient. I have been kind. But tell me—must I truly remind you of what happens when my patience runs out?"

You opened your mouth—then froze as he leaned in, his lips mere inches from your ear.

"Shall I break something this time?"

"W-What?"

His grip on your wrist shifted, slowly, deliberately bending it just enough for you to feel the hint of tension.

"If you are so intent on hurting yourself," he whispered, "then allow me to do it for you."

The unspoken implication struck you like ice-cold water.

He wasn’t saying he would kill you.

But he would make you regret it.

"Perhaps a broken bone?" His fingers trailed up your arm, slow and deliberate. "Or maybe I should take something away instead. Hm?"

His free hand moved to your throat, thumb pressing lightly, just a whisper of pressure.

"Would you like to learn how fragile you truly are?"

Terror gripped you, drowning out everything else.

"Stop" you whispered, voice barely audible.

He sighed, as if disappointed. "Then stop making me remind you."

And just like that, his grip vanished. His hands fell away, and suddenly, it was as if nothing had happened at all.

The only evidence of his warning was the lingering ghost of his touch and the way your pulse thundered in your ears. Fyodor straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.

"I do hope," he murmured, "that I won’t have to repeat this lesson."

And with that, he was gone, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls.

And you sat there, heart hammering, mind spinning, body frozen in place, realizing just how close you had come to something you could never undo.

You had seen patience. Now, you had seen the edge of it.

[winterspellsfrozenkit]

Adding to this because while I like Idia is my fav and I relate to him a LOT, Trey can pretty uncomfortable for me because it's like looking in a mirror.

To be honest, seeing people blame and mock Trey for not knowing how to handle a very difficult situation that most adults do not know how to handle hurts. I am not going to discuss it in depth, but to give my perspective from my past, when you are in a situation where you watch someone you care about be hurt by people who should be taking care of them and you cannot get them out because you are a child? It's HARD. The guilt you feel in that situation is CRUSHING. I was a child and I did not know what to do. So I tried to be helpful. I tried to soothe. I tried to do what I could to make the moments they were away from their situation happy ones. I didn't have it blow up in my face like 10-year-old Trey did, but I was a teenager and more aware of what could set a situation off. Even so, I knew I was disliked and I still preserved because even though I couldn't do much, I would not abandon them. Because really, those are your only options if adults around you can't or won't act: Be stuck watching someone suffer and all you can do is stay and watch and try to help in these inadequate ways that won't fix it OR you leave.

Back to the dream... Ortho points out the dreams WARP what you really want. Trey has a strong sense of compassion and empathy and that's what was holding him back from stopping Riddle and telling him, "Hey, how you are going about this? It's wrong". He was trying to protect both sides. Trey's been collared by Riddle before and he's most popular in the dorm, given he was voted to be the Vice by majority. He could've led a rebellion, except he wanted not only his dorm members safe: he wanted keep Riddle safe too. Look how fast the rest of dorm turned on Riddle when Ace punched him. They had a MOB MENTALITY.

His desire to keep everyone safe and happy twisted into not stopping the dream Heartslabyul students from basically harming themselves by overeating. Trey's motivation is simple, he wants people safe and happy, but Malleus's dream magic goes for the surface level and short-term fulfilment of the dream. Trey likes to bake and it makes people happy, so in his dream, he bakes a lot and he doesn't tell anyone to stop or to eat better or anything because it would break the "happy" part of "everyone is safe and happy". Looking at Cater, the other person who was trying to keep Riddle contained, Cater wanted to have every day feel like his birthday, but instead his dream made him the Housewarden.

And when I say Trey can be a pretty uncomfy mirror? I: hate being in leadership roles, think I'm pretty unremarkable, like to bake for others, get super uncomfortable with compliments, often try to act as a voice of reason when people around me are upset, am conflict avoidant, get nervous about setting boundaries with people who I know can be volatile, take on stuff I shouldn't to try and help, my get into situations I'd rather avoid because I wanna make sure my loved ones are safe... So, yeah. Trey is a super uncomfortable mirror at times because I see my weaknesses that I am still trying to fix.

This Trey discourse is getting ridiculous.

Tell me you don’t understand the dream without telling you don’t understand the dream. Tell me you don’t like Trey or understand his character without telling me you don’t like Trey or understand his character. For starters, the reason most of the fandom disliked Trey early on- book one. He didn’t stand up to Riddle’s mother or stop Riddle from being a tyrant.

Argument one: he was a child. A ten year old child whose parents were being screamed at for five hours straight (something of which BOTH Idia and Leona are horrified by, and those two had some strict upbringings themselves) while listening to eight year old Riddle wailing and sobbing for his mother to stop. That shit is traumatizing. Have you ever been screamed at unjustly as a kid? It’s terrifying. It haunts you. That kind of memory latches on and never lets go. Not without help.

Argument two: Trey is 18. He is a big brother. Not a parent. He didn’t raise his little siblings either, as his parents have a seemingly good relationship with each other and their children. He hasn’t seen Riddle in years, and while excited to see Riddle at the entrance ceremony he was quickly rebuffed by the now cold and steely Riddle who grew up under his abusive mother’s rule. He and Cater then worked with Riddle to dethrone their horrible then-dorm leader, and Trey was then sacrificed to the position of vice dorm leader because the entire dorm took a vote. Still, he did his best as vice dorm leader- not wanting to lose his head or watch their dorm mates stumble accidentally onto the execution block.

Trey, at the start, wasn’t particularly close to Riddle because Riddle wouldn’t let him be, and as someone who was traumatized by what happened when he WAS A CHILD likely struggled to speak up against Riddle’s harsher rules, and that most likely muddled together with Trey’s wish for Riddle to be happy. Going against Riddle would lead to conflict, and Riddle is short tempered as is. Trey likely believed that standing up to Riddle would make things worse instead of better.

He learns quickly from Adeuce later in book one how wrong he was, but that’s beside the point. The best Trey could do in the position HE DID NOT WANT was to give advice to his dorm mates and attempt to be Riddle’s voice of reason, acting as the peacemaker and struggling to keep any situation from escalating.

Something of note here, that I find particularly fascinating, is that it’s been stated by several characters that Riddle’s reign, though tyrannical, was nowhere near as bad as the last dorm leader- who was chaos incarnate. That plays a part in why Trey and Cater both were so willing to go along with Riddle’s iron ruling, even though both knew he was going about being dorm leader the wrong way.

There was no controlling or manipulating of Riddle- despite what Leona and Idia, who have ZERO CONNECTION AND INTERACTION with Trey and Cater prior to this dream, believed. There was no stopping Riddle, either. The best they could do was appease him and keep him calm.

Now, onto his dream.

We learn that Trey and his family “laugh” about what happened with Mrs. Rosebitch. This isn’t an, “oh they weren’t affected by what happened” situation, it’s an, “oh they were so badly affected by what happened that they can’t even talk about it properly because it’s so fucked up that they just laugh instead”. That’s called a trauma response. That trauma is so deeply rooted in Trey because he’s never learned to process it, that it’s there in his dream instead of being omitted.

Trey is also dreaming of a world in which Riddle has no stressful responsibilities. They’re at school, but his mother can’t reach him there, and Chen’ya- a childhood friend of Trey’s who was THERE when the Clover family got screamed at by Mrs. Rosebitch- is dorm leader instead. Riddle is not held down by what happened, and is seemingly “freed” from his mother’s cruel hand. Heartslabyul has become a safe space.

One built by Trey and Chen’ya, something they had unknowingly tried to do as children for Riddle (as they were unaware of the abuse, but had been a shining light for sweet baby Riddle who lived in the suffocating darkness) but failed- and paid severely for it.

Now, onto Fandom problem number two: the Round Bois.

I’m seeing people call Trey a “feeder” and are behaving harshly towards him because of it. But that literally couldn’t be farther from what’s happening. For example, let us take a look at his conversation with Vil (I brought my freaking receipts; this boy is my FAV of Heartslabyul) during Vil’s lab coat vignette.

We know Trey likes to bake.

He bakes for the Heartslabyul parties, and often gives Adeuce pastries to bring to Ramshackle to share with Yuu. But we learn in his New Years vignette that he bakes as a form of stress relief, too, to work his thoughts out and/or distract himself. It is a comfort to him. A safe space. And he knows whatever makes he will likely bring a smile to someone’s face. He enjoys baking, and he enjoys seeing people enjoy his sweets.

If someone is stressed, he encourages them to eat sweets- or cake with lots fruits, though that’s specific in this vignette because he just made a strawberry cake and was trying to find someone to give it to because it was one cake too many, lol, and Vil happened to be stressed out from something Rook said.

Trey isn’t being a “feeder” here or in his dream. He saw someone stressed and went, “Hey, I have a solution, why not try it? One slice won’t hurt and it’ll make you feel better/put you in a better mood.”

Baking is Trey’s solution, and a reliable source of comfort. He likes seeing how happy people are from the things he bakes, and he knows eating sweets can make other people happy. That’s why he goes out of his way to find someone to give the extra cake he accidentally made to- because it’ll put that person in a good mood and the cake will have a “good home” to go to.

Trey’s dream was basically giving Riddle and their other dorm mates a life where they could be happy and enjoy themselves without fear. A safe space. He could bake to his heart’s content in this massive kitchen his dream Heartslabyul provided, and everyone around him are happy and overall stress-free.

The reason they’re all ROUND BOIS???

It’s not because Trey was a “feeder” and fed them to that point, it’s because the dream-versions of his friends lacked self control and there was no one to stop them from eating sweet after sweet after sweet. They just happily ate whatever it was Trey baked, because he baked a lot- not to “feed” them, but because baking is something he greatly enjoys doing.

[rainytapestry]

⭑｡𖦹°‧ㅤㅤBLUE ㅤ— ㅤㅤjay x f.reader ㅤㅤ wc 0.7k

where your boyfriend always knows a way to make your worries melt away

★ — hurt/comfort angst estd. relation fluff academic pressure :( jay being the sweetest bf

you looked at all the books and notes spread out in front of you, and the painfully waiting cursor of the blank document, as if urging you to start the assignment. but it felt… all too much, too overwhelming for you to even think about your pending works.

and before you knew it, a tear dropped down on the page, staining your messy handwriting. good here it goes again. you were tired of feeling tensed and worried about your studies.

your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapid knocks and the bell. you turned to look at the time, 11pm. who could it even be at this late hour?

sighing, you got up to open the door before the person could ring the bell once more, only to be met with a very familiar face.

‘jay...? what are you doing here at this hour?’ you asked, unsure of how to approach the fact that your boyfriend was in front of your apartment at near midnight. the said boy who was standing quite tensed your doorstep, visibly frowned upon seeing you

‘yn, i was worried tensed! why did you not pick up my calls? you even left me on seen?! do you know how stressful that was? wait, are you…’ he trailed, finally getting a proper look at your face.

oh shit you had forgotten that your tears hadn't dried yet and he was met with a red and blotchy face.

jay quickly stepped into the apartment, his hands going up to your face, softly holding them.

‘what… happened?’ his voice was laced with concern. ‘uh, you were worried, for me?’ you refused to meet his eyes.

‘of course, babe! you are usually so active and present but all i have got are just a few messages and no calls, i thought you were sick!’ and his eyes held this earnest look, that almost made you want to start sobbing again.

as if sensing your emotions, he engulfed you in a hug and before you knew it, you were in his arms, tearing up yet again, your forehead resting on his shoulder.

‘i… i– i am sick, of this work and study and…’ you spoke through your tears, ‘jay, i don't think i can do this anymore, i feel so-so tired, it's…’ you could feel him rub small soothing circles on your back, nodding to your every word and never interrupting you, as if you could vent out all the frustration and pressure you had building in you.

the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, slowly calmed you down as you broke apart to look up at him, with a small pout. you mumbled a small sorry.

jay broke out in a smile, caressing your cheek, ‘it's okay, yn, you've been so strong and dedicated. it’s okay to let yourself catch a break, hm? it's okay to feel sad and unmotivated sometimes, right? because i know you can do it.’

‘b-but i’ ‘ssh, i trust you.’ and maybe that was all you needed to hear.

you could feel a small smile form on your face, heart a lot lighter than it had been a few minutes ago. and you couldn't thank jay enough for it.

‘okayyy now let's see how my girlfriend is doing, secluding herself like a saint, tell me the last time you had eaten, yn?’ he questioned you in a serious tone. you knew how serious he could get if you neglected your meals.

‘eh, yesterday i think…?’ ‘i'm pretty sure it was ramen.’ you guiltily nodded.

jay shook his head, not surprised but placed a firm kiss on your forehead. ‘ok, so, you, my girl, are going to sit down and relax while i make you something healthy and edible to eat. okay?’ he said, more like commanded.

you blushed at his actions before following him to the kitchen.

it was a common routine you both had fallen into, jay would cook, you would, well… try to assist.

and even though, jay protested about you helping him, you shrugged him off, just happy to spend time with your boyfriend.

‘and from now on, yn, please don't ghost me like this. i'm always here for you, love’, whispered close to your ears, pressing another small kiss to your cheek.

NOTES. hi i wrote this down cuz of the high level of procrastination and unproductivity ive been having despite my finals starting in a month :( it isnt the best feeling and i for anyone else who's going through the same, don't worry we'll get through this rough patch together >< tysm for reading this

div cttoㅤㅤ work belong to @ rainytapestry do not steal

[sky-scribbles]

Next up on Things I Liked About Veilguard: the faction leaders. We all know some of the factions and their NPCs did not get anything like the amount of content and character that others did (Strife and Irelin I'm so sorry, I still love you), but sometimes I take a step back and realise how wonderful the stuff we did get was.

I mean - Evka and Antoine. Everything about them is so heartfelt. I hadn't read the supplemental material, but they barely needed to interact before I understood why this sweet, smart guy and this tough, smart woman loved each other. They affirm each other constantly. They respect each other so deeply. They have written letters for the other to take to their Callings: a cipher only Antoine could read. Je t'aime. Je t'aimerai toujours.

I love how Myrna and Vorgoth are introduced, suddenly and unsettlingly there in the Lighthouse. I love Vorgoth speaking in all caps. I love the fact that nobody knows what they are. I love that they raised baby Ingellvar. I love how Myrna is calm and polished while every so often coming out with the absolute wildest shit. They're fun.

The Viper and Tarquin? Top tier. They might be my favourites, just because of how much they have going on. Each of them has a backstory, and you can see exactly how those backstories produced their personalities. Ashur has a secret identity you can piece together from notes and codexes (and it's the funniest identity possible). I love their argument over Ashur's paranoid investigation into Tarquin, because it shows that the world goes on when Rook is not in the room, and the NPCs have relationships that go through ups and downs.

I'm mildly insane over the level of devotion, with Tarquin's desperate letters to the Wardens if Ashur is blighted, begging for a cure Ashur won't take. Him standing over Ashur to defend him in the final mission, or else his devastating reaction if Ashur dies: 'It should have been me!' God, these NPCs are alive. (fun fact: I wrote most of this post, and then Sheryl Chee confirmed these two were written as being in love with each other and stupid about it. I'm so happy.)

Speaking of NPCs who love each other: Teia and Viago, my beloveds. Again, I was coming in without the supplemental material, and I was sold on them so fast. The way Viago tenderly cradles Teia from behind as they mourn Caterina. The way they're so involved in Lucanis's personal quests - they're his family, they're there for him, they love him. I love Teia's fierceness and her heart. I love their banter - so much mutual understanding, exasperation and affection mixed together. 'We know each other too well to be strangers.'

Isabela is as wonderful as she always is - I especially appreciate how her depiction in Veilguard makes it clear just how loving she is. But can we also talk about Rowan? (I don't know if she's technically considered a faction leader, but meh.) I love her poetic speech patterns; I love that she's a scholar who wrote a bunch of codex entires; I love her calm, soothing voice. I love getting to see a Rivani Seer at last. And I love how she'll suddenly turn around and say, still calm and soothing, 'Spirit of Determination: may your enemies die bitter and in pain.' Perfect, no notes.

Strife and Irelin, sadly, drew the shortest straw when it came to being fleshed out in-game. But what I do love about them is their relationships with your companions. I love the tiny detail of Irelin, Bellara's ex, helping her pack for the Lighthouse; I love how she writes to Bellara to beg her to take care of herself, because she still matters to her.

And while I am a profound Emmrook lover, I appreciate Emmrich/Strife so much too. I love their shared curiosity and sense of adventure; I love thinking that Emmrich might give Strife tenderness that his life has lacked, while Strife could help nudge Emmrich toward boldness. I love the idea of two older men who likely think love has passed them by suddenly going, oh. If the Veil Jumpers didn't get a deeper relationship with Rook, at least they got relationships with Rook's friends.

Dragon Age games always give us a fun roster of companions, but honestly? Veilguard got me invested in the non-companion NPCs more than any other game in the series. Yes, there should have been more - but what we got was so much fun.

tl;dr: Faction leaders, my beloveds.

[cloudyluun]

Office Hours (p.3) | professor!harry

Summary: The morning after brings new complications as boundaries are tested, feelings deepen, and secrecy becomes harder to maintain. As the reality of their forbidden relationship sets in, tensions rise—both in and out of the classroom. When an unexpected encounter at the university forces them to confront the risks they’re taking, you’re left wondering if desire is worth the cost.

A/N: Back with part 3 of Office Hours! Thank you so much for all the love on the last chapter—your support means everything to me. This part raises the stakes even higher, blending tension, passion, and the ever-growing risk of their dangerous connection. Let me know your thoughts, and as always, if you want to be on the taglist, click here!

Word Count: 3,7k

Warnings: Smut (morning-after sex, desk sex, possessiveness, power dynamic, praise kink, slight jealousy), forbidden romance, angst, emotional tension, secrecy.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The morning light filters through the blinds, soft and golden, casting long streaks across the room. The warmth of the sheets, the steady rise and fall of the chest beneath your cheek, the scent of skin and faded cologne—it’s all grounding and disorienting at once. For a moment, reality is distant, replaced by the slow hum of contentment curling through your limbs.

Then, it settles in. Where you are. Who you’re with. What happened last night.

Your breath hitches as you shift slightly, your bare legs tangling further with his. The movement stirs him, and before you can pull away, a strong arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place. A deep sigh rumbles through his chest, followed by the husky rasp of his voice against your temple.

“Morning, love.”

Your body betrays you before your mind can catch up, warmth blooming across your skin at the endearment, at the way his lips brush lazily against your hair. You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze, and the tenderness there makes your chest tighten. This is dangerous. This is something you shouldn’t be allowing yourself to enjoy.

But in this moment, wrapped up in him, it’s impossible to care.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice laced with sleep.

His fingers trace slow circles against your back, absentminded and soothing. “Sleep well?”

You nod, but the words stay lodged in your throat. How are you supposed to respond when last night is still imprinted on your skin, when your body still remembers the way he held you, touched you, ruined you in ways you didn’t know you needed?

He watches you closely, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he shifts, rolling onto his side so you’re facing each other. A hand tucks beneath his head, the other still resting low on your back. The intimacy of it all is overwhelming, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

“What happens now?” you ask softly, barely brave enough to voice the thought.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s considering his words carefully. “We figure it out.”

It’s not a real answer, but it’s something.

The silence stretches, filled only by the rustling of sheets and the quiet rhythm of your breaths. Then, Harry exhales sharply, rolling onto his back and running a hand through his hair. “You hungry?”

The shift in conversation is abrupt, but not unwelcome. You nod, and that’s all it takes for him to slide out of bed, stretching his arms above his head before reaching for a pair of sweatpants. Your gaze flickers downward, betraying you, and he smirks when he catches you staring.

“Like what you see?”

You huff, throwing a pillow at him. He dodges it with ease, laughing as he pulls the sweats over his hips. “Come on, I make a mean omelet.”

You hesitate, suddenly aware of your lack of clothing. Before you can ask, he’s already tossing a hoodie your way—his hoodie, soft and oversized. The sight of you in it does something to him, you can tell by the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his fingers flex at his sides before he clenches them into fists.

“Looks better on you,” he mutters, almost to himself, before turning toward the kitchen.

Breakfast is… oddly normal. Domestic. The kind of thing couples do on lazy Sunday mornings. He stands at the stove, spatula in hand, while you sit on the counter, legs swinging idly. The scent of coffee fills the air, mingling with the warmth of the kitchen and the quiet hum of conversation. It’s easy, natural, like slipping into a life you shouldn’t be indulging in.

And yet, as he slides a plate in front of you, his fingers brushing yours, you can’t help but think—

Maybe this doesn’t have to end.

After breakfast, the sight of you in his hoodie is too much Harry pulls you onto his lap at the kitchen table. His hands settle on your thighs, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your bare skin beneath the fabric. The breath you take is sharp, shaky, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Do you know how fucking good you looked last night?” he murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Your hands brace against his shoulders, trying to steady yourself as his grip tightens around your waist. Heat coils low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire when he tilts his head to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the column of your throat.

“Harry,” you whisper, a soft plea that only seems to spur him on.

He shifts, standing effortlessly with you wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist. He walks you back until your spine meets the cool edge of the kitchen counter, his body pressing flush against yours. His mouth moves hungrily against your jaw, your pulse, your lips, until you’re gasping his name like a prayer.

His hands slide beneath the hem of his hoodie, pushing it up and over your head, baring you completely to him. His gaze darkens, eyes raking over you like you’re something to be worshipped. “So fucking perfect for me, love.”

There’s nothing slow about it—he tugs his sweats low enough to free himself, lifting you onto the counter in the same breath. He doesn’t waste time, sliding inside you in one slow, deep thrust that has you arching into him, your fingers clutching his biceps.

His pace is steady but firm, each thrust pulling a broken moan from your lips. His hands grip your waist, holding you in place as he fills you over and over, his breath hot against your ear.

“Mine,” he mutters, his fingers digging into your skin. “You’re fucking mine.”

You can’t do anything but nod, whimpering as his lips claim yours again, swallowing every sound you make. The tension builds too fast, too overwhelming, and when he presses his forehead to yours, whispering how good you feel, how perfect you are, you shatter around him.

He follows moments later, his release sending another wave of pleasure through you as he buries himself to the hilt, groaning into your mouth. He doesn’t pull out immediately, keeping you close, his arms caging you against him as you both come down from the high.

His lips ghost over your temple, his breathing still uneven. “Fuck, love…”

Reality crashes down like a cold wave. The warmth of the morning, the intimacy, the way his arms still cage you against him—it all feels like a fragile illusion as your eyes flicker to the clock on the wall.

“Shit,” you breathe, jolting upright. “I’m late.”

Harry barely has time to react before you’re scrambling off the counter, your legs still wobbly as you rush to find your clothes. He watches, half amused, half conflicted, leaning against the counter as you pull his hoodie back over your head, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs.

“You could just stay,” he offers, voice laced with something unreadable.

You shoot him a look. “And let everyone figure out exactly where I was all night? Not happening.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but there’s something else in his expression, something quieter. As you move past him, he catches your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse. The air shifts.

“Be careful,” he murmurs, his gaze searching yours.

Your breath catches, but you nod, squeezing his hand briefly before pulling away.

The ride to campus is filled with static energy, your nerves thrumming beneath your skin. Every shadow feels like a threat, every passing glance a question you don’t want to answer. Your mind replays the morning in his apartment, the heat of his body against yours, the way he called you his. The thought sends another rush of adrenaline through you, but not in the way it did before.

What if someone notices? What if they already know?

By the time you step into the lecture hall, your heart is pounding for all the wrong reasons. Olivia spots you immediately, her eyes narrowing as she leans in, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

“Well, well,” she teases, crossing her arms. “Someone had a busy night.”

You force a casual laugh, dropping into the seat beside her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She raises a brow. “Oh, please. You disappeared, didn’t answer my texts, and now you’re showing up late looking—” Her eyes flick over you, taking in the oversized hoodie, the flushed cheeks, the slight daze still lingering in your expression. “—thoroughly wrecked.”

Your stomach flips. You roll your eyes, nudging her with your elbow. “I was working on my essay. You know, the thing that’s actually due today?”

“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced, but thankfully, she doesn’t push.

As class begins, you try to focus, but your mind keeps drifting—back to the morning, back to the way Harry looked at you when he told you to be careful.

Like he already knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

The rest of the day drags, every moment stretched thin with tension. Your last class is with Harry, and by the time you step into the lecture hall, exhaustion clings to you. He’s already there, sitting at his desk, composed and unreadable as ever. There’s no flicker of recognition, no lingering glance to betray what had happened that morning. Just Professor Styles, collected and indifferent.

You take your usual seat, trying not to let disappointment sink too deep.

The class passes in a blur. You take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your focus splinters under the weight of unspoken words. It isn’t until after class, when you linger to gather your things, that something shifts.

Another professor, someone you vaguely recognize from the faculty meetings you’ve overheard Harry mention, approaches. He’s older, charming in an effortless way, and the way he leans in slightly as he speaks sends a spark of unease through you.

“So,” he says, his voice warm, easy, “how’s the semester treating you?”

You offer a polite smile. “Busy, but good.”

“Styles keeping you on your toes?” he teases, chuckling. “He has a reputation for being… demanding.”

Your pulse jumps, but you force a laugh. “Something like that.”

The professor’s smile lingers, his gaze flicking over you in a way that feels a little too knowing. “Well, if you ever need a second opinion on anything—academic or otherwise—my office is always open.”

You don’t get the chance to respond.

From across the room, a sharp click echoes, Harry’s pen snapping between his fingers. Your breath catches as you glance toward his desk. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white where they grip the remnants of the pen. His expression is carefully blank, but you can see the storm brewing in his eyes.

The moment the other professor steps away, you grab your bag, prepared to make a quick exit, but Harry’s voice cuts through the air.

“A word, please.”

It’s not a request.

The classroom is nearly empty now, only a few stragglers lingering near the exit. You swallow hard, nodding once before trailing after him. His office door shuts with a firm click, the silence between you stretching thick and taut.

He leans against the desk, arms crossed, studying you with a gaze so intense it makes your skin prickle. “Didn’t realize you were so friendly with Dr. Calloway.”

Your brows furrow. “I wouldn’t call it friendly. He was just—”

“Flirting,” Harry interjects, his voice dangerously low.

You blink. “I…he was just being nice.”

Harry exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Something in his tone makes you hesitate. “Harry, it was nothing.”

His jaw tenses. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Your heart pounds as he pushes off the desk, closing the space between you. His hands come to rest on your hips, fingers pressing in just enough to make you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with possession. His hands slide down, gripping your waist as he presses you against the desk. “Don’t forget that.”

Your breath stutters as you place your hands on his chest. “I won’t. But you can’t—”

His lips crash against yours before you can finish, stealing whatever protest you were about to make. It’s all-consuming, the heat between you reigniting in an instant. He kisses you like he’s proving a point, like he’s branding the words onto your skin.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. “I don’t share.”

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

His fingers flex against your hips, and his next kiss is slower, more deliberate. “Careful, love. You might enjoy it too much.”

Something in the way he says it makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low as his lips move to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

The tension is unbearable, the weight of unsaid words pressing down on both of you. He exhales sharply against your skin before stepping back, his gaze dark and heavy.

“Get on the desk.”

You don’t hesitate. Papers scatter as he lifts you onto the polished wood, stepping between your thighs, hands sliding beneath your skirt to grip your thighs. His kisses grow hungrier, teeth grazing your bottom lip, his control unraveling by the second.

“This is a bad idea,” you murmur, even as you tilt your head to give him better access.

“The worst,” he agrees, dragging his mouth down your throat. “But I don’t care.”

Neither do you.

His hands push your skirt higher, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your underwear, yanking them down in one swift movement. Your breath catches as he spreads your thighs wider, his touch firm, possessive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, voice thick with desire. “Did that little conversation out there get you worked up?”

You don’t answer—can’t answer—because he’s already pushing inside you, stretching you open with a single, deliberate thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, Harry—”

He grips your hips tighter, pulling you flush against him as he sets a punishing pace, the edge of the desk digging into your skin. The risk of getting caught only fuels the fire burning between you, the sharp slap of skin against skin filling the room.

His hand finds the back of your neck, pressing you down against the desk, his body crowding yours as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“So fucking reckless,” he growls, his voice strained with effort, with need. “Letting me have you here, like this.”

You whimper, nails clawing at the desk as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

“Anyone could walk in,” he continues, his grip tightening. “They could hear you, see how fucking good you take me.”

The thought sends you spiraling, your release barreling toward you at a dizzying pace. Harry feels it, too, he reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts.

“Come for me,” he demands, and it’s not a request.

You shatter around him, a strangled moan escaping your lips as pleasure crashes through you. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, his fingers digging into your hips as he spills inside you.

The only sound left in the room is your uneven breathing, the ticking of the clock on the wall reminding you both of the risk you just took.

Harry presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder before pulling back, his hands smoothing over your thighs, as if grounding himself.

“This,” you whisper, still breathless. “It’s dangerous.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze dark, unreadable. “I know.”

The risk is undeniable. But neither of you are willing to stop.

Just as you fix your clothes, smoothing down your skirt with shaky hands, a sharp knock at the door shatters the silence.

Your heart stops.

Harry’s head snaps up, his body instantly rigid, eyes flickering between you and the door. His jaw tightens, the afterglow of your moment already dissolving into something else entirely—urgency, fear, the sharp sting of reality crashing back in.

Another knock, firmer this time.

“Professor Styles?” A voice. Female. Familiar.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, grasping your wrist with a grip just shy of bruising, his voice low and urgent. “You need to go. Now.”

Your pulse spikes. “Who—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He moves swiftly, guiding you toward the side door that leads to the back hallway. His fingers press into your lower back as he all but pushes you through, barely giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Don’t look back,” he murmurs, and then the door is closing behind you, sealing you off from him, from whatever is about to unfold on the other side.

You don’t wait around to see who’s waiting for him. You can’t. Your legs carry you forward on autopilot, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you weave through the empty corridor, toward the nearest exit.

Your skin is still burning from his touch.

The cold air outside does little to ground you. Your mind is racing, spiraling. The thrill of what just happened still lingers in your veins, but beneath it, something else begins to creep in.

Doubt.

Fear.

Paranoia.

Who was at that door? How much had they heard? How much did they know?

You shove the thoughts aside and keep walking, forcing your breathing to slow, forcing yourself to look normal, to act normal. But your fingers are trembling as you pull out your phone, as you glance at your reflection in the dark screen—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes that look far too wild.

You can still feel him.

By the time you make it back to your apartment, your stomach is in knots. Olivia is there, sprawled on the couch, but you barely register her presence as you drop your bag onto the floor and collapse onto your bed, your head spinning.

Your phone buzzes.

You jolt, heart hammering as you grab it.

A message.

From him.

Harry: We need to talk. This is getting dangerous.

You stare at the screen, a thousand thoughts colliding in your mind at once.

Dangerous.

Your stomach twists. He’s right. This was never going to be simple, never going to be easy. But now it feels like something else entirely.

Something you might not be able to control.

Something that might destroy you both.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

𝑮𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒓 | 𝑺.𝑹.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Spencer Reid x wife!Reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Days off were beyond commodity at the BAU, so on the off chance you and Spencer manage to get one it’s always enjoyed to the fullest extent.

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: One mention of case injury, other than than just pure sickening fluff.

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 745

𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: I have other things to be working on, but I couldn’t get domestic Reid out of my head…

𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

The warm, soothing orange glow of the morning sun filters in through the curtains. It teases your senses, the gentle light coaxing you out of your sleep. You let out a soft exhale as the room around you comes into focus. The soft bed set beneath your fingertips, a deep forest green comforter and warm brown blanket tangling around your body as well as the one behind you. 

Speaking of, Spencer begins to stir as you come to, your rise triggering his own as the wiry arms around your middle give a gentle squeeze. His breath tickles the back of your neck, familiar lips brushing the nape as he lets out a soft murmur of your name.

“Hey you.” Your voice comes out in little more than a whisper, still thick with sleepiness. He grumbles something against your skin. Reid is wrapped around you like a koala, his slender limbs encircling you in every way possible. For someone so slim he’s quite the human space-heater, his body heat alone nearly lulling you back to sleep. You don’t fight it either, content to languish with your beloved in the warm, hazy blanket of sunrise.

“Hey yourself.” Spencer rasps, his voice low and gravely with sleep. You love the way he sounds on mornings like these, so relaxed and utterly content. Familiar lips press against your neck and you sigh, one arm wiggling out of his hold to reach behind her and run through his hair. “Let me see you, pretty girl.” He laughs, and you can feel him smiling as he catches your hand to kiss your palm before helping you turn around.

Facing him now, you open your eyes a bit wider, taking in as much of his visage as possible. The nerve he had calling you pretty, couldn’t he see that he was one of the most beautiful things to ever grace this Earth? He looks ethereal, unruly chocolate curls framing his strong but delicate features, mature and yet sill boyish in a way. Your eyes study his face intently, memorizing it for the millionth time, the light dusting of freckles stretching from cheek to cheek, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes from years full of smiles and laughter.

And his eyes, oh, his eyes. To get lost in Spencer’s eyes was easier than breathing. The early morning light turning them to pools of molten honey-gold that had you drowning the moment you met his gaze. You were positive that you could spend the rest of your days doing nothing but looking into those tapestries of warm amber, and when the day came that you did die, it would undoubtedly be as the happiest woman on Earth.

Your focus drops to his lips next, the delicate dip of his cupids bow, the pink, plush skin bearing the memory of a thousand kisses stolen between work. Your eyes wander back to his hair, a few of the sweet curls falling into his eyes. He doesn’t seem to mind, looking at you and mirroring the same quiet awe. Spencer rests his forehead against yours. You smile.

He had been watching you in the same way, you’re sure. Even with his eidetic memory, he couldn’t help but feel like every time he looked at you was the very first, allowing him to take in your particular beauty anew time and time again. It’s something he’s sure he’ll never grow tired of. Spencer brings your hand back to his lips, kissing each knuckle individually, those lips you loved so much lingering especially on the metal band gracing your finger that matched his own. 

His other warm hand holds your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over the healing cut beneath your eye. A part of him is proud, despite how worried he had been in the moment you received it. It wouldn’t scar, merely serve as a reminder  of another completed case, justice done and lives saved. Still, your small injury weighs on some part of him, and he draws you ever closer.

The silence between lovers is comfortable, soothing. Words alone would never be able express the sheer amount of shared love and devotion. To speak would be to sully this quiet, lazy morning. You and Spencer love your jobs of course, but at the end of the day, the hours spent tangled together in loving silence are something you both will always hold dearest of all. Because mornings like these?

They are utterly perfect.

[writingwisterias]

WAITER! WAITER! Need me different era leons reacting to reader starting sobbing during rather chill argument. Idk if this make sense😭😭😭 i mean like if theres no fights or loud talking during the argument, leon is just complaining and being real abt it but it hurts reader bc they are sensitive and they start crying

HIII!

I actually love this, I'm the type of person to cry out of anger and super sensitive LMAO! I hope you enjoy <3

Warnings: Arguments, comfort, GN! Reader

RE2:

You weren't really sure where the argument had come from at first, the day had seemingly turned out okay at first until you both got home

Maybe he was just overwhelmed from adjusting back to normality after the 2 years training

But it didn't mean he needed to pick at your outfit or just get annoyed at you in general

You tried not to let it get to you but after his 3rd comment you broke

His complaints weren't meant to be taken to heart but he forgot about how sensitive you were. How you haven't been through what he has

He's quick to change his tone, one that's more soothing and comfortable as he eases you.

Whispering sweet nothings in your ear, pressing you as close to him as he can in a hug to ensure you calm down with scent of him

He will apologize don't worry

RE4R:

It was barely an argument more of a disagreement over chosing the film to watch

He wasn't listening to why you wanted to watch your comfort film. Why today was hard so watching the horror he has lined up was not good

It was a short comment, one that you wouldn't have been bothered about normally but today you felt extra fragile

When he hears your sniffles he freezes in place it goes straight to his heart

He's smothering you with his love and affection because he feels bad, the comfort film is on and you won't be leaving his arms until he is sure you are okay

Infinite Darkness:

He's stressed at work, it's not his fault he's slightly short with you

And it's not your fault you didn't read his tone very well

He wasn't angry at you rather complaining about an ache he couldn't shake since his last mission

When offering ways to help he snapped saying that he could deal with it on his own

you didn't take offense to it understanding his need to be independent but it struck a nerve causing you to tear up

It only made it worse when he started to apologize and cuddle like you deserved it

You did. It wasn't your fault but somehow you wired your brain to think you made it worse for him

When you start sobbing he's moving faster to make sure you calm down, he knows your over reaction also isn't your fault and he should know to word his sentences differently

Damnation:

He didn't really notice that there was an off tone in his voice so he also didn't notice you were upset until he heard your sniffles

I think he would be confused at first a bit reluctant to give you the affection you needed to calm down but he's genuinely confused

He wasn't angry just annoyed at something and you are acting like he's stabbed your family member

Eventually he does comfort you and it's a long intimite comfort session.

I'm talking cuddling and running his fingers through your hair. He would apologise as well, its only a small gruff one but he knows your reaction isn't your fault.

He find it's cute how much you care, despite it being overwhelming sometimes.

RE6:

Again he relieves Raccoon City again almost within the events of the game

He keeps most of his composure until he gets home

You get the brunt of his anger and frustrations. Having to tip toe around him as he relives trauma.

It's not until you see he only acts this way with you that you snap. You can't help it you are angry with how he's treating you

I feel like hell attempt to come up with some bs that he's just that comfortable with you he shows a different side but he's not even falling himself

Promises to work on it and you have some understanding of his situation

You will get kisses and cuddles after

Vendetta:

He's a mess, you know it, I know it

So he's going to be snappy,short or even just not himself

He's really struggling at this point so when you do snap I think he's going to respond negatively at first

As he sees you grow more sensitive he will start to feel bad and it's actually his apology that makes you cry

The idea that even in his struggles he still cares about what you think is enough to make you cry

He's sorry for being a dick but also just confused at how him simply admitting that is enough for you to cry

Death Island:

Not in a harsh way but he would start to laugh, only because he finds it so cute

He's reassuring you that he's not actually angry his tone just doesn't always match his words or the joke doesn't come out the way he wanted it

His laugh makes you laugh and helps calm you down

I imagine he's very good at distracting you from everything that made you upset. A stable wall for you to use in order to calm down.

[extinctlesspains]

A/n: Hello gorgeous people 😍 In honor of Cobra Kai coming to an end, I'm putting out a Kwon fic😮‍💨 Love you all and hope you enjoy ♡

𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑒 [𝐾. 𝐽𝑎𝑒-𝑆𝑢𝑛𝑔]

*+:｡.｡　｡.｡:+*

*+:｡.｡　｡.｡:+*

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: ʏᴇs ᴏʀ ɴᴏ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴋᴡᴏɴ ᴊᴀᴇ-sᴜɴɢ x ɢғ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴀɴɢsᴛ, ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ.

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀғᴛᴇʀ sɴᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴋᴡᴏɴ’s ʜᴏᴛᴇʟ ʀᴏᴏᴍ, ʏᴏᴜ ғᴀʟʟ ᴀsʟᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴀʀᴍs ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴇs ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴜʀɴᴀᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴏᴠᴇʀᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴡᴏɴ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛs ʏᴏᴜ, ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ’s ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

The hum of the hotel’s air conditioner filled the dimly lit room as you curled up under the plush white comforter, your head resting against Kwon’s chest. His steady heartbeat was a grounding presence, a silent reassurance that he was here, alive, and real.

Tonight had been a whirlwind—Kwon had managed to win the hotel room from Robby, and the second he told you, you knew there was no way you were letting him spend the night alone. Sneaking over had been easy enough. Tory covered for you, making sure no one noticed when you slipped out of your shared room. Now, wrapped in Kwon’s warmth, everything felt right.

His fingers lazily traced circles on your back, his other arm slung protectively around you. “Tired?” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion.

You hummed softly, nuzzling closer. “A little… but I just like being here with you.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Of course you do. I’d miss me too if I wasn’t me.”

You rolled your eyes, lightly smacking his chest. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. He guided your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss, one that sent warmth spreading through your chest. Even though Kwon wasn’t one for overly sentimental words, the way he kissed you spoke volumes.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, and though he didn’t say it back, you felt it in the way he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured.

You didn’t fight him on it. The exhaustion from the tournament, the stress, the adrenaline—it all finally caught up to you. Slowly, your eyes fluttered shut, and sleep took over.

---

It started as a whisper, a distant echo of your name. Then the scene unfolded before you like a cruel nightmare.

The tournament. Everyone going wild. Loose. Like a jungle.

Axel stood across from Kwon, the tension so thick it was suffocating. The crowd too much to see through, the arena lights casting harsh shadows. You wanted to call out, to warn him, but your voice didn’t work.

Then it happened.

Kwon lunged forward with a reckless intensity, his eyes burning with determination. Axel dodged, and suddenly, the world slowed. Kwon stumbled—his own weapon in his grip turning against him.

The blade cut deep.

His body jerked, and the look on his face—shock, confusion, then pain—seared itself into your mind. Blood pooled beneath him as he staggered back, collapsing. His dark eyes, usually so full of life, locked onto yours.

And then… nothing.

---

You woke with a gasp, your body jolting upright as a choked sob ripped from your throat.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t—

“Hey, hey—baby.”

Kwon’s voice, groggy with sleep, cut through the suffocating panic. His hands found your shoulders, steadying you as you trembled violently. You could barely breathe. Your chest felt tight, like you were being crushed under an invisible weight.

Tears burned down your cheeks as you turned to him, shaking your head. “You—” Your voice cracked. “Y-you were—”

You couldn’t even say it.

Kwon immediately sat up, pulling you into his lap. “Breathe,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. His hands ran up and down your back, trying to calm your erratic shaking. “It was just a nightmare.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, desperate for something solid, something real. “I saw you die,” you gasped, panic clawing at your throat. “In the tournament. You—you were trying to get Axel, and—and—”

Kwon stiffened slightly, but his grip on you never faltered. His voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Shh. I’m here. Look at me.”

You did, though your vision was blurred with tears. His dark eyes, filled with a rare softness, met yours. He took your hands, bringing them to his chest. “Feel that?” he whispered. “I’m alive. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your breathing hitched as you focused on the steady rhythm beneath your palms.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Real. Alive. Kwon.

“I c-can’t lose you,” you choked out.

“You won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “I swear.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “You’re safe,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m safe. Just breathe with me, okay?”

You nodded weakly, following his lead as he inhaled deeply. Slowly, you tried to match him, the panic beginning to fade, though the lingering fear still clung to your skin.

Minutes passed before your breathing evened out, your body still trembling but no longer in the throes of a full panic attack. Kwon didn’t let go, didn’t even loosen his hold.

“You wanna talk about it?” he finally asked.

You shook your head. “Just… hold me?”

Kwon didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

He laid back down, pulling you with him so your head rested against his chest once more. This time, though, he didn’t let any space linger between you. One arm stayed securely around your waist, the other gently threading his fingers through your hair.

His lips brushed your forehead. “I don’t care what happens in that tournament,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “I won’t let anything take me away from you.”

You clung to him, the last of your fear finally easing. His heartbeat remained steady beneath your cheek, grounding you.

And this time, when sleep found you again, Kwon’s warmth never wavered.

He was here. Alive. Yours.

[dulcescorderitas]

Heyy, I'd like to send in a request

Bf!Sam winchester x reader where they agree to try smth new in bed, but reader safewords and Sam, as the gentleman he is, just immediately pulls out + cleans both of them up no questions asked, and then comforts reader when she feels a little bad abt stopping him?

dulce's notes: i hope you like it! <3

sam winchester is the kind of boyfriend who makes you feel safe without even trying. his hands are big, warm, steady—capable of destroying monsters and holding you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world all at once. so when you’d both agreed to try something new tonight, you knew—knew—that he’d take care of you.

but still, when the moment comes, when the sensation becomes too much, when the sharp sting pushes past pleasure and your breath catches in your throat, a choked moan escapes your lips. your fingers clutch at the sheets, and then, before you can think twice, you gasp, "orange sammy."

sam reacts instantly. he stills, his entire body going rigid for half a second before he pulls out carefully, hands already moving to cup your face, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from your forehead.

"hey, hey," his voice is soft, careful, like he's afraid you're going to shatter. "you're okay. we're done. it's over, sweetheart. i'm right here."

your body is trembling, a deep shiver rolling through you as reality settles back in. sam doesn’t hesitate, wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you against his warm, solid chest. the steady beat of his heart grounds you, each slow, rhythmic thud lulling you away from panic. he doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t make you explain. just strokes your arm and presses a kiss to your temple, whispering little reassurances that make your throat tighten with something you don’t quite have words for.

"you did so good," he murmurs, and you almost want to protest, to say you stopped, that you didn’t go through with it, but he must sense the thought forming because he shushes you gently. "doesn’t matter, baby. you tried. that's enough. and you told me what you needed. that’s more than enough."

his fingers trail lightly over your arm, grounding you, reminding you that you’re safe. then he shifts, reaching for the damp washcloth he must've grabbed at some point, running it over your skin with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. the warmth soothes you, and he cleans you up first, then himself, never once letting go of you entirely. it’s only when you’re both settled under the covers, his arms still wrapped around you, that he finally speaks again.

"you okay?"

you nod, tucking yourself closer, pressing your face into his collarbone, inhaling the familiar scent of him. he lets out the softest sigh, relief melting the last bit of tension in his muscles. his fingers trace absent patterns against your shoulder, and he waits—doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push—just lets you exist in the safety of his embrace until you’re ready.

"proud of you, y'know that?" he mumbles against your hair, voice thick with something unspoken, and you swallow hard, fingers curling around his.

"i love you," you whisper, because it’s the only thing that really matters.

sam squeezes your hand, lips pressing against your temple once more.

"i love you more, sweetheart. always."

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend

[preppyacademy]

Breaking and Remaking : No Thoughts, Only Obedience

Kyle or Prescott's story

Kyle was in his senior year of high school and part of the football team. Academics were secondary for him—it was sports in the morning, sports at noon, and sports in the evening. He hoped to earn a scholarship by being one of the top athletes in his school. Unfortunately, Kyle always acted before thinking, which sometimes led to avoidable accidents.

One game night in early November, his team faced an opposing high school team. Kyle, prone to arrogance, didn’t warm up much, believing he didn’t need to—after all, he was one of the strongest players. His team was scoring well, but in the final decisive minutes, time seemed to slow down. Rain had started to fall, making the field slick. As he caught the ball mid-air, Kyle slipped on the wet grass and crashed violently to the ground before being tackled by several other players. His teammates, still in action, grabbed the ball and scored, securing victory.

As for Kyle, he ended the night in the hospital. His team won, but his medical results were far from victorious. A fractured collarbone, six to twelve weeks of recovery, immobilization, and rehabilitation. He was told he had to remain bedridden for weeks before he could even move.

Kyle had no choice. The hospital that admitted him had to transfer him to a specialized rehabilitation center, located six hours away but renowned as one of the best. His family spared no expense, wanting only the best care for him.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Kyle felt well received. He quickly noticed that most of the staff were male, which struck him as unusual. He was assigned to Dr. Pritchard.

Dr. Pritchard: "You’ll be well taken care of here. You’ll be staying with us for at least six weeks, possibly ten if your condition doesn’t improve. I hope we’ll get along well."

Kyle: "I hope so too."

The first few nights, Kyle struggled to sleep. The feeling of being far from home and his friends weighed heavily on him. Moreover, a low, constant noise resonated throughout his room—a repeating frequency that played over and over. The following nights were the same, but Kyle gradually became accustomed to the sound.

Dr. Pritchard: "I know time may feel slow, but here, rehabilitation is not just about physical recovery—it’s also about relaxing your mind and body. From now on, no more phone screens. We took yours last night. You need rest and must adapt to our institution’s methods."

Kyle was furious but couldn’t fight back—his body was in too much pain, forcing him to comply with the medical staff’s instructions. How was he supposed to survive weeks without his phone?

Dr. Pritchard: "When you wake up, the screens in your room will display relaxation and meditation videos. Follow them, and you’ll see—time will pass much more quickly here."

The next morning marked the beginning of Kyle’s first session with the videos. They consisted of breathing techniques and mantras to repeat. A spiral accompanied the voice-over, guiding him through the instructions.

Kyle, repeating the words: "I feel good, my body is relaxed, I let myself be carried by the waves, my mind sinks deeper into the abyss, I feel calm, every word I hear is a new way of thinking to embrace, to listen, and to learn."

Each day, Kyle was captivated—hypnotized—by these screens, which seemed to absorb his attention completely. Slowly, his thoughts began to change, and time passed in a rhythm dictated by the spiral and the mantras. Over time, the words evolved into something else.

Kyle, repeating the words: "I feel good, I am happy, my body is relaxed, my mind sinks deeper into the abyss. I am obedient, I listen to what I am told, I must act as I am instructed, I feel calm, I love to obey, I want to learn to obey."

As the days and weeks passed, Kyle healed not only physically but mentally as well, thanks to the soothing words of the spiral. His mind was gradually shaped into a model of perfection, discipline, and obedience.

Kyle: "I wish to submit to the orders of superior men, I wish to obey them, I wish to be submissive. I wish to be submissive. I wish to be submissive."

Dr. Pritchard: "Good boy. You have found true relaxation within your body."

Like a machine executing programmed instructions, Kyle regained mobility in his body. His absolute obedience, now stripped of all arrogance and rebellion, made rehabilitation much easier.

Then, the final week of his stay arrived. Kyle sat on his bed, staring into the distance, still repeating the obedience mantra.

Kyle: "I listen, I obey, I serve. My will is that of the Academy. To doubt is to fail. To resist is to fall. Order is my truth, obedience is my virtue. I bend, I disappear, I become. Every command is an honor, every task a privilege. I do not need to think—only to answer: Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "Good boy, you make me proud. You’ve done well in your exercises, and now, after ten weeks, your time with us has come to an end. Unfortunately, we must make room for new arrivals like you."

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "As you say—'your will is that of the Academy.' Your mind has been shaped for the Academy—the Preppy Academy, to be precise. Would you like to join the Academy, my boy?"

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "You no longer wish to return to your old high school, correct?"

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "You will remain a good boy—obedient and disciplined?"

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "We will now relieve you of these hospital clothes—you no longer need them."

Dr. Pritchard placed a harmonization device over Kyle’s head. It resembled a large lamp with a metallic tube beneath it, sending electric signals into the subject’s brain. He activated it while Kyle continued to chant his desire to obey.

Kyle remained immobilized, paralyzed by the machine—unable to move of his own will. In his mind, the words "Obedience," "Submission," "Discipline" flashed over and over again.

Two nurses arrived, cut off Kyle's clothes and stripped him naked. Dr. Pritchard pulled a chastity cage from a drawer and locked Kyle's penis in it. He locked the cage and gave the key to a nurse, who left with it.

Dr. Pritchard: "You'll learn that your sex is no longer of any use to you; it belongs to the Academy. You only need it to urinate, because that's a natural need. But to urinate, you'll have to ask permission. If you feel pleasure, your penis, now the size of a phalanx, will be compressed, you'll feel pain and you'll learn to live with pain. Pain is a gift to be cherished, the very essence of a good Preppy Academy student. The more time passes, the more you won't even feel it anymore, you'll get used to what you've become."

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Kyle did not flinch. Who he had been just weeks ago had disappeared into the abyss of his mind. Sometimes, though rarely now, he could hear a faint inner voice telling him this wasn’t him, urging him to fight. But that voice was slowly drowning beneath the waves of his consciousness.

Dr. Pritchard: "Now, we will dress you. You haven't learned this here yet, but you will soon understand that being a good boy means being elegant at all times. Appearance is an extension of your obedience. It’s not about having style—it’s about proving your submission through every detail of your attire. Dressing preppy is fundamental. It is a duty, not a choice."

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Kyle was dressed from head to toe, like a boy being sent off to school. A neatly pressed, button-down plaid white shirt, tucked into light khaki shorts held up by thick brown suspenders. Long white socks and polished black loafers completed the outfit, along with a large, subtly checkered bow tie.

When Dr. Pritchard tied the bow tie around Kyle’s neck, Kyle opened his mouth—not in surprise, but as if this attire had been meant for him all along, as if the relaxation of feeling truly himself in this clothing had loosened his jaw. His body and mind understood: he was meant to be a good preppy boy.

Dr. Pritchard: "That’s a good boy."

By late morning, Kyle was transferred to the Preppy Academy, placed in a class appropriate for his age. He was quickly integrated among other students eager to learn submission, obedience, and discipline.

He embraced the academy’s dress code without hesitation, developing a particular fondness for plaid patterns—the very motif Dr. Pritchard had introduced him to. In time, the administration and Kyle himself sent a letter to his family, informing them of his transfer and his wish to continue his education at the Preppy Academy.

Kyle’s father had heard of the institution through a friend whose son had returned home completely transformed—eventually becoming the family’s butler. Pleased with the results, and reassured that this was Kyle’s own request, his parents placed their trust in him.

Dr. Pritchard frequently visited the Academy to check on Kyle. Over time, he began calling him Prescott—his middle name—which suited him far better and carried a more refined sound.

Dr. Pritchard became Master to Prescott, who, with the Academy’s approval, would come to serve him every weekend—submissive and obedient. For example, he offered him his mouth to be filled with the doctor's cock from times to times.

Dr. Pritchard decided how Prescott should dress. He had even noticed during Prescott’s hospitalization that he often squinted from staring at the spiral for too long. As a result, he gifted him a pair of elegant glasses—enhancing his preppy and exemplary style even further.

Far from the field, far from his arrogance, Prescott had become a good boy. He could thank the Preppy Academy for that.

Who’s next?

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Your last George blurb with the nightmare was really good, would you consider writing a part two where they actually have lunch together?

Much love ♡

A/n: Thank you 🥹 The Weasley twins deserve all the happiness.

George can still feel the nightmare clinging to him, his mind in that daze, that fog. His breath still uneven and his chest still heaving as he gripped the sheets tightly. His heart pounded against his ribs, and his skin felt clammy, the echoes of his nightmare still gripping his mind like a vice. You were gone. Fred was gone. He was alone.

It wasn’t real.

Something in the back of his mind telling him that.

It wasn’t real.

“George?” Your soft, sleepy voice broke through the haze of panic, and he turned his head toward you, his eyes wide and glassy. He blinked a few times as if making sure you were actually there and not just a cruel trick of his mind.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it nearly knocked the breath out of you. You didn’t complain, simply rubbing soothing circles on his back, whispering reassurances in his ear.

“I’m here, love,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m right here.”

He swallowed thickly, his grip on you unrelenting. “I had a nightmare,” he admitted hoarsely. “You and Fred… you were gone. Both of you. And I—” His voice broke, and you felt his shoulders tremble.

He was alone....so utterly alone.

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “We’re here, Georgie. Me and Fred. We’re not going anywhere.”

It took a few minutes, but eventually, George’s breathing evened out. Still, you could see the lingering fear in his eyes, the weight of the what-ifs pressing down on him.

An idea formed in your mind. Placing a kiss to the top of his head. "Go back to sleep and when we wake up we'll go out."

Glancing down, George nodded his head lying hack down pulling you close. Sleep didn't come easy but at least the nightmare didn't return.

It was hours later when he woke up, a smile on your face. “Come on, let’s go out,” you said, brushing his hair back gently.

He furrowed his brows. “Go out?”

“Yeah,” you said brightly. “A lunch date. Just you and me. You need a reminder that we’re here, and that life’s still good.”

George hesitated, his mind still in a hog, he remembered you mentioning that after he woke from his nightmare and while normally he’d be the one to drag you out for an impromptu adventure, but the nightmare had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. Still, when you flashed him that determined look—the one he could never say no to—he sighed in defeat.

“Alright,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “But only if you let me pay.”

“Deal.” Giving him a wink you bent down kissing the top of his head.

The little café you picked was cozy, with warm wooden tables and the scent of fresh bread filling the air. You sat across from George, reaching for his hand as you both sipped on butterbeer.

“You seem better,” you noted, squeezing his fingers gently.

George exhaled, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles then across your wedding band. “I think I just needed to see you, hold you. It sounds ridiculous, but when I woke up, it felt so real.” He looked at you, vulnerability in his eyes. “I don’t think I could bear losing you.”

"George what we went through...no one comes out with not losing a piece of themselves." You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You're not going to lose me, you're stuck with me Weasley. For life.”

His grin was back, more genuine this time. “Lucky me.”

“Obviously,” you teased, making him chuckle.

Just as you were finishing your meal, a familiar voice interrupted, “Oi, am I invited to this secret lunch date, or do I have to crash it?”

You both turned to see Fred standing there, hands on his hips, a smirk on his face.

George rolled his eyes. “It’s a date, Freddie. As in, me and my gorgeous spouse. Alone.”

Fred scoffed, plopping down next to you anyway. “Pfft. Like I’d let you two have all the fun. What are we eating?”

You laughed, shaking your head, while George groaned. But as he looked at you, then at his twin—both very much alive, very much here—he realized just how lucky he was.

Maybe the nightmare had been a cruel reminder of how fragile life was. But right now, he had everything he needed.

And he wasn’t letting go.

[xaviesstarlight]

I Will Always Take Care of You

Warnings: None, SWF

Here is the Xavier version I mentioned before. The Zayne version is on my blog under #my fanfic

Xavier returns home from the no-hunt zone to find a welcoming surprise in his apartment. He enters his bedroom to change out of his hunter’s uniform to see you wrapped in his fluffiest blanket on his bed. A fire ignites within Xavier as he observes your sleeping figure. You, his girlfriend, is fast asleep in his bed. Xavier quietly moves closer to steal a quick kiss when he sees a swollen bump on your forehead. His breath hitches as he realizes why you are sleeping here and not out on a mission: you were injured.

As if you sensed Xavier’s presence, you awake, rubbing your eyes to see pools of azure looking down at you. You grin and greet the love of your life like any other day. Just seeing Xavier can cause you to forget all the pain you experienced earlier that morning. His presence is just that soothing. “Welcome home,” you whisper.

Xavier frowns. “How are you acting as if nothing is wrong when you’re injured? Do you feel any pain? What happened?”

You suddenly notice the worry in Xavier’s eyes, which fully wakes you up. You place a hand on his cheek and explain what happened. You were injured during an early morning mission when a wanderer destroyed some booths at a festival in town. One of the booths had framed paintings that fell, hitting you on the head. You are so embarrassed about how you became injured that you start crying while telling Xavier the story, but you insist you are fine. It’s just a bruise. Jenna only sent you home as a precaution.

Xavier embraces you before kissing away the tears. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Please don’t cry.” His voice is warm and soft, just like the blanket you are wrapped in, just like Xavier. All your worries melt away as he comforts you. Xavier’s lips brush the bump on your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

His last statement is more reassurance for himself instead of you. You are okay.

“Will you take care of me until the bruise heals?” you sniffle.

“I will take care of you forever.”

You and Xavier take a shower before putting on your comfiest pajamas. He orders your favorite take-out while you set up pillows and blankets of his in front of the TV. Your head hurts too much to focus on playing video games, so the two of you decide to watch a movie. After a good meal and cuddling on the couch through most of the movie, you fall asleep in Xavier’s arms.

Xavier watches you as you sleep, your chest rising and falling as proof you are still breathing. He was terrified when he first saw your head injury, no matter how minor it may be. He witnessed you injured worse than this before, back when Xavier had to save you from wanderers as Lumiere, and it took you weeks to recover. Still, it is never easy for him to see you in pain. Xavier just hangs on to the thought that you are okay, repeating it to himself time and time again. You are in his arms, the safest place you can be, and he will do everything in his power to protect you, whether from wanderers or commonplace accidents.

After a few minutes, Xavier carries you to the bedroom. “Good night, my star,” he whispers after tucking you in the covers. “I meant what I said earlier. I will always take care of you.”