#if i had all the time in the world i would write this as a fully fleshed au

[mariasont]

That anon was living under a rock because your smut fics (all of your fics tbh!) I reread wayyy to many times, lol. But if you’re taking smut requests, I’d love to see more bimbo!reader and Hotch! I can’t get enough.

I’ll take anything!! But more specifically, their first time, all of that built up tension (that you write so perfectly!) finally breaks!

Anyways, I never send in requests but I saw a window of opportunity and had to take it, haha.

Third Date Rule - A.H

summary: the third date proves to be worth the wait when you and hotch experience your first time together. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexy time, fingering, oral fem receiving, p in v, they did not in fact wrap it before tapping it and it's not really discussed so yeah idk about that one, aftercare wc: 7.7k

This was so overdue.

Technically, it's only been three dates. Technically.

But if you count all the years you'd known him, the months spent daydreaming about this moment, the weeks of waiting while he played the world's longest game of restraint, then really, you should have had him naked ages ago.

And if Aaron (which still feels like a thrill to say — Aaron — because you're dating now and you can freely call him that) wasn't so stubborn and noble and insufferably gentlemanly, you would have.

But tonight was finally the night. The third date. The sacred, hallowed, much-debated, universally accepted gateway to getting into the sheets. And yes, okay, maybe you barely survived the wait without jumping his bones, but that's hardly relevant now. The point is, you did it.

And now you're in his lap, his tie wound tight around your fingers, his tongue deep in your mouth, and gods, if this night didn't end with him inside you, you might actually die. 

Like, literally. Heart failure. Sudden death.

This was premeditated. At least, for you. You moisturized like your life depended on it, doused yourself in perfume that could be classified as a controlled substance, and selected a bra that made your tits look so insane, it might actually be illegal in some states.

And then you spent an embarrassing amount of time picking the perfect dress that says oh, I'm classy, but also please take me home and rip this off with your teeth.

You pull away, just enough to see him. To take in the slow bloom of pink trailing from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, the way his pupils are so wide they’ve all but erased the brown of his eyes. And his lips — swollen and red from kissing you — part like he was debating how bad it would be to drag you right back in. You wouldn’t mind.

“Aaron,” you sigh, fingers burying into his hair, marveling at how absurdly soft it is, how freely he lets you have this piece of him. “We should go to bed.”

For a second, he locks up. Not hesitation but calibration, a body processing desire so sharp it might break him. You feel it in the way his chest expands, in the quiet exhale through his nose.

"This wasn't my plan for the night," he murmurs, voice softer now, not strained, but steeped in something much gentler. Something careful. "I wasn't —," He shakes his head, like the whole concept doesn’t sit right in his mouth. "I don't want you to think this is just —,"

"Sex?"

You can see the way he wants to argue, like he wants to carve the word out of the air and replace it with something that means more.

"Yes."

You can’t stop the stupid, lovestruck smile pulling at your lips. Maybe it’s the wine from dinner finally working its magic. (It’s not.) Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, all serious and earnest, like you’re the only thing in existence, and if he blinks, you might vanish. (It definitely is.)

A laugh bubbles up, light and giddy, body not knowing what to do with all this adoration. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, just to see if he’ll let you. (He does.)

“Are you serious? If you just wanted sex, you wouldn’t have spent actual years pretending my very dedicated, very expertly executed attempts to seduce you weren’t happening.”

His brow arches, but you see it for what it is — a stall. “Expertly, huh?”

"Remember that heatwave last summer? When I just had to eat a popsicle at my desk every afternoon?"

His eyes darken like the memory is playing in high definition behind his eyes.

"I remember."

"Do you?" Your fingers slip beneath his color. “Because —” You tilt your head. “I always seemed to finish them standing in front of your office —"

You don't even get to finish your sentence. 

One second, you’re speaking, the next, you’re airborne. Lifted clean off the couch, legs locking around his waist automatically, arms thrown around his shoulders like you planned this all along.

You didn’t, but you wish you had. 

Not that it matters, because he’s already moving, already walking straight to the bedroom.

You bury your smile against his jaw, letting your breath tickle against the shell of his ear as another giggle slips out. It couldn’t be helped.

"I really hope you know," you whisper, “that I am, like, stupidly excited for this. Like, counting down the days excited.”

Aaron sets you down on the mattress gently, but his body doesn’t follow right away, hovering over you.

"You're not making this easy for me."

You ignore him because you’re much more distracted by how insanely soft his sheets are. That was your first thought when your back hits the mattress, hair fanning across the pillows.

For a fleeting second, you wonder if he’ll catch the scent of your perfume tomorrow. If he’ll notice the ghost of you when he lays down alone.

Your second was that this is so not the time nor place to get emotional. 

But this is his space. His bed. His room.

It’s tidy, but somehow not sterile, everything having its place, but not afraid to be used. A book sits on the nightstand, a book mark sticking out mid-thought. A photo frame faces the bed, though from this angle you struggle to see what’s inside.

There’s his suit jacket from yesterday, draped over the back of a chair, a little rumpled. 

And maybe it's silly, but you feel weirdly honored to be here.

You should probably be processing this moment, what it means to be here, with him, like this. Instead, you take a second to admire the view.

The lamp softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost gentle — which is funny, considering how you hoped to be thoroughly destroyed by him.

Something expands inside you, stretching against the walls of your chest, something too big, something that terrifies you.

So you do what you do best. You deflect.

“I can’t believe I’m about to sleep with my boss.”

He doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck. “Sweetheart—,”

"What?" You giggle, letting your fingers slide through his hair, letting your nails rake lightly over his scalp. "It's true."

His sigh is nothing short of pained, but then he kisses your cheek anyway, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. You were starting to feel like each was a thinly veiled attempt to tame you.

"Please don't phrase it like that."

"Yes, Mr. Hotchner." 

Every self-satisfied thought evaporates the moment he kisses you – really kisses you.

It’s not just a meeting of lips but a focused intensity, tongue sweeping inside your mouth and suddenly nothing before this mattered, because clearly, clearly, every kiss you’ve ever had was just practice for this one. 

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, spine arching and he doesn’t stop you, just kisses you with a hunger that makes teasing obsolete, that makes breathing secondary to the way he’s taking from you, giving to you, all at once.

His lips wander, dragging across your jaw like he’s leaving invisible ink behind, pressing something permanent into your skin.

You hope you’ll wake up tomorrow and still feel him there.

Your hands move to the nape of his neck, drawn by craving, by the need circling inside you like a ribbon of fire.

It stretches outward, licking at your skin, threading through your veins. His hands hold you still, spanning over your rib. His breath fans over your pulse, and you swear he can feel how fast it’s racing.

You should be gloating right now. This is, after all, exactly what you wanted, what you worked for. A biting remark sits on the top of your tongue, but then his mouth moves, and he finds it.

That wicked, traitorous little dip beneath your jaw that turns your entire brain into pink, glittering static. He pauses, listening, feeling, before sealing his mouth over it again, tongue dragging over the sensitive skin like he’s testing a theory that he already knows the answer to.

Your fingers clench in his hair, a startled sound choking in your throat before you can stop it. And then, the bastard laughs. Not sweet, not kind, but low and sharp and smug because he knows exactly what he’s done. 

You had the upper hand. Past tense.

"There it is," he murmurs, pressing another kiss there, his tongue flattening over it just to make you squirm. "You want to know how I figured this out?"

You hum, or try to. But it’s pathetic because you’re barely conscious, every cell fried to uselessness by his mouth.

He mimics you, just to be an ass about it, mocking the dazed little sound like he hasn’t just reduced you to it. "You always reached for it when I looked at you too long."

Your mouth opens. Closes.

"Or," he continues, "when I stood too close to you at the coffee machine. You'd fidget, tuck your hair behind your ear like you weren't thinking about it." His exhale burns against your pulse. "Cute."

You gasp, a little offended, mostly turned on. "Oh, wow. Profiling me? At work? That's, like, wildly unethical."

"Didn't need to," he murmurs. "You were practically begging me to figure you out."

His mouth is perfect in the way lightning is perfect – striking, searing, and completely out of your control. It’s perfect enough that you can pretend not to hear him.

He sucks, slow and hard enough to tear a sound from your lips before you even know it’s there, something that feels like vulnerability in its purest form. Something you would never willingly give him.

His laugh is quiet, wrecking, as he pulls back, lips slick with your skin. "That good?"

His mouth makes quick work, over your collarbone, down, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, down, branding every inch of skin he can reach. 

He stops at the neckline of your dress, and suddenly, you can't think about anything except how it's still on.

You want to strip it off, want to offer yourself up as a willing sacrifice, but you’re well aware that if you try, if you even reach, he’ll stop you. Or worse, he'll make you wait. He'll slow you down, draw it out just to watch you squirm because patience is his weapon of choice, because he lives for making you suffer.

His teeth graze the swell of your breast, just enough to sting, and whatever fragile grip you had on yourself disintegrates on impact. Your hands fumble blindly for his face, fingers shaking, needing to see his eyes.

"Please, Aaron.” It’s an exhale, a prayer. “Need you."

You see the ripple of tension along his throat. And for one tiny, blinding second you think this is when he finally snaps, abandons his tolerance and just takes you.

"You don't know how long I've wanted you like this," he rumbles. "I'm going to take my time."

You whine, frustration bleeding from your fingertips where they clutch his shoulders, fingers digging in like you can physically push him into moving faster.

He does not move faster. 

His hands slide up to the straps of your dress, as he drags it down with all the urgency of a leisurely Sunday stroll. 

Your mind is halfway through an exceptionally justified complaint about how slow he is moving when he folds the dress.

Folds it.

Sets it aside. Doesn't toss it.

And that may be the hottest thing he's ever done.

Because you know he knows. He’s always known. Known that your things aren’t just things — that your dresses, your heels, your overpriced lip glosses aren’t frivolous, aren’t some shallow indulgence, but tiny, curated pieces of you.

He has listened to you decide between two pairs of shoes that are, for all intent and purposes, identical. He knows jasmine is mysterious and vanilla is flirty, knows that you’ll debate your right to own the same three shades of pink. 

And instead of dismissing it, instead of rolling his eyes (though he does that too), he folds your dress. As if it matters.

You stare at him, somewhere between melting and spontaneous combustion, and he simply raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

"No." You shake your head for emphasis, voice a little too weak to get the point across. "Just thinking I might have to marry you."

His hands settle at your waist, fingers tracing over the pink lace like he’s trying to process it, like if he touches it enough times, it’ll confirm that this is actually happening and not some cruel illusion. His thumb brushes the scalloped edge, breathing shallow. You were pretty sure he’s currently having a full-scale existential meltdown over lingerie.

"Agreed," he murmurs, distracted, hooded eyes still glued to your chest. "I think the courthouse opens at eight."

Your giggle stutters, hiccups right out of you, because his hands are suddenly everywhere, roaming with no clear plan, just a man in crisis over how much of you he wants to touch first. His palms skate over your stomach, down your thighs, up over your breasts.

"So, this is all I had to do to convince you to do what I want?"

His mouth follows, retracting the path of his hands, rewriting, reworking, perfecting – because apparently, the first time wasn’t good enough, wasn’t thorough enough. 

"You think this is what did it for me?" His voice is hushed. "You could've walked into my office six months ago and told me to get on one knee.” A kiss, open-mouthed, starving, just below your navel. “I would've done it."

Six months ago. You don't know if you believed that.

Except now you're spiraling, backtracking, rewinding, piecing together little details like some lovesick conspiracy theorist with red string and a bulletin board. Every interaction, every loaded glance, every time he let you get away with high-level flirtation without so much as a blink. You thought you were testing him, but what if he was never fighting at all?

And before you can even recover from that, before you can file an official grievance about why no one told you sooner, his hands squeeze at your thighs, his mouth so close to exactly where you need him, and his voice —

"You're so beautiful."

His nose presses into the damp center of your panties, and your hands fly to his hair so fast it’s practically reflex, breath stalling in your chest like your body forgot how to function for a second. 

This is everything. What you've wanted, dreamed of, written in the margins of notebooks (hypothetically, of course).

It should be perfect, but suddenly, it isn't.

Uncertainty slips between the cracks, heat turning into something less solid. You don’t have time to find it, to name it, because he’s already there, already sensing it, already fixing it before you even know what’s wrong.

"Hey." His voice hooks into you, gently reeling you back from wherever your brain was about to go. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

"No, I—," The words come out far too fast and desperate, and you can't decipher why it's so hard to say. "I do want to. Obviously." The nervous laugh that follows is definitely not your usual flirty confidence. "Have you met yourself? Because if you haven't, I would love to introduce you. Tall, devastatingly handsome — you'd love him."

His move curves, but his eyes stay patient and focused, giving you a second to breathe.

"It's just..." Another pause, another frustrated sigh. "I haven't been with anyone in a while."

"That's okay, we can take it slow." He moves so that he's hovering above you again, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, his smile just amused enough to leave you flustered. "How long?"

"May."

"May?"

"Yeah, like, May. Three years ago."

Aaron just stares at you, processing. You can see the gears turning, the little mental loading wheel spinning, his expression caught between stunned and deeply interested.

His fingers creep up, sliding under your ribs, just close enough to the heavy swell of your tits to remind you exactly where you are. What he was doing to you before you so rudely derailed this into actual conversation.

"Really?"

You pinch his arm. "Hey! That is not an absurd amount of time."

"No. I know. I didn’t say that," he says quickly. "I'm just... surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His lips part and he immediately shakes his head, exhaling like he's physically trying to dispel what just ran through your mind, knowing exactly where your thoughts were.

"I just mean — I don't know how every man you meet doesn't immediately worship the ground you walk on."

"Oh, well, they do." You smile. "But I was only ever planning on letting one of them take me to bed."

You reach for his dress shirt buttons, tugging insistently, but your hands refuse to cooperate, not properly communicating with your brain.

It's his fault, you decide.

He looks too good, and it was extremely hard to focus on anything but that.

You have no idea how you survived dinner. Or the car ride home. Or even the eternity it took to get past the door, because that was definitely a struggle considering your mouth was all over his, tasting the whiskey he’d barely touched, before he could even get the key in the lock.

You spent all night picturing this, the way his hands would feel in you, the way his mouth would taste, the way his suit would look crumpled on the floor.

Which, in hindsight, probably meant you were a pretty terrible dinner guest. Nodding, smiling, pretending to listen, all while barely holding back the need to ride him in public.

Aaron laughs, clearly entertained by your struggle, and then, because he’s nothing if not arrogant, he starts undoing the buttons one-handed, to be a show-off.

It’s rude, really. Because now all you can do is watch, helpless as he peels himself open to reveal golden skin, dark hair dusting over firm pecs, trailing lower, disappearing beneath his belt. 

Your manicured fingers glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, pushing his shirt away like uncovering some lost Renaissance painting that scholars would kill to get their hands on — something that should be in a temperature-controlled glass case, not just here, sprawled above you like he belongs to you. Which, he does, because he’s just letting you do this, letting you look. And you look. He is art. No, better than art. Art is stationary, lifeless, some brushstroke interpretation of what beauty should be. But this, him, he is warmth and breath and muscle.

Museums wish they had something this valuable. They’d burn down in despair if they knew he existed just for you.

"May," he muses, letting the word roll off his tongue, turning it over in his mind. "That's an oddly specific answer."

You make a vague sound of agreement, mostly just to acknowledge that yes, technically, he did say words, but you’re too busy to actually care. Too busy with spreading your hands over the planes of his chest, with grabbing at his belt.

"You were hired in May three years ago."

Your hands freeze. 

"That's... um weird." A slow blink. "Weird that you know that. Weirder that you noticed."

You work his belt loose, tugging it free. It’s meant to be a distraction, a well-placed touch to shift his focus from his revelation.

But then your plan backfires spectacularly because he’s hard, thick, unreasonably big and suddenly your fingers feel useless.

Aaron makes a sound — half a hiss, half a laugh — and his hands snap to your wrist, catching you before you can explore further, like he knew you were going to do that. "It’s okay, honey."

"I—I don't—," You blink up at him, floundering, desperately trying to sound casual. "That's, uh, I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

Aaron’s smirk deepens, his grip on you slackening just enough to trick you into thinking he’s going to be nice.

But then his other hand moves, slipping between your bodies, sliding beneath the heat trapped between your thighs, finding the neediest part of you, and pressing.

Your whole body jerks, a startled gasp catching in your throat as sensation flares — hot, sharp, mercilessly good.

His fingers start to move, rubbing tight circles against you. Your hands cling, one locked onto his bare shoulders, the other pressing against his dick, desperate to make him feel even a fraction of what he's doing to you.

It earns you a groan, low and gritty, hips twitching against your palm, his breath is hot against your lips, his mouth hovering just barely out of reach.

"I won't tease," he promises, but the way he bites at your bottom lip feels like a lie. His tongue is quick to follow, flicking over the welt he’s just left, soothing the burn before sealing it with a kiss, just this side of messy. “Three years… that’s a long time.” His lips skim yours again. “For both of us.”

A pleased sound bubbles up from your throat, slipping between his lips, that makes it obnoxiously clear just how much you love those words. That is a sentence you’d like embroidered on a pillow. Maybe cross-stitched into a nice, elegant frame for your future shared bedroom. 

"Oh," you sigh, a smile stretching against his lips. "I really, really, like knowing that. That's, like, incredible news."

Your brows scrunch, and you pull back just an inch. 

"Just to be clear, though, you do mean in a wow, you've ruined me for other women way, and not in a I've been to busy for a sex life way, right? Because those are two different things, and I need to know which one we're working with here—"

Aaron huffs a laugh and instead of answering with words, his hands slip into your panties, fingers finding your clit without prelude. Skin to skin now, no fabric, no flimsy barrier. Just touch.

His fingers dip lower, dragging through the slick, indecent in how easily he moves through the mess of you. He makes a noise — nearly a groan, mostly a hum of appreciation, of possession — before he spreads it, smearing your own arousal over your clit, rolling circles.

"Oh, wow, sweetheart."

Your thighs fall open like you have no say in it — because you don’t, because every instinct in you is reaching for him, needing it like a fix.

And maybe, maybe that should be embarrassing — the obvious, shameless way you seek him out — but it’s a gorgeous kind of humiliation, a flush that spreads lower.

"Well," you gasp, chest rising in stuttering little pants. "Y—you kept me waiting forever."

Aaron hushes you with a soft tsk, his fingers pressing, stroking, coaxing you into sweet, mindless submission. Every movement feels preordained, like he already knows your body, like he’s a man who’s spent years thinking about this.

"I know, sweetheart," he soothes, murmuring it against the fragile skin beneath your ear, punctuating it with a kiss. "But I think I'm making up for lost time pretty well."

"I guess," you manage. "Th—that's acceptable."

Aaron chuckles, the vibration traveling straight into your skin. His lips descend, an idolization thing, but it’s the kind of devotion that sets you on fire.

His hands spread over your thighs, parting them gently.

Your underwear drags down, slipping over your thighs, grazing the curve of your knees, and then off. And suddenly, there's nothing separating you from his eyes, from the way the air licks over you, cool against the sticky heat between your thighs.

His lips part like he wasn't expecting to fall apart so easily. Like he thought he'd have more time, more control. And the power in it, the sheer, intoxicating power of knowing he's just as affected as you are, that this is breaking him open, makes your skin fizz, burn, ache for him even more.

If someone had told you a year ago that Aaron Hotchner, mister all-business-all-the-time, would be between your legs, staring at you like he's never seen anything more perfect, you would have said something nonsensical. Something about fate. Or destiny.

And you would have been right. Because you always knew this was a definite.

"Oh, honey.... You're gorgeous," It's almost a whisper, like the words were dragged out of him against his will, stolen straight from his lungs the second his eyes landed on you. His gaze drinks you in, head tilting, lips parting, tongue skating over the swell of his bottom lip. “I knew you would be, but…”

A sharp, sizzling spark races up your spine, white-hot and unbearable, but when it should tip over into relief, it withers into frustration. The kind that makes your body revolt against the absence of touch. Your hips buck, thighs squeezing as if you can somehow force the friction you’re being deprived of.

"Give me a second, baby," he teases, caressing his nose along the inside of your thigh. "Just wanna look at you."

His mouth moves in decadent passes, open-mouthed kisses pressed into your inner thigh.

Another kiss. Then another. So close.

Then he detours. Veers off, pressing his lips into the dip of your hip instead, dragging his tongue along something that is not your clit.

"So perfect."

His fingers prod through your folds, parting you, fingertips wading through the slickness pooling at your entrance. The sound that spills from him is sinful.

All of your muscles coiling tight, every inch of you scorching with unmet need and just when you think you're going to have to beg him, just when the words start to form —

He gives in. 

His tongue is there first, dragging a flat, broad stripe through your center, licking over every hypersensitive inch of you before looking up at you through hooded eyes. You swear you nearly come from the sight alone.

"Knew you'd be sweet."

Aaron doesn't waste another second, burying himself in you, mouth moving like he's been ravenous for this. 

His grip is firm as he spreads you wider, keeping you at his mercy. His lips wrap around your clit for a split second before he moves again, tasing, licking, humming, lapping up everything you're giving him.

It's messy. Wet. Dripping. His mouth moves as he tries to wreck himself on you. Each second convincing you that he wouldn’t mind suffocating here if it meant another taste.

His nose nudges against you, the angle so cruelly perfect it sends another violent tremor through your body, legs jumping against his shoulders. Your fingers grasp blindly for purchase, gripping the sheets, tangling in his hair, at anything you can reach. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs into you, words muffled by your pussy. "Let me hear you."

"Oh — " The sound falls from your lips, your eyes squeezing shut like you can block out the overwhelming pleasure if you just try hard enough.  "Oh, that's — "

Your hips stutter, thighs tightening around his face.

Aaron chuckles darkly, and you feel it more than you hear it, the sound pulsing through your core.

You’re not sure you have a body anymore, not sure you exist outside of this moment. You’re just sensation, just trembling atoms held together only by his hands, his breath, his voice. There’s no past or future – just now, just him.

If this is what it means to transcend, to be unraveled and rewritten in the same breath, then let it consume you whole. You could die like this, and it would be the kindest death you could ever ask for.

A single finger ghosts over your entrance, teasing but never quite committing. He dips in, just the barest of intrusion, and you shudder, clenching around nothing because it’s gone just as fast. 

He waits, just long enough to hear the next breathy fussing before finally spearing back in. Your eyes flutter shut, breath breaking apart in little puffs.

The sounds coming from your cunt should embarrass you, sticky, so shockingly loud that if your brain was working, you’d be mortified. But it’s not working. Not even a little. 

His hand flattens over your stomach and suddenly the pressure doubles, triples.

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, "feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, yes, oh my gods, Aaron, I—"

Your normal senses have left the building. Packed its bags, hit the road, abandoned you to whatever dark magic this is. Because this —this isn’t how your body works. This isn’t how guys work. You don’t come from this. 

But here you are, hurtling toward it at full speed and all because he decided you would.

It’s happening too fast, the pressure stacking. Your thighs shake open, stomach clenching so hard it aches. Your mind is lagging behind, still reeling, still trying to rationalize but it doesn’t matter because your body has already made its choice, has already given in, has already decided this is happening, whether you’re ready for it or not.

"Aaron, I think—,"

Aaron just groans, finishing your sentence for you, lapping up your confession with his tongue,

"I know, baby." Hot air blows against your swollen clit. "Let me feel it."

It crashes over you, back bowing off the bed. Your body splinters apart, thighs trembling so hard you couldn’t stop them if you tried. The edges of your vision smear into nothing as the pleasure consumes everything in its path. 

His mouth stays on you, tongue and fingers pushing you through the aftershocks until you’re clawing at the sheets, until that pleasure tilts so far into oversensitivity that makes you unaware if you’re pulling him closer or pushing him away.

Your limbs feel like liquid, consolidating into every inch of your body, melting into the mattress as Aaron moves to be face to face with you.

He's looking at you like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to this planet, and maybe he is, because when his lips get close enough, you tug him the rest of the way down, crashing your mouth into his in a way that's all sloppy desperation.

You can taste yourself on him, can feel the way he groans into it when you sigh against his mouth, all soft and dreamy and drunk on gratification. 

When you pull back, your fingers card through his hair, fixing nothing but feeling everything.

"Oh my gosh," you gasp, dissolving into giggles, toes curling as you flop back against the pillows. "I knew you'd be good at that, obviously, but I wasn't expecting all that. Like wow, you should get a certificate of excellence or something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you sigh dramatically, "Or like, a trophy, a raise, a sash that says best head giver in gold letters—," You pause for a breath, sucking in air like you just realized how winded you are.

"— and I mean, I've never come like that before. So. You should probably put that on your résumé."

When Aaron presses against you, you feel every inch of him. Thick and unfortunately still restrained. His slacks are a cruel barrier, the rough drag of the fabric catching your clit in a way that rips a whimper straight from your throat.

His teeth scrape along your jaw, then he's mouthing at your neck, sucking, teasing, marking you.

"Firstly," he murmurs. "I hate the idea of anyone else touching you."

An involuntary shiver rolls through you.

"And secondly," he continues, "the fact that they didn't even know how."

Your hands are frantic as they fly to his waistband, fumbling a bit, the last hindrance between you offensive in its existence. 

"Well, yeah," you sigh, looking up at him through fluttering lashes, glossy lips parted just for him. "I mean, you're literally the only one who's ever known what to do with me. That has to mean something, right? Like, cosmic destiny or whatever."

Aaron shoves his pants and briefs off, barely sparing them a second thought, and then he's back, fitted between your thighs.

"You already know the answer to that." His lips brush your temple. "I'm the only one who knows how to handle you. And I plan on proving it."

"Yeah, okay," you say, squirming beneath him. "Not gonna argue when that sounds like the best idea ever."

You've seen a lot of versions of Aaron. You've seen work Aaron, serious and bossy, looking at crime scenes like he can hear the evidence whispering just to him. You've seen grumpy Aaron, glaring over his coffee when you talk too much at morning briefings (but you know he likes it, he just won't say). You've seen soft Aaron, the one who lets you steal his jacket even though you definitely don't need it.

But you've never seen this Aaron. This post-kissing-you Aaron. Lips slick, still damp with you, evidence of where he’s been, what he’s done.

His eyes flick to yours, and there’s no shame, no rush to wipe it away. If anything, he tilts his head, letting you see it from a better angle.

"You're so handsome, Aaron." Your voice trembles. You don't even know if you said it out loud or just thought it so hard he must have heard it anyway.

"And you,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your cheek, “are so damn sweet, honey."

You beam at that, overwhelmed, so unbelievably happy that your thoughts are practically spilling out faster than you can catch them.

"Okay so I just need to say — this is so exciting, like, you do realize I've had a crush on you for years, right? And now this is actually happening, and that's just — wow."

You suck in a sharp breath, nails dragging over the thick muscles of his arms, across his shoulders.

"I mean, it's us, Aaron. Can you believe that? Like, I feel like this has been building for so long and now I'm just — gods, you're so hot, this is actually distracting me. I can't even finish my own thought —,"

You laugh, because you already feel so full of him and he isn't even inside you yet.

"And I know you're being all careful and slow because you're sweet and romantic and, like, the most perfect man alive, but also —,"

You grind up, chasing friction, his cock sliding just right over your clit. Your breath stutters, hands fisting at the nape of his neck as you try to remember what you were saying.

" — I'm literally at your mercy right now, so you should probably take advantage of that before I —,"

"You talk so much, baby."

And then he shuts you up. Hard.

His mouth rams into yours, ingesting the comment, the breath, everything.

He doesn't rush. 

The head of his cock nudges at your entrance before he finally, slowly, pushes inside.

It knocks the breath from your lungs. Your mouth parts against his, lips catching on his as a little sigh slips out. Your nails dig into his shoulders, helpless against the way he's opening you up. 

He stills, a sharp, fractured inhale slicing through the air, fingers digging into your hips — hard. He is struggling. You can feel it. The way his cock twitches inside you, like his body is screaming at him to move.

"I-I'm good." Your laugh wobbles, catches at the edges, barely disguising how badly you want him to believe you. "You can keep going."

"You're tensing because it's been a while." You don't mean to, but your body reacts before your brain can tell it not to, stiffening. Stupid, stupid. His exhale is shaky, and his lips press against your cheek. "I know that. I expected that."

You swallow, but it doesn't help.

"I also know that you think if I notice, I'll stop." His forehead rests against yours. "But I need you to hear me, baby. I'm not stopping."

His lips graze yours.

"I'm going to work you through this. Just let me in, princess."

And the second you do, the second you finally give in —

He groans, pushing deeper, stretching you completely, filling you to the hilt. 

"There we go," he breathes, wrecked with praise. His hand presses to your lower belly, feeling how deep he is, how well you take him. "That's my good girl."

Your head tilts back, lips parting, body doing the melty thing that feels really, really nice but also really, really dangerous because you swear you're seconds away from levitating straight out of your own skin.

"Okay, so I did think this would feel good —," Your fingers twitch against his chest, nails raking lightly over sweat-damp skin as another sharp moan tumbles free. "— but, um, wow, this is like — this is so —,"

Your words taper off, get lost somewhere between your psyche and your mouth, because oh. Oh, wow. He's so deep, so heavy inside you, pressing into places you didn't even know existed.

"Go on, baby," he murmurs, a smirk plastered across handsome features as he dips his head. "You were saying?"

"You know," you gasp, words all flimsy and loose, like they've been shaken up inside you, "I kinda always wondered how big you were —"

Your breath hooks halfway through, hiccups on a moan, brain scrambling to keep up with your mouth, your mouth scrambling to keep up with — him.

"Not that I, um — I stared at your pants or anything —" Another sharp inhale, another desperate moan, your walls fluctuating and squeezing around something too thick. "I mean, I try not to because I'm a professional —"

An involuntary clench makes him curse, makes his fingers dip into your hips, makes his head plunge forward hard against your shoulder.

"Honey, shit—,"

Your lashes flutter. "What?"

"Sweetheart, if you keep squeezing me like that while you ramble about my cock, I'm not going to last."

Your mouth clicks shut promptly.

"That's what I thought."

Hotch rocks his hips, just once, a sharp gasp fissuring from your lips like you weren't expecting it. 

"Jesus, sweetheart. You're trembling." He cups your cheek, his thumb skimming over your bottom lip, eyes dark and aflame. "Does it feel that good?"

You nod, and he hums, dragging his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in. 

His hand drags down your waist, spans over your belly, fingers pressing like he's charting the way he fits inside you.

"I used to tell myself I wouldn't do this," he admits. "That I wouldn't touch you. Wouldn't ruin you like this."

Your head lolls back, eyes fluttering, lips parted prettily, gasping as he rocks into you again, and again, and again. You shake your head, or at least, you think you do.

"You don't —" You try to shape words, but they liquefy on your tongue. "Don't ruin me, Aaron, you — oh, you make me —"

Hotch's throat bobs, his pupils blown.

"You make me so, so good, so soft, so perfect."

His hand cups your jaw. "You're already all of those things, sweetheart."

"Not before you," you sigh. "I've been waiting so long, Aaron, so, so long —"

"I know, baby," he groans. "I know."

His hand veers between your bodies, his fingers finding the swollen, neglected bundle of nerves.

“Aaron — oh, wait, wait, wait —,” Your hands shoot up to his shoulders. “I don’t know if I can, I mean, I can, but it’s just —,”

His cock throbs inside you, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he finds it again, harder this time, his fingers matching the pace.

“Too much?”

“Yes, no, kind of? I don’t know, I can’t—,” You choke on your own breath as another thrust knocks every last rumination from your head. “I can’t think.”

“Good.” His forehead presses against yours, his lips parting against your mouth, panting, his control slipping. “I don’t want you thinking. Just feel me, sweetheart. Feel what I’m doing to you.”

Your body is shaking, shaking so hard that you don’t even know if you’re moving or if he’s just pushing you through it. 

“I know, baby. But you can take it, can’t you?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter, body twitching. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises, groaning as he grinds into you, stretching it. “One more, honey. You can give me one more.”

It hits you slowly, unwinding through your organs like smelted honey.

“Oh, oh —,” Your breath falters, mind going blank, the pleasure overwhelming every nerve in your body until you can’t do anything but let it consume you.

“Christ,” he groans, feeling you clench around him so tight it nearly undoes him.

You barely register the way you’re gasping, twitching, babbling out breathless little moans, vision blurring, and for a second you think you might black out.

“That’s it, princess,” he rasps, fucking you through it the reverberations. “So, so good for me.”

His pace turns shallow, sharp, chasing the tight, perfect squeezing of you still thrashing around him.

“You’re so tight, honey,” he grits, hands bruising your hips, your breath still catching from your own orgasm.

You’re too gone to respond, too wrung out to do anything but whimper as he takes you, using your body to pull himself over the edge.

He groans, low and deep, his fingers tangling in your hair, his mouth ghosting over your cheek as he finally breaks.

A shudder, a muttered curse, his body jerking, hips slamming into yours as he spills inside you.

He doesn’t mean to collapse, you know that, because even as his body gives out, his arms brace, still trying to be careful, even now. You want to cling to him, lock your legs around his waist, but you barely remember how to move, so you just let out a sleepy sound, nuzzling blindly at his throat. 

He murmurs something low, something that sounds like praise, maybe worship.

His lips press to the side of your face, half-gone and still recovering, and then his muscles tense, trying to lift himself off you.

Your arms wind around his neck before he can get too far. 

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, “I’m crushing you.”

“Don’t care,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse. “Feels nice.”

“You did so good.”

When he finally pulls out, you feel the loss and everything that comes with it, his release sticky and warm beneath your thighs. 

Aaron disappears into the bathroom, and you barely have time to miss him before he’s back with a warm cloth in hand.

You giggle, squirming before he even touches you, already restless, and the second he presses the cloth to your inner thighs, you jerk, laughing helplessly.

“Oh, wait —,”

Aaron sighs, one hand pressing against your hip to keep you still. “Sweetheart. You have to let me clean you up”

“But it tickles—,”

He smirks and continues his work. “How do you feel?”

“Like I saw god actually,” you ramble, kicking your feet against the sheets. “Or, like, like, if I had to describe it, I’d say I transcended reality for a little bit —,”

Aaron just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your knee as he finishes cleaning you up. Each swipe reminds you that your legs might not be on speaking terms with you tomorrow.

When he’s done his mouth finds yours again. It’s easy to kiss him. If it were physically possible to stay attached to him, twenty-four hours a day, you’d gladly test the theory.

“Worth the wait,” he breathes into your mouth.

“Well, yeah,” you murmur, smirking up at him. “I figured it would be for you.”

He laughs.

“Yeah, baby, you were good,” he mutters, kissing right over your stuttering pulse. “You were so good.” Another kiss. “So good I’m already thinking about the next time.”

Your heart hasn’t even slowed down, and you’re already thinking about the next time. Already plotting, already ready to drag him back down and see just how quickly that next time could turn into right now. But before you can so much as tug at him — Aaron is rolling out of bed, pulling on his pants, disappearing into the kitchen.

You mean to protest, to demand why he left you alone in a post-bliss haze, but then he’s back, pressing a glass of water into your hand, watching you drink it like it’s his personal responsibility.

Then comes food, something light and something he feeds you between kisses, between lazy murmurs about nothing. 

At some point, the blankets are back over you, his lips pressing against your forehead, his voice saying something about getting some sleep before you got any ideas, before pulling you against him.

You hum, content and drowsy, shifting a little, rolling over to get more comfortable —

And then your eyes land on that photo frame from earlier. You had a clear view of it now.

It was you.

It takes you a second to place it, but once you do, you almost laugh. You know this photo — because Garcia took it. She printed it out months ago, probably as some ridiculous gag, and stuck it to Aaron’s office wall with a bright sticky note that read your favorite obviously. You’d rolled your eyes at the time, called it workplace favoritism, but he’d never taken it down. 

And now, somehow, it’s framed. On his nightstand, like he’s been looking at you every night for —

You don’t finish the thought.

Instead, you just smile, huge and uncontrollable.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t need him to.

Because you already know.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[iimplicitt]

hiii 🤠 anon here

how do you feel about writing for mafia lando where he’s married to the reader who’s not his choice it’s basically an arrangement and his family hates her and she’s having a really hard time in his house and Lando doesn’t notice and he’s cold and one day her family causes her to have a panic attack and he sees her in his room all small and scared and then he helps her and makes her a feel better and etc something about a heated confession and people being put in their place. if you do write this thank you :)

HAPPINESS IS A BUTTERFLY | LN4

pairings: mafia! lando x arranged marriage reader

an/warnings: arranged marriage, violence, mentions of abusive parents, angst, panic attacks, fluff, hea

wc: 5.2k

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched the sleek back car roll up in the long drive way from his office. Windows tinted but he could make out the faint outline of a person as they moved around before Oscar got out of the car to open the door for its passenger.

His new wife.

The words tasted sour on his tongue as he drank some of his whiskey, not caring that it was nine in the morning. He needed a pick-me-up for the day that was ahead.

Gleaming hair caught in the sunlight, a delicate hand with a blinding diamond hesitantly taking Oscar’s as red bottom Louis’ met the pavement.

His eyes narrowed a bit as he watched you, mere curiosity to see how you acted when he wasn’t around. When the wedding happened it was short and extravagant. All the glitz and glamour expected of such a pair. A politician's daughter and a booming business man whose money usually came tinted red. A shame that most of the world didn’t know your fathers money was just as dirty as his.

It was an alliance in London’s eyes. A step towards peace.

He hadn’t even seen you until the white lace veil was lifted.

You were pretty but that wasn’t enough to suddenly sway his mind into liking the whole arrangement. He didn’t have much choice. Having coppers on a payroll was a deal too good to pass up, so he agreed. Shook hands. It hadn’t mattered much, not in the long run. Lando was always busy. Always working. If a marriage hadn’t been forced upon him, he didn’t think he would’ve ever had a ring on his finger.

He watched silently as you waited for Oscar to grab your bags. Your eyes flickering around the property, taking in the well kept gardens and security cameras mounted every few yards. A fortress.

His eyes took in the dress you wore, expensive silk draped over skin. Flowing like liquid in the subtle summer breeze. He took note of how your hand kept flexing, the one with a ring. His ring.

The one he had slid on your finger a week ago as he whispered, “I do.” Your own voice low as you muttered the vow, eyes not meeting his.

He could barely remember what the kiss had been like. It was quick, soft. Obligatory. Both of you seemed relieved it was over with, arms linked with one another as you left the cathedral. White flower petals falling into hair as they were tossed into the sky.

Lando set his tumbler down and backed away from the window, trying to take a calming breath before walking downstairs. He needed to make this livable. An ecosystem. Staying out of each other's way, respecting boundaries. Telling where and what was off bounds. If you needed help, ask Oscar. If you wanted someone to talk to, also ask Oscar. Leave him be, because he was busy.

You seemed reasonable enough in the few minutes of shared company. You knew this was a business transaction. It wasn’t something to get hopes up on. Lando knew you were smart enough not to be a burden so hopefully it would feel like nothing had changed. Just an extra person in the household. Another echoing voice.

He could hear the sharp click of your heels as you entered the front foyer, the soft sound of your voice as you spoke in hushed tones. Your whole presence seemed cautious. Like you were treading in a minefield.

As he stepped down the stairs and into the light, your eyes met. The air shifting. Tense. Dangerous. Your painted lips pressed into a line as you waited for instruction. Ever obedient. Compliance being woven into you as a child.

He had met your father on more than one occasion and he knew he wasn’t a kind man.

But the problems of your past were yours.

Lando sighed lightly through his nose, head tilting and hands in pockets as he let himself look at you for another moment before dismissing Oscar.

The foyer was still. The only thing he could hear was the faint hum of electricity and birds outside. Watching you as you watched him.

“Nice drive?” He asked, not quite sure on the formalities of the situation.

You laughed slightly, the sound coming out in a short exhale as you looked away from him. “It was fine.”

He hummed, not seeing a point in furthering the conversation and he gestured for you to follow him.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The summer had gone by in a repetition of droning days and lonely dinners. The only thing keeping you company were the few books you packed, although you had already read through them all. An endless cycle of talking to the walls and sitting near your window, feeling like a modern day Rapunzel.

It’s not necessarily like you weren’t allowed to go anywhere, but it still felt off limits. Frowned upon. A burden if you were seen walking the halls.

His family didn’t like you very much. Which you both understood yet couldn’t come to terms with. They had to have known this wasn’t any more of your choice than it was his. And why shovel the blame onto someone’s child? It wasn’t your fault your father was corrupted and played a better hand.

Pressing your forehead against the cool glass, you watched as the world went by. The silent hum of air conditioning was the only thing to droll out your thoughts and lately it hadn’t been working. The room felt suffocating but there was no one to turn to. Even voicing your thoughts out loud to yourself seemed like some boundary was being crossed. Maybe even to yourself. That you were starting to get too comfortable.

Oscar seemed nice enough. Timid. Not sure how to approach you or if he even should. He brought your meals to your door like clock work. Part of you felt bad but the thought of eating in the dining room seemed like suicide. You had tried the first night, assuming that was just part of the routine. To have dinner with your…husband.

But Lando was nowhere to be found, leaving you at a large oak table alone and shoveling food around. Appetite non-existent. Oscar had told you he usually took dinner in his office. That most of the other members of the household ate out.

His words hit you dully as you stared at the polished wood, not quite believing this was going to be the rest of your life. Then again, you weren’t sure what you wanted. Did you want Lando to make an effort? Did you even want to be around him? You didn’t know much, just that he was a bad man. But aren’t they all? Apparently that’s all the world thought you were fit for. Violent men with money in their eyes.

No, you didn’t want to know him.

But god, loneliness caught up to everyone.

The hours ticked by and you sat there, tracing lines into the skin of your thighs with your nail. Over and over again till skin prickled and red lines appeared. The itch and sting foreign, numb. As if you’d shot your heart with novacaine. Your eyes unblinking as you did the action, pure muscle memory. You didn’t have to think. You didn’t want to.

At least you never wanted to think about yourself. Your situation. The listless marriage you now found yourself trapped in.

But your mind would wander. What did he get up to? What did he even do? Was it really any different from the current political affairs the nation got up to? Would he one day change his mind and want more?

The thought made you shiver, eyes trailing to your locked door. He’d never tried to come in. Hell, he’d never even been to your room. In the weeks you’d been there you had probably only seen him a handful of times. Walking down the hall and his eyes would catch yours for a moment but nothing else. Looking through you like a ghost. Cold. Indifferent. Sometimes you’d hear him in the house. Talking to Oscar or on the phone. Always business. Always something you didn’t understand.

He couldn’t seem bothered at the thought of you being around. Didn’t seem interested. And that weird, fucked up little voice in the back of your mind whispered that Lando was keeping himself entertained just fine. That he found comfort in other women. Having affairs. You barely felt married. There weren't technically any commitments beyond regurgitated vows. So why did the thought still make your stomach churn?

Perhaps it was the feeling of being unwanted. A constant companion of doubt. Your family didn’t want you, pawned you off. Your husband didn’t want you. You would never get to experience love. You’d go through life longing for creature comforts—

You pressed your forehead harder into the glass. Wanting the thoughts to stop. You pushed so hard you hoped it’d break and you’d go hurtling towards the ground.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Six o’clock sharp.

Dinner.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

You felt like you were going insane. The walls bending inward. The wallpaper swirling. The ceiling breathing.

Crazy.

Wandering the halls was reckless but you started to care less and less if Lando saw you. For the first time in months you wanted him to see you. Be reminded that you were there. Proof you were alive. You were here. Even when it never felt like it. You felt like a phantom who haunted the house, mostly only coming out at night when the rest of the world slept. Chasing the creaks of wood and following the patterns in the rug. Chasing something. Feeling wild. Deranged like a white rabbit who was late for tea.

His mother yelled at you. For something, you weren’t sure what. It seemed like no matter what you did you were wrong. Skin not fitting right over bones. Disassociating and staring at her. That only made her more mad and she slapped you. Not for the first time. Hard across the face. You hadn’t noticed till you heard the echo of it around the kitchen. Didn’t realise till some of the staff gasped, hands flying over mouths. Glowing wide eyes staring at you in shock.

You blinked again, subtle warmth creeping into your cheek. Hand slowly going up to hold your face. What had you done wrong? Why were you always wrong?

His mother scoffed. “You’re no good. You’re not even all the way there are you?” With a look of disgust she turned away, disappearing down the hall.

One of the cooks slowly approached you, as if you were some wounded animal. Holding out a pack of ice. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“For what?” Your voice sounded distant. Distorted. Like it was coming from somewhere else. Taking the ice, you left. Letting it sit in your hand instead, the bitter coldness of it sending a dull shock up your arm.

You felt like crying. At least you thought about it. But nothing would fall out. Your eyes felt dry and heavy. Staring at nothingness as you walked with your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

This was your life. This was going to be your forever. Sucked into yet another man's orbit who didn’t give a shit about you. Because fuck what you want, right?

You turned into what you thought was your bedroom. You weren’t quite sure how you got there. It had been odd lately. Like moments of time blacked out. Arriving one place and not knowing how you got there. Tuning out to your depressing reality.

You were going to die alone. It wasn’t even your fault. Or maybe it was. Maybe you should’ve tried harder. Fought your father and left as soon as you had turned of age. Why didn’t you try harder to fight back? Did some twisted part of you want this? The lack of effort. Things being handed to you. Maybe you thought you deserved it. After all, you'd been living off your fathers dirty money guilt free. Perhaps this was just your karma.

Longing for a life you’d never have.

You sucked in a sharp breath, tears finally beginning to prick at your eyes. The droplets stung so bad your vision went blurry.

You barely felt it as your knees hit the hard wooden floors. Didn’t register the scratching sound of your nails dragging against the planks, blindly trying to crawl your way out of the hell you were living. Feeling pathetic and ungrateful because you knew it could be worse. It could always be worse.

A sob left your throat, bubbling up and out like acid.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The door flew open to his office and he was about to yell at whoever had the audacity when he turned, paused. The look on Oscar’s face wasn’t one commonly seen.

“What?”

“There’s a problem.”

Lando sighed, tapping his pen on his desk. “Care to elaborate?”

“It’s your mother and your wife.”

Lando reared back slightly at the word. It wasn’t thrown around often. Hell, he hardly saw you. And when he did, when he’d catch you wandering around well past three in the morning something was just…off. He didn't know how to approach you. Or if he even should. You’d seemed equally disinterested by his company. Staring at him sometimes like he was an apparition that wasn’t meant to be there.

He wouldn’t blame you if you hated his guts. Lando knew most women would prefer a love filled marriage compared to whatever the hell they had.

“What about them?” He asked, eyes flicking down to his papers again. Not seeing why—

“The staff said there was an altercation in the kitchen.”

Pausing, his eyes flicked up. Brow raising.

Oscar sighed, “your wife is in your room.”

That got him up. What the hell were you doing in there? And why? It wasn’t like he kept important documents in there, he knew better than that but he still didn’t trust you much. You were your fathers daughter. Maybe this was all some ploy to get into his personal things, find weaknesses, cracks.

His feet moved briskly down the hall, his polished shoes clicking dully on the ornate rugs and painted eyes followed him as he went. Lando didn’t pause as he saw his door, didn’t pause as he turned the handle.

“What do—“

Lando halted to a stop as his eyes found you. Feeling as if the earth had been yanked out from beneath him when he heard you try to smother the sound of your crying with a hand. Curled up in the space between his bed and the nightstand. Looking so small as you trembled.

Your eyes didn’t meet his. He wasn’t even sure if you heard him come in. Your breathing was too fast, too ragged. Short bursts of oxygen, your lungs not being able to keep up.

He shut the door softly behind him and quietly made his way over to you, lowering himself to his knees. Debating if he should touch you or not. You hadn’t touched in months. Not since the wedding.

“Hey,” his voice was soft and you flinched. Head shooting up and staring at him. He’d never seen you look so frightened and you tried to push yourself back harder into the wall. Shaking your head as if he’d caught you doing something wrong.

He immediately caught the red outline of a hand on your cheek. His jaw clenched. An odd, unbearably awful sensation churned in his stomach at the thought of someone hurting you. Knowing it was his mother only made the fire burn hotter. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t like you were close. But the rage was itching up his spine like a spider.

“You’re okay,” he said again. His voice was rough, but a whisper. He reached out to you, slowly. Hands gently taking hold of you as he pulled your shaking frame into his, feeling the way your lungs struggled to catch up. Your muscles coiled in tension as he touched you. He hated it.

“You’re alright, darling.” He soothed your hair back, feeling your nails bite into his skin as you twisted the fabric of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself. Trying to make sense of it all. Of why he was here.

He knew it had to be confusing. That his sudden reassurance was off putting and regret was starting to inch its way up his throat. The spindly legs tickling and desperate. He should’ve handled this whole thing better. It was selfish. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. Holding your head beneath his chin as you tried to calm down. “I’m here, if you need me to be.”

You didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to do. Where to go from there. This was new territory for him. Second guessing wasn’t usually in Lando’s playbook but you were something new entirely.

He began to lean away but your grip tightened on his shirt, your head pressing further into the crook of his neck.

Sighing, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position, holding you in his lap as he leaned against his bed. Giving you time. Gently running circles into the nape of your neck. His grandmother always did that for him, it always seemed to help calm him down. Lando waited patiently, taking in the faint scent of your shampoo. Smiling to himself a bit despite everything because it was the same one he used.

Slowly your harsh breathing began to subside but your body still trembled from the aftershocks.

His fingers still ran lightly over your skin, his voice a low hum and he could feel the vibration of his own rib cage with your weight against him. “I’ve had panic attacks too, you know?”

You didn’t do anything for a moment, and then, like the first break of daylight, you slightly shifted your head and your voice was a whisper. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Something had shifted. Maybe others wouldn’t have noticed, but you did. That next morning there was a knock on your bedroom door. Eight o’clock sharp. You hadn’t slept much, your eyes still raw and body restless from the previous evening. The feeling of his light, delicate touch on you was on replay in the back of your mind. You hadn’t been held in what felt like years.

You hadn’t expected such kindness from him.

Padding over to the door, you rubbed at your eyes, trying to look alive before opening it. “Morning, Oscar–” you blinked at the form of Lando standing in the hall. Wearing a casual linen shirt and dress pants, jacket draped over one arm and he looked at you expectantly.

“Ready?” He asked.

You felt dumb as you continued to stare at him. Not expecting to see him so soon. Not thinking he’d even want to see you after yesterday’s mess. “What?”

He sighed lightly through his nose. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

“Why?”

There was a slight crease forming between his brows. “Do you not want to?”

You blinked again before reality finally caught up to you. “No, no. That’s fine. Just… let me get dressed.” You eyed him as you shut the door. He was acting weird.

It was nice.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

“What on earth are you doing?” His mother shouted over the sound of a power drill. Standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

Lando looked at her for only a moment. Still cross with her after the kitchen incident a couple of weeks ago. He had yelled at her after he managed to get you into bed. Yelled at his whole family. The staff, for not telling him.

“She is the lady of the household and my wife. You do not touch her, you do not say a fucking word to her unless it’s praise.” He looked directly at his mother. “Understood?”

“I’m building a reading nook.” He finally said, standing back to look at his progress so far. He took you to the fabric store yesterday but you were beyond indecisive and he wasn’t sure the new couch went with the interior of his office.

He had been trying to go out more, just small places. When he found out you hadn’t left the house since you arrived he was confused and furious with Oscar. His friend and right hand had merely raised his hands in surrender, muttering how you had never wanted to go anywhere.

“Whatever for? Since when do you read for pleasure?” His mother asked, mostly teasing. Trying to weave her way back into his good graces. He doubted that would ever happen. He was on the verge of throwing her out but you managed to talk him out of it.

“It’s not for me.” Lando left it at that. Watching how his mother’s shoulders fell at the realisation and she turned away.

He smiled slightly to himself as he set up the couch, pushing it under the window so you could get good light and a nice view of the gardens. Plus, he could watch you more easily from his desk when he worked.

You looked pretty when you were reading.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

For the first time in months you were bored, and not in a bad way. Lando made sure there was always something for you to do when he wasn’t around. Part of you felt bad, following him around like a kicked puppy. But any time you’d start to back off, give him some space, it was like his hand blindly found yours, not even looking up from his work, tugging you back.

Muttering a quiet, “stay.”

You tried to ignore the butterflies that began fluttering in your stomach, chasing after whatever this was. You didn’t know why you felt stubborn over it. He was your husband after all, butterflies are supposed to be a good thing.

You took up cooking as a hobby, mostly different kinds of fresh pasta. Trying to keep your hands steady as Lando would walk behind you, fingers lightly dragging along the small over your back. Leaning over your shoulder, lips nearly brushing your neck as he quietly spoke, “that looks lovely.”

He always spoke so softly to you. His touch always delicate.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Lando fixed his cuff links as he stood in the foyer, making sure his suit was wrinkle free in the large mirror. There was a big Christmas gala that night in London. A whole cluster of politicians, businessmen, philanthropists, etc. He didn’t have much of a role to play besides being seen, given his bookies did most of the under the table work.

When he’d asked you to go with him, you hesitated. He knew seeing your father was something you’d like to avoid. Over time you slowly opened up to him about how strained the relationship was.

He had lifted a hand to your cheek, gently brushing his knuckles along your cheekbones, watching in satisfaction as your pupils expanded at his touch. “I won't let him near you,” he whispered. Watching as you debated before eventually nodding, leaning slightly into his touch.

When he heard the sound of heels clicking sharply against marble flooring his eyes flicked up, watching you approach in the mirror. Looking like heaven in high heels. Your black dress fit you perfectly, the white fur shawl was draped lazily over your shoulders.

Lando felt his mouth go dry as he turned, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as you approached. The sweet smell of your perfume swirling around him, making him feel hazy.

God, if you knew what you did to him.

It seemed like every night now that he dreamt of kissing you, doing a whole list of unruly things. Despite the ring on his hand and yours it still felt off limits. Not feeling sure of what you actually wanted.

“Ready?” You asked, a small smile playing on your lips.

He blinked at you, still in a daze. “What?”

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh and he felt his stomach pool.

“The gala. Yes, right.” He cleared his throat, not thinking twice as he took your hand. “Let’s go.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

You felt all the eyes on you as he took you around the dance floor. The whispers. Lando Norris’ wife who he liked to keep hidden away. Apparently most people hadn’t even known he was married. They thought you were just a new date till they saw the blinding diamond on your finger and his matching gold one.

You felt stiff. Too perceived.

But he lightly took hold of your chin between his fingers, making you look at him.

“It’s just you and me, love.”

Love. You felt equally reassured and nauseous.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Lando was using every excuse he could to touch you. Hand splaying on the small of your back where your dress dipped low. Fingers lightly brushing the back of your neck as he talked to the other guests. Hand on your thigh beneath the table. When he’d first done it you jumped slightly and his heart skipped a beat when you looked at him, eyes low, before turning away again and taking a sip of your wine.

He couldn’t help it as his lips pulled back slightly when he began to rub circles with his thumb, feeling the muscles of your leg tighten. But you leaned toward him, an invitation. He felt more drunk off of you than any wine he had been drinking.

He’d only see glimpses of your father. Lingering to the side of the ballroom walls. Whispering in corners with other greedy men. His eyes always on you, though.

Lando didn’t like it. Then again he never liked anything enough for that to be a fair test. But he knew never to ignore his intuition, so he took your hand in his and tugged you along until you were outside, the cold December air twirling around them.

You shivered as you waited for the valet to pull his McLaren around, blushing a bit when he draped his jacket over your shoulders. Or maybe it was just the wind, he wasn’t sure. But he’d liked to think he made you flustered.

The engine purred as he drove away, feeling your eyes on him as city lights flicked back.

“Why’d we leave early?” You finally asked.

His grip adjusted on the steering heel, looking in the rearview mirror, always vigilant. He hadn’t realised till now that going public made you a target. Made him vulnerable.

“Just wanted to,” is all he offered. Not wanting to scare you. He knew you already had a difficult time adjusting to his world. Then again he shouldn’t cut you any credit. Growing up with your father couldn’t have been any easier.

You hummed, not believing him. Your eyes finally pulled away to stare out the window. Letting him relax. It was strange, having somebody for the first time see him. The thought was equally relieving and terrifying.

When they pulled up to the house the car fell quiet, a heavy silence falling over like a blanket. He wanted to say more to you, but what? This was all new territory and the thought of messing up this bridge he’d built—

“Lando.”

He turned, looking at you as moonlight painted your skin through the window.

You reached forward, hand taking his, “I know you’ll keep me safe.” Another pause and you played with his wedding ring. “I trust you.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

A loud thud woke you up, your heart beating erratically as your door handle began to move. Thankful that you had locked it but fear was still crawling up your spine. You were just about to reach for your phone to call someone for help when a ragged voice poured out from the other side, weakly saying your name. The sound of a body slumping to the floor.

Lando.

You quickly tore off the sheets, stumbling a bit in the dark and you yanked your door open. A hand flying up to your mouth as you took in the state of him. Bruised and slick with blood, one arm wrapped around his rib cage, his breath rattling.

His eyes cracked open, gleaming in the low lamp light of the hall. His lips pulling back in a bloodied grin.

“Hello, darling.”

“Oh my god,” you did your best to get him up, almost falling under his weight as you maneuvered him to your bathroom. “What happened?”

Your heart lurched as Lando coughed, turning his head to spit out some blood into the bin and he sat himself up on the sink. Wincing as he did so. Not answering you.

“Lando,” you said quietly, afraid that even loud noises would hurt him and you gently took hold of his face in your hands. Not caring blood and dirt would get on them. Gently running your thumbs along his cheek bones.

He seemed to melt into you, letting his head fall forward and rest against yours as you brushed the damp curls back. Seeing him like this was a new kind of pain you never wanted to experience again.

“Who did this to you?” Although your voice was gentle, there was a layer of conviction under it that even surprised you.

He sighed, a wheeze coming up from the back of his throat and his hands came up to hold onto your wrists. You didn’t miss his cracked and bleeding knuckles.

“I have a duty of care,” he muttered.

Your father. You felt like throwing up.

Gently pulling his head forward, you held him to you. Letting his heartbeat bring some life back into you. He was okay. He was here. He came back to you. Everything would be fine.

Slowly, Lando’s arms wrapped around you, holding you as tight as he could.

“I’m going to kill him,” you mumbled into his hair and he laughed, not caring that it hurt.

He leaned his head back slightly, eyes flicking between your own and your lips. His hand that had snaked up to the back of your neck pulling you in slightly. Hesitant. Then all at once.

Mouths colliding, a kiss that felt like a tuning fork struck against a star.

His fingers twined in your hair and you tried to be gentle with him. As much as you could. But the feeling of finally was making you feel weightless. Reckless. Desperate as he held you tighter.

You felt high as he whispered the words my wife between kisses.

“So much for a marriage of convenience,” you managed after you pulled away. You didn’t want to, but he needed your help.

He smiled again, those dimples you loved so much deepening in his cheeks. “Nah,” he said lightly. “I think this will be a marriage of inconvenience.”

And he kissed you again.

taglist: @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @c8lap1nto @ashbone

[mythalism]

i think whats so interesting about the severe fumble of the dragon age elves is how i get the feeling that the devs underestimated how many people identify so strongly with them, even outside of the cultures they are most often cited as analogous to. you dont have to be indigenous or jewish to see yourself or your family or your people in their struggle. anyone who has ever experienced racism, xenophobia, religious persecution, or any sort of social and economic discrimination can find themselves reflected in the elves of thedas. anyone who has experienced poverty. anyone who has ever experienced the threat of sexual violence. perhaps not all of the experience would resonate but some aspect of it would. and even if they weren't so universally relatable, they should have been treated better for the way they do so clearly mimic real world experiences of genocide, racism and discrimination and the implications of veilguard's message to just "forget the past and move on" is frankly disgusting when viewed as an answer to the same questions faced daily by the real world cultures they reflect, and yesterday's anon showed that brilliantly.

but im also fascinated by the thought process behind how they just got so readily written off as an irrelevant monolith. it feels like they thought it would make no difference for players to lose this major point of connection to the world. epler's comment about how the "elves had their time to shine" haunts my nightmares. where are they getting these ideas from like genuinely? i dont understand where this conception of the players being sick of elves comes from. sick of solas, sure. even ancient elves. this is a widely expressed sentiment all over the internet and i don't blame people for it. but modern elves? city elves and enslaved elves and new dalish clans? are people actually saying this somewhere? or did they just conflate people being sick of how over-exposed solas and ancient elves were with being tired of elves as a people? did they think that requests for more dwarf and qunari lore meant people wanted the elves to be narratively absent? and did they really try to remedy that with giving titan/harding a throwaway line about how the elves have "thrived" while they suffered? and not actually really giving the dwarves or qunari anything substantial anyway? or did they fear criticism for writing them "wrong" and decided it was better to barely write them at all? did they think the players just wouldn't care? did they think at all?

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

When you write, don’t say, “I’m going to write a poem.” That attitude will freeze you right away. Sit down with the least expectation of yourself; say, “I am free to write the worst junk in the world.” You have to give yourself the space to write a lot without a destination. I’ve had students who said they decided they were going to write the great American novel and haven’t written a line since. If every time you sat down you expected something great, writing would always be a great disappointment. Plus that expectation would also keep you from writing.

-Natalie Goldberg Writing Down the Bones “Writing As Practice”

No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can't put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.

-Erin Bow

If you're a writer you're supposed to write a lot of bullshit. It's part of the gig. You have to write a lot of absolute garbage in order to get to the good bits. Every once in a while you'll be like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time writing bullshit," but that's dumb. That's exactly the same as an Olympic runner being like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time running all those practice laps"

[drchucktingle]

As an autistic person, did you struggle to make and keep friends? And have you found friends through the writing world? I ask because my mom always said i needed to find my people. I did finally find them (they are neurodiverse trans nerds, haha), but not until i was like 30. And i wonder if its true of other autistic people too. So i guess my question is: did you find your people, and when?

thank you this is good question. i have always had a LOT of CLOSE BUDS even from a very young age. i would actually say that i am unusually socially adept in my way and that it is partially BECAUSE of my autistic trot. LETS TALK ON THAT FOR A MOMENT

'BUT CHUCK YOU SAID YOU ARE ON THE SPECTRUM AND AUTISTIC BUCKAROOS CANNOT BE SOCIALLY ADEPT' some say. and sure it is UNUSUAL overall, technically speaking, but there is also an important reason we talk about this as a spectrum of buckaroos and not a monolith

when buckaroos ask me what it is like to be autistic i try to explain like this: there are certain cues and markers from the outside that serve as a sort of identification checklist but because of masking they are not always correct. instead i see it as question of WHAT IS IT LIKE INSIDE YOUR BRAIN?

internally my brain is different. its taking in way more information all the time, including the stuff that neurotypical buds block out, and that can become overwhelming. it is hard to navigate because i do not have that automatic neurotypical 'here is what is important here is what is not' function

so yes i can be easily distracted and zone out as i watch the patterns and fractals spin off. and yes i can miss certain things in social situations. in many autistic buckaroos this makes large groups overwhelming and the OUTPUT of behavior matches what we typically know as signs of autism

FOR ME however, same thing is going on inside, but i have managed to HARNESS that information. even from very young age i see that everyone is DOING THE HUMAN ACT but instead of rejecting that and shutting off i think 'well okay i am just going to do THIS because thats what they actually want'

in other words, most neurotypical buds say one thing that has a kind of spiraling social-cue-related OTHER MEETING (they do this ALL the time) and instead of rejecting that i have trained myself to be REALLY REALLY good at knowing the hidden meaning. it is EMPATHY but on a sort of LOGIC BASED level

and because i have always been pretty good at that, people like to trot around me and say 'wow this is a good friend they understand me'. now for ME that can be a little exhausting and there are things i need to do and stims and all that to release the effort, but overall it is worth it to me

OTHER THING is that i was a successful CREATOR AND ARTIST BUCKAROO from an early age which is socially seen as 'cool' especially when you are trotting around in your youth. it is not particularly FAIR but it is true that some level of fame makes buds treat you well even if you are 'weird'.

of course it can be a sort of FAKE 'treating you well' but as an autistic buckaroo it is still more of a chance than you might otherwise get. this timeline has sort of carved out a very special little sliver of social grace for the token odd artistic weirdo to have a seat at each cool kids table

ANYWAY that is the trot of my life. it is a unique trot that i dont get to talk on much but since you asked THERE YOU GO. every chance i get to say 'I LOVE BEING AUTISTIC' and talk on HOW MUCH IT HAS IMPROVED MY LIFE i try to take a moment and do that. when i was young i had few autistic heroes

and OF COURSE it can be difficult and overwhelming and we need to have space for those stories and voices, but i want young buckaroos who get this diagnosis to know there are ALL KINDS of stories and trots on the autism spectrum. MINE IS PRETTY DANG COOL and maybe yours will be too. LOVE IS REAL

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ☃️ soft patience / zayne x reader

synopsis; zayne's the bestest boyfriend in the world when you're going through cramps — even though some misunderstanding led some tears to shed.

🍎 pomme's notes - psst! my asks are open! taking some quick requests :D i'm in a writing mood!!!!

⋆ 500 words / fluff / reader is afab (mentions of periods!) / 2nd person / super self-indulgent :3c

i think zayne would be so very patient during your periods. of course, there's the whole doctor thing, and while he is your physician, he is first and foremost your boyfriend.

that man's got the patience of a saint. if you ever blow up on him because of the cramps and the nagging, he stays quiet and steps out, and you're just left wondering if that was his last straw (spoiler alert — never. you're as stuck with him as he is with you).

you're left stunned. how could he just walk away like that? you're just having a hard time. you didn't mean to drive him away — you care about him so deeply, but god, does your head hurt, and your stomach has been aching so so badly.

when the initial shock dissipates, and you start feeling the tears welling in your eyes, the door to your shared apartment opens again, and zayne walks in with a bag of takeout from your favorite place and chocolates.

when he catches a glimpse of your teary eyes, his eyes widen in return, and he puts down the bags to focus on you, worried if your cramps were more painful than usual.

"are you okay love?", he says softer than usual, as if to not disturb you.

"i- i thought you had-" you stammer in between deep breaths, trying hard not to start crying, "i thought you'd had enough, zayne."

he tries to speak but you interrupt him again;

"i know i'm a pain right now but i can't help it, i'm — i didn't mean to be rude to you" a sob softly escapes you, "i know you care about me, but everything is just too much all at once now but please, don't leave me zayne, i'm so sorry."

his hands cup your face delicately slightly shifting your head up to see your face. his thumbs wipe away the tears now freefalling from your eyes, and he gives you an understanding smile.

"why would i leave you?", he hums a bit before speaking again, "i thought i'd let you breathe a bit and get some food for you. i know i was being overbearing, and forgive me for it, my love."

shaking your head, you profusely apologize in return and he laughs a bit.

"we look silly apologizing to each other this hard, don't we?" and that finally brings a smile to your face, managing to pull a breathy laugh out of you.

and in hindsight, maybe thinking that zayne;

the man who hides you away from jumpscares in the horror movies you insist on watching,

the man who texts you daily, checking if you ate,

the man who drops by your house just to give you a hug when you've had a hard day,

the man who would do anything to see you smile,

would leave you after an emotional outburst in one of your most vulnerable moments was a bit dramatic.

yeah. zayne would love you through it all. he's got the patience of a saint, doesn't he?

[makeyoumine69]

Delirium

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: During the wedding night, you suddenly ask Bruce to try for the baby because you've been thinking about it for a long time.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smutty fluff, body worship, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, breeding kink, mild size kink, trying for a baby, true love, established relationships, dirty talk, pet names, hair pulling, marking, possessive behavior, biting, belly bulge, slightly Insecure!Reader, Husband!Bruce Wayne.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 4.3k

𝐀/𝐍: This is my first time writing for Bruce Wayne, I hope you like it!💕

The night was young in Gotham City, a million stars shone in the sky like tiny shards of glass, the white sleek yacht bobbed peacefully on the waves, anchored in the harbor waiting for its owners. Mr. Wayne and the newly married Mrs. Wayne were on their way to the harbor after the fancy wedding at the most prestigious restaurant in town, but the name of the restaurant had already slipped off your mind—you were too nervous about the upcoming wedding night and the little surprise you had prepared for your husband.

As the black limousine pulled up to the gates of the private section of Gotham Harbor, you tensed a bit—the echoes of the wedding party still vivid in your mind—and hugged yourself, sensing the soft material of your white fur coat, and looked out the car window in a feeble attempt to distract yourself. You'd never been this nervous before, and you couldn't really understand why, since you and Bruce were in love, and this marriage was the most genuine thing possible. At least you hoped it was, and so did he.

"Are you ready?" The man asked you briefly, turning to look at you and placing his hand on your knee, carefully running his fingers over the smooth fabric of your fabulous wedding dress. "Believe me, you're going to love it, honey."

You knew he was right—you would like it, of course, you would. But perhaps you were still unable to believe that the world around you was real, including Bruce as your husband.

Smiling a little shyly, you craned your neck to meet his intense gaze, his warm, big palm still caressing your leg, but not really going too far.

"Yes, I'm ready," you finally replied, putting your hand on top of his, and that little touch caused him to take your small hand in his and press a tender kiss against your soft skin. "It's just," your voice fell lower with a hint of uncertainty. "I've imagined all of this so many times…"

"Hey," your husband cut you off and cupped your face, forcing you to look directly into his mesmerizing eyes. "You don't have to imagine anymore. Everything is real and we're living this moment together," his lips curled into the boyish smile that always left you disarmed, his palm stroking your cheek with unadulterated tenderness. "Just let it go and I'll take care of the rest."

How this man always managed to be so charming, always choosing the right words to make you feel better, more relaxed. In those moments, you really believed that soul mates existed and that the two of you were definitely the most real soulmates ever—that unspoken understanding, that invisible line that connected the two of you, that was the strongest emotional bond— you could just reach out and press your hand against his strong chest and feel his heart beating so fast just for you.

And most importantly, it was all real.

Without saying a word, you leaned in to peck his perfectly shaved cheek before the two of you bent your heads to press your foreheads together in a moment of absolute delirium. Bruce held your hand, fingers intertwined like your souls. Entranced, you cuddled up to his massive frame and brushed your fingertips across his tuxedo, which was as dark as the night sky.

A little later, you reluctantly pulled away from each other as everyone on the yacht waited for you, including the captain and crew, who were probably already worried about the delay. Charming as ever, your husband offered you his hand as you stepped out of the limousine, and without hesitation, the man lifted you up to carry you, bridal style, all the way to the yacht. Even when you stepped on the ladder, Bruce never thought of letting go of you, holding you close to his chest like the most precious treasure he had.

Although it was not your first time on the yacht, you were amazed by its size and the luxury that surrounded you like the ocean around the yacht. It even made you feel a little uncomfortable. At one point you wanted to tell Bruce to slow down a bit and give you a second of respite, but one of the crew members, dressed in a perfect white naval uniform, was steering you somewhere deep inside the exquisite interior of the yacht. The long hallway you were walking through was lit by small chandeliers inscribed with diamonds, the finely made carpet underneath muffled the footsteps, making them almost inaudible. As you paused at the dark wooden door, something heavy dropped into your gut.

God, why couldn't you just stop being so nervous already?

"Your suit, sir," the young Marine replied, gesturing to the door in front of you. "If you need anything, let us know on the intercom."

"Thank you," Bruce nodded and the man turned on his heels before leaving. "Are you cold, sweetheart? You're shivering."

"No, it's okay, I just didn't expect everything to be so…"

"Extravagant? Does it bother you?" He asked, pushing the wooden door aside to carry you into the room.

Hugging his neck, you took in the surroundings, immersed in the opulence of the high-tech design and expensive furniture that screamed luxury. "'It doesn't," you murmured after a pause, still astonished by the unnatural atmosphere. "You just didn't tell me we were staying here."

Smirking, he just chuckled in response and strolled across the room to place you on the king-sized bed, which was covered in red rose petals—a clichéd but romantic choice.

"I hope it's not a problem," the man remarked, helping you to take off your fur coat. "I want some privacy," Bruce tossed your clothes onto the nearest armchair before taking off his own coat and then his wedding tuxedo, casually loosening the black bowtie. "A place where no one can bother us."

Leaning back on the bed, you watched him pull up his sleeves after undoing the gold cuffs and placing them on the small nightstand with a slight thud, and you could tell the man was a little nervous, too, though he tried to hide it.

"You never told me you had a yacht," you chirped teasingly, getting up from the bed to approach him standing next to the small portable bar. Bruce was rummaging through its contents, looking for a particular drink. "What other secrets do you have, Mr. Wayne?"

As soon as you reached him, you wrapped your arms around him and snuggled up against his broad back, the white shirt clinging so tightly to his muscular body, outlining his buff physique in the most delicious way.

Bruce's throaty laugh rumbled from his chest as he caught your hands and cocked his head to the side so he could see your playful eyes. "Why are you such a tease?" The man gave you a provocative grin, his smoldering gaze gliding over your beautiful face, paying special attention to your pretty lips. "I have no secrets, you know that. I'm like an open book to you," he slowly spun around to capture you in his embrace, lifting your chin to kiss it gently at first, but as soon as he heard your muffled gasp, his mouth was already busy leaving a wet hickey on the sensitive skin of your neck. "My love for you couldn't be more transparent."

"Bruce," you whispered his name in a slightly hoarse voice as your throat suddenly felt so dry. "Could you please wait for me here? I have a surprise for you."

Confused, he stopped in his tracks and lifted his dark eyes to you, his breathing already erratic and labored. "A surprise?"

You nodded and carefully removed his clinging arms from your supple figure. "But first you have to help me with this," you smiled mischievously and turned around so that he could see the ropes on the top of your voluminous wedding dress. "Uh, I think I forgot how to breathe normally in this dress."

Your husband frowned but didn't ask any questions, his hands tracing the curve of your back with undisguised admiration before he began to carefully undo the tight ribbons that together formed an intricate ornament. Rope after rope, more of your skin was exposed for his touch to feel, for his lips to caress, for his eyes to indulge, but as soon as the last lace was undone and the tight corset squeezing your chest was about to slip down, you caught it with both hands.

"Wait," you giggled at the tickling sensation as he kissed your shoulder blade, cupping your breasts and pressing you closer to him so you could feel how much he wanted you. "Bruce, please, I just need a few minutes."

With a low groan of frustration, the man finally released you and stepped back, leaning against the wall and catching air with his half-parted lips. "I hope you'll be really quick," Bruce declared, taking the bottle of some top-notch whiskey. "I can't make any promises regarding my patience."

Embarrassed and excited at the same time, you still held the wedding dress close to your almost naked body as you quickly rushed to the bed to pick up your purse, which was made of a fine cloth woven with gold threads. Bruce followed your every move with his attentive gaze until you disappeared behind the door in the small adjoining bathroom.

Once you were alone, you rested against the cold marble wall, breathing fast and feeling uneasy. There wasn't much time, as you didn't want to keep your husband waiting, so you quickly opened the faucet and looked at your reflection in the oval mirror framed in white gold, trying to regain some composure. The gurgling sound of the water seemed to drown out all the whispering voices in your head, which was your fear talking—a fear of being rejected and denied in your suggestions of… trying for a baby.

You let out a shaky sigh and closed your eyes for a second. Maybe tonight was not the best time for such offers, but the symbolism and romantic vibes of the wedding night were too appealing to drop the whole idea. But what if Bruce would not be happy? The mere thought of such a scenario sent cold shivers down your spine and made you claw at the porcelain surface of the sink. Sometimes it could be so hard to deal with your inner insecurities, because your mind could be easily manipulated by fear, making the worst outcomes seem like they had already happened.

Anxiously, you grabbed the purse with your shaky hands to open it, and then carefully took out a small package with something weighty inside—the pearls Bruce had given you the day he proposed, the family heirloom. As soon as you placed the elegant jewelry in your open palm, you couldn't take your eyes off it for a while, regretting that you never really allowed yourself to wear it, thinking that you couldn't accept such an expensive gift. After all, you loved this man not for his money, but for his personality and his big heart full of kindness not only for you, but for all mankind.

Somehow, such thoughts helped you to relax a bit and finally focus on the main goal of why you were here. In one smooth motion, you let the wedding dress slide down your petite frame until it was wrinkled at your feet, and as you stepped out of it, you looked into the mirror to see your naked body, and the only thing left was the pair of white lace panties. Without a second thought, you took them off as well, leaving only the white high-heeled shoes on. Then you carefully put the pearl necklace around your neck, taking a little extra time to fasten it, but in the end, the result was worth it. Running a finger along the smooth surface of the pearls, you smiled at your reflection, feeling good and confident about everything you had planned for tonight—your beloved husband would love it.

By the time you left the small bathroom, which looked as if you were the first person to ever use it, Bruce was lying on the bed, leaning against the headboard with one hand folded under his head. The dark-haired man didn't even hear you coming when you appeared in the doorway—completely naked except for the necklace and the pair of shoes. It was a miracle he didn't spill his drink all over himself and the bed, but you could tell he was having such a hard time keeping his composure because his eyes were now as dark as two black holes.

"Darling," Bruce only managed to say one word under his breath, obviously confused because he definitely hadn't expected anything like this. "I'm at a loss for words," he pushed himself off the headboard and stood up to put the glass on the bedside table without even looking at it, his eyes glued to your naked form. "'Cause there are no words to describe your beauty."

You walked towards him with a mischievous grin and he did the same. Bruce's face became more and more agitated, he even had to tug on his collar as he was literally suffocating, and the second there was no distance left between the two of you, the man knelt before you to hug your hips and bury his face in the warmth of your body.

"Mhmm," you closed your eyes and traced your fingers through his tangled hair, gently massaging his scalp. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

His hot breath scorched your bare skin, making you shiver and if he didn't hold you, you could easily fall. Intoxicated by your sweet scent, Bruce rubbed against your mound, peppering the area around it with little pecks as he began his ascent to your belly, then higher to the hollow between your breasts, and when he finally cupped them, you couldn't hold back your moans.

"A-ahh…Bruce," you leaned on his shoulders, clutching them almost desperately, wrinkling his shirt, smelling his cologne as it wafted around you like a hazy mist; your legs were about to give way from the intoxicating sensation of his tongue toying with one of your hard nipples. "Please…touch me…there…again."

Nuzzling your perfectly shaped breasts, the brown-haired man looked up at your slightly embarrassed face, the way you fluttered your big eyelashes so innocently sent tingles down his lower body and coaxed his dick to throb in his tailor-made pants. But all of that was nothing compared to your sweet little plea to be touched.

Without any hesitation, Bruce crouched down again and planted a lingering kiss on your pubic bone before he spread your legs a bit wider so he could get a taste of your already dripping pussy, and the second his hot tongue ran along your folds, you threw your head back, barely able to balance yourself on your feet with the last strength you had left.

"Like this?" He managed to ask between kisses, licks, little bites along your swollen lower lips. "You taste so good, Princess."

Tipsy from your taste, Bruce easily draped your leg over his shoulder to get better access to your blushing slit as he lapped at it like a starved man, giving everything he had for your pleasure. Whimpering and trembling in his hands, you looked down to see his blissful face bathed in red, his fingers digging into the soft mounds of your hips, holding you open for him.

"Ugh… Aaah…Bruce," you had to bite your lower lip from the tight knot that was swelling in your core, and with every flick of his tongue you were getting closer and closer to exploding like a pack of fireworks. "So good…please…keep going…mmmfffp!"

Your loud scream echoed off the walls of the opulent bedroom suit as Bruce stuffed your oozing cleft with two fingers at once, skyrocketing your pleasure at making you feel so full, stretched and overstimulated as he continued to slurp between your legs, sucking your throbbing clit from time to time in the most tantalizing way possible.

"Shit…oh shit," your voice cracked every time Bruce curled his long digits inside you to rub his finger pads against the spongy spot that was like a moth to the flame. "I'm almost there…ahh…please…"

You were about to gnaw at your hand when a million invisible tingles pierced through your nerve endings, setting them ablaze, and just when you thought you were going to faint and your heart was going to jump out of your chest, Bruce suddenly picked you up and threw you on the bed. In an instant, he was back between your legs, holding them apart and using everything he had on you: his teeth, his lips, his fingers, his tongue. Anything that would help him complete his mission to turn you into nothing but a wet, whimpering mess.

"Let it go, darling," the man husked, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, his digits buried knuckle deep in your soaped pussy once more. "Show me how much you love it."

And how could you refuse this man when he was so determined in every move he made?

Your orgasm washed over you in an awesome wave that forced every little part of your body to contract, your soft inner walls clenching mercilessly around his fingers as the man kept pumping you until the very last aftershock hit your body. As you wrinkled the white sheets, you saw stars dancing in front of your eyes as you looked up at the ceiling above you, your chest rising and falling so quickly that you even found it difficult to breathe—the level of pleasure was so immense that you had to put a hand to your head as a clear sign of how overwhelmed you were. And so was Bruce, but unlike you, he was still locked and loaded, his dick so hard it hurt, but he didn't want to rush things by fucking you right away. Instead, the man reveled in the sight of your post-climax body, your pussy covered in your flavor just like his face and his fingers, and he didn't forbid himself to take a moment and clean every last ounce of your cum.

Breathing heavily, Bruce straightened up to take a proper look at you—still shaking and unable to speak. "If you could see what I see right now," he murmured, hovering over you, taking both of your wrists in one hand to pin them above your head. "So vulnerable," he nipped at your neck, using his other hand to practically sever his bowtie and several of the top buttons on his shirt. "So wet and hot…and completely at my mercy."

"Yes," you almost screamed the word, writhing beneath his heavy muscles, but not really trying to free yourself from his trap. " All of this... is for you."

"Say it again." Bruce demanded, and the next moment you heard him unzip his pants, your wrists still locked together and nailed to the mattress. "Tell me you're mine. Only mine."

Unable to maintain the intense visual contact, you closed your eyes and instinctively bent your legs, spreading them wider as you felt his hot length pressed against your dripping slit while he smeared your wetness around it, teasing your clit with barely perceptible rubs of his swollen tip against it.

Panting, you arched your back into his touch, wanting to feel more of him. "I'm all yours… only yours!"

Hesitant, Bruce wanted to say something more, but then he noticed the shining necklace around your neck—the realization hit him like a freight train. How could he have noticed it only now? The man must have been blinded by your beauty, unable to notice anything else. He outlined the roundness of one of the pearls and took a moment to contemplate, memories of your relationships flashing before his eyes as if he watched a documentary based on your lives.

"You finally wore them," he whispered against your mouth, loosening his grip on your wrists to stroke your warm cheek, the weight of his sturdy body still pressing against you like a heavy blanket. "They fit you more than you can imagine."

You smiled, barely holding back the itching tears that suddenly formed in the corners of your eyes. "Bruce," you hugged his shoulders faster than you could actually think, holding them as if they were the only anchor to reality. “I love you,” you watched him closing his eyes and leaning closer to brush his nose against yours and his hips were moving in their own momentum to keep you reeled up. "I love you so much, please, I want you, I need you!"

Those words, laced with such desperation and longing, were the last straw and Bruce couldn't resist the urge to own you here and now. Not anymore. Briefly licking his lips, the man leaned down to capture your mouth in a sloppy, almost brutal kiss, then placed a hand next to your head to lean on it, shifting his weight as he unceremoniously pulled down his pants, groaning as his dick grinded against your folds, your pelvis, the underside of your delicious hips.

"Fuck, you're literally perfection," he suddenly blurted out, giving himself several quick strokes before aligning his thick cock with your worn-out opening. "My perfection," Bruce thrust into you in one smooth motion, keeping one of your legs stretched to the side for the really deep penetration. "My wife…arghh…my love."

The bed began to crack beneath your bodies, your moans, his grunts, and the sounds of flesh meeting flesh mingled in a bawdy cacophony of pure lust. There were no barriers, just raw passion that you both experienced, you looped your legs around his lower back, sinking your nails into his skin as you sought some semblance of support in his shoulders from how hard he was fucking you. And that could only mean that Bruce had really lost control, that you had managed to push him beyond his limits, but as if that was not enough you rested both of your hands on his firm ass just to grope it with all your might.

Inflamed to the point of no return, he placed himself straight on his knees, lifting you up a bit to change the angle to hit all the hidden spots inside you as he wanted to feel you squeeze his dick in unbridled pleasure; the sight of your bouncing breasts only added to the depravity of the current situation, forcing him to grit his teeth as he felt himself on the brink of falling apart.

"Mmmh-Bruce ," you gripped his toned hips, unable to open your tear-filled eyes. "Put a baby inside me…please!"

Knitting his prominent eyebrows and slightly shocked by your sudden offer, the man did not stop pounding into you, literally impaling your body onto his beefy cock with pure abandon, as if you were going to die tomorrow. But the idea of breeding you, holy shit, could be something even hotter than that? The image of you carrying his child almost pushed him over the edge and he had to slow down a bit, leaning on the fist he was pressing against the bed.

"Do you… do you really want this?" Your husband asked in a gruff voice, wiping the sweat from his tense forehead.

Gulping, you looked up at him through your heavy lidded eyes before you took his large hand into your smaller one to press it against your abdomen. "I want you to fill me with your seed… until I am s-so full of it," you stammered as you felt the outline of his cock poking into your lower body, Bruce pressing his palm harder against your skin, feeling the same. "Until you get me pregnant with your kids."

"How can I say no to my dear wife… when she asks me so nicely?" Bruce replied through clenched teeth, literally doing his best not to cum right here and now. "Uh, pregnancy will suit you so beautifully, my darling."

Having said that, the man quickly pulled out of your pliable body to change positions, so that you were now standing on your knees and elbows, hugging the big pillow to muffle your screams as he began to fuck you from behind, grabbing your hair as he rammed himself into you without restraint. A white veil covered his vision as he was about to lose himself in this debauchery, in the way your ass jiggled, in the way you arched your back, in the way you moaned his name. Not to mention your pussy clinging to him like a vice, ready to milk him to the last drop. For a moment, Bruce didn't even realize that he was also moaning from the overwhelming pleasure, his hips snapping against yours as hard as he could, longing to bury himself as deep as he could. As soon as he felt the burning tension at the base of his spine, he leaned over you to literally bite into the wet mark he had left on your neck moments before, sneaking his hand between your legs to rub your feverish clit, and as your second orgasm crashed over your system, he was finally able to let himself go, shooting thick spurts of his fertile seed into you until it began to flow down your inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets.

Bruce was only able to find some peace after he had claimed you in the most primal way. It was such a strange feeling of tranquility, but somehow it turned out to be what he had been looking for all this time—the knowledge that the woman he loved more than anyone in the world would now carry his legacy. One day the world would be saved and he could spend the rest of his life with his family by his side, and that was something he was truly willing to fight for until his last breath.

[enigmeyyy-writes]

I definitely think a lot of this is really interesting now that I'm rewatching the show again to write my fanfictions...

Katara definitely had her faults (and it was kinda wrong of her to tell her older brother that he didn't love their mother as much, especially because he most likely had more memories of her alive in comparison), but she was still a 14-year-old girl thrust into adult responsibility in the middle of a war. She is misunderstood a lot of the time from a fan's perspective because (in all honesty) a lot of us watched the show as kids and either thought she was super cool or super annoying. I even only started to find Katara annoying after I was older--and that was mainly because in times when she did attempt to "solve" things or "fix" something she wasn't mature enough yet to understand how to handle it responsibly. Sokka was a lot like this too, and we see him getting blamed a lot less. Both of them were standing in as leaders in their tribe during the war, and both of them left. Sure, the Avatar showed up, but even Aang was running away from responsibility until he realized he had to face the consequences of his actions!

Past this point is a lot of me talking about how I'm addressing a lot of this in my fan works, so check it out if you're interested!

I think a lot of my thoughts on this topic stem from the fact that I want to explore the emotional and responsibility commitments the characters of ATLA have weighing on them. In the AU I'm writing, for example, the characters (set in canon) are aged up and a lot of them have more people they are attached to. Since this was a Katara-centric post, I'll also include what I have in mind for my Katara fic.

Growing Pains centers around the letters Katara sends home to her and Sokka's childhood friend, Mali. He was the oldest of the boys left behind by the tribe because he just didn't quite make the age cut, and now serves as a hunter and protector for the tribe. He was definitely upset when his friends left him, but he knew that if they were to travel with the Avatar he had to stay and protect their tribe. Katara sends her letters detailing the stories of her adventures to Mali but soon realizes that she left a lot behind at home for what was turning out to be a perilous and risk-filled adventure.

And on the Aang side of things (because let's face it, a twelve-year-old boy having childish immaturity and the weight of the world on their shoulders is NOT the best combination), I wanted to explore more of his energy and experience of learning maturity after hardship in a Book 3 and post-war fic titled Spitfire.

Spitfire centers around one of Zuko's childhood friends (an OC because I think he deserved friends he could actually trust prior to joining the Gaang) named Soru coming to terms with the fact that he never truly was against the Avatar even though he's from the Fire Nation. Escapism at its finest--truly. As Aang has to come to terms with the new reality the world is entering after the defeat of Fire Lord Ozai, he has to learn how to deal with the weight of the political aspect of society the rest of his friends (and former enemies for that matter) were already wrapped up in.

All in all, I really think exploring aspects of the characters of such a beloved show that aren't really addressed is such an interesting thing to do. I applaud all other ATLA writers on the platform (and any platform) for either just sticking to canon or coming to terms with the flaws that are either over-exaggerated or under-represented in fanfiction, but I am not one of you! I want to explore the inklings of depth we get from this fun show, especially since I'm approaching this from a perspective in which the characters are older and arguably have more responsibility on their shoulders.

I'd really appreciate it if anyone would check out my stories (will be posted on here and ao3) or at least show interest in them! I've worked really hard to put all the details together behind the scenes, so any support or showing you enjoy my works/ideas is greatly appreciated!

I just watched Avatar for the first time all the way through, and yeah, it’s great, but the one thing that surprised me was how different Katara was compared to the fandom interpretation I’d seen and internalized before watching.

Like, before you watch Avatar, you’ve seen all these memes about Katara and her mom, and based on those memes, you assume it’s one of those lines you have to get used to hearing at least once every episode. But then you watch the show and realize that she only talks about her mom maybe five or six times per season and you also realize she only brings her up when she’s trying to comfort someone or empathize with them because that’s how she processes her grief and that’s one way she connects with people.

Or you hear the infamous line, “then you didn’t love [our mother] the way I did” and you prepare yourself for one of the worst character assassinations ever only to see the scene after nearly three seasons worth of context and realize she was kinda right. She’s been the mother, the nurturer, the comforter. She’s been patient, gentle, and accommodating where everyone else has gotten to be insensible and reckless and childish, and the one moment where she allows herself to feel her grief, suddenly she’s this evil bitch and not, y’know, a 14 year old girl whose been thrusted into adulthood in a way no other character has. A 14 year old girl who should be allowed immaturity and raw emotion and anger instead of the patience and grace she’s been forced to extend to every character without even the smallest amount of gratitude or even consideration in return.

Or you see all of the clips where Katara puts Aang in the “friendzone” and you expect to have this wishy washy back and forth where Aang is putting his feelings out there only to have Katara neither commit nor express any clear reciprocation or rejection. Then you watch and realize that, as cute as the ship is initially, that there’s never a point where Aang returns any comfort or grace to Katara despite her always doing this for him to the point of coddling. That for as much as Aang says he loves her, he never seems to outgrow his perception of her so he can recognize her as someone who feels grief, anger, and pain as much as she expresses love, kindness, and maturity. And instead of having moments where he learns to see her beyond her strength or compassion, you’re instead given moments where Aang forces his feelings onto her, both romantic and non-romantic, and Katara is expected to just…shoulder those feelings the way she shoulders everyone else’s.

Katara is the most misunderstood character in the show. As much as people recognize the complexities of Zuko, Sokka, and Azula, they struggle to do the same for Katara because they see her struggles as somehow lesser, and therefore, less deserving of sympathy. They can handle her so long as she’s being endlessly patient and loving and kind, but the moment her endless love, patience, and kindness runs out, she’s suddenly this annoying bitch who can’t shut up about her mother or reciprocate Aang’s feelings. But Katara’s trauma does matter as much as anyone else’s. No, she wasn’t banished from her kingdom. No, she didn’t lose her entire community, and no, she isn’t the only one who lost her mother. But the difference between her and everyone else whose experienced loss because of the Fire Nation is that she’s never given time to process her trauma. Aang gets to lean on Katara constantly. Toph gets to express her feelings to Katara, and yeah, Sokka also lost their mother, but unlike Katara, he isn’t put in the position of being a substitute for everyone’s parent. He even admits that he sees his sister as a mother. The only characters who ever comfort Katara or allow her to vent is Zuko and her father and that’s, like, three scenes in a show where the other characters are consistently given opportunities to seek out Katara for unconditional support.

The fandom interpretation of Katara has been so bastardized that even those who haven’t watched the show know her for this fanon version and not for who she is. She’s such an interesting character beyond her fandom limitations, though. She’s brave, hot-headed, and hopeful as well as gentle and caring. She wishes to learn waterbending, not only because she wants to fight in the war, but because she wants to continue her culture’s practices because, and people often forget this, she also lost an entire subculture within her already fractured tribe. And she wants to defeat the Fire Nation both because of her deep love and empathy for other people, but also because she wants to avenge her mother. But because some of the fans have reduced Katara to a bitch who constantly whines about her mother and friendzones Aang, you wouldn’t know any of this, and it sucks because she’s the only character whose been dumbed down to such an extent.

[melanchoire]

ot4 aespa x freeuse reader PLZZZ

so many requests about g!p aespa so HERE WE GO

cw: blowjob, breeding, creampie, degradation, double penetration, handjob, humiliation, mommy kink, riding, sex tape??

being the only member without a dick in a group where all your groupmates have one was a difficult task for you 😣 at first you weren’t aware that they had this... characteristic. but when you found out about it, there was a certain tension whenever you were around them, and you always tried to do everything possible to make sure it wasn’t an awkward moment! buuut there were times when tension and desires won…

unnie karina who always has most of the work; solo activities, special collaborations in music festivals, projects as a model or ambassador. besides being the leader of the group, you already know how that role involves a lot of work and time in the life of an idol and how much maturity and seriousness she has to put in sometimes. she has no time for anything!

so karina returns to the dorms tired after a week full of solo and group activities, flights to other countries and long hours of filming for upcoming campaigns with brands where she is an ambassador or muse. seeing the pout and tired expression on her face as she walks through the door to your room is all you need to know that today you will be the one helping your leader and take care of her as she usually takes care of her members

riding her cock while she can only flatter you and moan beneath you 😵‍💫 karina has no strength today to degrade you or try to dominate you, so she just lies on her back, resting her hands on your hips and enjoying how you’re making her feel good by riding her and helping her take some stress off her exhausted body :( looking up at you with bright puppy eyes, begging “please love. keep going, don’t stop. please.” and you wouldn’t stop even if she begged you! karina always works sooo hard and is usually a punching bag when it comes to criticism, being in the eye of the storm and under the judging gaze of the public 💔 and the best thing you can do is let your dear unnie use your body to forget about the world out there for a bit

ohhh and if you play with her tits while riding her cock 😵‍💫 super whiny and needy when your thumbs rub her nipples, writhing under your body as she thrusts her hips up to bury her cock deeper inside you as if it wasn’t deep enough already!

giselle being the talented writer and producer of songs or mixtapes that were never officially released due to company decisions, but it was no problem at all! she loved working on music as a hobby, enjoying writing songs and making new sounds or trying out other rhythms that caught her attention or were fun. giselle also loved inviting you to her bedroom! recording songs with meaningless but catchy lyrics, playing with voice effects and making instrumentals that were catchy and quite danceable

but giselle sometimes also wants to work on making music seriously, making songs for future projects or opportunities that may arise at some point in the future throughout her career with her group or as a solo artist. but she includes you in her plans too?? she states that she would like the two of you to do a collaboration in case she ever starts a solo career, or in any case, be a sub–unit outside the group or in some song for a group album in the future

she would say, “i would like to try something like ‘call me mommy, mommy.’ or something spicy and naughty like that.” and you would laugh in her face because you thought she was joking! until she arches an eyebrow and you realize that giselle was being completely serious about this…

lying on your stomach on her bed, a pillow under your stomach to lift your hips up so giselle can fuck your pussy from behind while you moan and whine into the microphone connected to her laptop 🥰 of course she could use a sample or be the one to record the moans for this track, but why would she do that when she has a bandmate willing to help her with her musical projects??

whining “mommy” after every time giselle’s voice sings the line “call me mommy, mommy.” and sounding so vulnerable and fragile that giselle begins to question whether she wants to release that song in the future because you sound so beautiful moaning her name that she wants to be the only person who can hear you in that position…

ALSO giselle opening her computer camera and recording or taking photos while she fucks you cruelly from behind 😣 pulling your hair and forcing you to lift your face from the pillows, making you look at your own reflection in the front camera, clicking the mouse and taking a photo at the exact moment her cock kisses your cervix in a thrust that makes you roll your eyes and open your mouth in a silent moan 🫠 but giselle won’t post that photo on her instagram! she would if she could 👀 she prefers to upload it to her private account where she only has the members of the group and her closest friends, showing off to the world the fun she has during the recordings of her songs

winter and ningning, the cute maknaes of the group who are obsessed and perverted when it comes to their beloved unnie 🥺 winter shamelessly staring at your ass while ningning has her gaze fixed on your tits, both exchanging a knowing look and talking mentally to decide if what they have is a good idea or not…

getting on your knees and jerking off both of their cocks at the same time, enjoying how sensitive and loud your sweet members get from having this kind of attention on them 😵‍💫 winter grabbing her cock with one hand, guiding the head against your lips and moaning as you take her entire length into your mouth without even choking or gagging 😳 of course ningning takes advantage of this to guide both of your hands to her cock, giving you a needy look and begging you to give her the same treatment you’re giving winter :( and of course you do! sucking winter’s cock at the same time as your hands go up and down as you jerk off ningning, both of them moving their hips towards you in search of more

and they’re so messy when cumming 😣 winter pulling out of your mouth, jerking off her cock in her fist at the same speed you were doing with ningning’s cock, trying to match your movements but whining and crying because it was a very fast speed and she was so overstimulated and sensitive that she could barely take it without giving in right there :( but winter is grateful when she feels your hand wrap around her cock and replace her own, now jerking off both girls at the same time and encouraging them to cum on your face, and they do! their cocks twitching in your hands, shooting heavy loads of cum straight into your mouth, looking at you in amazement when you swallow everything because those two always make a mess and cum in torrents!

being penetrated with both at the same time, riding ningning’s cock while winter is kneeling behind you and fucking your ass, enjoying the way your ass bounces every time her hips hits against it 🥴 hissing as she places her hands on your hips and fucks her cock into your ass at an even faster speed making you drip even more on ningning’s cock, earning a moan from her and making ningning finally start moving her hips up to fuck you from below

and both are two subs so whiny and needy 🥺 whimpering and babbling pleas or incoherent things, moaning “unnie” in every sentence that came out of their lips, and you loved that! always having a thing for the way they said “unnie”, maybe it was because of how soft and sweet their voices were and how that word sounded so adorable coming from them

both cumming inside you, desperate to fill you with their seed 😣 they would make you open your own cheeks for them, enjoying how the cum of both drips from your holes and runs down your thighs slowly, feeling their cocks start to harden again…

[heliosunny]

Hi hi! I really like your fanfiction style and plots!!

Can you write fanfic with a magician!reader and a crown prince!Phainon? Like, in their world, wizards are feared because they wield great power because of magic and can become a serious threat, and therefore they are wanted.

Phainon and his guards get into trouble and the prince is seriously injured. Reader finds them and, despite all the risks, brings them to their shelter and treats them. They intrigued Phainon, because he expected the reader to leave them to die. He was not going to leave, but he had to, because his guards did not want to be near the reader for more time.

After a while, when his wound has completely healed, he returns to the reader's house, but discovers that reader has left it. However, this did not prevent him from finding a reader and bringing him to the palace as his partner, to the horror of his parents and the nobles.

And no pressure! Take as much time as you need!

Yandere!Crown Prince Phainon x Wizard!Reader

The night was thick with mist, curling between the skeletal trees like ghostly fingers. The moon hung high, its silver light barely piercing through the dense canopy. You had learned to tread these woods without a sound, a necessity, really, for a wizard like you.

Magic was danger. Magic was hunted.

You kept to yourself, a mere phantom in a world that would sooner see you burned than thanked. Yet tonight, fate had different plans.

A low groan shattered the silence. The sound was close, just beyond the brambles lining your hidden path. Carefully, you stepped forward, parting the branches to reveal a scene of carnage.

A group of armored men lay scattered like fallen statues, their gleaming armor dulled with dirt and blood. Some still breathed, but your attention snapped to him, the figure at the center of it all.

The crown prince beloved by his people.

Even wounded, he was an imposing sight. A gash split across his side, the crimson staining his once-pristine attire. His grip on his sword was weak, yet his expression promised death to any who dared approach.

His men were conscious enough to move, barely, but none had the strength to rise. A group of assassins, perhaps? Or a botched ambush? Whatever had happened, Phainon had fought like a beast to keep them alive.

And now, he was dying.

You should leave.

But you hesitated.

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of it all. The prince, the future ruler of this land, bleeding out in the dirt like a wounded animal.

With a whispered incantation, the shadows thickened around you, concealing your presence from prying eyes. You stepped closer.

One of his guards stirred, his gaze sluggishly finding you through the haze of pain.

“W-Who…” he rasped, struggling to raise his weapon.

You lifted a hand and muttered a single word. His eyes rolled back, body sagging as unconsciousness took him. A simple sleep spell—one that drained you more than it should, given how careful you had to be. The others were too far gone to notice.

That left only him.

Phainon’s head snapped up at your approach. Even on the brink of death, his presence was suffocating. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, but sharp. “You are not one of mine.”

“No” you murmured. “I am not.”

His fingers twitched around his blade, but you had no intention of giving him the chance to use it. With a swift motion, you knelt beside him, already pressing your palm against his wound. His body tensed like a bowstring, every muscle coiled.

“What—”

Warm light pulsed beneath your touch, the air thrumming with unseen power.

Realization dawned in his blue eyes.

Magic.

The fear did not come, not like it did with most. No, Phainon did not fear you.

He was intrigued.

“Why?” he demanded, voice laced with something between suspicion and fascination. “You could let me die.”

“Because I choose not to.”

The warmth of your magic pulsed beneath your fingers, light seeping into the torn flesh at Phainon’s side. Golden runes flickered to life, weaving over his wound like threads of starlight, sealing torn skin and knitting muscle together.

“You wield powerful magic”

You ignored him, focusing instead on the lingering damage. It was deep, and healing him entirely would drain you too much. This would have to do.

The final rune faded, leaving behind only smooth, unbroken skin. You pulled back sharply, wiping your blood-slicked fingers against your cloak.

“You’ll live” you muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Phainon exhaled, shifting experimentally. The pain was gone.

Time to go. You stood, already murmuring the incantation beneath your breath. The ground trembled softly as a gust of wind whipped around you. Shadows curled, lifting you gently off your feet as your broom shot into your waiting grip.

His men stirred, one of them blinking awake with a strangled gasp. “P-Prince—”

But Phainon wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at you.

You didn’t give him the chance to speak.

With a sharp kick, you soared into the night sky, the forest shrinking beneath you as the wind carried you higher. The chill bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight that lifted from your chest.

You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

You didn’t have to look back to know.

He was following.

You cursed under your breath. What was he thinking? His men were below, weak and vulnerable, calling out for him. He had a kingdom to return to. A duty to fulfill. And yet—he pursued you.

You spun midair, broom jerking to a halt. Your voice rang out.

“Go back.”

Phainon didn’t falter. His silver hair glowed under the moonlight, his eyes burning like ice set aflame.

“Why?”

“Because your men need you. Because your people do. Because I do not want to be followed.”

Below, his guards called for him again, their voices frantic.

A flicker of something crossed his expression—annoyance, reluctant acknowledgment.

For a moment, you feared he would refuse.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled and shifted away.

“Very well” he said. “For now.”

The last two words unsettled you.

But you didn’t wait to decipher them.

With a final, sharp glare, you turned and vanished into the night.

The temporary spell had done its work. Phainon had survived, but his wound still required proper treatment once he returned to the kingdom. His men had been too relieved to question how their prince had been saved, too eager to leave the forest and return to safety.

But Phainon had not forgotten.

Even as he lay in his gilded chambers, the finest physicians tending to him, his thoughts drifted back to you. To the warmth of your magic. The sharpness in your voice. The way you had looked at him—not with fear, not with awe, but with annoyance.

Once his wounds had fully healed, Phainon wasted no time. He demanded his parents search for you. The king and queen only exchanged weary glances before shaking their heads.

“You ask us to reward a wizard?” his father scoffed. “You should be grateful we do not send hunters after them.”

“Grateful?” He leaned forward, fingers tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his chair. “You would prefer I let the one who saved your heir vanish without a trace?”

“They did not save you out of loyalty” his mother interjected, her tone gentler, but no less firm. “They helped you and left. Be grateful for that.”

He heard the unspoken words beneath her breath.

Be grateful they did not finish you off.

But Phainon had never been one to accept things so easily.

The moment he was able, he searched for your hidden home.

Only to find it abandoned.

No trace of you remained. No remnants of the magic that had once lingered in the air. It was as if you had never been there at all.

That should have been the end of it.

But for Phainon, it was only the beginning.

He would find you.

---

Life in the shadows suited you.

After leaving your old home, you settled in a new place—far from the reach of the kingdom, hidden among the wild forests where few dared to tread. Your days were spent in quiet solitude, gathering herbs, tending to your spells, and ensuring your presence remained unnoticed. You moved often, never staying too long in one place. It was safer that way.

You had no interest in the affairs of royals. But even in the most remote corners of the land, rumors had a way of finding you.

Whispers of the crown prince’s survival had spread like wildfire. People spoke of it with reverence, how their beloved prince had returned from the brink of death, stronger than ever. How even the finest physicians had been baffled by his miraculous recovery.

Some said it was divine intervention. Others claimed it was his sheer will to live.

But one rumor, in particular, made your blood run cold.

The prince was searching for someone.

At first, the stories were vague. He had taken an interest in an unknown savior. A healer, perhaps, or a skilled mage who had vanished without a trace.

Then, the details sharpened.

He sought someone who wielded forbidden magic. Someone who had left him when he was too weak to follow. Someone who had defied him.

You stiffened when you first heard it, your fingers tightening around the basket of herbs you had been gathering. You had always known the risk of saving him, but you had thought that once he returned to his kingdom, he would forget you.

Clearly, you had been wrong.

----

The gathering was always held in secret, deep within the wilderness where only those attuned to magic could find it. It was a rare chance for wizards to convene without fear—a fleeting moment of safety in a world that sought to burn them.

You had never attended before. Too many eyes, too much risk. But this time, you had a reason.

You needed ingredients for a new spell.

The air buzzed with magic as you moved through the market stalls draped in enchanted fabrics and glowing sigils. Wizards of all kinds were here—some veiled, some bold enough to show their faces, all of them powerful in their own way. Incense and dried herbs filled the air with an earthy scent as you carefully examined a bundle of moonshade petals, their silver glow faint under your touch.

You didn’t notice the presence behind you.

Not at first.

A sharp inhale.

A breath against your hair.

Your muscles locked. No one got this close. Your first instinct was to lash out, to summon the wind and shove the intruder away. But before you could react, a voice brushed against your ear.

“I’ve finally found you.”

Stiffly, you turned your head.

The man standing behind you was different from the one you had last seen bleeding in the dirt. The pristine prince, dressed in silver and royal blue, was gone. This version of Phainon was something else entirely.

His white-silver hair had grown longer, strands falling over his forehead. His usual noble attire was replaced with something more discreet; a dark cloak, simple leather armor, a sword at his hip. But no disguise could ever hide him.

And as he leaned in ever so slightly, drinking in your scent once more, his lips curled into something between a smirk and a sigh.

“Did you think you could run from me?”

The moment Phainon reached for you, whether to grab your wrist or simply to keep you from fleeing, you moved. A sharp pulse of magic burst from your body, the force of it sending Phainon staggering back. The nearest stalls rattled violently, enchanted trinkets shattering upon impact. Gasps rippled through the gathering as wizards turned to watch, their whispers sharp with unease.

The scent of scorched air filled your lungs as you raised your hands, power thrumming at your fingertips. You should run. But something in you rebelled at the thought of simply letting him take you.

Phainon chuckled, his stance shifting as he caught himself. His blue eyes gleamed with something unnervingly fond.

“You’re still as breathtaking as I remember” he murmured, brushing off his cloak as if you hadn’t just blasted him. “But surely you knew this was pointless.”

“Stay away from me.”

He tilted his head, considering you. Then—he lunged.

You barely had time to react. You shot your hand forward, magic crackling in the air as a gust of wind slammed into his side, knocking him off course. He grunted, boots skidding across the dirt. The ground trembled beneath you as you pulled more power into your grasp, ready to strike again—

But he was fast.

The moment you blinked, he was upon you again, forcing you to jerk back just in time to avoid his outstretched hand. But he wasn’t trying to strike. No—his fingers curled, reaching for your waist.

You twisted away, fury igniting in your veins. Fine. If he wanted a fight, he’d get one.

The air around you shimmered as you sent another pulse of energy directly at him. This time, he wasn’t fast enough.

The spell struck him square in the chest, sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, coughing as dust billowed around him. A thin trail of blood dripped from the corner of his lips.

The gathered wizards scattered. Whatever curiosity they had harbored was now outweighed by the risk. A prince—a royal—fighting a wizard was dangerous. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

Within moments, the ceremonial grounds were nearly empty. Only you and Phainon remained.

“You hurt me” he murmured. Not with anger. Not with resentment.

With delight.

Your fingers twitched, and the air around you shifted. With a whispered incantation, your broom shot into your grip, magic thrumming beneath your palms. You were ready to leave.

But so was he.

Phainon moved just as you did, his speed forcing you to take an extra step back, your heartbeat spiking. He was injured, yet still too fast.

You scowled, gripping your broom tightly. “What do you even want from this?”

His eyes never left yours. “You.”

“You should be grateful” you snapped. “I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? Ruining my work?” You gestured to the ruined ingredients scattered across the dirt. The delicate petals, the crushed herbs—all useless now.

“I’ll find more for you.”

You gritted your teeth. “I don’t want you to.”

You were done with this.

Without another word, you gripped your broom and prepared to take off again, but—

A glint of light. A flicker of magic.

Phainon lifted a stone between his fingers.

The sight of it made you pause.

Dark veins of power ran through its surface, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A rare artifact, used only for temporary enchantments—but at what cost?

“Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?”

It did. He must have taken it from someone—or worse.

But Phainon only watched you, waiting.

The moment the stone’s power wrapped around you, you knew something was wrong.

It was subtle at first—a numbness in your fingertips, a sudden silence where your magic should have been. Then, the realization hit.

Your magic was gone.

Temporarily, maybe, but it didn’t matter. That was all he needed.

Phainon wasted no time. He moved swiftly, catching you in his grip before you could even attempt to fight back. Without your magic, your broom was useless. Your strength alone was nothing against him.

The next thing you knew, you were here. Locked in the prince’s chambers, high above the kingdom you had spent your whole life avoiding.

You had tested the door the moment he left—locked, of course. The windows, too, were secured with enchanted glass. Even if you could break them, the fall would be too great. You were trapped.

And Phainon?

He was preparing.

You could hear the water running from the adjoining room, the faint splash of movement as he bathed. You didn’t have to see him to know what he was doing—cutting his hair, washing away the dirt of travel, shedding the rugged disguise he had worn just to find you.

You had to try.

Even if your magic wasn’t back yet. Even if the fall could kill you.

You pressed against the window, fingers searching for a weak point in the enchanted glass. It wouldn’t budge.

But he had underestimated desperation.

With a sharp inhale, you struck. A hard blow against the glass, then another, until finally—a crack. A surge of hope rushed through you. You struck again, harder this time. The glass shattered.

The wind howled against your skin as you gripped the windowsill. This was it. You would have to jump before Phainon—

A hand clamped onto your wrist.

Pain. A sharp gasp. A warm drop of something splattered against your skin.

Blood.

Phainon’s grip was ironclad, but his other hand—the one he had used to catch you—was cut deep, a jagged shard of glass slicing into his palm.

He didn’t seem to care.

With one fierce yank, he pulled you back into the room, his breath hot with frustration as he slammed you against his chest.

“Are you out of your mind?!”

You barely registered his words—because suddenly, you felt it.

A spark. Like a fire reigniting after being smothered for too long.

Your magic was back.

Instinct took over before you could think. Your hands, still trembling from the shock, moved over his bleeding one. A soft glow pulsed from your fingertips as the wound began to mend, closing rapidly as though it had never been there.

It was then that you noticed—the damp heat of his skin, the lingering scent of soap.

And the fact that he was only wearing a towel.

The sound of your struggle hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Footsteps—several of them. Voices murmuring outside the door, uncertain but growing louder.

“Your Highness?” a man called. “Is everything—”

The door cracked open, and you caught a glimpse of not one, but three men peering inside. Soldiers, perhaps attendants, all of them pausing in shock at the sight before them.

Phainon—barely covered.

You—flushed and breathless.

It took them less than a second to misunderstand.

For a long, agonizing moment, no one spoke.

Then, unable to help yourself, you raised an eyebrow. “Are you holding a bath model contest or what?”

One of the men choked.

Deciding you had more than enough of this, you snapped your fingers, letting your magic slam the door shut in their faces. A flick of your wrist and a rush of energy later, Phainon was fully clothed, his usual regal attire appearing in place of the towel.

Your work here was done.

“Right” you muttered, dusting off your hands. “This has been an experience. But now that my magic’s back, I think I’ll take my leave—”

A hand caught your wrist.

Again.

But this time, Phainon didn’t try to pull you closer. He just… held on.

“Don’t go.”

“…Why?”

He swallowed. “I need you to cure my sister.”

You hadn’t even known he had a sister. You crossed your arms, giving Phainon a skeptical look. “I’m not a healer.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s not an illness. She was cursed.”

That made you pause. Curses were a different matter entirely. If that was true, then perhaps—

“…Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll take a look.”

Phainon exhaled, as if relieved, and led you through the palace halls. He stayed close, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the task ahead.

Soon, you arrived at a dimly lit chamber. A woman lay motionless on the grand bed, her breathing faint, her complexion pale. Even from the entrance, you could feel it—lingering magic.

A real curse.

You stepped forward, examining her carefully. The energy clinging to her skin was thick, unnatural—a spell cast with intent, not by accident.

Phainon hovered behind you, silent, watching.

Minutes passed as you traced the curse’s signature, considering your options. Then, with a sigh, you straightened. “I can break it” you said simply. “But I’ll need time to prepare the spell.”

Phainon gave a slow nod, as if he had already expected that answer.

You left, mind already racing with the components you’d need.

Meanwhile, in the chamber you had just departed—

Phainon remained. Alone, save for the girl.

His expression shifted. The moment you were gone, the warmth vanished from his gaze, replaced by something else—something cold.

He stepped closer to the bed, his voice a low murmur.

“Make sure to play your role well.”

The girl flinched, unable to move much under the weight of the curse. Fear flickered in her wide eyes.

Because she wasn’t his sister.

She wasn’t anyone.

Just an unfortunate soul he had plucked from the streets. Just another piece in his carefully laid plan.

And you, his true goal, still had no idea.

The days that followed were suffocating.

Despite being assigned a maid, Anna, and a knight, Brant, to check on you and provide whatever you needed, Phainon was always there.

Even now, as you prepared the spell to lift the curse, he sat beside you, idly crushing the herbs you had handed him. His presence was oppressive, his knee brushing yours far too often to be accidental.

“…Why are you still sitting here?” you asked, side-eyeing him.

Phainon didn’t even look up. “I just love the warmth of people.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Is that so?” you muttered.

Fine. You’d test that.

You glanced toward Anna, who was tidying up nearby. “Anna, come here. Stand next to the prince for a bit.”

Anna blinked in surprise but obeyed, stepping closer. You moved away.

Phainon frowned. His hands, previously steady, hesitated over the herbs.

But just to be sure—

“Brant,” you called, turning to the knight. “Your turn. Stand beside the prince.”

Brant, ever dutiful, wordlessly approached. You took another step back.

Phainon’s entire expression darkened.

He barely glanced at Brant before abandoning the herbs altogether and standing—immediately closing the distance between you.

You exhaled, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You sure you like the warmth of people?”

“I do.” His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. “But you’re the only one that matters.”

At this point, you were convinced that Phainon would literally do anything you said.

No hesitation. No complaints.

So, naturally, you decided to push it.

You plucked a random leaf from your ingredients and shoved it into his mouth.

"Chew" you ordered.

Phainon, without a second thought, did. His jaw moved, grinding the leaf to pulp, his blue eyes fixed only on you.

You narrowed your eyes. "That could be poison, you know."

He kept chewing. Unbothered.

It wasn’t poison, but he didn’t know that. And yet, there he was, completely unfazed, still obediently chewing like it was some kind of sacred duty.

"Spit it out" you snapped, reaching forward.

Phainon tilted his head slightly, waiting until your fingers were inside his mouth—

Then he shut his lips around them.

What.

You glared at him. "Let go."

He just stared at you, mouth stubbornly shut.

You tried pulling your fingers free. No luck.

You pressed his jaw. Nothing.

He wasn’t biting down, but he wasn’t letting go either.

Oh, for the love of—

Fine. Desperate times.

You took a deep breath, reached forward—and tickled his sides.

Eventually, pinching his side finally did the trick.

Phainon flinched, jaw loosening just enough for you to yank your fingers free. You scowled, wiping them on your sleeve before storming off to wash your hands.

“Handle the rest yourself” you muttered over your shoulder.

He just sat there, utterly unbothered, still chewing the remnants of the leaf like some devoted fool.

You exhaled, tired beyond belief. “I’m going to sleep.”

Phainon perked up.

“I want to stay here and sleep too” he said easily, like it was a completely normal request.

You turned to him slowly. “No way in hell.”

You had changed your mind. Without another word, you grabbed your broom, fully intending to take off and leave him behind.

Phainon, undeterred, followed. “Let me on too.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “It won’t hold us both.”

But before he could start another argument, you sighed and flicked your fingers, casting a spell to summon a second broom.

“There. Now go away.”

Phainon examined the broom for a moment, then climbed on.

Watching him struggle to stay balanced was the most satisfying thing you’d seen all day.

The two of you eventually landed on a tall tree, its thick branches sturdy enough to sit on. From here, the kingdom stretched out beneath you, its golden rooftops glimmering under the moonlight.

Phainon sat beside you, his usual cloying presence somehow softer in the night air.

“The kingdom has always feared wizards” he murmured, gaze fixed on the city below. “Power that can’t be controlled terrifies them.”

You stayed silent, listening.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, turning to look at you, “I want to change that.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “You don’t believe it’s possible?”

“I don’t care.” You leaned back against the trunk, stretching your legs. “I’m only here for one thing. When I’m done, I’m out.”

Phainon’s hands curled into fists, but he said nothing.

Satisfied, you pushed off the branch, summoning your broom with a flick of your wrist.

Without another glance at him, you flew back to your room.

Morning came too soon.

You were still half-asleep when Phainon dragged you out of bed.

Dazed and irritated, you barely managed to register your surroundings before you found yourself standing in an ornate hall—filled with too many people.

It didn’t take long to piece it together.

Phainon stood beside you, grinning. His parents—the king and queen—sat before you, their expressions frozen in shock. Nobles lined the room, their whispers filling the space.

He was presenting you.

To his parents.

To the nobles.

As his partner.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You should have just stayed asleep.

The king was the first to recover. His sharp gaze narrowed on Phainon.

“Phainon,” he said, voice cold with disbelief, “what is the meaning of this?”

Phainon didn’t hesitate. “I’m introducing my partner.”

The room erupted into murmurs. Some nobles looked scandalized. Others glanced at you like you were a wild beast about to attack.

You? You barely cared.

The queen’s lips parted slightly, her grip on the armrest tightening. “This is sudden. You never mentioned—”

“I didn’t need to,” Phainon interrupted smoothly. “It was only a matter of time before we stood here.”

A noblewoman to the side scoffed. “A wizard? You cannot be serious.”

Your gaze flickered toward her—briefly. She flinched, looking away.

The king exhaled sharply. “This is absurd. You expect us to simply accept this?”

“I expect you to respect it.”

The tension was thick. The nobles muttered amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from outrage to uneasy calculation.

You, meanwhile, were just waiting for this nonsense to end.

A nobleman sneered, crossing his arms. “A wizard in the royal family. How ridiculous. Who’s to say they won’t curse us all in our sleep?”

Your patience was already thin.

You turned to him, “Watch your mouth.”

He tensed.

“You should feel lucky,” you continued, smirking. “I’m not a grumpy wizard, or you’d already be a pile of ashes.”

The room fell silent. Some nobles stiffened, others shifted uncomfortably.

Not wanting to waste another second in this mess, you turned on your heel and strode toward the exit.

If only Phainon had found someone else to obsess over instead.

That thought lingered.

Fine. If he wouldn’t let go, you’d make him.

You’d craft a love potion and set him up with someone else.

Back in your room, you wasted no time.

You gathered your ingredients—rose petals, moonlit water,.... Carefully, you mixed them in your cauldron, stirring with precise intent. The potion had to be subtle. Strong enough to shift his affections, but not suspicious.

The thought of finally being free from his overbearing presence fueled your work.

A few hours later, the potion was ready.

A single vial of shimmering, rosy liquid.

Now, all you needed was a target.

Phainon was constantly surrounded by nobles, maids, attendants—surely, one of them could do. Someone beautiful, someone obedient enough to make him lose interest in you.

After some observation, you set your sights on a noblewoman—Lady Elnora. Sweet, well-mannered, and conveniently harboring a quiet admiration for Phainon.

The plan was simple: slip the potion into his drink, then let nature take its course.

You prepared everything, waiting for the perfect moment.

But as you would soon learn—nothing ever went as planned when it came to Phainon.

Slipping the potion into his drink was the easy part.

A gathering had been arranged that evening—a small banquet among the nobles. Phainon, of course, had dragged you along, refusing to let you out of his sight.

You’d use it to your advantage.

While he was distracted speaking to his father, you subtly poured the shimmering liquid into his goblet. It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.

Now, all you had to do was steer him toward Lady Elnora.

As planned, you struck up a conversation with her, making sure Phainon was close enough to notice.

She was warm, polite, charming. Exactly the type he should fall for.

And then—he turned toward her. His blue eyes softened.

It was working.

You let out a slow breath, feeling something close to relief. Finally, freedom.

But just as quickly, that relief vanished.

Because instead of stepping closer to Elnora—he turned back to you.

With the same, unwavering obsession in his gaze.

He reached out, his fingers grazing yours with sickening devotion.

"You look beautiful tonight" he murmured, voice softer than it had ever been.

The potion had worked.

But not on Elnora.

It had made him fall even harder for you.

Panic shot through you like lightning.

Without thinking, you shoved Phainon away.

His eyes widened slightly, but he barely stumbled. Before he could react further, you turned on your heel and ran.

You needed space. Distance. Sanity.

Your feet carried you through the halls, past startled nobles and confused servants. You didn't stop until you reached the room of the cursed girl.

The air inside was thick with lingering magic, but her condition was nearly resolved. The spell you had been working on was almost done.

Good. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could leave.

You didn’t dare return to your room.

Not when Phainon was undoubtedly searching for you.

So, for the next few days, you did your best to avoid him entirely.

You switched locations frequently, using whatever magic you could to mask your presence. The palace was vast, but not vast enough when the crown prince himself was actively hunting you down.

Every time you turned a corner, you half-expected him to be there—waiting.

The potion would wear off eventually. It had to.

Until then, you just had to stay hidden.

When the effects of the potion finally faded, you cautiously emerged from hiding.

You expected Phainon to come storming after you the moment his mind cleared. Maybe demand an explanation, maybe double down on his obsession.

But what you didn’t expect—

Was to find him collapsed in the bath.

His silver-white hair floated in the water, his breathing uneven. His usually sharp, possessive gaze was absent, unfocused.

With a sigh, you pulled him out of the bath, his body unnervingly cold.

Dragging him to a nearby chair, you grabbed a towel and started drying his hair with little patience. "You really don’t make things easy, do you?"

Phainon didn’t respond right away.

Once you were sure he wasn’t about to collapse again, you leaned back. "The curse is nearly lifted. A few finishing touches, and I’m done."

His blue eyes, now clearer, met yours.

"And once that’s over, I’m leaving."

Phainon blinked slowly, as if his mind was still catching up.

Then, he exhaled sharply. “...Leaving?”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a firm look. “Yes. That was always the plan.”

His grip on the towel tightened. “And if I say I won’t allow it?”

You scoffed. “Then I’d say that’s not your choice to make.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t engage further.

Instead, you turned to leave.

You had work to finish. And if he wanted to fight you on this?

Let him try.

----

You didn’t expect the cursed girl to bolt the moment she was free.

But the second the last traces of magic dissolved, she barely spared you a glance before sprinting out the door, fear in her eyes.

Weird. But not your problem anymore.

What was your problem, however, was what happened later.

You had been watching from a distance, blending into the crowd as Phainon stood before the entire kingdom.

Then, he spoke. Loudly. Boldly.

"I declare myself the right-hand man of the wizard!" His voice echoed through the square. "And with their power beside me, I shall take over the kingdom!"

You went full mode: WHAT.

The crowd erupted into chaos. Nobles paled. The king and queen looked moments away from passing out.

And Phainon? Phainon looked entirely too pleased.

Without thinking, you stormed forward, pushing through the gasping spectators.

You reached him just as he lifted his sword—probably seconds away from actually beheading someone.

“NOPE.”

You grabbed him, yanking him back before he could do something irreversible.

Because clearly—this man had lost his mind.

The teleportation spell worked—kind of.

Instead of your current home, you landed in your old one.

Dust floated in the air, untouched furniture sitting exactly as you had left it. Clearly, something had gone wrong with the spell, but that didn’t matter right now.

What did matter was the crazy man in front of you.

Phainon stumbled slightly from the sudden shift, but instead of looking confused or angry—

He grinned.

“Running away with me?” he mused, tilting his head. “How romantic.”

“You absolute lunatic.”

The fight had been explosive.

"You have no idea what you just did!" you had shouted.

Phainon, still ridiculously pleased with himself, had only smirked. "On the contrary, I knew exactly—"

You had silenced him with a spell, shoved a leaf in his mouth, tied him up, and gagged him with another cloth for good measure. Then, with a deep breath, you transformed into him.

The plan? Fix this mess.

You returned to the kingdom, adopting his mannerisms, his voice, his smirk. Before the stunned court, you apologized, claiming you had been forced under a spell.

It was going smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

His parents, their expressions unreadable, finally spoke. "We have no such son."

Oh.

Then came the swords. The arrows.

Instinct kicked in—you cast a defensive spell without thinking.

The room gasped.

And just like that, Phainon had magic in their eyes.

Now the kingdom believed their once-beloved prince was a wizard.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

So, you did the only logical thing.

You ran.

Back to where you had left the real Phainon.

You yanked the cloth away and retrieved the leaf from his mouth.

Before you could step back, he bit your ring finger.

You hissed, but before you could retaliate, he simply smirked.

“That’s like a wedding ring” he mused, tone infuriatingly casual. “For you.”

You nearly punched him.

Instead, you shook your hand free. "No. Absolutely not. And you are not coming with me, either."

He tilted his head. "Unless—" he dragged out the word, voice full of mock innocence.

"Unless you want me to return to the palace," he continued smoothly. "Start a little wizard hunt. Maybe collect a few as slaves."

Your jaw tightened.

"They’ll blame you, not me," he added, watching you. "You did impersonate me, after all."

He was baiting you. And worse—he wasn’t bluffing.

You barely had time to react when the door slammed open.

A ragged figure stumbled inside, looking around like a starving beggar.

You froze. “Princess?”

She barked a laugh. “Hell no.”

Your stomach dropped as she grinned, eyes glinting with something wild.

“Ahh, Prince Phainon” she drawled, turning to him. “Lemme tell you a secret. I ain’t no princess.”

Then she spilled everything.

Phainon. The curse. His plan.

You turned to him, “Is that true?”

Before he could answer, the girl suddenly lunged, a dagger flashing in her hand.

Snap

Her body slumped to the floor.

Phainon flexed his fingers, watching her lifeless form. Then, he turned to you with an easy, unbothered smile.

“Oops,” he said. “Sorry to let you witness that.”

You shoved Phainon aside, heart pounding as you crouched beside the girl.

No pulse. Dead.

Phainon stretched, completely unfazed. “Well,” he mused, “you can kill me, if you’d like. As long as it’s you, I don’t mind.”

You barely processed his words before—footsteps.

People. Coming closer.

You forced yourself to stand, hands trembling as you muttered the teleportation spell. The air around you twisted—

Then, darkness.

You woke up days later.

The scent of food. Soft sheets. A familiar ceiling.

Your house.

And Phainon, sitting comfortably nearby—completely at home.

You blinked blearily as Phainon extended a plate of food toward you. “You should eat,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You were out for days.”

You took the plate, but your gaze narrowed. “You’re still here.”

He smiled, completely unashamed. “Of course. You’re here.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up. “I should just use you as a specimen” you muttered. “A homeless like you would be perfect for wizard experiments.”

His eyes lit up. “Gladly.”

Fine. You’d call his bluff.

With a flick of your fingers, a dagger flew from a nearby table into your grasp. You grabbed his hand. “Alright,” you said coolly. “I’ll cut your finger off for a potion. Deal?”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“That would be amazing,” he murmured, leaning his finger in closer. “As long as I can stay by your side.”

Without hesitation, you brought the dagger down.

A sharp slice.

His ring finger hit the floor.

Phainon barely flinched. His breathing hitched—eyes widening in thrill rather than pain—but he didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy chuckle.

"Ah…" He stared at his bleeding hand, then at you, voice soft with awe. "You really did it."

You ignored him. Carefully, you picked up the severed finger.

But instead of using it for a potion, you placed it in a jar, sealing it tight.

"You're keeping it?"

"If you ever turn your back on me" you murmured, "I’ll make you suffer in the worst way possible."

He exhaled, almost giddy. "That just makes me want to stay by your side even more."

You sighed, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing it against his bleeding hand.

Phainon didn’t flinch.

“You really are kind”

You scoffed, tying the cloth tighter just to make him wince. “Don’t mistake this for kindness.”

He only laughed.

The room fell into silence as you finished dressing his wound. When you finally let go of his hand, he didn’t move away.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling.

“You can stay.”

His eyes brightened.

Whatever this scenario was—whatever twisted bond had formed between you and Phainon—you knew one thing.

It wouldn’t end anytime soon.

[cherryblossom-heart]

Hello,

I just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed your works, especially how you write Nanami since he is a comfort character for me. I'm not sure if you would be comfortable with this, but my dog just passed away today and I'm grieving a lot. If you are comfortable and if you have time, would you be able to write something about providing reader with comfort? Thank you again 😞💖

-👽 Anny

Hi lovely, I am so sorry for your loss. I’m sorry if this smau is a little short but I made this in a little free time I had. I hope you enjoy it and I’m sorry if this isn’t what you were looking for, I didn’t want to be too overly specific with your situation as I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I send you all the love in the world and I hope this helps you even in the smallest way

[backofthebookshelf]

It's not a controversial take necessarily -- it's just that the particular environment of AO3, where you can see how many times your fic was loaded in a browser window and where the little heart button has a different meaning than it does on every other social media site, is uniquely bad for the human brain.

For the VAST majority of history, both the history of making art generally and the history of writing fanfiction in particular, you did not get to know how many people gave your work a cursory once-over, or how many people checked your book out from the library and never read it, or how many people overheard a line of poetry and thought "huh, neat" and never did anything else. These interactions were, as they should be, completely anonymous and uncountable. Even in the pre-AO3 days of fanfiction, there was an understanding that page hit counters were kind of crap (for one thing, they would count you every time you loaded the page, and you had to load the page to check the counter, so that was incentive not to look at it that much).

Even in other artistic contexts where you do now have page hit counters on everything, they're contextualized through marketing research, not consumed as a raw value. Marketing talks about conversion rate, which is the % of people who saw something who then went on to do the thing you wanted them to do - for a business that's probably buy the thing, for a nonprofit it might be donate or sign up for a volunteer session, for a fanfiction writer it's leave a comment. At work I work with multiple major companies you have definitely heard of who spend half a million dollars and 1-3 full time employees every year on something that increases their conversion rate by 1-2%. They do this because the conversion rate on our emails is 5%, which is INSANELY high.

And yes, leaving a comment doesn't cost money, but it does cost time and energy. Writers overestimate how easy it is for people to write comments--my coworkers are out here using chatgpt to write boilerplate work emails, I can't imagine ANY of them ever leaving a comment on a work of art they enjoyed. Verbally, yes--and "in a friend discord is much closer to verbally than in a comment form--but in writing? Absolutely not.

As for kudos, I can't help but think that the "likes don't do anything, you have to reblog" culture of social media like twitter and tumblr affects that too (and yes, by the latter days of twitter I was seeing people saying that on there, because the algorithm was so broken). Kudos is essentially a like button, and like the like button on twitter that used to be a favorite button before they changed it and some people never stopped treating it like one, it has meanings for people you'll never understand. "It's just a click!" It is a symbol with vague connotations but no specific universally agreed upon meaning; it tells you how many people clicked on that button, and that's all.

So yes, actually, I guess I am saying that as a writer, you are supposed to assume that many more people liked your fic than you will ever hear from or even know about. And that's a good thing! You have the chance to touch someone's life even though they have no idea who you are and don't think of you as a person so much as a semi-mythical figure called "the author". And that's part of the magic, to me, of creating things. You pour yourself into a thing and then you set it loose into the world and you hope it means to someone else as much as it meant to you. Sometimes, very rarely, someone will tell you so, and that's amazing, I'm not going to pretend it's not, but you have to have enough faith in yourself to believe it happens whether you hear about it or not.

I really don't understand how "without getting kudos or comments a fanfiction author is going to assume that people who clicked their fic didn't like it" became a controversial take.

I don't know why some people think an author should imagine, or guess that people who click their fic enjoyed it it when nobody is telling them that.

If you're re-reading a fic constantly, or leaving it up in your tab so that it re-loads every day for a hundred days the author is not going to know that unless you tell them. They'd love to hear it. It would make their day.

And if you don't tell them you liked their fic, there's no reason for them to assume you did.

[cheapshrimpysheep]

True Feelings Chocolate - Freshmen

SUMMARY: It is normal on Valentine's Day for friends or schoolmates to exchange chocolates with each other. However, the quality of the chocolate reveals how the person really sees you. And homemade chocolate is the greatest message of love that someone can receive on this day.

CHARACTERS: Freshmen (Ace Trappola / Deuce Spade / Jack Howl / Epel Felmier / Sebek Zigvolt) x Yuu (Reader)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Kiss

WORD COUNT: An average of 1.000 words per character.

COMMENTS: The number of words varies depending on how much the character is the type to hide his true feelings.

I also would like to be able to write Epel's accent/dialect, but as English is not my first language this becomes a bit difficult sometimes. When I really want to write something like that I ask Gemini for help.

I hope you enjoy and had Happy Valentine's Day 💝

True Feelings Chocolate - OB Students (Riddle Rosehearts / Leona Kingscholar / Azul Ashengrotto / Jamil Viper / Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud / Malleus Draconia) x Yuu (Reader)

REAL WORLD CONTEXT: You may already know this, but Valentine's Day in Japan is different than in Western countries. In Asia (from what I know and have researched) this day is not exclusively related to romantic love but also to friendship or simple connections between schoolmates or work colleagues.

Just like in the West, it is marked by the gifting of chocolate, but the quality of the chocolate differs: If it's a boss or colleague you're not friends with, they're usually cheaper, more common chocolates. The quality and even price of the chocolate increases according to the relationship with the person to whom it is offered. And a chocolate made by the person themselves is the most valuable of all and is usually, from what I understand, almost like a confession of love.

On Valentine's Day, it is women who offer chocolates to men, but in this case, to keep Yuu gender-neutral and make it so that they can also offer chocolates to them, I just kept the chocolates’s logic and excluded the gender thing.

Another thing is that since it is normal to give chocolates to friends as well, it becomes more discreet to give more special chocolates to a certain person and it doesn't draw attention to simply give chocolate to someone.

NOTE: Thaumarks would be the equivalent of US dollars.

Since cherry pie is Ace's favorite food, you decide to make chocolate covered cherries, and you bought a red heart shaped box from Sam's Mystery Shop to put them in.

Meanwile, on one of the nights before Valentine's Day, Ace was alone in Heartslabyul’s kitchen with as few lights on as possible (which includes his phone’s light) and trying to cook without making noise when someone calmly enters and scares him with their presence.

“I think you know how lucky you are that I'm the one who found you and not Riddle.” Trey says with a weird smile.

“T-T-T-Trey-senpai...” Ace smiles awkwardly, that smile he hopes will get him out of trouble. “P-please, I... I-I'm just trying to follow the Valentine's Day rules, y-you know.”

“Following the rules?” Trey raises an eyebrow, looks at the mess on the kitchen table, and then looks back at Ace with a smirk. “Oh, so you’re making the chocolates? I wonder who they are for.”

“Hey, I'm not that obvious!... Am I?” He worries.

“But why didn't you do this during the day? I mean, I know you're trying to keep Deuce and the other students from seeing you, but I’m sure they have schedules that don't always overlap with yours.”

“Yeah, but I also had the problem of buying the ingredients without being seen. And I almost failed a bunch of times.” Ace sighs.

Trey laughs. “Well, you don't have much time until Valentine's Day... Hmm... Would you like my help? Maybe this way you'll finish faster and we can both go to bed.”

Ace is immediately overjoyed and relieved, but then asks him not to tell anyone. Trey promises not to tell anyone if no one catches them in the kitchen at that hour. A big part of the reason he helps Ace is so he doesn't have to deal with that problem the next day.

On Valentine's Day, you were preparing the boxes of chocolate to deliver to the Heartslabyul boys when you heard someone knocking on your door. You open it and see Ace catching his breath and then straightening up to pretend he wasn't tired at all.

“Heeey! Good morning, (Y/N)!” Ace greets you with that cute smile. You ask if he's okay when you see him panting as he speaks. “Y-yeah. It was just a long ru- walk. So... I was passing by and took the opportunity to come and say hi...” He smirks “And take whatever you might have to give me today.”

“You came all this way so early just to try to be the first one to get the chocolates?" you ask.

“He he, another good way to brag to Deuce.” He smiles smugly before returning to that cute smile. “So where are my sweets~?”

You turn around to get the bag of chocolates and take his box to hand it to him. He seems happier not to see any brand on the box, but even so he messes with you.

“Hmm? What's this? Don't tell me you made my chocolates?” He becomes even happier when he sees your reaction. “Well, let's see how they came out!”

He opens the box and finds several small chocolate balls like regular bonbons. He comments that he is a little disappointed, he thought you could do something more interesting. He takes one to taste, bites into it and widens his eyes.

“They are... cherries? Chocolate covered cherries?”

You ask what he was saying about them not being interesting and he laughs as he happily admits he was wrong.

“But they still look kind of boring.” he jokes. “I...” he gets a little flustered “I have something for you too.”

He had the backpack he used for his books with him, he put your box inside and took out another one, another red heart shaped box. He felt a little embarrassed as he looked at the box, that color was was so much flashier than yours.

“Yeah, it is pretty cliché too, but hey, it's also my suit.”

He holds the box with one hand and takes the other to the tip of the heart where there was a protrusion that served as a handle. He pulls it, opening the box like a drawer. The box is empty except for a folded piece of paper. You pick it up, unfold it, and read the message: ‘Sorry, I already ate them all. Should have been quicker!’ and a drawing of a smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Ace laughs at your reaction.

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding.” he defends himself when you playfully hit him on the arm. He closes that drawer and when he opens it again it is full of little chubby hearts made of your favorite chocolate. You reach out to pick one up but stop and look at him suspiciously. “Fine, fine. No more tricks with these chocolates, I promise.” he smiles.

You take out one of the chocolate hearts and bite into it to discover that it has your favorite filling. They were very good... too good. You sigh, feigning (or not) disappointment, and comment that for a moment you thought those were chocolates made by him.

“What?! What do you mean?! Of course I was the one who made them!”

You say they're too good for someone who you know doesn't like to cook or has a knack for it. They're more like sweets that... Trey would make.

“Ah... ugh... Okay, fine, I asked Trey-senpai for help. And... maybe kind of... tried to make him do most of the work... B-but that's because... um... *sigh* You said it yourself, I don't like cooking and I don't have a knack for it. I wanted to make sure your chocolates turned out as good as possible. And what's better than a sweet made by a professional like my Vice-Housewarden?” he smiles hoping that would save him from a scolding.

You may not scold him, but if he sees you upset or sad about it, he will feel really bad for having done that to you.

“Hey, I really tried to make them, I swear. The crooked ones are mine, haha. What happened was that Trey-senpai caught me making them in the kitchen at night and offered to help me. I really wanted to give you something that would show how much I love you, but...” He falls silent and blushes when he realizes what he just said. His instinct is to kinda change the subject. “Y-You know, I could have lost my head if it had been the Housewarden who caught me there and not him! I put my neck on the line for you. That should, at least, be a mitigating factor in this case.”

If you give him a kiss on the cheek to show that you forgive him, he will be stunned for a second, but then he will smile seductively, grab you by the waist and give you a real kiss.

Knowing that Deuce’s favorite food is anything with eggs, you look for recipes with eggs and chocolate. The first results are for chocolate eggs until you come across a recipe for Egg Yolk Chocolate Chip Cookies. Maybe you could even shape them into hearts, or better yet, into the shape of the suit of swords.

Meanwhile, Deuce isn't shy about asking Trey for help making your chocolates... okay, maybe a little bit, because it's basically telling him that he has a crush on you, although Trey kind of already knew. The only thing he asks is that they manage to make the chocolates without Ace knowing, so as not to make fun of him. Luckily for him, Cater is also willing to help that cute little freshman of his distracting Ace.

On Valentine's Day, you were putting the boxes of chocolates in a bag to give to the Heartslabyul boys, including the blue heart-shaped box you bought to put Deuce's cookies in, when someone knocks on your door.

“H-hey. G-good morning (Y/N).” Deuce greeted you with a hint of nervousness and shyness when you open the door. “I hope I'm not bothering you, hum, I mean, so soon.”

You reassure him that he never bothers you and that makes him blush a little.

“I'm glad... hum... Since today is Valentine's Day I... I wanted to... give you this.” He takes his hand from behind his back and offers you a quite cute heart-shaped box.

He feels more at ease when he sees that you liked the surprise and happier when you accepted it willingly. You open the box and see several hearts of your favorite chocolate. Many look good, but others are a little crooked. This makes you chuckle.

“Ha ha. Yeah, I know, I'm not very good at shaping them.” he says slightly embarrassed. “P-please try them, tell me what you think. I asked for Trey-senpai's help to make sure I did them the best I could.”

You pick one up and take a bite. It was pretty good, not as good as Trey could make them, but you could tell he had a hand in helping him. Besides that, they had clearly been made by Deuce.

“So, you like it?” He asks with a shy smile even though he can see the way you're smiling. You confirm and his smile widens. “I'm glad!”

You take the opportunity to turn around, pick up the blue heart-shaped box you had puted in the bag and offer it to him. Deuce widens his eyes in surprise.

“Oh? You...? It’s for me?”

Regardless of whether you cutely or sarcastically say yes, he will laugh embarrassedly and flattered, and blush a little if you call him ‘silly’. He picks up the box with a cute smile and is surprised again when he sees cookies shaped like the suit of spades and hearts instead of regular chocolates.

You tell him they are egg yolk chocolate chip cookies and that you made them because you wanted to do something that combines chocolate and his favorite food: eggs. He beams with happiness just hearing you say you made them, and even more so that you made them so thoughtfully.

“They look delicious, I'm sure they taste as good as they look.” he says excitedly to try one, and as soon as he does it you see one of the most sincere and adorable smiles you've ever seen on him.

“THEY'RE GREAT!” he shouts too excitedly and then gets a little embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to say it so loud. It's just... you made these for me. Hmm... is that because... are you following the rules of this day?” he blushes. “You know, about, if the chocolates are handmade it must mean that...”

He's too flustered to finish his sentences, so he'll need you to be the one to take the next step and kiss him on the cheek. If you do, he will look at you in amazement for a second, before smiling broadly, hugging you and giving you a kiss on the cheek as well, but extremely passionately.

You know that Jack’s favorite food is pear compote, so you look for something that combines this and chocolate. The closest thing you can find is chocolate pear cake. Maybe if you cut it into smaller cubes it will be more like classic chocolates than giving him a whole cake. You also bought a yellow box in Sam's Mystery Shop to put them in.

Meanwhile, Jack was making your chocolates in Savanaclaw’s kitchen and would growl menacingly at anyone who messed with him about it, or even tried to. With the sole exception of Ruggie who offered to eat the chocolates that turned out so badly that Jack wouldn't want to offer them to you.

On Valentine's Day, you were preparing the boxes of chocolates to deliver to the Savanaclaw boys, when you heard someone knocking on your door.

“Hey, (Y/N). Hum, good morning.” Jack greets you slightly tense, despite trying to hide it. “Happy Valentine's Day. I... uh...” His impassive expression began to fade as his ears lowered, giving way to a more shy one. “I came here because I wanted to give you this.” He takes his hand from behind his back and hands you a red heart-shaped box with a pink bow. “Sorry if it's too cliché, but, uh, I thought you would like it anyway.” he rubs the back of his neck.

He starts to wag his tail a little when he sees that you enjoyed receiving that gift from him. You open it and find hearts of your favorite chocolate. However, they all have slightly different sizes and shapes, maybe only one or two could have an almost perfect, cymetrical shape of a heart, now all the others... You couldn't contain a little laugh.

“I know, I know.” he says embarrassedly, running a hand over the back of his neck again. “I'm terrible at delicate work. And these chocolates are too small for my hands.”

You pick one up and take a bite out of it. You say it tastes really good and his tail wags a little more as he smiles proudly. You take the opportunity to take his yellow box out of the bag and hand it to him. His tail wags again when he sees the box.

“I shouldn't be surprised that you'd want to give me something today too, should I?” He chuckles. “Thanks.” He picks up the box with a big smile and opens it. “Hmm? They look like little slices of cake.”

You tell him that you wanted to make something with pear compote since it is his favorite, but the most you could find were recipes for chocolate pear cake. So you thought that if you cut them a little smaller it would be the closest thing to regular chocolates.

“You're saying...” His tail begins to lose its shyness and takes up more space when wagging. “That you were the one who made them? And you tried so hard to make something I would like?” His big smile returns. “They look great. Let's see how good a cook you are!”

He takes one of the small slices but doesn't bite into it, as they are small enough for him to put them whole in his mouth, completely confident that it will taste good. And by the smile, the crazy wagging tail and the erect ears, this seems to be the case.

“They taste great too!” He was clearly overjoyed with your ‘chocolates’, but then the tail slowed down, the ears lowered slightly and his shyness returned. “Hey, I... I just wanted to make sure...” He looked away from you and his free hands went back to rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s said that if the chocolates are handmade it must mean...”

He seems to be struggling to continue that sentence and, knowing the Tsundere that he is, you realize that you need to be the one to help him.

“That the person has feelings for the other?” you finish for him. “Or even a crush?”

He finally starts to blush for real, but when he sees your reassuring smile he realizes and is sure that the feeling is mutual. This makes him loosen up, letting his tail wag like it wanted to wag all along, and he... laughs heartily, like you've never seen before. But you were surprised once again when he practically attacked you with a hug.

You have to be careful not to drop the chocolates as he covers your face with kisses, just as he has to be careful not to drop his.

You knew macarons were one of Epel’s favorite foods. So chocolate macarons seemed like a good Valentine's Day chocolate option. However, they are difficult to make and require care and skill, which means you have put a lot of work into making them.

You were going to put them in a lavender box that you bought at Sam's Mystery Shop. But you didn't buy a normal, cute box. Sam ‘just happened’ to have a lavender box in stock with a lineart of two dragons forming a heart, but in a way that reminds you of a cool tattoo rather than a cute drawing.

Meanwhile, in Pomefiore's kitchen, Epel was making his chocolates feeling very tense. Because he wanted to make your chocolates as perfect as possible to prove himself worthy of praise and of you? It could have been, if he hadn't had something, or rather someones, who made him even more tense than that thought.

Epel could feel Rook's watchful gaze, even if he was watching Epel through the window from a tree branch. But that wasn't necessary because he made a deal with Epel: If he let Rook watch him cook without worrying about him interrupting or interfering, Rook would keep any and all other Pomefiore students out of the kitchen until Epel was finished. So he silently watched Epel from the corner... which wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling.

But another person from whom he couldn't hide what he wanted to do in the kitchen was the Housewarden of Pomefiore himself.

“If a Pomefiore student is going to give Valentine's Day chocolates to a crush...” Vil said and Epel tried to deny that last word without much conviction, which made Vil chuckle in amusement. “Fine, to someone they really like, then they will have to be the most beautiful sweets that said student is humanly capable of making. And that's why I'll be evaluating them once they're finished. You don't want to give (Y/N) anything less than your best, do you?”

He reluctantly agreed. This plus Rook's observation only put more pressure on him. However, this is the kind of pressure that motivates Epel even more, which ends up being a good thing.

On Valentine's Day, you're putting the boxes of chocolates in the bag to deliver to the Pomefiore boys, when you hear someone knocking on your door.

“Good morning, (Y/N)!” Epel greets you with that sweet, enthusiastic smile, but then he gets a little shy. “Happy Valentine's Day. I just, uh, came here because I wanted to give you this.”

He takes his hands from behind his back and hands you a beautiful heart-shaped box with a classic design. He is very happy that you liked his gift so much. You pick up the box and open it to find beautiful, plump hearts made from what looks like your favorite chocolate and beautiful, carefully crafted lineart. You comment that it must have been a lot of work to do.

“You have no idea...” he says through gritted teeth and with a smile that tries to hide his frustration. And you ask if he wants to talk about it. “I... How about you try them first?” he diverts the subject momentarily with an awkward smile.

You pick up one of the chocolates and bite into it to discover that it has your favorite filling. And indeed, they taste as good as they look. He turns his back to you and mutters, in an irritated triumph, a few phrases in his dialect. You only catch something about him being right and ‘he’ not knowing what ‘he’ was talking about. And something about diet, maybe. You ask if everything was okay and what he was saying. He turns back to you.

“I was talking about my Housewarden!” He says bluntly. “Vil was like: ‘are you going to make them such high-calorie chocolates?’” he imitates him in an affected voice that would certainly get him into trouble if Vil heard it. “And like ‘Don't you think you made many considering their poor nutrition?’. I was lucky that Rook defended me on many points, saying things like: 'This shows how sweet Monsieur Pommette’s love is’.” He made another eccentric voice to imitate Rook. “And cheesy things like that... And... I may or may not have talked back to Vil because of his criticisms.”

You ask what he did or said.

“At first the criticism was constructive, like whether the chocolates were pretty or not. But then he started criticizing the chocolates because of the calories. You know, stupid ideas because of his diets or something. It even got to the point where he almost told me to do something that I knew you wouldn't like and that's when I told him: ‘THESE CHOCOLATES ARE NOT FOR YOU! AND YOU CAN'T FORCE YOUR TASTES ON OTHERS!’”

He reenacted the way he said that to Vil and you can only imagine how he reacted when he saw Epel yelling at him with that furious face. Then he calmed down again and sighed.

“Right after that he wanted me to apologize. I apologized for the way I spoke, but not for what I said. And do you know what he said to me? ‘And that is exactly the apology you should make to me.’” He imitated Vil again to the point of making that gesture with his index finger next to his chin and put a smug face on. “ ‘What you said is more than correct, now the way you said it needs to be worked on.’ HE WAS PURPOSELY IRRITATING ME TO TEST ME! CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?! And Rook even helped by praising the passionate way I expressed myself and yada, yada, yada.”

You can no longer contain your laughter when you imagine that scene. And Epel laughs with you. Oh, you almost forgot! You turn around and go to the bag to get Epel’s box to give to him.

“WOW! IT'S SO COOL!” Epel smiled excitedly when he sees the drawing of dragons on the box.

Then he looked at you and his smile became sweeter, having been reminded that you actually know the real him. He wasted no time in opening the box and he genuinely smiles so cutely when he sees the chocolate macarons. But then you see him pick up one of the macarons and analyze it. You ask if there's something wrong.

“Did you make them?” he asks with a really puzzled look, but soon his eyes widen and the big smile returns as you confirm. “So that's why they are a little crooked and with some cracks. Hahaha.”

You pout at him and notices his cheeks starting to turn pink.

“Hey, I'm not making fun of you." he says, still with a slightly mocking smile. "Macarons are hard to make. And honestly, you did such a good job that I almost thought they were bought." Then he smirked. “But they wouldn't sell macarons in this state.” He laughs at your annoyed reaction. “They look delicious, tho. Let's dig in!”

He tastes the macaron in his hand and once again his eyes widen, accompanied by a huge smile.

“Mmm, that's darn good!” he says in his accent. “But, tell me just one more thing.” he says with a smug smile. “Do you know what it means to give someone chocolates made by yourself today?” You confirm. “That's what I was hoping for!”

And in a surprising movement of grabbing you by the waist with his free hand, he pulls you and kisses your cheek with confidence.

Knowing that Sebek’s favorite food is Salmon carpaccio doesn't help you know exactly what you should do, but knowing that his least favorite food is Black coffee helps you conclude that dark chocolate is not a good option. But with that maybe you can think more about the shape of the chocolates... Does Sam have any dragon molds for sale?

Meanwhile, no Diasomnia’s student approaches the kitchen so that their eardrums wouldn't be ruptured by Sebek's voice. Just the energy of ‘Don't you dare bother me, humans!’ was enough for them to reach the door and immediately turn around. With only 3 exceptions. But luckily for him one of those exceptions wasn't even around at the time. Luckily because he was thinking about making chocolates for Malleus too.

Silver doesn't really get involved in other people's business. At most, he gives a little smile on the corner of his mouth, thinking it's amusing, and leaves him alone.

Lilia, on the other hand, really, really, REALLY wanted to mess with him a little. He couldn't contain his desire to stay in the kitchen and watch him cook, which on the one hand put more pressure on Sebek, but also made him more determined to make everything perfect. Lilia even offered to help him.

“I-It is very generous of you to offer me your precious aid, Lilia-sama.” he said, and he always feels guilty and dishonored for avoiding Lilia's cooking. “But, as honorable as it would be, I will have to decline the offer. For I intend to strive to make the chocolates with the greatest perfection through my solo effort and improving skills.”

He may have saved himself from Lilia 'helping' him make your chocolates, but he couldn't save himself from Lilia's comments insinuating that he (as the youngsters say) ships the two of you. Part of Lilia also wanted to trick him a little bit to make him court you in a weird and funny way, but he held himself back. He wasn't one to abuse Sebek's trust to the point of actually ruining things between you.

On Valentine's Day, you were putting the boxes of chocolates in the bag to deliver to the Diasomnia boys when you heard someone knocking on your door.

“HUMAN!” Sebek shouts with a slight blush of embarrassment on his face and as if he were doing it almost out of obligation. “I'm here to fulfill the chocolate delivery ritual.” He hands you the black heart-shaped box with green lineart that he didn't even bother to hide behind his back. “P-please accept my offering.” he stuttered for an almost imperceptible second.

You pick up the box with a little smile, finding it all funny. You open the box and find hearts made with your favorite chocolate. You pick one up and bite into it, discovering that it also has your favorite filling inside.

“Well, I may conclude that you are perfectly satisfied with my cooking.” He says with a smug smile that tries to hide the real delight he feels at seeing you smile like that. But then he became serious again. “With this, my visit to you comes to its conclusion. Have a good day.”

He immediately turns to start walking to the gate, but you stop him. He turns around alarmed by the way you asked him to wait.

“WHAT IS IT?! Is there something missing?! I knew I should have gotten flowers too!”

And so his composed mask falls, at least for that moment. He really seems worried that he did something wrong and is sorry for whatever mistake he made. However, you can't help but laugh at that drastic change in behavior.

“WHA- NOW YOU ARE MOCKING ME?!” He makes that angry face that is so common of him that it doesn't even worry you anymore. “For what motive did you ask me to detain myself?!”

You turn to grab his box from the bag and hand it to him. It's a green heart-shaped box with a black bow. He almost jumps in surprise.

“You...” he says in a lower voice (which to anyone would be just a regular volume) “You got me chocolates too?”

He picks up your box with a delicacy you've never seen before and a little glint of wonder in his eyes. He opens the box to find chocolates, some milk, others white, shaped like little dragon heads. And with that he made that emotional face that he practically only directed at Malleus or Lilia.

“HOW MAJESTIC! Such a sublime creature recreated in its glory! You... human... are so... CRUEL!”

You ask why he is saying that, worried and above all confused.

“How do you expect me to ruin a work of art such as this? And worst of all through INGESTION?! I CAN NOT! This must be preserved!”

You try to convince him to eat them because if he doesn't they'll spoil. And you even say that you didn't know he would see things that way, you just thought he would like those molds because of, well, Malleus. And you comment that maybe you should have chosen something else because you really want him to taste what you did for him.

“They... they were made by you?” His face contorts into even more emotional pain and indecision.

You say you have the molds and can make more if he wants. This makes his eyes widen, almost filling with tears, and shine with joy and relief.

“THAT WOULD BE SIMPLY WONDERFUL! ... GH!... hu-hum. I mean, I would be very grateful if you did.” he smiles with a slight blush. “Now,” he smirks. “I should uncover the result of your labor.”

He takes one of the chocolates and bites into it. And you can see from his emotional expression that he's trying hard not to start showering you with praise like he does with Malleus.

“I must confess, for a human devoid of any magic or enviable abilities, your cooking is more than satisfactory.”

You look at him with that face of someone asking if that really is the best thing he can say to you. He sighs and blushes a little again.

“Very well. You desire to hear my most genuine opinion, correct?” he smiles, in a rather sweet way. “I truly enjoyed it. I didn't want to inflate your ego, but since you insist, they are some of the best homemade chocolates I've ever had. It is an honor to be worthy of tasting something like this and with the exclusivity of having it made especially for me. Thank you very much, (Y/N).”

You're surprised for a moment that he said your name and not ‘human’. And in the meantime, his posture changes, at first he seems uncertain about something but then he becomes surprisingly confident to the point of smiling smugly at you.

“Well, I assume you are well aware of the rules of  chocolate giving on Valentine's Day. And what implies delivering chocolates made by the offeror to the offeree.”

Seeing your expression of confirmation, he takes your hand, leans in and kisses the back of it. When he looks at you again, in the eyes, you see a shine and affection that you never thought you would see in him.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[bnyf]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#1 crush ♡

╭﹕୨୧﹒yandere male elf x female human reader ♡

┊ warnings : yandere content and themes, unhealthy behaviors, relationship and relationship dynamic, sexual content, noncon, kidnapping, size difference, strange dynamic.

╰﹕୨୧﹒authoress note : after receiving some unwanted but much needed criticism i've tried my hand at writing a little better and fixing errors. i apologize in advance if there's any errors or gaps in my writing, i also apologize for the messed up story that this is. ik some people don't like the way i write the reader but like??? idgaf sorry anyways other than that, i hope you guys enjoy, please read the warnings and proceed with caution <3 i would also like to say that this post is kinda inspired by a very popular yandere artist on here with a male elf oc

what a treacherous fate had befallen on a vitreous soul such as yourself.

it truly is unfortunate, you're so unlucky. how could your luck have run so low? to think, this everyday mundane routine would now be your nightmarish reality was stomach wrenching. you never did anything to deserve this, this was simply some sort of faulty by the gods, right? there's no way this is your horrible ending. no way.

you sobbed and yet... he hummed and chastised you by smacking your puffy clitorous.

it's always like this, it's been like this for...? a while now apparently. you've completely lost track of time. maybe a month or so if you're playing the guessing game.

well, if it wasn't obvious already, you've been taken hostage by an insane elven prince. probably the most insanely angelic, good-looking, prettiest and sick minded male you've ever met.

he really needs professional help. something that he can more than afford considering his house is almost made of gold, his herculean physique adored and draped only with the most expensive clothes, jewels, silks, soaps and scented creams and perfumes. his perfume, so extravagant, worth more than your vital organs all put together. that was the part you admired about elven people, they are so intelligent, so ahead of humans.

but to him? therapy is cheap and free! you're the first ever human he's laid eyes on and that's all he really needs. and really, you're the one to blame for his actions. it's all you. so you should take responsibility, right?

he's sought out humans before, trying to break the barrier between the two worlds and connect with them. he was damn near obsessed with coming into contact with the human realm and ruling over them like a god despite the fact that any sort of magic that threatens to break the barrier and connect the realms or offer passage through the two realms is absolutely forbidden. this is such a serious offense that if caught violating, can lead to public execution.

but your little caregiver did not! give one flying hoot at all, nor did the rules really even apply to royals as the royals participated in a lot of magical corruption and kept it all on the low.

so what a surprise! not really that he'd succeed in his conquest. not entirely since he'd only manage to bring one human to the elven realm, but now he knows for sure he's making great progress. and not only succeed in getting a nitty gritty palms on any human, but such a cute little human female like yourself.

humans are a lot more fragile, smaller, weaker, lesser intelligent beings, almost like a sub species from elves. so that's why you must be taken care of with so much extra love and attentiveness. all this was his reasoning for treating you like a minor being, enabling you and excuses for his weird kinks.

there was no way you'd ever dream of over powering him, not when a large veiny arm wrapped so tightly around your wrists, holding it behind your back, and the other with it's slender long digits effortlessly reaching your g spot.

it was 'bath time' or whatever, which called for a thorough inspection and cleanse. or just another excuse to use your body to his likings.

his tongue lap at your folds and clit, moaning in delight and relishing in all your juices spraying him. his voice muffled by your pussy, making wet sounds as he attempts to praise your gorgeous body: all of which sounds like incohesive unhinged, obsessive rambling of course.

if you ignore this scene and focus on other small things around you maybe you can, somewhat imagine yourself having a luxurious warm bath in the tub, with flowers and scented stuff in the water, scented candles creating a relaxing atmosphere, marvelous one-sided glass view... maybe not the one-sided glass view that's actually a little too scary to think about but yeah, you're having a nice little bath.

the most relaxing bath in the most prettiest and pearliest tiled bathroom you've ever been in.

your insides contorts though and you find yourself coming again undone on those perfectly manicured fingers of his, messing up his perfect face with your essence. your voice is loud and echoes throughout the bathroom, all the way into the bedroom and closet but never enough to each anyone's ears as he's casted multiple protective barrier spells to keep your presence unknown from other elven people. you've came like 5 times already and he won't let you rest, getting high off your pussy juices.

"poor baby, you look so tired, shhh don't worry~ mama will take care of everything, just relax and be good for me, okay? it'll all be over soon, my darling ^ mama will get you all cleaned up and dressed, right after this..." you wish you had the energy to welp out an 'ewwwwww da fuck?!' right about now but you were so weak and constantly sedated. you felt helpless as his bulbous tip hits your pussy, rubbing it back and forth to coat and lubricate himself with your juices. he leisurely teases, making your hole spasm and grasp around nothing, your body reacting in a lovely manner to his advances.

he licks his lips, only putting the tip in before quickly pulling back out. taking his time cause he wants to drive you insane like him. and luckily for him, his mind games always work so well.

his precum leaking and smearing you in the process as he rubs his whole length, measuring your pelvic area with his cock length and soon putting it in to see how far it'll actually go.

you almost blacked out. even though he prepped you well for this it still stings, he's just too big. and you? way too tight, squeezing him like you want every last drop of his seed, has him shivering and grunting in the process.

"fck- you're so tight, baby ngh~"

has him seeing stars and by the time he's balls deep in you and hitting the tip of your womb, you're a drooling and moaning mess. can't even control his obsessive thoughts from spilling out his mouth, he immediately gets to work on those hips too like a wild animal, only sparing a few seconds to sloppily kiss you and slap your thick behind.

it only takes a few minutes before he breaks his load inside you and shifts you into another position, manhandling you and roughing you up like a meat toilet, all for his own enjoyment and pleasure.

his long silky hair tickling your skin. when you think about it, he's so masculine with many feminine traits too, like the perfect balance actually and it is to be expected from an elf. he always wants to be in control, always wants to take care of you like a god watching over his creation. it sorta overlaps with him calling himself your mama but it makes sense in a way. he doesn't see himself as a woman in any sort of way, he just wants unrestricted authority over you.

your tears stream down your cheeks which he licks away and kisses, it only hurts your head trying to rationalize this or even understand it, your vision goes all blurry and for the next few rounds, your in and out of consciousness while being filled.

when you're awake again, you're draped in silk half naked and powdered up, you feel your caretakers strong arms wrapped around you, spooning you as rubs circles into your skin. he's also half naked with nothing but a cloth draped around himself. you both lay on a soft layered bed with many squishy pillows and blankies. fruits, steam veggies and grilled meat laid out on a silver tray for you to enjoy, though your stomach was filled with his cum.

[odileeclipse]

I'm gonna freaking eat your works.....

(this is mildly wordy It's like 2am and I have a lot to say)

I'm a big big BIGGGGG sucker for a good Shmilk or Pure ganilla fic....and wow you delivered.....🤤🤤

Big thank you for keeping me entertained for a good hour, that's a struggle for me LMAO I loved your writing, and the way you wuold describe his voice being all wispy and spooky; really added to the overall vibe of the fic and I really did like it :3

If you don't mindsies, I'd love to request something from you as well (o゜▽゜)o☆ As previously stated in a comment somewhere, angst makes me SO happy to write/read....the in-depth details people can do with emotions makes me so HEAHEHHAEHAEHEHAHEAHEH in a /pos way....

So! I would like to hhhhhhumbly request some good old fashioned Shmilky angst! Or, if you'd prefer to write Pure vanilla that's cool tooo!!!! I don't really mind what *type* of angst, just angst 🤤 I try to give writers creative freedom, but I'd adore some loss/unable to cope with loss of a loved one.....whatever works ;b ANYWAYS! LOVE YOUR WORK AND YOU'RE VERY COOL!!!!! 💥💥💥💥

The Puppet and the Fool

A tragedy in One Last Breath

A/N You're right there's been too much happiness on this blog time to fix that.

You were never supposed to last. From the moment you met Shadow Milk Cookie, you had been a mere curiosity, a spectator drawn into his ever-moving spire, his ever-deceiving carnival of illusions. And yet, somehow, you had done the impossible you had slipped between the cracks of his carefully constructed reality, nestled yourself in the spaces he hadn’t meant for anyone to occupy. It had started as a game, like all things with him did. "Oh? What’s this? A little spectator who doesn’t flee at the first trick? How rare!" His voice had slithered around you, a serpent’s coil laced with amusement and something sharper, something dangerous. Others feared him, reviled him, whispered of his cruelty in hushed tones. But you, oh, you were foolish. Foolish enough to laugh, to poke at his ego, to challenge him in ways no one else dared.

He had never asked you to stay. Never invited you into his world of trickery and taunts. And yet, there you were, day after day, watching his performances with something that was not admiration, not fear just an amused understanding. "And what, pray tell, keeps you lurking about, dear audience?" he would purr, flourishing his staff. "Surely, you have places far safer than my den of illusions." You had only shrugged, smiling faintly. "Your shows are entertaining." "A high compliment, indeed!" He placed a hand over his chest in mock gratitude. "But beware! The greatest trick of all is never knowing whether you’ve already become part of the act!" "I think I’ll take my chances." Foolish. But he liked that about you. And so, your presence became a fixture, something woven into the very script of his performances. He would create grand illusions, dazzling lights and twisting realities, and you would be there, arms crossed, shaking your head with a knowing smile. "Too much?" he would ask, grinning. "You always overdo it," you would reply. It became a game one he never admitted he enjoyed far too much. And, without realizing it, he began making his performances for you.

"I see through your tricks, Shadow Milk. You’re not as unpredictable as you think." That had caught his attention. You played along, indulged his theatrics, yet somehow remained separate from them. You saw through him in ways that unnerved him, as if you knew where the real strings were pulled. But instead of cutting them, you simply held them, quietly watching as he tangled himself in his own illusions. You became a regular in his performances, not as an unwilling participant, not as a victim, but as something else entirely. A quiet presence beside him, a soft counter to his grandiosity. A knowing smile when his lies got too elaborate, a gentle nudge when his mind grew too tangled in its own web. And somehow, he let you stay. Because for all his lies, you never demanded the truth from him. And for all his illusions, you never asked him to be anything but himself. Looking back, the signs had been small, quiet things, easy to dismiss, easier to ignore. The way your hand would tremble when reaching for his. The way your breath sometimes came too short, too shallow, even when you stood still. The way your laughter, once bright and full, became something softer, something restrained. "Tired already, my dear? We’ve barely begun the show!" he would tease, twirling his staff, watching as you paused to catch your breath. And you, ever the fool, would grin and wave him off. "Maybe you should carry me, then." "Oh-ho! A tempting proposition! But I’d hate to spoil you."

He had never thought much of it. Cookies grew weary. They faltered. It was natural. It wasn’t until he noticed the way you hid it the way you swallowed the winces, the way you steadied yourself against walls when you thought he wasn’t looking that something cold and unfamiliar began to fester in the back of his mind. Doubt. A word he despised when it came to you. But it remained. And yet, he never asked. Because asking would mean acknowledging. And acknowledging would mean accepting. So he let the show go on, even as the cracks in the stage deepened beneath your feet. Now, as you lay in his arms, the truth he had refused to see wrapped around him like chains, dragging him into a reality he would not accept. You had always been dying. And he had never noticed. Or rather he had never allowed himself to notice. "You lied to me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. You managed the smallest of smiles, though it barely reached your eyes. "I didn't lie." "But you didn't tell me." His grip tightened, his mismatched eyes wild, frantic, unblinking. "You let me play my part, let me prance about like a fool while you-" He choked on his words. "Why?"

You exhaled, slow, tired. "Because I knew you’d react like this." The laugh that tore from his throat was anything but amusement. "You-!" His voice cracked, and he had to swallow down the wreckage threatening to spill. "You knew and you still…" His breath shuddered. "Why didn’t you tell me?!" You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have an answer, but because you did. And he wasn’t ready for it. "Because I didn’t want my last moments to be a performance," you murmured. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, weak, barely there. "I wanted to just… be with you." Something shattered inside him.

All those stolen moments, every laugh, every conversation, every quiet night beneath an illusory sky of his own making they had been real. You had given him something real. And now you were taking it away. His breath came quick, shallow. His grip on you was desperate, as if holding you tighter could keep you anchored to him, to this world. "No, no, no, I won’t let you—" "Shadow Milk." His name had never sounded so soft. So final. You smiled. "I love you." And then, stillness. The silence was deafening. Shadow Milk Cookie did not move. Did not breathe. Did not accept. His jester’s hat had long since fallen, forgotten on the cold ground. The ghostly eyes in his hair flickered wildly, their gazes darting in all directions, uncertain, uncomprehending. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. The story wasn’t supposed to end this way. He clutched your body tighter, rocking slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You’re still here." A statement. A fact. A truth. Or perhaps, the most desperate lie he had ever told. "You’re just waiting for your cue. That’s all this is." His tone was light, theatrical, forced. "A clever little act oh, how you’ve fooled me this time, my dear!" His mismatched eyes gleamed, too wide, too bright. "But the show must go on." There was no response. Yet he continued, undeterred. "I’ll give the next line, then! What a generous performer I am!" A sharp, broken laugh left him. "You’ll wake up soon. You always do." The world did not answer. But he did not listen. Because Shadow Milk Cookie was a liar, a master of illusion, a weaver of truths and falsehoods alike. And so he told himself the greatest lie of all. That you were still there. That you had never left. That the final act had not yet begun. And as the silence stretched on, swallowing the stage whole, he did what he had always done. He played his part. And waited for you to play yours.

[gdinthehouseee]

I Belong To You: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: after years of being separated, and a night of stolen glances and unspoken feelings, your ex-boyfriend, ji-yong, invites you to his penthouse.

word count: 4024

tags: angst to fluff; exes to lovers, jealousy, slightly spicy towards the end

ao3 link

Ji-yong swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way it catches the light, pretending he doesn’t notice the way cameras keep panning to you. But he does. How could he not notice the way you’re dressed in something stunning, the way you continue to command attention without lifting a finger, the way you’re pretending not to notice him too. He knows you a little too well for your liking—he always has.

Briefly pulling him out of his own head, the audience erupts into polite applause as the host rattles on about the next category, but the words barely register in his mind. He knows the drill—clap, nod, look engaged. He’s done this a million times. But tonight, it’s different. Not because you’re here. No. The two of you have been pretending not to see each other sitting so close yet so far from each other for a few years now.

Tonight is different because this time you’re not alone.

The artist you recently collaborated with is sitting beside you, leaning in too close, whispering something in your ear that makes you laugh. Ji-yong doesn’t have to check his phone to know what’s already happening. The cameras have caught it, the fans have seen it, and the internet is losing its mind. There will be clips, slowed-down edits, overanalyzed expressions. People will pick apart every second, searching for something—anything—to confirm their theories. Some will say you’ve finally moved on. Others will refuse to believe it, insisting you’re just trying to make him jealous. And maybe, in some twisted way, they’re right. Because the longer Ji-yong watches, the more certain he becomes that you know exactly what you’re doing. And it’s working.

The whispers had been there for months. Quiet speculations, half-serious comments under posts.

"Why haven’t they been seen together lately?""Ji-yong didn’t like her last three posts… something feels off.""She used to wear his jewelry all the time. When’s the last time we saw it?"

But nothing set the internet on fire like the day you released that song. It wasn’t an outright breakup anthem—no names, no obvious details. But it was melancholic. Raw. The kind of song that settled under the skin, playing in the back of people's minds long after it ended. And the lyrics…

You weren’t angry. You weren’t bitter. You were heartbroken. It didn’t take long before the theories started rolling in.

"Wait. Wait. WAIT. Is this a breakup song??"“Please tell me she just felt like making a break-up song…” "If they’re still together, why would she write this??""IS THIS ABOUT GD???”

Some refused to believe it, digging for loopholes, convincing themselves it was just a song. But the more they analyzed the lyrics, the deeper they spiraled. Someone found an old interview where you had casually mentioned, "I write best from experience." And that’s when the internet really lost its mind.

Breakup edits flooded timelines. Your old moments together—laughing, whispering, looking at each other like no one else in the world existed—now repurposed under the saddest soundtracks imaginable. Fan accounts were in shambles. Some mourned. Others coped through denial. But one tweet said it best:

"If this song is really about Ji-yong, I don’t think I’ll ever recover."

Ji-yong saw that tweet. And he hasn’t recovered either.

He should have known tonight wouldn’t have been any easier than the last few award shows. From the moment you walked into the venue, the cameras couldn’t get enough of you. The fans couldn’t stop screaming your name. And now, as you stand on stage beside him, accepting the award for Best Collaboration, Ji-yong feels a familiar, sinking weight in his chest.

You thank your team, your fans, everyone who made this happen. Your collaborator smiles beside you, the two of you standing close—too close—and Ji-yong knows the internet is already eating this up.

The lights shift. The first notes of your song together play. 

Ji-yong leans back in his seat, jaw tight, as you and your collaborator exchange a glance before stepping into position. The performance is effortless—smooth, intimate, rehearsed. Every look, every touch, every perfectly timed harmony makes it clear why the song was a hit. The chemistry is there, and Ji-yong isn’t the only one who notices. Fans are already screaming. Social media is probably on fire.

And then—just when Ji-yong thinks he can finally breathe—the lights don’t turn up again, in fact, they dim even lower. There’s a pause. Murmurs ripple through the venue.

Then, a single spotlight. It lands on you, and the opening chords of that song begin to play.

Ji-yong stiffens. He hears the collective gasp from the audience, feels the energy shift. Because this—this wasn’t publicly announced. This wasn’t planned. And yet, here you are, standing alone in the center of the stage, staring straight into the camera as you sing the first words.

"I don’t blame you, I just miss you."

The same line that had sent the internet spiraling. The song is stripped down—just a piano, raw vocals, and heartbreak woven into every note. Ji-yong doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. The entire venue is silent, hanging onto every word. Because this is the moment. The confirmation. The truth. No one can deny it anymore. This is the breakup song. This is the proof. This is what the fans had been speculating about for years.

The camera pans through the audience, catching dropped jaws, wide eyes, people clinging to their seats. Some fans are already in tears. Others are recording with shaking hands.

And Ji-yong? He’s gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turn white. Because the way you sing it—soft, emotional, your voice cracking just enough on the high notes—he knows it’s real. He knows it’s about him. 

When you reach the bridge—the part that had wrecked him the first time he heard it—your voice softens, turning almost fragile. The lyrics cut through the silence like a confession, every word laced with something raw, something unspoken. He feels it in his chest, the weight of your voice pressing down on him like gravity. The way you linger on certain lines, how your lips part just slightly before the next note—it’s all too familiar. Because he knows this song. He was the one who used to hear those words before anyone else. He was the one who knew what they truly meant.

Then, for the briefest second, your eyes flicker across the room.

And when they finally land on him—just for a moment, just long enough to steal the air from his lungs—Ji-yong forgets everything else.

It’s barely noticeable, but he catches it. The slightest hesitation, the way your breath hitches before the next lyric, the flicker of something deep in your gaze before you force yourself to look away. But he saw it. And it’s enough. Because no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many headlines or rumors or new collaborations have tried to fill the space between you—this moment tells him everything.

You still feel it, too.

Ji-yong exhales, shaking his head, running his tongue over his teeth before looking down at his phone. Without a second thought, he opens the contact that never blocked him. The contact that maybe should have blocked him all those years ago. The contact that shut the door, yet never locked it.

Your heart is still racing as you make your way back to your seat. The applause is deafening, a mix of cheers and shocked murmurs rippling through the venue. You don’t need to check social media to know it’s already in flames—fan theories igniting, clips of your performance circulating within seconds. But none of it matters. Not right now.

Because the only thing on your mind is him.

Sliding into your seat, you smooth your dress over your legs, trying to steady your breathing. Your collaborator leans over, whispering something about how insane that moment was, how the internet is probably imploding, but his voice barely registers.

Your phone vibrates in your palm.

“Come over once this is done.”

You stare at the words, fingers tightening around your phone. The weight of his message settles over you, heavy and intoxicating all at once. He’s not even pretending. No casual “Congratulations.” No vague “We should catch up.” Just this. Direct. Certain. Exactly like him, painfully so.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before you start typing. “Yours or mine?”

The reply comes almost instantly.

“Don’t make me wait.”

A slow exhale leaves your lips. The meaning is clear.

You lock your phone, not even bothering to reply, pulse thrumming against your skin. The award show continues around you—more speeches, more performances, more things you should probably be paying attention to. But the only thing you can think about is the fact that in just a little while, you’ll be face to face with Ji-yong again. Something tells you neither of you will be walking away unscathed. You can’t help but think of the last time you were in his penthouse.

Maybe it was the rain that made everything feel heavier that night, or maybe it was the way Ji-yong wouldn’t look at you when he said it. “Maybe we should stop this.”  You had known, deep down, that he was already halfway out the door, that the fights weren’t really fights anymore but drawn-out endings neither of you wanted to name. “Would you have ever let me go?”  He had asked, voice quiet, almost pleading. And you hadn’t answered—because the truth was, you never would have. So he did it for you. And now, after standing under those stage lights, singing the words that had lived in your chest ever since—I don’t blame you. I just miss you.—you knew he was out there, listening. You knew he understood. He has always known you a little too well, and he always will. 

The city pulsed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, neon signs flickering in and out of focus, their glow reflecting off the sleek marble floors. Inside, it was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that felt deliberate, heavy with the things neither of you had said in too long.

You stepped further in, the soft click of your heels the only sound between you. The air smelled like him—something warm, familiar, laced with the faintest trace of smoke. Ji-yong stood by the window, back turned, a cigarette burning between his fingers, untouched. He wasn’t smoking it. Just holding it, watching the city below like it might have answers.

"You came," he murmured, not turning around. His voice was lower than you remembered, a little rough around the edges.

"You told me to."

He finally turned then, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering. His lips curled into something unreadable—half a smirk, half something else, something more cautious. Like he hadn’t actually expected you to show. Like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted you to.

"Hell of a performance tonight," he said, voice deceptively light.

You swallowed, tilting your head. "Which part?"

"You know which part."

Of course you did. It had been impossible to miss—how the audience lost their minds when the first chords of your solo rang out, how the camera panned to him the second your voice wrapped around the lyrics. The ones you had written with him still lingering in the back of your mind. The ones he recognized the moment you sang them.

You shifted, arms crossing over your chest, suddenly too aware of the weight in the air. "Did you mean it?" you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

His jaw tightened. "Did you?"

It wasn’t an answer. But maybe neither of you had one. Not yet. The silence between you stretched, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Outside, the city still pulsed, but here—here, it was just you and him, standing in the aftermath of something neither of you had figured out how to name.

Ji-yong finally moved, stepping away from the window, snuffing out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray on the table. "Sit," he said, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you knew what this was. You knew the pattern, the pull, the way the air always seemed to shift when you were in the same room. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, how many miles had stretched between you. The moment you let yourself be near him, the distance never seemed to matter at all. Still, you sat.

Ji-yong watched you for a moment before settling into the armchair across from you, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze flickered over your face, like he was searching for something—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to find it.

"How long are we gonna do this?" His voice was quieter now, less teasing, more careful.

"Do what?" You knew what he meant, but you weren’t ready to give him that. Not yet.

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head. "You know what. The stolen glances. The bullshit small talk when we run into each other. The way half the internet still thinks we’re secretly together."

You tilted your head, letting the words hang between you for a moment before saying, "Depends on what your definition of ‘stopping’ was."

His lips parted slightly, and you saw the moment the words hit—like an echo of that night, when he’d stood in this very room and told you that whatever this was… wasn’t working. That the two of you should stop seeing each other. When you hadn’t answered, because you hadn’t wanted to stop at all.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know why I texted you."

You leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly. "Do I?"

"I saw you up there." His voice was lower now, quieter, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud. "Singing that song. Looking at me."

"It’s a song, Ji-yong." Your fingers curled slightly against your lap.

"Don’t do that." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. "Don’t act like that was just a song. Like you weren’t—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You meant it. I know you did."

Your stomach twisted. Because he was right. The song wasn’t a lie. It was the closest thing to the truth you could bring yourself to say, wrapped in melody and lyrics and the weight of everything left behind. You had known the moment you performed it that he’d hear every unspoken word between the lines. And yet, a part of you had still been surprised by how much it seemed to hit him.

Ji-yong leaned forward again, his elbows braced on his knees. "Did you write it because you were angry?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The song." His gaze burned into you. "Was it because you were angry at me?"

You let out a breath of something close to a laugh, shaking your head. "No, Ji-yong."

"Then why?"

"Because I missed you."

The words hung between you, heavier than anything else in the room. Ji-yong’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the strands in frustration. "So what, you missed me, but you moved on?" His voice was lower now, rough around the edges, like he was forcing himself to stay calm. But you knew him too well—knew the tension in his shoulders, the way his leg bounced slightly, the heat in his gaze.

You frowned. "What?"

"Him." He tilted his chin toward the muted TV, where clips of your performance still played, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You and him." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his jaw flexed. "That’s real, isn’t it?"

"Ji-yong—"

"Just say it." His voice was firmer now, raw with something that almost sounded like desperation. "Tell me you’re with him."

Your breath caught in your throat. "I’m not."

Something flickered in his expression—relief, maybe—but it was gone in a second, buried under something heavier. "But you could be, right?" He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You look good together. The internet thinks so, anyway. Maybe that’s what you needed—someone who wasn’t afraid to have you by his side, out in the open."

You flinched at the accusation in his tone. "That’s not fair."

"Isn’t it?" He leaned in, his eyes burning into yours. "You think I don’t see the way people talk? How they say you’re happier now? How they beg you to move on from me?" His voice dropped even lower, like he was choking on the words. "Maybe you already have."

Your chest tightened. "Ji-yong, it was just a song. Just a performance."

"Doesn’t look like that’s all it was."

"And whose fault is that?" The words snapped from your lips before you could stop them, and Ji-yong stilled, his breath hitching.

Silence stretched between you yet again. Your heart pounded, but you didn’t look away. "You were the one who said we should stop, remember?" Your voice wavered, but it didn’t break. "You walked away first. And now you’re angry because someone else was willing to stand next to me?"

Ji-yong’s throat bobbed, his fists clenching against his knees. "I—"

"You don’t get to be mad about this."

"Like hell I don’t." His voice was rough now, sharp with emotion as he sat forward, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You think I wanted to walk away? You think I don’t regret it every fucking day?" His jaw clenched, his eyes blazing. "Do you know what it does to me, seeing you with him? Seeing the way you smiled up at him tonight, the way he had his hands on you like he had the right?"

Your breath caught, your stomach twisting. "Ji-yong—"

"It makes me sick," he rasped, his voice nearly breaking. "Because it should be me."

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with everything unspoken, everything left behind. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your fingers trembling against your lap.

And then, softer this time, almost like he hated himself for admitting it—

"It should’ve always been me."

The weight of his words settled between you, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension in the space closing in, crackling like a live wire. His eyes searched yours, dark and desperate, and something in you snapped.

Before you could second-guess it—before reason could talk you out of it—you surged forward, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him in.

Ji-yong barely had time to inhale before your lips crashed into his. A sharp inhale, a shuddered exhale—then he was kissing you back with just as much fire, his hands flying to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The moment his fingers dug into your skin, a quiet, broken sound slipped from your throat, and that was all it took for him to completely unravel. His hands slid up, one tangling into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His lips were frantic, almost desperate, molding against yours in a way that felt both familiar and like something entirely new. You gasped against his mouth as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and he took the opportunity to press even closer, his grip tightening like he was terrified you’d slip away again.

The taste of him—faint traces of champagne and something unmistakably him—sent a shiver down your spine. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, as if holding onto him could stop the past from swallowing you both whole. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. And so, so dangerous.

When the two of you finally needed to breathe, your breaths tangled in the space between you, uneven and desperate, his forehead pressed against yours like he couldn’t bear to let go. His grip on your waist was firm, his fingers still curled into the fabric of your outfit, as if releasing you meant losing you all over again. His name was on the tip of your tongue, but the weight of everything—the past, the pain, the longing—held it back. Instead, you exhaled softly, your fingers loosening their hold on his shirt just enough to smooth over the wrinkles you had left behind.

"It always has been you."

Ji-yong tensed. His breath caught, and for a second, he didn’t move. Like the words had struck him too deeply, like he wasn’t sure he had heard them right.

And then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching, desperate for something—reassurance, confirmation, maybe even permission. "Say it again," he murmured, his voice rough.

Your hand slid up, resting against his cheek, your thumb brushing just below the dark smudge of eyeliner that had started to smudge from the heat between you. "It always has been you, Ji-yong."

Something in him broke.

With a sharp inhale, he crashed his lips against yours again, this time with even more urgency, like he had something to prove. Like he needed to remind you, remind himself, of everything you had once been. His hands roamed, gripping, pulling, desperate to keep you as close as possible. You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a groan, deepening the kiss until the rest of the world blurred into nothing.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head just the way he liked. The kiss deepened, his lips pressing into yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation, like he was trying to erase the time you had spent apart. Like he needed to remind you exactly who he was, who he had always been to you.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, his breath warm as his mouth trailed lower. His lips ghosted over your jaw, down the column of your throat, lingering at the spot just below your ear. "I tried, baby." He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening at your waist. "I really fucking tried to move on."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, needing something to ground yourself as his teeth grazed your skin, his lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck that had your breath hitching. "Ji-yong..."

With a growl, he grabbed your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the nearest surface—a sleek, marble counter, cool against your overheated skin. His hands spread your legs, stepping between them as he pulled you in, molding himself to you like he belonged there. And he did. The two of you belong to each other.

Your lips met again in a mess of teeth and tongues and unspoken words, the air between you thick with everything you had left unsaid. His fingers trailed up your thighs, his grip firm, possessive, like he was reminding himself that you were really here. That he could touch you again.

"Tell me you still feel this," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with want. "Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind."

You didn’t answer—not with words. Instead, you tugged him closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "I never stopped."

Ji-yong cursed under his breath before crashing his lips to yours again, this time deeper, hungrier, as if those words had undone something inside him. His hands slid to your waist, gripping tight as he lifted you off the counter effortlessly, carrying you through the familiar space like he’d done a hundred times before.

Your back hit the couch, his body covering yours in an instant. His mouth never left your skin, trailing fire wherever he touched. "You’re mine," he murmured against your collarbone, his hands sliding down, gripping your thighs to pull you even closer. "And I’m yours."

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