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nullominous-q · 4 months ago
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"Man I wish this bitch would update their fic."
*said while staring at self in mirror*
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emmondsokolov · 6 months ago
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Ramblings of a Tramp
"My only remaining Patron,
I do not presume you will care about this letter, frankly I do not expect you to, as I have caused you quite a lot of trouble, but nevertheless I felt it appropriate. Though in the other letters I will send out I went into detail as to why, those details don't really matter to you, so I will get straight to the point; In the following days, presumably by the time this letter reaches you, I will die. The details as to how exactly I die are a mystery to me, but I do know that it will happen, for the urges of my nightkin curse grow stronger and stronger and soon enough Mephiston will be gone, for my power to resist it has been dwindling as of recently. You and I aren't so different in many ways, you might not agree but I certainly feel that way, therefore I do believe many words I could say right now can remain unsaid and you will understand me regardless. Though you certainly make no efforts to prove the opposite, somewhere deep within your bastard heart you're not as miserable and bad as you act. I've already asked much of you, but please take care of Ant, you need each other.
Your personal Barkeep Mephiston Godefroy"
-
Marloix folded the letter down and turned his eyes up to where he knew the glorious city of Ishgard to be, albeit obscured through the fog and the light snowfall right now.
"Well well well," he clicked his tongue.
"I didn't think you'd actually have the guts to do it. I know I certainly don't. Bravo you old coot."
The scrawny elezen man reached under the knitted woolly hat covering his short, prickly hair and itched at his dry scalp while he cast his eyes over the freshly upturned soil at his feet, glittering with shards of red and blue and gold amongst the flakes of frosty white falling down. It was about time he took a break from this task anyroad, the snowfall marks a sure end to any progress towards making the forsaken soil of Coerthas more fertile for today. Oh, and the letter too of course, it was far more exciting than digging through the dirt any day. The gardener set the shovel against the wall so he wouldn't lose it under the oncoming fresh blanket of snow that was about cover all his hard work today, and stalked back inside.
"Archibald," he barked, kicking off his boots as he closed the door behind himself and shook his hands about in a fruitless attempt to bring back some warmth to his bony fingers.
"Seems I've a grand show to catch. Hold on to any more mail that arrives while I'm out, won't you. I doubt this is the only letter we'll- Ah, it's already arrived. Tch. Of course. Sneaky little shits."
A silent servant stood at the back of the store, waiting, while Marloix helped himself to plucking the neatly folded envelope from their hands and wasted no time opening it up, recognising right away the similar penmanship to his own letter.
"I doubt the old boy will mind if I take a peek, hmm? Not if he doesn't find out about it, so you'd best keep your mouth shut. Hmhmh."
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historiaxvanserra · 1 month ago
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In Hades I Am With You | Chapter One
Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader
Word Count: 3.8k
Summary: With rising tensions across the sea causing unrest in the capital, the two warring factions of the Night Court must come to terms.
Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through sacred oaths. For better or worse.
Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.
Please let me know what you think. This chapter and readers powers are heavily inspired by Poppy from From Blood and Ash.
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I was born on a night like this, I think. 
Storm-streaked, he had once called me. If only he could see me now; standing at the foothills of the mountain, wind-beaten and with the acrid taste of seafret on my lips. When I was a girl my father had told me that I came into the world the way the Old Gods had. Born from the merciless, blue-green depths of the sea. 
To be beautiful and cruel, and fearless.
Now fear is all I know.
The streets of the great mountain city are plagued by a feverish summer storm and, at the fatal peal of thunder I cast my eyes skyward. A terrible dread coils in the pit of my stomach. 
The visions come with the storm; fleeting images of an unforgiving tempest as it ravages all in its wake. The dark figure of a man, who whispers my name like a prayer. 
The God of plagues and prophecy.
Death had first come to me in a dream. Haunting and prophetic. Shrouded in seraphic blue light. 
Heat swells beneath the surface of the hydrangea clouds and the dark waters of the Sidra turn violent. Ivory seafoam coils and contorts violently like the tendrils of some grotesque sea-snake. I think of an old story my father had told me once. A human princess from the continent. She had been beautiful once. Until some dark, deathless God had lay claim to her. A monstrous thing. Rising from the depths of her watery tomb to lay waste to the men who had hurt her. Thrashing and writhing as the waves crested over the port of this wretched city. 
The crack of forked, white lightning against the darkening horizon breaks my reverie and Scylla nestles into my side with a bruising force. I smooth a hand flat on her muzzle. Her lustrous dark mane feels soft under my tender touch and she exhales a hot breath that rises like steam in the wet heat of the Summer storm. 
“Calm, Scylla.” I whisper tenderly to the mare I had taken to mount. My lips graze her dappled coat along her muzzle and I welcome the earthy fetor as it fills my senses. 
“Gentle, girl.” I reaffirm, patting the mount affectionately as I tie the reins to the crumbling statue of some prince long dead. 
“I’ll be back soon.” I promise. My voice wavers with another rumble of thunder. 
When I was a girl, my father had told me to count the moments between the cacophony of thunder and the flash of white lightning to work out how many leagues away it might be. 
At this moment I know that I am standing in the eye of the storm. 
Scylla watches warily as my figure disappears into the darkness of the lower city. I still hear her in the distance long after I am gone. Cloistered in the darkness of the city’s narrow alleys I remove the onyx veil that shrouds my features. I bury it in the folds of the plain, grey cloak I had stolen from Leda. 
I weave through the long, winding streets. I observe the world in flashes of cruel light and sound that permeates the suffocating darkness that saturates the lower city. I hear the echo of it in the lurid shouts of merchants, and the vulgar songs of sailors, coming home from the docks at the mouth of the Sidra. I listen to them all; as they beg, barter and brawl in the filthy streets. The fetor of decay lingers in the air like festering fruit flesh in the feverish heat of the slums. Throngs of beggar children chase the merchant's carts as they roll through the putrid pools of waste upon the wet, cobbled stone. Though, I only catch fleeting glimpses of them each time the cruel, seraphic light cuts through the blanket of the dark. 
As I pass through the Streets of Silk, I hear the bawdy rhymes of the painted whores as they call out into the night like a siren song; all sultry-eyed and dressed in lace that billows in the wretched breeze like the tendrils of a monstrous chimera. Fated to lure wayward sailors to their watery tombs. 
It is then, as the city bells toll their mournful song, that I reach my destination. 
The building stands as one of the last unsanctioned pleasure halls in the city; its weary slate facade is cut from the same dark stone as the mountain that oppresses the city. Its neglected roof tiles gleam in the pallid silver faelights like moonlight on the murky-green depths of the Sidra. Above the door, I observe the pillory that bears the establishment's name. The Jade Pearl, painted in varying gaudy shades of green and gold. 
The pleasure hall on the outer banks of the mountain city is alive with sordid activity. The whores in their fine silks twirl and dance in merry rings like water nymphs, and the serving girls sing sultry harmonies like siren songs, as they fill up the cups of patrons with sticky, honeyed mead. The high-arching melody of lyres and harps cut through the cacophony of carnal sounds; the officious laughter of Darkbringers, the vulgar curses and honeyed words, whispered into the skin of wind-beaten sailors and fat merchants. 
I traverse the narrow corridors that run like veins into the heart of the tavern. Its dark antechamber is bathed in shadow and dying fireglow that casts the word in a pallid light. The emerald bar curves around the hall in the shape of a crescent moon and the tables dapple the room like stars. 
“What a pretty creature you are, Mistress.” A beautiful wraith compliments, tugging and the long sleeves of my stolen robes. With tender touches and whispers the wraith works the buttons of my robes until I am left in the thin champagne shift I had worn beneath my cloak. 
She’s a slender looking creature, with pale blue eyes that look almost silver in the dying light of the hearth. Her long, white hair is braided over her shoulder like the tendril of some mythical siren. 
Dangerous and inviting. 
“Whatever you desire, be it wine or women, I will procure for you tonight,” She purrs, her voice low and sultry as she looks at me with those pale eyes. She’s dressed in the gauzy, silk robes of a whore. The garment flows like water over the curve of her hip and with a deep slit in its middle that exposes the graceful swell of her breasts beneath. And through her guise of beauty and seduction, I see the chains that bind her.
As I am bound. To this court. To the mountain that we call home.
“A drink would be nice,” I acquiesce, sliding a gold coin across the polished surface of the bar, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all, mistress- but this far too much coin.” The wraith begins to untether the cracked leather coin purse from her hip. She begins to exchange the gold for smaller coins of silver and bronze, counting them in her open palm. 
“Please - keep it -- I’ve no use for such things anyway.” I command, nodding towards the coin in her hand. The wraith shakes her head and tries to protest but a call from the brutish looking owner draws the girl's attention away from me. I look up from my spot, across the painted emerald surface of the bar, to the games table. A voice, thick with mirth and malice, beckons my attention. 
“There are rumors amongst the legion that the High Lord will return to Court by the moon's turn.” The cruel laugh of a Darkbringer draws my interest as they sit around an emerald table. Crimson cards and dice litter the surface of the table and in its center a collection of coins. The male at the head of the table is dressed in his court robes; a dark overcoat with silver embroidery along the collars and cuffs. The others have abandoned their stifling robes in lieu of casual black tunics and pants. It is only through the tendrils of dark that shroud them in shadow that I know what they are.
These men are members of The Night Court’s legion of Darkbringers; and servants of the High Lord’s Steward. The larger of the three, unsheathes his dagger and places it atop the pile of coins in lieu of money. 
A reminder of their lethal potential. 
A vein of dark power that speaks to a coming vision plagues me in those spaces between the seconds. Untethered and adrift in the ether I allow my fragile mind to wander. I see a lake from which the dead rise like a devastating tempest. I see a King atop a dias, and a throne of splintered bone. And, through the blanket of the dark, I see the gleam of Illyrian Steel and age worn bone. 
Then, that tenuous connection to the Otherworld is severed. 
“The commander of the city watch says that tensions in the lower city are rising.” The deep timbre of the Darkbringer rouses me from thought again.
“I heard that the Lord Protector plans to broker an alliance with the Death Lord himself,”
“ if only to free himself of Rhysand’s leash.” 
“--bring him and that bitch of his to heel morelike.” The youngest of the three smiles malevolently.
“Enough of that, boys, we’re in the presence of a Lady.” The leader implies dangerously and at once, three heads incline in my direction. There are no Ladies allowed in this part of the city. The females of this forsaken city are bound to the Moonstone Palace. Forced to our knees in deference to our male oppressors. The only women that still dwell in the lower city are whores and exiles. Of which I am neither. 
Something dark and terrible roils in the pit of my stomach as the male approaches. I pull the hood of the austere, grey cloak to veil my face in shadows. The pale eyes of the Darkbringer meet mine through the din and his smile curls around the sharpness of his teeth.
The cold, amethyst hilt of a dagger kisses the tender flesh of my thigh beneath the many lawyers of dark fabric and I am reminded of my own lethal potential. The dagger had been passed from my grandsire some years ago. Made and forged from the ancient power that dwells beneath the mountain that we call home. The dagger itself had been set in a hilt of dark wood, trimmed with silver and precious gems; amethyst, sapphire and onyx. Its blade was fashioned of Illyrian steel and honed to a fatal sharpness.
“What a pretty little bird, she is.” He taunts as he approaches, his manner imposing and vindictive as he takes my chin roughly between his fingers. 
“I am no Lady, Ser.” I swallow thickly. It is true, of course. I am no Lady of the Night Court. I had been a babe when they found me. The cursed daughter to a cruel lord and some terrified nymph. 
My mother died giving me life and left me at the ruined Temple of Beara, the Mistress of Storms, deep in the foothills of the mountain. In the hopes that the Priestesses would shelter me from the cruelty of this court. After the temple fell I was brought before the Lords of Night and given to the Temple of Astarion on account of my rare and ancient gift. 
“Then perhaps you might regale my friends and I with the tale of how a pretty thing like you ends up here.” The Darkbringer replies, sliding a coin across the table. His gaze drops to the rings that adorn my hands; fine rings of onyx and amethyst, mined from the wretched bowels of the mountain that I have come to call home. The mark of my good breeding. 
“I assure you Ser, I am no whore either.” I chastise, sliding my hand beneath the folds of my cloak. The lust that pools in his eyes is a dreadful thing. Lecherous and heinous. Though I take comfort in the knowledge that my true identity is concealed. 
As the Pythia of the Night Court a dark veil typically obscures my features from the view of men; save from my eyes, which are heavily darkened with kohl and pigments of sapphire and amethyst that hail from the mines of Illyria. The veil protects me as much as it oppresses me. For if male like this knew of the power I possess, they would seek to control it, to covet that power until I were a vessel of their ill intent. That is why I was given to the Temple as a child. Why my estranged father and the Steward of the Night Court seek to make me their weapon. I know then that if I am discovered I will suffer for it. The kind of suffering that only exists here, in the rotting depths of Hewn City.
“No, I see that now.” Devilment darkens his pale gaze and the cut of amethyst shines in his dark eyes, he releases me from his bruising grip with a dark laugh. 
“Curious little thing.” One of the men whispers. 
“This is not the place for a gentle creature like you, Lady” He whispers, his pointed finger ghosts the cut of onyx on my hand,  “luckily for you I am feeling quite merciful.” 
“I am not as gentle as I look, Ser.” I warn. The three Darkbringers laugh cruelly. I turn to leave when a firm hand closes around my wrist and twists me so I am held in the Darkbringers bruising embrace. His lips drag a tortuous line along the side of my jaw. 
“Now, now little bird,” He coos mockingly against the shell of my ear as I struggle violently against him, “flighty little thing.” 
Bile rises in my throat as the Darkbringer’s companions laugh and fingers dig into the knife at my thigh, unsheathing it in a moment and pressing it against the male's pale throat. Unshed tears line my eyes like flecks of silver starlight as his hands still on my waist. 
“That is what you call mercy?” I laugh bitterly at the man, his eyes hardening as the Illyrian steel blade glints in the dim light. 
“Let go of her, Aeres.” The eldest of the three orders and the Darkbringer unhands me at once.
“Now fly back to your cage, little bird.” The elder male nods towards the rear exit beyond the bar. 
On uncertain feet I Traverse the narrow aisle of the tavern I find myself adrift amongst the dancing tide of patrons. A throng of women, clad in gauzy robes and underthings, twist and contort like columns of technicolor seafoam. The cruel laughter from the dance floor pulls me deeper into the wretched heart of the pleasure house. Lurid whistles and a series of vulgar gestures rouse my attention. A female; dressed in spider silk and lace coils around a portly merchant at the games table. She slips into his lap with a serpentine grace. I watch as the merchant’s weathered hand traces the line of her throat to the swell of her breasts. Smacking his hand away, the woman laughs, it is a beautiful, false thing that glitters in the pallid light.
“Well, girl I hope you fuck better than you play cards.” The merchant complains, laying down his deck of crimson cards. The female curls a painted hand around the cuffs of his tunic and whispers into his ear and the merchant's mouth curves into a lurid smile. One thick hand draws down her stomach, the other brushes the flesh of her thigh, slipping under the folds of her robe between her legs --
Oh.
I avert my eyes at the scene as a blush kisses its way along my neck and chest at the intimacy of it. The merchant rises from his seat at the table, taking the female slender hand in his. The whispered words they exchange are too low for me to hear but her answering smile is enough to know it was something wicked. The female rises leads the merchant towards the sleeping chambers beyond the emerald curtains. 
I watch as the merchant's shadowy figure is swallowed by the darkness as the curtain is drawn. My attention lingers far after they are gone, leaving only the smell of salt and jasmine in their wake. 
I am overcome with a strange, prophetic awareness.; dreams of shadowed light and a bleeding star, scarred hands that track the constellations as they reign over the black tapestry of the sky.
The high-arching symphony of strings and lyres blossoms in the feverish heat of the tavern. The soft melody of the lyres seems to echo off of the high, domed ceiling, as the heavy beat of a drum joins the cacophony of sound. It’s a hypnotizing, deeply sensual beat, that is unlike anything I have ever heard. 
Primal and carnal. 
I find myself adrift in the sway of the dancing sea. Slowly, I make my way along the length of the bar, reaching out to touch the gauzy jade curtains, parting them slowly --
“I don’t think you want to go in there, Mistress.” The lilting voice of the wraith warns. 
“Why not?” I ask curiously, lowering my hand from the curtain. The wraith laughs prettily, her cerulean eyes glinting in the dying light of the fire. 
“Some don’t appreciate an audience, Sweet girl.” 
“An audience?” I ask. 
Through the darkness of the antechamber, I see the silhouettes of the whores and their patrons, writhing and undulating with the beat of the drum. The music is punctuated by panting breaths and lilting moans, and the vulgar sound of men as they find their pleasure. 
“Oh.” The wraith laughs again, her painted lips curl into a wicked smile.
“Is it your first time here, Priestess?” The wraith leans in, the rich tenor of her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. Fear coils in my stomach and my grip on the emerald surface of the bar tightens. 
“I’m no priestess.” I try to emulate her melodious laughter and my eyes narrow in faux concern. 
“You needn't lie to me, Pythia. Your secret's safe with me.” Her words resound in my head and realization dawns. She’s daemati. 
“That type of secret is not safe with anyone.”
“What could I gain from exposing it to anyone? I wish you no ill will.” She returns. 
“You’d earn the Lord Protector's favor, of that I am certain --.” 
The wraith's face twists into a grimace and her sapphire stare hardens to a cold, wicked thing. “I have no need for that viper’s favour.” The venom laced in her voice speaks to the malice she holds for this place, its patrons and the cruel light of Hewn City. Many within the court resent the way in which we live, clinging to the slivers of power we are allowed, cowering in the darkness of the mountain. 
Things are changing as of late, war looms ever closer and whispers of dissent from the continent bring about unrest in the people. Many turn to the High Lord and his Lady for liberation from the dying vestiges and brutal traditions of this court. For many years I myself have lived in servitude and isolation, serving Keir, The Lord Protector and Steward of the ancient mountain city. 
As his coveted oracle; a conduit for his own power.
A cruel wind cuts through the heat of the pleasure hall as the doors open to announce an influx of new patrons. Three men, dressed in court robes enter through the archway, each shaded in shadows and dark wisps of power. My heart hammers thunderously in my chest as the men enter the heart of the establishment. 
“A flagon of wine and some dice, Arik.” The Darkbringer announces to the man behind the bar. My face pales from where I stand. These men are of my personal guard; formidable and unwaveringly loyal to my keeper. 
These men, these good men, are sworn to a monster, and they must do monstrous things to survive here. 
As we all must. 
I veil my face with the hood of my stolen cloak, tucking my hair into the collar so that it is concealed from view, and my face obscured almost entirely. If they were to discover me they would be duty bound to drag me back to the Moonstone Palace and throw me down atop the emerald dias for Keir and my father to punish as they see fit. 
I take another tentative look across the room and observe the men crowded around the game table with women hanging off them, like a swarm of beautiful and merciless harpies. 
“That one’s usual girl looks like you--” The wraith whispers to me, casting her own gaze to Ares who stands alone near the fire rather forlorn for a male in the middle of a brothel.  
“She’s busy with her favorite client upstairs. Perhaps you might retrieve her and make your escape.” Slowly, I turn to the wraith who takes my hand gently and leads me along the length of the bar. 
“You will find Aelle on the second floor -- take sanctuary there. I’ll come for you when your friends are occupied.” 
I hold her hand fondly and press a gold coin into her palm. 
“Thank you.” I say. She presses a chaste kiss to my cheek and ushers me up the stairs. 
As I ascend the steps of the pleasure hall, I slip a hand between the folds of my cloak, fingers ghosting the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh once more. 
The upper levels of the house are painted a deep emerald color and the flickering fae lights saturate the long, narrow corridors in onyx wisps of shadow. The room at the end of the corridor is stepped in near darkness, veins of indigo and navy that obscure everything in a shroud of blue-darkness. The mantle is hung with half-burned candles and a garland of foxglove and jasmine. The antique furniture looks as though it has been carved from the black wood of ash trees and the armchairs in front of the dying hearth are embroidered with dark floral motifs and silver threads. 
I draw in a sharp breath and the scent of pine and night-blooming florals shrouds me in its winter kiss. 
A flash of seraphic light illuminates the room and a deep voice, shaded in nightshade calls out from the blue-darkness.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” 
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puckstories · 12 days ago
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Surrender | Quinn Hughes
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Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader
Warning(s); Smut (p n v), spanking (once), cursing, use of the term 'good girl', situationship, slight angst, edited once.
Summary; A brutal loss to the Bruins leads to Quinn showing up at your apartment at one am, and subsequently changes everything. Title and fic is slightly inspired by the song Surrender by Kut Klose.
Word Count; 8.8k
Author’s note; This was my first time writing smut! But weirdly, I found it easier to write than fluff..? That being said, hopefully this isn't too bad, and any constructive criticism is appreciated. This morphed into something more complicated and detailed than I originally planned, but I like it nonetheless. Would love to hear any thoughts you have + reblogs are super appreciated. Feel free hit my inbox with anything (: -Honey.
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You and Quinn had been casually seeing each other for the past couple of months. It hadn’t been planned, not really. You’d met him at a bar one night—a place with dim lighting and sticky floors, the air humming with laughter and bass-heavy music. One of those rare evenings when the stars seemed to align just right. He was sitting alone, nursing a drink, the brim of his black New York hat pulled low enough to make him look just anonymous enough to the crowd. He’d caught your eye almost immediately, and when his gaze found yours across the room, something about the way he smiled—confident but a little hesitant—had you walking over before you even realized it.
Things had taken off quickly after that. A few drinks. Easy conversation. A kiss outside the bar that turned into more. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way, and that first night left you with a lingering curiosity about him. Who he was when the spotlight wasn’t on him. What made him laugh, what kept him awake at night. So you kept seeing him. Not all the time, not in any way that felt serious. Just enough to keep the connection alive.
The two of you hadn’t given it a label. You both avoided that conversation like it was a landmine. And maybe, in a way, it was. You weren’t sure if you wanted one. Quinn was busy—the kind of busy that came with being the Captain of the Vancouver Canucks. His schedule was a whirlwind of practices, games, and media appearances, leaving little room for anything beyond fleeting moments of downtime late at night. And you… well, you weren’t ready to completely settle down, not after the way your last relationship had crumbled in slow, messy pieces that you were still picking up. Casual worked. Casual was safe.
Most of the time, anyway.
But even as you told yourself that this thing with Quinn was simple—just hooking up, just having fun—you couldn’t help but notice the little cracks forming in your resolve. The way his laugh made something tighten in your chest. The way you’d catch yourself replaying the way his hand brushed yours in the middle of a crowded street or the soft, sleepy rasp of his voice when he called you late at night after a game. There was something disarming about him, something unshakable about the way he looked at you, like he saw more than you were willing to admit.
You weren’t sure if he felt it, too, or if it was just you overthinking things. After all, he’d never brought up the future, and you’d been careful not to either. That was the unspoken rule between you two: keep things light. But sometimes—when he was kissing you slow and deep, or when he let himself talk about the pressure of wearing the “C” on his chest, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than you’d ever expected—you wondered if casual was really all it was for him. Or for you.
The Canucks lost at home to the Bruins tonight, 5-1. You’d watched from your couch, wincing with every missed opportunity, every puck that found its way past the goalie. It wasn’t just the loss that stung—it was the way the team seemed to unravel by the second period. You’d seen Quinn’s frustration in the tight set of his jaw, the way he skated harder than anyone else on the ice, and the slump of his shoulders every time the Bruins scored. You hated watching him like that, knowing how much weight he carried—not just as a player, but as Captain.
When the final buzzer sounded, you’d grabbed your phone and sent him a quick text: Hey. You alright?
The message stayed unread for a while. And then, sometime after eleven, the little “seen” mark popped up. No reply, and in turn, you got the hint. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, and you respected that. Losses like this were hard on him, you'd found that out early on. Instead of pressing, you sighed, plugged your phone in, and climbed into bed, trying not to let the silence sting.
What you didn’t expect was the banging on your front door a little after one am.
The sound jolted you upright, your heart pounding for a moment. You threw on a hoodie over your nightgown and padded toward the door, trying to shake the grogginess from your head. The knocking came again, sharper this time. When you opened the door, you found Quinn standing there in the dim hallway light.
He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a hoodie, the strings pulled tight, but it did little to hide his messy hair and the lingering flush in his cheeks from the game. Your eyes immediately caught on his lip, the one that had been split a few games ago after a nasty high stick. The stitches still hadn’t fully healed, and the fresh redness around them drew your attention before you looked up into his face.
What struck you wasn’t the exhaustion that usually followed a loss. It was something heavier—a mixture of frustration, exasperation, and something else that made your breath hitch. His hazel eyes held a quiet intensity, a sharp edge of need that made your stomach flutter.
“Hey,” he rasped, his voice low and strained from the act of speaking to his teammates throughout the game.
You blinked, still processing the sight of him on your doorstep. “I texted you,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended, but the weight of his presence makes it hard to sound as firm as you want to. “You didn’t respond.”
For a moment, Quinn doesn’t answer, and his eyes meet yours briefly, before flicking away, as though searching for something in the shadows of your apartment. He doesn’t say a word, just steps forward, his broad frame brushing past you as he crosses the threshold into your space.
He lets the door click shut behind him, the sound heavy in the stillness of the room. Then, he turns, his eyes locking onto yours again with an intensity that sends your pulse racing. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, as though he’s taking in every detail: the loose sweatshirt you’d thrown on over your nightgown, the way your hair is slightly messy, your bare feet against the cool floor. His jaw tightens, and something about the way he looks at you makes the air feel heavier, thicker.
“I’m aware,” he finally says, voice clipped, almost sharp, but there’s something under them—something softer, quieter, that you can’t quite name.
“By all means, come in,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you cross your arms.
He doesn’t bother with a reply. Instead, something in him snaps—an instinct he doesn’t even try to fight.
His hands move fast, gripping your hips with a firm possessiveness that makes your breath hitch. His fingers dig into you just enough to let you know he’s not asking for permission. Before you can get another word out, he steps forward, backing you up with purposeful, controlled force. The edge of the wall meets your back a second later, as he presses flush against you. There’s no space, no hesitation—just him, all hard muscle and raw need, caging you in.
He leans in close, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your lips. You can feel the tension radiating off him, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. “Need you. Now,” he whispers, the words vibrating between the two of you. It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a demand.
You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your ears as the heat of his body presses harder into yours. His hands slide up from your hips, one settling at the small of your back while the other moves higher, his thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your ribcage. His touch is both possessive and reverent, as though he’s caught between devouring you and savoring the moment.
“Been too busy for me lately,” you say with a shrug, the casualness of your tone masking the twinge of hurt that’s harder to ignore than you’d like.
Quinn’s grip on your hip tightens at your words, his fingers pressing firmly against your skin as though he’s holding on to more than just you—maybe his own guilt, maybe his frustration. His jaw tenses, but when his eyes meet yours, you see the softness creeping in around the edges. He wants to say something; you can see it written all over his face, but the words don’t come. Instead, his grip loosens slightly, his hand dropping lower, brushing along your thigh.
Without a word, he lifts your leg, gently hooking it around his his. The movement is slow but claculated, sending a jolt of heat through you as his body presses closer, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing against your bare skin. He shifts his weight, grinding up against you with enough intention to leave no doubt about what he’s feeling—or what he wants. His hand rests at the back of your thigh now, his thumb stroking your skin absently, but his eyes never leave yours.
“You know how it is,” he mutters finally, his voice low and rough, an excuse and a half-apology tangled into one. “The team. Home games. It’s been… a lot.”
You raise an eyebrow, but don't push. “Yeah, I know,” you reply, your voice calm but edged with something sharper. “You guys got whacked tonight.”
The words leave your lips before you can think better of it, and the second they do, you see the change in his expression. His eyes darken, the dejection that was there moments ago replaced by something sharper, something simmering just below the surface. His jaw tightens again, the muscle there ticking as he presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t need the reminder. He already knows.
“Don’t,” he mutters, his voice low and strained, but there’s an edge in it that sends a ripple of tension through the air. You open your mouth, maybe to push further, maybe to soften it with a tease, but you don’t get the chance. Before you can say another word, Quinn’s hands are suddenly moving up to your waist. He grabs you with a firm, almost desperate grip, and in one swift motion, he lifts you clean off the ground. A surprised gasp escapes your lips, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders as he pulls you tight against him. The hard plane of his chest presses flush against your body, and you can feel the tension radiating off him—the frustration, the lingering adrenaline from the game, the sharp need to shut everything else out.
“Quinn—” you start, but your voice wavers, the rest of the sentence dissolving when his eyes meet yours.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he hisses, his voice rough, laced with frustration and something more primal. His words are both an explanation and a command. He doesn’t want to think about the game, the loss, the disappointment—it’s written all over him. He needs a distraction, and right now, that’s you.
He doesn’t set you down. Instead, he starts walking, carrying you through the dimly lit hallway toward your bedroom. The way he moves is deliberate, controlled, but there’s an urgency in the way his grip tightens slightly on your waist, as though holding you this close is the only thing keeping him steady. Your legs wrap around him, and you hold onto him instinctively, your heart pounding harder with every step.
When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. Quinn leans down, lowering you onto the bed with ease. The mattress dips under your weight as he releases you, but his hands don’t leave your body. They slide to your hips, pinning you in place as he hovers over you, his broad frame blocking out everything else.
Quinn’s eyes trail over you, unhurried, drinking you in like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. His gaze burns as it moves from your eyes to your lips, and then down, raking over your body like a slow caress. The heat in his expression makes your skin prickle, anticipation coiling low in your stomach. His body hovers just inches above yours, close enough for you to feel his warmth but far enough that it makes you ache for the weight of him against you.
His hands move slowly, his fingers grazing your sides as they find the hem of your hoodie. He pauses for just a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as though silently asking for permission. When you give a small nod, barely noticeable but enough, he takes hold of the fabric and begins to pull it up, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he lifts it over your stomach, then your chest. His touch is light, but the way his eyes darken as he reveals more of you sends a shiver down your spine. “Too many clothes,” he mutters, the words are more for himself than for you.
The black satin nightgown clings to you, its thin straps sliding slightly off your shoulders. The soft fabric shimmers faintly in the dim light, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat tighten. His jaw clenches, his hands hovering for a moment as if he’s not sure where to touch first. His fingers finally settle at the strap on your shoulder, pushing it down slowly, deliberately, his thumb brushing against your skin. The contrast of the cool satin and the warmth of his hand sends a jolt through you. "Gorgeous." He murmurs.
Your breath catches at his words, but before you can respond, his lips find the exposed skin just above the neckline of your nightgown, his breath warm and ragged against you. He presses a slow, open mouthed kiss there, his hands sliding down to your waist as he pulls you closer, his body finally pressing against yours. His lips trail lower, brushing along your collarbone, as his hands slide back up, slipping under the hem of your nightgown now. His fingers splay out against your bare skin, calloused from years of hockey but impossibly gentle as they explore. He pulls back just enough to look at you again, his gaze searching yours, a silent question lingering in the air. His thumb strokes your hip in small, absent circles, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop—or to keep going.
“Quinn,” you murmur. Your hands come up to rest against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. His heart pounds beneath your palm, fast and unsteady, matching the erratic rhythm of your own. “Please.”
That’s all he needs. With a low groan, he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slow and consuming, like he’s savoring every second. His hands roam your body now with more certainty, the hesitation from earlier replaced with an unrelenting hunger. The feel of him, the weight of his touch, the heat of his breath—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
He pulls away with a low curse, his breath warm and unsteady as he tilts his head back slightly. A wince flickers across his face, his hand instinctively brushing over the stitches on his upper lip—the ones cutting across the soft curve of his cupid’s bow. The kiss has aggravated them, pulling at the tender, partially healed skin. His jaw clenches, the frustration obvious in the tight set of his features, but he doesn’t move away from you. If anything, he lingers, his body still hovering over yours, his eyes locking onto yours like he’s grounding himself in the moment.
"Careful." You warn, your fingers reaching up to lightly trace the scruff on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is rough, tinged with annoyance—not at you, but at the injury that’s getting in the way of what he wants.
Taking the opportunity, you tug gently at the hem of his hoodie, your hands curling into the soft fabric. He looks down, his eyes following the movement of your hands as you gesture, silently telling him you want it off. There’s no hesitation this time. He straightens slightly, pulling the hoodie over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric lifting to reveal the lean, pale skin of his torso. The garment lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten along with yours, as he leans back down, closer to you, his hands bracing themselves on either side of your head. “Better?” He murmurs.
Your hands drift to the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingertips brushing against the soft fabric. "Almost." Your eyes never leave his as you speak, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity that makes his breath hitch.
His lips curve into the faintest smirk, and without hesitation, he shifts, moving from hovering over you to falling back onto the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight as his hands go to his waistband, pushing the sweatpants down his hips with an easy, practiced motion. He kicks them off in one fluid movement, the boxers following close behind. The rustle of fabric hitting the floor is faint, but the sight of him—completely bare now—propped up on an elbow, looking at you, steals your attention entirely.
Leaning up to reach over, you place your hands on his shoulders, your palms firm as you give him a gentle shove. He lets out a soft grunt as his back hits the mattress fully, his lips twitching into a faint smile at the sudden assertiveness. You slip off your panties, before shifting your body, swinging your leg over him until you’re straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the mattress. His hands instinctively move to your waist, but you grab his wrists, pinning them lightly to the bed on either side of him. His eyebrows lift slightly, the hint of a challenge in his expression, but he doesn’t fight you. Instead, he lets you guide the moment, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch. The heat of his skin beneath you is intoxicating, and the way his body responds—his chest rising just a little faster, his hands twitching under your grip—sends a rush of confidence through you.
“Didn’t expect this,” he remarks, with a quirk of his brow. “Not that I’m complaining.”
You lean forward, your hands releasing his wrists as you plant them firmly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “I figured you wouldn’t,” you reply, easygoing. Your lips hover just above his, close enough for him to feel your breath but not close enough to touch.
You pull back slightly, just enough to sit upright, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. Your hands move quickly to the hem of your nightgown, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. The soft fabric slides over your skin before landing somewhere on the floor. Left in nothing, you feel the heat of Quinn’s gaze immediately, his breath hitching audibly as he takes you in.
“God,” he mutters under his breath, almost immediately. His hands are on you in an instant, strong and certain as they find your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin.
You lean forward, your hands braced against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. His breath comes faster now, shallow and uneven, as you dip your head, your lips brushing along the sharp line of his jaw. You move slowly, deliberately, your kisses soft and wet, trailing from the edge of his jaw to the corner of his mouth, then lower.
Quinn lets out a low, quiet hum, his head tilting back slightly as you continue your path. You stop at his chin for a moment, pressing a kiss there, before shifting lower, your lips grazing the stubble along his neck. He smells faintly of clean soap and something deeper, distinctly him, and the warmth of his skin beneath your lips makes your stomach flutter. When your lips finally find the hollow of his throat, just above his Adam’s apple, you pause. You can feel the way he swallows hard, the slight movement under your mouth making the corner of your lips curve into a soft smile. You press a lingering kiss there, letting your breath fan over his skin as he exhales sharply.
“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice breaking slightly as one of his hands slides from your waist to the curve of your lower back, pulling you just a fraction closer. His other hand remains firm on your hip, his thumb brushing small, absentminded circles into your skin. The way his body responds to you—the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor in his hands—sends a rush of confidence through you. You pull back just enough to look at him, your lips still close enough that your breaths mingle. His eyes are half-lidded now, filled with an unspoken hunger that makes your pulse quicken.
"Condom." His voice is low, more of a murmur than a demand, lips brushing against your ear. You freeze for a moment, your breath catching. The haze of the moment dims slightly as you wrack your memory. Had you restocked since your last night with Quinn? The answer surfaces slowly, and you wince.
"I think... I’m out?" you admit, the words hanging awkwardly in the charged air.
He lets out a deep, frustrated groan, his head falling back against the pillow with a dull thud. For a second, you catch the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features before he covers it with a hand over his face, exhaling sharply through his fingers. “Dresser, bottom drawer,” he grumbles, his voice thick with both need and annoyance, one hand waving vaguely toward your dresser. His eyes remain half-lidded, trying to be patient, though the tension in his shoulders tells you how much it costs him.
You shoot him a questioning look, eyebrows raised, silently asking, “How?” When did he ever put something there? You search your memory, replaying countless moments, but you can't remember ever seeing him even glance at your dresser, let alone touch it.
“Get a move on,” he mutters, the rough edge of his voice slipping into something of amusing. Before you can say anything, his hand meets the curve of your ass with a sharp slap. The sound cracks through the quiet room, startling in the stillness. It doesn't hurt—it’s more of a firm tap than anything—but the unexpectedness of it sends a jolt of electricity racing up your spine. A gasp escapes you, sharp and breathy, your body jerking slightly from the impact.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from the sting of his hand and the sudden pulse of excitement that follows. You hesitate for half a second, feeling the lingering tingle on your skin, before he speaks again. "Now."
You don't have to be told twice, and slip out of bed, feeling the cool floor beneath your bare feet as you make your way to the dresser. With a small exhale, you crouch down and pull open the bottom drawer. There they are—just as he said. A small pack of condoms, tucked neatly beside a few of Quinn’s clothes—shirts and boxers, soft and well-worn—mixed in with your own things. You pause for a second, staring down at the sight, the familiarity of his clothes blending into your space, like they’ve always been there, unnoticed. When had he made this little home in your drawer, this quiet claim on your space?
Your fingers graze over the edge of the condom box as you take it, your mind lingering on the thought. You tear open the packaging with a swift pull, the soft crackle of plastic breaking the silence, and pull out one of the foil-wrapped condoms. As you close the drawer, you find yourself glancing back at the pile of his clothes, some hidden piece of domesticity that tugs at something inside you. A small smile flickers at the corner of your lips, but you push the thought aside. This was supposed to be casual.
Standing up, you turn back to him, the foil packet cool against your palm. He’s watching you from the bed, propped up on his elbows, his gaze heavy-lidded but intent, like he’s sizing up your every movement, reading your thoughts before you can voice them. His expression is almost lazy, but you catch the sharp edge of amusement in his eyes, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“When did you even do that?” you ask, your voice colored with curiosity, as you gesture slightly toward the drawer, toward his clothes.
“I’ve been leaving stuff here for weeks,” he adds, with a small shrug, as if it's no big deal. “Thought you might’ve noticed it by now.”
Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by how casual he is about it, and yet… there’s something warm beneath the surface of his words. Weeks? How had you not noticed before now? The thought stirs something in your chest—a mix of amusement, maybe a bit of something deeper—but you brush it off, again, focusing on the moment at hand. You could question him later. And you would.
You toss the condom onto the bed, watching it land beside him. “Well, I guess I was distracted,” you reply.
You walk back over to the bed, your steps relaxed, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time. The air between you hums with tension, thick and electric. He reaches for the condom without breaking eye contact, tearing the foil with an effortless flick of his fingers. The soft sound of the wrapper splitting seems to echo in the stillness of the room. His gaze falls as he rolls the condom on, then it’s back on you, a heat in his gaze, the kind that feels like it's pulling you in, drawing you closer even before you move. His lips quirk into the faintest smirk, and he tilts his chin, nodding down toward his hardened length, silently requesting for you to come to him.
You swallow, feeling the thrum of anticipation in your chest, and climb onto the bed. As you move closer, he watches every shift of your body, the way your knees press into the sheets, the way your breath hitches as you settle over him. His hands find your waist, strong and sure, fingers digging into your skin with just enough pressure to ground you. The touch is possessive, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine.
With his guidance, you straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of his body presses into yours, and you can feel his cock, warm and firm, grazing the sensitive core of your heat as you position yourself over him. The sensation makes you gasp softly, your body reacting instantly to the contact. His grip tightens, steadying you, his fingers flexing slightly against your hips as he adjusts you over him, his control over the moment palpable.
You begin to move, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles as you grind against him, both of you feeling the sweet torment of the moment. The friction is electric, his cock sliding against your slick heat, but you’re holding back just enough to keep him wanting more. A quiet moan escapes your lips, your body already responding to the tension coiling tighter between you. You see it in his eyes too—the need, the frustration that’s been simmering all day. You can feel the way his body tenses beneath yours, his jaw tightening as he fights for control. His hands on your hips grip harder, fingers digging into your skin, trying to take control, but you resist for just a little longer. His chest rises and falls sharply, and you can hear the slight edge of desperation in his breathing.
It’s driving him mad, the way you tease him like this—hovering so close, yet not quite giving him everything. The heat between you is thick and tangible, and you can feel the pulse of his need pressing insistently against you. Finally, you let your hand slide down between your bodies, wrapping around him with a firm, confident grip. His breath hitches at the contact, and you catch the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, the last traces of his composure fraying at the edges.
With one fluid motion, you guide him to your entrance, the tip of him pressing against your wet heat. You pause for just a second, holding him there, and his eyes lock with yours, something raw flickering in his gaze—desire, hunger, but also something deeper, something that makes your breath catch.
Then, slowly, you start to lower yourself onto him, your body taking him in inch by inch. The sensation sends a wave of pleasure coursing through you, a slow burn that builds as you sink down, feeling him stretch and fill you. The low groan that rumbles from his chest is primal, guttural, like he’s been holding it in for far too long. The sound vibrates through the quiet room, echoing off the walls as his head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he loses himself in the feeling.
“Fuck…” he breathes, the word almost a growl, his voice thick and rough with need. His fingers tighten even more on your hips, almost bruising now, like he’s trying to steady himself, to keep from letting go completely. You can feel the restraint in his grip, the way he’s barely holding back, his body trembling slightly beneath yours as he fights the urge to move, to drive himself deeper into you. The tension in him is almost unbearable, a raw ache that’s been building all day, and now that you’re finally here, finally giving him what he’s craved, it’s driving him to the edge.
You pause when you’ve taken him fully, letting your body adjust around him, feeling the heat and intensity of him buried deep inside you. His breath comes out in a harsh, ragged exhale, and you can see the effort it takes for him to keep still, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to relax. But you can feel it—how hard he’s holding on, the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way every fiber of him is straining for control.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost broken. His eyes open, locking onto yours again, and there’s a fire in them now, a silent plea for more, for everything.
You begin to move, slowly at first, your knees pressing into the mattress as you lift yourself up, then lower yourself down onto him again, savoring the delicious friction. Your hands splay across his chest, fingers digging slightly into his warm skin as you steady yourself, feeling the solid rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His heartbeat is strong and quick, a rhythm that matches your own building pulse.
As you start to swirl your hips, a soft moan escapes you, the sound almost involuntary. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you in just the right way, sends a ripple of pleasure coursing through you. You let the feeling take over, guiding the way you move, each rise and fall of your body becoming more fluid, more certain. Slowly, you find your rhythm, building up a steady, intoxicating pace that makes the heat between you grow even more unbearable.
Your moans become a little louder, a little needier, the pleasure mounting with every roll of your hips. You can feel his body responding beneath you, the way his muscles tense and flex as he fights to maintain control. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, but it’s his face that betrays him—the way his mouth falls open, lips parting as he lets out a low, breathless sound, his eyes locked onto you with a mixture of awe and lust. The moment your moans fill the space between you, something in him shifts.
He bucks his hips up into you, unable to stop himself, his need overriding his restraint. The sudden upward thrust of his hips sends a shock of pleasure through your body, making you gasp and falter for a second, your hands pressing harder into his chest as you steady yourself. His eyes cloud with hunger, and he lets out a sharp exhale.
“Good—mhm—good fucking girl,” he murmurs, his voice escaping as a strained groan, almost a growl. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your movements, urging you to go faster, to match the heat and intensity that’s starting to take over. His grip is firm but tender, the friction between your bodies building with each passing second.
You pick up the pace, letting your hips roll and bounce with more confidence now, losing yourself in the rhythm. The sensation of him deep inside you with every thrust is overwhelming, and your soft moans turn into breathy whimpers as the pleasure rises higher. His body moves beneath you, his hips bucking up into you more insistently now, matching your rhythm, sending waves of ecstasy rippling through your core.
Each time your body comes down to meet his, he fills you completely, hitting that perfect spot that makes your toes curl. The tension between you is almost unbearable now, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel his chest rising and falling faster under your hands, his breathing ragged as he stares up at you with a look that’s half-lost in pleasure, half in disbelief at how good it feels.
His name slips from your lips in a soft, breathless moan, and the sound seems to undo him even more. His fingers dig into your hips harder, his own breath escaping in harsh, uneven bursts as he bucks up into you with more force, more desperation. You feel the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, the ache building with every movement, every touch.
"I'm... I'm close," you gasp breathlessly, your voice trembling with the intensity coursing through your body. Every movement, every sensation feels electric, pulling you closer to the edge.
Quinn’s eyes lock with yours, his own pleasure evident in the way his chest rises and falls unevenly. A low moan slips from his lips, almost as if in response to the desperation in your voice. He nods, his breath ragged, but before you can even process the shift, he’s already moving—gently, but decisively, sliding you off of him and onto the bed beside him. The sudden absence of his cock leaves you aching, but he doesn’t let the moment linger.
Without wasting a second, Quinn positions himself over you, his body hovering above yours. His eyes briefly flick over your face, as if to make sure you’re still with him, still as lost in this as he is. Then, with one smooth motion, he slides back inside you, filling you completely once more. The sensation of him re-entering your pulsing heat draws a sharp gasp from you, and your back arches instinctively off the bed, your body desperate to meet him.
His thrusts are deep, slow, and calculated, each one hitting the perfect spot inside you, drawing out soft whimpers that you can’t hold back. He leans forward, bracing his hands against the headboard behind you, giving himself more leverage to move freely. His body presses close, skin against skin, his muscles taut and trembling with restraint as he drives into you, deeper with every stroke. You can feel the headboard rocking slightly under the pressure of his movements, the soft creak of wood blending with the sound of your ragged breathing and the rhythmic slap of your bodies meeting.
His pace quickens, his thrusts growing more urgent, more purposeful, as he watches you, drinking in every moan, every gasp that spills from your lips. The heat between you is unbearable, a fire that threatens to consume you both. Every stroke sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, your body tightening and pulsing around him, the pressure building higher and higher until it feels like you’re about to shatter.
Quinn’s breath hitches, and his low groans grow deeper, almost vibrating through his chest as he thrusts harder, the strain in his arms evident as he fights to keep control. You can feel the intensity radiating off him, the way his body trembles with the effort to hold back, to keep you both on this edge for just a little longer.
Your fingers grip the sheets beneath you, twisting them in your hands as you feel yourself spiraling closer, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any second. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, and the sound seems to push him even further. His movements grow rougher, more desperate, his hips slamming into yours in a steady rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.
“Cum for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, barely holding together as he lowers his face closer to yours, his breath hot against your ear. His words are a command, but they’re also a plea, filled with the same urgency that’s overwhelming both of you.
And then it hits—you fall over the edge, your body tightening around him as waves of pleasure crash through you, your moans turning into cries as your climax surges, overwhelming and blinding. The world around you blurs as every nerve in your body lights up, the release so powerful it leaves you quivering beneath him.
Quinn groans deeply as he feels you come undone, your body clenching around him, and his rhythm falters for just a moment before he drives into you again, harder this time, chasing his own release. His hands grip the headboard tighter, his knuckles white as he thrusts a few more times, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.
Finally, with a guttural moan, he shudders above you, his body tensing as he reaches his peak. His hips still as he pulses inside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your labored breaths, your bodies still locked together, hearts racing in unison. Quinn stays there, hovering above you for a moment longer, his forehead resting against yours, the intensity of what just happened still lingering between you.
Then, with a soft exhale, he gently pulls out of you, collapsing beside you. He pulls you close, your bodies pressed together as you come down from the high.
The two of you lie there in the quiet, the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fading as your heartbeats begin to sync. The only sounds in the room are your breaths, gradually evening out, and the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift slightly beside him. Eventually, you break the quiet, your voice soft but still a little breathless. "I’m gonna go pee."
Quinn makes a small sound in acknowledgment, nodding lazily as his hand slides from your waist. With a slight groan, he reaches down to take off the condom, hissing softly from the loss of contact, as he pulls it away from his sensitive skin. He ties off the condom and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. You take it from him, and rise from the bed.
You pad into the bathroom, the cool tile underfoot a welcome contrast to the warmth of the bedroom. After discarding the condom, you use the bathroom, then and glance at your reflection for a brief moment in the mirror while washing your hands—your skin flushed, your hair slightly tousled from the heat of the moment. Reaching for a washcloth, you wet it under the warm tap, wringing it out just enough before heading back into the bedroom. The light is still dim, casting a soft glow over the room, and you find Quinn exactly where you left him, lying on his back, his eyes closed now, his chest rising and falling steadily.
His eyes flutter open as he hears you approach, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. There’s no need for words in this moment—it’s a kind of quiet that feels easy, natural, like the two of you have slipped into a space where every gesture speaks for itself. With careful hands, you lower yourself beside him and gently take hold of his cock, wiping him clean with the warm, damp cloth. His body reacts instinctively to the contact, a slight twitch beneath your touch, but not from arousal this time—more of an involuntary response, a shiver at the sensitivity of his skin in the aftermath. His eyes close again, his breath steadying as you rid him of the residual stickiness.
When you’re finished, your fingers brush over his thigh one last time before you pull back, standing up from the bed. After throwing the cloth in the bathroom hamper, you're back beneath the sheets, your body naturally gravitating toward Quinn. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your back. You snuggle into his chest, exhaling a sigh of content.
There’s a long, comfortable silence between you, the kind that makes the world feel small and intimate. And if it weren’t for the absence of soft snores, you might have thought Quinn had drifted off, his breathing slow and steady beside you. The warmth of his body is a comforting weight next to yours, and you let yourself relax into it, your fingers idly tracing the soft flesh of his stomach, enjoying the closeness.
"My parents are visiting." his voice breaks the stillness, just above a murmur.
His words hang in the air for a moment, unexpected, almost hesitant. You hum softly in response, not looking up, your fingers continuing their gentle path over his skin, rubbing slow, lazy circles. "Mhm."
Quinn lets out a quiet sigh, one that feels heavy, like there’s more he’s trying to say but can’t quite find the words for. He shifts slightly beside you, the mattress dipping under his movement. "That’s why I haven’t been… over much," he continues, his voice a bit tighter now, almost apologetic.
You pause, your hand resting against his stomach for a moment before resuming its soothing motions. "You don’t have to explain yourself," you reply softly, keeping your voice steady. It’s the truth—you’ve told yourself that from the beginning. The two of you weren’t dating, not officially, not in any way that came with expectations or obligations. It was a casual fling, a connection that didn’t require labels or promises. At least, that’s what you told yourself when this all started. No strings. No expectations.
And yet, despite those rules, there’s a quiet ache that twists in your chest when he offers excuses. He doesn’t owe you anything—you know that. He’s free to come and go as he pleases, to keep his distance when he needs to, to disappear for days if he wants. But the explanation, the half-apology, suggests he thinks he does owe you something, or at least that he feels guilty about being away, and that stirs something complicated inside you—something you’d rather not look too closely at.
You glance up at him through the dim light of the room. His face is partially in shadow, his expression hard to read, but there’s a tension in his features that wasn’t there before. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, distant, like he’s thinking too hard about something he doesn’t want to talk about. It makes your chest tighten slightly, an involuntary reaction that surprises you.
"You’re allowed to have a life outside of this," you add after a moment, trying to keep your tone casual, unaffected. "Outside of us. We're not dating." The word us feels strange in your mouth, and for a second, you almost regret saying it, like it carries more weight than it should.
Quinn’s eyes flick down to meet yours, and for a second, something shifts in his gaze—something softer, maybe even regretful. His lips press into a thin line before he speaks again. "I know." His voice is quiet, thoughtful, like he’s processing something he hasn’t quite figured out how to say yet. "But I didn’t want you to think I was… avoiding you." His hand moves then, sliding up to rest gently on your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin in a gesture so small and tender it feels almost out of place.
You swallow hard, your throat tightening at his words. "I wouldn’t have thought that," you say, though you’re not entirely sure it’s the truth. The uncertainty in his voice has unsettled something inside you, stirred up feelings you’ve worked hard to keep buried, feelings you shouldn’t have in a situation like this. You were supposed to be fine with the distance, with the lack of commitment. But now, lying here in the quiet darkness with him beside you, it doesn’t feel so simple.
Another silence stretches between you, this one heavier than before. You let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the thoughts swirling in your head.
"You don’t have to explain anything to me, Quinn," you repeat, trying to sound as steady as you can. "I know what this is." The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince—him or yourself.
But Quinn doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand moves again, this time reaching up to cup your chin, gently turning your face toward him so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes search yours for a long moment, making your pulse quicken in a way you don’t expect. The intensity in his expression catches you off guard, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.
"I’m not so sure I do," he finally says, his voice barely more than a whisper.
You blink, unsure how to respond, unsure if you even want to. There’s a part of you that’s terrified of where this conversation might lead, of what it might mean if you dig too deep into the feelings you’ve both tried so hard to ignore. But another part of you—a part you’ve kept buried for too long—is desperate to know what he’s really thinking.
His gaze is locked on yours, unwavering, and you can see the conflict flickering behind his eyes—like he’s fighting with himself even as he speaks. It makes your heart race, the intensity of the moment, the weight of what he might say next.
“What are you saying?” You ask, your voice quieter than you meant it to be, edged with a hesitation you can’t quite shake.
Quinn exhales a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, and when he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s afraid of what he’s admitting. "I can’t stop thinking about you," he says, his words rushing out, unfiltered. "And I—I know we agreed to nothing serious, but I can’t help how I feel."
You nod, silently urging him to proceed. "I thought I was fine with no strings." he continues, his eyes flicking down for a moment, as if he’s afraid of what he might see in your reaction. "I really did. But… you’ve been on my mind. More than I want to admit. And every time I’m not here, I’m thinking about when I can be. Hell, I just played the worst game of the season, and all I could think about was coming over to see you."
You weren’t expecting this. You had convinced yourself that this was just a fling, a temporary thing that lived within the boundaries you’d both agreed upon. But now, here he is, confessing feelings that you’d told yourself neither of you were supposed to have, feelings you’ve been trying to bury since this started. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest as his words sink in. You don’t say anything for a moment, partly because you don’t know how to respond, and partly because a part of you had been waiting for this—for some sign that what you’ve been feeling wasn’t one-sided.
"Quinn…" you start, but his name comes out as more of a sigh than anything else. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours, waiting for your response, his vulnerability hanging between you like a thread pulled too tight.
He opens his mouth to speak again, his voice softer now, more tentative. "I’m not saying I want to change everything right this second," he murmurs, his eyes dropping down to the space between you, like he’s afraid to meet your gaze fully. "But I just—I had to tell you. I can’t pretend like it’s nothing anymore. Not when it feels like this." His words trail off, thick with emotion.
You can feel your heart pounding, a mix of relief, fear, and happiness swirling inside you. His confession is something you’ve thought about—something you’ve secretly wanted but never let yourself hope for. You know the risk of getting too close, of crossing that line, but the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s baring a piece of his soul, makes it impossible to ignore what’s been growing between you both.
Your fingers tighten on the sheet, your breath catching in your throat as you try to process everything he’s saying. You weren’t prepared for this moment, for the way your chest tightens at his words, for the way hope flickers inside you despite everything you’ve told yourself. Part of you wants to push it away, to keep things safe and uncomplicated, but the other part—the part that’s been secretly wanting more from him—can’t help but lean in.
"You weren’t supposed to feel this way," you say, your voice a little shaky, as if saying it out loud might make it easier to understand. "We weren’t supposed to let it get this far."
He nods, a half-smile tugging at his lips, but it’s filled with resignation, not humor. "I know," he admits softly, his gaze lifting to meet yours again, and for the first time, you can see just how much this is weighing on him. "But I did. And I don’t know what to do with it."
The honesty in his voice, the rawness of it, sends a wave of emotion through you that you weren’t expecting. You’ve both been dancing around this for so long, keeping things casual, keeping the walls up, but now it feels like those walls are crumbling, and you’re both standing there, vulnerable and unsure.
For a moment, you just stare at each other, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy in the space between you. You can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls unevenly as he waits for you to say something—anything—to break the tension. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, your mind racing. This was supposed to be simple, you remind yourself. No strings. No complications. But now, as you look at him—really look at him—you realize that it hasn’t been simple for a long time.
"I don’t know what to say," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth. You’ve been trying so hard to keep your own feelings in check, to convince yourself that this was just physical, but hearing him say what you’ve been afraid to even think makes everything feel so much more real. So much more dangerous.
"You don’t have to say anything right now," Quinn says softly, his voice gentle, almost like he’s giving you space to process. "I just… I needed you to know. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t mean something to me."
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you process his words. You’re not sure what happens next—what this means for both of you—but as you lie there, tangled in the sheets, the air between you thick with uncertainty and unspoken emotion, one thing becomes clear: this is no longer just casual. Not for him. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, not for you either.
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claramelooo · 20 days ago
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I got crazy and write 4 thousand words non-stop! So, I still haven't revised it yet! But there we go! Remember that english isn't my first language, so be gentle 🙇🏻‍♀️
Minors do not must Interact
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Paring: Dom Wanda x Fem reader
Summary: Wanda has her beliefs turned upside down the moment she sets eyes on you.
Read here: Prologue | Part 2 - The Prey
Velvet Chains
Predator
Sunday's worship service was an impeccably choreographed event, and Wanda Maximoff played her role masterfully. She sat in the front pew beside Vision, with her neatly dressed children beside her. The choir sang the hymn she had personally selected, their voices echoing through the stained glass of Wylie's small church.
Her hands rested, folded neatly on her lap, her gaze fixed on the pastor as he fervently preached about grace and redemption. Wanda knew precisely when to nod in agreement, murmur a soft “Amen,” or smile at those around her as though every word touched her deeply.
But that Sunday, something was different.
As the pastor paused dramatically in his sermon, Wanda glanced toward the congregation. Her eyes scanned the rows of familiar faces—regular families, ever-present elderly members, restless children. And then she saw...
You.
A few rows back, sitting beside your parents, was a new face. Young, delicate, with eyes that seemed to absorb the surroundings with cautious curiosity. You sat slightly hunched, fingers clasped in your lap, hair falling in effortless waves over your shoulders.
Wanda tilted her head almost imperceptibly, trying to get a better look. Who are you? Why had she never seen you before?
There was something about you that made her catch her breath for a moment. Maybe it was the contrast: a radiant, almost brutal youth placed in such a rigid, conservative setting. Or maybe it was your expression—timid and curious, yet exuding an air of superiority, as if you were too evolved for this, as if you were there against your will but determined to maintain a respectful facade.
A pang of curiosity stirred in Wanda’s chest, something rare in her meticulously planned life.
When your eyes met hers, it was fleeting, like a flicker. You immediately looked away, your heart pounding against your ribcage, your palms sweating after encountering the most intense green eyes you had ever seen. However, for Wanda, something sparked within her, a small ember she hadn’t felt in years. Something that compelled her.
The pastor resumed preaching, but Wanda barely listened. Her mind was fixed on the strange sensation you had awakened. Curiosity? Perhaps. Admiration? Why? It was something so profound, so unsettling...
At the end of the service, as everyone stood to bid each other farewell, Wanda observed from a distance. She saw you accompanying your parents, keeping your head down as they animatedly conversed with other congregation members.
“Who are you?” Wanda thought, a subtle, calculated smile curving her lips.
Concluding a conversation with a fellow member, Wanda began walking slowly toward you. Your parents… What were their names again? She tried to recall but came up empty. Ah yes, she’d spoken to them during last week’s choir rehearsal. Or was it before that? It didn’t matter. They were irrelevant, like nearly everyone in that circle.
But you...
Now, you were different.
Wanda straightened her posture, resting her hands behind her back, and began her approach. Her steps were slow, measured, as if she sought nothing more than casual conversation. Yet, inside her, every movement was strategic. She needed to know more.
When she reached your group, it was your parents who noticed her first. The man—always with his tie slightly askew—greeted Wanda with a goofy smile, while the woman, nervous as usual, began speaking quickly about the sermon.
“Oh, Wanda! Wasn’t the sermon wonderful? The pastor is so inspiring, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” Wanda replied with the sweetest smile she could muster. But her eyes, sharp and piercing, were locked on you.
To anyone watching, it was clear you didn’t belong here—the air of discomfort around you only heightened Wanda’s interest. You weren’t like the other young women in the congregation—girls who laughed loudly and gestured wildly. No. You seemed contained, but there was a wildness in your eyes, as if something deeper simmered beneath the surface.
“And you must be…?” Wanda finally spoke, directing her attention to you.
Your eyes lifted, startled to be addressed.
“I’m Y/n.”
Your voice was unexpectedly husky, with a slight accent that gave your name an intriguing edge. Wanda tilted her head slightly, as though savoring it.
“Y/n...” Wanda repeated, letting the syllables roll off her tongue. “What a lovely name.”
She extended her hand for a handshake, and you hesitated before accepting. When your fingers touched, her grip lingered just a second too long, her hold firmer than necessary.
“I see you’re a new face around here. Where are you from, dear?” Wanda asked, her tone casual but brimming with hidden intent.
“Ah, I… I was at boarding school,” you replied, shrugging.
Boarding school. The word reverberated in Wanda’s mind. You were something. Something she couldn’t quite name yet, but it piqued her curiosity even further.
“It’s nice to have you home, sweetheart. I’m sure your parents are thrilled to have you back,” Wanda said, casting a warm glance at the couple, who nodded eagerly.
But Wanda wasn’t speaking to them.
She was speaking to you.
Directly, and only to you.
The woman in front of you was beautiful, almost untouchable, perfect. Yet, something in her gaze felt brutal, completely clashing with the image of a typical American wife. Her intense stare made you tremble.
Wanda maintained her gentle smile as she spoke to your parents, but inside, her mind was working quickly, analyzing every detail about you. The way you kept your shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to shield yourself from the environment, yet your eyes dared anyone to look for too long. It was a fascinating dichotomy: the shy young woman and the rebellious soul, coexisting in such a disconcerting way.
You were trying to control your breathing. That handshake—firm, warm, intentional—had stirred something deep within you. Wanda was charming in a way that felt almost artificial. Her green eyes glowed with kindness, but there was something else there, something you couldn’t name. Something that made your heart race, though you weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement.
As she spoke to your parents, her gaze flicked to you now and then, too quickly for others to notice. But you felt it. You felt every single time her eyes landed on you, like a hot blade slicing through your skin.
When she finally addressed you, her words were soft, but there was something more. She wanted to know more. She wanted to hear your voice, feel your response.
"It must have been an interesting experience, boarding school," Wanda commented, tilting her head in a nearly maternal way.
You shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, but felt your cheeks heat up. She seemed fascinated by you, and that made your mind flood with uncomfortable questions. Why was she so interested? Why was this woman—beautiful, flawless, almost unattainable—speaking to you as if you were important?
"It wasn’t a big deal," you replied, trying to downplay the word, even though you knew it was a big deal. It was painful and traumatic.
Wanda let out a small smile, something that felt like a secret shared just between the two of you.
"I’d like to hear more about it," she said, her voice sweet but laden with something deeper.
You didn’t know how to respond. Your hands fidgeted, and you shoved them into your coat pockets to hide them. Wanda noticed. She noticed everything.
"My mom wanted me back. Seems like they didn’t like me much at boarding school." Your reply was casual, almost insolent, but your fingers drummed against your crossed arm, betraying a hint of nervousness.
Wanda arched an eyebrow, amused.
"They didn’t like you? Or you made them not like you?" The question came with a venomous sweetness, and her smile widened just enough to be intimidating.
You blinked, surprised. No one had ever disarmed you so quickly. "Maybe a little of both," you replied, trying to keep your composure.
"Interesting." Wanda tilted her head, evaluating every microexpression, every movement. There was something fierce in you, something that still needed direction. And Wanda knew how to shape that energy.
She stepped back, but her presence somehow felt even more imposing.
"Well, Y/n, welcome back." Her voice carried a touch of irony, but also something you couldn’t decipher. Then Wanda turned to your parents, smiling broadly as if the conversation had been purely polite. "You have a delightful daughter," she said.
The couple smiled awkwardly, but—you knew deep down those words weren’t for them. They were for you, and there was something in her tone that made your heart race.
[...]
You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the ceiling as if it held all the answers you were looking for. It didn’t. The walls were exactly the same as before—cream-colored, impeccably boring—but everything felt different now.
Back home.
Home...
What a bullshit.
You had never wanted to be here. They sent you away because they couldn’t handle you, and now they brought you back because... why? Shame? Regret? It didn’t matter. It was all a never-ending cycle.
You ran your fingers through your hair, pulling lightly as if that would remove the persistent thoughts from your head. Closing your eyes, you let the memories flood in—flashes of that day at boarding school, muffled laughter, unexpected warmth, and the bittersweet taste that marked you more than it should have.
Was it a mistake? Of course not. But to them, everything about you was a mistake.
"Y/n!" Your mother’s voice echoed from the hallway, pulling you back to reality.
You didn’t respond immediately, instead looking out the window. The afternoon was sunny, the kind of day people used for picnics or gardening. But you? You were stuck here, surrounded by the crushing expectations of a family that wanted you to be someone you weren’t.
"Y/n, I’m talking to you!" Her voice was louder now, more impatient.
With an exaggerated sigh, you got up, dragging your feet to the door. Your mother was there, her face tense, as it always was when dealing with you.
"What?" you asked, crossing your arms.
She took a deep breath, as if she needed to remind herself to stay composed.
"I need you to be more... cooperative, you know? After everything that happened, the last thing we need is more problems."
You laughed, but not in a way that expressed humor.
"Problems? Oh, sure. Because I’m the big problem in this family."
Your mother narrowed her eyes, but before she could respond, her expression changed. Something more animated, almost euphoric, overtook her.
"Never mind. Listen to this: the Maximoffs invited us for dinner. Wanda and Vis really want to meet you. Isn’t that wonderful?"
Wonderful? You bit your lower lip to keep from laughing again. Of course, your mother was thrilled. Wanda Maximoff was practically royalty around here—perfect, beautiful, the model of everything your mother wished you could be.
You felt a wave of discomfort, but also something else, something you couldn’t name.
"Fine," you replied with disdain, though your mind was already racing with thoughts of the older woman.
The Maximoff home was immaculate, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a design magazine. Every detail, from the arrangement of the furniture to the soft hues on the walls, screamed perfection—a direct reflection of the woman now greeting everyone at the door.
Wanda was radiant, wearing a delicate blue dress that subtly but undeniably flattered her figure. The smile she gave your family seemed genuine, almost too warm to be real.
"Welcome! It’s such a pleasure to have you here," she said, her voice brimming with enthusiasm that felt authentic.
You watched as your mother, clearly enchanted, exchanged pleasantries and compliments, while your father stood awkwardly, offering little more than a polite smile. Wanda cast a glance in your direction, and something in her gaze made you swallow hard. It was curious, almost probing, as though she were studying you.
Inside, the dining table was perfectly set, with gleaming plates and neatly folded napkins. The aroma of home-cooked food was irresistible, the entire scene resembling a margarine commercial.
"Please, take a seat," Wanda said, gesturing toward the chairs.
You chose the farthest end of the table, but Wanda didn’t seem to mind. She took a seat directly across from you, her eyes fixed on you as if there were nothing else worth looking at.
The conversation started light, filled with small talk. Wanda asked questions about the church, the neighborhood, and community events. Your parents eagerly answered, oblivious to the fact that Wanda’s questions were never truly directed at them.
"And you, Y/n?" she asked at last, leaning forward slightly over the table. "How has it been, coming back home?"
You stopped chewing, caught by her gaze, which was almost suffocating in its intensity.
"Normal," you replied with a shrug, trying to keep your tone neutral.
"Ah, but coming home is never that simple, is it?" Wanda countered, her small smile more of a challenge than anything else.
"I guess it depends on the home," you shot back, letting a hint of acidity seep into your tone.
Your mother gave you a warning look, but Wanda merely laughed softly, as if she had expected no less from you.
"Of course. Every home has its... complexities," she said, savoring the words as she spoke them.
The conversation continued, but Wanda always found a way to steer it back to you.
"Your parents mentioned you were at a boarding school. What was that like?" Vision asked this time.
You hesitated, feeling the weight of Wanda’s gaze, as though every word you spoke was being scrutinized.
"It was... an experience," you replied vaguely, hoping to end the topic quickly.
But Wanda didn’t seem like someone who settled for vague answers.
"It must have been hard to be away from home for so long. Especially at such a... young age." Her tone was sweet, but the intensity in her eyes made you feel as if she were trying to pry open your mind with sheer will.
"Hard isn’t exactly the word," you said, straightening your posture as if that would give you more control over the situation.
Wanda smiled again, that layered smile, and leaned back slightly in her chair.
"A little girl full of secrets, aren’t you? That’s interesting."
You blinked, feeling heat rise to your face. Why did she say things like that? And why did it send waves of heat straight to your core?
The evening wore on, everyone mingling—except you, of course. Now your parents were in the living room with Vision, while Wanda was in the kitchen washing dishes. You felt like a moth drawn to a flame, approaching something that could destroy you—and you didn’t care.
The kitchen felt smaller than before, the air heavy with something invisible, something that made your skin tingle. Wanda was drying her hands with a dish towel, every movement meticulous, as if she had all the time in the world. When you entered, she didn’t look up immediately, but you knew she felt your presence. Wanda always seemed to know everything happening around her.
"Can I help?" you asked, your voice hesitant but firm enough not to sound weak.
Wanda looked up, and for a moment, it felt like she was measuring you. Her lips curved into a smile so perfect it almost seemed fake. She leaned casually against the sink, resting her wrists on the counter.
"No need, darling," she said, her tone as sweet as honey but with something sharp lurking beneath it. "I always take care of everything."
There was something in the way she said "I always take care of everything" that felt like a reminder, almost a warning. Still, you stayed.
"I insist," you replied, trying to mask your discomfort. "I don’t like standing around doing nothing."
"Oh, I’ve noticed," Wanda said, her voice light but her gaze intense. "Young people like you always need to be doing something, moving, talking... acting."
She took a step toward you, slow and almost casual, but it made you hold your breath.
"You seem... restless," Wanda continued, tilting her head slightly. "I wonder why that is."
You crossed your arms, trying to create some sort of barrier.
"Maybe I’m just not used to... this."
"This?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "And what exactly is 'this'?"
Wanda was close now, close enough that you could smell her faint floral perfume—delicate yet overwhelming. She ran her fingers along the edge of the counter, as if tracing something invisible.
"Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter," you said defensively, avoiding her gaze and trying not to seem intimidated.
"Look at me when I’m speaking to you." Her voice was firmer this time, a command impossible to ignore.
Your eyes snapped back to hers immediately, and you hated how automatic, how natural it felt.
"Better," Wanda said, her smile softening again, though the control in her tone remained unwavering. "I like your eyes."
You swallowed hard, feeling exposed in a way you’d never experienced before. You wanted to respond—something, anything—but your throat felt tight.
She laughed softly, a sound that sent shivers down your spine.
"I like this," she said, leaning in slightly. "A sharp tongue, someone who thinks they can... challenge."
You swallowed again, her eyes catching every small movement, every hint of hesitation.
"But let me tell you something, sweetheart," Wanda whispered, her voice low and dripping with authority. "Challenges are only interesting up to a point. After that, they become... tiresome."
There was a subtle threat in her tone, something that made you feel small, as if she held all the power in that moment.
"Are you saying I’m a nuisance?" you countered, your voice a little stronger now, trying to reclaim some control.
Her smile widened, but her eyes remained dark.
"No. I’m saying you need to learn when... to find your place."
She took another step closer, now nearly brushing against you, her presence overwhelming. Your heart raced, though you couldn’t tell if it was from fear, anger, or... something else.
"And where would that place be?" you challenged, hating the slight falter in your voice at the end.
Wanda laughed again, this time low and husky, carrying something that made your entire body tingle.
"Exactly where I want you to be," she replied, her words sounding like a promise.
And then, her expression shifted, softening as she turned to call the others, offering them a slice of her apple pie.
It was then you realized that the woman before you was a predator, and you were her prey.
~*~
Should I continue?
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muletia · 1 month ago
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Imagine that you just kinda forgot how Optimus looks in his vehicle mode.
You're having a wonderful day, and you feel so pretty that you begin to check yourself out in the reflection of this unsuspecting truck, doing cute poses and shit. I feel like Optimus would just blow a fuse on the spot. lol he would spontaneously combust, and I would have a heart attack after realizing it was him, lmao
Inspired by this little gem
https://www.tumblr.com/joetastic2739/767149100578816000/she-rarely-gets-a-chance-to-admire-herself
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thank you <33
this is so cute omgggggg,,
word count: 270
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He knows he should say something. He should speak up. But he can’t. Not when you’re admiring your reflection in his freshly polished paint.
He noticed you from afar and immediately paid attention to how you looked. Optimus wasn’t particularly familiar with Earth’s fashion or clothing; it had never interested him enough to explore further. However, he was observant—especially when it came to you. He quickly realized that you looked different, having abandoned your usual style in favor of something new. And judging by your body language, you were clearly pleased with the outfit you’d chosen.
He was a little… disappointed that you didn’t recognize him, especially after so many months of knowing each other, but the spectacle before him more than made up for it. The way you stretched, showing yourself off from every angle, your wide, radiant smile. It wasn’t in his nature to judge a book by its cover, but the word “beautiful” came unbidden to his processor. He felt his systems start to overheat…
He needs to put a stop to this. He’s letting himself indulge too much, being far too greedy. He’s devouring you with his optics like some kind of beast, utterly unable to look away. But he allows himself one more second, one more fleeting moment, before you notice and put up a wall, and the spectacle ends.
“[Name].”
When you jump in place, startled, he immediately regrets speaking at all. He knows your oversight will cool things between you for a while, but the fire he felt watching you in your unawareness will warm him for a long, long time.
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spdrvyn · 3 months ago
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MIGUEL O’HARA — and places he’d kiss you in
rewatched atsv and was hit with a very strong wave of yearning for this man that (unfortunately) doesn’t exist so now we’re here! tagging @greensagephase too as she was the one who inspired me to write this, please enjoy!! (^_^) ♡
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☆ his lab, at work
like i’ve mentioned a thousand times before in my other fics and posts, miguel isn’t the biggest fan of pda. he prefers intimacy when it’s just the two of you, without the crumbling pressure of his snoopy coworkers.
that is mostly why his laboratory is one of the most secure places in headquarters. with a platform that might as well be touching the ceiling, it grants utmost privacy to him and you. he enjoys it when you visit him, whether it’s to bring food or company, the fact you go out of your busy day to come see him makes his heart swell.
he loves to shower you in kisses in those fleeting moments you’re both together, before the day ends. he presses a kiss to your hairline, and takes a whiff of your shampoo. before he moves down to your forehead, your nose, then your lips. he’ll tell you about the day he’s had, you will tell him about yours in return, and he’ll wonder how he got so lucky.
☆ the park, early mornings
i’d like to think that miguel is a morning person. when he can, he goes on brisk walks in a park nearby to wind down a little before he starts a very hectic day.
you, on more than one occasion, have chosen to join him, which miguel feels guilty for most of the time. mainly because he thinks you need sleep, as adorable as you look when you’re tired. he notices how sluggish you can be when you join him, which is why neither of you give that big of an effort to make conversation. not like it makes the moment any less meaningful.
there is a way that the peeping sun reflects on you so beautifully. even with tired eyes, unkempt hair, and an “uncoordinated” outfit (according to you. but he’d be attracted to you even if you wore a potato sack), every inch of you from head to toe looks like it came straight out of a renaissance painting.
he will pull you behind a tree, pepper kisses to your cheeks, before kissing you senseless on the lips. he holds your face in his warm palms like a prized jewel, and each kiss feels slower than the next. his breath is hot against your mouth as he pauses before he leans in for one after the other.
☆ at a restaurant, dinner time
on date nights, it really depends on how both of you are feeling on where the location is. maybe, it feels nice to doll up and look nice, but if it’s too much effort, somewhere casual and near-by is sufficient enough for you and him.
either way, those nights are the ones where miguel’s romance levels are reaching through the roof. he simply can’t stop and won’t stop looking at you, and how stunning you are. he doesn’t know how you always manage to keep him relaxed, because even he knows about how high-strung he can get, but he always gets so eerily calm when you’re around.
while you’re in the restaurant, he will subtly hold your hand under the table. on the rare occasion, he’ll break his ‘little to no PDA’ rule, he will press kisses along the inside of your hand to your knuckles. he does try to be discreet, but the way you get so flustered by his boldness eggs him on.
☆ bonus: at home
when miguel comes back home, a lot of the time he lets his actions speak for how he feels.
normally, if you’re doing something when he returns, he embraces you from behind, lets out a huge sigh of relief, and clings to your back like a koala until you are both seated. if you’re on the bed or couch, reading a book or watching something on the tv, he collapses on top of you and puffs all the air out from your chest.
he will kiss you on your neck, or when he’s really tired, just leave his lips there. he’ll lay on your chest and kiss you there also, while leaving a trail down to your stomach.
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i'm still so not over him. sorry to my cousin's friends who apparently read some of my stuff, i am not normal about this old man
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coffeeshades · 5 months ago
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credits to the gif maker!
GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART I
summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.
pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader
word count: 5.5k
warnings: 18+ (minors dni). mentions of sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)
a/n: hi everyone! this turned out pretty long so i will be splitting it into parts so it's easier. next part will be posted soon. i hope you all have as much fun reading this as i had writing it. enjoy!
part two
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The breeze riffled through your hair as you drove, the sun warming your skin through the open windows. The Irish countryside stretching out before you, lush and green, with rolling hills and quaint villages dotting the landscape. The scent of wildflowers and the sound of nothing but the wind in the trees filled your senses.
It was rare, really. The silence, the feeling of complete freedom, and the solitude that enveloped you. A fleeting escape from the chaos of your everyday life.
The ping of your phone interrupted the peaceful moment. You tapped on the pop-up notification after briefly glancing at the directions to your destination. It was a message from Cillian. Well, two, actually. One was asking how far you were, and the other was a Spotify link followed by a question mark. Ever since he started hosting his bbc radio show, he's been sending you potential songs for his playlists to get your opinion. Not that he needs it anyway. But you always appreciate being included in his process.
Your lips curled into a smile as you clicked on the link. The familiar sound of The Blue Nile's "The Downtown Lights" flooded the car, instantly making you feel a wave of nostalgia. It's been ages since you've listened to that song. The synth-pop melody carries you up the pine-dotted path to where his house perches atop a hill, overlooking the crashing waves below. You've been here a couple of times, and yet it never gets less breathtaking. The Victorian architecture contrasting beautifully with the rugged coastline, creating a scene straight out of a painting.
The car glides right past the wrought iron gates, and you cut the engine in front of the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. You shoot Cillian a quick text letting him know you're here, unbuckle your seat belt, and hop out of the car.
The June sun beats down on your skin instantly, heat radiating off the cobblestones as you open the backdoor to look through your bag for a hair tie. The smell of saltwater mingles with the sound of gulls overhead, sending you into sensory overload. "Gotcha," you mutter to yourself as you finally find the hair tie and pull your hair back into a loose bun.
"You drove here?" you hear him call out from behind you, his voice tinged with surprise. "And you're alone?" you turn around to see Cillian walking towards you, a curious expression on his face.
"I actually had to throw a tantrum to convince them to let me come alone," you reply with a chuckle, feeling a sense of pride at your small victory. "I was like, It's Ireland. What's the worst that could happen?"
Being who you are means being guarded against any potential danger or harm at all times, being driven to almost everywhere, and always having a security team around.
Cillian laughs, a sound that makes your heart flutter and makes you want to hear it again and again. "Well, I'm glad you made it here in one piece, love," he says with a grin. "You're not a very good driver."
Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You did regret your decision to drive from the airport 10 minutes later when you realized you were on the wrong side of the road. But he didn't need to know that.
"I made it in one piece, didn't I?" you playfully retort, trying to salvage your wounded pride. Cillian chuckles and shakes his head with a twinkle in his eye. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. He looks good, you thought. Unbelievably good. Well rested. His jet black hair was perfectly styled, even though you know he didn't put any effort into it—the slightest hint of silver at the temples, his sharp jawline, and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. Though they looked a little tired, as if he had been through a lot since the last time you saw him.
You quickly avert your gaze, feeling a rush of heat on your cheeks.
"It's good to see you," you finally manage to say, trying to sound casual. Cillian's smile softens, and he replies, "It's good to see you too." He opens his arms, inviting you in for a hug. The soft fabric of his t-shirt brushes against your skin as you embrace him, and for a moment, everything feels right in the world.
"Come on, let's get inside," he says, leading you towards the house. Once inside, you make your way to the kitchen. The house was quiet; you wondered if anyone else was home. Cillian's family wasn't by any means loud or boisterous, but the silence felt heavier than usual.
"You hungry, love?" Cillian asks, opening the fridge, pulling out a white ceramic container, and setting it up on the kitchen island. You take a seat on one of the stools while he stands across from you.
"For something sweet?" you smile, seeing the container filled with what seems to be a piece of strawberry sponge cake. His mom must've made it. "Always," you reply. He hands you a spoon and takes one for himself, the two of you sharing the dessert in comfortable silence.
Until he broke it.
"How was Madrid?" he asks softly.
"It was good, great crowd," you reply, taking another bite of the dessert. "But tiring," you add, feeling the exhaustion of the long trip settling in.
"How many nights did you perform?"
"Four."
"Jesus, that's quite a lot, isn't it?"
Your eyes meet his; confusion clear in your expression. "You think that's a lot? Didn't you used to do four or five nights in a row of the same play?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "for months…?
"Yeah, but that was a different kind of exhaustion," he explains, taking another bite. "Performing the way you do in front of a live audience for three hours is a whole different ball game, love."
Love.
There it was again. That godforsaken term of endearment that he seemed to throw around so casually. It made your heart race every time he said it, even though you knew it probably meant nothing to him. But the way he looked at you now, with a hint of admiration in his eyes, made you wonder if maybe—
"Want the last bite?" he offered, taking you out of your thoughts. He pushed the container towards you, a small smile playing on his lips. His gaze was intense, as if silently urging you to take it.
"Oh, hello," a voice exclaimed from behind you, breaking the moment. You drop the spoon on the counter, a little startled. As if you were caught in the act of something forbidden. You turned around to see Yvonne, Cillian's wife. She said your name with a surprised tone, making you feel guilty for some reason. "I didn't know you were here," she continued, her eyes flickering between you and her husband.
You started to rise from your seat, confusion clouding your thoughts. That's weird. Cillian usually lets his wife know when you're visiting, but this time it seems like he didn't. She walked towards you, enveloping you in a hug. "When did you get here?" she said.
"Not long ago," you replied, relieved that she didn't seem upset. "I, uh, wanted to take a break and thought Ireland might be a good place to do that," you added, hoping to diffuse any tension that may have arisen. She nodded understandingly. "And you're staying here?"
"Oh, no, no," you quickly assured her. "I rented a place nearby, so you don't have to worry about me."
"Nonsense," Cillian interjected. "You can stay here. There's plenty of room."
"She's already paid for it, Cillian," Yvonne retorted, giving him a stern look.
Something was definitely off.
This was the last thing you wanted. You've specifically chosen the cottage for two reasons. First, to have space. The whole point of this trip was to finally have peace and write music. You've been stuck for months, not being able to find inspiration in your usual surroundings. Everything felt dull inside you all day—an emptiness that was smothering.
Second, you needed to stay the fuck away from Cillian. Being close to him was dangerous territory, one you didn't want to navigate right now. The plan was to come and visit and occasionally hang out and that's it. The thought of being in such close quarters with him was overwhelming. Staying here meant risking your heart and sanity.
You hesitated, also not wanting to intrude on their space, but Cillian insisted.
"Okay…How about if I stay for a couple of days and then move to the cottage?" you suggested, hoping to compromise. "Sounds perfect to me," he said.
This was going to be a long summer.
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For the next few days, you dream too much, don't write enough, and try to find inspiration everywhere. As you settled into the routine of staying at Cillian's, you found yourself enjoying the peaceful surroundings and his company more than you expected. The days seemed to blend together, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and stolen glances that left your heart racing.
But you also felt constantly distracted by his presence, making it difficult to focus on your writing or anything else, for that matter.
All you could think about was him.
The piano room surrounded you with its warm, inviting atmosphere, and you found yourself drawn to it more often than not. The big windows overlooking the garden let in streams of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the bookshelf. You felt the softness of the carpet as you sat on the grand piano bench, running your fingers along the keys absentmindedly.
You started humming a tune that had been stuck in your head for days, the words appearing softly and effortlessly as you played:
Please
I've been on my knees
Change the prophecy
Don't want money
Just someone who wants my company
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
Who do I have to speak to
About if they can redo
The prophecy?
The humming went on whenever you didn't know what to say next, filling in the gaps between the notes on the piano and the lyrics:
A greater woman has faith
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
I'm so afraid I sealed my fate
No sign of soulmates
I'm just a paperweight
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
Spending my last coin so someone will tell me
It'll be ok
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
The melody filled the room until you stopped abruptly, frustrated that the lyrics weren't coming as easily as before. You closed your eyes with a groan, trying to clear your mind. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, elbows resting on the keys of the piano.
"You good?" Cillian's rough voice broke through your frustration, causing you to look up and offer a weak smile. You don't know how long he's been standing there or how much he heard of your struggles. "Just hitting a wall with this song," you admitted, running a hand through your hair.
"Ah, I see," he nodded sympathetically. He moved towards the records stacked on the shelf and pulled one out, placing it on the turntable. "I don't want to mess with your creative process or anything, but maybe a break with some music will help," he suggested.
Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" began to play, taking over the room with its haunting melody.
"So you play one of the saddest songs ever?" you deadpanned, "Thanks."
He chuckled softly, "You were playing some pretty intense stuff; I figured it would fit right in."
Oh, so he did hear you.
"Ah, I know it's different from my usual stuff," you said quietly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about your music. "I might scrap that one. They might not be onboard with the change."
"And why's that?"
Thom Yorke's voice faded into the background as you contemplated his question, unsure of how to respond.
You shrugged, "I listen to sad music, not make it."
"I liked what I heard," he reassured you, "and change is good. It keeps things interesting."
His low voice was soothing, and you found yourself feeling more at ease with the idea of trying something new. Pop has been your comfort zone for so long, it's what stands out of you, but most importantly, it's what sells. At least, that's what's important to the industry. Maybe it was time to push yourself out of it.
"I guess you're right," you replied, a faint smile creeping onto your face.
"As always," he said, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. He stood leaning against the table where the record player sat, arms crossed, looking as if he had too many things to say and not enough words for them.
"Would this be a good time to ask you if everything's okay?" you inquired, noticing the weight of unspoken thoughts in his eyes. "With Yvonne, I mean," you added, nervous to bring up the topic.
That first day, when you arrived at the house, you could sense there was something going on between them. Something bad. The tension in the air was so obvious, but you didn't want to pry. However, as the days went by, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that she hadn't been around or the absence of a certain ring on his finger.
"And here, I thought you were never going to ask," he replied, his words laced with sarcasm.
"I was waiting for you to bring it up," your voice trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. "I-I didn't want to overstep."
He studied you for a moment, or at least, you assumed that was what he was doing. Finally, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat,"We've separated."
A cold feeling settled in your chest as you processed his words. The reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly everything made sense. "Cillian," is all you managed to say, the concern evident in your voice.
He still wouldn't look at you. Knowing him, in moments like this, he wouldn't want to be coddled or pitied, so you save your apologies for later.
"What happened?"
He waved his hand dismissively, still avoiding your gaze. "Nothing, really," he said, his tone final. He didn't look upset, but rather resigned to the situation. "It hadn't been working for a long time; we both knew it was coming. I guess we were holding on for the boys more than anything." You could see the sadness in his eyes, despite his attempt to appear nonchalant. The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving you feeling defeated and unsure of what to say next. You don't think there's anything you can say that will make this or him feel better.
And boy, did you wish you could take away his pain with just a few words.
Cillian walked slowly over the piano, stopping in front of it. He streched his arms over the wooden soundboard, gripping the edges tightly as if seeking some sort of solace in the instrument. He finally looked at you.
"Why didn't you say anything, Cill?" you asked softly, "I would've—"
"You would've what?" he interrupted, his voice strained with emotion. "I didn't want to worry you, you have more important things than my marital issues."
You could see the pain in his eyes, and it tore at your heart to see him suffering in silence. "You're my friend. These things are important to me, Cill," you said gently, reaching out to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort. He flinched slightly at your touch, but then relaxed, leaning into your hand.
He didn't say anything, but you knew he appreciated your words. You could tell by the way his shoulders slumped in relief and the way his fingers loosened their grip on the edge of the piano.
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One morning, you woke up to the wind gently rustling through the trees outside your windows. The morning light was clear and clean, leaking through the glass and falling against the walls of the room in soft patterns. It felt too early to be awake, too peaceful to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
You roll over to look at the little clock on the bedside table: 6:20 AM. It wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep, so you threw the covers and climbed out of bed, feeling the cool wood floor beneath your feet as you walked to the bathroom.
You splash cold water on your face and brush your teeth, trying to wake yourself up fully. Holding up your hair, you tie it into a ponytail while walking over the bedside table to grab your phone and airpods. You put one in your ear and hit shuffle on one of your morning playlists. You couldn't function without some music. "Keep On Loving You" by Cigarettes After Sex starts playing.
On your way to the kitchen, you walked by Cillian's room and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Who the hell sleeps with their door open? Psychos, probably. Curiosity getting the best of you, you peeked inside to see him sprawled out on his bed, body illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the curtains—characteristic warm and cool shades revealing every hollow and speck of bare muscle. He slept with every limb stretched out, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. It was a rare sight, quite poetic.
He looked so peaceful, completely unaware of your presence. So you let your mind wander.
You imagined yourself crossing the room, pulling yourself on top of him. You imagined the way his bare body would look beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his dark hair messy around his face, his skin warm against yours. His hands—rough and soft at the same time—running over your thigh, your breast, your neck. You could almost feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he looked up at you.
But then reality snapped back into focus.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath. This was just a fantasy, a dangerous game to play with someone who was somewhat off-limits. But truth be told, the temptation was becoming harder to resist with each passing moment. It was all you could think about ever since he told you about his troubled marriage.
It took a long time for your heartbeat to slow. You headed to the kitchen to get some coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help clear your mind. As you rummage through the cabinets for a mug, his voice startles you from behind. "Need some help with that?" he asks, making you jump.
For a moment you thought you were still imagining things, but you turn around to see him standing there with a t-shirt on as opposed to five minutes ago. Great, him walking around shirtless in his kitchen, sleepy-eyed, messy hair, and rough morning voice would've been lethal.
"I've got it, thanks," you reply, shaking the mug slightly in your hand. You quickly pour yourself some coffee and try to focus on the task at hand: looking for the sugar.
"Sleep well?" he asks, voice still husky from sleep, his accent more prominent. He's rifling through the cabinet for a mug of his own. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex under his dark t-shirt as he reaches up. You hum in agreement, trying to hide your blush as you take a sip of your coffee. "You?"
"Grand," he replies, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. You exchange small talk about the upcoming day, but your mind keeps drifting back to how good he looks in the morning light.
"Any plans for today other than locking yourself in the piano room?" he teases, and you shoot him a playful glare. "Maybe I'll actually venture outside for once," you quip, laughing.
"How does the beach sound like?" he asks, "The boys are coming over, and they're bringing some friends, and I thought a trip would be a nice change of scenery."
"I could use some sun," you admit, feeling a smile tug at your lips.
"Let's make it a beach day then," he suggests, setting his mug on the sink. "We leave at 10, piano woman."
"Ha ha, very funny," you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. "But I'll hold you to it, annoying man," you reply.
"Annoying man?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "I thought I was your favorite person."
"Only on days that end in 'y'."
•••
"Are you done with your sad boy music?"
Cillian bursts out laughing, the sound taking you by surprise. He's been playing Radiohead on repeat for the whole car ride, and you were starting to feel like you were in a melancholy music video. "I like their music as much as the next person, but I think I need a break from the sadness," you say.
"Fine, fine," Cillian concedes, reaching for his phone to change the song. The bleak atmosphere in the car lifts as "Linger" by The Cranberries starts playing, filling the space with a more pleasant vibe. Cillian glances at you, he's wearing dark shades that hide his eyes, but you can still see his stoic expression softening as he catches you smiling at the change in music.
"Better?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Instead of answering, you start silently singing along to the lyrics, gesticulating dramatically for added effect. Cillian smiles at your antics, his own lips twitching in amusement as he watches you. The boys were so caught up in their conversation with their friends in the backseat that you were pretty sure they weren't even paying attention to the music or your impromptu performance. With a small smile on your face, you face out the window and enjoy the rest of the car ride in content silence.
When you arrive at your destination, all of you unbuckle your seat belts once Cillian puts the Bronco in park. You all pile out of the car, stretching your legs and taking in the sights around you. You close your eyes for a second and take a breath. The sea air—you loved that smell.
•••
A few hours later, after countless swims and some snacks, you find yourself lying on a beach towel, book in hand, feeling the warmth of the temperature on your skin. You're reading a book you picked up at an airport several months ago by Elin Hilderbrand, or the queen of beach reads, as many call her. You were completely engrossed in the story until you felt Cillian settling down next to you.
His hair was damp from the water, and his skin was slightly glistening. Gosh, he looked absolutely stunning. "Mind if I join you?" he asks.
"Not at all," you reply, closing the book and sitting up. "Having fun?"
"Lots," he says with a smile, reaching over to grab his sunglasses. The two of you sit in comfortable silence. The laughter and chatter of his sons and friends coming from the water redirects your attention back to the beach scene before you. You look back at Cillian, his eyes fixed on his sons.
"They love you, you know," you say softly, watching the genuine joy on his face as he watches his children.
"I don't know if I'm doing it right," he says, eyes still fixed on the boys. "I worry I might've fucked them up by letting my relationship with their mother fall apart."
He continues, "Sometimes I feel they resent me for it."
"Why do you feel that way?"
"I don't know, they just seem distant sometimes. Like they're holding back."
"Hey, that's normal for kids to have mixed feelings about their parents' separation. I was so happy when mine got divorced because it meant no more fighting, but it was also tough to adjust to the changes. It's very conflicting stuff," you say, huffing a small laugh. "Also, they're teenagers now, right? That's a tough age to navigate even without the added stress of divorce."
Cillian nods in agreement, exhaling out a yeah.
You squint against the sunlight beaming behind his head before continuing.
"You're a great dad, you always have been. Just show up and be there for them when they need you, even if they don't always seem to appreciate it. They'll remember it in the long run," you offer, remembering how much your own father's presence meant to you after your parents' divorce. "And I'm not a parent, but what parent feels like they're doing everything right all the time, anyway?"
Cillian turns to look at you. He studies your face for a moment before offering a small smile. "I guess you're right," he says sincerely.
"Fork found in kitchen," you retort, breaking the tension with a bit of humor.
He chuckles, "That's clever."
"Well," you continue, "I've been accused of many things over the years, but being unoriginal isn't one of them."
He laughs. Just like he did back in the car: a genuine, carefree laugh that makes you feel a little lighter.
"Want to go for one last swim, piano woman?"
You roll your eyes. "Will you stop calling me that?"
"Not likely," Cillian replies with a grin. "It's too fitting."
You stand up and stretch. You're wearing a one-piece teal-ish swimsuit that you swear you only chose based on comfort and not because it makes your ass and breasts look fantastic. Cillian's eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks away, and you swear you can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks. He doesn't move.
"Are you coming or…?"
"Right, one last swim," he finally says, standing up and following you towards the water.
Maybe that one last swim wasn't a great idea after all.
And why is that?
Because not even five minutes into the water, you thought it would be a good idea to jump from a high rock, and now you're sitting in the car with your knee scrapped, throbbing in pain, and regretting your impulsive decision.
•••
"You're so fuckin' stubborn."
You try to move into a more comfortable position while ignoring the pain shooting up your leg by pressing a hand against one side of the door to keep yourself steady. "And you're so clearly overreacting."
Cillian pushes his bedroom door open. He's also clearly pissed. The ride back to the house was deathly silent. Well, not silent. His sad boy music made a return, and this time with Broken Social Scene. You couldn't ask him to change the music without starting another argument. Even the kids were quiet, beyond asking several times if you were okay, which you assured them you were. Obviously a lie.
As Cillian walks around the room, you reach for your midi white beachy dress and look down at your knee in horror. It's no longer just a bruise, but a gash that is slowly oozing blood. Not as much as before, but still. It looks nasty underneath the shirt Cillian used from his car as a makeshift bandage.
He grabs the first aid kit from a shelf and turns around to face you.
"Take off your dress."
"Pardon me?"
"Take off your dress so I can properly clean and bandage the wound," Cillian repeats, his expression serious. You look down at the blood-stained fabric as if you needed any more confirmation. "Off, C'mon."
You stiffen at his demand, your body going completely rigid at his bossy tone. You watch him stride into his bathroom. He pushes aside some stuff on the counter and tosses the kit onto the counter.
Okay, yeah. He has good reason to be upset. You had no business jumping from that rock.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he'd said before, right when he went to get you. And now you can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface.
You can hear him shuffle in the bathroom while you remove your dress. You still have your swimsuit on underneath, but you feel exposed without the extra layer. Maybe the pain is catching up to you or the fact that you have upset him or that he's waiting for you in the bathroom to take care of you but tears sting your eyes as you try to process the situation. You take a moment to collect yourself. You cannot go in there like this, he cannot see you this vulnerable. At least, not now.
He's braced against the counter, head hung low, when you push open the bathroom door. You nearly back out to give him some space or time to compose himself, but his eyes meet yours and his expression straightens. He clears his throat and then freezes. "I—you're wearing your swimsuit."
"I am. Were you expecting me to change into something else?"
"No," he grumbles, "I mean, nevermind."
He turns back and starts grabbing sterile gauze, his movements slightly jerky. He gestures for you to sit on the counter. "Up."
"I'm not sure I can do that given my—" Before you're done speaking, he scoops you up and sets you on the counter. Your hands are locked around his neck, and his are firmly gripping your waist. They fit perfectly there, like they're made to hold you close.
He reaches behind him, both your faces close together now, and grabs your wrists, pulling them away from his neck and onto your thighs. He puts a hand on your uninjured leg, his touch gentle yet firm. "This is going to hurt." You stare at his impossible blue eyes and think to yourself: yes, this is going to hurt.
"Oh, shit shit," you gasp, gripping his forearm. "Holy fuuuck."
"I've got you, breathe," he commands, and you allow yourself to focus on his voice, letting it ground you. The antiseptic burns both your nostrils and knee as he continues to clean the wound, the pain shooting through your leg causing you to clench your teeth.
"I'm sorry," you breathe out.
There's nothing but silence in response.
"I told you multiple times not to go up there," he finally says, his voice tinged with frustration. "And yet."
"I know," you whisper, feeling guilty.
"Don't do that again," he commands, his accent thickening with emotion. "You could've hurt yourself even more."
"I know," you repeat, not sure how else to respond.
His head is bowed in concentration as he finishes cleaning the wound, his hands steady despite the anger in his voice. You can see his dark eyelashes fluttering slightly as he works. He applies a little more pressure to the bandage than he should've, and you let out a soft moan. This doesn't go unnoticed by him.
The air in the room seems to shift. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see something soften in his gaze before he looks away.
"You're not supposed to like that."
Your cheeks heat up immediately.
He's gotten closer to you, your hands somehow made their way to fist his navy blue linen shirt. His body is between your legs, the delicate material of his pants brushing your skin. His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't say I mind it either." Your heart races at his proximity, unsure of what to do next.
His hands slide up your thighs, gently caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He's going to kiss you, and you can't help but wonder if it's the right decision to let him.
But now is not the time to be rational about it.
"I'm not gonna stop you," you say quietly, "I wouldn't know how."
His eyes darken, pupils dilating with desire. He doesn't move.
It's like you're both aware of the line you're about to cross, so neither of you moves.
You keep your eyes firmly on his face. His lips inch closer to yours, and you feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Your body is angled towards his, hand gripping the edge of the counter. Your slightly damp hair, now cold, making you shiver.
He's impossibly hard against you, the material of his pants is thin, and you're aware of every inch of him pressing against your throbbing core.
"And I wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He shifts slightly, causing his erection to press even more firmly against you, both letting out a soft moan. His mouth hovers just inches from yours, just kiss me, you thought.
There's a knock on the bedroom door, which is, by the way, open.
"Dad?" You both freeze.
The bathroom door is slightly ajar, offering a sliver of privacy but not enough to shield you from any potential interruptions.
"Yes?" Cillian calls out, trying to sound casual despite the intense moment that was just interrupted. "We're ordering takeout, do you want anything?"
"No, buddy, we're good, thanks," Cillian replies, his voice strained as he tries to keep his composure. You hear the steps retreating down the hallway.
Cillian steps back, and the absence of his body against yours is jarring. It clearly would've been a mistake to take this further, but a mistake that would've felt so fucking good.
"We shouldn't do this."
He clears his throat. "Yeah."
He moves towards the door, his movements tense and purposeful. "I'm gonna—" he says, motioning the door.
"Yeah," you quickly reply, "I got it."
You watch him leave, the air heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.
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a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me, let me know if you guys enjoyed it :)
part two
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weepinwriter · 1 year ago
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Road to Heaven is an 18+ Dystopian fic which takes inspiration from popular media like the “Shatter Me” series and “Hunger Games”. It may contain distressing content like major injury to the characters, character deaths, blood, gore, body horror, amnesia and optional sexual content. More specific warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter.
You are inmate No. 1441, incarcerated in Tartarus, the most notorious prison on the continent. You find yourself imprisoned for a crime that you do not remember committing, leaving you in a state of uncertainty about your own identity and purpose. The first memory you have is awakening to the sensation of a gun being shoved into your mouth.
Within the grim confines of Tartarus, you have been branded as the most dangerous criminal, feared yet hated by both fellow inmates and prison authorities alike. It becomes clear to you that in order to survive and unravel the enigma of your past, escape from this formidable penitentiary is imperative. However, achieving freedom will not be an easy feat, as you must navigate treacherous encounters with some of the most malevolent criminals known to humanity. In your quest for freedom, you find yourself entangled in complex relationships with three significant individuals. Firstly, your cellmate, whose icy demeanor suggests a deep-seated disdain for your very existence. Secondly, your best friend within the prison walls, whose seemingly excessive friendliness may harbor ulterior motives. Lastly, there is the warden, whose overtly amicable nature masks a peculiar familiarity with your past. As you navigate the perilous labyrinth of Tartarus, your ultimate objective is twofold: to survive amidst the most notorious criminals and uncover the truth about your forgotten past. In a world where danger lurks at every corner, you must tread carefully, for the path to redemption and self-discovery is riddled with uncertainty and perilous choices.
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Fully customize your MC. Choose your pronouns, sexuality, appearance and more. Take control of your interactions with the characters and experience the world of Elysium City through a personalized scope.
Romance one of the 7 RO’s, and if you are charming enough, fall in love with any two of them. The four possible poly routes available are: The Cellmate and The Friend, The Warden and The Master, The Protector and The Master, The Cellmate and The Rebel
Struggle against the evil that wants you dead and uncover secrets about yourself
Accept your identity as an Esper and rediscover your powers, or completely reject them
Master your ability of Conscious Manipulation and perhaps learn a few things about yourself unexpectedly
Choose to make allies within Tartarus or antagonize them. Your choices have consequences
Lead a dying rebellion against the Hightable or join them as an equal
There are a total 7 romance options, each with their own personality and a story along with dark secrets for you to uncover
Survive
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1. The Cellmate [f/m] | Enemies to Lovers
Subject Name : Twenty
A palpable enigma surrounds the inexplicable disdain they harbor towards you, leaving you to ponder if your past misdeeds have sowed the seeds of their ire. Your questions remain unanswered, rarely do they grace you with a response, and when they do, it arrives veiled in hateful glares and a tapestry of venomous words. The origins of their animosity remain shrouded in silence, with fellow inmates mirroring their reticence. Only when they are complaining about the prison's wretched conditions and the Warden's despotic rule do they momentarily shed their icy facade, revealing hints of vulnerability and human emotion. When they do smile, albeit rarely, it is a fleeting moment of breathtaking beauty. If only you could find the courage to tell them that.
[ Number 1579 is an S rank Arcane Tendency Esper with the Cryokinesis ability. They are under Libra’s Jurisdiction, and thus only follow orders coming directly from them. ]
Other Tropes : Emotional Scars, Nobody thinks it’ll actually work, Hate Sex
2. The Warden? [m] | ???
Subject Name : Nikita
There is an uncanny familiarity surrounding him, leaving you torn between the unsettling grip of dread and the elusive allure of desire. He claims to know you personally. Apparently the two of you were close friends before The Incident. Yet, when you press for details, he skillfully redirects the conversation before your emotions can catch up. "The past is but a fleeting shadow," he says, "no need to talk about something that can't be changed. Besides, you wouldn't remember anything." Evidently your memories had been erased. The question of who hangs heavy in the air, but his response remains enigmatic, offering only a mirthless smile.
[ Nikita is the Warden of Tartarus, the Reformation Asylum in Sector 10, 8th District. He is under Scorpio's jurisdiction. ]
Other Tropes : Slowburn, Betrayal, Puppy play
3. The Friend [f/m] | Friends to Lovers
Subject Name : Victor (m.) | Vanessa (f.)
A compassionate and devoted companion, V. shines as a beacon of light in the desolate depths of this grim abyss that became your world. From the moment you opened your eyes, they extended a helping hand, guiding you through the labyrinthine complexities of Tartarus and easing your transition into this unfamiliar realm. Unfazed by the venomous whispers that tarnish your reputation, they remain steadfastly by your side, unwavering in their loyalty. Their warm smiles and whimsical wordplay serve as a balm, mending your wounded spirit after every bitter clash with Twenty. How fortunate you are to be blessed with such an illuminating presence, brightening the shadows that consume your existence.
[ Number 1339 is an A rank Catalyst Tendency Esper with the Illusion Manipulation ability. They are under Scorpio’s Jurisdiction. ]
Other Tropes : Partners in crime, First Love, Good people get good sex, Slight yandere
4. The Count/Countless [f/m] | Forbidden Romance (relationship history can be friends with benefits)
Subject Name : Emir (m.) | Evara(f.)
A remarkable visionary and an exceptional entrepreneur, E. stands as an unrivaled figure in the illustrious realm of Elysium City. Holding the distinction of being the youngest Grandmaster in history and amassing unparalleled wealth, they reign as the CEO of the renowned Quinn Industries. E. is adorned with numerous titles within the esteemed echelons of society, serving as an icon of inspiration and a beacon of hope, while simultaneously arousing envy in the hearts of many. An arrogant and proud individual, their ugliness is conveniently covered by their astonishing fortune, combined with innate brilliance, seems almost mystical, as if destined for greatness from their very birth. Within Elysium City's grand social tapestry, few possess the persuasive prowess to sway the decisions of the Hightable itself, yet E. stands tall even among this select few. As an eligible bachelor, their daily inundation of love letters and marriage proposals is a testament to their allure. And yet, amidst all this splendor, it is you who has found a place of interest in their extraordinary life.
[ E. is a part of The Senate and thus does not fall under any District's jurisdiction. ]
Other Tropes : Belated love epiphany, Billionaire, Power play, Daddy/Mommy kink
5. The Master [f] | Forbidden Romance
Subject Name : Leo
In her calculated pursuit, you find yourself ensnared. Your allure captivates her discerning gaze, for you possess what she desires most. You are the coveted object of her desires. In this strategic game, you are but a pawn, a possession within her calculated grasp. Yet, curiously she maintains a measured distance. Her reason? She eloquently articulates, “Witnessing the growth of one's possession is a fascinating phenomenon.”
[ Leo is the Master of {DATA REDACTED}. They are the Ruler of the 5th District. ]
Other Tropes : Secret Identity, Second Chance, Blood play, Begging
6. The Protector [m] | Bodyguard Romance
Subject Name : Caesar
A battle-hardened soldier, Caesar bears the scars of a lifetime spent serving the FAE and the city. With an intimacy unparalleled, he has danced with mortality on numerous occasions, making death a companion rather than an adversary. Yet, behind that facade of strength, Caesar is a fractured soul, haunted by insecurities and a self-destructive nature. His journey, filled with shattered dreams and the weight of his daughter's aspirations, has brought him to the edge of despair. The immortality he once embraced now feels like a curse, a harbinger of misfortune that has become synonymous with his presence. In his eyes, he sees himself as not a protector but a bearer of ill fate. However, the stars, in an unexpected alignment, have granted him a final purpose: to protect you. Beneath the intimidating exterior lies a gentle giant, yet one plagued by a profound sense of self-loathing. He grapples with the belief that his very existence is a catalyst for tragedy, a vortex that draws calamity toward him and those he holds dear. Intrigued by this complex guardian, you see the duality within Caesar — an attentive and understanding individual burdened by the weight of his own perceived malevolence. As you navigate through the intricate layers of his psyche, perhaps you could help him ease his suffering, even by a little.
[ Caesar is a registered S rank Endura Tendency Esper with the Regeneration ability. He comes under Leo’s jurisdiction. ]
Other Tropes : Beauty and the Beast, Single parent, Stop calling me daddy
7. The Rebel [f/m] | Enemies to Lovers
Subject Name : Gael (m.) | Gwendolyn (f.)
You betrayed them. Or perhaps it's the other way around? You do not remember. The trust you once held dear has been shattered, and now you must face the price for your misguided beliefs. Like a fool enchanted by deceit, you must bear the weight of your choices. Remember this lesson, for betrayal's toll is a heavy one to pay. Proceed with caution, lest you become ensnared in the web of your own treachery.
[ There is no known information on this individual. Extreme caution is recommended. ]
Other Tropes : Amnesia, Revenge, Redemption, Breathe play
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Links
[ DEMO ]
[ PINTEREST ]
[ THE DISTRICTS ]
[ THE HIGHTABLE ]
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All asks and reposts are welcome 😁!
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charliepoopyfart · 8 days ago
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Viktor x goddess!reader idea that I got
(Lmk if I should finish)
Also ngl definitely inspired by character ai
———
The faint glow of Viktor’s Hexcore lit the darkened lab, its light dancing across his tired features. You stood behind him, your divine form casting a soft, golden radiance that made the shadows retreat. He was so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t noticed your arrival—not until you spoke, your voice gentle yet carrying the weight of eternity.
“You’ll wear yourself thin, mortal.”
Viktor flinched at first, then sighed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You always arrive unannounced, goddess. Should I start expecting you?”
“Perhaps,” you teased, stepping closer. Your presence seemed to soothe the air, the tension in his shoulders easing despite his usual stubbornness. “You push yourself too hard, Viktor. Even I can see that.”
“And yet, it is what must be done,” he replied, turning to face you. His amber eyes glimmered in the Hexlight, and for a moment, the weight of his ambition warred with the vulnerability he rarely showed anyone. “If I stop, even for a moment, the dream slips further away.”
You knelt before him, your divine glow meeting the cool blue of his inventions. “The world will not crumble if you rest, nor will your dream disappear. But if you break yourself in pursuit of it, who will bring it to life?”
His breath hitched as your hand brushed his, the faint hum of your power crackling at the touch. “You speak as though you care,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
“I do,” you admitted, your gaze steady and unyielding. “The ambitions of mortals have always fascinated me, but yours… yours feel different. You seek to create, not to destroy. That is a rare thing.”
Viktor studied you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, softly, he asked, “And if I fail?”
“You won’t,” you said, your voice firm and full of conviction. “Because I won’t let you.”
For a brief, fleeting moment, the mortal and the goddess shared something profound—a connection neither fully understood, but both silently vowed to protect.
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professorsnape394 · 1 month ago
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Seducing Mr Malfoy
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x Reader Rating: 🥵 Summary: Lucius teaches his son how to properly treat a woman.
A/N: First time ever writing for Lucius. Please let me know what you all think of it!
Warnings: Violence (one instance of Domestic abuse?). Smut. Slapping kink. Degradation kink. Voyeurism. Oral (male receiving).
Word Count: 2569
Credits to Gif Creator.
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Since his divorce Lucius had been living the high life as one of the wealthiest bachelors of the Wizarding World. Having been with Narcissa since leaving school he had never had much opportunity to sow his oats and truly explore the litany of woman at his disposal. It seemed now, that he was able to have whoever he wanted for however long he wanted; women loved a man in power, and Lucius had an abundance of it.
His son, Draco, on the other hand, was not coping quite so well in the absence of his mother, taking inspiration from his father to plough through a number of young witches’ keen to experience a taste of the Malfoy life, but never quite seeming satisfied by any of them.
Frustratingly, the kind of life Lucius led also required him to put in the work to retain his prestigious position at the Ministry of Magic. Which is what led him to working over the weekend in his home office, depriving him of the much-needed female attention he had quickly become addicted to.
Scribbling away furiously at his desk, Lucius was eager to finish his work and hit the town, leaving his son the privacy of the Manor to entertain his new girlfriend. Lucius usually never took an interest in the revolving door of young witches that passed through his house on the arm of his son, but his most recent girl had caught his attention on a number of occasions this week.
The first time Lucius saw her was fleeting. As he headed out the door as Draco was coming home, the young lady stopped him in his tracks. Usually, he would have ignored the woman, greeting his son with a brief nod before disappearing out the door, but something about her confidence to address him, intrigued him.  
“Mr Malfoy.” She greeted, stopping firmly at his feet.  “Y/N L/N. It’s a Pleasure to finally meet you.”
She held out her hand for him to take. He quirked an eyebrow at the firmness of her grip, impressed by her boldness.
“And you.” He stated simply, crushing her hand and flicking his gaze over her face.
While her clothing was similar to any other woman that he encountered these days; short and low cut. Her features drew him in unlike anyone ever had. Her doe like eyes made her look innocent, but the crimson shade on her lips told a different story altogether. Lucius could see why his son had chosen such a rare beauty.
She gazed up at him through a curtain of thick lashes, refusing to be the one to let go first.
“Hurry up.” Draco snapped, yanking her by the arm. “I didn’t bring you here to make small talk with my father.”
“I apologise for taking up your time, Mr Malfoy. I hope I see you again.” She flashed him a smile, idly nibbling on her plump bottom lip.
Lucius’ gaze latched on her mouth once more, finding it hard to drag himself away.
Finally, Draco stormed off, leaving the witch to scurry after him. Lucius couldn’t help but watch the sway of her hips as she sashayed her way up the grand staircase.
~
The second time he encountered Y/N, he heard her before he saw her.
After a long day at the office, Lucius crashed onto his bed exhausted, not even bothering to change out of his suit.
He awoke hours later, feeling groggy and uncomfortable. It was one of the rare nights he missed having his wife around to take care of him. Attempting to drown away the thoughts of his ex, Lucius poured himself a glass of aged whiskey and strolled to the bathroom to shower stresses of the day away.
It was on his return from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, that his ears pricked up at a sound from down the hall.
“Oh God, oh God.” The woman’s muffled moan echoed out the room.
His son’s voice murmured a string of curses, followed by the sound of a hard slap. This seemed to only spurred the witch on; her moans turning from high pitched and fast, to long a long and throaty groan.
Lucius’ feet carried him towards the door without thought, finding it slightly ajar.
“Fuck. Please Draco.” She begged.
Another few harsh slaps sent the woman overboard. She reached her climax in a series of pants and whines, her voice growing louder as she came.
Lucius slowed his breathing, recklessly approaching the threshold. His dick had quickly become painfully hard, the friction of his tip rubbing against the towel driving him mad with desire. Taking a sip of his half-finished whiskey, Lucius dared peak through the crack in the door.
His eyes quickly landed on bed, the woman lying face up, panting breathlessly. Her bare chest rising and falling erratically with each breath. Lucius’ gaze roamed her naked body, stroking himself roughly over the fabric of the towel. His attention quickly turned to Y/N’s face, flushed with colour, cheeks burning red from the smack of Draco’s hand and her mascara had run down her face with tears. Lucius might have been worried she was in pain, were it not for the wild grin spreading from cheek to cheek.
In an instant Draco grabbed her roughly by her hair, flipping her body until she was lying face down on the mattress, ass perfectly positioned up. Lucius took a step away from the door, just in time to see the girl turning her head in his direction, staring mindlessly at the door while Draco rutted into her from behind. The older Malfoy watched on quietly from the shadows, alternating between sipping on his drink and tugging himself sore at the sight of Y/N’s eyes rolling back in her head.
Returning to his room, Lucius felt both dirty and unsatisfied, having not had the courage to finish himself off at risk of his son hearing his feral grunts. Putting his moment of impulsiveness down to feeling lonely and overworked, Lucius retired to his bed for the night, but not before downing the rest of the bottle of whiskey he kept on his dresser.
The following morning Lucius awoke with a pounding headache and an incredibly dry throat. Memories of the night before flooded his brain. He expected to feel shame over his actions, but instead he found himself replaying the images and the sounds of the woman over in his head, wishing he had been the one to illicit that kind of reaction from her. At risk of developing another erection, he forced himself out of bed, wandering down to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water.
A tortured groan slipped past Lucius lips at the sight he stumbled upon in his kitchen.
Y/N stood alone in the middle of his kitchen, wearing only a pair small pair of gym shorts and a crop top, stretching to reach one of the higher cabinets, placing her body perfectly on show for him to gawk at. Lucius’ eyes raked over her body, lasering in on her perky little ass and reminiscing on how completely edible she looked bent over last night.
“You know we have House Elves that can get that for you.” He finally spoke, leaning idly on the kitchen island.
The girl jumped at the sound of his voice, spinning on a heel to face him.
“Mr Malfoy. I didn’t hear you come down.” The view of her front was just as good; her breasts spilling over the neckline of her tight top, hard nipples on show from the chilly air that circulated the Manor.
“Mmm.” He hummed appreciatively. “I can be quite discreet when it serves me.”
“I noticed.” She stated plainly, staring directly into his eyes.
Lucius quirked an eyebrow stunned by her acknowledgment. Pushing himself from the counter, he slowly stalked towards her.
“Is that so?”
“You think I was being that loud for your son’s benefit?” She moved in closer, battling her long lashes at him as they came practically chest to chest.
“Speaking of Draco, where is my son?”
“He’s still asleep, probably won’t be up for hours yet.”
“Mmm.” Lucius hummed again, reaching out to brush a thumb along her lips. “Then is it a shame?”
“A shame, Mr Malfoy?” The girl searched his face for any insight into his thoughts.
“A shame I have to be heading into the office this morning.”
Y/N face fell at his words. Lucius took the woman’s chin between two fingers, tilting her gaze up to meet his eyes.
“Don’t be so loud, next time. He’ll think you’re enjoying it far too much.”
And with that Lucius disappeared from the room, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen, squeezing her legs to fight off the quickly developed ache between her legs.  
~
The next time he saw Y/N enough time had passed that she had been on Lucius’ mind more often than appropriate for his son’s new girlfriend. Draco hadn’t brought her home in a few days and Lucius was starting to miss the sweet sounds that he liked to get himself off to every night that week.
Returning home from yet another tough day at work; Lucius ditched his coat at the door and headed straight for his whiskey cabinet, ready to drown himself in thoughts of her. He made it half way to the kitchen before his attention was drawn elsewhere. Soft cries floated through the house; a familiar voice pleading through broken sobs.
His sons voice; harsh and indignant, had him charging up the stairs.
“I said; Get. On. Your. Fucking. Knees.” The younger of the Malfoy men, pushed the woman roughly to the ground; her knees smashing sorely onto the hardwood floors.
“Draco.” She sniffled, tears steaming down her face. The smile that once brightened her face long forgotten.
“Disobedient Bitch.” He spat.
With his heavily ringed right hand, Draco backhanded Y/N across the face.
The woman gasped from the force, quickly covering her cheek to ease the pressure.
Using his cane to catch onto his son’s collar, Lucius dragged his son away from Y/N.
“Draco.” He hissed into the boy’s ear, crushing his shoulder under his tight grip. “What exactly is going on here.”
Lucius dared to flick his eyes down to the woman now hunched over on the ground.
“She likes it.” He snapped back. “She gets off on shit like this; she’s sick.”
“It doesn’t look like she is enjoying it to me.”
“It’s none of your- “
“SILENCE.” Lucius commanded his son. “I thought I taught you to treat women better than this.”
He stepped slowly in Y/N’s direction, stopping just in front of her knees. He took her face in his hand, tilting her chin to look up at him as he had done the last time they met.
“A woman like this deserves the utmost care and attention. She should be worshipped. Not beaten to the ground like a common Elf.” He used his thumb to wipe away her tears, gently stroking the bright red imprint on her cheek.
“If that is something you do not understand, then you do not deserve to have her at all. She deserves more. Someone who understands the nuances of women. Someone who will treat her like a Queen during the day; and punish her like the slut she is at night.”
Y/N’s wicked grin returned, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip as she pictured Lucius doing everything to her that he just promised. Her eyes dropped forward to his crotch; it didn’t come as a surprise to her that he was already hard just from seeing her on her knees like this.
“Is that what you want, Darling?”
She liked the dryness from her lips, blinking up at him through teary eyes and nodded.
Lucius reached for the buckle of his belt, starting to undo the fastening of his trousers.
“Leave us, Draco.”
“But Father.” The boy stuttered, dumbfounded by the situation unfolding before him.
“I said LEAVE. Unless you want to feel the sting of my hand across your face.”
The boy stumbled from the room, leaving his father and girlfriend alone in the thick silence of the Manor.
Y/N leaned into Lucius’ touch as he cupped her cheek and finished undoing his belt.
“I’ve been waiting for this all week.”
Lucius groaned at her words, putting his hand down his unzipped trousers, easing some of the tension in his boxers.
“Don’t tell me you were thinking of me the whole time you were fucking my good-for-nothing son.”
“What if I told you I was only fucking him to get to you. That every night I made sure to moan loud enough for you to hear in the hopes that you would burst through the door and take me just for yourself. I wanted you to show him how it was done, how I sounded when I came all over your cock.”
“Mmm. Draco was right about one thing; you are sick.”
“What if I told you I got tired of waiting. That I came here tonight with the intention of seducing you.” She paused before deciding whether to continue. “I told Draco I was ending things with him tonight.”
Understanding dawned on Lucius.
“Is that why he was acting that way? Because you broke it off with him.”
Y/N nodded, dropping her gaze.
“That boy is not used to being told ‘no’. He never deserved you.”
“Let’s not talk about Draco anymore. He’s taken up more of my time than I would ever want.”
Y/N ran her hands up Lucius’ thighs, jumping up to her knees again.
“Ready, Sweetheart?”
Lucius pulled his dick from his trousers, pumping himself roughly in front of her lips, precum already dripping from his tip.
Y/N stuck her tongue out eagerly, licking the length of his slit clean. Lucius removed his hands allowing, Y/N to take charge.
Watching her wrap her lips around his cock, Lucius hissed at the contact.
Almost instantly she gagged from the size of him hitting the back of her throat.
“Relax.” He ordered. “Take your time.”
Y/N sat back on her haunches, this time taking him slowly into her mouth. She swirled her tongue leisurely around his tip, making sure he was fully lubricated before sucking him up an inch at a time.
Good Girl.” He hummed, tipping her chin up again, wanting to maintain eye contact with her.
Lucius kept his hands on either side of her face, gently guiding her movements. She bobbed her head rhythmically, savouring every second of finally tasting him in her mouth.
“Keep going, Darling, that feels incredible.” Lucius encouraged.
“Mmmm.”
Y/N whined, finally feeling his tip hit the back of her throat, threatening to surpass the boundary. She rubbed her thighs together but to no avail, the throbbing ache that had started between her legs would not be so easily satiated. Delving her fingers beneath the band of her underwear Y/N slipped her fingers between her folds, focusing on rubbing circles around her clit.
“You have no patience.” Lucius scolded, eyes lowering on her body. “You’ll get what you need soon enough.”
Lucius pulled Y/N to her feet, his cock coming out his mouth with a pop.
“How about I show you exactly what I have been dreaming about all week?”
Her doe eyes slanted seductively at his words.
“Lead the way, Mr Malfoy.”
. . . Taglist:
@pear-1206
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aventurineswife · 23 days ago
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The Gamble of Forever
Summary: Aventurine starts his day preparing to leave for work, only to be caught off guard by a heartwarming scene: his child running around in mischief while you, disheveled and radiant, chase after them in your underwear. The moment reminds him of how deeply in love he is with you, solidifying that his chaotic but beautiful family life is his greatest treasure.
Tags: Dad!Aventurine x Parent!Reader, Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Married Life, Humor, Morning Chaos, Tender Moments.
Warnings: Mild suggestiveness (mention of the reader being in underwear for a comedic moment), Family fluff overload.
A/N: This was inspired by a post I saw on yt shorts where someone shared a tweet about their wife chasing their child while still in her bra, yet she still had time to smile at her husband before continuing running after the child. It made his heart skip a beat, and I just had to write this for Aventurine because it was perfect and suited him! 🥺💖
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The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, bathing the elegant yet cozy home in a golden glow. Aventurine adjusted his blazer in the hallway mirror, his eyes scanning his reflection with practiced precision. He ran a hand through his hair, ensuring every strand was in place. The faint sound of giggles from another room brought a subtle smile to his lips.
Family mornings had become his favorite gamble—chaotic, unpredictable, yet impossibly rewarding.
Aventurine turned just in time to see your child dart across the hallway, their laughter ringing through the air like music. They were wearing an oversized shirt—his, judging by the familiar shirt colour—and clutching a stuffed animal as if it were a prized trophy.
Hot on their heels came you, disheveled but radiant, holding a neatly folded outfit in one hand. The moment he saw you, his breath caught. You were still in your underwear, your hair tousled from the morning rush, and your cheeks flushed from chasing the little whirlwind. Despite the flustered look, or perhaps because of it, you were breathtaking.
You skidded to a halt as you noticed Aventurine standing there. For a brief second, your eyes met his, and you gave him a sheepish, glowing smile.
"Good morning, love," you said, voice tinged with laughter before resuming your chase. "Get back here, you little rascal!"
Aventurine leaned against the wall, his hand unconsciously adjusting the choker around his neck. He felt his heart skip a beat, his ever-present smirk softening into something far more genuine.
It was a rare and tender moment, the kind that pierced through the carefully constructed walls he’d built around his heart. He’d always known you were his anchor in a stormy sea, but seeing you like this—barefoot, glowing with life, and utterly devoted to their shared little world—made him fall for you all over again.
He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the warmth spreading through his chest. Was this how love deepened? Not in grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but in these fleeting, chaotic moments that painted a life together.
You emerged from the living room, child in tow, now successfully dressed and giggling in your arms. Aventurine straightened, his smirk returning as he held out his arms.
"Do I get a proper goodbye, or are you two planning a coup against me while I’m away?" he teased, the dramatic lilt in his voice causing your child to burst into laughter.
"Only if you keep working too much." you quipped, handing your child over to him.
Aventurine lifted them effortlessly, spinning them around until they shrieked with delight. When he finally set them down, he pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead.
“You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured, the words soft but sincere. “I don’t say it enough.”
You smiled up at him, your hands resting on his chest. "And you’re late." you teased, leaning in for a quick kiss.
He chuckled, stepping back reluctantly. “Fine, fine. But only because I’d rather not risk losing my title as Senior Manager to some rookie.” He turned to your child, crouching to their level. “Take care of your parent, alright? Keep them out of trouble.”
“Okay!”
With one last lingering look at you, Aventurine adjusted his blazer and hat, his earring catching the light. As he stepped out the door, he couldn’t help but glance back, a rare tenderness glimmering in his eyes.
Some gambles were worth more than any jackpot. And this—this life with you—was his greatest win.
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ssa-dado · 2 months ago
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Three Stages of Truth - SOS
Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff and a lot of fun bits Summary: After years of adhering to the FBI's "no dating coworkers" policy, you and Aaron finally crossed the line, keeping your relationship hidden behind a professional facade. The team, amused by your strict boundaries, continuously poked fun at your stoic, near-platonic interactions. Despite this, once you were home, everything changed. Three fun scenarios lead to one undeniable truth. Warnings: probably there's a short NSFW bit, nothing scandalous, minors can probably still interact (?) idk sue me Word Count: 10.4k Dado's Corner: The first two parts are heavily inspired by the delightfully unhinged brainrots exchanged with @c-losur3 (bless your criminally brilliant lawyer mind, this is all pure comedy). Finally expanded into something more fun… or at least, I hope so! Hopefully I met your expectations with your request, took some creative liberties just to keep you on your toes :)
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Arthur Schopenhauer, German philosopher, once said: “All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.”
---
Stage one: “First, it is ridiculed.”
If there was one defining characteristic that bound you and Aaron together more than any other, it was your deeply ingrained sense of duty.
Duty to the job, to the rules, to the team.
This profound sense of responsibility was what held you apart for so long, faithfully upholding the FBI's strict "no dating coworkers" policy, a rule neither of you dared to transgress.
It was that deep sense of responsibility that kept you and Aaron apart for so long, both of you strictly adhering to the FBI’s “no dating coworkers” rule. It was a line neither of you dared to cross… until, one day, you did.
When you finally took that step, it wasn’t as if everything suddenly became easier. If anything, your dedication to your roles only deepened. Years of hiding your true feelings had trained you well, knowing how to navigate each other’s professional boundaries came almost naturally.
And it wasn’t just about personal pride or discipline - it was about a shared commitment to keeping the team dynamic intact and not letting personal matters disrupt the work you were all so devoted to.
Worried that your relationship might disrupt that delicate balance, you both chose to keep it private for as long as possible. Every interaction at the office was carefully managed, every glance controlled. Even in moments when you wanted to let your guard down, you reminded yourselves what was at stake.
And when you finally told the team, it wasn’t accompanied by a sigh of relief or a relaxing of your professional façade, instead, you doubled down.
Pure stoicism.
No touching.
No lingering eye contact.
What the team found undeniably funny - and maybe enjoyed a little too much - was that back when you and Hotch were just “partners”, you were actually more relaxed around each other: a comforting hand on the shoulder every once in a while, sitting close together on the jet, chatting easily about anything and everything.
Now, you barely allowed yourselves even a fleeting glance. You maintained such deliberate distance that every rare look felt like you were cautiously measuring out tiny doses of affection from a secret reserve.
"Why don’t you two just kiss in front of us once, so we can actually remember you’re a couple?" they would jest during briefings, fully aware that the likelihood of such a display was on par with the office coffee machine working on a Monday morning.
However, this only seemed to encourage them to find even more creative ways to poke fun at you. During tactical briefs, a simple "Pass the stapler, please," from you to him could warrant theatrical gasps and someone fanning themselves as if witnessing an affair.
Or watching you navigate the halls with military precision, they’d nudge each other, whispering dramatically, "Alert, potential accidental eye contact in three, two, one... Oh, never mind, false alarm!"
In reality, the one thing that could actually make you falter was when the case wrapped up and all the tension, the sleepless nights, everything came down to a single moment.
All you both wanted was to collapse into each other’s arms, but instead, the only physical contact you allowed yourselves was a strangely formal handshake - stiff and awkward, yet somehow managed to carry the weight of all the unspoken longing between you, a small tradition of yours.
"Good job catching the unsub," you’d say, your voice steady, though your eyes shimmered with a warmth reserved just for him.
"Good job deciphering the pattern," Aaron would reply. His tone was calm, but his eyes lingered on yours a moment too long, betraying his deeper emotions.
In a daring whisper, you might lean in closer and murmur, "You looked insanely hot in that vest. I’m dying to jump your bones right now."
"I know, darling, but we can't," Aaron would reply, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "And by the way, if you could stop tying your hair up when I’m around, it would make things a lot easier."
You and Aaron had mastered the art of subtle flirtation, weaving little moments of connection into the everyday rhythm of work. Casual comments, quiet glances, nothing obvious, just enough to remind each other of what was waiting for you both at the end of the day.
If someone happened to get too close, you could easily switch back into "professional mode," talking about the case with ease, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
But once you were home, everything changed.
The moment the door closed behind you, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, you were no longer bound by the rules of the office. In your shared space, the weight of professional conduct melted away. You could finally let go - drop your bags, let the tension fade - and just reach for him. Your arms would find their way around his neck, as if you'd been waiting for this all day.
“Long day?” he’d ask, voice softened in a way that no one else ever heard.
“Long,” you’d murmur back, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before you even realized you’d missed him. “But I think I can be persuaded to relax,” you’d add, letting a sly smile tug at your lips.
He’d shake his head, but his hands would find your waist, pulling you close. “I’m sure you’re very persuadable,” he’d reply, and the warmth in his voice would melt away whatever stress lingered from the day.
There was no one to see you both now, no one to maintain appearances for, and the freedom was almost intoxicating.
You’d end up on the couch, half-curled into his side, legs intertwined, as you both debriefed each other not just on the day’s work but on everything that made you who you were, stealing kisses every few minutes just because you could.  
When paperwork demanded attention, it quickly transformed into another reason to stay close. You’d find yourself on Aaron’s lap, either at the dining table or settled into the couch, one arm draped around his neck as you both tried - mostly in vain - to concentrate on the documents in front of you.
More often than not, the papers would end up slightly crumpled, bearing witness to the playful struggles and distractions that ensued whenever one of you became too immersed in the task - or, more accurately, when the task became anything but the focus.
With a subtle wiggle, ostensibly just an innocent adjustment, you grinned up at him. “This is just more comfortable,” you declared, your tone overly serious as if you hadn’t used that same excuse every time you sat on his lap.
His eyes narrowed, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Comfortable for you, maybe,” he murmured, his hands settling on your waist, fingers drawing slow, deliberate circles on your skin that sent your heart racing.
You stretched, arching slightly, your lips brushing the spot behind his ear that you knew he loved. "Are you saying you’re uncomfortable, Agent Hotchner?" you teased, your lips still grazing his skin, before pulling back to face him as though nothing had happened. "Because we can always switch back to a more professional arrangement."
He chuckled, a rich, low sound that reverberated against your ear. "It’s only unprofessional if we’re caught," he replied, as your hand began to roam up and down the middle of his chest, your movements slowed by the bumps of his shirt buttons.
You feigned shock, your hand pausing in its path up his chest. "SSA Hotchner, suggesting we shirk our duties? I'm scandalized." Your tone was light, teasing, your fingers now slipping beneath his shirt to trace the warm skin of his torso. His slight gasp was your reward, and you pressed your advantage, your touch bold and exploring.
"And yet, you're not too scandalized to stop what you're doing, are you?" he observed, his gaze lowering to the chaos of papers that had begun to scatter across the table as you moved to straddle him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips. He immediately moved his hands to rest on your waist.
"Shock makes us irrational," you quipped, biting your lower lip. Your left hand rested at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair to draw him closer, while your right hand played provocatively with the belt loop of his trousers.
His eyebrow arched, a sculpted line of mock sternness that didn't quite mask the flicker of desire in his eyes. As your fingers playfully tugged at his belt, a barely audible hitch caught in his throat. “Oh, I think the real shock came last week,” he murmured, his voice a low, tantalizing tease, “when you chose to critique my punctuation on that witness statement  - while we were busy on the coffee table. And, of course, it wasn’t even an error.”
You paused, holding his gaze with a look of feigned innocence, your hands slid slowly over his shoulders, fingers tracing the hard lines of his upper back as you leaned in closer. "I never said it was an error. I just suggested that a semicolon would’ve made that paragraph flow better." Your fingers danced closer to the waistband of his trousers, hinting at further provocations yet to come.
"And you expected a revision on the spot?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice a blend of amusement and disbelief. "You’re lucky that I was too distracted by other things." He adjusted your positioning slightly, sliding your hands from your waist to your hips, pulling you flush against him so that the closeness allowed you to feel the firm pressure of his arousal.
“Lucky?! Look, it’s not my fault that, in that position, all I could see were your terrible stylistic choices,” you breathed out, your voice a sultry whisper as you began to kiss along the side of his face, tracing a path from his forehead down to his ear. “They were staring me in the face, begging to be corrected.”
His response was a teasing smile, his eyes alight with mirth as he leaned in, his lips barely brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. “You could’ve told me, and we could’ve tried something else.”
“Oh, no chance,” you retorted boldly, your smile laden with mischief. “From now on, it’s sex on the coffee table or nothing .”
He smirked, starting to place wet kisses on your neck, letting sounds escape from you. "Alright, but don't start complaining about ink smudges on your blouse this time."
"There won’t be any smudges if you just took it off. There’s a reason undressing is the first rule in the manual, you know?" you raised an eyebrow as you guided his hand from your waist up to your breasts, earning an amused look from him as he began unbuttoning your blouse.
And, inevitably, the papers would crinkle beneath you both, completely forgotten, scattering in a mess neither of you cared about. The only certainty was that later you would need to reprint half of those, but that's exactly why you had invested in a printer for your home office in the first place.
And, inevitably, the papers would crinkle beneath you both, forgotten, replaced by the quiet, magnetic pull that seemed to dissolve every responsibility the moment you were alone together.
Then, there were the slower nights, the ones where words weren’t necessary. You’d find yourselves wrapped up in a blanket, his arm around you, your head resting on his chest as you listened to his heartbeat, each beat sounding more like home.
He loved to stroke your hair, twisting the strands between his fingers. He would trace the curve of your shoulder, his touch a promise that echoed in the walls of your empty house, all without needing to say a thing.
Until he would.
"I love you," he'd say, quiet but direct, because he knew how much words meant to you and always would. It didn’t matter if it was the twentieth time he said it that day, he would keep saying it, never once straying from his purpose.
"I love you too, Aaron," you'd reply smiling, looking up at him, watching the way his eyes softened. His hand would brush yours, fingers intertwining in that familiar dance that he always led to his mouth, kissing your hand while still intertwined with his.
When he caught you blushing, though, that’s when the real teasing would start. “Are you blushing?” he’d ask, eyes twinkling with amusement as he leaned in closer, his grin widening as he watched the flush spread down your neck.
“Maybe,” you’d huff, trying to look away, though he wouldn’t let you, his fingers lifting your chin so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.
“You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” he’d murmur, his voice a low rumble, making it impossible to resist smiling.
“Pretty sure you’re blushing too, Hotchner,” you’d shoot back, arching an eyebrow. And sure enough, a faint hint of pink would dust his cheeks, and he’d laugh, pulling you into another kiss.
“Guess we’re both fools, then,” he’d say, his voice softer, that rare smile reserved just for you.
You’d settle in for the night, curled up on the couch, your legs tangled together, his arms around you, holding you close. Sometimes you’d talk for hours, sharing stories, inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else but always made him laugh, that deep, genuine laugh that seemed to shake away every shadow he’d carried with him.
In the kitchen, he’d steal kisses over the stove as you cooked together, hands brushing as you reached for spices, your bodies leaning into each other in that rhythm you’d both grown to know so well. You’d nudge him with your hip as he tried to take over, insisting he was better at chopping vegetables. 
“Let me handle this,” you’d say, swatting his hand away, only for him to pull you into a kiss, completely derailing your focus. 
“Or maybe,” he’d murmur against your lips, “we could just order takeout and go back to the couch.” 
“Terrible influence,” you’d reply, but you’d never actually order takeout; you enjoyed doing tasks together way too much, even if it meant sometimes letting him cut the vegetables, letting him win - after all, it was in his nature.
Lawyers always do everything to win, skillfully bending the law to meet their needs - and Aaron, he'd willingly bend you over the counter. You weren't quite sure whether to be flattered by that, considering it meant you were his personal law.
Hours passed like that in a blur, lost in each other’s presence, the outside world never seemed to matter, it was just the two of you, existing in your own little bubble.
But that wasn’t something you allowed the team to see. It was an unspoken rule between you and Aaron - quiet and composed in public, free and true to yourselves in private.
And it had worked.
Or at least, you thought it had, until one day, the team decided they’d had enough - if you two weren’t going to let them see the real deal, they’d just have to… intervene.
It started innocently enough, with Garcia orchestrating what she dubbed a "team-building" exercise focused on open communication. The twinkle in her eye was your first hint that mischief was afoot.
Morgan delivered the coup de grâce with a wide, victorious grin, making a seemingly casual announcement that sent ripples of mischief across the cabin. "Oh no, looks like the lovebirds have to sit next to each other for the entire trip! Sorry, guys. Plane’s tight this time.”
Hotch, clearly not about to let the team’s evil plan play out in full while you all had to start briefing about the latest case, immediately shut down the smiles with a sharp, stern remark. “What, you think we’re going to cuddle on the way to a triple homicide?”
Honestly, every time he could command an entire room with that dry humor of his, you wanted to jump his bones.
You couldn’t help it, it got you every time. Your man was pure authority wrapped in a smart suit and perfectly timed jokes.
Despite what everyone might assume, Aaron was actually the kinder one in the relationship. While he had the sharp, lawyerly precision to cut things off before they became problems, always quick to resolve matters - you, on the other hand, were far worse.
You didn’t rush to fix things or settle for easy solutions.
No, your method was more intricate, more drawn out sometimes it required humiliation before you got to the point. You were a master of patience, allowing people to dig themselves into a hole first, letting them build their own assumptions, and only then would you pounce, proving them wrong in the most delightful way possible.
Being a philosopher at heart, you liked to draw things out, just to let people stew a little bit in their own misguided assumptions.
In these instances, your strategy was pure, calculated evil - a slow burn of sweet, sweet revenge that only you could orchestrate.
Morgan's comment, far from a mere joke, sparked something much more dangerous within you - the thrilling anticipation of proving to them that they really didn't want to know what you and Aaron were truly like behind your professional facades.
“If we're traveling real tight this time, I guess I’ll just have to sit on your lap, Aaron,” you quipped, batting your eyes innocently at him.
Hotch blinked, his usual composed demeanor faltering for a split second, clearly caught off guard by your bold move. You could already see the faintest flush creeping across his cheeks, a rare crack in his otherwise impenetrable exterior.
But then, a slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, the realization dawning on him that this was just the beginning of one of your devious plans.
He was, after all, your favorite partner in mischief. With a teasing glint in his eye, he patted his lap, a mock invitation and you wasted no time, making yourself comfortable on top of him.
The game was on.
“So,” you began, snuggling into him with exaggerated sweetness, “Hotch, you ever think about triple homicides?”
If you ever called him that in private, he’d probably have walked out on the spot, but here, in the middle of the case, using his work name felt like the only boundary left between you and the truth. It was the one little shield that kept the line between professionalism and the chaos of your relationship.
“All the time, Teach” Hotch murmured back, his voice low and humorously serious while his hand carelessly rested on your thigh, in its natural position.
Garcia, who ‘coincidentally’ happened to be traveling with you that day, shifted excitedly in her seat, mouthing "OTP" as she gave you both an enthusiastic thumbs-up, her delight in your theatrics clear as day.
Meanwhile, Reid looked on with wide eyes, his academic mind probably filing this under 'unexpected field observations’. "I... I think I should call my mom more often," he muttered, seemingly to himself but loud enough for others to hear. "I don’t think I show enough... affection."
Hotch’s fingers inched higher up your inner thigh at the mention of ‘affection,’ tracing patterns that almost made you question whether or not to intertwine your fingers with his to make him stop. You leaned in to whisper something cheeky into his ear, only for him to capture your lips with a swift kiss.
Now this, was unexpected.
His bold move even caught Rossi’s attention, who had been trying - and failing - to bury himself in paperwork, clearly uninterested in the team's antics. But Rossi had endured the deliciously excruciating tension between you and Hotch for far longer than anyone else. After all, there was a reason he still had that picture of you at his book release party in '99 hanging on his office wall - right in plain sight, as if to remind everyone who had been in on this secret for years, even before you two.
So you played it up even more, leaning in with a dramatic flair. "I love you," you declared, your voice slow and deliberate, gazing deeply into Hotch’s eyes. Every syllable was crisp and clear, you could practically hear the gears grinding in the team’s heads as they went into full overdrive, still scrambling to process what was happening.
"I love you more," Hotch replied, the soft chuckle accompanying his words causing a collective groan from around the cabin - yes, you two were cheesy, you and Hotch were far from the type to indulge in the most clichéd of romantic exchanges… probably because he already knew if you two ever started it, considering your competitiveness, it would have probably escalated into something so ungodly he didn’t even want to know.
"No, I love you more," you shot back, the stakes of your playful banter rising – you almost wanted to puke.
"Impossible," Hotch retorted, his lips curling slightly in that way that made your heart skip a beat. "Because I loved you first." you blinked in surprise, eyes widening just a little.
Now, that was new information.
But before you could fire back with another over-the-top retort, something in his gaze shifted, and in an instant, you found yourself pulled into a kiss, this one deeper, more intense, and completely unexpected.
The kiss was slow at first, drawing out the moment as his lips moved against yours with a deliberate slowness that made your pulse quicken, no room left for hesitation.
His hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, his grip tightened just enough to hold you in place, but it was gentle, as if savoring every second. His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer, until you could feel both of your shirts crumpling against each other.
The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into your mouth with urgent intensity, exploring and tasting, oblivious to the hum of the jet engine masking the sounds of your teammates' shocked reactions… and the click of Garcia’s phone camera.
His movements were fluid and confident, each touch perfectly synchronized with the growing heat between you. You met him with equal fervor, your lips and hands moving in sync, the kiss becoming more insistent, more desperate – it was this raw, unreserved passion that finally pushed Rossi to his breaking point.
“Alright we got it! You were right! Stop it, stop whatever this is. We won’t tease you about the PDA anymore, I swear," Rossi exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in dramatic surrender.
Thank you.
You and Hotch broke apart, the kiss lingering in the air as you wiped a smear of lipstick from his lips with a quick swipe of your thumb. Without missing a beat, you slid back into the seat next to him, immediately adopting your professional mask.
The sweet talk, the casual touches - all of it disappeared, as it should, leaving behind only the steely, composed agents the team was more accustomed to.
“Good,” you said coolly, taking the pen from your jacket pocket and clicking it with an exaggerated focus as you pretended to examine the case files.
It was as if the entire heated exchange had never occurred. Your calm demeanor was flawless, but inside, you couldn’t suppress the gleam of triumph in your eyes.
Oh, how you loved being right…
…Rossi, on the other hand, was still recovering from the emotional whiplash.
He shook his head with a rueful smile, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “If I ever see you two so much as glance at each other that way again, I’m quitting, for real” he muttered, his voice laced with mock seriousness.
Garcia, however, shot up in her seat, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “No, no! Ignore him! You guys, please, be as mushy as you want. It’s a safe space here! I want this. We all want this,” she insisted, her eyes wide with fervor as she shot Rossi a defiant look. “Come on, meet me in the middle, Dave! I’ll buy you bleach! A privacy curtain! I’ll even throw in a soundproof booth! Just let them be adorable in peace!”
Rossi, who had clearly reached his limit, held up a hand, shaking his head in resignation. “I’d rather have earplugs and a set of blinders.” His voice was full of mock defeat, though it was clear he couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Really, Dave? Blinders?" Morgan chuckled from the back, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “You’re not going to let them have a little fun? Come on, man. This is way better than watching you flirt with the coffee machine in the break room.”
At that, you and Hotch immediately turned your heads toward each other, exchanging a look that only the two of you could understand.
Oh, if only they knew the real story. If only they knew how much Rossi had a thing for that coffee machine...
… especially the one in the Section Chief’s office.
You and Hotch had both noticed it long ago.
It was impossible to miss, really.
Rossi’s eyes would soften whenever he found himself near that ‘coffee machine’, as if it held some magnetic pull. Or the way he would suddenly volunteer to deliver reports to the coffee machine’s office, even when it was Hotch’s responsibility.
It was so painfully obvious to you two - Rossi was absolutely smitten with that ‘coffee machine’.
But, of course, you weren’t going to spill that little nugget of gossip just yet. Not today, anyway.
Although Hotch’s dry humor kicked in, and he glanced over at Rossi. “It’s all in the Italian blend,” he said flatly, his voice as deadpan as ever. You squeezed Hotch’s hand tightly to suppress the burst of laughter that threatened to slip out – damn, how you hated how much he managed to let you crumble like that all the time.
Oh, how much you loved him.
Thankfully Reid came in to save the day “I’ll buy the earplugs, Dave,” he said in all seriousness, looking at Rossi like he was ready to place an order for industrial-sized ear protection. “And maybe a seat in the very back of the plane. For everyone's sanity.”
“Thanks, kid,” Rossi muttered with a sigh. “This is the last time I’m taking a flight with you two lovebirds.”
You exchanged a playful glance with Hotch, both of you struggling to keep straight faces. The rest of the team seemed caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement, clearly trying to hold it together, but clearly failing.
"You know, we really should've started this sooner," you mused aloud, crossing your arms and leaning back in your seat. "It’s such a great way to keep everyone in line."
Hotch's lips curled into a slight smirk, though his eyes stayed locked on the case files in front of him. "Next time, I'll save the theatrics for after the case. If we make it that far."
“Good call, as always, Unit Chief,” you replied, your voice playful, but just serious enough to leave them wondering if you were still messing with them or if something had changed.
And that’s when it happened - the first domino fell.
Hotch’s hand, now shifted from the table to rest on your knee.
The weight of his touch was different this time - it wasn’t calculated, nor was it part of the show you’d put on to mess with everyone - it was simply him, expressing something real.
For a moment, you froze, the air around you feeling suddenly charged with something more intimate than you’d allowed to settle between you at work. But as you looked at him, you saw that he wasn’t expecting you to respond theatrically, either.
His gaze was steady, his hand resting casually, without any of the usual distance he’d maintained before.
The shift was subtle, but it was there.
You let out a soft breath, your muscles relaxing for the first time all day as you allowed yourself to lean slightly into the touch. “Thanks,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but Hotch caught the meaning behind it. He squeezed your knee just slightly, a wordless acknowledgment that you were both on the same page.
Maybe it was time to stop being so stiff…
---
Stage two: Second, it is violently opposed.
…and so you did.
Over time, you allowed yourselves some liberties here and there — small gestures, quiet moments shared in the midst of the chaos of the job - only when no one was watching, of course.
You still made sure that the workplace environment remained as professional as possible, the last thing you wanted was for anyone to feel uncomfortable or for your relationship to ever be questioned.
But if there was one thing Aaron was particularly good at, it was finding loopholes.
He would argue, “It’s not a breach of the rule if the statement isn’t clear on that at all." And when the rules weren’t clear, he was quick to take advantage of it, slipping into those grey areas that never seemed to get any real clarification.
Lawyers.
The rule had applied to the workplace, yes, but it never specifically mentioned physical spaces - like the FBI parking lot, or the elevator. So more often than not, you and Aaron found yourselves “stretching” the limits there, enjoying those quiet moments away from the eyes of the team.
The elevator rides were your favorite…
There, it was just you two, no cameras, no one listening, and nothing to hold you back. Sometimes it was just a kiss, other times... well, you both liked to test just how far you could go before someone walked in.
But, as always, timing had a funny way of messing everything up. It seemed like every time you’d start kissing or your hands would wander just a little too much, someone would always show up.
And somehow, it was always Rossi.
No one else.
Just him.
It never failed.
He’d clear his throat loudly, or tease you both with that exasperated tone of his, as if he was constantly trying to escape what he couldn’t avoid. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense for catching you two in those exact moments, and no one else seemed to be quite as lucky - or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it.
At this point, Rossi had had enough of the cosmic joke that always seemed to land him in the middle of your most inconvenient, and often highly personal, moments.
His will was already written, and it came with a very clear clause: Only one of them is allowed at his funeral or grave at a time. Lovebirds policy only. He had his reasons, of course, he didn’t need to explain why he didn’t want to see that particular dynamic at his final resting place.
So, in his infinite wisdom - and desperation - Rossi scheduled a mandatory HR seminar.
“Dave, I don’t have to attend the seminar, I’m Unit Chief” Hotch told him one afternoon, looking as though he might be able to talk his way out of it.
“Oh no, you do,” Rossi shot back, practically pointing at Hotch like he was an unruly student. “You’re the very reason I called them in. You and your... antics.” He threw his hands up dramatically. "This has to stop."
You exchanged a look with Hotch, trying not to laugh at how utterly serious Rossi was about this whole thing. But as usual, Hotch wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. “We’re managing it well, Dave. We never cross professional boundaries when you’re around.”
Not exactly, it should have been ‘we never cross professional boundaries when we know you’re around’.
But he continued talking anyways, intense and relentless as usual “In fact, we don’t even sit next to each other on the jet anymore, especially after hearing someone mention how she falls asleep on my shoulder after cases and thought it was 'cute,' apparently,” he said, glancing at you with a playful look.
Rossi’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, don’t start with that," he grumbled. "I know you two are playing some kind of game with me. And don’t act like you’re the picture of professionalism, Aaron, just because you sit on opposite ends of the jet."
Hotch then took a deep breath, rolling into lawyer mode. His voice dropped lower, each word becoming more deliberate – it was time to pull out the big lexicon. “Furthermore, Dave, I find it rather hypocritical for you to bring up a matter like this, considering you’re the very reason these fraternization rules were implemented in the first place. For the record, we’ve been transparent. Strauss was informed as soon as we started dating. There’s no issue here.”
Rossi blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Hotch’s tone. He frowned, a bit of surprise flashing across his face. “Did she teach you the word ‘hypocritical’?” he quipped, looking at Hotch with a knowing smirk.
Hotch, taken slightly off guard by Rossi’s jab, blushed a little - his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. He wasn’t usually one for showing any signs of fluster, especially in front of his team.
The HR seminar had barely begun, but you were already feeling your patience thin.
Everyone had been summoned to the bullpen, begrudgingly forced to sit through a mandatory lecture on fraternization and professional conduct.
Rossi, in all his glory, had managed to schedule the whole thing thinking that a lecture about fraternization and workplace boundaries would somehow curb the “antics” he thought were getting out of hand.
But what he definitely didn’t anticipate was the sheer chaos that would follow.
The HR representative - Carmen, an overly cheerful woman in her late forties with a name tag that read "Carmen" - stood at the front, facing the group with a bright, forced smile that didn’t quite match the tension hanging in the room. She seemed oblivious to the undercurrent of discomfort flowing through the team.
“Today, we’re going to talk about how to maintain professionalism in the workplace,” she began, clicking through slides on the projector. “Specifically, we’ll be discussing fraternization, boundaries, and how to handle uncomfortable situations when they arise.”
You exchanged a quick glance with Hotch.
This was going to be painful.
Carmen continued, oblivious to the growing tension, moving to the next slide. “So, let’s start with a simple question. What should you do if you ever feel harassed or like professional boundaries are being crossed?”
“Do you ever feel like there’s a couple who barely show any emotion beyond stoicism but make it a point to talk about…”
You blinked.
Stoicism?
Did she even understand what that word meant? It wasn’t just about hiding emotions or being composed. It was a whole philosophy, a way of understanding life and how to deal with adversity. And yet here she was, using it as some sort of generic descriptor for a couple that was, apparently, too controlled, while also being embarrassingly not controlled enough in their personal moments.
You could almost hear her thoughts: “Stoicism” sounds intellectual, let’s use that to make things sound deep and professional. But she was so off the mark, you almost couldn’t bear it.
Carmen paused, her finger hovering over the remote.
She clicked the button again with the kind of confidence that suggested she had absolutely no idea what the word stoicism even meant. In fact, as you sat there, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in the room, you found yourself profiling Carmen.
You were pretty sure she had just Googled the term moments before this presentation, probably during the coffee break, her face lighting up when she stumbled across something that sounded smart enough to say in front of the group.
The way she adjusted her glasses after every click, the small, almost nervous laugh she gave when she spoke a little too loudly, and how she constantly tugged at her sleeves like she was just a little too eager to prove she was in charge - she was someone who tried hard to project authority but clearly lacked a deeper understanding of the material she was presenting.
Her behavior hinted at a kind of surface-level preparedness, just enough to get through the presentation without anyone questioning her qualifications. She was the kind of person who relied on buzzwords to sound impressive…
The entire room went dead silent, but Carmen, continued without skipping a beat. "Next, we’ll look at how professional boundaries really can be blurred in the workplace..."
“Stop shaving, your beard makes me want to schedule sick leave for the both of us.”
That hit you quite hard. Damn… you still remembered how you didn’t let Aaron get out of the bed for two whole days when he grew one of those himself.
Your weakness... how the way it highlighted the lineaments of his face, casting shadows like something painted by Caravaggio himself, was irresistible.
Not to mention the heavenly way it felt against your skin… oh you were so feral… you had never had so much sex in your life like you did in those two days…
Your mind wandered back to those moments, the soft temptation to bribe him into growing it back.
“Your lectures make me want to…”
Lectures? Very oddly specific.
“My son wants a sibling.”
You blinked, trying to wrap your mind around it, but then the realization hit you. Fun, the agents in that room who had a child could be counted on your fingers, so the words felt oddly out of place. But still, you couldn’t quite grasp why they felt so familiar.
And just like that, it hit you - 32 languages, three PhDs, and years of teaching... all now reduced to the deductive powers of a ladybug.
You hadn’t realized it until now - probably because you were still thirsting over the memories of your hot man with his hot beard - but those weren’t just any words.
Those were your words.
Your conversations.
The moments you and Hotch thought were just whispered between the two of you, moments you thought no one heard. And there they were, broadcast on the screen for the entire team to see.
A chill ran down your spine as the final line appeared.
“Stop quoting Hagel or we might have to leave to take something we left back in...”
The moment those words appeared on the screen, you felt something snap inside you. The misspelling of Hegel - with an A instead of an E - was a personal betrayal.
Your mind immediately spiraled, fixating on the glaring error. How could they get something so fundamental so wrong?
To have something so simple and fundamental, so easily identifiable, mangled like this felt like an insult. Your whole body stiffened in protest, and your jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
You could feel the weight of your teammates’ stares burning into you, but it barely registered.
It wasn’t much their reaction to the personal details of your relationship with Hotch that had you worked up - it was the glaring inaccuracy before you.
The universe had somehow decided that this moment wasn’t going to be about the privacy that had been stripped away from you, but about this mistake - a simple, careless error that was now at the center of your fury.
You couldn’t think about how embarrassing it was to be outed like this. Your brain couldn’t process any of it, it shielded itself consuming by the fact that someone had managed to butcher the name of one of the greatest philosophers of all time.
Prentiss leaned forward slightly, her brows raised in surprise, but her reaction was drowned out by your growing irritation. JJ, trying to keep it together, looked over with wide eyes, an unmistakable flicker of realization dawning on her face. Reid’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and confusion, as if he were trying to piece the scene together in his usual analytical way.
Then there was Morgan, letting out a low whistle, clearly amused by the sudden turn of events. But it was Garcia, sweet, innocent Garcia, who was practically glowing with excitement, a huge grin spreading across her face as though she had just won some grand prize. Her eyes sparkled with giddiness, clearly delighted by the personal details she’d just uncovered.
The entire team had turned toward you now, their attention fully on you and Hotch, clearly not expecting the turn of events.
And it was embarrassing.
But still, despite everything - the exposure, the teasing, the whispers of your relationship that had never meant to be public - it was the misspelling of Hegel that was making your blood boil.
Every fiber of your being screamed to correct it, to stand up and storm to the front and take the projector down, fix it, fix everything.
But before you could even move, Hotch must have felt the shift in your energy. His hand, almost instinctively, moved to rest on your knee. His thumb rubbed gently in small circles, a calming touch, grounding you.
“Y/N, stop,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent, sending a shiver down your spine.
You could feel his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in closer, the subtle press of his body against yours grounding you, even if everything else felt like it was spiraling out of control. “Stop before you point out they misspelled Hegel and make a lecture out of it, or we might have to leave to take something we left back in the car.”
It was a mix of teasing and flirtation, the very phrase the HR rep had just banned from its existence. And damn it, it was working. The fire in his eyes pulled you in so completely, you almost forgot where you were, who was watching, or why you were so angry in the first place.
You wanted to stay mad, to stand up and correct the error, but the way he was looking at you made it hard to hold onto anything except the electricity that was building between you. The rest of the world faded into the background.
But of course, Rossi - ever the opportunist - had been listening intently. He leaned in, catching your words before they even left your mouth. “She just finished saying that,” he muttered, a smug look crossing his face as he caught your eye.
You shot him a glare that could have frozen him in his tracks, but it only seemed to fuel his teasing. “Please, Rossi," you said through gritted teeth, your voice low and dangerous. "Next time, forget to plug in your hearing device so you can stop listening to things you don’t want to hear. Or, better yet, don’t make me tell you the very reason you’re hypocritical in the first place."
Rossi’s smile widened, obviously enjoying your frustration. "Hypocritical?" he repeated, his tone dripping with mock curiosity. “Maybe you should teach me more of those big words.” He was goading you, trying to get under your skin.
Hotch, sensing the escalation, placed a hand on your shoulder, his voice smooth and controlled as he stepped in to defuse the situation. "You're welcome to take your concerns about our so-called 'unprofessional conduct' crossing boundaries directly to the Section Chief, Dave," he said, his gaze never leaving the screen as he remained calm. "But mind you, you have no proof."
Still, you couldn’t help it.
The frustration and tension of the whole situation - everything that had been building up - finally boiled over, and you couldn't hold it in anymore. "And on that subject, Rossi," you began, your voice firm, steady, and dripping with challenge, "don’t you regularly cross those unprofessional boundaries yourself?"
The room went dead silent.
You could feel Hotch’s eyes on you, and when you glanced at him, you saw the exact same understanding in his gaze. You both knew exactly what was about to happen. The words had already left your lips, and now Rossi was about to learn just how much the two of you had been paying attention to his “subtle” behavior.
Hotch, the perfect picture of calm, added with the slightest tilt of his head and a mischievous glint in his eye, “We noticed that you and…”
Rossi, visibly caught off guard, stumbled over his words, “Why did I even open my mouth? I knew this was gonna make everything worse… porca puttana,” he grumbled, rubbing his face in frustration.
Carmen, completely oblivious to the escalating tension, continued with the presentation as if nothing was happening.
But you weren’t going to let it go that easily.
You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Rossi with a smug grin playing at the corners of your lips. “You know, Dave,” you said, your voice light but dripping with satisfaction, “this lecture has been very informative. But maybe next time, you should make sure to include a few slides on how to keep your own relationships under wraps. Might help you avoid the hypocrisy.”
Rossi’s face flushed as he shot you a glare, but you could tell that, for once, he was caught completely off guard. “Oh yeah? Well, why don’t you join me and Erin for dinner tonight then? It’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” He threw back, but you could hear the hesitation in his voice as he scrambled to regain control of the situation.
You leaned over to Hotch, lowering your voice just enough so only he could hear. “Aaron, I swear if I see them even touching hands, I’m going to puke.”
Hotch gave you a deadpan look, trying to suppress a grin. “I feel you, but…” His tone dropped into a mock-dramatic whisper. “What if we crank up the unprofessional behavior right in front of them? Scare them off a little?”
You raised an eyebrow. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Hotch looked like he was seriously considering it. “That could either work like a charm, or - let’s be honest - knowing Rossi, they’ll just double down and serve us a taste of our own medicine. And sure, we love a good challenge, but…” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering even more. “Do we really want to go there?”
You smiled to yourself, already picturing it in your mind. “Oh no, I can already picture it.”
Hotch sighed dramatically, as if considering his options. “We could leave earlier with the excuse we need to work on paperwork...” he trailed off, giving you a look.
You smirked. “‘Paperwork,’” you said, making air quotes with your fingers, knowing exactly where this conversation was going. “Our paperwork?!”
Hotch and you both knew exactly what the other was thinking.
Hotch’s smirk turned a little more serious, and he leaned in slightly. “You know, we could always go all out. Maybe I could place my hand on your shoulder every now and then. Keep them guessing.”
You gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, I love you, but I fear that would be too scandalous.”
Hotch’s smirk widened as he leaned back a little, but the glint in his eyes didn’t fade. “Well, then I’ll settle for resting my hand on your knee. Once. For three and a half seconds.”
Your eyes flickered with amusement, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Wow, last time you only allowed yourself three,” you teased, knowing he had a habit of pushing boundaries, but always so carefully… you were an old Victorian couple with people you knew from the job afterall.
“I know, I’m practicing more self-control,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm but still looking at you in a way that made you forget you were attending a seminar about this specific behaviour.
You leaned a little closer, watching him intently, enjoying the banter more than you cared to admit. “You’re so hot when you’re so unprofessional," you whispered, the words dripping with playful intent. "Almost makes me want to kiss you on the cheek.”
Hotch’s expression never wavered, but the amusement in his eyes was undeniable. "So unprofessional..." he murmured under his breath, his voice tinged with humor but also something deeper, something more familiar with the man you knew in the safe walls of your house.
You didn’t need to be obvious to make things very clear. It was all in the subtlety, the small gestures, the private moments that only you and Hotch understood.
And as you both settled back into your seats, you couldn’t help but grin to yourself. It was going to be a long seminar, but at least it was going to be entertaining.
---
Stage three: Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.
After an evening of forced pleasantries with Rossi and Strauss, the two of you were finally free.
Walking into Aaron’s apartment, you let out a long sigh of relief, kicking off your shoes and feeling the weight of the night slip off your shoulders. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Aaron turned to you with that familiar smirk - the one you’d missed to helplessly melt into all day long.
As if there had been no build-up, no tension at all, you found yourself pressed up against the door, his lips crashing against yours the second you crossed the threshold. The kiss was hungry, urgent, like both of you had been holding your breath all evening and could finally release it now that you were alone.
His hands moved instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer as your bodies melted into each other, until there was no room left between you two.
When you pulled away, breathless but grinning, you teased, “You know, after all that drama with Rossi and Strauss, I’m exhausted. Think I could spend the night here?”
“Well, I do have a guest room…”  Aaron raised an eyebrow, letting the words hang in the air, as if he was seriously considering it.
You narrowed your eyes, taking a small step back but keeping the playful smirk on your face. “Guest room? That’s so nice of you, love” you said, folding your arms. “But I was thinking maybe I could sleep in your bed you know, just for the night. It’s so cold here. I mean, really cold. We wouldn’t want me freezing to death, would we?”
Aaron's lips curled into a mischievous grin as he stepped closer, his gaze playful. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said casually, his voice smooth. “It was all part of my plan,” he added with a glint in his eye. “That’s why I’ve kept all the windows open.”
He paused dramatically, his hands slipping around yourhips, pulling you closer. “Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable, would I? Now, you’re basically obliged for cuddles.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head at him, already feeling the heat between you two. “Oh, you’re so devious,” you teased, leaning in to kiss him again, this time slower, with just enough space between your lips to let his tongue slide in.
“You know you don’t have to plan so much for us to sleep together. I thought that was a given by now, cuddles included... maybe even something more. Who knows?” You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the playful challenge lingering in the air.
Aaron chuckled against your lips, deepening the kiss with just as much passion, his hands sliding up to your shoulders, gently but firmly pushing you back against the wall.
For a moment, you both paused, breathless, eyes locked in shared understanding before you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “So, how exactly do you manage to get to the office first every morning?” you asked, your smirk widening as the question hung in the air, taunting him.
Aaron’s smile deepened, a mixture of wry humor and something much more tempting in his gaze. He leaned in, lips brushing against your ear, his voice low and playful. “I love you,” he said softly, almost tenderly, before pulling back to meet your eyes. “But not a chance.”
You gasped in mock outrage, your hands finding his chest as you pushed yourself off the wall, trying to distance yourself a little. “Come on, no fair. You’ve been so open tonight with all your little secrets,” you teased, making air quotes. “Now you won’t share this one?”
Before you could move away, Aaron caught you effortlessly, pulling you back into his embrace. His strong arms wrapped around you, sending your heart racing. His lips grazed your ear again, his voice hushed and playful as he whispered, “I’ll tell you in 83 days,” his tone dripping with mock seriousness.
You froze, eyes widening in surprise.
The playful smile slipped from your face, and the warmth from his embrace spread through you, despite the coldness of the apartment.
You blinked, the realization hitting you all at once.
The bet you two had made years ago - the one where if he beat you to the office for 1,000 days, he’d have to propose - flashed through your mind. And now, he was casually dropping 83 days like it was just another countdown.
“Come on, don’t pretend you’re shocked,” Aaron said, his voice softening with affection. He leaned in closer, brushing his lips lightly against yours. “You knew this was coming, if you keep failing… this is your last chance to beat me.”
His lips captured yours in another soft kiss, and you could feel the unspoken weight behind his words. “Unless you really want to spend the rest of your life with me.”
Your breath caught, and the sudden heat flooded your cheeks, turning them a deep shade of red. You couldn’t help but melt into him, the gravity of his words settling in, even as you clung to the teasing spark that still flickered between you.
“You still have to find out my answer,” you teased, raising an eyebrow, your voice light but full of challenge. “You know, just to keep you on your toes. It’s not all settled yet… and who knows, maybe you won’t even ever know it. I’ve still got 83 days to beat you.”
Aaron shot you a pointed look, the corners of his lips curling into a smile. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. “I wouldn’t be so confident, considering your terrible track record,” he said, his voice rich with teasing. Without giving you a chance to respond, he kissed you again - harder this time - his lips claiming yours with a passionate force that spoke of promises yet to be fulfilled.
You melted into the kiss, every nerve in your body aware of just how close you were, how real everything felt. When the kiss finally broke, your hand remained lightly against his chest, still feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. “Haven’t you learned yet that you should never underestimate me, Hotchner?”
Aaron chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your ears as he leaned down to kiss the top of your head. “This is the only thing I allow myself to underestimate you on,” he teased, pulling back with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’re terrible at it. Even worse than your shooting skills.”
You raised an eyebrow, still smirking, a playful spark lighting up your eyes. “Oh, now you’re exaggerating,” you said, poking his chest lightly with your finger.
“It’s not like if I can’t beat you at something, I’m mathematically bad at it. And also, really? You expect me to outdo a sniper?” You tilted your head, teasing him about his former SWAT team background.
“Absolutely,” Aaron replied, his grin widening. “You still have to keep up with me on long-distance shots, and don’t even think about blaming it on your blurry vision.”
He gave you a pointed look, then leaned in slightly, his voice low and playful. “I still love you, of course, even if you might need a little more training from the ‘sniper’.” He winked at you, that familiar, mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
You laughed softly, shaking your head, but the idea seemed to settle in your mind. “You know,” you said casually, leaning against the counter with a thoughtful look on your face, “I just realized something. If I married you, we’d have two Agent Hotchners on the team.”
Aaron’s eyes twinkled with amusement, but there was a hint of something deeper in his gaze. He leaned down slightly, getting closer as if he were about to tell you a secret. “Oh, so you’re considering it?” he teased, the playful tone only slightly covering the vulnerability that was starting to show through.
You leaned in a little closer, your voice soft and teasing as you whispered, “Well, we’ve still got 83 days to figure it out, don’t we?” You let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, with a sly grin, “Unless, of course, you want to start planning now.”
Aaron’s smirk softened, a chuckle escaping him as his arms tightened around you just a little more, pulling you in closer. “Oh no,” he said, his voice low, full of mischief. “I still need to do everything in my power to make sure you’re the one to lose the most important bet of your life.”
You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your gaze. “Getting a little cocky, aren’t we?” you teased, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Just because you think you’ve got me cornered in this bet doesn’t mean you’ve won yet.”
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering as he leaned in a little closer. “Maybe I just wanted to make sure I’m doing things right,” he said, voice low and teasing. “For example… I wanted to check if sapphire was still your favorite stone,” he added, his grin widening. “You know, just in case I need to upgrade the plan.”
The question caught you off guard. You blinked at him, your heart skipping a beat as the realization hit you. “What?” you stammered, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Shut up, Aaron,” you said, your voice a little shaky as you tried to recover from the surprise. “You’re ridiculous.” You tried to pull away, but his arms were still around you, pulling you closer, his grin widening at your reaction.
Aaron laughed softly, his thumb brushing your cheek, the teasing light in his eyes evident. “I swear, you’re so easy to fluster,” he teased, his voice low but affectionate. “You’re blushing, and I haven’t even asked you yet.”
You couldn’t stop the blush from deepening, your face now a full shade of red. You crossed your arms over your chest, looking away in embarrassment, but it was too late, he’d already noticed. “You’re going to be the death of me,” you muttered, feeling the heat in your cheeks spread.
Aaron reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you were forced to meet his gaze. His voice dropped to a quiet, serious tone, though the warmth still lingered. “Til death do us part, right?” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“Don’t make me cry,” you whispered, the teasing edge to your voice slipping away. The laughter, the playful teasing, they all seemed distant now.
Aaron’s gaze softened, his thumb gently caressing your jawline as he studied you, he didn’t say anything at first, letting the silence stretch between you. His hand lingered on your chin for a moment longer before he slowly, carefully, let it fall to your waist, his touch grounding you.
His voice, when he spoke, was quieter, more intimate. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said softly. “But if I do, I hope it’s because I’ve made you happy, not because I’ve made you doubt what we have.”
You swallowed, the words tugging at something deep inside you. It was the way he spoke to you, like he meant every syllable, that made your heart swell, and for a brief moment, you almost wished you could freeze time and just stay in that moment, locked in his arms, no words left to be said.
You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling a little, despite the overwhelming feeling in your chest. “Well, you’ve already got me feeling all kinds of things,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood again, even as your voice wavered just slightly. “But I think you’re safe for now.”
Aaron chuckled softly, his hand gently brushing down your arm, a reassuring gesture that made you feel grounded. “I don’t want to just be safe, though,” he murmured, his eyes dark with something a little more serious. “I want to be the one who makes you feel like you’ve found home, even when the world is too much.”
Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest, causing your heart to flutter in a way you couldn’t quite put into words, no matter how many languages you spoke.
There was something about Aaron - his warmth, his steady presence, his certainty - that made it so easy to get lost in him. You didn’t know what the future held, but with him by your side, the world seemed less daunting, less frightening.
“Then maybe you’ve already won,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. The walls you’d so carefully built around your vulnerability came crashing down, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the full force of it. “Maybe you’ve already made me feel at home, windows open or not.”
Aaron’s lips brushed gently against your forehead in a soft kiss, his arms tightening around you in a way that made you feel completely safe. “Then I’ll keep doing it,” he murmured against your skin, his words a promise, a vow, and a reassurance all in one. “Every single day.”
"In love, one and one are one." Jean-Paul Sartre
---
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ang3lofdivinity · 7 days ago
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𓏲๋࣭ 𝖲𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖸𝗈𝗎🫧˖°
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Relationship(s) :: Jinx + Calypso(slightly yandere)!Fem!Reader (romantic)
Genre :: Fluff! And LOTS, LOTTTSSS of angst.
Format :: Oneshot / story
Warnings :: spoilers for season 2 of Arcane, even more trauma than last time!!, death mentions, READER IS NOT CALYPSO - takes her place essentially, Reader leans towards being more yandere (possessive and obsessive over Jinx), Jinx still has some remaining feelings for Ekko, but eventually gives up once again, heavily inspired by Jorge’s “Love In Paradise” + “Not Sorry For Loving You”, Reader is not toxic like Calypso in either of those songs! A bunch of time skips for a few, VERY LONG (I had to split this up into another part dude..), slight imitation to SH? Nothing explicitly stated
A/N :: AAA I actually am very surprised that “Stuck In Paradise” (be sure to read it first! None of this will really make any sense if you don’t read the first part of this!) kinda blew up! + all of the nice comments. TYSM GUYS FOR YOUR SUPPORT, GENUINELY. (I saw 1.9% of you say no btw 🤨). I hope this lives up to your expectations!! (W.C: 10.6k)
Ⅰ - Ⅱ - Ⅲ
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The days and weeks slipped by in a surreal, dreamlike rhythm for Jinx and you, as if time itself had softened around the edges. Life had never felt this way before; unpredictable yet strangely comforting. You had long resigned yourself to solitude, believing you’d never see another human face again. The gods would probably be tired of seeing so many arrive on your island by pure coincidence and then immediately leaving once they had the chance to. They might as well have put another spell on your island so that nobody else would’ve been able to end up here.
Isolation had become your norm. Your reality.
And then Jinx arrived, shattering that reality you’d become so used to.
She was different. The others who had stumbled upon this forsaken island before her had always left the moment they had gotten the opportunity by the gods themselves, abandoning you to your endless exile. They were fleeting, shadows passing through your life and leaving you to rot.
With one of those sailors? You’d once gotten so attached. Too attached
And then they left you…
Everyone who ever appeared on this island - besides yourself - disappeared within a few weeks.
But Jinx?
She stayed.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you had someone who cared for you.
Even in the loneliness of this place, you weren’t truly alone anymore.
Over time, the two of you began to grow closer, spending hours together in quiet conversation or companionable silence. You were drawn to her sharp edges and fragile strength, and she—though unaccustomed to such things—found herself drawn to your unwavering care. Jinx wasn’t used to safety or protection. The idea of someone looking out for her was.. odd, almost unsettling.
But with you? She was beginning to understand what it felt like to be safe, to not have to look over her shoulder at every corner she turned due to the hostility of those living within the Undercity.
And for you, her presence was a revelation. You loved the sound of her voice, the unexpected humor that flickered through her words during such moments, and the way she slowly let down her guard. There was something healing in her company, something that made the world feel just a little less broken.
For now, the gods seemed to have turned their attention elsewhere, leaving you both in a rare state of peace. This was especially important to you, given the fact you would now be able to relax without their constant nagging or their interferences annoying you, you were free to simply be—to sit together by the fire, to explore the island, to share the small joys of this strange life you’d come to know.
You couldn’t say what the future held, but for now, you had each other.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
.
"Pixie, you're doing it wrong," you said, trying to stifle your giggles as Jinx dangled a net precariously over the water.. and herself.
As for what you both were doing? Well, trying to catch fish! You wanted to create a meal with them eventually, but realized you had begun to run out. So, you told Jinx you were going to be out for a while and collect some fish - to which she ecstatically mentioned she wanted to come with you and try to catch some fish herself.
And how could you say no?
So, you let her tag along.
"What do you mean wrong??" Jinx shot back, mock offense dripping from her tone. She wobbled slightly, balancing on the rocks near the ocean. It's painfully clear that she never has done anything like this before in her life.
“You throw the net in, you pull it out. Boom, fish!”
You rolled your eyes, folding your arms across your chest
"Except the part where the fish actually stay in the net? You know, the most important part?”
"That's an unimportant detail,” Jinx muttered, grinning.
“Hey, wanna see something cool I can do?!” With a sudden movement, she swung the net dramatically, trying to make some sort of cool entertainment for you (something that seemed like an attempt at a handstand)!- ...only for the net to snag on a rock behind her. The momentum of the action sent her sprawling backwards into the shallow water with a loud splash, causing some of the sand and most of the rocks to become wet.
You immediately gasped at the sight, filled with worry as your first thoughts were filled with those of ‘is she okay!?’ ‘Is she hurt!?’.
Then, she sat up from where she’d fallen, net surrounding her within the water as she spat out a bunch of water - almost like that of a waterfall.
This made your concern dissolve into laughter.
“Oh, gods! Jinx, are you okay?" You managed to speak between fits of laughter, rushing closer to where the bluette fell.
Sitting up in the water, Jinx blinked, hair plastered to her face as she turned to look up at you.
"I'm just testing the water quality, obviously." She muttered, clearly salty about her failed trick. And you giggled a bit more about the entire ordeal before finally regaining your composure and clearing your throat.
You extended a hand to help her up, but it seems like Jinx had some other plans in mind for you!
With a mischievous grin, she yanked you into the water beside her.
"AA!! JINXX!" You squealed as the cold water soaked your clothes as you were splashed from the impact. You sat up, moving some hair out of your face before you quickly splashed Jinx in retaliation with a giggle, to which she happily returned with a splash towards you of her own.
By the end of the "fishing trip," you had caught exactly zero fish but had tears of laughter streaming down both of your faces.
You really should take her with you more to catch fish. Though, maybe focus more on the task?..
Nevertheless, you both eventually got out of the water, completely drenched from head to toe. But neither of you minded, given the stupid smiles plastered on both of your faces.
“I’ll let you take a bath first. I’ll take care of your clothes.” You gently patted the damp hair atop Jinx’s head, to which she playfully scoffed at.
You didn’t even notice before - but her hair had grown a bit from the first time you’d met her, her electric blue hair now reaching the base of her neck.
“You want me to cut your hair soon?” You inquired on the walk back with her, dragging the net alongside you as she nodded, grinning ever so slightly. And for the rest of the walk back to the palace, you both let the comforting silence linger between the two of you.
The two of you should do this more often..
After returning from the fishing trip and ensuring Jinx was settled for her bath, you take her wet clothes along with your own upon changing into a robe to clean them so they are clean for the next morning while grabbing some of your own clean clothes: a pair for her and a pair for you.
Returning back to the parlor, you begin to fold up a clean set of your own clothes for her to wear, and as you do so - the memories of the evening bring a smile to your face. Jinx’s laughter, her grin, and the way she seemed so carefree during the trip.. it’s rare to see her like that.
You set the clothes you had grabbed for her on a small table outside the bathroom with a light knock on the door before retreating to the kitchen to give her privacy.
By the time Jinx emerges and finds you returning to the parlor, her damp hair towel-dried and her face flushed from the warm bath, you’re preparing your own turn to clean yourself off. She’s wearing your clothes that you prepped outside (which is similar to that of what you gave her when she first arrived here): an oversized shirt and some loose, comfortable shorts, looking surprisingly at ease despite the borrowed attire.
“These are comfy,” she says, tugging at the fabric with a grin.
“Though. I’m still the one with style.” She proudly proclaims, hands on her hips.
You laugh at her comment before turning on your heel to look at her.
“Right, because soaking wet and covered in sand is the pinnacle of fashion?”
Jinx sticks her tongue out at you in response before speaking up again.
“Says the one who’ll be looking like a prune after a bath!” She flops dramatically onto the couch, draping herself across it.
“You better hurry up, Trinket. The night’s still young, and I’m not done hanging out with you yet.”
You giggle at her words for a moment before you slip away for your own bath, the warmth of the water washing away the chill of the evening and the lingering bits of sand stuck to your skin.
As you take your time, massaging the shampoo into your scalp, rubbing the conditioner in your hair - you find your thoughts drifting to Jinx—her laugh, her little playful banter with you, the way she seems so at home with you despite how chaotic she usually acts around you. It’s oddly refreshing to see her in such a state.
Eventually, you finish cleaning yourself, draining the water from your bath and drying yourself upon getting out of the tub. You take your time to brush out your damp hair, change into the fresh clothes you had gotten for yourself, making sure you look at least decent before placing your robe on a small rack for later use.
Then, you return to the parlor, just to find Jinx sprawled across the couch, idly tinkering with some small gadget she must’ve grabbed from her stash.
The moment she sees you she perks up, fixing her position on the couch.
“Took you long enough!” she teased you, patting the spot next to her.
“C’mon, sit down. I’m not gonna bite!”
“..much.” You roll your eyes at her comment but take the seat right next to her.
The quiet hum of the room settling over you both. The late-night air is cool, and the faint sounds of the trees slightly swaying from side to side to the gentle breeze is a comforting sound you’d long gotten accustomed to listening for.
And when you least expect it (given she’s never done anything like this before) — Jinx leans her head against your shoulder.
“So,” she says after a moment, her voice softer now.
“Today was fun. Stupid, messy, and fishless, but fun.”
You smile as a small giggle leaves your mouth, resting your head lightly against hers.
“Yeah, it was. We should do it again sometime.”
“Definitely,” she murmurs, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm. (You cannot deny the heat warming your cheeks, and the way your heart skips a beat).
“But next time, I’m catching something. I’m not letting those fish laugh at me again.” You chuckle softly at her little comment before closing your eyes as the two of you sit in comfortable silence.
The night stretches on, peaceful and easy, as if the world outside doesn’t exist for a little while.
Right now?
It’s just you and Jinx.
Though you’ll have to rest shortly, you can take some time to simply relax with the person you care most about.
Jinx was utterly spent.
The day had been physically demanding, given from the few inventions she had begun in the morning, to helping you clean around the palace, to the fishing trip outside.
But even with all of the exhaustion.. it was still strangely peaceful.
For a fleeting moment, she almost forgot about the chaos and pain of her past.
Almost.
When she returned to her room, she slumped onto the bed without much thought. Her eyelids felt heavy, but sleep was a complicated thing for her.
The echoes of past memories, the ones she’d never fully escaped, and even the simple fact that she barely ever even got sleep when she was working under Silco or him.
Those memories always lingered just on the edge of her consciousness. It was always hard to tell if they’d leave her be or drag her into nightmares.
Tonight, though, her body gave in quicker than her mind could protest. She drifted off in an awkward position: one arm dangling off the bed, legs tangled together, and her head tilted at an angle that would definitely give her a sore neck in the morning.
However.. you were there, no?
You slowly peeked into Jinx’s room.
You hesitated in the doorway, biting your bottom lip, debating with yourself whether you should go in. It’s invasive and incredibly weird— but.. you just need to make sure she’s safe. Your heart raced as it always did when you checked on Jinx, a habit you’ve grown.
You’ve gotten too attached to the bluette to allow anything horrible to happen to her, so you’ve made it a routine to check in on her every so often. Most times after she had fallen asleep. On those nights where she hadn’t rested still for whatever reason, you made your nighttime visits clear to her as you just worried about her well being.
Of course you never told her you did it every night, you simply told her it was because you could clearly hear her being restless - which thankfully convinced her.
You felt bad about lying to her.. but it felt weird enough that you were doing this.
Stepping inside, you made sure your footsteps were gentle and quiet so as to not alarm Jinx. The soft glow of moonlight spilling in from the window illuminating Jinx’s peaceful but slightly uncomfortable looking form.
Seeing the bluette sprawled out, you couldn’t help but let a soft chuckle escape past your lips.
How does she even manage to sleep like that?
Finally making your way over to the side of the bed, you knelt beside the bed, carefully lifting Jinx’s arm and tucking it back onto the mattress. You also adjusted Jinx’s legs so they were more relaxed and less twisted.
Of course—not in a violating or weird way, as uncouth as these actions might seem. You’re doing it to make her comfortable! Not to be a creep!
And finally, you slowly pulled the extra blanket over Jinx.
The entire time, your heart swelled with an overwhelming tenderness upon seeing the sight. Seeing the chaotic woman you’d grown so fond of finally relaxed and asleep.
Though once Jinx was tucked in, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave immediately.
So, you lingered at the edge of the bed, your eyes tracing the lines of Jinx’s face. The bluette looked so peaceful in sleep, so vulnerable and far removed from the sharp edges and guarded demeanor she carried when awake, especially when she’d first arrived here on Ogygia. She seemed so harsh, so on guard twenty-four seven!
But could you blame her? Of course not.
Nearly everyone who came before her was exactly the same.
Though just as you had begun thinking of a multitude of other things — there’s something that got you out of your thoughts: upon closer inspection, Jinx had a stray piece of hair covering her face in a rather.. odd way. It was almost going into her mouth.
You hesitated before leaning closer, your fingers trembling as you brushed the stray piece of hair behind her ear and away from Jinx’s face.
However, as you did so - the bluette shifted slightly.
Oh gods, was she going to wake up!? Was she going to see you here acting like some sort of stalker!?
Your breath hitched, adrenaline coursing through you until —
..she didn’t wake.
You let out a relieved sigh upon figuring out she was simply stirring within her sleep, your fingers lingering near Jinx’s cheek for just a moment longer than necessary.
Then before you finally decided to leave, you whispered softly, almost too quiet to be heard, even by yourself.
“I won’t let anything happen to you… I promise.”
Finally, you stood, your eyes lingering on Jinx one last time before you turned and slipped out of the room.
You closed the door silently behind you and pressed your back against it, exhaling deeply.
Your heart was pounding, but there was a strange, bittersweet comfort in this late night ritual of yours.
You knew you were becoming too attached to her. You knew this wasn’t entirely normal. But at the same time, you couldn’t stop yourself. Jinx had become her whole world—and you were terrified of losing that world of yours once again.
You wouldn’t let that happen.
..
"I’m telling you, this is gonna be the best sandcastle," Jinx declared, crouching down low to pat a misshapen lump of sand into shape once more, grinning with delight at her creation.
You, seated a few feet away and meticulously crafting spires and arches, glanced over at Jinx’s work. You had to bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing at the bluette. It’s not you being rude! It’s just… you cannot tell what she's even making anymore. She started off decent at the beginning of your little trip here - to which she suggested in the first place, and it now… kinda collapsed!
"Uh-huh. And what exactly is that supposed to be?" You inquired, raising an eyebrow before returning to look down at your sandcastle, fixing every little detail as meticulously as possible.
This is a lot more fun than you’d anticipated..
After all, you were once so focused on wallowing within your sorrow, never finding the time to genuinely appreciate any of the fun activities you could have here on the island. I mean, you were trapped here - why would you ever want to get comfortable with your surroundings if you were here unwillingly and hated every minute of it?
But with Jinx around?
It definitely makes it worth it..
"It’s a fortress, obviously!" Jinx replied indignantly at your inquiry as if it was some sort of offense, gesturing at the uneven walls.
“Gotta be ready for a sand invasion."
You shook your head before looking down at your own sandcastle, trying to hide your smile from the bluette.
"Well, I hope your fortress is sturdy, because my castle is going to outshine it in every way."
"Oh, it’s a competition now?" Jinx’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she grabbed a handful of wet sand and launched it in your direction. It splattered harmlessly against the ground near you!
"Jinx!" You gasped, pretending to be scandalized by the sudden bold action of the woman. You eventually retaliated with your own handful of sand, carefully aiming so it landed just shy of Jinx’s leg. Of course, just because you didn’t want to get her dirty once again, nor did you want to get dirty with sand. That stuff is horrible to get out! (Though, you probably won’t be able to avoid that)
The "sandcastle competition" quickly devolved into a full-blown sand fight, both of you laughing so hard you both could barely breathe as you launched sand ball after sand ball of each other, even getting up from where you were seated and rushing around the shore of the beach of your island.
When you both finally collapsed in the sand, covered in grit and panting from laughter, you glanced over at Jinx, your expression softening at the sight of her being so happy.
It filled your chest with a warm, fuzzy feeling that never seemed to truly go away. Hell, every time you saw her it would fill your chest with that odd feeling, one you could not figure out for the life of you.
But.. it wasn’t unwelcome.
"You’re trouble," you said, brushing a stray strand of hair from the bluette’s face.
"Yeah," Jinx replied, grinning up at the sky.
"But you like it."
You could stay like this forever..
Later on upon cleaning each other up from the small sand fight the both of you had - you found yourselves simply sitting together on the cliff near the palace, letting the rhythm of the waves surrounding the island and the chirping of the birds fluttering on fill the silence.
Jinx leaned against your shoulder as the two of you watched the sunset. The warm hues of orange and pink bathed the horizon, casting a golden glow over the beach. Your heart definitely skipped a couple of beats, warmth spreading to your cheeks as you tried to remain calm in this situation.
For once? She seemed completely at peace.
You didn’t dare move of course, afraid that even the smallest shift might disturb the moment. So instead, you let your gaze drift over Jinx’s profile, your heart beating a little faster than usual.
"Do you ever think about what’s out there?" Jinx asked suddenly, her voice soft.
"Out where?" You replied, tilting your head slightly.
"Out there," Jinx repeated, gesturing vaguely toward the horizon of your island.
"The people, the places. Everything I left behind."
Your expression grew somber at the mention, turning your gaze to look back over the horizon.
You haven’t left this island for so long, you’ve forgotten what it’s like out there. So many things have changed, but this little island of yours stayed the same, unchanging until Jinx arrived.
“Do you regret it?"
Jinx was quiet for a long moment, seemingly thinking about your words.
“Sometimes. I think about my sister, Violet or— Vi. About how I left her to scream and cry.”
"And then other times, I think about Ekko. About what could’ve been."
She let out a small, bitter laugh.
“But then I think about how it’d all probably go wrong anyway."
You reached out, hesitating for just a moment before placing your hand gently over Jinx’s.
"You don’t have to run from it, you know." You turned your head once more, gazing down at Jinx as she rested upon your shoulder.
Then, Jinx turned to look at you, your faces closer than either of you realized.
“And what about you? You don’t run from anything?"
Your smile was faint but tinged with sadness.
"I’ve been running for a long time." You let out a small giggle, trying to make light out of the dark situation.
Your gazes lingered, unspoken words wishing to be said. But before either of you could say anything more, Jinx leaned back, breaking the moment.
“..I’m gonna go inside.”
And then she finally arose from the spot on the cliff before walking off, leaving to your lonesome once more.
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As the days blended into weeks, and you found yourself tethered to Jinx in ways that… terrified you as much as they comforted you.
At first, it was innocent—a lingering glance here, a brush of your fingers there. But soon, it became something more consuming, an ache that twisted in your chest every time Jinx so much as wandered out of sight. (You don’t understand this. You hate it, but you love it because it makes you.. happy).
During the day, you were never far from Jinx’s side. Wherever Jinx went, you followed, often under the pretense of needing to “check on her.” Whether it was a quiet walk along the shoreline or a shared meal, your presence was a constant.
You insisted on carrying Jinx’s tools when she tinkered, your hands brushing against Jinx’s at every opportunity. You lingered in every hug that Jinx had finally submitted to, holding on just a little too long, your fingers tightening as if letting go might cause Jinx to vanish.
And at night? The same ritual would happen as you remembered. You tiptoed to Jinx’s room, your bare feet silent against the cool flooring of your palace. You’d push the door open just enough to peek inside, your gaze softening at the sight of Jinx sprawled out on the bed, her breathing deep and even.
You couldn’t help yourself.
You’d creep closer, your fingertips brushing a stray lock of blue hair from Jinx’s face, or even simply just fixing her position on the bed so she would be more comfortable and not have a horrible ache within her neck. Your heart would flutter at the faintest smile that graced the sleeping woman’s lips. Satisfied, you would then retreat to your own room, but sleep never came easily after.
The worry, the need to ensure Jinx was still there, always tugged at your mind.
So many have left you, hurt you, vanished before your very eyes due to the powers of the gods above as they cursed you for everything you’d done. Cursed you to this island.
But not this time.
Jinx will stay. You’re SURE of it!
Not only that: but hand-holding became as natural as breathing, your own fingers always lacing through Jinx’s whenever you both walked together. Jinx didn’t seem to mind—in fact, she seemed to enjoy the closeness!
The idea of Jinx leaving was unbearable. You couldn’t stop replaying the memory of Jinx’s arrival, the way your heart had soared for the first time in a century. You’d been so alone for so long, her only companions being the unchanging skies, the shining sun, and the whispering wind. Everyone left you, abandoned you to nothing because they HATED you. Hated you for what you’d done, for everything you had done.
Your fear of being alone forever became overwhelming after the last being had left your little island over a few years ago.
Now?
Jinx has become your entire world.
“You okay there, trinket?” Jinx’s voice broke through your thoughts.
“Hm?” You blinked, realizing you’d been staring at Jinx for far too long.
“You’ve been quiet today,” Jinx teased, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Usually, you’re fussing over me by now.”
“Hey! I’m not fussing,” you stammered, furrowing your brows.
“I’m just… making sure you’re okay. You have a horrible tendency to get hurt, you know!”
Jinx chuckled, reaching out to ruffle your hair.
“You worry too much, trinket. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words were meant to reassure, but they struck you like a dagger.
The promise of permanence felt fragile, like glass that could shatter at the slightest touch. And you would not let that happen. Not now, not ever.
“I know,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.
But the fear remained within you, gnawing at your mind non-stop.
As the days after passed, your behavior only intensified. You found yourself tracing Jinx’s movements, memorizing the way her hair caught the sunlight, the sound of her laugh, the curve of her smile. You cataloged every detail, desperate to hold onto the pieces of Jinx that made you feel alive.
Your need for Jinx’s presence grew insatiable, and while Jinx didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps didn’t mind, and you began to feel the weight of your own desperation. It wasn’t fair to Jinx, this suffocating need to keep her close, but you couldn’t stop yourself. After all, how could you, when Jinx was the only light in a world that had been so dark for so long? When everyone had chosen to leave you upon hearing the god’s messengers give them the opportunity.
Yet this woman didn’t.
She never left you!!
So, why wouldn’t you grow overprotective?
And as you sat together while watching the sunset, you couldn’t resist resting your head on Jinx’s shoulder, like she’d done a while ago. Your heart pounded as you felt Jinx relax into the gesture, her warmth seeping into your skin.
“Thanks for sticking with me, Pixie,” you whispered, your voice soft.
Jinx’s breath hitched. She wanted to say something, to confess the depths of her feelings, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she simply tightened her grip on your hand, praying that the moment wouldn’t end.
But deep down, she knew that she couldn’t keep living in fear. Something would have to give: whether it was her unspoken feelings or the fragile balance of your relationship.
This has become out of control.
You’ve become insane, haven’t you??
I mean- at first, Jinx didn’t even notice the depth of your little obsession. She’d connect the clinginess as an endearing gesture, even comforting. A gesture that you were fully trusting her now. Jinx had always been starved for affection herself, and your constant attention felt like it was healing her own wounds.
But as your behavior worsened, Jinx.. began to feel smothered.
The amount of you can recount that you’d stepped out of line made you feel sick the more you thought about it.
Like, even though this was unintentional, you had begun to subtly discourage Jinx from exploring the island on her own. Every time Jinx suggested going off by herself, you'd find excuses to tag along or subtly guilt-trip convince her into staying.
“I thought we could spend the day together. Aren’t I enough company?”
Your nightly checks had grown more intrusive. Instead of just brushing Jinx’s hair aside and leaving like you used to do, you’d linger, sitting by her bedside for hours, watching her sleep to ensure she was “safe.”
And as your behavior escalated, the thoughts of what you were doing became overwhelming, as you had become hyper aware of the fact that this was in fact becoming out of your control, how your clinginess worsened, everything.
You feel powerless. Too powerless to stop yourself.
Your loneliness and fear of abandonment—rooted in those centuries of isolation.. they only feed into your cycle.
You’d begun suppressing your emotions around the woman, sabotaging her independence, panicking at any separation.
And she finally picked up on all of it.
Though at first, Jinx didn’t not notice the depth of your obsession. Your constant attention felt like it was healing her own wounds.
But as your behavior worsened, Jinx had begun to feel smothered.
“You’ve been acting kinda weird lately, angel,” Jinx said, a playful lilt in her voice as you two sat together. She threw a pebble toward the water, watching it skip.
“Y’know, you don’t have to stick to me like glue. I’m not going anywhere, so you can chill.”
Your laugh came a little too quickly, a little too forced.
“I’m just looking out for you, Pixie.”
Jinx raised an eyebrow, side-eyeing you at your response.
“Yeah, but looking out and hovering are two different things.”
You brushed the concern away with a soft smile, changing the subject almost instantly. Jinx let it go that day, but the unease lingered. She was used to people being interested in her, fascinated even (I mean with the Jinxers and all).
But this? This was starting to feel different.
And as days turned into weeks once more, and your behavior didn’t just persist—it grew.
You were always there: waiting by the door when Jinx left her room, hovering close whenever Jinx tinkered with something, insisting on being around for every little thing.
It didn’t take long for Jinx’s patience to wear thin.
“Why do you always have to hover?” Jinx snapped one day, her voice sharp with irritation. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, pieces of a broken gadget sprawled before her. You were kneeling far too close, watching her hands move.
You flinched at the sudden question.
“I just want to help you—”
“I don’t need help!” Jinx interrupted, throwing her arms up.
“You think I can’t handle myself? ‘Cause I can. Been doing it my whole life!”
The words were harsh, sharper than Jinx intended, but they hit their mark. Your expression faltered, guilt clouding your features as you took a hesitant step back.
Jinx, although frustrated, rubbed the back of her neck, trying to keep her temper in check. She shouldn’t lash out at you like that.. You’ll learn to back off.
“I get it, okay? You care. But, trinket… you’ve gotta let me breathe.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, as neither of you said anything after that.
But still, you were once again staring down at her hands while Jinx grumbled to herself and returned to her work.
And despite her frustration, Jinx wasn’t blind. She saw the way your expression tightened when she walked out of the room, the hollow look that sometimes flickered across your face when you thought no one was watching. And as much as Jinx hated feeling stifled, she couldn’t ignore the pain driving your actions.
One night, after another particularly tense day for the both of you, Jinx finally confronted you. You both were sitting by the fireplace within the parlor, embers crackling. And as she had begun to speak, her tone softened.
“Look, I’m not going anywhere, okay?” she said quietly, drawing your attention. The goddess, or you, had been staring into the flames, lost in thought.
“But you’ve gotta stop acting like I’m gonna vanish the second you blink. I’m not some dream you’re gonna wake up from, angel.”
Your lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Your hands trembled slightly in your lap as you shifted a bit, averting your gaze.
“I get it,” Jinx continued, her voice steadier now.
“You’ve been alone for a long time… and you’re scared. But this? This isn’t how it works.” She looked at you, even if you couldn’t see it - she couldn’t help the way her expression was softening even further.
“You don’t gotta hold me so tight to keep me around. I’m not going anywhere without a reason.”
You nodded faintly as your eyes returned to look her in the eyes, even with how uncomfortable it was.
But the look in YOUR eyes told Jinx that the message hadn’t fully landed.
But the real breaking point of this entire thing?
God, how did that even start again..
It was a couple days later when Jinx decided to venture off alone, desperate for some time to herself. She’d left early, without telling you where she was going.
And by the time she returned hours later?
She found you in a state of panic, your eyes wide and frantic.
When you noticed her, you immediately rushed over to her and gripped her shoulders, checking her to see if she had any injuries or anything out of the ordinary.
“Where were you?!” You demanded, your voice quivering with equal parts anger and desperation.
Jinx blinked, caught off guard at your sudden harsh tone.
“What’s your deal? I just went for a walk.”
“You didn’t say anything! You were gone—I didn’t know if something happened to you!” Your voice cracked, your usual calm composure slipping entirely. It’s like you were entirely different..
You are different however, aren’t you?
“I told you, I can’t lose you!”
Jinx’s temper finally flared at those last words you spoke, scoffing in response.
“Lose me?! I’m not some possession you can just keep tabs on all day!” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.
“I can’t breathe with you around all the time! You say you care about me, but this isn’t care—it’s control!”
The words hit you like a physical blow. Bleeding out right in the pouring cold rain as it had once before.
You took a step back, tears already streaming down your face as you stared at her, arms wrapping yourself as a failed attempt to make yourself feel comforted.
“I’m sorry!” you choked out, your voice broken.
“I just… I can’t lose you! You’re all I have, Jinx. You don’t understand, you’re everything to me! You changed everything for me!”
Jinx faltered, caught between anger and guilt. Your desperation was raw, real, and heartbreaking.
But Jinx couldn’t ignore how suffocating it had become.
“This isn’t healthy,” Jinx said, quieter now but firm.
“You can’t live like this. And you can’t make me the only thing you’ve got.”
You almost instantly crumpled under the weight of Jinx’s words, retreating into yourself as you sobbed quietly. Jinx watched you, torn between frustration and empathy, unsure of how to fix what had shattered between the two of you you.
“..I’m sorry.”
And with that, you immediately rushed out of the palace from the door that Jinx had walked in from, never stopping for a second as she called out for you. You ran for as long as you could, never stopping for a second until you had collapsed to the ground from how long you had ran.
For as small as this island may seem, you’re somewhat shocked at how big it seemed as you ran through the forest, feet aching.
Eventually, you settled on resting on the forest floor, refusing to return to the palace.
Who would want to be there with a monster such as yourself?
Maybe the gods should just keep you locked up in a cage, where you could never harm anyone ever again.
In the days that followed, your absence was palpable. You withdrew entirely from being a part of Jinx’s life, ashamed of your own behavior and terrified that you’d ruined everything. You refused to eat, refused to even sleep some nights. Even with how tempting the idea of returning back to the palace seemed, you restrained yourself - reminded of what had happened days prior.
And so you remained on the island, simply lingering around anywhere where Jinx couldn’t find you (for the most part).
She’d seen your hair a few times, but when she had called out for you once more? You vanished.
As if you were never there to begin with.
Jinx couldn’t shake the memory of your desperation. She knew what loneliness felt like: what it meant to cling to something, anything, to keep yourself from drowning.
It’s because of that you’d become like this..
You were so kind, so calm and caring before. But this corruption had already sunk its claws into you, forcing you to anxiety and insecurity.
And eventually, Jinx sought you out.
She found you sitting alone at the edge of the beach, staring out at the endless horizon with your knees close to your chest.
Jinx sat beside you, the silence stretching between you both.
“Come to berate me?” You muttered, voice tired and wavering.
“What?”
“You’re justified for doing so.. I just… I don’t even know anymore. I can’t even apologize normally anymore because of these stupid feelings.” You buried your face into your knees, tears threatening to form within the corners of your eyes.
“I’m so sorry. You never deserved that, and yet I did it anyway. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a normal being, haven’t I? Being banished here, no human interaction for so long..” Jinx stared at you for a long moment before sighing, averting her gaze.
And then, she spoke.
“Y’know, it doesn’t have to be like this.”
You didn’t respond, but Jinx pressed on.
“You’re more than just… whatever you think you are to me. You’ve got this place, this life as a goddess. You don’t need to hang everything on me.”
You raised your head and turned it head slightly, your eyes red and tired.
“But what if you leave?..”
Jinx let out a small, almost bitter laugh.
“Yeah, well… you ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy.” She nudged tour shoulder gently, her tone softening.
“But you gotta trust me. And more than that, you gotta trust yourself. You’re stronger than you think, trinket. You don’t need to hold me so tight to know I’m here.”
You didn’t reply right away, but something in your core shifted. It wasn’t immediate, and it wouldn’t be easy, but it was a start.
That feeling of hope once more.
Hope that you’d felt with her alone once again.
For both of you.
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The rain pattered lightly against the palace windows, the warm air inside a comforting contrast to the storm outside. You moved through the halls, a plate of Jinx's favorite meal in your hands. Your expression was bright, softened by the anticipation of Jinx's reaction. You both had gotten on better terms once more, figuring out what to do so it couldn’t get so bad.
Of course, you still had a few issues to work through still.. but you were willing to do so for her!
"Pixie!" You called out with a cheerful lilt, your voice echoing down the corridor as you finally made it to the bluette’s room.
No response.
Your smile faltered slightly, but you continued forward nonetheless, pushing open the door to her room. You could see that Jinx was hunched over her desk, her posture stiff as she fidgeted with some new contraption she was working on. You felt your smile return, feeling more calm by understanding that she was busy and not ignoring purposefully.
You know she has quite the tendency to get lost within her work, focusing entirely on it and NOTHING else!
Quickly, you cleared your throat and approached the woman.
"Pixie? Are you alright? I brought you some food—"
"Get out."
The words were sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. You almost immediately froze in place, blinking in disbelief at the sudden harsh tone.
"Pardon?.." You asked softly, your voice tinged with more confusion than anything.
Jinx turned to face you, her eyes wild, her voice louder now.
“I said, get OUT! Are you deaf?!"
Your hands trembled at how she spoke to you, confused and concerned of what was going on. Carefully, you set the plate down on a nearby table before immediately returning your attention to the woman, determined to figure out what was causing all of this.
"Pixie… What's going on? Why are you acting—“
Before you could even finish, Jinx’s hand lashed out. The slap was swift and cold, and the worse part? She slapped you with what you KNEW was the hand with that metal finger of hers. The stinging against your cheek felt like it was burning, and the sound echoed in the room, followed by a silence so deafening it felt like everything just stopped in time.
You just stood there, stunned, one hand slowly rising to touch the tender skin of your cheek. Your wide eyes locked onto Jinx, who looked equally horrified, as though she couldn’t believe what she’d just done to you.
Your lips parted to speak, but no words came. And so instead, you turned on your heel and walked out, the door closing behind you with a soft click.
The days that followed were heavy with unspoken words. Jinx and you had barely exchanged a GLANCE since the incident, hell - barely even being in the same room together!! Jinx claimed she didn’t remember saying those things, but as for you… you weren’t sure anymore. Perhaps it was all part of the gods’ plan; to drive a wedge between you two, to make you suffer, as they always had.
So when they came to you in the middle of the night as you were at the beach, coming to tell you the most devastating news of your life. You haven’t slept all night after hearing them either..
And so now you’re here at the beach once more, your back against a jagged rock, your feet brushing the cold stone path. In your hand, you twirled a blue flower, its delicate petals soft and fresh. You sighed, your chest tightening as you heard the faint clinking of metal tools nearby.
Peeking out from behind the rock, you saw Jinx tinkering with another bomb. The sight made your heart ache. Her hands moved deftly, but there was a tension in her posture, a stiffness that reminded you of that very day.
You stood, clutching the flower tightly to gather the courage before you made your way toward Jinx. The sound of your footsteps were nearly drowned out by the rhythmic crashing of the waves.
“Someone arrived today,” you said with a blank tone, standing a little to Jinx’s right.
Jinx froze, her hands pausing mid-motion. You quickly continued.
“They said they’re taking you away… ‘that you’re not mine to save’.” You stepped closer, your voice trembling ever so slightly as you spoke.
“And soon I won’t get to see your face.”
With a delicate carefulness, you placed the blue flower behind Jinx’s ear, your fingers brushing against her hair as though you were handling the most fragile piece of glass in the world.
“So I came by to say: You’re unlike anyone I have ever known.” Her hand lingered near Jinx’s shoulder for a moment longer than needed, before pulling away.
“Because you’re all I’ve ever known.”
Tears brimmed in your eyes as you took a step back, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“The ones before you refused to tell me anything, refused to trust me. I knew nothing but their faces.” You elaborated, taking a deep breath afterwards.
“And if I pushed you, or if I came on too strong at any time, or if I ambushed you… for that, I’ll say I was wrong.” Your voice cracked, though you continued.
“And if you hate me..” the words came out like poison, bitter and sharp as the taste lingered on your tongue, tears threatening to spill.
“..then I am sorry for that, I truly am. But I’m not sorry for loving you.”
“Trinket..” Jinx’s voice was quiet, almost just that of a whisper, but you cut her off with a raised hand.
“Let me speak!” You cried out, raising your voice.
“I spent my whole life here! I was cast away when I was young. Alone for a hundred years! I had no friends but the sky and sun!” Your voice cracked as memories of your past flooded her mind. The years you spent alone, your freedom being taken away from you, watching all of your kind being murdered - your own father killed before you. Being forced to even participate in a war you never wished to..
“So when you washed ashore… I thought for sure that you were my dream come true. I thought I knew…” You paused, thinking about your next words.
“I don’t even know anymore.. that you’d like me? But I guess I didn’t, did I? That I was too foolish to think that? Huh?”
You turned sharply, your tone cold.
“So I guess this is goodbye, Jinx. I hope you’re happy… after all, you’ll never see me again.”
You began to walk away, tears streaming down your cheeks. You can’t watch her being taken away. As much as she hurt you, you just can’t.
“Trinket, wait!” Jinx’s voice was doused with desperation — but just as Jinx reaches where you had been moments ago, you were gone. Fading into some sort of mist like an unreachable dream.
The ocean wind whips around her, carrying the faint echoes of your words, reminiscing around as if to taunt her further about the crushing reality that is her future.
And she stands there, not knowing what to do.
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6ronze · 4 months ago
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DEJA VU
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꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ — l&ds characters : sylus. zayne. rafayel. fem!reader format : short stories/HCs warnings : fluff. angst. sfw. unelaborated suggestive scenes in sylus’s part long story short : when they fall in love with you, but you never existed in the first place notes : inspired by zayne’s alternate universe where he fell in love w mc in his dreams but written my way + i haven't written in a whilleeee
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ZAYNE
Zayne knew lack of sleep could cause hallucinations and make someone have their eyes playing tricks on them. What Zayne didn’t know was that he could fall victim to those conditions.
He was disciplined despite his busy schedule as a cardiac surgeon. Zayne made sure he took sufficient naps to make up for the sleep he lost the night before and went straight to bed after finishing his work. He’s maintained this same routine for years yet somehow, he still ends up hallucinating about the same woman he’s seen since childhood.
He was 11 years old when he started seeing this woman around. Zayne as a child thought she was kind, someone he felt awfully fond of. When he wanted to ask his parents if she was a family friend, they merely cocked their heads to the side in confusion asking ‘Who?’. The older he got, the more he was convinced she was just an imaginary friend that children naturally have. But was she really imaginary when he kept showing up in his slumber, his dreams, and even in his conscious mind?
Zayne is 27 years old now. And he’s more convinced than ever that her appearance in his head when he hasn’t even seen her, nor anyone looking remotely similar to her in Linkon City, was connected to his evol.
He’s long accepted that hypothesis of his for the past years was true. Since it was only proven right with the small snowmen he made during every winter. How fond he was of creating ice figures of the plushies he saw when walking past claw machines at festivals.
Zayne often stared at his creations and caressed the snow with the pads of his fingers. He always looked at them with care, feeling the inexplainable need to preserve it—to preserve her. Even if they were just fleeting memories.
RAFAYEL
An artist in Linkon City, Rayafel. His works were as known as his name. Most people were curious about the rarely seen artist, questions about him arising. The journalists that were lucky enough to get to chat with him for a few minutes finally asked —who or what was his muse?
Muse. An inspiration, a devotion—the true cause of his masterpieces that were both stunning, and heart-wrenching.
“My muse.. is a ‘who’. And before you start bombarding me with questions about the specifics—’ *Rafayel answered, taking his time before parting his lips to offer an answer. His eyes flickered over to face the journalist ahead of him, Rafayel’s lips pursed to straight line that wasn’t often seen from the expressive and blunt man.*
“Let’s just say she’s out of your camera’s reach,” The purpled haired man continued, his brows subtly furrowing as he stared into the eyes of the stunned journalist. Rafayel’s answer made room for assumptions, the implication of his muse being out of reach sparking media attention and theories.
In Rafayel’s mind after that interview were only filled with thoughts on how to bring her to life in this world. He had to be careful with his words—the execution. Rafayel wanted a piece of his muse to be shared, a mark, a small hint to others of who truly occupied in his mind when he made his art pieces.
Rafayel started seeing her in a nightmare. It was the same nightmare that reoccured even in the most comfortable nights like a reminder. The thing is—he didn’t know a reminder for what exactly. He’s never seen her, never met her, nor does he heard her name anywhere in Linkon City despite his efforts to search for her. She didn’t exist. Yet that never stopped him from feeling so familiar, so intimate with her, like she meant the world to him once—no, it felt like she still does.
SYLUS
Sylus has been the leader of Onychinus in N109 zone for as long as he can remember in this world. He’s had his fair share of blood and immoralities that came with the job but at least it made sense. At least, it was rational. For survival, animal instinct of a human, pleasure—he could find the cause for it even if it was twisted. But this. This wasn't something he could make sense out of no matter how much he twisted his mind to find the root for it.
He has a girlfriend. Someone he’s decided to pursue after years of merely picking and dropping gems of women he found attractive in the clubs he frequented. This woman matched him—he thought. This would work—he hoped. He just needed something. Anything. To get the woman he kept seeing in his mind off his thoughts.
One would have thought the mysterious girl sylus that plagues his mind was someone he knew. A past relationship, an acquaintance, maybe even a fling. Yet it was neither of those. He doesn’t know her. He’s never seen her in his life. He shouldn’t be thinking about her—fuck, how does he even how she looks like? No matter how much time he spent pondering, recalling, digging information about someone who looked like her, he found nothing. The only conclusion he came to make was that she doesn’t exist.
And maybe someone else might have thought she would appear in his mind in his dreams—but no. It was the darker moments. The near death experiences, the life-risking gambles he took with every decision he made. It was the moments where his eyes would flicker, and his vision would slowly swim into a haze, would she appear. He didn’t like it. Never liked how the sight of her during those moments actually soothed him in ways nothing else could. Her lips that he stared into almost coaxing him to go with her to other side where they could finally meet.
Sylus couldn’t lie—he was truly tempted to accept.
The brows of the white haired man furrowed deeply in the dead of the night of his quarters, glass of wine in hand. He stared out the view out the large windows ahead of him, his free hand lifting to run through his in a rough tug.
His frown never seemed to leave him. Not even after spending a sweet night with his current beloved. He could still see it. The distinct features of that gorgeous woman in the back of his mind.
Sylus gripped his glass tighter, internally scolding himself for thinking about another when his woman was right behind him, comfortably sleeping in his bed, under his covers. He grunted, laying his head back against the headrest of the armchair.
He was frustrated, curious, and all of the above. Feeling his jaw clench at the thoughts that swarmed his mind, he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and got from his seat. He walked around his bed to the nightstand, placing his glass down.
His crimson eyes landed on his lover that slept in his bed, her bare body covered by the blanket. Sylus felt his frown begin to relax, a soft breath leaving his lips. He took a step closer to the bed, reaching out a hand to brush the hair from her face. His neutral expression turned to one of longing the more his fingers lingered on her skin.
He wanted to find her so badly. Sylus wanted to face her and demand she answer his questions. Although he knows that won’t be possible.
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fraugwinska · 4 months ago
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I'm so in love with your writing!!!! If you are doing requests could you write about the first time Alastor and his darling spend the night together? Maybe they are up late listening to music and his darling suggests he stay the night. They are new to the whole relationship thing and Alastor is awkward but agrees. Could be a touch spicy but mostly just fluff. <3
I did a unique take on this, I hope you don't mind, my lovely Anon? I had the inspiration for it in a fleeting moment and just started to type, remembering your ask... And I kinda love what came out of it! :> As always, @macabr3-barbi3 was my rock and my anchor during the writing process - you have too much patience with me, love! <3
And a huge 'Thank you' to the lovely, ever-so-talented @minkdelovely for prereading this for me to find the perfect title for this story. You are both an inspiration and a delight, and I truly appreciate you, my darling!
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Kissing was something Alastor had slowly gotten used to. Kissing you, that is.
You had made it easy for him, he'd give you that. Patience is a virtue rarely found in hell, but when the turning point in his friendship with you tipped the scale to the side of more amorous realms, the Radio Demon, normally superior and confident, had found himself to be exceedingly useless. The lines between companionship and partnership were drawn by his mind rather than physical barriers, and crossing them alone had been a tremendous effort for him. Alastor had never thought he'd feel anything for another sinner, hell, the bare concept of feeling was generally strange to him.
Love was something that had been intimately intertwined with the feeling he had for his mother. So pure, and so lost and unretrievable after her untimely death. To feel this similar yet completely different kind of love for you? Unimaginable, and yet, there you were. And with an unbelievable ease you slowly took root in his mind, weaving your way into his thoughts and settling in his heart without you putting in real conscious effort. Had your encounters been mostly accidental and brief at first, Alastor found himself longing to walk into you more and more before actively seeking your company. To you, he was never unwelcome, in complete contrast to the other residents of the hotel, who tended to avoid or flee from him whenever they could. Whether he would be annoyingly chatty in amusement, hurtful in cold anger or buzzing with excitement (and sometimes murderous glee) - you entertained his whims, listened intently or soothed him with a few chosen words, always finding the right ones.
You shift in his arms, your head leaning a little in to grant his hungry mouth better access to yours with a small, delicious sigh, ignoring or maybe even blissfully unaware that your lips must've caught on his teeth somewhere along the line and ripped open, thin, beautiful crimson lines slowly running down the sides of your mouth. He always said that red suited you best.
Your differences made you quite an odd sight in hell's scenery. What many could only admire with a good dose of fear was never scary to you and the fact you openly regarded the Radio Demon with polite respect and genuine endearment left quite an impression on the others - so much so that it had earned you the hushed title 'Daddy-Deer Whisperer', bestowed by the ever-so-childish Angel Dust. It was when he caught you scolding Angel for using that expression and spreading his usual slander about him with a rare display of open anger that he first felt the gentle tug in his chest that has since remained whenever you were near Alastor. At first, he had shrugged it off as another of his eccentricities, or perhaps hunger pangs he hadn't fulfilled for a while (A very likely thing given his... appetite). But it persisted whenever you looked at him with that little smile on your lips, and he knew. Knew that he had to have you, and that you would be his, in good time. He could never have imagined how easy that would turn out to be, how accommodating to his needs you were from the moment you acknowledged his advances, and were able to keep up with his admittedly glacial pace from then on. While no one dared to ridicule him to his face, the others were comfortable enough around you to tease you for having a partner that seemed so uninterested in physical attention. Well.
While they were not completely mistaken, they didn't know all there was to Alastor the demon with the eternal smile. The foreignness of what it meant to touch and love and the, he had to say it, pitiful lack in experience made Alastor hesitant for the first time in both of his lifes. How could he publicly display his affections when he could barely bring himself to show them in the confines of your company alone? Yet you never demanded anything physical from him, and he realized with a startle that you were perfectly content with just being with him. Where it had taken him weeks to consider kissing you for the first time, it took another couple or so to slowly allow his touches to drift from a brief grasp on an elbow or waist to a tighter grip, resting a hand at the small of your back, enjoying the sensation of your hip bone gently pressing into his palm, pulling you a little bit closer as your hands ran over his arms. In his embrace your arms found their natural place on his shoulders, the weight becoming familiar and calming to him. Until one day, it wasn't anymore. One day he noticed, truly recognized the feeling of you in his arms and found himself struggling not to pull you even closer. And without much thinking, his lips had been on yours, chaste almost and testing, savoring the contact and tasting you without the need to devour. And he found that with you, only you, just a taste was so much more satiating.
It was the first of many kisses shared, but to Alastor, this one held a special significance. You had been stunned, yes, but when he withdrew, overstimulated and unsure of his actions, he found neither judgment or reproach, only a silent smile and a hint of blush on your cheeks before you had returned the affection in your own, respectful way that he appreciated so much - soft pressure and warmth enveloping his hands - and a change of topic, easing him into a lighthearted conversation that had lasted hours, just to calm his nerves. Since then, Alastor has held on to these memories, his firsts with you. And there were countless - all kept near to your heart. Charlie, Angel and Niffty could pester you with any intrusive, interrogating question, you would only smile at them and repeat the same sentiment: What you see is the only thing you get to know.
"Alastor?"
"Hm?" Your voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and his eyes focus on your beautiful face where he sees your brows furrowed with what he learned is concern.
"Is everything okay? You seemed to be somewhere else."
Ah, you were worried. For him. As you always were, so susceptible to his needs, as if it was natural to you. Another peculiarity and yet an incredibly welcome thing for a creature like him who found himself on the receiving end of unreciprocated concern very, very rarely.
"Just a little lost in thought is all, my dear."
"We can stop you know, it's almost midnight anyway." you say softly, your hands streaking soothingly over his arm as they slowly retreat from his shoulders.
He pauses, debating if the sensation of your fingertips touching the soft skin below his buzzed undercut, coupled with a very, very warm and inviting kiss had been enough. Had it ever been? Enough? It wasn't that you ever had any expectations of what would come after, seemingly content with anything he'd allow you to have - a softly spoken praise, an elegant compliment or even just peaceful silence before he'd take his leave. And knowing this Alastor suddenly is... displeased with the idea of this moment not lasting.
His claws wrap around your hands, a gentle pull guiding them back to their rightful place, back to the nape of his neck. He enjoys the rare sight of your surprised and red-flushed face before he let his lips trail your jawline, relishing in the way your skin breaks into goosebumps under his mere breath and fleeting touch before he speaks.
"I'm not so sure about that. Being able to stop, that is."
And he's true to his words. A searing fire is lit when your lips meet his again and his body tenses as he tries and fails to restrain the feeling it coaxes within him. Alastor wants to stay this time, wants to hold this miraculous thing that loves him so undeservingly close, wants to experience the feeling of skin on skin in your pristine bed sheets as he allows himself a rare night of sleep, with your sweet sighs as his lullaby and soft body as his covers. Another first with you, to add to the collection. And while you were always willing to indulge him, he feels, in the way you were pressing into him in cautious urgency, the whine that slips beyond the restriction of your bitten lips and the tremble of your fingers that you weaved into his hair, that this is - finally - what you, maybe for the first time, selfishly crave for, too.
Patience is a virtue, yes, but after all this saintly time he'd allow the both of you the sin of greed for a night.
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