#laszlo kreisler

[radioactivebearz]

Calling all my Daniel Brühl fanssssss

Do any of you guys use character ai? If so would you be interested in characters with specific character role plays? Like modern!laszlokreizler or Zemo in an apocalypse/post apocalyptic world type thing?

[thranduilsperkybutt]

Gif source:  Here

Imagine you're married to Laszlo Kreisler, and trying to get his attention since you're kind of jealous of the attention he gives to Mary.

--------- Request for @lady-bridgerton  ---------

He treated her like a delicate thing to be placed atop a shelf and dusted with a dedication that only he could pursue. The gentleness in his voice when he spoke to Mary would not always bother you; yet, when coupled with the softness in his eyes, you could not help but feel a twinge of jealousy creeping into your gut. An ugly thing it was, and you only felt it from time to time, but only when he gave Mary the kind of attention he was giving her now.

Nothing less than gentlemanly, of course, but still...

Had he ever been so gentle with you? With every interaction you’ve ever had, you seem to only bring out a passion in the man that sometimes burned with such an intensity that you wondered if it would not destroy you entirely. His attentions for you were directed with a certainty that you had never questioned. Your disagreements with him had once gone on for days, until you had found a better way to vent your mutual frustrations.

You watch as he thanks her reverently for the serving tray she’s brought the two of you in the midst of his studies.

No, you think, Laszlo has never treated you so gently.

There was a ring on your finger, though, was there not?

Mary is lovely, and you thank her in kind before she retreats, leaving you alone again with the man you are still at a loss to figure out, even after all this time. You study him as he sips the tea she’s brought, as if it will help you figure out the reason for the jealousy in your heart. It’s in vain.

“What has brought upon your silence? You were rather mouthy a moment ago,” he doesn’t bother looking towards you, rather than back at his documents. The raise of his brow is enough to tell you of his curiosity for your sudden disquiet.

“I was just wondering why you’ve never treated me with such gentle longing,” you know how you sound, and yet you can’t stop the words from tumbling. A pout forming at your lips as you round the desk before you, and only then does he look up.

His brow inches higher in surprise, “Now, don’t tell me you’re jealous...”

You don’t have to admit it for him to see the truth of it, but you do anyway, “Your attentions have never been so delicate to me as you are with Mary... and you know I’m a wonderer.”

His hand reaches for your hip, and you feel his grip through the fabrics and layers between you as he steps closer. Intense. Demanding. The jealousy inside you tells you he would never touch Mary like this. His hand not at your hip tips up your chin, tearing your eyes from the scrutiny of his collar.

His lips slip into a firm line as he performs his own scrutiny of you, but his eyes soften, “You have never needed gentle attention, though, perhaps I have been mistaken in thinking you did not want them.” Then, the twinge of a smile at the corner of his lips, when he teases dryly, “Perhaps I have been blinded by how amusingly disagreeable you can be at times.”

“How dare you! I’m not disagreeable,” you huff, crossing your arms between his proximity to you.

His chuckle is full of mirth, and you know then why he has never treated you the same as he does Mary, “But you’re quite disagreeable now, my love. You need not be so, if all you want is attention.”

You’ve never needed the version of himself that he holds out to Mary to kindly ensure she does not break. You’ve told him since the moment you met him what you’ve needed from him or how you’ve found fault in his arguments. He’s always known you were not so easily broken.

You prove him right with your snark, “If you would give me attention, I would not need to cause a show of it.”

“Mm,” he sighs in faux disapproval, but his smile is nearly matching your own as he leans closer to brush his lips upon yours, “an entertaining show.”

[geekstuffkittykat]

Dr Laszlo Kreisler from The Alienist. This was from a screenshot from a gif of a specific scene. The lighting and colours were gorgeous and the sideways position was unique to my skills. Not to mention the absolute beauty that is Daniel Bruhl 😍 he's just so pretty.

[evilwinterfruit]

People You'd Like To Get to Know Better

I got double-teamed by @illicien and @deepdwellingsteamboat for this. Nothing better than being double-teamed by Daniel Brühl fans.

Three ships: Bucky Barnes/Helmut Zemo, Laszlo Kreisler/Wartime Bucky Barnes and Bucky Barnes/Sam Wilson/Helmut Zemo. I’m in deep with the brainrot.

First ship: Hah. I remember this actually. I was shipping Velma/Daphne from Scooby Doo before I knew what shipping was.

Last song: Dreaming by Marshmello, Pink and Sting.

Last film: Cargo. No I will not explain myself.

Currently reading: fanfiction. Always.

Currently craving: frozen lychees. It’s hot and they are delicious.

Favourite colour: Purple.

Last thing googled: Turkish Delight Alcohol. I found Turkish delight mead and I’m very pleased.

Current obsession: Daniel Brühl, in every way.

Tagging: @six-demon-bag @descaladumidera @bicycleonfire @hypnxrchy @bicycleonfire

[wambsgender]

my friend and i have developed a really important headcanon about laszlo kreisler from the alienist which is that he earnestly believes every single day is his birthday. he treats himself to a nice birthday lunch every day of the week. he bribes the waiters into bringing him a birthday cake complete with the song. every single time. whenever something inconvenient or upsetting happens he's like damn. And on my birthday as well :/

[kyo-gen]

[redex-writes]

possibly controversial take but Laszlo was completely within his right to be angry as he was with Sara. Like, okay hitting people is Wrong and all that, but how it was presented in the show made her seem more like a victim, and given her prying into his disability and the way she treated him over it, she really wasn’t on the right side of that one

[mustyrosewater]

y’all better go read good dr kreizler by @creme-bruhlee because it’s currently one of my favourite running laszlo fics

the cover pictures above was made by me and i’m thinking about making more covers

lemme know if that’s something y’all wanna see

[writingandmore]

I‘d love something with Laszlo Kreizler x reader where they get introduced and maybe the group has dinner together and they just hit it off and he falls for reader or something like that? I‘d be forever grateful for anything! <3

 -When first meeting, especially if it’s at something more formal like a dinner, Laszlo would be exceedingly polite. I can imagine him striking up polite conversation if he’s immediately interested in person, but he’d stick to safe, benign topics as to not overwhelm them. 

 - If they brought up his profession and interests on their own, however, he’d be more open to talking to them about things that actually interest him. Of course, he wouldn’t ever do anything like discuss his client’s personal data, but he’d certainly be willing to talk about general theories and research he’s done. 

 -If this person shows compassion, understanding, and empathy for those he works with, he’d want to see them again. However, he can be quite reclusive, so I find it hard to believe he would ask them outright. He may as his other friends who were at the dinner where this person frequents in town, so he may have the chance of running into them and continuing the conversation that way. 

 -The other person would definitely have to make the first move-while he can be confident and is a brilliant person, he has no experience with relationships, and he wouldn’t want to hurt his future partner in any way. Even if they ask first, he might take a while to respond, even though he wants to say yes. 

 - In any other circumstance, I would say checking back in with someone before they’ve accepted being in a relationship with you may be too pushy, but for Laszlow specifically, his future partner would most likely have to in order to get him to open up and talk about why he’s hesitating. 

 -Hopefully, after talking things through with him and reassuring him that they will try their best to not be put in harm’s way during any of his investigations, he would be more open to a relationship with the person he loves. It may take awhile, but once he’s open to the idea, his partner would have a very affection (albeit a bit awkward) caring, and loving partner in his own ways. 

[i-am-dead-inside-666]

Not me literally drooling over Laszlo.

(I wasn’t going to say this but like I actually drooled)

[reinekes-fox]

So I just got the book for the TV Series The Alienist in the mail today!

Funnily enough I looked that book up a few years ago, for a project on Paresis Hall (that didnt work out in the end) and then totally forgot it.

And I must say I like it better than the series.

Sara is even cooler, the book is also (in my opinion) at least a little bit funnier.

I am not finished yet, but managed to read over the half of it in a few hours, so I hope I can finish it tomorrow!

[jollyhaunt]

"Since it's impossible to know which part of my life is the middle, I've decided to have an ongoing crisis"

- Laszlo Kreizler at some point

[starlightsearches]

9, 17, 20 and 38 from the smut prompts with laszlo?? I’m sorry if that’s too many, they’re just sooo good!!

Feel Me

Wowowowow friend, those are some excellent choices! I tried to work them all in here for you, but I did have to edit a couple of them to keep the flow. Hope you like it! Feedback is always appreciated 🥰

9 / 17 / 20 / 38 from the Smut Prompt List

Laszlo Kreizler x femme! reader

Warnings: smut (18+ only), kind of dark! laszlo, soft dom! laszlo, gendered terms for the reader, vaginal fingering, infidelity, inexperienced reader, shame, period-typical sexism, mentions of bad sex, inappropriate power dynamics (doctor/patient), i don't know how victorian undergarments are supposed to work, maybe it's a little ooc? I have no idea. Let me know if I missed anything!

Dr. Kreizler has his face between your legs.

With you skirt pulled up over your knees, his breath brushes against your parted thighs and your face burns with shame. You're not bare—your dress still offers plenty of coverage—but without your undergarments you might as well be nude.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes; you just barely resist the urge to force your legs closed, shutting out him and this soulless exam room and the knowledge that you're sitting here, waiting for a man who is not your husband to look at the most sensitive part of you and tell you exactly why you're broken.

"And when did the problems start?" he asks, standing. You relax your legs, pushing your skirt back down over your ankles.

"Since we've been married," you tell him. Dr. Kreizler strolls leisurely around the exam table, but you keep your eyes in your lap.

Your husband has been very patient with you, even after six months of marriage, yet every night is still an exercise in embarrassment. He’s become tired of you trying and failing to feel something, to react to your his hands the way you should, instead of counting your breaths and waiting for it to be over.

And who could blame him?

"There's been no improvement?"

You shake your head, unable to speak past tears pooling in your lashes.

His hand rests on your shoulder, thumb stroking softly over the juncture of your neck—a comforting gesture that still manages to put you on edge, setting your skin alight beneath the sleeve of your dress.

"I'd like to try something else," he says, voice always smooth, like a rich piece of chocolate, or velvet under your fingers, "I want you to tell me how it feels when I rest my hand in different places on your body. Can you do that for me?"

Your heartbeat quickens, but you nod. Dr. Kreizler would never hurt you.

"How does this feel?" he asks, and he shifts his thumb higher, until he reaches skin, and your pulse thrums beneath the press of his finger.

"It feels . . . alright."

He nods, stepping around to the other side, letting his hand trail down over your sleeve, until his palm is covering the back of your hand.

"And this?"

His eyes are on the spot where your hands meet, so analytical as he observes the contact, but your eyes are on him.

He has such a handsome face. You've always thought so, since the day your husband introduced you—the handsome, lonely Dr. Kreizler with his soft eyes and penchant for the opera. And you loved your husband—of course you did—but there were still times when you'd find the doctor's eyes on you across a crowded dining room or party, and the electric feeling of his notice would stay with you long after you and your husband had retired for the evening.

"Fine."

It feels better than fine, the slightest chill traveling across your skin as he strokes the tip of his finger over the ridges in your knuckles, the delicate bones on the inside of your wrist.

He hums in casual response. "Is it good when I touch you here?"

He presses his hand against your stomach, with more force than the other touches, just below the swell of your breast. The weight is pleasant, and the proximity even more so, his face much closer than before, eyes cataloguing each subtle shift in your expression.

"It is."

His gaze flashes to your lips before meeting your eyes again. A single strand of hair falls across his forehead, just brushing the tip of his nose.

"And what about," he leans in, closer still, hot breath caressing your cheek, "this."

His hand slips between your thighs, bunching the fabric of your dress against your bare cunt.

"Dr. Kreizler," your hand grips his wrist, but you're unsure what to do once with it once it's there. You could—should—push him away, but the pressure is surprising, and the slight shift of his fingers and the ripples they send through the fabric feels . . . good.

He hushes you with a stern glare, making no effort to remove his hand, grip like iron compared to your own.

"Laszlo. You'll call me Laszlo in private."

"Laszlo," you correct yourself without a thought, "my husband, he'll—"

"Your husband," he spits the word with an uncanny venom, grinding the heel of his hand more forcefully against the sensitive spot between your thighs," is a fool—blaming his inadequacies in sex on an undeserving wife. He sent you to me because he believes you cannot feel his pawing hands and pathetic thrusts, but you can feel, leibling, just as well as any woman. You can feel me."

He's right. You can.

He has such talented fingers—hands that would be right at home on piano prodigy—coaxing a sinful heat in your core despite the layers of fabric.

“How does this feel, leibling? Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels—“

How does feel? It's wholly unfamiliar—the desperate shift of your hips against his hand, the pleasant fog at the corners of your vision and the edges of your mind. It feels like everything you've ever wanted, like the long-awaited opening of a maddeningly locked door.

"I— Laszlo, I need more."

He leans in closer, close enough that his lips almost brush yours, and for a moment you think he might kiss you. You hope he might kiss you.

"Lift up your skirt," he whispers instead.

You have the hem in your hands a moment later, raising it eagerly until your balled fists rest in the middle of your thighs, and your momentum fails. Despite everything you've already done, there's no getting past this indecency on your own.

"So shy, now, schatz? Moments ago you were humping my hand and now this is all you can give me? Perhaps I should inform your idiotic husband that no more treatment will be necessary. Perhaps, you've already been cured. Would you like to go back to him so soon, pet?"

"No," panic flares, and the hem of your dress bares another inch of your skin, but it's the warmth of his hand on your thigh that convinces you to lift it the rest of the way, lifting your hips out of the seat, flinching at the cold material of the exam table against your bare ass.

"Good girl," he coos, taking your chin between his fingers, "now, kiss me properly."

Your lips part, and his eyes are still open when he presses a gentle peck to your lips, closing them only when you kiss him back.

Oh my. It's nothing like any kiss you've had, in your limited experience. The chaste kisses you shared with your husband after your engagement had their own kind of thrill—the thrill of an imagined fairy tale, of a promised happily ever after. The naïeveté wore off rather quickly, after your failure to perform your other wifely duties.

Kissing Laszlo isn't like that at all. There's a quiet passion behind tender movement of his lips, not out of duty, but desire. His hand cups you, without force but still secure, determined to keep you against him as long as you'll let him.

Your eyes don't open automatically when you pull back, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, and so you don't see the look on his face as he brushes his thumb over your skin, before pressing the tips of his fingers against your parted and swollen lips.

"Open," he comands, and you're so pliant for him, opening wide enough for his fingers to disappear into your wet mouth all the way to the second knuckle before you respond with a soft gag at the pressure.

"I'm sorry, liebling, I'm sorry," he shushes you, so gentle, pulling back just enough to allow your tongue some movement between his digits, "I need my them nice and wet before I tease that aching cunt of yours. Suck on my fingers, now."

You do as he asks, hollowing your cheeks and tightening your lips. You shouldn't be doing this—shouldn't be sinking to such base acts, not when you have a husband at home and a spotless reputation and a last name that everyone in New York knows.

It's no use. You couldn't stop now, not when Laszlo is looking at you with those soft, irreverent eyes. You'd walk through fire if he asked it.

His fingers escape your lips with a soft pop, shiny with spit. You watch his hand disappear between your legs again, and your heart thumps more heavily in your chest. It's getting harder to breathe.

"There we are, liebling," he praises you, stroking your outer folds with his moistened fingers, spreading the slick across your cunt, just barely brushing your clit.

The shock of pleasure jumps through your chest, your back arching slightly off the exam table, lips parting with a violent breath.

Laszlo smirks. "And he thinks you can't feel."

Your husband's mistakes are becoming clearer with each stroke of his fingers—their gentle circles around your tender clit, or the teasing press at your entrance.

"You're getting so wet for me, pet," he comments, stretching your entrance little by little with one circling finger. "I think you're ready for more of me."

You nod, grateful your soft moans are keeping your mouth too busy to beg.

He slips his middle finger inside of you, and it's already a thousand times better than anything you've experienced in your marital bed. The gentle stretch, the way he curves his finger against your tender front wall while his thumb works steadily at your clit—it has you reaching heights you had never thought would be available to you.

"Please, Laszlo, please," you paw at his chest, trying to grab hold of his jacket, looking for leverage, but your hands are weak, your body much too concerned with the rapturous glow overtaking your cunt to function properly.

You'll have to beg then, instead. "Please, kiss me again. Please."

He chuckles, his wrist working more ardently until you can hardly hear him over the wetness between your legs.

"Not yet. I need to see you cum first. I want to watch you unravel for me."

He slips another finger inside of you without ceremony, and your eyes roll back in your head, vision going dark.

The movement of his fingers is nothing short of marvelous, scissoring back and forth, punctuated by the occasional deep thrust that has your hips lifting from the seat and stars in your eyes.

His voice reaches you even in the deepest trenches of your pleasure.

"It's alright, liebling, you can let go. Cum for me."

And you do, sunken beyond a point of return, emerging on the other side in a flare of bright light, the spasming of your cunt sending shards of it through your body with every stroke against your raw and aching clit.

"Look how good you are for me," he whispers, pulling his fingers from your core as the contractions subside, brushing his wet fingers across your hairline.

He kisses you tenderly, his hand—still sticky with your spend—cupping your cheek. Your legs shake from your release, but it would be impossible not to kiss him back.

He pulls away, cleaning his fingers on a nearby cloth before brushing his hair back into place, slipping back into his doctor's persona as easily as he'd slipped out of it.

"Tell your husband that you'll need regular treatment for the foreseeable future. Perhaps once a week."

You nod, pulling your skirt back down into place before you stand from the exam table. You're unsteady on your feet, swaying dangerously, and he takes you with a hand on your arm, pulling you in tight against his chest.

"The next time he touches you, schatz," he says to you, speaking right up against the shell of your ear, and the sin in his words makes you shiver, "make sure you're thinking of me."

[cazzyvintage]

Could you please write a Laszlo piece using the following prompts: “if we’re gonna pretend to be a couple, you need to let me get you a bouquet at least. it’s february 14th!" and “yes. yes, I’ll be your valentine!” ?

"Do you remember what to do once we sit down?"

Laszlo sighed, taking your hand in his as you were fixing his bow tie.

"Yes y/n,, we've been over this already."

"I'm just making sure," you reply, giving his hand a squeeze before stepping back to observe the man.

You could feel the slight butterflies flutter in your stomach as you looked up and down at him. Indeed, he was handsome, with his well-groomed beard, slicked-back hair, high end tailored suit. You could even catch the hint of a floral aftershave. What stuck out most to you was Laszlo's expression. His eyes watched you as you took him in, he bounced on his heels, and his fists clenched slightly in anxious energy. You knew he was feeling out of his comfort zone, thinking about what he needed to do today, and you felt pity.

"You know, we don't have to do this if you really don't want to."

Laszlo pursed his lips together in a slight smile and shook his head.

"It would be rude of me not to turn up to this engagement, especially after I told John I would attend... with a partner."

"Well, you can only blame yourself for getting into his predicament," you joke, the corners of your mouth twitching up into a smile.

"I know next time to keep my mouth firmly closed. Now I believe Cruys should be ready with the calash."

Laszlo offered out his arm for you to take, which you gladly thought, secretly enjoying these moments to be close to the man who so usually pushes everyone away.

"First, though, I have another stop to make."

"Whatever for?"

"A bouquet."

You froze in your steps, glancing to Laszlo as you felt a blush creep up on your cheeks.

"Really now, Laszlo, there's no need to."

"If we're gonna pretend to be a couple, you need to let me get you a bouquet, at least. It's February 14th!"

You knew there was no arguing with Laszlo once he had set his mind to something, so you just nodded your head and let him lead you out of the institute and into the calash. You two travelled in silence for a few minutes until Cryus parked outside a flower shop, and Laszlo hoped out.

You thought he would only be a few minutes, just grabbing the easiest flowers and buying them, but ten minutes ticked by, and he was still in the shop. Needing to stretch your legs, you hoped out of the calash and walked around, trying to look into the shop to see what Laszlo was doing.

Five minutes later, he finally appeared, holding a bouquet full of many fresh flowers of all colours and sizes.

"Laszlo! This is- well, it's so pretty! You are spoiling me."

You reach out to take them, but Laszlo shakes his head, giving you a shy smile as his cheeks burn slightly.

"If I'm going to do this, then I am going to do this properly."

You watched in amazement as in the middle of the street, Laszlo got down on one knee, holding the bouquet of flowers in one hand and picking up your hand in his and placing a gentle kiss on it.

"Y/n, will you be my valentine?"

The words rushed out of your mouth before you could control them.

"yes. yes, I'll be your valentine!"

Laszlo's smile could only be described as giddy as he handed you the flowers and slowly got back up on his feet, huffing slightly.

"Thank you, Laszlo," you say, blushing tremendously at the gesture.

Laszlo nodded, his cheeks also burning and finding himself unable to think of anything to say apart from nodding to the calash.

Taking his hand in yours, you both get into the calash again, ready to go to John's family, and as you look over at Laszlo, you wonder what it would be like to be courting the man properly and how happy the thought made you.

Little Valentine's celebration

[kyo-gen]

daniel brühl icons

sebastian zöllner (me and kaminski), istván thurzó (the countess), david kern (lila, lila), álex garel (eva), hubertus czernin (woman in gold), jan (the edukators), andrea marowski (ladies in lavender), daniel (colonia), laszlo kreizler (the alienist)

[marvelmusing]

Playing Chess

Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

The Alienist Mafia AU

My Masterlist

A/N: this could be considered a kind of dark!fic because there is violence towards the reader and suggested manipulation (but it might not be?). Like there’s genuine feelings underneath for both Laszlo and the reader, and they’re both manipulating each other for the sake of their work in the long run.

Laszlo Kreizler is New York’s most ruthless mafia boss. He’s viciously smart, he knows what you’re thinking before you’ve even thought it. He doesn’t need to threaten someone, he’s brought some of the toughest criminals to tears with his psychoanalysis of them. He’s the kind of man who will sit at his desk as he takes apart your psyche as casually as discussing the weather. There’s lots of rumours concerning his arm, but no one dares to mention it in his presence. John Moore is his consigliere, and he has proven his loyalty to Kreizler countless times over the years. Sara Howard is the family’s underboss. She had worked in law enforcement for years, before Laszlo recruited her. He saw her as a brilliant mind, being underpaid and overlooked by her colleagues. It took very little persuasion to convince her to join the family. The reader works for the secret service, they’ve been given the impossible task to get close to the infamous Laszlo Kreizler.

Dealing with Laszlo Kreizler is a lot like playing chess.

“You know, I get it now.” His head tilts ever so slightly aside, as you continue. “Why the majority of your employees are from the Institute. It must make it easier for them to do their jobs. They can’t tell the difference between the traumas of their past, and the trauma you’ve given them.” The blow has you falling to your knees, the muscles in your neck straining as your face is thrown to the side. You lick your lips, trying to ignore the taste of blood slowly filling your mouth. So that’s clearly a sore spot for him. He shrugs off his blazer, his eyes fixed on yours, and the dangerous spark in them has a shudder running down your spine. He very rarely loses his temper enough to resort to violence at his own hands. Because of this, you often forget how strong he is. You watch him as he hangs his blazer over the back of his chair, circling around his desk before leaning against the front of it, his eyes still on you.

“Leave us.” He demands, and his men comply immediately. He unbuttons his right sleeve, rolling it up to his elbow. Your eyes follow his actions as he reveals his forearm, his leather gloves still clad around his fingers. He extends his left wrist towards you, nodding at the button at the base of his sleeve. You move forward, still on your knees, and begin to undo the cuff and roll up his sleeve. He watches you intently, and you know he notices how your fingers are shaking.

“I’m sorry sir.” You say quietly, your words small in the near silent room.

“Not yet. But you will be.” He reaches down to take your chin between his fingers. His face softens somewhat when he sees you flinch slightly, and he sighs gently, “I apologise for reacting so harshly towards you. I can assure you that I will control my temper, in return you will never speak to me so unkindly again. Am I understood?”

“You’re not going to hurt me?” You ask in an almost whisper. His fingers caress your jaw absentmindedly, and you begin to lean into his touch.

“No drágám, I’m not.” He assures you, in such a tender voice that you feel the ache of what you’ve done in your chest. You swallow hard, as shameful tears burn behind your eyes. Your gaze falls from his face as you try and stop the tears from falling. He tilts your face back up to meet his eyes. “Although I would like to know the reason why you said such a thing about my family.”

“I don’t know.” You breathe out shakily, as the tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

“You hurt my feelings drágám, you’re going to have to do a little better than ‘I don’t know’.” You flounder for an answer, all this back and forth, and the crying, is making your head ache. You continue to sniffle for a moment, avoiding his gaze, before he steps in. “I think I know what this is.” Panic races through you, he’s figured it out. “I’ve been spending too much time at the Institute, and you’ve felt neglected.” You look up at him, trying to look a mixture of guilty, surprised, and embarrassed. You open your mouth slightly, letting your chin wobble for a moment before closing it again, and nodding.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t even know-“ you break off as a sob shakes your shoulders. He shushes you softly.

“While it is sweet of you, to need my attention, acting out like this is not an effective means. Understood?” Sometimes you honestly can’t tell if he’s establishing healthy boundaries or just fully manipulating you. You nod, shaking a few more tears down your cheeks.

“Yes sir. I’m sorry.” He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. When he leans back he tilts your head aside, studying the mark he’s left on the side of your face. You can’t see his face at this angle, but his voice is a sorrowful half-murmur,

“Drágám, I’m so sorry.” You swallow hard, he does sound genuinely sorry, but you know you can’t trust anything he says. You tilt your head back to face him, and the two of you look at each other for a quiet moment. He trails his fingers against your uninjured cheek, and you do your best to look content with his gentle touch. “Why don’t you go upstairs and draw yourself a bath, hm? I’ll be with you in under ten minutes.” You let your smile widen and nod. He gives you a nod of permission to stand, and you go to retrieve his blazer before helping to slide it back over his shoulders. He smiles kindly at you as you do up his button, leaning down to press a kiss against the tip of your nose. “So good for me.” You try to ignore how genuine your reaction is to his praise. “Now drágám,” he says, a mischievous spark dancing in his eyes. “Remember to look extra sad for my men. I can’t have you ruining my reputation.” Your smile widens.

“Yes sir.” Once you’ve shut the door to his office, you ensure to hunch your shoulders slightly, hugging your arms close to your body. You don’t hold eye contact with any of the men for long, keeping your eyes wide and fearful, and the tear stains on your face certainly help. For good measure, you limp ever so slightly as you make your way down the corridor, feeling their eyes on you as you head towards your room. You know they were all exchanging smug looks at the sight of you. You know those looks will drop when the office door swings open, and he orders them to make use of themselves instead of lounging around his house.

°•. ✿ .•°

Your fingers shake a little, from the leftover adrenaline, as you mix the bath oil into the water. You’ve undressed, and sit perched on the edge of the tub while you trail your fingers through the warm soapy water. You don’t move when you hear Laszlo make his way up the stairs, or when he enters the bedroom, or when he leans against the door frame of the bathroom. Your eyes flicker to the mirror, which allows you to see nearly all of him as he watches you. Your eyes meet and you look down quickly, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m not mad at you, drágám.” You nod weakly,

“I’m still sorry, I shouldn’t have said something so-“ He steps forward, wrapping his arms around you.

“You’re forgiven. It’s alright now, I promise.” You look up at him with wide eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He says tenderly. “Now, we’ve both had a long day.” He kisses you on the forehead before gesturing to the tub. “Get in.” He nudges you gently and you climb into the water as he removes his clothes. He retrieves a small container from his pocket and soon joins you in the bath. You look at what he has in his hand curiously. “Will you sit on my lap drágám?” You nod and move over to balance yourself on his thigh. He scoops up some water in his hand before carefully cleaning your face, ensuring he is particularly delicate over the skin of your injured cheek. You wince slightly at the contact and he shushes you soothingly and encourages you with small praises. He opens the container from his pocket to reveal some sort of cream, which he begins to apply to your cheek. You hum quietly at the coolness of the cream, and you finally relax in his arms. Once he’s done you rest your head against his shoulder and let him smooth his hands over your body.

Dealing with Laszlo Kreizler is a lot like playing chess. You have to overthink constantly, question his, and your own, intentions, and be wary of everyone. Although, when your opponent is tender and charming like this, you almost forget what it is that you’re playing.