#little bits of a journal someone wrote

[fooltofancy]

the problem with writing xiv things. is that i start and then a hundred or so words in i inevitably think "it would be so much easier to gpose around this dialogue," and then i never write that thing again.

[galactic-magick]

The Handsome Assistant: Viktor x Reader

Summary: You keep running into the handsome Dean's assistant, whom you find you have a lot in common with. You develop quite the crush, and things get a little messy when your friends find out about him.

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: some implied suggestive stuff, alcohol use

Author's Notes: Set before Season 1 Act 1. Just a warning, this is probably the most heavily self-indulgent of my Viktor fics so far. I’ve had ideas bouncing around my head for a long time about who I’d be if I lived in the Arcane universe, and I eventually just ended up taking inspiration from what I do in real life. So basically Reader works in human services and is similar to a social worker. I tried my best to write it in a way that makes sense even if you’re not familiar with that field.

Also, the roommate/friend characters are based on my besties irl, one of which is also my beloved tumblr mutual @ohboi , who has been dealing with my nonstop Viktor obsession for a long ass time now so shout-out to them lol. I wrote you living your dream in this fic as a way to apologize <3

-

It’s exhausting dealing with the powers of topside. There’s no sense of urgency here, no drive for real progress. You’ve attended meeting after meeting, maintaining composure every time they tell you your mission isn’t a priority, or that it will take decades to implement.

All you want is to help the struggling children in the Undercity. It’s what you’ve dedicated your life to, studying human services and psychology at the Academy and building your own grassroots group with a few others from your graduating class. You primarily advocate for better education, as the schools down there barely get any funding. The council doesn’t want to hear it, though, as it’s much easier to forget about the citizens below their feet.

It frustrates you beyond belief, especially since the first chunk of your life was spent in the Undercity. You lived the stark contrast between the two cities yourself, being granted countless more opportunities once your family moved to Piltover. It was sickening, and you felt so guilty with your new privileges when your friends back home still had none. But without those privileges, you wouldn’t have been able to attend the Academy and give back.

You resist the strong urge to scream after another failed proposal with the council. You prepared all of your points for weeks, fact-checking everything and making sure your ideas were plausible. The budget and statistics you wrote out projected exponential progress for both cities, as focusing on the new generation of Zaunites would encourage the next great minds and likely lead to collaboration on mutual issues. But of course, the council is not ready to contemplate such a future.

There was one factor that wasn’t usually there, though, a handsome young man sitting beside Professor Heimerdinger. He was furiously taking notes the entire meeting, looking back down at his journal anytime you made eye contact with him. Out of all the councilors, Heimerdinger seemed the most open to your ideas, but without a majority agreeing to cast a vote to actually change policy, nothing would happen.

You walk back down the long hallway, noticing someone in your peripheral vision.

“I’m sorry the council remains so stuck in their ways,” he says. “Trust me, I understand how hard it is to hold back your anger towards them.”

You turn your head, seeing the young man from earlier, “Who are you?”

“Viktor. I’m assistant to the Dean of the Academy,” he replies, leaning on a cane. “I quite liked your ideas. I think they could work.”

“I know they would work.”

You sigh, quickly realizing you’re projecting your feelings onto this stranger.

“Sorry,” you correct yourself. “I just don’t understand how they can just not care about the suffering down there. I’m from the Undercity, I’ve seen what’s happening there firsthand, and it’s only getting worse.”

Viktor’s eyes widen a bit, “I’m from the Undercity, too.”

“You’re from the Undercity and you’re the personal assistant to Heimerdinger?” you question, a bit shocked at the prospect.

“It’s really not that big of a deal, but yes.”

“What do you mean, not a big deal? I’ve never even met anyone else from the Undercity who got into the Academy.”

“I suppose we are a rare breed,” he says. “I imagine I never saw you there due to our differences in studies.”

“Most likely,” you shrug. “None of my classes were in the science halls, assuming that’s where you were.”

He smirks, “What makes you assume I studied science?”

“You just have that look about you.”

He laughs, “Well, you’re right. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised someone well-versed in analyzing humanity read me so quickly.”

“Don’t worry, you’re still mostly a mystery to me. I can’t read minds or anything,” you flash him a genuine smile.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“I need to get back to my lab, but I do hope we cross paths again. I’ll certainly discuss your proposals more with Heimerdinger as well.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

He leaves in the opposite direction, his cane tapping the floor.

What an interesting twist of fate, meeting someone like you.

-

The second time you run into Viktor is at an Academy party a couple months later, something you both likely would’ve skipped if you could. It’s somewhat a recruiting event for new students, and several alumni were asked to represent their fields of study. It’s not that you mind talking with prospective students, but you know you’ll have to hold back a lot of your true opinions when doing so. If you go off about how the curriculum doesn’t cover enough about the issues in the Undercity, you’ll surely get a reprimand from your former professors. You could lose several connections and investors in your organization as well, something you’re not willing to risk. Instead, you keep a smile on your face, engaging in conversation politely and answering questions.

You notice Viktor sitting at one of the far tables, his eyes darting around the room. He has several contraptions set up, and occasionally people come up to ask him about them. He lights up when he speaks, his face making the cutest expressions.

You notice yourself staring, quickly turning your head towards something else.

That sconce on the wall looks nice, doesn’t it?

As the event slows down and the crowd shuffles out, you pack up your things and head to the door, glancing back at Viktor’s table for a moment. He’s looking right back at you, and your heels swivel promptly to go see him.

“Hey,” you say, shooting him a smile. “Nice to see you again.”

Shit, was he this handsome the first time you met him?

“You as well,” he nods, gathering up his own things scattered in front of him. “Did you find anyone to join your program?”

“A few, yeah. You?”

“Several. More than I expected.”

He huffs, soon realizing all of his tech and science displays were not going to fit in the one cart that was left.

“I can help you carry your stuff, the science wing isn’t that far from here, right?�� you offer, shifting your things under one arm and grabbing some of his things with the other.

“You don’t have to do that,” he protests, but you’re already propping open the door and gesturing him to come along with a head tilt.

“I really don’t mind. Come on.”

You help him put things away in the different classrooms and offices, careful not to break anything. You’ve never been in this side of the school before, and it’s set up quite differently than the usual classrooms you were in. There’s much more going on than a usual lecture hall, tools and chemicals you don’t dare touch lining the perimeter. Viktor thanks you for your assistance as you finish getting everything in place, and you once again prepare to go your separate ways.

“Wait—” he says before you leave, pulling out his journal and flipping through it. “I wrote down a lot more notes that might be helpful for your project, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

He hands over the open page for you to read, and your jaw drops. It’s so detailed, every proposal you had broken down to its smallest pieces. He even laid out the budget and resource use and everything it would take to not only build and fund better schools in the Undercity, but also work on housing and overall infrastructure. He even has some theories scribbled on how to keep the air cleaner and fix problems with the fissures.

You can’t believe he’s been thinking about you and everything you said for all this time since you last met.

“Viktor, this is amazing.”

“I know it still may not convince the entire council, but I found your ideas quite inspiring. I hope my calculations can be informative.”

“They certainly are,” your fingers hover over the written words and numbers. “Thank you, Viktor.”

“Of course,” he grins. “I look forward to seeing what you accomplish.”

-

You find yourself running into him a lot more often after that, “accidentally” walking by each other’s offices at least once a week and talking long beyond what you probably should while working. Your soul feels so in tune with his, a phenomenon that surely shouldn’t be happening with someone you haven’t known very long.

Your conversations quickly progress to topics non-work related, his curiosity blooming with every little thing you share with him. Most days after work you simply can’t stop talking to each other, causing you to get home later and later until your roommates start to get nosy.

“I really have to go, Viktor,” you laugh, glancing at the clock that reads three whole hours past the end of your shift. You’ve been chatting about embarrassing Academy stories, reminiscing on both the stark similarities and differences between your experiences.

His eyebrows raise. “Shit, is it really that late?”

“Yeah,” you grab your bag with a sigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

-

“You already work too much overtime as it is! What’s so important that you have to stay late every single day?” one of your roommates, Eli, probes, clearly unsatisfied with the half-truth answers you’ve given so far. You don’t really want to tell the full truth just yet, that you’ve been talking with the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, and you don’t experience the passage of time whatsoever when you’re around him. That would sound ridiculous, especially since absolutely nothing will ever come of it. He’s a wonderful colleague, but you’d be foolish to ever expect anything more.

“There’s just a lot to do,” you finally say.

“You need a break, that’s what you need to do,” they emphasize. “How about we go down to The Last Drop tomorrow night? It’s been a while since we’ve seen our friends down there.”

You nod, “Alright, I’ll try not to stay late tomorrow.”

“You better not.”

They glare at you jokingly, and you let out a laugh and exhale of relief.

-

You finish up your notes for the day, whipping your head back and forth to check if the coast is clear. You know yourself and your own weakness—you certainly won’t get out of here on time if you run into Viktor for even a second.

But of course, like clockwork, his familiar tap on your leg with his cane greets you moments later, your heart fluttering to a discomposing degree. Him coming to see you is a routine now, and despite your promise to your friends you are aching to talk to him. You haven’t had a proper night out in months, why is it so hard to just leave?

If any of your racing thoughts are visible on your features, Viktor certainly picked up on them.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just...long day,” you reply. “But my roommates are taking me out tonight, maybe that will wake me back up.”

“I won’t keep you long, then—”

He’s cut off by Eli calling your name, jaw dropped as they come towards you down the hallway.

“I knew there was something you weren’t telling me!” they chuckle in disbelief. “Working late my ass.”

“I was literally on my way home!”

“I just wanted to come check!”

Your face grows hot. It isn’t abnormal for your roommates to visit you at your job every so often, bringing you important documents you forgot at home or bringing you a treat on your birthday, but under the current circumstances you’re a bit mortified.

They reach out their hand, “I’m Eli, Y/N’s roommate. Who do you think you are?”

“Viktor.” he shakes it, surprisingly not appearing phased by their directness.

“Interesting,” they look him up and down, then turn to you. “So, he’s coming with us, right?”

“Oh, um...I didn’t ask—“

Viktor can’t help but smile at your flustered face.

“If I’m invited, I wouldn’t mind joining.”

-

“I can’t believe you.”

Mumbling under your breath, you enter The Last Drop. Viktor told you he’d meet you there in about an hour, which thankfully gives you some time for some drinks to numb your nerves.

“Look, I honestly don’t know why you didn’t just tell us about him. He seems like a good one.”

“It’s not like that,” you correct them. “He’s not into me like that. We just work on some projects together, that’s all.”

You order a drink from Vander at the bar, gulping it down a little too quickly.

“That kinda night, eh?” he laughs, pouring you another one before you have to ask.

“Yeah.”

You have a few more drinks and shots with your roommates and old Undercity friends, your mind and body entering such a daze that you almost forget Viktor is meeting you there later. You play games together and get teased about some of your adopted topside ways, and you even get back at Eli by pushing them to talk to Sevika, who they ogle at quite literally every time you come to this bar with them. It’s the kind of night where you can be free and careless, temporarily leaving your problems behind in favor of bad decisions.

You have to do a double take when you finally see Viktor arrive. He’s changed out of his Academy uniform, now dressed much more casually and much more like a Zaunite.

“It seems I’m a little late to the fun,” he observes.

“We’re just starting!” you beam, the drunk giggles taking over you.

“How many have you had?”

“I don’t know, like 7 or 8 maybe,” you shrug.

He lifts his cane against you and steers you away from the bar, shaking his head, “I think you’re done for tonight.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes. “But not because you told me to, because I don’t want to throw up.”

He stays close to you while you stumble back to your friends’ table, chuckling at the slurred introductions you give him. They all accept him into their games and conversations instantly, and you quickly find out Viktor can handle his liquor a lot better than you. He puts all of them to shame, and they love finally having decent competition.

Your friends all whisper their approval to you throughout the night, even though you’ve repeatedly reminded them that nothing is going on. Although, you’re not really helping your case by zoning out every few minutes on his face.

“You have pretty eyes,” you say, staring until you realize what you just said out loud.

“That’s very kind,” he responds hesitantly. “But I’m sure your vision is a bit...tainted.”

“Alcohol doesn’t change color perception, dumbass.” you retort. “Besides, I’m sobering up a little.”

“Well then,” he smiles. “Thank you.”

You sigh, taking a sip of some water and glancing around the room. The bar is close to closing, and most of your friends have left.

“Have you seen Eli recently? I haven’t seen them in a while.”

He snickers, “You didn’t see them go in the back with Sevika?”

“They what?” you jump out of your seat. “Oh they’d better tell me everything.”

“I’m sure they will,” he laughs. “Do you need someone to walk you home, then?”

“Probably. Who knows how long they’ll be.”

-

The buzz has worn off quite a bit now, so thankfully you’re not tripping all over nothing and further embarrassing yourself. Viktor’s beautiful glow in the moonlight is more than enough to accomplish that, your gazes prolonging far longer than they should.

“Thank you for coming tonight, it was fun,” you say, fumbling for your apartment key in your pocket. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that, though.”

“Don’t apologize. It was very amusing.”

“Good.” you exhale. “Just ignore anything weird I said, okay?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” he smirks. “Now get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-

Sleep is certainly what you get, and the next morning before work is full of a head-pounding hangover and chaotic conversation. Your roommates Eli and Chanthou can’t stop laughing about everything that happened, and naturally you’re very nosy about the Sevika situation. Eli tells you every little detail of course, giddy and in disbelief that they managed to make-out with her all night.

“So? Are you guys going to get together again?” you ask on the edge of your seat.

“I hope so.”

“Looks like you both got what you wanted last night,” Chanthou adds.

“Guys, he just walked me home. That’s all.” You’re getting a little annoyed with the constant reminders that your little crush is not, in fact, reciprocated.

“You...don’t remember?” she looks at Eli, then cocks her head at you. “About halfway through the night you were all over him. We just assumed you guys finally confessed.”

You didn’t think you drank enough to blackout, but you definitely don’t remember whatever they’re talking about. Besides, if you really were doing that, why didn’t Viktor say something once you were sobered up?

And what, now you have to see him in the office today, having no idea what you said to him?

“Oh, fuck, guys. What exactly did I do?”

“I don’t know what happened after I went back with Sevika, but before I left you were sitting on his lap on the couch and playing with his hair—”

“WHAT?”

“Wow, you really don’t remember, do you?”

You groan, wishing you didn’t have to go in today. You have a couple important meetings though, so you’ll have to power through. You take some painkillers and grab your things, praying for the first time that you can get through the day without seeing Viktor.

-

Your headache refuses to lessen its throbbing for your entire shift, making the work you usually enjoy completely miserable. You snap at one too many co-workers and find yourself staring at the clock desperately. Why did you agree to drinking on a weeknight again?

Just as you dreaded, you run into Viktor outside, too obviously waiting for you to pretend to ignore him.

“Hey…” you avoid looking into his eyes. “How come you didn’t say anything about what really happened last night?”

“I...wasn’t sure you’d remember,” he confesses. “I suspected you blacked out when you said you didn’t remember seeing Eli leave. And I wasn’t sure you meant what you said anyway.”

“Please, Viktor. Just tell me what I said. All my roommates told me was I couldn’t stop touching you, which I am so sorry about—“

“N-No, don’t be. Everything was consensual, I assure you.” his face flushes. “You just told me you have feelings for me, that’s all. I was going to tell you last night too if you hadn’t said it first.”

Your eyes widen at his words, your heart threatening to leave your chest.

“But it seems you don’t remember, so I can still count this as making the first move, hmm?”

Shivers race down your spine as Viktor leans in, his fingertips grazing your cheek. His lips meet yours softly, your eyes fluttering shut as he presses deeper. His hand remains holding your face when he pulls away, scanning your expression for your reaction.

“I guess the feeling is mutual,” you chuckle, still a bit breathless.

“Quite so, darling.”

-

More Author's Notes: I have a bad habit of getting drunk around guys I like irl bc I literally can’t handle being around hot people sober so that's the inspiration for that situation lol. Also, a part 2 to this is already in the works, it'll be set during Act 1 and probably parts between 1 and 2.

[woncheolisms]

the best bad decision. (iwaizumi hajime x reader)

summary: “wrote a confession for character A, accidentally gave it to character B instead” - for my valentine’s day event - theme: confessions

word count: 2.3k

warnings: fem!reader, swearing, oikawa is insensitive sometimes, fluff

tags: @nishayuro @kitas-tapioca @kakashineedstotouchgrass @amisuh @avis-writeshq @samanthaa-leanne @akaashi-todorki @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi

event masterlist

You liked to think you weren’t one to fall into stereotypes. But every once in a while you did something that reminded you that you weren’t different from everyone around you. Like right now, standing hidden behind the corner of this building, clutching an obvious red envelope in your hands, waiting for the volleyball team to shuffle out of their club room so you could sneak in and slip the envelope into a certain boy’s locker.

So you had a tiny little crush on everyone’s favorite boy, Oikawa Tooru. Sue you.

Your ears were on high alert, staying as still as possible so you could focus on the voices drifting out of the room. You were a bit farther away, since you wanted to be hidden, but if you strained yourself enough, you could make out the sounds. You tried not to make yourself tense, afraid you would wrinkle the envelope. You had been so careful with it. Making sure you didn’t smudge any words as you wrote, perfuming the paper afterward. You even used that expensive wax and seal that you bought only for journaling purposes. You wanted it to be known that you made an effort.

All for him.

It was hard not to fall for someone as charming as Oikawa. He was tall and handsome, he was always so nice, always welcoming to anyone who wanted to speak to him. He was beyond talented. You could watch him play for hours. You did watch him play for hours. At the end of the day, you were just like all the other giggling, blushing girls who admired him.

The only difference is that you had never gone farther than admiration until now. You had never spoken to him, never greeted him in the hallways, never made him anything to eat like girls often did. You had watched from afar and basked in the warm, bubbly feeling that comes with having crushes.

But now here you were, slipping him a letter with all your feelings written on it. You were going into this not expecting him to accept the confession. You hadn’t even put your name on it. It was anonymous. God knows how many of these he got on a daily basis. And with Valentine’s Day approaching, you were sure his locker was overflowing. What was one more, right? You were doing this for yourself more than anything else. You needed to get these feelings out because they were overflowing in your head.

You were shaken from your thoughts when you realized the locker room was completely silent by now. You listened closely, giving it another few minutes. No shuffling, no humming, not even a peep. The coast was clear.

You could feel your entire body shake as you turned the corner and stealthily hurried to the club room door. You couldn’t let anyone see you going inside, so you quickly opened the door, slipping in and sliding the door shut behind you. You let out a sigh of relief.

Then you turned around, and your eyes met wide chestnut ones.

Oikawa was standing next to an open locker, a half folded shirt in his hand. He had probably been mid fold when you had barged in, staring at you with those big browns, mouth slightly open. Thick silence stretched over you both as you stood frozen, not even blinking.

Oikawa’s eyes drifted down to your hand, the very obvious, deep red envelope. His lips twitched before a smile took over them.

“Hello there.” His voice was lively. “Is that for me?”

You tensed at the sound of his voice, your panic finally catching up to your brain as you gulped around the knot in your throat. “No!”

He raised an eyebrow at that, tilting his head a bit. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead. “No?”

“No.”

Another silence, awkward as anything. You couldn’t move at all. You felt like you were frozen in place. Every muscle in your body was pulled tight. You had never anticipated that of all the people who could catch you in the locker room, it would be Oikawa himself.

“So who’s it for?” He then asked, eyes darting between your face and the envelope. You felt your face burn, heating up so much it made you dizzy.

“It’s-” Your mouth was so dry. You had no saliva. None. Not a drop. It felt like you were incomprehensible. Could you even speak? Or was it all gibberish? Were you spiraling now?

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god-

“It’s for Iwaizumi-san.”

Oikawa blinked at that, and you realized you had caught him off guard. Well, he wasn’t the only one. You had caught yourself off guard too. It seemed that, in the midst of your panic and staring at Oikawa, the only other person you could name was Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi Hajime. Oikawa’s best friend. Seijoh’s ace. Someone you saw just as much as Oikawa considering they were attached at the hip. No wonder when you had to think of someone, you thought of him.

“Well now I’m truly shocked!” Oikawa sounded jovial, placing a hand on his hip, his half folded shirt crumpled in his other hand. “A confession for Iwa-chan? I never thought this day would come!”

Your mind raced and you tried to scramble your thoughts together into somewhat understandable sentences. But you had just dug this fresh hole for yourself and you didn’t know what to do to get out of it. In fact, at this moment, there was no getting out of it. You had to go along.

“Y-yes.” You managed to blurt out, not knowing what else to say, looking anywhere but at him, who was steadily growing more and more amused by the second.

“You have to give it to him!”

Your head snapped up, and that’s when you realised what true panic was. What you had felt so far was nothing compared to the shitstorm your brain was experiencing after what he had just said.

“Come on.” Oikawa threw the shirt carelessly into his locker, slamming it shut and fast walking to you. With one grip on your forearm, he tugged open the club room door and proceeded to speed out of it, dragging you with him.

“W-wait!” Your voice trembled, and you doubt he even heard you. You felt like your whole mouth was stuffed with cotton. You tried to lock your legs into place and break Oikawa’s momentum. It was not happening. He was way stronger than you. You tried to pry his hand off your arm, but his grip was vice-like.

“Oikawa-san!” You basically shrieked like a hyena, finally breaking through right outside the Seijoh gym. You snatched your hand away.

“I can’t!”

Oikawa stared down at you, blinking owlishly. You bit your lip.

“Oh.” He breathed, and you saw realization wash over his face. You froze. Had he figured it out?

“I get it.” Did he?

Then he promptly turned around and cupped his mouth with his hands, leaning in through the open gym doors.

“Iwa-chan!” He shouted.

You gaped at him, struggling to even comprehend what was going on in his head. But that was the least of your worries, because trudging footsteps sounded and then the boy in question was standing in the gym entrance, scowling down at his friend.

Oh no. Oh, this is bad. This is so bad, I’m so screwed-

“Look!” Oikawa pointed at you, or more accurately, he pointed at the envelope in your hand. Iwaizumi followed his gaze, and you saw his scowl drop as shock colored his features.

“It’s for you! Can you believe it?” Oikawa let out a cackle, leaning an arm against the gym door. You wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Iwaizumi looked genuinely incredulous, like this was something he hadn’t dreamt of in his wildest dreams. Later when you looked back on what happened, you would be surprised that despite being friends with the most popular guy on campus, Iwaizumi did not get much attention. He lived in Oikawa’s shadow, and he liked it that way.

Right now, his feelings were the least of your concerns though.

Finally free from Oikawa’s grasp, you lunged forward, slamming the envelope against his chest before turning on your heel and absolutely booking it. There was no other option. You couldn’t give that shit to Iwaizumi. You also couldn’t give it to Oikawa and say you had lied. It couldn’t get any more humiliating than it already was, so you might as well run away.

Very active fight or flight response, one might say.

Oikawa watched your back as you ran full speed, one hand holding the envelope he was so unceremoniously handed. He turned his attention down to it when the flowery scent hit his nose, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Aw, she perfumed it too! How romantic.”

He grinned up at Iwaizumi, whose ears had turned red. Iwaizumi’s scowl deepened as he stared at the shiteating grin on Oikawa’s face. But he didn’t stop himself from taking the envelope Oikawa handed to him, his heart doing jumping jacks in his chest.

………………..

When you tried to convince your mom that you didn’t really need high school when homeschooling was a perfectly viable option, she told you to suck it up and there was no way you were dropping out. You didn’t know how to tell her that your life in high school was pretty much over. How could you show your face in any place where you might run into Oikawa or Iwaizumi?

But alas, you could only take one sick day before throwing yourself back to the wolves.

You were jumpy the whole day, paranoid that somehow everyone knew what had happened two days ago. But your day went by as normal, unaffected by the storm in your head. You should’ve known your peace wouldn’t last. At lunchtime, the one person you had been dreading the most was standing before your desk, looking down at you expectantly.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Well. This was it. The one thing you were hoping and praying you could somehow avoid.

Iwaizumi led you outside for some privacy, finding an empty bench overlooking the school’s running track. You sat stiffly by his side, waiting for him to speak.

“I read the letter.”

You closed your eyes and nodded, coaxing him to continue. You knew the contents of the letter. You had mulled them over in your head ten thousand times yesterday. You had not written Oikawa’s name. You had talked only about how you felt about him and the thoughts plaguing your head. You knew how easily Iwaizumi could have thought it was about him and not Oikawa.

“I’m sorry.” You blurted out.

“For the confession?”

You hesitated. “For how it all played out.”

That was vague enough.

Iwaizumi let out a breathy chuckle, and you looked up at him. “I think I should apologize instead. Oikawa can be a bit of an insensitive jerk.”

You felt your lips twitch into a smile, shrugging. “He kinda steamrolled all over me.”

Iwaizumi groaned, running a hand through his spiky hair. You followed the movement with your eyes, gaze pausing on how his bicep flexed. Something in your heart stuttered.

Up close, he was extremely attractive. His skin was smooth and clean, and his hair looked soft despite being so short. His jaw was defined and his eyes were striking. When he looked at you for longer than a beat, it made your insides squirm.

“I’m sorry about him. He told me he found you in the club room. I’m sure you wanted to do it anonymously. He shouldn’t have dragged you here. That wasn’t cool.”

You smiled at how considerate he was being. “It- It’s okay.”

“And I’ll make him apologize to you too. Promise.”

His lip ticked up in a crooked smile. You couldn’t help but stare. You watched him grow a bit nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. A little habit?

“I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me sometime?”

The question caught you off guard. You knew how Iwaizumi perceived you after the contents of that confession. You had just not anticipated that he would want anything to do with you. In your slurry of thoughts, you realized you had still not told him that the confession wasn’t for him. You stared at him, wide-eyed.

The sun beat down on your heads, casting harsh shadows on his face. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. And those same captivating eyes. You couldn’t remember ever appreciating him the way you were right now. Oikawa’s light was so bright it made Iwaizumi almost invisible. But here and now, it was just him. No distractions, no takeaways. Just Iwaizumi in all his glory. And it was making your heart skip.

“Okay.” You breathed.

Iwaizumi positively lit up at your words, straightening his back. His features smoothed, his eyes widened and a smile took over his face.

“Cool!” He blurted out, before clearing his throat. “That’s uh, I mean. Great. That’s great.”

You giggled as he stumbled over his words, endeared by his reaction. Your heart and mind both told you this was the right decision. With Oikawa, it was a puppy crush. With Iwaizumi, something told you it could be so much more.

Years later, when you told Iwaizumi about the exact intentions of that letter, and how you were beyond grateful you hadn’t given it to Oikawa, all he did was cackle while the Argentinian setter whined about how he had missed his chance.

He was joking, of course. He was the proudest best man ever at your wedding. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

[cloudyluun]

Until You Stay | famous!harry

Summary: Beth Monroe is a sharp-tongued journalist looking for her big break. Harry Styles is a cocky, untouchable rockstar who doesn’t take well to being challenged. What starts as a battle of wills—sharp words and razor-edged tension—spirals into something darker, filthier, and impossible to walk away from. But when feelings get involved, when the masks slip, will they still be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything?

A/N: This is a commissioned work of fiction based on Harry as a famous singer, I make no claims of knowing him personally in any way. But someone trusted me to bring their filthy, angsty dreams to life, and I may have gone just a little feral in the process. So enjoy the chaos, the tension, and, of course, Harry being an insufferable asshole.

Word Count: 7,7k

Warnings: 

Explicit Smut (very detailed & filthy)

Rough Sex, Degradation, and Dom/Sub Dynamics

Jealous/Possessive Harry

Toxic Dynamics & Power Struggles

Strong Language & Dirty Talk

Angst & Emotional Turmoil

Paparazzi & Media Manipulation

Mentions of Alcohol & Self-Destructive Behavior

A Hard-Won Happy Ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Beth Monroe had always known she was meant for more than this.

Twenty-seven years old and already jaded, she was the kind of journalist who wanted to chase real stories—the ones that peeled back the glossy surface of the world and exposed what lay underneath. The truth. Not the watered-down, PR-approved version of it, but the raw, unfiltered mess of reality. That’s why she had spent years clawing her way through the ranks of journalism, determined to escape the suffocating confines of celebrity gossip and meaningless soundbites.

But the industry had other plans for her.

She had started with ambition, fresh out of college, ready to write the stories that mattered. But the jobs that paid? The ones that kept the rent covered and the lights on? Those were the ones that required clickbait headlines and shallow coverage of people who barely seemed real.

And so, Beth had become another faceless name in the sea of entertainment journalists, forced to write about scandals, red carpet outfits, and who's dating who. She’d learned how to craft engaging pieces that held just enough bite to make them feel substantial, but in the end, it was all just noise. A constant cycle of disposable stories about people whose lives would never be touched by the words she wrote.

That’s why this assignment felt like her last shot.

Her boss had made it clear—this was either going to be her big break or her last chance before she was permanently relegated to covering B-list divorces and influencer drama.

"We need something real, Beth," her editor, Jonathan Pierce, had told her, fingers tapping against his desk as he leveled her with that too-patient look. "Not just another shallow puff piece. Styles is at the peak of his career right now. People want to know who he is, not the version we see on stage, but the man underneath it all."

Beth had bit back the urge to roll her eyes.

Harry Styles.

Of course.

If there was one name that could guarantee headlines and clicks, it was his. He was a global phenomenon, a walking enigma, an untouchable icon. At thirty, he had long since outgrown his boyband past, solidifying himself as one of the most powerful and respected musicians in the industry. His concerts sold out within minutes. His albums dominated the charts. His face was plastered across billboards, magazines, and social media feeds worldwide.

And yet—he was also infamously private.

Beth had done her research. He gave interviews, sure, but they were carefully controlled, filled with charming deflections and rehearsed soundbites. The media loved him, but no one actually knew him.

Her job? To change that.

She had been granted exclusive access to his European tour, shadowing him across multiple countries, given rare, behind-the-scenes insight into the life of Harry Styles, the person.

Beth knew how this would go.

She would show up, ask the hard-hitting questions, and be met with infuriatingly smooth non-answers. He’d probably flash that boyish smirk, tilt his head just right, and make it impossible for anyone to push too hard. The public adored him for that.

But Beth?

She wasn’t here to adore him. She was here to unravel him.

Still, she wasn’t expecting her first glimpse of him to hit her like a gut punch.

The moment she stepped into that room, she knew.

He was going to be a problem.

The private event was held at an intimate venue in Paris; a low-lit, exclusive affair where only VIPs, industry elites, and carefully selected press members were allowed inside. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, leather seating, and the faint musk of whiskey poured into crystal glasses.

Beth walked in, blending into the sea of journalists and label executives, scanning the room for the man she had spent weeks researching.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles did not belong to the real world.

There was something about the way he existed in a space, the way people naturally gravitated toward him—an effortless pull, an undeniable gravity.

He stood near the back of the room, dressed in an all-black ensemble that should have looked simple but instead made him look infuriatingly expensive. The tailored slacks. The silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at tattoos inked across golden skin. The loose, effortless curls.

But it wasn’t just his looks.

It was the way he carried himself like he was untouchable.

Beth watched as he laughed at something someone said, flashing that devastating grin that made cameras worship him. But it was the look in his eyes that caught her attention—sharp, assessing, distant, even as he smiled.

And then, as if sensing her stare, he turned.

Their gazes met.

A slow flicker of recognition crossed his face, though they had never met before. His green eyes scanned her, quick and unreadable.

And then, just as fast, he looked away.

Dismissive.

Beth felt heat rise to her throat.

Oh.

Oh, he was going to be a problem.

And he had no idea what was coming for him.

Beth didn’t look away first.

She wasn’t the type to shrink under scrutiny, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. But Harry? He barely spared her a full second before shifting his attention elsewhere, like she wasn’t worth a second glance.

The disinterest was strategic, she realized almost immediately. A controlled dismissal. The kind that kept people chasing, trying harder, falling over themselves for just an ounce of acknowledgment. She’d seen it before—men in power using silence as their weapon, turning the simple act of ignoring someone into an exercise of dominance.

It didn’t work on her.

So when she was finally ushered forward—her name murmured alongside a polite introduction—she didn’t bother offering her hand or plastering on a media-friendly smile. She met him with the same level of apathy he had thrown her way.

“Beth Monroe,” the event coordinator introduced. “She’s covering the European tour for Pulse magazine.”

Harry, who had just been charming some record executive’s wife with an easy smile and effortless conversation, didn’t even pretend to be interested. He gave the barest nod, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before lifting it to his lips.

“Journalist,” he mused, voice low, almost amused—but not in a way that invited conversation. More like he was tasting the word and finding it unappetizing.

Beth crossed her arms. "Is that a problem?"

That made him look at her properly.

Up close, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the sharp contrast between deliberate nonchalance and razor-sharp awareness. She knew the game well—he was observing, measuring, deciding exactly how much space she was allowed to take up.

And then, in the most unbothered, condescending way possible, he simply muttered, "No. Just predictable."

Beth’s lips parted, caught between shock and incredulous amusement.

"Predictable?" she echoed, lifting an eyebrow. "That’s a bit rich coming from a man whose entire brand is built on being the world’s most palatable rockstar."

There it was.

The shift.

The flicker of something in his gaze like she had managed to surprise him. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting her to push back.

It lasted half a second before he schooled his features, tipping his glass back and dismissing her completely.

Beth could feel the eyes on them. The silent tension in the room as the moment stretched between them. But Harry? He wasn’t interested. At least, not enough to entertain her further.

His voice was maddeningly even as he murmured, "Enjoy the party, Miss Monroe."

And just like that, he turned his back on her.

Beth spent the rest of the night watching. Not because she was enthralled—fuck no—but because she needed to understand him. If she was going to do this job right, she needed to know what made him tick, needed to peel back the carefully constructed layers he used to keep the world at arm’s length.

What she noticed was infuriating.

Harry was charming with everyone else. Effortlessly engaged, magnetic in a way that made people lean in, hang on his every word. He gave them just enough of himself—never too much, never too little. His persona was crafted with surgical precision.

But with her?

Nothing.

He ignored her. Not obviously, not rudely, but in a way that felt intentional. Every time she tried to break into a conversation, he sidestepped her. When she asked a question, he answered in vague, detached sentences.

And when she finally managed to pull him into a one-on-one exchange again, it ended just as quickly as the first.

“I’ve noticed you never really answer questions,” she said, arms crossed as she studied him from across the dimly lit bar area.

Harry didn’t look up from where he was stirring his drink with a lazy wrist. “And I’ve noticed journalists never stop asking them.”

Beth exhaled sharply through her nose. “Right. Because heaven forbid anyone learns something real about Harry Styles.”

That got his attention.

He set his glass down, leaning against the counter as his gaze slid over her slowly.

“You lot aren’t interested in ‘real.’” His voice was quiet, but firm. “You’re interested in a headline.”

Beth bristled. “And you’re interested in a narrative.”

Something shifted.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

Then Harry smirked.

“Good luck with your story, Miss Monroe.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Beth clenched her jaw.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

Beth had dealt with difficult men before. Politicians who thought they were too powerful to be held accountable, executives who assumed her presence in a room meant she was someone’s assistant rather than the journalist they’d have to answer to. She had sharpened herself against condescension and arrogance, made a career out of standing her ground in rooms filled with people who wanted to dismiss her.

But Harry Styles?

He was a different breed of difficult.

For the next several weeks, Beth followed him across Europe, shadowing his tour with increasing frustration. She sat through press conferences where he charmed reporters into asking safe, meaningless questions—the kind that allowed him to give those clever, detached answers that never actually revealed anything.

She watched him interact with fans, saw the way he flipped the switch so effortlessly—one moment the distant, untouchable rockstar, the next, someone who could make a stadium of people feel like they mattered.

And yet, with her?

He remained a wall.

He made it a point to avoid her questions, brushing past them with an easy smirk and a raised eyebrow, like he found her attempts amusing.

“Beth, darling, you’re thinking too hard,” he had murmured once, lounging backstage after a show, still glistening with sweat from the stage lights. “Why don’t you just write the same piece everyone else does? You know, the whole ‘Harry Styles is mysterious but also terribly charming’ bit. Sells every time.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t write fanfiction.”

He grinned. “Shame.”

And then there were the games.

Beth would show up for scheduled interview slots, only to be told that Harry was "unavailable." Sometimes it was because he was in a mood. Sometimes it was because he was “too busy” relaxing in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone, while she sat outside with her recorder untouched on her lap.

When she finally called him out on it, he didn’t even pretend to feel bad.

“Beth, love,” he drawled, voice dripping in mock sympathy, “you’re in my world now. Things don’t always run on schedule.”

Her patience cracked. “So you’re just wasting my time for fun?”

Harry leaned back in his seat, legs spread wide, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest. “Not for fun.” Then, after a beat, he smirked. “Though it is fun watching you get all worked up.”

She wanted to throw something at him.

The breaking point came after a particularly brutal argument.

It had been a long day—one of those rare occasions when Beth had actually gotten a few uninterrupted moments to ask real questions. She had pushed harder than usual, refusing to let him slide through with half-answers and smirks.

“Why do you do that?” she had asked, arms crossed as she watched him peel the rings off his fingers after soundcheck.

Harry flicked a glance up. “Do what?”

“Pretend you’re giving people something real when all you’re actually doing is controlling the narrative.”

The look he gave her was sharp, guarded. “That’s rich, coming from someone whose job is to spin a story.”

Beth exhaled through her nose. “You think this is easy for me? That I just write whatever sells? I’m not here to make you look good, Harry. I’m here to write the truth.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

And then, before she even saw him move, he was in front of her.

Too close.

Her breath caught.

She wasn’t sure if he had stepped forward or if she had unconsciously leaned in, but suddenly, there was no space between them. The air thickened, buzzing with something hot and electric.

His jaw flexed.

His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, as if he was holding something back.

Beth lifted her chin, refusing to shrink away.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, not quite. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and slow, a quiet challenge.

“You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

Beth swallowed, throat tight. “I think you hate that you can’t intimidate me.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating pause.

For a second—just a second—she swore his gaze dropped to her mouth.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them acted on it.

And later that night, when Beth was alone in her hotel room, staring at the ceiling—she realized she was still thinking about it.

She wondered if he was, too.

Beth liked to believe that she had control over herself—over her emotions, over the way her body reacted, over the frustrating, infuriating pull she felt every time Harry Styles so much as looked at her.

But control was hard to maintain when someone was constantly poking, prodding, pushing just to see where her breaking point was.

And Harry?

Harry was pushing.

Hard.

It happened in Milan.

The afterparty was in full swing—music thumping, bodies swaying, conversations weaving in and out of the dim, golden-lit space. Beth wasn’t drinking, but the atmosphere was intoxicating in itself, everyone high off the post-show adrenaline.

Harry had been watching her all night.

Not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she felt it. The flicker of his gaze when she moved through the crowd, the way his attention snagged whenever she threw her head back in laughter.

She ignored it.

She refused to let him get in her head.

Which was why, when another musician—Nate, a guitarist from one of the opening acts—struck up a conversation with her, Beth didn’t hesitate to let herself enjoy it.

He was easy to talk to, charming in a way that didn’t feel like a performance. And when he leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh—a real, unguarded laugh—she barely had time to register the shift in the air before Harry was there.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, nursing a drink, his stare cutting through the noise like a blade.

Beth felt it before she saw it—the shift in Nate’s posture, the way his fingers curled around the bottle in his hand.

“I’ll catch you later,” Nate murmured, voice a little too careful.

Beth blinked. “Wait, what?”

But he was already slipping away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room.

And that was when she felt him.

The warmth of his presence behind her, the slow exhale against the shell of her ear.

“You like playing games, love?”

Beth closed her eyes.

Of course. Of course he had to do this.

She turned slowly, deliberately, only to find him watching her with a look she couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” she said, tone light, though she could feel her pulse thrumming against her skin.

Harry tilted his head, mocking. “That was cute. The whole giggle and lean-in routine. Did you rehearse that?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to have a conversation without your approval?”

His jaw flexed. “Didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying, exactly?”

He took a step closer.

Then another.

Beth refused to step back.

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth.

“I’m saying… you’ve been running your mouth for weeks. Acting like you don’t give a shit about me. But then—” He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “—then you go and pull that?”

She scoffed. “Pull what?”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t nice.

“You wanted me to see that.”

Beth’s stomach flipped.

She should have laughed in his face. Should have rolled her eyes, brushed past him, walked away.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something about the way he was looking at her.

Something thick and charged and dangerous.

His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

Beth’s breath shook.

The music downstairs faded into a dull throb, the laughter and chatter dissolving into nothing. The party might as well have been on the other side of the world.

It was just them now.

Beth barely registered how it happened—one moment, she was in the thick of the afterparty, heat and voices pressing in on all sides. The next, the door clicked shut behind her. A soft, decisive sound.

She turned just in time to see Harry’s hand linger on the lock, fingers curling around the metal, twisting until it slid into place. A quiet snick.

Her pulse skittered.

Slowly, he turned back to her, gaze dark and unreadable.

Somehow, between one breath and the next, Beth’s back was already against the wall, cool brick pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. She could still feel the phantom warmth of Nate’s touch—light, fleeting—but it didn’t matter. Not when Harry was in front of her now. Not when his body was taut with something sharp, something dark. His eyes, usually lidded with lazy arrogance, were harder now. Narrowed. Burning.

His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to control himself.

Then, low, rough, "You like playing games, love?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

She forced herself to lift her chin. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His jaw twitched.

Slow. Measured. He reached out, running two fingers up her arm, featherlight but searing. Beth refused to react, refused to show him that he got under her skin.

His lips curled. "Laughing. Touching. Batting your lashes at him like you wanted him to take you right there in front of everyone."

That made her scoff. "Oh, fuck off—"

She barely got the words out before he was on her.

No warning. No hesitation.

One hand shot to her throat—not squeezing, just holding, firm enough to make her gasp as his body pressed flush against hers. His other hand planted itself beside her head, caging her in completely.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath warm, uneven.

"You wanna push me, is that it?" he murmured, voice like gravel. "You wanna see what happens when I lose my patience?"

Her breath hitched.

It wasn’t fear curling in her stomach. It was something much worse.

She wanted this.

Needed it.

So she pushed him again, knowing it was reckless. "Maybe I do."

That was all it took.

Harry didn’t waste another second.

His grip tightened, and then he was kissing her—if it could even be called that. There was nothing soft about it. No buildup, no hesitation. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a war between them.

His hand left her throat, moving down, down, over the thin fabric of her dress, gripping her waist so tightly it ached.

Beth’s nails raked down his arms, her own frustration spilling over. She wanted to hurt him. Make him feel this the way she did.

"Fuck—"

The word was ripped from her throat as he yanked her leg up, hitching it over his hip. The dress rode up instantly, baring her thigh, and then his hand was there, fingers digging into her skin, making her burn.

Desperate.

That was what this was.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t romance.

It was hunger.

It was starving.

His teeth scraped along her jaw, down her neck. He bit—not enough to leave marks, but enough to make her feel it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her jaw. “Needy. Desperate. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Her fingers fisted in his hair. "Fuck you."

He laughed, breathless, dark.

"Say it," he pressed. "Say you want it."

Beth clenched her teeth. She hated him.

And yet.

And yet.

"Say it."

She swallowed hard, nails still biting into his shoulders. "I want it."

He hummed in approval, pushing her harder against the wall. "Good girl."

Then he wrecked her.

There was no teasing. No gentle touch. He dragged her panties down and shoved her dress up with no regard, making her gasp as the cool air kissed her exposed skin. His fingers slid between her thighs, finding her soaked, and he smirked.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered, lips brushing her ear. "You act like you don’t want this, but look at you."

She bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

It didn’t last.

His fingers slipped inside her, rough, unrelenting, and the cry broke from her throat before she could stop it.

"That’s it," he murmured, pumping them hard and deep. "Don’t hold back now."

Her head tipped back against the wall, hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his shirt. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing, teasing, pushing her closer and closer to the edge with every sharp movement.

"Thinkin’ about him now?" Harry taunted, voice low. "Bet you’re not."

She wasn’t.

She hated it, but she wasn’t.

All she could think about was Harry.

His fingers. His voice. The way he was taking what he wanted without a second thought.

Her whole body tensed, pleasure winding tight in her stomach.

And then he pulled away.

A whimper slipped out before she could stop it.

He grinned. "Not yet."

He undid his belt in a swift motion, shoved his jeans down just enough, and then he was lifting her completely, pressing her against the wall, spreading her open for him.

She barely had time to take a breath before he slammed into her.

"Fuck—"

She choked on a gasp, nails raking down his back as he filled her, stretched her in a way that made her legs shake.

There was no time to adjust.

No time to breathe.

He just fucked her.

Hard.

Desperate.

The wall scraped against her back with every sharp thrust, and she loved it.

His fingers bit into her thighs, holding her in place, making her take every inch, every punishing roll of his hips.

"You take me so fuckin’ well," he murmured, voice strained, lips dragging over her neck. "Like you need this."

She did.

God help her, she did.

She was close—so fucking close, and she knew he could feel it in the way she clenched around him, in the way her nails dug deeper, in the way her body arched.

"Say it," he ordered. "Say you’re mine."

Her breath stuttered.

He thrust harder. "Say it, Beth."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her body screaming for release.

And then she broke.

"I’m yours."

He groaned, deep and guttural, and that was all it took.

Pleasure crashed through her, leaving her shaking, wrecked, gasping as he kept going, drawing it out until she had nothing left to give.

Moments later, he followed, hips jerking, a rough growl spilling from his throat as he came deep inside her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Their breathing was heavy, erratic, mingling in the thick air between them.

Then, just like that, it was gone.

Harry pulled away, adjusted himself, ran a hand through his hair like nothing had happened.

Beth watched, still breathless, still reeling.

He met her eyes, his own dark, unreadable.

Then, with a smirk that made her stomach flip, he stepped back.

"See you around, love."

And then he was gone.

Leaving her wrecked, ruined, and still fucking wanting.

But worst of all?

She still wanted him.

She hated herself for it.

She hated him more.

Beth barely remembered leaving the party, barely registered the way the city lights blurred together in the back of her cab, the hum of Milan’s nightlife drowning out the noise in her head. Her body still felt him—his hands, his breath, the rough edge of his voice scraping against her skin.

It should have been enough.

It should have burned her out, smothered whatever slow, insidious pull had been building between them.

But it didn’t.

Because when she saw him again the next day, sitting in the green room of the arena, lounging like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ruined her the night before—Beth realized something awful.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

--

Harry was different now.

Not in the way Beth had expected—not in the way most men got after a night like that.

There was no smugness, no knowing smirk, no self-satisfied arrogance that she could take a swing at.

Instead, he was… colder.

Distant. Detached. Like she was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, an insignificant blip on his radar.

He barely looked at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her when she walked into a room, didn’t spare her even a glance during soundcheck or press briefings.

And that should have been fine.

She should have been fine.

But the second she started talking to someone else—the second she so much as smiled in another man’s direction—Harry’s jaw would lock.

His shoulders would tense.

His fingers would curl around his drink, around his microphone, around anything to keep from doing something reckless.

Beth noticed.

And she made sure he knew it.

She leaned in closer when someone else made her laugh. Let her fingers linger just a little longer when she touched an arm. Tilted her head just right when she listened, knowing Harry was in the room, knowing he was watching even if he refused to look at her directly.

She wanted to prove a point.

If she was just a fuck, if she was nothing, then he shouldn’t care.

So why did he?

--

It happened in Paris.

Beth had been talking to a photographer, a harmless conversation, nothing she wasn’t allowed to do.

Harry had been across the room, pretending he didn’t give a shit.

Then suddenly, he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he was right there.

His hand closed around her wrist, fingers tight, his voice just low enough for only her to hear.

“Outside. Now.”

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “Excuse me?”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You heard me.”

For a second, she considered telling him to go to hell.

But she didn’t.

Because she wanted this too.

The door barely shut behind them before he was on her.

Teeth at her jaw, hands rough on her hips, shoving her against the brick wall of some dark alley behind the venue.

Beth gasped, but it wasn’t from shock.

She should have expected this.

She had wanted this.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Harry muttered against her skin, his voice thick with frustration, with heat, with something else she couldn’t name. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Beth grinned, sharp and mean. “What am I doing, Harry?”

His fingers tightened.

“You think you can get a reaction out of me?” His teeth scraped her jaw. “Think you can make me jealous?”

Her breath hitched.

“So you admit it?” she whispered. “You were jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he touched her—rougher, filthier than before—told her everything she needed to know.

The first time had been about control. About proving a point.

This time?

This time, it was a need.

Desperate. Dirty. Addictive.

And neither of them could stop.

Every time they tried, they failed.

The silence never lasted. The distance never held.

Because the second they were in the same room again, the second their eyes locked across crowded spaces, it was already too late.

They had pulled each other under too many times to pretend they knew how to breathe without drowning.

Beth knew it was toxic.

Knew it in the way her hands trembled when she buttoned up her shirt in the dark, his warmth still clinging to her skin.

Knew it in the way Harry’s fingers curled into fists when he watched her leave, like he wanted to reach for her but refused to let himself.

Knew it in the way they never talked about it.

Because talking would make it real. Talking would force them to admit that it wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just convenience, wasn’t just a mistake they kept making over and over again.

But they didn’t stop.

Not when they should have.

Not even when the headlines started.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown rumors, twisting what they had into something uglier, something Beth couldn’t control.

She was losing pieces of herself to this, to him.

And Harry—Harry wasn’t losing anything.

Not his reputation. Not his career. Not his control.

She should have left before it reached this point—before it ripped through them like a wildfire, scorching everything in its path, leaving nothing but wreckage and ruin in its wake.

Before it bled into everything else.

Before it turned into this.

--

It happened in London, outside a sleek, high-end restaurant that reeked of old money and exclusivity—the kind of place Harry fit into effortlessly, where his name alone held weight, where he belonged.

Beth never had any interest in it. The glint of polished silverware, the hushed conversations over expensive wine, the way the air itself seemed thicker inside—like money had a scent, and it didn’t belong to people like her.

She hadn’t even wanted to come. Had told herself, promised herself, that she was done. That she wouldn’t let him do this to her again.

And yet, here she was.

The air outside was thick, muggy, summer pressing against her skin like a second layer, suffocating, clinging. A neon sign from across the street flickered, buzzing intermittently, painting the pavement in broken splashes of red light.

Harry stood a few steps away, pacing, hands raking through his already-messy curls. His jaw was locked, shoulders drawn tight, his frustration visible in the tense way he moved. He looked untouchable—towering, sharp, devastating in his black suit, the collar of his shirt slightly open like even it couldn’t handle the heat of the moment.

His eyes found hers—dark, searing, burning like embers about to catch.

“Are you seriously fucking mad at me for this?” His voice was low, taut, a thread stretched too thin, on the verge of snapping.

Beth folded her arms tightly across her chest, holding herself together. She could feel the anger, coiling hot in her stomach, winding through her like a slow, controlled burn. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

His lips pressed into a hard, thin line. “Enlighten me.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. He didn’t care. He never fucking cared.

“Your team,” she spat, voice shaking despite her best efforts, “just made me look like some desperate, attention-seeking—”

“—that’s not what happened.”

“Really?” She stepped closer, chin tilting up defiantly, her eyes searching his face for something—anything. A flicker of regret. Understanding. A crack in the cold, calculated exterior he was so good at wearing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they threw me under the fucking bus to save your ass.”

The photos had hit the tabloids that morning.

Beth Monroe, clinging to Harry Styles. Beth Monroe, picking a fight in public. Beth Monroe, the problem.

Headlines twisting the truth, reshaping the narrative, turning her into something she wasn’t. His PR team had done what they always did—spun the story, cleaned up the mess, protected the asset.

Beth had been collateral damage.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking away as if he couldn’t be bothered to deal with this. “Jesus, Beth, why do you care so much what people think?”

Her stomach twisted—not just at the words, but at how he said them.

Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Like all of this—all the nights, all the touches, all the ways they’d clawed at each other, desperate and reckless—had meant absolutely fucking nothing to him.

And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe she had been fooling herself this entire time.

Something inside her snapped—something raw and fragile and past the point of saving.

“You know what?” She took a breath, forcing her voice to stay steady, forcing herself to hold his gaze even though it hurt. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

And before she could change her mind—before she could let him pull her back in—she turned around.

And for the first time, she didn’t look back.

It should have been a relief.

Should have felt like he had won.

But it didn’t.

Harry downed the rest of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass as he set it down with more force than necessary.

The neon lights of the club flickered above him, casting shadows along the crowded space. Smoke curled through the air, mixing with the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, a heartbeat that wasn’t his. People surrounded him—laughter, touches, whispers—but none of it registered.

His third drink.

Or maybe his fourth.

He wasn’t keeping track. Didn’t need to.

Because Beth was gone.

And he should feel lighter. Should feel fucking free.

But instead, there was just this—this hollow, gnawing feeling in his chest, a slow rot that no amount of whiskey could burn away.

He had told himself it was just sex. That it was just a game.

A messy, reckless game they both played, fully aware of the rules.

So why the fuck was he still thinking about her?

Why did he still hear her voice—sharp and furious, echoing in his ears like an accusation he couldn’t shake?

I don’t. Not anymore.

Why did he still see her face when he closed his eyes—not the smirking, defiant expression she always wore when they fought, but the way she had looked at him that night—raw, open, hurt.

Why the fuck did that bother him?

Harry scoffed under his breath, shaking his head, reaching for another drink.

Fuck that.

She’d be back.

She always came back.

Wouldn’t she?

The weeks passed.

She didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t show up at any more venues.

And no matter how many women he took home—no matter how many soft lips and unfamiliar hands he let touch him—it was never the same.

Because none of them were her.

None of them made him feel alive the way she did when she pushed him, when she fought him, when she stood her ground and refused to give in.

And for the first time, Harry realized—

He had fucked up.

Not just in the way he always did—careless, reckless, breaking things without thinking about the consequences.

No, this was different.

This was real.

This was Beth.

And he had let her slip through his fingers like she was nothing.

Like she hadn’t changed him.

Like she hadn’t fucking ruined him.

It took him weeks. Too many weeks.

Weeks of sleepless nights, of bitter drinks that burned as they went down, of meaningless encounters with women who weren’t her.

Weeks of ignoring the pit in his stomach whenever he reached for his phone and saw her name missing from his notifications.

Weeks of denying—lying to himself—until he couldn’t anymore.

Until it became impossible to pretend that this wasn’t more.

That she wasn’t everything.

So, he found her.

No cameras. No PR team carefully crafting the narrative. No staged apology meant to keep his image intact.

Just him.

Beth stood in the doorway of her apartment, eyes wary, lips pressed together like she wasn’t sure if she should slam the door in his face or let him inside just to yell at him.

She was in sweats, hair tied back, looking so soft and real and heartbreakingly beautiful that Harry had to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You really have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Would it help if I said I knocked first?”

Beth lifted a single, unimpressed brow.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

She sighed, exhaling heavily, fingers gripping the doorframe. “What do you want, Harry?”

Her voice was flat, tired—so fucking tired—and it hit him in the chest like a punch.

He did that.

He made her sound like that.

And maybe if she had been yelling, maybe if she had been angry, it would have been easier.

But this?

This quiet disappointment, this absence of fire, of fight—this was worse.

Because it meant she had already decided to let him go.

And he couldn’t have that.

He wouldn’t.

Harry swallowed, licking his lips, feeling the words crawl up his throat, unfamiliar and foreign and terrifying.

“I was afraid,” he admitted, voice rough, uneven. “You got too close.”

Beth’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him either.

“I didn’t—I don’t—” He let out a slow breath, shifting his weight. “You were supposed to be temporary, Beth.” His voice cracked on her name. “And I don’t want temporary anymore.”

Her eyes softened. Just a little.

But she didn’t let him off the hook.

Not yet.

She folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head. “So what? You came all this way just to tell me that?”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“And now you expect me to just—what? Forget everything? Pretend like you didn’t throw me to the wolves the second things got hard?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t expect that.”

Beth exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before she looked at him again, and fuck, he felt stripped bare under her gaze.

“I was falling for you,” she whispered, the words barely audible but lethal. “And you made me feel like I was nothing.”

His stomach dropped.

“I know,” he rasped. “And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Beth.”

She didn’t speak, but her fingers trembled where they curled around her sleeve.

Harry took a step closer.

Then another.

Until she was right there, close enough to touch, but he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he just let himself be seen—raw, vulnerable, desperate in a way he had never allowed himself to be before.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice low, uneven. “But I want to try. I want you.”

Beth swallowed hard, blinking quickly, like she was trying to hold something back.

“Say it again.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Harry took a breath, steady and sure.

“I want you.”

Beth let out a shaky exhale, something breaking, fracturing between them—but this time, it wasn’t falling apart.

It was falling into place.

She didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But when she finally reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him down, letting him in—

He knew.

She wanted him too.

-

This isn’t like before.

It’s not fueled by resentment, not tangled in frustration or sharp-edged words.

It’s not an attempt to silence their own thoughts or to claim victory in an unwinnable battle.

This time, it’s different.

Because this time, they’re choosing each other.

And neither of them wants to pretend anymore.

It’s quiet.

Not the uneasy, tension-laced silence they used to share, but something softer. He’s brought her here—to his real place, not some impersonal hotel room or a shadowy corner where they could disappear without consequence.

It’s his space.

Dim lighting from the city outside filters through half-drawn blinds, painting warm, golden stripes across the floor. The air is thick, heavy with something unspoken, the echoes of every past moment clinging to the walls.

No noise from the outside world.

Just them.

And for the first time, that’s all they need.

They stand close but don’t touch—not yet.

It’s strange, this carefulness between them, this slow, deliberate restraint. For so long, everything between them has been about force, about taking, about dominance wrapped in lust.

But now—

His fingers reach for her, hesitant but certain, trailing the line of her jaw with an aching kind of reverence.

No roughness. No bruising grip.

Just a slow, featherlight touch, like he’s memorizing her, like he’s afraid to move too fast.

Beth’s breath stutters. She tilts her face into his touch, just barely, just enough to tell him that she wants this too.

When she opens her eyes, he’s already watching her.

Already waiting.

Already sure.

When he kisses her, it’s nothing like before.

Not an attempt to overpower, not a silent demand for control.

It’s soft.

Tentative, at first—like he’s rediscovering her, learning the shape of her lips, savoring her warmth. A slow slide of mouths, the quiet exhale of breath mingling between them.

And then—

The restraint fractures.

A low, desperate groan rumbles in his chest, and his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, molding her against him. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, but it’s not about possession anymore.

It’s need.

It’s want.

It’s everything they’ve never allowed themselves to feel.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down into her, and he lets her. Lets her take as much as she wants.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear at her clothes like before, doesn’t drag fabric over her skin like it’s just another obstacle to get through.

He takes his time.

Fingers skimming her shoulders, down the length of her arms, over her ribs. He lingers, watching her, drinking her in like he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with something raw, something that sounds like awe.

Her breath catches.

She should feel exposed. Vulnerable.

But the heat in his gaze doesn’t make her feel bare.

It makes her feel wanted.

She reaches for him then, pulling at his shirt, sliding her hands over warm, firm skin, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath her palms.

He lets her undress him too.

No rush. No urgency.

Just this.

Just them.

He takes his time.

Worships her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, exploring every inch like he’s memorizing her, like he never wants to forget the way she feels beneath him.

His fingers trace the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the softness of her inner thigh.

He doesn’t hurry.

Doesn’t just take.

He gives.

She fists the sheets when he drags his mouth lower, when he pauses to watch her reaction, when he smirks against her skin at the way she shifts, needy, impatient.

She doesn’t want to beg. Not this time.

But when his mouth finally touches her, warm and devastatingly slow—

She does.

He doesn’t rush her to the edge.

He builds it.

His mouth works her over with precision, savoring every shudder, every gasp, every quiet, breathless plea.

His hands hold her open, steadying her, grounding her, keeping her exactly where he wants her.

He watches her the entire time.

Doesn’t look away.

Not when she trembles.

Not when she cries out his name.

Not when she finally, finally falls apart beneath him.

He just holds her gaze, dark and unwavering, like he’s making damn sure she knows—

This means something.

When he finally slides into her, it’s different.

No rough, frantic pace. No bruising hands.

Just this.

Just the slow, deliberate push of his hips, deep and measured, drawing a gasp from her lips.

He stills for a moment, presses his forehead against hers, breathing her in, grounding himself in the feel of her.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her nails dragging lightly over his skin.

Not clawing.

Not marking.

Just holding.

He moves then.

Not just fucking—making love.

Every slow thrust feels like a confession.

Every whispered “mine” against her lips feels like a promise.

And this time—

She doesn’t fight it.

She lets him have her.

And takes him in return.

No rush to leave.

No scramble for clothes.

No silence.

Just this.

Just them, tangled in sheets that smell like them, his arms heavy around her, his fingers tracing slow, mindless patterns against her back.

For the first time, he stays.

For the first time, she lets him.

There’s a pause. A deep, quiet moment where neither of them speaks.

Then—

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet. Certain.

Beth doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts closer, presses her lips against his jaw, and breathes him in.

“Yeah, Harry.”

A slow smile tugs at his lips.

She watches it spread, watches the tension leave his body, watches the way he finally lets himself believe it.

“I am.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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

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[starkeyisthelastname]

When stepdad rafe hears reader talking about how she wants to loose her virginity

He had over heard you on the phone, giggling away with one of your girlfriends. As delicate and innocent as you were, your voice still carried and that’s when he had found out about you wanting to lose your virginity. The thought of some random boy’s limp dick inside you, made him seethe in anger. It had to be him who popped your perfect little cherry.

You were sitting on your pretty pink bed, surrounded by an enormous amount of fluffy pillows and stuffed animals. Glittery pen in hand, you wrote something down in your journal, while humming to whatever pop song played. Rafe knocked on the already open door, watching those big eyes light up at the sight of him. You slammed the journal closed, shoving it aside.

“Hi, Rafey!” You said, swinging your bare legs off the bed.

It was comical to him that you were still a virgin, especially the way you ran around the house. Shorts that barely covered your rather thick ass, and flimsy tank-tops that your perky tits nearly fell out of. He was curious now to what you were hiding in that diary of yours, making him walk further into the girly room.

“Whatcha doing?” He asked, casually as he made his way over to the bed. “Writing down all your dirty little secrets.” He grinned. He could tell you were nervous by the way you quickly avoided his gaze, looking down at the fury white rug.

“No.. I don’t have any dirty secrets.” You told him, voice small as you swung your legs back and forth.

“Yeah? So you wouldn’t mind me reading your diary. We are family after all and shouldn’t hide secrets.” He said as a matter of factly, reaching down to pick up the journal. You tried to grab it from him, but failed due to his height.

Opening the last page you written in, Rafe read the neat writing, his confirmation of what he had heard earlier coming true. “Today, I talked to my best friend about wanting to lose my virginity. I want to have sex so so bad…” He didn’t even need to continue on, seeing your cheeks turning pink.

“Please don’t tell my mom.” You pleaded to him, knowing that she wanted to keep you pure despite the fact that you were 19.

Rafe chuckled, throwing the diary back onto the bed. “Relax, kid. What’s got you so nervous?” He asked. “You need dick that bad, huh?”

The way you looked up at him, eyes so innocent and lips so kissable, nodding your head, had him growing hard in his pants. It took everything in him not to shove you down on your knees and fuck your little virgin throat. He'd save that for another time though, right now he was determined to ruin your tight cunt.

“See, when you lose your virginity, you want it to be with someone special. Someone you can trust. Not one of your little boyfriends.” He told you.

You looked at him confused, with a little curiosity behind those eyes. “Someone like you Rafey?” Your tone of questioning as you bit your lower lip out of habit. His ocean eyes gleamed in excitement, the heat running straight to his cock.

His eyes nearly rolled back at the sight in front of him. His pure little beauty of a step- daughter, completely naked before him. You were still reluctant that this was wrong, even after his fingers had loosened you up a bit and tongue had been on your sweet folds. Now with his cock in hand, lining it up with your plump pussy he watched your face twitch as he pushed in.

“No.. it hurts.” You mumbled, pushing at his now bare chest as the stretch to your untouched hole was burning.

“You are fine, kid. Never had 9 inches up your princess cunt, I know it.” Rafe’s voice cracked as he tried not to ram himself inside the tightest cunt he ever had the pleasure of being in. His thumb found your clit, rubbing it slow circles to distract you from the pain. Poor thing.

Your whimpers turned into the prettiest moans sooner than later as he began speeding up. Eyes heavy, and abs flexing as he thrusted into you. He was Rafe Cameron and he got everything he wanted, including taking his step-daughter’s virginity.

[aur0ral1ghts]

ᴄʜᴇᴇʀ ʟᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴘᴀʀɪɴɢ; ᴄʜᴇᴇʀʟᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ǫᴜᴅᴅɪᴛᴄʜ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ!ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ

ᴡᴀʀɪɴɢs; ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs. ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪs ʜᴏᴛ ᴀғ. ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ. sᴡᴇᴀʀs.

You entered the cheerleader change rooms, and you placed your foot on a wooden bench as you pulled up your white and green socks to your knees. You changed into your green and sliver cheer uniform. You brushed out your hair as you tied it up, placing a green ribbon in it. "Exicted?" You heard your friend say who's also a cheerleader. "Yes, but a little nervous. What if i mess up?" You nervously said, bitting your lip, as you fixed your hair a little more. "Don't worry, we practiced the routine more times than I can count." She chuckled, patting your back in reassurance.

After a while, you and your team were called up, and a choruse of applause was all you could hear. You were head cheerleader, which made you even more nervous. At the end of your routine, your cheermates and you would have to do a human pymaid. Though you practiced it multiple times, you still felt a pit of anxiety filling your stomach.

You watched as the Slytherin Quidditch team began to fly out into the fields, the wind blowing their hair messily. It was the first match of the season. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor. The Slytherins were determined to win, not wanting some stuck-up Gryffindors winning instead of them.

As the announcer, Lee Jordan, begins to talk, you and your team begin to do your cheer, and the crowd goes absolutely wild, as you guys wave your pom poms in the air in support for the Slytherin team. "Give it up for the Slytherin cheerteam!!" He shouts. You began your routine.

So far so good

You repeated in your head. After a minute or two, you took in a shakey breath as backed up. As your teammates stacked up, you slowly climbed on top of them, the cold air blowing your ponytail in the wind. You impressed the crowd your moves. Your gaze stuttered on Mattheo, who's frozen on his broom, gripping the handle tighter, his eyes piercing into you. His mouth crippled into a smirk. Your eyes made their way back to the screaming crowd. You couldn't let Mattheo distract you. You chuckled and sighed in relief once you landed. "Thank you to the Slytherin cheerteam again!" Yelled Lee Jordan. You took a huge sip of water as you sat down on a bench with a few of your friends. Watching the match begin.

You watched as Mattheo flew effortlessly on his broom, going almost as fast as lighting. The humid air coated his skin. You couldn't help but stare, the way his uniform looked on him, the way he squinted his eyes slightly, taking in the scenery around him. The way he gripped the broom handl-

Stop.

You thought you couldn't be thirsting over your enemy! But yet again, you couldn't help but feel attached to him. He was handsome, sure, but you couldn't help but feel your heart beat faster every time he would talk to you. He had such a way with words you didn't even know was possible. And that one time you found him writing poems and sketching in his journal watching the stars at night on the astronomy tower, you realized maybe he wasn't so bad.

Mattheo found it easy to push your buttons. He would always find a way to tease you. He found it assuming, entertaining even. The way your forehead would crickle in annoyance. The way your eyebrows would fury. He noticed everything about you. He possibly even wrote a poem about you but quickly threw it away once he realized what he was doing, he even mumbled a spell to make it simply disappear out of thin air just incase someone saw it. He denied his feelings for you, constantly trying to convince himself he wasn't attracted to you, when Indeed he was. He yearned for you sliently, watching you sit there and look so effortlessly perfect while laughing with your cheermates on the opposite end of the table in the great hall.

He found it hot that you were a cheerleader. He loved your green glitter eyeshadow with a black cat eye. He found it extremely sexy. Every chance he got, he would focus his gaze to you, effortlessly moving your body, chanting a cheer. He bit his lip, imagining you were cheering for him, and only him. Unfortunately, half of the male population of Hogwarts also found you extremely beautiful. At least three times a month, you would get asked out. You kindly rejected then all, knowing your heart deep down only had it bad for one boy, and that being Mattheo Riddle.

-

"SLYTHERIN WINS!" Lee Jordan yells out, the Slytherin side of the crowd begins to go wild. You waved your pom poms up in the air, moving your body with the noise of the crowd. You watched as the Gryffindor players frowned and groaned. The players slowly made their way to the ground, congratulating their mates.

Your eyes drifted onto Mattheos' sweaty body, his curls slightly stuck to his forehead as he wiped his head with the back of his hand.

Shit - that was hot.

You bite your lip as he begins walking closer to you. You simply froze in your spot, looking a different direction. You thought he was just heading back to the change room to shower or whatever.

"Pretty cool, the trick you did." He chuckled, leaning against a wooden pillar. "Oh, uh, thank you, I guess." You shurged, trying your best to stay cool. "You're welcome." He says cooly, taking a step closer to you. You felt his warm body heat. He began to fidget with your ponytail, tugging it slightly. You just looked up at him. "You should probably take a shower. You smell like a bloody troll." You faked a disgusted face, covering your nose. But he didn't even smell bad. He just smelt like that familiar scent you eventually grew fond of. The scent of cold air still lingered on him. "Whatever you say, princess." He shurged, walking away, once again wiping sweat from his forehead.

You furrowed your eyebrows as he walked away. Was he flirting with you?

Ha, no way..

You guys were enemies. Everyone knew that, hell, even the Profossors did! They knew better than to put your seating avengements next to each other in fear of you guys blowing up the place out of pure spite or something. Everyone in hogwarts, even the ghosts, knew you guys loathed each other. But lately, your relationship with one another has been getting a bit...odd.

You turned your head, but Mattheo was already gone. You huffed deeply, taking in some cold, crisp air as you wandered back to the change rooms. The temperature had dropped a little, so you put on a leather jacket. You decided to just shower at your dorm since the showers here were small and seemed to run out of hot water faster. You walked over to the sink, examining your reflection, before splashing some cold water onto your face.

You wrapped your arms around you. You didn't know why, but your legs seemed to take you in front of the boys' change room. You wanted to just walk away, but your legs refused. It felt like someone placed the leg locking jinx on you. You waited underneath the stands, shielding you from the wind.

You waited as you saw many players begin to leave. Then Mattheo walked out. His eyebrows rose up when he saw you, simply waiting. "Uh, Mattheo." You call out. "Mhm?" He answers back, walking closer to you.

Merlin, have mercy.

"I forgot to say, but congratulations. You did pretty good." You smiled at him. Mattheos' heart did a mini backflip. "Suriprised you didn't fall off or anything." He chuckled at your lame attempt to insult him. "I almost did when I saw you in that little cheer outfit of yours." He whispered in your ear. You felt your cheeks heating up, though it was chilly outside.

"I-" you began, but it was too late. He was causally walking off.

-

That night, you laid down in your bed, simply just thinking about Mattheo. About your interaction with him. You sliently cursed yourself for being so flustered around him. That was the complete opposite of what you were known for. You were known for your confidence and your attitude. And know, you could barely even form a simple insult at Mattheo. Did he make you that nervous?

You got up from your bed, clearly frustrated as you paced around your room.

What the bloody hell was this boy doing to you?!

You thought. He was clouding your thoughts. He were all you could think about.

You decided to get some fresh air, so you trailed up to the astronomy tower to try to relax. That's when you saw a tall dark figure, leaning against the railing. You couldn't see who it was due to their back facing you. You could smell the cigarette smoke radiating off of them. That's when it clicked. It was Mattheo. The very boy you hoped you wouldn't see.

"Riddle." You say, your voice barley audible. He turned around, his breath heavily. You secrectly admired him. The way the moons softly lit light was casting on him. He looked so damn handsome that it made your heart ache.

"L/n.." He replies back. You slowly make your way to the railing as well. Mattheo walked you, a cigarette hung low between his lips. "Uh, you want one?" He offers. "Hm, thanks." You smile as you grab the cigarette from his mouth. He looked dumbstruck for a second. He reached in his pockets and gave you the lighter to light it.

He watched as you lit the cigarette with one hand while you used your other hand to cover it so the wind didn't blow it out. He thought he would never see a sexier sight. He took a deep breath.

"So..why are you up here?" He asks, looking back to the moon. His side profile was definitely something. His jawline was very sharp.

"Just.. had a lot on my mind." You shuffled uncomfortablely. "What was on your mind?" He asked. "Uh," you paused. You felt your cheeks turn a deep shade of pink. You took a deep breath to calm you.

"I was thinking about you, actually-" you muttered, your voice low. You looked down in embrassment.

Mattheo was next to feel his face turn pink.

"What!?" He says, his eyes piercing into you. "You seem.. flustered." You giggle softly. "No shit, the most gorgeous women just admit she thinks of me!" Mattheo huffed. You were now a blushing mess.

"You think im gorgeous!" You squeal, raising a hand to hit his shoulder in a playful manner. He caught your hand. You two just simply stared into eachothers eyes. He watched as you parted your lips.

"Mattheo-" you began. "What are you doing?" You took in a shakey breath. "Something I should have done a while ago.." he leans in. "Y/n..i don't want to be enemies anymore.." you heart did atleast 10 back flips.

His hand let go of your wrist as you placed with hands on his chest. "Me either." You whispered, and with that, he smashed his lips onto yours, his hands moved over to your waist.

"Do you trust me?" He asked. You nodded. "Yes."

He picked you up and placed you on top of the railing. You looked down, the drop was at least 100 feet down. "Dont worry, I've got you." He said, holding you tight.

You spread your legs open a bit, allowing him to go in between them. He placed a single hand on your thigh, caressing it, rubbing circles on your bare skin. You leaned down a bit and kissed his forehead.

"So damn beautiful." He mumbles, looking up at you.

[velarisdusk]

Before the Thorns

Tamlin x Reader

summary: You met Tamlin when you were five, and every summer after that was his. Years later, you return to Spring and find that he's grown into someone you almost recognize. Almost. But the way he smiles at you? That hasn't changed a bit. word count: 11.1k content: [ sexual content (not as explicit as my usual), explicit language (like one word) ] author's note: this is kinda a holy fic by my standards huh yall? very minimal content warnings! yay! this one is very lovey dovey, had to come through with a tam friends to lovers :D ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ golden brew infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot stirred thank you for the request anon! i've never written anything like this before so i hope you like it!! <3

Summer’s Beginning Spring Court, Year 5

The Dragonflies

You stood half-hidden behind your mother’s skirts, trying not to fidget. The parlor was too warm, too polished, full of the polite chatter of grown-ups. You clutched the hem of your dress tighter.

“He’s just your age,” your mother had whispered as they brought you in. “Only five, just like you. You’ll be great friends.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what to say to anyone.

Tamlin was already in the room, tucked behind his mother in almost the exact same way you were tucked behind yours. Hair like a sunlit wheat field, eyes a sharp green under lashes so long they looked absurd on a boy. He peeked at you, then quickly looked away again.

The Lady of Spring leaned down and murmured something to her son. He nodded, hesitant, and took one step forward. 

“Tamlin,” she reminded gently, placing a hand on his small back. “Remember your manners. Go on. Properly.”

He swallowed hard, then walked toward you with slow, careful steps. When he reached you, he stopped, looked at the floor, and bowed.

“I’m Tamlin,” he said. His voice was soft. Shy. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You blinked. Then, without being told, you did your best curtsey. It was awkward—your shoes caught a little—but you straightened up with all the dignity a five-year-old could muster.

“I’m (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”

Across the room, your mothers both let out tiny, delighted sounds. You could hear the word precious whispered more than once.

But neither of you were listening anymore.

Tamlin was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Um,” he said. “Do you wanna see the dragonflies?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “What dragonflies?”

“In the garden,” he said. “There’s a little pond. They’re everywhere right now. Blue ones and green ones and one that looks kinda purple. I found it this morning.”

Your heart skipped with sudden, unexpected excitement.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s go.”

You grabbed his hand—without thinking, without asking—and the two of you ran.

Out through the open patio doors, past the stone path and the hedge shaped like a stag. Your parents’ laughter faded behind you as the garden swallowed you up in green and gold.

The pond was small and round, with lily pads dotting the surface like little floating plates. And sure enough, the air above it danced with flickering wings—bright flashes of turquoise and emerald, humming like magic.

You gasped. Tamlin beamed.

You spent the rest of the afternoon chasing dragonflies and giggling, forgetting entirely that you were strangers only half an hour ago.

By dinnertime, your shoes were soaked, his knees were muddy, and neither of you wanted to go back inside.

That night, as you lay in bed in your guest room, you whispered his name to the ceiling like a secret.

And in his own wing of the manor, Tamlin wrote your name in the dust on his windowsill, just to see what it looked like beside his.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lordling of Spring Summer’s End, Year 5 “Her shoes got muddy and she didn’t even cry. She said it’s just dirt. I didn’t know girls could be like that.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Summer’s End, Year 5 “Tamlin is quiet like me. I like that. He showed me a caterpillar and told me not to squish it because it would turn into a moth. I told him moths are boring. He got this weird look on his face.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Midsummer Spring Court, Year 8

The Dare

The river was colder than you remembered.

It always was, that first wade in. Ankle-deep, skirts bunched in your fists, you stood in the shallows and let the water bite at your skin while Tamlin swam ahead—messy and laughing and already soaked through. He always dove in too fast, didn’t wait to adjust. But then, Tamlin never really waited for anything.

He surfaced near the bend, hair plastered flat to his head. “Race you to the log!”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m in a dress.”

“That’s your fault.”

“Says the boy who almost drowned last summer trying to impress a swan.”

“It wasn’t a swan,” he said, wading closer. “And I wasn’t trying to impress it.”

You raised a brow.

He glared. “It had weird eyes.”

The argument dissolved into giggles. You sloshed out of the river after him, feet slipping a little in the mud. The glade was as green and overgrown as ever—bushes thick with leaves, old tree roots knotted into natural steps along the bank.

You were toweling off your feet with a patch of moss when Tamlin glanced toward the far edge of the clearing—and grinned.

“You still too scared to touch the lightning tree?”

Your hands paused. “I was five last time.”

“Exactly. You’re older now.” He stood, wringing out his tunic. “Go on.”

You squinted at the tree in question. It stood crooked at the rim of the glade, hunched like an old man. The bark had split from a long-ago strike, curling away in scorched ribbons. Even now, in all this sunlight, it looked wrong. Like it didn’t belong here.

“I don’t see you going near it,” you said.

“I already did. Last summer. You were in the garden with my mother.”

You gave him a look.

He grinned wider. “Ask my brother.”

“I will.”

“Go touch it, coward.”

You stood, brushing dirt from your knees. “I’m not a coward. I’m cautious.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

He smirked, backing away with his hands up. “Fine. Be cautious. But I’m telling everyone you were too scared.”

“You’re a pest.”

“And you’re a chicken.”

You scowled. But your pride was louder than your fear. You adjusted your skirt, lifted your chin, and stepped off the soft moss toward the gnarled thing at the edge of the trees.

The glade quieted as you approached. Even the insects seemed to hush, the hum of summer air dimming with every step. Tamlin trailed after you—barefoot, breathing a little faster, but pretending not to.

The lightning tree looked worse up close. Its bark curled in brittle edges, its roots warped in a wide, gnarled yawn. Some stories said it had been struck during a Solstice storm and lived. Others said it hadn’t lived. That something else had taken root in its place.

But you didn’t believe in ghost stories. Not really.

You reached out—

“Boo!”

Two hands grabbed your shoulders and you shrieked, leaping a full foot off the ground. Tamlin burst into laughter behind you, already backing away, clutching his ribs.

“You horrible—”

“Did you see your face?!”

“You’re awful! You’re actual filth!”

“You sounded like a baby fox—eee!”

You tackled him before he could say anything else. The two of you went sprawling into the grass, all elbows and knees and breathless howling. Somewhere above you, the branches whispered with spring wind.

“You’re evil,” you gasped, cheeks aching with laughter.

“It was funny,” he wheezed, trying to wrestle you off.

“I’m going to drown you.”

“You can try.”

You pinned him for a second, breath coming fast. He blinked up at you, still grinning, hair full of grass.

And then—like children always do—you forgot the fear entirely. You rolled away. He rolled after you. And the world was only sun and sweat and sky and the sound of your own wild, fearless joy.

Later, when the shadows grew longer and your chaperones called you in for supper, you would walk side-by-side with dirt-streaked hands and secret grins. And no one would ask why you smelled like smoke and river water. 

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lordling of Spring Midsummer, Year 8 “I scared her today at the black tree. She screamed like a squirrel. I didn’t mean to laugh so hard, but I couldn’t stop. She pushed me into the mud. I hope she’s not mad.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Late Summer, Year 8 “He always dares me to do things first. I pretend I’m annoyed, but I don’t mind. Not when it’s him. His brothers, on the other hand…”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Early Summer Spring Court, Year 12

The Intended

It was only three days into your stay when your father’s letter arrived.

You hadn’t read it expecting anything remarkable—he usually asked how the journey had gone, reminded you to behave, offered updates about cousins or court life back home. But this one ended with something that made your stomach go still.

“Your time with the Spring Court has always been a gift, dearest, and with any luck, one that may be more permanent in the future. Lord Beron has shown interest elsewhere for his third youngest. If things continue smoothly, I believe this match may be secured.”

You’d read it twice before folding the parchment away.

The match.

You knew, vaguely, that such things happened. That daughters were aligned and offered and promised for the sake of ties. But you hadn’t thought—truly thought—that you might be one of them. And certainly not with Tamlin.

The thought didn’t horrify you. Not like it might’ve with someone else. You liked Tamlin. You always had. He was quiet, like you. And kind. 

Still… you held the secret close for two more days before telling him.

It was late afternoon. The pond from your childhood buzzed with insects, its reeds taller now, lily pads wider. You and Tamlin were skipping stones—though neither of you had said much. He’d seemed quieter this year. A little prickly. Your shared hours had been fewer and shorter, and more often than not, spent in awkward silences.

“I think our parents want us to get married someday,” you said, mostly to the pond.

Tamlin missed his throw. The stone fell with a clumsy splash.

“…What?” he said, frowning.

You looked over at him. “My father wrote to me. Said a match might be secured. Between us.”

His mouth worked for a second. Then he scoffed. “They can’t do that.”

You blinked. “Well. They kind of can.”

“That’s stupid.” He whipped another stone hard enough that it sunk. “I don’t want to get married.”

You tried to smile. “Not now, obviously.”

“Not ever. Especially not because they told me to.”

A pause.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my summers with a girl.”

The words landed in your chest like wet wool.

“Oh,” you said. Your hands smoothed over your skirts. “Well. I don’t want to spend mine surrounded by boys either—especially not your awful brothers.”

You didn’t mean it cruelly. You didn’t even quite mean it as a retort. But the air between you had curdled, and neither of you quite knew how to fix it.

Tamlin mumbled something about practice with his brothers and stood.

“See you later,” he said, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer.

That evening, you found Tamlin’s mother arranging wildflowers in the solar. She welcomed you without question, and you spent the rest of the dusk quietly stringing little blossoms together while she hummed.

And for the rest of that summer, it went on like that. You and Tamlin passed each other like drifting clouds—sometimes close, sometimes not. And when your mothers looked on and sighed about how sweet the two of you were, you just kept your eyes on the embroidery in your lap and didn’t say a word.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Midsummer, Year 12 “Father says it’s always been the plan. That’s why the summers, the letters, the visits. I didn’t think I’d mind. But now Tamlin won’t look at me. I miss him.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lordling of Spring Early Summer, Year 12 “I heard her crying in the garden. I almost went to her. Almost. I don’t know why I didn’t. I feel stupid. Why does it feel like everything changed all at once?”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Summer’s End Spring Court, Year 15

The Goodbye

The roof tiles were still warm from the sun.

You sat with your back against the chimney, legs dangling over the edge, the whole of the Spring Court spread below like a painted memory—soft gold fields, violet-hued sky, manor lights flickering on one by one.

Below, the staff were lighting lanterns. Their glow made even the fireflies seem shy.

Tamlin sat beside you, one leg bent, the other hanging free. You’d scaled the lattice with him just after supper, like you always did on the last night of summer. Like it was tradition. Like it would still be tradition, next year.

He handed you a plum without looking. You took it without thanks, bit into the skin. Sweet and dark. The juice ran down your fingers.

“Carriage’ll be here early,” he said after a while.

You nodded, chewing. Somewhere below, someone laughed—faint and far.

He shifted slightly. “You’ll be back next summer, though.”

You wiped your mouth on your sleeve and looked down at your lap. “I won’t.”

He stilled. 

“They’re sending me to Montesere,” you said. “To stay with my cousins.”

“For the whole summer?”

You nodded.

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Father says it’s time I learn how other courts live. Broaden my understanding. Make… more connections.”

You hesitated, then added quietly, “There’s talk—political rumblings, they say. Something about strengthening alliances. It’s more than just visits and pleasantries.”

Tamlin made a quiet sound. You couldn’t name it.

You took another bite. It didn’t taste as good this time. Too ripe. Too soft.

“It’s not forever,” you offered, voice low.

He breathed out through his nose. “Feels like it.”

Silence settled between you—not cold, but heavy. Familiar in the way only late summer silence can be: all endings and unfinished things.

A lantern flared below. Somewhere, a gardener called goodnight. The wind stirred the edges of your gown.

“…Will you write?” he asked.

You looked at him then. Really looked. The boy who’d once dared you to touch lightning trees. Who used to sulk when you beat him at cards, who always swam out too far and came back grinning.

He wasn’t a boy anymore, not really. His shoulders had gotten broader. His jaw was starting to square. His voice had dropped sometime last year, low and rough now even in its quiet.

So many summers. So many versions of him. Of you.

“If you do,” you said.

Tamlin turned to you. The distance between your knees, your hands—it could’ve vanished in a breath. But neither of you moved.

“Promise?” he said.

You hesitated—just for a second.

“Promise,” you said.

The word sat between you like something fragile. Like if either of you touched it, it would disappear.

You stayed like that until the stars came out fully. Until the moon crested the trees and someone called your name from the garden below.

When you climbed down the lattice, neither of you said goodbye.

You just looked at each other—too long, too quiet—and walked away.

Later, alone in bed, you’d stare up at the ceiling and wonder why you hadn’t hugged him.

Years from now, you’d still think about that night and wonder if he’d wanted to kiss you.

And wonder if you would’ve let him.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Summer’s End, Year 15 “She’s not coming back next summer. I kept thinking: say something, ask something. But I didn’t. I let her climb down without a word. I think that was my last chance.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Autumn, Year 15 “I should have hugged him. I should have said something more than ‘promise.’ But what? I didn’t even know what I wanted. I just knew I didn’t want to leave.” 

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Summer’s End, Year 16 “Montesere is louder than I remember. My cousins wake at dawn and stay up long after I’ve gone to bed. There’s always someone in the hall, always music bleeding through a wall, someone asking me where I’ve been, where I’m going, why I’m not smiling anymore. I miss the quiet of the river. The tree line. The garden paths where you can hear yourself think. I think I’m homesick. But I don’t know which home I mean. Tamlin wrote me last week. It was short. I’ve read it five times. I haven’t answered yet.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Winter, Year 16 “She hasn’t written back. I shouldn’t care this much. I’ve been busy. Father wants more time in court. He says I should practice my listening face. I told him that’s what I use every time he speaks. He didn’t laugh. I brought a hawk back from the forest today. She was caught in a trap, wing mangled. I carried her back in both hands. Held her to my chest. I’m trying to think of a name for her. I almost wrote to ask (y/n) what she’d choose. Maybe I still will.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Spring, Year 17 “Everyone says I’m adjusting well. I know the dance steps. I can hold a conversation over dinner. I’ve learned how to wear my hair so I look older. Today, I said something clever in court and made four people laugh. Tamlin’s letter came today. He says the hawk still doesn’t trust him. That she only lets his mother near. I wrote back. I didn’t tell him my father has had me stay in Montesere all this time. I didn’t tell him I’d be staying here again this summer. I didn’t tell him I cried when I saw his handwriting.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Late Summer, Year 17 “I still go to the glade. It’s overgrown now. No one’s touched it since she left. The tree hasn’t changed—it’s still the same twisted thing—but the grass has eaten the clearing. I think I saw her name in the mud by the river once. I think she wrote it the summer before she left, maybe with a stick. Sometimes I sit beside it and pretend she’s still here. Just for a minute. Just long enough.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Early Winter, Year 18 “I forgot what his voice sounds like. I realized it today and it nearly ruined me. I read one of his old letters and heard nothing in my head. Not even the right cadence. I don’t know if that means I’m moving on or if I’ve just lost something. I think it might be both.” 

From the Private Journal of Tamlin, Lord of Spring Spring, Year 18 “I wrote her. I didn’t send it. I said too much. Not enough. The wrong things. I’ve rewritten it thrice now. I don’t know why I can’t just say I miss her. I don’t know why that feels like a betrayal of something I can’t even name.”

From the Private Journal of (Y/n), Daughter of House Ashenrose Late Spring, Year 19 “Word came. I’m to return to Spring this year. Just for the summer. It feels surreal. I’ve packed and unpacked thrice already. I wonder if he still waits at the garden gate. I wonder if he still keeps the letters. I wonder if he’ll know who I am now. I wonder if I’ll recognize him.” 

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Summer’s Return Spring Court, Year 19

The Homecoming

The trees had changed.

It was the first thing you noticed, peering out from the carriage window as the horses crested the familiar rise. Not the color—not the greens, still vibrant and sun-warmed—but the shape of them. Larger somehow. Wilder. The branches curled over the path like arching ribs, knotted and overgrown. Less manicured than you remembered.

The carriage wound slowly through the fields, wheels crunching gravel softened by ivy and moss. The sun was high, mellow as butter, and everything around you smelled like memory—honeysuckle, loam, fresh grass under hoof.

You leaned your elbow against the window frame, letting the breeze lift your hair, tug your thoughts forward and back.

Four years.

Almost four years since you’d last seen each other. 

Three years of other summers. Mountains instead of glades. Marble instead of wild hedges. Endless, stifling hours spent under your cousins’ scrutiny in Montesere—smiling politely, swallowing sighs.

But this—this was what summer was supposed to feel like.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the manor came into view.

It looked the same. Or nearly the same. Pale stone, rose-draped columns, the fountain gurgling in the courtyard. A dream half-remembered. The smell of honeysuckle and river moss wafted in through the open window, and for a moment it hit you like a blow—how badly you’d missed it. The scent of home. Or one of them.

You smoothed your skirts and sat up straighter. The carriage slowed, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once, twice, and fell silent.

The gates loomed ahead.

They hadn’t changed at all. Twisted bronze and carved blossoms, ivy curling like veins along the metal. The sigil of Spring—antlers and petals—glinted in the sun.

The carriage creaked to a stop at the edge of the courtyard. You heard the soft click of reins, the shuffle of hooves on gravel, the opening of the manor’s great bronze gates.

They were all there.

The High Lord and Lady of Spring stood at the front of the small welcoming party, regal in golds and soft greens, their expressions practiced and pleasant. Behind them, the two elder sons—tall, broad-shouldered, their eyes assessing even through the smiles. And Tamlin.

A half-step back.

He looked like summer had claimed him outright.

Gods, he was tall. Taller than you remembered. Broad through the shoulders. His golden hair was longer now, tied back loosely at the nape. And his face—so familiar it ached, but refined now. Older. Sharper.

He wasn’t looking at you. Not directly. His gaze hovered just past the carriage, locked on some distant point in the trees.

Your heart kicked, stupid and loud.

Before you could catch your breath, the door opened and a footman extended a hand to help you down. Your slippers crunched on the gravel. Skirt, chin, spine: you adjusted them all at once, head high as your family had taught you.

But you didn’t feel like a guest.

You felt like a girl returning to a half-finished sentence.

“Lady (Y/n),” the High Lord said warmly. “Welcome back to Spring.”

You curtsied. “Lord Zephyrus. Lady Ysolde. Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, we’d never dream of a summer without you,” Lady Ysolde said, sweeping forward to kiss both your cheeks. She smelled like lilacs and old parchment. “You’ve grown more beautiful every year.”

“Montesere’s stylists,” you said lightly. “They know their tricks.”

One of the elder brothers chuckled. You couldn’t tell which. You hadn’t seen either in so long that their features blurred together—mirror images of pride and posture.

And still, Tamlin hadn’t said a word.

You looked to him.

He met your gaze at last.

The breath left your chest like you’d been struck.

“Tamlin,” you said.

His name tasted old and new all at once.

“…Welcome back,” he said quietly.

It was all he could manage.

The Lady glanced between you both, something curious in her expression. “Come,” she said. “You must be exhausted. We’ve had the east wing freshened just for you. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

You let them lead you inside.

Tamlin walked behind you the whole way.

The dining hall hadn’t changed.

Long carved table. Silver-glass chandeliers. The windows wide open to let in the dusk breeze, carrying in the scent of blooming jasmine. The place was the same—and still, it felt unfamiliar.

Or maybe you were the unfamiliar thing in it.

You sat between Lady Ysolde and one of Tamlin’s brothers, your back straight, your hands folded neatly in your lap while a small army of servants began placing dishes on the table. You didn’t look at Tamlin. Not right away.

But you felt him.

Across the table. Slightly to your left. The shadows in your periphery bent around the shape of him—his profile sharp with silence, his jaw flexing every so often like he was chewing on words instead of food.

Conversation rose around you like music you couldn’t quite follow.

The High Lord asked after your father’s health, your court’s politics, how Montesere’s summers compared to Spring. You answered with easy diplomacy, the sort you’d been trained to wield—graceful, charming, politely vague.

Tamlin didn’t speak once.

When the roast was served, he passed the dish without looking up. When your fingers brushed as you reached for the same knife, he flinched.

Only a little.

You pretended not to notice.

Lady Ysolde touched your arm gently. “We missed you, dear. Truly. The house has felt quieter without you.”

“Has it?” you asked, smiling. “I always thought it was Tamlin making the most noise.”

A beat.

The table went still.

One of his brothers gave a low snort of laughter. “She got you there, baby brother.”

Tamlin shifted. Then, in a voice so deep it nearly startled you—low and rough and not at all the boy you remembered—he said, “I was nine. You threw me in the fountain.”

“You looked like you needed it.”

“I was holding a piece of cake.”

“Exactly,” you said innocently, sipping from your glass. “Better to be wet than sticky.”

Lady Ysolde chuckled. “It’s like nothing’s changed.”

But everything had.

You could feel it in your bones, in the way your smile hurt a little, in the way Tamlin kept looking down into his plate like it held all the answers he didn’t know how to ask.

Finally, halfway through dessert, he spoke.

Quiet. Careful.

“How long are you staying?”

It wasn’t a casual question. Not from him.

You met his eyes. Steady now. Even if your pulse wasn’t.

“Just the summer.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his shoulders shifted. A breath, a thought, a silent note of only.

Not long enough.

Across the table, conversation had resumed. The family talked of garden renovations, of court schedules, of a wedding someone had been invited to in Autumn. You kept nodding, playing the part of the polite guest.

But Tamlin hadn’t looked away.

Neither had you.

After the remnants of dessert were cleared away, Lady Ysolde placed her napkin beside her plate, smile warm, voice gentle as always. “You must be tired from the ride, dear. It’s gotten late without any of us noticing.”

You weren’t, not really. But you nodded anyway.

She turned to a nearby servant and murmured a few words. The girl bowed and motioned for you to follow. As you stood, the entire table stirred with polite murmurs of goodnight, of we’ll speak more in the morning, of rest well, my lady.

Tamlin didn’t say anything.

But his eyes followed you all the way to the door.

The manor’s upper halls were quiet.

Your footsteps echoed off marble, faint and familiar. Outside the arched windows, the sky had gone velvet blue, stars just beginning to blink awake between the trees. The servant led you down a corridor you used to know by heart—and with every step, a hundred memories whispered at your heels.

She stopped at the farthest door.

“Here, my lady,” she said, pushing it open.

You thanked her softly. She curtsied and vanished back into the shadows.

And then, for the first time in years, you were alone in your old room.

It looked…

The same. Almost.

The rug was different. Darker blue, maybe. And the mirror by the wardrobe was gone, replaced with a small, carved vanity you didn’t recognize. But the walls were still that pale rose shade, soft and warm under the candlelight. The window still faced east, overlooking the garden. The bed still had your favorite quilt—green with gold stitching, one you remembered trailing your fingers over late at night when you couldn’t sleep.

You crossed the room slowly, like if you moved too fast the spell would break.

There were fresh flowers on the table. Lavender and foxglove. You weren’t sure if that had been a coincidence. You weren’t sure anything was.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Summer’s Return Spring Court, Year 19

The Sleepless Night

The room was too quiet.

Too still.

You shifted under the covers again, kicking one leg free of the quilt. Then rolled to your other side. Then back. The same ceiling beams stared down at you just as they always had, but tonight they felt… closer. Like the walls had shrunk in your absence, like the room had folded in on itself without you in it.

You used to love this room. Used to wake to birdsong and sleep to crickets. Used to lie here listening to the wind stir through the garden.

But now you could only hear your heartbeat. Loud. Uneven.

And your thoughts.

He looked different.

Taller somehow. Sharper around the edges. That softness he used to carry—he still had it, you could see it in the way he reached for his water glass—but it was buried now, half-hidden under layers of silence and weight.

You hadn’t spoken alone. Had barely spoken at all.

And gods, the way he looked at you. Like you were a ghost.

You threw back the covers.

You didn’t bother with shoes—just pulled on a robe, wrapped it tight, and slipped quietly out the door.

The manor was silent, lit only by the blue wash of starlight through the windows. You knew the path without thinking. Knew every step, every turn, like no time had passed at all.

Your bare feet whispered over cool stone, down the stairs, out into the night.

The garden had grown.

Not wildly, not unkempt—but the edges were less defined than you remembered. A little more untamed. The hedge shaped like a stag was still there, now dotted with white blossoms. Fireflies danced just above the dewy grass.

And beyond that, through the gap in the trees—where the path turned soft and mossy—you found it.

The glade.

Still hidden.

Still quiet.

Still home.

The moonlight spilled in through the clearing above, silvering the long grass. The old tree stood in its same crooked lean, bark knotted and roots curled like fingers through the earth. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tamlin.

Sitting at the base of the tree, knees drawn up, arms braced across them. He was staring up at the moon like it might answer him. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. One hand tangled in the grass at his side.

You froze.

Tamlin didn’t move at first. Just kept staring ahead, posture loose but guarded, like he’d known this was a possibility but wasn’t sure what he’d do with it.

You stayed at the edge of the clearing, unsure if you were meant to speak. If he even wanted you here.

So you said the safe thing. The practiced thing. The thing they teach you in court, when all else fails.

“You’re up late.”

His mouth curved—something dry, humorless. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You nodded once. “Me neither.”

Silence again. The good kind. The old kind. It sat between you like an old friend you weren’t ready to greet yet.

You moved a step closer, then another. He watched your feet. Not your face.

“I can go,” you said, when you reached the edge of the tree’s long shadow. “If you want to be alone.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Briefly. “No.”

Just that.

So you glanced down at the patch of grass beside him, still damp with dew. You started to lower yourself.

He stopped you with a hand. “Wait.”

Then, without a word, he tugged his shirt over his head—fluid, familiar, a motion you’d seen a thousand times before—and laid it down between you. The soft linen caught the moonlight, paled almost silver in the dark.

He didn’t meet your eyes as he did it. Just muttered, “It’s wet.”

You hesitated. Then sank down slowly onto the cloth, smoothing your hands across it. Still warm from his body.

Still warm from him.

You’d grown up with him shirtless. River days, archery practice, lazy afternoons half-napping under the trees. You’d seen those shoulders, that chest, those arms.

But gods.

He’d filled out.

The boyish softness was gone. Replaced by hard lines, roped muscle, golden skin that caught and held the moonlight like it wanted to be looked at. His back flexed as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Every movement was a goddamn revelation.

You stared. You shouldn’t have, but you did.

Your voice came out drier than intended. “So,” you said, tilting your head just slightly, “is this you being chivalrous?” you paused, smirking. “Or are you trying to show off?”

He huffed a laugh, finally glancing sideways at you. “It’s dew, (y/n). I didn’t want your ass getting wet.”

You blinked, caught off guard not just by the bluntness, but by how easily he said it—like he wasn’t trying to impress you, like he didn’t care if he shocked you.

And then—

Laughed.

Real, actual laughter. Loud and startled and completely not appropriate for midnight in a glade you used to rule together.

Then—slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were real—he smiled.

It hit you like sunlight.

“…You came,” he said, voice low, almost disbelieving. You knew he wasn’t talking about the glade. 

You smiled, a little breathless. “You doubted I would?”

“I wasn’t sure you still wanted to.”

“I wasn’t sure you still remembered me.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, quiet but full. “How could I not?”

His hand twitched slightly at his side, then stilled.

“I— You look…” He hesitated. “Different.”

“So do you.” You let your eyes run over him more boldly now. “You’ve filled out.”

Tamlin laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “As have you. Not—not in a bad way, I mean.”

“You haven’t changed,” you teased. “Still awkward.”

He grinned—really grinned—and your chest tightened.

The quiet came again—but softer this time. Less strained. Like the kind that used to live here, in the hush between butterflies and sun-dappled branches.

Tamlin plucked a long blade of grass and began to twist it between his fingers. “You used to braid these,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “You used to try. Always too thick, too clumsy.”

“I got better.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He flicked the grass at you. It missed entirely.

You laughed again—quieter now, but real. It felt like stretching after a long winter.

His voice was gentler when he spoke next. “I didn’t think you’d come back here. To the glade.”

You looked down at the shirt beneath your palms, then at him. “Neither did I.”

“Why did you?”

You swallowed. Looked out over the trees instead of answering. “Just couldn’t sleep.” Your feet had carried you here before you could think better of it. You could’ve gone anywhere else—but somehow, you ended up here. You weren’t sure why.

Tamlin nodded, like he understood exactly what you meant—and like maybe he didn’t believe you.

“It hasn’t changed.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not really.”

Except it had. The glade, him, you. Everything.

You were still trying to find the words for that when his fingers brushed yours.

You didn’t move. 

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t reach back.

He didn’t try again.

The quiet turned thick again. Not the easy kind. Not the comfortable kind. It curled in your throat like fog. Dense. Damp. Full of things left unsaid.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “The hawk still doesn’t trust me.”

You blinked. “She’s alive?”

He nodded. “Mostly free-range now. My mother says she likes the eastern cliffs.”

You smiled, just barely. “She always liked the wind,” you said, recalling his letters. 

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

For a while, all you heard was the wind. The leaves brushing overhead. The chirp of some insect you’d forgotten existed. You closed your eyes and let it sink into you. The sound. The scent. The memory.

The ache.

“I missed this place,” you whispered.

Tamlin said nothing for a long time. You wondered if he’d even heard you.

Then, quietly: “I never stopped coming.”

You turned your head. He was watching you now. Openly.

His eyes searched your face like it might still be a trick. Like he hadn’t entirely convinced himself you were real. That you were here.

“Never stopped missing it, either,” he said, barely audible.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Couldn’t breathe, either.

“I’m only here for the summer,” you said at last. Soft. Almost guilty.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to…” You trailed off. Then tried again. “You don’t have to—pretend nothing’s changed.”

A muscle in his cheek jumped.

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I know everything’s changed.”

You nodded once. Tried to settle that truth inside you.

Failed.

Another silence. This one raw.

He stood first. Ran a hand through his hair before offering it to you. “You should get some sleep.”

You rose slowly. Hesitated. Then handed him back his shirt.

His fingers brushed yours again. Deliberate this time.

Still, you didn’t reach.

Still, he didn’t ask.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Early Summer Spring Court, Year 19

The Day Off

You found him in the stables, just after the morning haze had lifted.

Sunlight spilled through the high slats in gold streaks, catching the dust in the air. A few stablehands moved quietly in the back, but Tamlin stood alone near the front, bridle in hand, brushing down his stallion with slow, practiced strokes.

He looked up when he heard your steps—one flick of his eyes over your boots, the cut of your riding trousers, the slope of your hips, the way the riding jacket fit you like it had been measured by hand. And it all was. They’d been custom-tailored for your stay—Lady Ysolde’s doing, no doubt. You’d protested at first, but now, as you caught the pause, the flicker in his gaze, the shift in his grip on the brush, you weren’t so sure you regretted it.

“You’re early,” you said, not quite smiling.

“I was always early,” he replied, setting the brush aside.

You clicked your tongue. “No, you always said you were early. There’s a difference.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him as he reached for the saddle. “Still sharp, I see.”

You stepped into the stall beside your mare, glancing sideways as he cinched the girth strap. His arms had always been strong—but they were something else now. Coiled. Controlled. You had to look away.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The trail wound through the estate like a ribbon—wide enough for two abreast, trimmed clean by the groundskeepers, but still wild at the edges. 

You rode ahead at first.

He let you.

The morning was warm, the kind of heat that settled low and slow, caught between your shoulder blades beneath the jacket. Leaves rustled high in the trees overhead, dappling the light into patterns across the path. Your mare’s hooves made soft thuds on the packed earth, rhythmic and even, and behind you, you could hear his stallion keeping pace.

You didn’t speak. Not for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, the quiet felt like an old song—you both knew the words, but neither of you rushed to sing them.

Eventually, you slowed enough for him to pull up beside you. His presence filled the space easily, without asking for anything. He adjusted the reins in one hand, his wrist brushing his thigh, his thigh brushing yours whenever the horses drifted too close. Neither of you moved away.

“You remembered the trail,” he said, not quite a question.

“I wasn’t sure it would still be here.”

He hummed low in his throat. “My father wanted to turn it into a hedge maze. Said it was too rustic.”

You glanced at him. “And?”

“I told him I’d see to it myself.”

You let yourself smile. “You always did have a sentimental streak.”

He looked at you then. Fully. “Only about some things.”

And gods, the way he said it—low, warm, deliberate—made your stomach twist.

You turned away. Clicked your tongue and urged your mare into a canter. “Race you to the old bridge.”

You didn’t wait to see if he followed.

You knew he would.

The wind tore past you, loud in your ears, tugging strands of hair from your braid. Hooves pounded against the packed earth—your mare surging forward, the world blurring into green and gold and motion. You ducked low over her neck, eyes locked on the path ahead.

Behind you, a thundering of hooves, and then—his voice:

“You’re cheating already!”

You grinned, not looking back. “It’s not cheating if I’m just better!”

“You’re reckless—”

“You’re slow!”

A laugh, caught and flung on the wind. His stallion gained ground, dark and fast and inevitable. You urged your mare faster. The trees narrowed, the trail curved—and there, just ahead, the old bridge arched over the stream, silver light catching on the water beneath.

“Don’t break your neck trying to catch me!” you shouted.

“Don’t break your pride when I pass you!”

But he didn’t.

You heard his stallion pull back—just slightly. Felt, more than saw, the choice in it.

You hit the bridge first, hooves clattering across the worn planks. Pulled the reins, slowing at the far side, heart racing.

He came up beside you a moment later, his cheeks flushed, chest rising fast.

“I win,” you said, breathless, already grinning.

Tamlin smirked, slowing to a trot. “I let you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You tilted your head. “Then why are you out of breath?”

He laughed—low and rough and real. You hadn’t heard it in years. Not like that. Not for you.

Your smile faltered, just slightly. Something settled in your chest. Heavy and warm and aching.

“You’ve got half the forest in your hair,” Tamlin said.

You blinked. “Do I?”

He nudged his stallion closer. Close enough that your knees nearly brushed. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

“Hold still,” he said, voice low.

You did.

His fingers were gentle as they worked through the wind-tangled strands, plucking out a twig, then a burr. He tugged free a bit of moss that had somehow woven itself into your braid.

“Gods,” he murmured, half-smiling. “Did you roll in it?”

“I beat you,” you replied. “Gracefully.”

He chuckled under his breath. “If you say so.”

He lingered a second longer than necessary. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, leaned back in the saddle, and said, “You want to stop at the bridge?”

You nodded once. “For a minute.”

The two of you let the horses amble forward until they stood right at the center. The stream sang below, the same soft murmur it had always made.

You looked down over the edge. “It looks the same.”

Tamlin mirrored your posture. “I used to dare you to jump from here.”

“And I used to dare you to think before you spoke.”

His laugh was quiet. But real.

“It’s strange,” you said. “I remember it being bigger.”

“You were smaller.”

You glanced at him. “We both were.”

The breeze curled through your hair. The hush between you wasn’t awkward this time. Just full. Like a breath that hadn’t yet been let go.

You shifted in the saddle, ready to dismount—

But Tamlin was already at your side—so quick you hadn’t even seen him dismount. 

One hand on your mare’s bridle. The other came up—firm, certain—and settled at your waist.

Your breath caught.

He lifted you easily, as if you weighed nothing at all. Like he remembered exactly how to hold you. His grip was warm and steady, the pads of his fingers brushing just below your ribs, right against your side, and you slid down toward him.

Your boots hit the earth.

He didn’t let go.

Not immediately.

Your hands had landed on his shoulders to balance yourself—broad and solid beneath your fingers. His thumbs flexed slightly at your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to do it.

You looked up.

He looked down.

The air between you felt tight. Still.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I had it handled,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he murmured.

But he still didn’t step back.

You weren’t sure you wanted him to.

Then your mare gave a snort behind you. Tamlin blinked—like waking—and his hands slipped away.

You swallowed whatever had risen to your throat and turned toward the trail.

The stables waited.

And so did whatever this was.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The morning passed quietly.

Tamlin hadn’t had anything to do—his father had taken his brothers into some meeting at the manor, and you doubted Tamlin had even been invited. Not that he seemed to mind.

Lady Ysolde was still away visiting the Winter Court, and you had nothing scheduled for the day. No fittings, no social calls, no tedious embroidery circles with women twice your age.

Just open hours. Just a rare sliver of space.

You’d found each other without meaning to. In the corridor. At the turn of the stairs.

It hadn’t needed saying.

The bow racks stood untouched at the far end of the training lawn. Two targets sat in the grass, straw-stuffed and sun-faded, the painted rings long since dulled by rain. A light breeze stirred the flags on the outer wall, fluttering silver and green.

Tamlin plucked a bow from the wall and turned it over in his hands. “Do you even remember how to shoot?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He smirked. “Care to prove it?”

You crossed to the rack without answering and selected your own—thicker grip, tighter string. Familiar. Balanced. A slow thrill stirred in your chest as you tested the weight.

You remembered.

Of course you did.

You nocked your arrow first.

Tamlin stood beside you, the same casual confidence he always wore in training curling through his stance. He sighted the far target—center ring, fifty paces off—and released.

The arrow thudded just outside the inner ring.

“Not bad,” you said.

He grinned. “You say that like you can do better.”

You didn’t answer. Just lifted your bow, sighted, and loosed.

Center ring.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was watching.

Another round. Then another. His shots were solid—strong, precise—but yours were cleaner. Sharper. A touch faster. You moved with muscle memory now, that deep, instinctive rhythm born of long practice and longer days.

He pretended not to notice. But you caught the way his jaw ticked. How he adjusted his grip.

And how he looked at you when you drew—at the curve of your spine, the bend of your arms, the bare skin at the back of your neck where your braid ended.

“You’re doing that twist again,” he said, stepping toward you. “The one you used to do when you aimed too fast.”

“I’m not,” you replied, not lowering the bow.

He didn’t argue. Just stepped in behind you.

The press of his presence was immediate. Heat and shadow and the faintest breath against your cheek. His hand came up—not quite touching—then brushed the outside of your hip.

“Right here,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re shifting your weight too early.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His fingers ghosted up, brushing lightly along your ribs. “And here. You’re holding too much tension.”

“Maybe I like the tension,” you said, pulse thudding in your throat.

Tamlin’s breath hitched. His hand stilled. Then he leaned in just a little closer—barely an inch of air between you—and said, softly, “Then aim.”

So you did.

You released.

Another bullseye.

You stepped forward, lowered your bow, and turned to look at him.

His eyes were on your mouth.

“You’re better than me now,” he said, too quietly.

You arched a brow. “I always was.”

That earned a real smile. He shook his head. “You used to miss on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Only when you needed a win.”

You held his gaze a moment longer. Then looked away. Because the burn in your stomach wasn’t just from archery, and you both knew it.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Mid Summer Spring Court, Year 19

The Turning

The morning sun filtered in through the tall windows of the breakfast room, gilding the ripe peaches on the table and casting warm halos around everyone’s heads. The air smelled like honeyed bread and lilac. Someone—likely Tamlin’s mother—had insisted on fresh blooms in every vase.

You were halfway through your tea when Lady Ysolde spoke.

“I heard from Seraphine this morning,” she said, delicately slicing into a plum. “We’ve all been invited to the Summer Court. They’re hosting a formal gathering for the solstice—an evening celebration by the sea.”

Across the table, Tamlin stilled. “Formal?”

You smiled faintly into your cup. You could feel Tamlin’s gaze shift toward you, wary.

“And I’ve been told,” Lady Ysolde went on, glancing meaningfully between you both, “that our (y/n) here has grown quite talented in that department.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that—” you began.

“I would,” she interrupted, smile all sweetness. “Which is why I think it would be such a shame if Tamlin made a fool of himself on the Summer Court’s polished marble floors. Don’t you agree?”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Tamlin groaned softly. “Mother.”

But Lady Ysolde only raised her brows. “Please help him practice. The Mother knows he won’t let anyone else teach him. And his brothers are hopeless.”

“You make it sound like I’ve never danced before,” Tamlin muttered.

“Might as well,” she replied, cool as cream.

You bit back a grin. “When do you want to start?”

Tamlin looked at you, resigned. A flicker of something darker passed behind his eyes—tension, or nerves, or something else entirely.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said. Quiet. Steady.

It turned out that that would be that very evening, before dinner.

The solar faced west, and by the time you arrived that evening, the sunlight was pouring through its tall windows in molten streaks. The polished floor gleamed beneath your feet, bare of rugs. Someone had drawn back the curtains, opened the glass panes just enough to let in the breeze—and the faint, far-off hum of the garden beyond.

Tamlin was already there.

He stood near the middle of the room, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows, golden in the afternoon light. His hair looked sun-touched. His expression did not.

“You’re early,” you said, stepping inside.

His lips curved slightly. “I wanted to warm up.”

You raised a brow. “Did you?”

“I stretched.”

You laughed, low. “That’s not how this works.” You set the silver symphonia gently on the floor, the flattened side keeping it steady. With a soft tap on its polished surface, the delicate strains of music began to fill the room, weaving through the air like a whisper.

He offered a hand in mock formality, palm up between you. “Then you’d better teach me.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

Gods—he was warm. You could feel the strength beneath his skin, the restraint in his fingers.

You stepped in.

Too close.

His breath caught—just a little.

“You lead,” you said gently. “We’ll go slow.”

Tamlin nodded, clearly concentrating far too hard on not messing up. His first step was a little too wide, his rhythm a half-second off. He frowned.

You smiled. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Two more steps. And then—he stepped on your foot.

You gasped. Not from pain, but surprise.

Tamlin immediately stopped. “Shit—”

“You’re terrible,” you teased, grinning as you lifted your foot.

He flushed. “I told you.”

“Do you want me to lead?”

“No.”

“Then stop trying to wrestle the dance into submission.”

That startled a laugh out of him—low and genuine.

He tried again.

And this time, he did better.

The steps evened out. Your breathing did too. The music—soft and courtly, piped in by a gentle charm from the corner of the room—guided your pace. His hand settled on your waist, light and warm. Yours rested on his shoulder.

The sun dipped lower.

You turned. He spun you.

Too hard.

Your foot caught, your balance tipped—and you stumbled right into his chest.

He caught you.

His hand didn’t drop.

Neither did yours.

For a moment, the music faded behind the sound of your breathing. The evening air slipped in through the open window, sweet with honeysuckle.

You looked up.

He looked down.

Your hands were still clasped between your chests. His other hand was still low at your back. Too low. Your heart was pounding.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then, softly—almost reluctantly—

“Again?” you asked.

Tamlin nodded, hoarse. “Yeah.”

You danced quite a while longer. 

He was getting the steps right now—more or less. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and every time your hand drifted to guide him, you felt it: the stiffness, the restraint, the deep dislike humming beneath his skin.

You pulled back after another full circle around the solar, breath light. “You hate this.”

Tamlin exhaled sharply. “It’s fine.”

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “That’s not what your face says.”

He hesitated. Then, with a grimace: “It’s not the kind of dancing I like.”

That stopped you. You tilted your head, curious. “Oh? What is your kind of dancing?”

Tamlin glanced toward the far end of the solar.

Then—without a word—he walked.

You watched him cross the room, half-expecting him to make an excuse and leave. But instead, he crouched beside a small, unassuming cabinet nestled against the window wall. Opened it.

And pulled out a fiddle.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wait—you still play?”

Tamlin only gave a sheepish shrug, cradling it in one arm. “Not often.”

Your mouth parted. “You brought it down here?”

His golden eyes flicked to yours. Warm, shy, a little mischievous. “Was hoping for an opportunity to show off.”

You laughed. Actual, delighted laughter. “Gods, you’re such a boy.”

“I am trying to impress you.”

“Clearly.”

He raised a brow. “Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes. “Play me something and we’ll see.”

Tamlin set bow to string.

The first note sang into the solar like sunlight turned to sound—light and lilting, not the polished court music piped in by charms. Rawer. Earthier.

Folk music.

You hadn’t heard it in years.

The rhythm picked up—familiar, playful, full of motion. Your feet itched to follow it.

He grinned, sharp and boyish. “You remember this one?”

You did.

You stepped forward slowly, skirts swaying, already half-laughing as you moved.

And when he nodded toward the open stretch of floor, you took it.

The first few steps were just for you.

Spinning slowly, skirts brushing your calves, the rhythm winding through your limbs like it had always lived there. You didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to count or measure. The melody was familiar—part of your blood, your bones, your breath. A tune from riverbanks and solstice bonfires. You’d danced to it barefoot in the glade before you knew what want was.

You twirled once, arms loose at your sides, and looked back toward him.

Tamlin hadn’t stopped playing.

But gods, he wasn’t just playing.

He stood tall in the golden light, fiddle tucked under his chin, bow sawing quick and clean and confident. His body swayed with the music, hips shifting, boot tapping time against the floorboards. Hair glinting gold. Shoulders gleaming faintly with sweat from earlier. The lines of his face soft and unguarded.

And he was smiling.

Not the polite smile of court. Not the grimace he wore at state dinners.

A real smile. Wide, radiant, young.

He looked beautiful.

And he was looking at you.

Like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Your breath caught. Then—

You spun again, faster this time, letting the rhythm take you, hands catching the air. He adjusted the tune’s pacing to match your speed without missing a beat.

When you turned back toward him, he was already crossing the room, fiddle still tucked beneath his chin. Still playing.

You met in the center, your steps light, his sure.

The last refrain swept in—faster now, dizzying—and you let your voice rise to meet it.

You sang the words without thinking. The old, lilting verses about sun-drenched lovers and honeysuckle nights. Your voice wove through the melody, and something in his playing changed—deepened, softened. He stepped closer. Bow still gliding. Eyes locked on yours.

And then—he sang too.

Harmonized, low and rough and beautiful, his voice curling around yours like smoke.

The notes met in the middle, caught and tangled between you, blooming into something bigger than either of you alone.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

Your free hand rose of its own accord, brushing his shoulder, then higher—to the side of his neck. His skin was warm. His pulse, quick beneath your fingertips.

You were still singing.

So was he.

And the whole time, he never stopped playing.

You ended up chest-to-chest by the time the last note faded. Bow lifted. Fiddle stilled. Hands still tangled.

Your breaths were shallow. His eyes—gods, his eyes—deep green with flecks of molten gold, glowing in the sunlit room, locked on your mouth like he wasn’t sure whether to breathe or kiss you.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

You just stood there in the silence, that final note still ringing in the hollows of your chest.

You don’t know who broke it first. Only that at some point, the bow slipped from his fingers. 

You stood in the center of the room, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Tamlin stared at you.

Not the kind of look meant to be polite. Or lordly. Or passable in court.

He looked at you like he needed to.

Like he hadn’t been breathing right for years.

And then—without a word—he stepped forward. Just one step.

You didn’t move.

His eyes searched yours. A question, quiet and trembling, caught somewhere between want and restraint.

You answered it with a breath.

With a step of your own.

And when his mouth found yours, it wasn’t careful.

It was everything.

Everything he hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to ask, everything the two of you had locked away over the years—it poured out between your lips, breathless and desperate. You surged toward him like you couldn’t not, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as he kissed you like he didn’t know how to stop.

Your teeth clacked. Your noses bumped. It wasn’t elegant.

It was real.

Hot. Messy. Hungry.

Tamlin groaned, low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist like he could anchor himself there, and he tossed the fiddle onto the cushioned bench nearby. You gasped when he backed you into the wall, not hard, but enough to make your breath hitch—and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, deeper this time.

Your head spun.

His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your face—like he couldn’t figure out which part of you he’d missed most. Like he wanted to touch all of it just in case it disappeared again.

You broke away just long enough to whisper, “Your room—”

And he was already moving.

Already reaching for your hand, tugging you gently behind him as you slipped out into the hallway—laughing, breathless, undone.

And gods help you both—

You didn’t look back.

Tamlin’s room was dim, lit only by the last threads of golden evening spilling through the arched window.

You didn’t speak at first.

You couldn’t—not with the way he looked at you. Like you were some rare creature he’d never dared to reach for until now. His chest rose and fell in deep, slow breaths, as if trying to steady himself. As if he still didn’t quite believe you were here.

You stepped in closer. “Tamlin—”

He kissed you again before you could finish.

Softer this time. Slower. One of his hands rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You leaned into it, breath catching, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

And then you whispered it. “Should we wait?”

He stilled.

Your eyes met his.

“I mean,” you said, voice just above a breath, “our parents still… still expect us to marry, don’t they? I haven’t heard otherwise.”

A beat.

Tamlin’s thumb lingered at your cheek. “No. Me neither.”

The words hung between you, heavy. Loaded.

You swallowed. “Then maybe we shouldn’t…”

“…Shouldn’t do this until after?” he finished quietly.

You nodded.

A pause. His eyes searched yours. Then—

A small, rueful smile curved his lips. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

You let out a breath of laughter. “Is that you being reckless?”

“Maybe.” He stepped closer. “Or maybe I just don’t want to wait anymore.”

Neither did you.

He kissed you again—deeper now, with more heat—and began to walk you backward until your knees hit the bed. You sat, and he followed, kneeling between your legs. Your fingers found the laces at his shirt, working slowly as his hands skimmed your waist, your ribs, like he was committing you to memory.

“Still play your cards close, I see,” you whispered.

“Only with the right stakes,” he murmured, mouth trailing down your throat. “I was never willing to lose you.”

You peeled his shirt away. Golden skin, strong shoulders, chest heaving slightly with restraint.

He looked carved. All muscle and sun and sinew, glowing in the dying light. Your fingers slid over him, reverent, slow.

“You filled out,” you said again, this time without teasing.

Tamlin gave a soft laugh and leaned in to kiss your shoulder. “So did you.”

Clothes fell away between kisses and glances and low murmurs. You weren’t rushed. You savored each other.

He took his time with you.

Mouth on your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs. Worshipful. He watched your face like every sound you made was a map. Like he was trying to learn you all over again.

And when he finally moved over you, the moment stretched long.

He held himself just barely above you, his forehead against yours.

“This changes things,” he said, voice rough. Honest.

“I know,” you whispered.

Still, neither of you moved to stop it.

And when he pressed into you—slow, careful, inch by aching inch—you both gasped.

You curled around him instinctively, legs around his waist, arms wrapped over his shoulders. He fit. Like he always had. Like he always would.

The pace was slow. Lingering. Like neither of you wanted it to end.

Tamlin’s hand slid down your side, then up again, steadying at your hip. You held his face in your palms as he moved inside you, brow furrowed like it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed you,” he said against your throat.

You arched, hips rolling up to meet his. “Then show me.”

And he did.

Again and again, like a promise.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Spring’s Beginning Spring Court, Year 20

The House of Light

The manor doors swung open with a creak of new hinges and a breath of fresh lilac-sweet air. The sun was low, casting the foyer in gold. And Tamlin?

Tamlin carried you over the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know I can walk,” you said, smiling into his neck.

“I know,” he murmured, voice full of quiet reverence. “But let me have this.”

You didn’t argue.

His arms were strong around you—steadier than the nervous laughter in his throat, than the flush blooming beneath his skin. He stepped over the threshold like it meant something.

Because it did.

This was yours.

Not your parents’. Not the estate. Not someone’s hunting lodge or a borrowed wing in a noble’s keep. Yours.

Your home.

He set you down carefully on the tiled floor, but didn’t let go.

The manor was small by court standards—just two stories, ivy climbing up pale stone, blue shutters catching the breeze. But the windows were tall and open, the floors warm underfoot, and the light—

The light loved this place. It poured through every room like it had waited centuries for someone to build this house just right.

Tamlin turned slowly in the entryway, eyes drinking it in. “The painters did finish the sitting room,” he said, awe creeping into his voice. “And the terrace—gods, look at the terrace—”

You grinned. “Tamlin.”

He turned back to you.

“This is ours.” You reached for his hand. “We did it.”

His smile softened. “We did.”

You pulled him into the hallway. He followed like it was the easiest thing in the world. His hand fit perfectly in yours.

Through the open kitchen, still faintly dust-scented with new stone. Past the hearth, already stacked with wood and wildflowers. Toward the curved staircase, where sunlight pooled like honey over the first steps.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Come upstairs with me.”

“Did you have something in mind, Lady Spring?”

Your brows lifted. “I married you. The ceremony is over. You can call me by my name now.”

He gave you that look—the one that always started in his eyes, low and warm and soft—and followed you up the stairs.

Room by room, you explored. Windows thrown wide to the garden. Drapes you’d picked out together. A dining table waiting to be used. A bedroom already lit with the pink of sunset.

Tamlin stood in the doorway.

You leaned against the bedpost, crossing your arms. “You’re staring.”

He blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

A pause. Then—

“Can you blame me?” he said, quiet.

And then he crossed the room and kissed you again—slow and smiling and sure.

You had the whole evening ahead. The whole life.

But for now?

The sun had just started setting. The sheets were clean. And the door, when he kicked it shut with his boot, locked with a soft, satisfying click.

[gotham-daydreams]

How would it have gone differently if Reader didn't try to be an "overachiever" and instead just stayed quiet and didn't interact with anyone besides Alfred until they left? Their room they left being mostly blank, with only the music journals? Giving up on trying to get their attention.

I think what's so funny about this ask, to me, is that I already have a concept like this written down (along with 3 others since the current reader I'm writing for the "Not [ ]" series is one of them but with a few missing details), so this'll be fun!

I guess it generally goes how you'd expect? Which is different for the most part, but the reader's perspective on what's happening is also different.

Granted, I would like to point out that, at least for this particular concept and the idea I have for it of how this would go, does have more stuff going on pre-Batfam that do affect how they perceive what's happening, and that's what makes things interesting in my opinion. Because someone can be naturally shy or just overall more reserved either out of nature or because they feel a certain way, but still feel bad about being neglected and, despite their lack of effort, feel that pain just as much as someone who's tried. Which is valid! Besides, someone's definition of 'trying' can vary as well.

Everyone should have a chance to have a family, and form some kind of connection with people. Just because you aren't going above and beyond for one person, doesn't mean you're undeserving of certain things. Especially not a chance to have a family, or feel like you have one. That's what I think anyway.

Nevertheless, back to the reader!

From the original concept, I will be tweaking a few things to fit the ask, but the same general outcome remains! Though again, the reader's perspective on things is a tad different. But how about this- I'll show two versions of the reader.

One that's quiet and more reserved because they gave up much earlier, or just generally hopeless really early on because maybe they felt as if anything they'd do just wouldn't be enough, who'll be accurately named Quiet!Reader. With the other being more closely related to the concept I wrote for such an idea, that we'll refer to as Waiting!Reader.

Quiet!Reader would change up things quite a bit! I won't lie!

They might already have bad self-esteem that's quick to develop at the start of things, which is something to note as that doesn't get better with time. They grow more cold and distant from the family at a quicker pace both from personal and external reasons.

Put simply, they don't feel good enough, and even if they did- anything they could do to get the Batfam's attention would never be enough in their eyes. To which, they see very early on when they try to engage and do some things with the family, only to be turned down. What doesn't help is when Quiet!Reader sees Damian get adopted and almost immediately showered with love, (compared to them) and that really cements some ideas that were already developing in their head about the family.

When Damian comes into the picture, they feel replaced. Seeing him as someone to fill in the 'youngest Wayne' role instead of them, so that Bruce and the others actually have someone to acknowledge for such a title. Just someone else to further take away the little they had.

So, they further step out of the way, glaring at the Batfam with tired eyes before that eventually stops too. Envy clawing at their heart, hatred being sent through waves of pain all throughout their body. Hurt unmatched. Yet they still remain invisible. Quiet as ever. Unnoticed. Everything they ever felt dies down, and forms a cold numbness that they begin to associate with the family.

Maybe through that, they feel closer to the family in some twisted way. Now just as cold as them. Just as talkative, and just as engaging. Almost mirroring them, but they're honest about how they feel. Honest about what they think, and therefore better. At least when compared to the Batfam- and to them, even if it wasn't a high bar to reach anyway, at least it counts for something.

It was never Damian's fault, or really about Damian at all. It could've been anyone else and Quiet!Reader would've still reacted the same way, they know that. Though just seeing the Batfam show love and care to him and not them just makes them feel... worse.

Clearly they're capable of love, and can notice new additions to the family (to which they may have mostly believed that the Batfam's neglect was just something the family did for whatever reason, and thought that them being the youngest had something to do with it for a while) and that breaks the reader. It doesn't hurt, not as much as it would've, maybe, but whatever hurt is there dies down quickly as Quiet!Reader, well, quietly accepts their fate.

The Batfam clearly wants nothing to do with them, so why should they try to do all of these things for them? It's simple, they shouldn't. So they don't. Quiet!Reader gives up, and continues to live their life without them.

The Manor just becomes a place they sleep in, and nothing else. It isn't anything close to a home, and not even Alfred can help with that.

It's because of that little fact, however, that Quiet!Reader leaves much sooner than the reader in the "Not [ ]" series. Maybe once they get a friend they can trust, they essentially end up living with said friend, hence why their room remains so empty. The notebooks they even keep in the room they have in the Manor is from when they were way younger, instead of just being from a few months ago or so. We're talking years since Quiet!Reader has touched those things now.

Maybe they do 'officially' leave a month or so before they usually would as an overachiever in the "Not [ ]" series, having only bothered to return so often before because of Alfred. Though even then, they'd forget to return most nights- only being reminded to even try and go back once Alfred would personally call them, and ask them where they were.

However now, after a while of just the time between them basically living with their friend and sleeping at the manor, they stop returning altogether. Though this time around they instead personally go to Alfred to say they're goodbyes. Not explaining much, but just saying that while they might still try to come and visit him sometimes, they don't live in the Manor anymore. Alfred already knows this, and the embrace they share fully hammers in that fact.

Yet when Quiet!Reader turns away, and leaves the Manor for good- even through the front door at that. Alfred can't help but just... miss them already.

You see, while Quiet!Reader is indeed quieter and more reserved, especially towards the Batfam, with Alfred really being the only exception, they still made music.

Maybe they didn't have as many concerts or physical, grand, live performances compared to the reader in the "Not [ ]" series, they not only started earlier, but may have actually started out on a social platform such a youtube. They really started out small, but were able to find and start their passion much earlier!

Most of what they played was when they were in the Manor, but slowly they started to get involved with things music related outside of the Manor and in Gotham- and from there were able to build themselves up even more. Hell, I'd even say that Quiet!Reader is a little more well-known and popular than the reader in the "Not [ ]" series because of the amount of extra time they dedicated to their passion.

So basically, Alfred this time around has more recordings and such of Quiet!Reader actually doing something they love than with the one in the series. However! Funnily enough, they're gone for a shorter amount of time despite having left earlier than normal.

Alfred is just, extra fed up with this nonsense, and so pulls his tricks more early on, but also make them hit harder.

He doesn't clean Quiet!Reader's room to show how long they've been gone, adding onto the emptiness and almost abandoned feeling the room itself gives off because of how bare and empty it is. They're music haunts the halls, subtle, sure, but still noticeable- especially to those who are hyper aware all the time. Pictures of Quiet!Reader and Alfred begin to be hung up, and if he can manage- some with Quiet!Reader and their friends during important parts of their life.

No one is safe from the guilt and anguish Alfred seeks to cause to not only have the Batfam look for you, but most importantly, to finally notice you.

Let's just say, things work out a little too well.

---

As for Waiting!Reader? Oh man, I've been wanting to rant about them for a while!

Unlike the reader in the "Not [ ]" series and Quiet!Reader, Waiting!Reader had some semblance of a life before getting adopted into the Batfam. Though the idea and character themself isn't musically inclined/involved in music, or even all that interested in music for that matter- for the sake of this ask, lets say they are!

I won't dabble too much into the life Waiting!Reader had before the Batfam, as if I do end up writing them I'd also like to keep some details vague (for the sake of leaving it up to interpretation and everything), but just know that during the time they were still with their original family, they were essentially taught that they should 'wait their turn', and eventually their parents would spend time with them and care for them. Hence the little name I've given them.

So! When they get to the Manor and are officially adopted, only to be neglected and ignored during their first few attempts- because of their young age, they immediately think "oh! they're just like mom and dad!" So they 'wait' for 'their turn', believing that eventually, should they wait long enough, they'll be rewarded with bonding and such from the Batfam just as they were with their previous parents.

This mindset changes what they do as well, as Waiting!Reader even goes out of their way to not bother anyone, or "get in the way" of whatever they could be doing. Waiting!Reader treats the situation so much like their previous home life, that sometimes they might even forget that the Batfam are completely different people from their parents. The only real difference that they can think of is that they're not acknowledged at all and it seems like their 'turn' never comes. Though for a while that doesn't get them down. The Batfam is busy like they're parents were! Waiting!Reader is sure that when things die down then they'll have their time.

... Hopefully.

I can imagine that part of the reason why Waiting!Reader holds on to hope for so long is because, again, their own parents constantly reassured them that they would have their time eventually. That if they behaved, and stayed out of the way, then they would go somewhere fun with their parents and essentially be rewarded for their efforts. They were conditioned to wait, to be patient, and just comply until those around them decided to actually take care of them, and spend time with them.

Of course, as they grow up the reality of the situation does hit them eventually, but during that time they do try.

Waiting!Reader helps Alfred around the house, and so they mostly bond over doing chores, among other things. They are also more mindful, and try to keep the amount of noise they back down— so they actually don't play at the Manor all that often, and instead play literally anywhere else. If and when they do play outside, around the area of the Manor like in the gardens or something, they make sure no one is around before even thinking of playing.

Alfred does help them break a few of their habits that they got while living with their parents, but the one thing he can't seem to 'fix' is how absolutely quiet Waiting!Reader is when they walk around. Which, as on can imagine, doesn't exactly help in a situation where the whole family, except for the butler, is neglecting you.

The amount of times Waiting!Reader has caught Alfred off guard is more then you'd think for someone that works with the Dark Knight, and his various sidekicks and such, over the years. Which does say something, sure, but it's also funny!

Regardless, similar to Quiet!Reader, Waiting!Reader is able to start their musical career earlier than normal, and thuse becomes a little more popular than they would originally. However, they're more known for their live performances and giving back to the community. Seemingly just like Bruce as they attend charity event after charity event, and try to do good by the people.

Waiting!Reader also does genuinely try to become a vigilante as well, but they do so in a way where they only take care of the smaller/medium guys, and leave the bigger ones to the rest of the Batfam. This is because they want to remove possible distractions for their family, and while they would try to take on "bigger guys", they don't think they're skilled enough or experienced enough to even think about it. So they don't even try. (They also don't have the same theme as the Batfam- since they don't want to 'ruin' their reputation with what they're doing or something. Which does hell them further detach themself from the family later on.)

I'd say that with Waiting!Reader, the difference between them and the Batfam is more clear to them? Like, to them, the Batfam are just so good at what they do that they have no hope of reaching them. So instead of trying to reach for them, they just do their own thing and try to help in their own way.

Because Waiting!Reader takes care of smaller guys, they are kind of closer to Waiting!Reader as a vigilante.

The best way I can put it is that while the community trusts Batman and the members of the Batfam to save their city, they trust Waiting!Reader to save their homes.

So basically- Batfam is the bigger picture while Waiting!Reader focuses on the smaller picture.

Nevertheless! Also like Quiet!Reader, Waiting!Reader actually leaves earlier. Except when they leave, they leave.

Waiting!Reader straight up leaves Gotham City to attend the college that they want to go to, in an area that has more opportunity for them, that isn't close to where the Batfam lives or patrols.

So they not only leave earlier, but it also takes the Batfam longer to find them. Especially because Waiting!Reader does still do some things in Gotham, they just don't live there anymore.

I feel like out of all three readers, Waiting!Reader definitely feels like the kind of person that someone would assume is some kind of "Phantom of the Wayne Manor," y'know?

So Alfred definitely tries to make the Batfam feel bad like he does with Quiet!Reader. Except how anyone in the Batfam is reminded that Waiting!Reader even exists, and that they've been gone for a while now is through a letter that is accidentally sent to the Wayne Manor from one of Waiting!Reader's fans. From there, some research does start and the more the Batfam learns, the more they want to go and find the reader- you know the deal.

I hope this answered your question even if I really did ramble on this time- if you'd like me to clarify anything or go into more detail on a specific part, feel free to send in an ask!

[theoutcastwrites]

Try Again - Il Dottore x Reader

This is a vent fic. Let's just get that out of the way. I wrote this because I needed Dottore to do The Thing™. Don't read too much into this. The feelings will pass

"You've been staring at that journal for the past fifteen minutes," said Zandik, "what's the matter?"

You weren't sure it could be put into words - all the self-doubt that tormented you as of late, the thoughts that circled your mind every waking hour. Attempts had been made, in vain, to prepare a small speech in your head in case Zandik ever caught on. That, of course, he did, but you had nothing to say; not a single eloquent monologue to convey your insecurities in a way that would provoke understanding and not bewilderment.

I feel inadequate as of late. I don't feel like I'm wanted anywhere. Nothing I do matters anymore.

All miserable words that would have been met with a stern look, a simple "you are wanted by me; thus all that you do matters to me".

You tapped your pen against the empty page of your journal. You were desperate to say something, yet whatever it was that would eventually come out of your mouth already felt lacking. Nothing was enough.

"Talk to me," he urged, "you know there is nothing in this world that can't be solved. Tell me what bothers you."

You swallowed. "I feel as if I've lost all my skills. For writing, I mean. I can't come up with anything new and whatever ideas I have feel mediocre at best; uninteresting and aimless. I don't know, I..."

I think I should just give up.

The thought had crossed your mind countless times before. Wouldn't it be so much easier to abandon your work altogether? Why continue hurting yourself with this when you could simply let it all go?

You were tempted. Still, there was something that forced you to keep trying; something strange and incomprehensible that begged you not to give up this one thing that you knew.

Zandik pulled you out of your thoughts, "as far as I can tell - from what little I've seen of your scribbles - you've been writing the same themes over and over. What about trying something new?"

"I have tried. Nothing feels fitting."

"Then take a break. If I hit a dead end in my research I find something else to occupy my mind. Surely reading someone else's works will help you view your ideas from different perspectives?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. It all sounded so simple in theory - this issue should have been so easy to solve - yet nothing had worked. You felt as though you were stuck between four brick walls with no tools to break them down; nothing but your own fingernails to scrape them in hopes that someone would hear you from the other side.

"It doesn't feel so simple," you said softly.

"Why?"

"If I take a break now, I feel as if I'll only get worse." There came the first half of your horrifyingly vulnerable confession, and with it - a lump in your throat that came to embarrass you even further. You whispered the second half with enough shame to drown an entire nation: "If I don't push something out now, I'm afraid people will stop caring about me."

Zandik didn't spare you enough time to hide the tears that already clouded your vision; for he was by your side in the blink of an eye, gently pulling the journal out of your hands and hiding it behind his back.

"Why would you let such a thought become your truth?"

He laced his fingers with yours, wiped at the stray tears on your cheeks with the other hand. His glove rubbed against your skin in a way that was more uncomfortable than soothing but you made no move to stop him. Zandik continued to soothe you in the way he knew best.

"There's no race to run, do you understand? If you keep telling yourself that you'll become spoiled lest you write now, you'll never be able to see your brilliance as I do."

Zandik's eyes softened when you weakly squeezed his hand in acknowledgement. Thank you, you wanted to say, for seeing in me everything that I do not.

"Everything comes and goes; just as dusk turns to dawn without waiting for you to keep up." Zandik placed a tender kiss on your knuckles, "so don't let one difficult moment define you, my dear."

[cheriecoke]

when nanami dies, there's a box of letters waiting for you.

months pass before you find it. it's not until you're cleaning out his things, wondering if you can stand to get rid of them, that the letters are there waiting for you.

its no bigger than a shoebox, dark wood engraved with an intricate design, one that you're certain kento picked out specifically for you. you've never seen it before, and you open it with shaky hands, tears already pooling in your eyes at all the memories your lover left behind.

inside, there's a stack of letters, each one dated at the top with kento's name intricately signed at the end. some are in sealed envelopes with beautiful stamps. some multiple pages long and include some little haikus that are far too lovely to be about someone like you. and some are just quick little notes scribbled on napkins.

your spread them across the floor, staring down at each of the tiny little hearts he'd drawn next to your name on each note. even though you'd been together for years, you had no idea that he'd been writing all of them—hours of his life dedicated to this little pastime, and you'd been clueless.

they're like journal entires. insights into kento's life and your relationship, both the good moments and the tough ones. he leaves behind everything to you, entrusting you to keep his entire existence safe in your hands.

you read the letters with tears streaming down your face, and you choke on your sobs, trying so hard not to smear the ink from the wetness on your cheeks.

when you pull one out with shaky hands, you realize it's a decade old. the writing has faded a bit, and the paper is yellowing, but it's kento's handwriting, nonetheless.

it makes you near sick to read it. for a minute, you have to set it aside, cry into your knees as you curl into a ball, wondering when you'll ever stop feeling this empty.

this letter is from a sixteen year old kento; a quiet boy who had a silly little crush on girl in his year that was much too pretty for him. and in the letter, he says he knows you're too good for him, but he can't help but love you. he can't help but hope that one day, in a few years, you'll want to marry him as much as he wants to marry you.

it hurts, burns in your chest because even back then, kento had known you were the one. he'd known and he wrote you these letters because he'd felt that his life would be cut short. he'd felt like that since haibara died, and geto left, and it started to seem like the life of a sorcerer was always doomed to be an unhappy one.

kento had been so afraid that his friend died without knowing how much he meant to him, and he refused to make the same mistake with you.

there are letters from even when you weren't together. from the years that you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and kento had been so desperate to leave jujutsu behind that it meant he had to leave you too. even then, even when you were nothing more than a shadow from his past, he adored you.

you feel so outside of yourself, nauseous and filled with so much grief that you're not sure where to put it.

sometimes, you’d doubted if kento felt as loved by you as you did by him. but there's pages and pages of him speaking of how special you make him feel, even when you were separated, and he missed you so much that the thoughts of you consumed him.

you spend hours going through the letters, and then, you see one dated halloween, 2018. even breathing feels hard, but you can't stop yourself from reading it, even though you know it will destroy you, know that you won't be able to leave the house for days after reading it.

in the letter, kento says he loves you. he talks about the day before, when you'd convinced him to watch some halloween movies, and though most of them were silly, he didn't care how he spent his time with you as long as it made you smile.

he says that he feels bad for cancelling your dinner plans, and he's going to be thinking of you when he's in shibuya. that it's such a shame that being a sorcerer is so much more fulfilling than a salaryman, because it cuts into your time together, and you’re the most important part of his life.

he says he loves you again. that he really hopes he makes it back from shibuya because even though he's never told you, he wants a family with you.

he says he’s decided he'll bring it up when he gets home safe and sound. he’s not sure how you’ll feel about it, but you better know that he’ll always love you no matter what you decide, even if what he really wants is a little girl that looks just like you. and lastly, he hopes that you don't stay up too late waiting up for him—you’ve been so tired lately, and it’s making him feel bad.

his name is at the bottom with another little heart.

you let the letter fall from your hands.

[intestinesinbows]

ㅤ ㅤ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀HARRIS, Eric

Eric x Reader

⏕⏕ꔫ⏕⏕

TW ♡ nsfw headcanons after sfw ones <3 -- rape , cnc

note | request like I said before are gonna take a bit . . . I am weirdly enough not motivated to do them rn . TωT also these headcanons might be a little depressing LMAOO SO IM SORRYYY

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⏕⏕ꔫ⏕⏕

꒰ SFW ꒱⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⑅ ִ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤּ tω rape for this part ֗

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀So let's start off with this. I feel like he'd write about you in his journal. I wouldn't say a lot but to the point its obvious he thinks about you a ton. I think like how he writes about Dylan would be how he writes about you. Though, I mean this as in you're someone special to him just like how Dylan is so he writes about you more than others. I also think his writing about you would change in certain pages because obviously he was an edgelord when he wrote in his journal. The mood in his writing could be something on the lines of "They're my world & the only reason I haven't killed myself yet." one day then the next "I want to kidnap them and split them open on my cock." . It's basically a whole gamble when he talks about you each page is a different result.

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀I feel like some people could already tell that I'd say this but he is definitely the jealous type. He'd definitely be wary of your friend꒰s꒱ and most likely despise them in some way especially if they playfully flirt with you, but the thing is I feel like he wouldn't say anything about it at least not when you're talking to your friend꒰s꒱ in front of him.. but he might say something afterwards. If anything he would give your friends dirty looks and wrap an awkward arm around your waist which only appeared when he was annoyed. If they tried talking to him he'd give a half assed response trying to show he was a dick and that he wanted them to fuck off but also trying to be somewhat "kind" so you wouldn't get upset at him.

ଘ ꒰ Eric would genuinely see the people you talk to as them competition. He will compare himself to them and even be little himself for not being like them. He'd definitely start to be more possessive over time when it came to you. Even if you couldn't see it the mood when Eric was around you showed it. He wouldn't like the fact of people being around you. ꒱

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀I think he'd want kids with you but the thought sadly gets thrown out the window because of NBK. Although he thinks about it he knows he shouldn't because whats the point? He'll be dying in the end anyways but the thought always lingers and he always says little things like "We'd have cute kids." , "Do you think I'd be a good dad in the future?" Etc. But let's say if NBK didn't happen... he'd definitely be a protective father who wants the best for his kid꒰s꒱. Let's say for example you had a daughter with him and she gets her heart broken by her ex, he'd be the typa dad to pull out a shotgun and go to her ex's house . . . ꒰ /hj ꒱

ଘ ꒰ I honestly feel like he'd be the typa dad to want a boy but in all seriousness I don't think he would care that much about the gender he just wants a baby with you and maybe even multiple. ꒱

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀He's definitely a rambler. . . You guys could be cuddling one night and he'll be talking on and on about anything. To animals, stars, music, history, people, whatever pops up in his head at the moment. He'd like to rest his head on your chest while you hold his hand and let him speak about whatever until he gets tired and falls asleep.

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀He wouldn't do this in public but depending if you guys are alone at his or your house he will probably slap your ass randomly to startle you. Doing the dishes? Slap. Bending over to pick something up? Slap. Laying on your stomach? Slap. Your ass will never be safe from this boy's hand. It's practically the best thing for him to slap when he feels like it LOL.

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀I had to add this. . . He has some cheesy ass pickup lines. Some are funny but most of the time they are really awkward and he messes them up cause he gets shy though in its own way its kinda cute and sweet.

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀He's pretty self conscious about his looks. I genuinely think the first few times you compliment him on his appearance he'll brush it off but the more compliments he gets from you start to boost his self esteem. Say one day his bullies were picking on him for example maybe his height and he tells you about it, if you reassure him that he is perfect the way he is and say he's tall in your opinion it might make him feel better. ꒰ Maybe even cum in his pants cough cough ꒱ . . .

ଘ ꒰ I also want to mention I think a lot of times he will brush off your feelings for his appearance when you compliment him but he'll think back to them later that day or night. ꒱

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀He'll try his best to be a good boyfriend and give you princess / prince treatment. Mostly opening doors for you, buying you things ꒰ aka you get somewhat spoiled ꒱, making sure you're okay, giving you his trench coat when you're cold, basic stuff. I will warn you that this doesn't mean he isn't manipulative and doesn't have anger issues cause he sure as hell does. When he's upset he'll most likely take it out on you without noticing but that's if you are both together when the situation happens. Calming him down can be hard some days and others not so much. Him being manipulative could be from saying things like "I'd die without you" and such. He is a full on rollar coaster of emotions but he tries his hardest to be a good boyfriend when he knows he can.

꒰ NSFW ꒱⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⑅ ִ

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀I think he'd have a breeding kink this aligns with how I said he might want kids with you. I think there isn't much I can really say about that despite the fact when he finishes in you its practically a creampie in your hole. Cum is dripping from your thighs and the bedsheets or whatever you are on are soaked and sticky.

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀This might be a little wild to say but I could see him recording a tape of himself specifically for you of him jerking off. . . Basically your own personal basement tape from him. Though, it could get confiscated from you if you mention it to the police that you have it. In the video the light is dim and the camera footage is somewhat grainy but in the middle of it is Eric with his dick out pumping it up and down. He's wearing dark cargo pants and black combat boots.. his shirt had been taken off which revealed the scar on his chest. Soft groans come out of his mouth while precum leaks from his pink tip. When he finishes his cum lands on the cold hard floor as he pants and runs a hand through his hair. After he puts his dick away he walks up to the recorder and shuts it off but not before whispering "I love you." .

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀If you are out with him and his friends in the woods trust me he will pull you aside to get a quickie out of you. Especially if one of them is pissing him off you'll be the target for his desires. You're his stress toy in the heat of the moment. He'll grab your hand and excuse both of you from the group before quickly walking off so he can have you to himself. You'll be pushed against a tree or bent over a log as he pushes your panties to the side ꒰ or pulls your boxers down depending if you're a guy ꒱ before rubbing his dick against your hole and pushing in. He clamps a hand over your mouth just in case the others here your cries and tells you to keep quiet until he's finished with you.

♡

𓉸ྀི ֪ ⠀⠀⠀He'd have a CNC kink though it wouldn't be how he pictures it. The first time you both had sex like that he was a nervous wreck. He didn't want to hurt you and practically he didn't know if he was or not. In his thoughts he wanted to be violent and push you around everywhere but it isn't the case when it comes to reality because he is worried about messing up and seriously hurting you. This concludes he tries his best to know his limits and boundaries and once he gets the hang of it he doesn't feel worried.

ଘ ꒰ Let's say one night you are teasing him, he'll grab a fistful of your hair and force you to get undressed. The second your body is completely nude in his sight he'll grab your chin and make you look directly at him before slapping your pretty face. You'll be forced onto his bed without no questions and split open by his cock as you scream and beg him to stop. Though its obvious you want it just as much as he does. ꒱

[astraldelights]

MORPHEUS ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Dream!Reader

Content Warnings: References to domestic violence and abusive households

A/N: This is inspired by The endless concept but DOES NOT FOLLOW IT. I haven't actually watched or read the comics so don't expect it to follow any cannon. I just thought it was an interesting idea. Might draft a part two as I have more I want to explore.

~~~~~~

The sand crunches beneath as each step is taken through it. The endless desert of dreams usually stayed as a calm landscape. Each dune being built by the neverending sands made of dreams falling from the sky. 

However, today, more and more sand seemed to fall. It wasn’t unusual for a massive amount of dreams to appear, but this time it seemed different. Nightmares summoned to every dream, and the touch of despair was strong in each one.  

Who or what was the source of this?

Peering into the biggest portal of sand, a man was revealed. He hunched over a gap in his floor, chestnut brown hair covering his face.

‘You draw from Despair’s realm but manipulate mine. How interesting…’

-

It had been a few months after Bob had last become The Sentry. His memories of the event were fuzzy as always, but he trusted the accounts from his teammates. 

While his fellow Avengers went on missions or reconnaissance, Bob stayed behind and kept himself busy at the tower. He would spend his time cleaning common areas, washing dishes or sweeping up crumbs Alexi had left behind. Journaling was also something he started to do at Bucky's suggestion. It was good to keep record of things that might slip from the mind by your own or another's volition. 

It started with writing down small observations within the tower. ‘Alexi chews loudly.’ ‘John keeps leaving his clothes on the bathroom floor.’ and ‘Did I remember to feed the hamster today…’ 

But as he wrote more, he found the journal to be a good confidant. Writing down his troubling thoughts when he did not feel ready to burden the rest of the team with it, It felt good to release the thoughts onto paper, letting them out of his own head one by one.

Good moments to remember were also written down. Times when it was just him and his Mom having key lime pie, or when movie night turned into a full laughing fit for the whole team. Every small moment was noteworthy.

At the end of each day, he would put down his pen and paper before heading to bed.

Sleep was always something Bob had trouble regulating. In his youth, it was an escape from the discord at home. It was the one place his father's wrath couldn't reach. 

Well…until the nightmares came. Sometimes he still wakes up sweating from the nightmares of his father's hand slamming down fast and hard. Everytime, those dreams throw him back into feeling like the little boy that he was before. In the past, drugs were a common fix he used to numb the issue. Most of the time he would pass out unconscious, in dreamless sleep. Only waking up when his body started to crave food or his next high.

Withdrawal was especially hard. He struggled to stay awake properly when they detoxed him at the lab. He had gotten used to sleeping on a thin cotton mattress surrounded by clean sterile walls. That was when the dreams started to come back. Slowly, and only showed bits and pieces of his day that he tended to forget.

However recently, it felt like someone had been watching him from his dreams. Bob knew it was crazy of him to assume that, but in a world filled with gods and monsters? Anything was possible. 

-

It happened again that night. He was dreaming about the lab. The scientists seemed cold and distant, as they always were. Bob zoned out as their discussions played over and over acting as background noise. That's when he noticed it. One of the scientists seemed out of place. Attire identical to the ones around, but it just didn't feel right. 

Shifting his eyes slowly up, the moment he seemed to look at the figure-

SNAP

Bob jerked up, ripped from the dream that he had. Scrambling out of the bed, he hastily took out his journal and started to write everything that happened before it escaped his mind. Who or what was watching him? Were they even human? His brain, undecided between fear and curiosity. 

He tried to bring it up to Yelena or Bucky, asking if they had encountered beings that could lurk in dreams. But all he was met with were looks of concern. 

“Bob, do you want to talk about it?” Yelena knew Bob had issues with sleeping and paranoia in the past, but this seemed out of character even for him.

When Bucky heard him he seemed a bit more trusting, especially with his previous experiences with the mystical, “I think that's something you need to ask Dr Strange.”

They both tried to help in their own ways but Bob could get the sense that they didn't completely believe him. 

So he started experimenting, sleeping in short and long segments intermittently which spurred his body to dream. This seemed to work, allowing him to dream more often and catch the figure in action. Writing down different encounters, he noticed a trail of sand as a recurring pattern. However every time he tried to look at the figure directly, he woke up. 

Until one fateful night.

-

He was dreaming about being The Sentry again. The power at his fingertips felt overwhelming, bursting at the seams with the power of a million exploding Suns. Weaving his hand through the empty space, he sensed it again. But only now with his heightened sense, he managed to catch it. His eyes glowed with golden rings, deciding if you were a friend or foe.

“Who are you?”

His hand clasped around your throat but you remain unbothered. Reaching up, you place a hand on his wrist, gently pushing him back into the darkness. Your name seemed to echo out of your mouth but no sound reached him before he woke up.

-

The next night arrived with a familiar dream. He was up in his childhood bedroom. The noises of his parents were muffled from the floor below but still present.

“I-I know you're here.”

You step out of the shadow, greeting him with an air of regality. Your form draped with black cloth over your body, gliding gently along with your movements. He stands with uncertainty, unable to decipher if you were even from the same dimension as him. 

“Well our last meeting was very intimate, I only hope this goes more cordially.” His eyes widening in shock, he immediately starts to apologize at his previous behavior. It wasn't everyday you would choke a stranger. Especially one so beautiful… Bob thought, paralyzed slightly from your presence.

“Relax mortal, I am simply teasing.” You chide his shocked response, causing him to blush in embarrassment. 

“You may know me through many names, but to most I am Dream.” His eyes narrow, as if you were speaking in riddles. 

“Every dream that has happened and will happen, comes from my domain.”

“Does that include Nightmares?” You nod. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palm. Had you been the maestro of his misery? Punishing him for his previous sins through the never ending nights of bad dreams and insomnia.

“W-why do you keep sending them to me! Have I done something wrong? I-”

You hold a hand up to his face, stopping his speech immediately with a stern glare.

“Nightmares are meant to teach. They teach you to survive, and break from the malady in the safety of the dreamscape. While I did create them, I do not control where they go, only what they can do.” He seemed troubled by your logic, unable to comprehend the point of receiving so many nightmares. 

Sensing his discomfort, you continued to explain, “If everyone only had good dreams, who would ever want to wake up?” 

This had seemed to complete a piece of the puzzle for him. Nightmares were not evil or bad, they were a necessary force. You didn't harbor any malicious intent and described it as a natural process.

“There was a time when they were used to punish. But that wasn't a pleasant time for all. Even nightmares can have dreams of their own.” You shook your head at past memories. The previous ruler was blinded by the pain humanity inflicted upon him. He punished humanity with all his might, but also ended up hurting his subjects as well. 

As you walked away, the room seemed to twist and turn. Bob followed suit, pulling away further and further from his original dream into a space where sand seemed to spring up between his toes, falling endlessly from the sky. Each grain pressed softly against the soles of his feet, sinking slightly at each step he placed forward. 

Stopping in your tracks, you wave your hand to summon a cascade of sand to start falling in front of you. Your hand glides through the granules to reveal a world beyond imagination through the tiny gaps. A glimpse into it revealed colours and objects Bob couldn't seem to comprehend.

“This is where we shall part human, I will visit soon and I will be watching.” With a smile, you turned to face him as you stepped back into the falling sand. 

“Wait w-” Before he could continue his question, the sand beneath him started to sink down rapidly. The sandy domain, falling apart without your presence. Bob's heart jumped as he felt straight back into his body, jerking to consciousness. One last question still lingered on the tip of his tongue. 

Why were you watching him?

[sturniphone]

ok so since bunny doesnt work what does her day in the life look like when matt is at work all day

haha I already had this done in my docs lol.. just have to move it

Monday: You start the week with a sleepy wave goodbye at the door, still in Matt’s hoodie and your fuzzy socks. After packing his bento with perfect little compartments of rice, pickled things, and a handwritten note, you clean up breakfast… sort of. You get halfway through dishes before spotting your blind box shelf and end up rearranging them by “vibe.”

Later, you brave the grocery store with a wrinkled list Matt wrote for you (he drew little hearts next to the essentials so you’d feel brave). You mumble at the cashier, eyes down. Forget the almond milk completely because you spent too long debating matcha flavors.

You come home, flop on the couch, and fall asleep watching Sailor Moon.

Tuesday: You try again. Grocery round two. This time, you practice what you’ll say in your head before you ask someone where the sesame oil is. Your voice cracks but they’re nice. You beam all the way down the aisle.

You eat fruit and fancy yogurt on the balcony while journaling in pink ink. You try a new mascara before Matt comes home. He notices immediately. ❝Pretty. Come here.❞

Wednesday: You spend all morning washing your plushies and combing their fur. A neighbor knocks with a package and you nearly cry trying to answer the door. Your thank-you is barely a whisper. But Matt texts you later: “Heard you accepted a parcel. Proud of you, bunny.”

You eat overpriced salad on the floor while reading a romance novel. One you’ll later make Matt read the fluffiest bits of out loud.

Thursday: You plan to clean. You really do. But then you start reorganizing your sticker books and fall into a two-hour blind box unboxing rabbit hole online.

You go out to get more snacks for Matt’s lunches. You pick the cutest ones. The checkout lady says, ❝This for your kid?❞ You squeak, ❝Boyfriend,❞ and hide behind your bag.

Friday: You go to the bookstore just to browse, but end up picking a new manga because the art is so sparkly. You sit in a corner café, sipping a lavender matcha and practicing writing your name in calligraphy like it’s a diary.

You walk past a shiny toy store on the way home. One blind box becomes three. Matt doesn’t mind—he lines them up proudly on his desk.

Saturday: Your best friend picks you up and takes you out. You wear something cute, but bring your comfort cardigan anyway. You stutter over your order, blush when a stranger compliments your nails. But you manage. You even walk into a bakery alone to surprise Matt with a treat.

You both curl up that night, knees touching under a big blanket, watching cartoons and giggling until you fall asleep on his chest.

Sunday: Your favorite day. Date day. You follow Matt from café to café like a sleepy kitten, sipping three different kinds of matcha and splitting pastries with him.

You try a new fluffy bun with custard that leaves sugar on your lips. Matt kisses it away. ❝Good?❞ he hums.

You nod. ❝Better now.❞

[millieisawriter]

Stitch you up

arthur morgan x reader

summary: a fanfiction where arthur finds your own journal where you wrote about him

wc: 1.2k

english isn't my first language

♡this wasn't requested, but if you wish to request something you're more than welcome♡

all pics are from pinterest

You had joined the gang recently, and immediately noticed him. Arthur Morgan. The big, bad mystery of a man. Soon enough you learnt that he had a past more wounded than anyone you've ever known, and you wanted to help him.

God, you wanted to help him so badly, stitch up the wounds he hid from everyone else, light up his darkness even at the cost of your own light. But you didn't know scaring the shadows away won't be easy. It was as if he didn't let you do it, scared it will break you. Little did he know, the rejection hurt you like a gentle hammer to the heart.

You could be a bit scatterbrained at times. Like that one time when you left your journal god knows where. Writing down your thoughts always seemed to help you feel better, but now there was a risk someone could find it and read it.

Arthur never planned on finding your journal, nor had he intended to read it. He saw it abandoned by the tree where you often sat alone in the evenings, writing while the others laughed and drank by the fire. His hand hovered over it, hesitating. He knew he should leave it be, or better - return it, but curiosity twisted tight in his chest.

Your handwriting was delicate but hurried, with little mistakes probably caused by you glancing around from time to time, checking if no one is looking into the journal over your shoulder. Arthur knew he shouldn't look where he didn't belong. But he kept flipping, kept glancing over the words like he was pulled by a higher force.

Until that one page...

I tried to stitch you up with thread from my own skin, thought maybe my bones could be your bandages. I couldn't fix you and broke myself in the process. But you stay empty and I stay broken, a ruined sacrifice for a love that never wanted saving.

Arthur stared at the words, re-reading them a few times. He felt it in his core, even if no name was mentioned, he knew well who you wrote about. Too well.

His heart was thudding when he shut the journal closed. He had known you had a thing for him, but he thought it's just an infatuation that will eventually pass. Now it turned out your feelings ran deep.

He searched for you, intending to give back the journal as if nothing happened, as if he hadn't read a single word. But from the panic in your eyes, even if the rest of your body tried to remain calm, he knew that you knew.

"I uh... found this by the tree," he muttered, helding the little journal out to you.

You took it, your gaze dropping to the ground in embarrassment, and instead of thanking the man, you said, "I'm sorry."

Arthur looked away, swallowing his words. He should be the one apologizing. You did nothing wrong, developing feelings wasn't your fault. Reading your journal, however, was Arthur's choice.

"Nothin' to be sorry for," he managed to say, "I shouldn't have read it. I– I don't know why I did."

He didn't meet your gaze. Instead, now he was the one looking at the ground. As if he wanted to dig a hole and dug all his guilt and embarrassment there.

"I didn't mean for anybody to see this," you still felt the need to explain yourself, "I know what I wrote must seem so foolish to you."

He shook his head and finally looked at you, "Ain't foolish. Just... I ain't the man for you. Truth be told, I ain't the man for anyone."

That was exactly what you wished to prove him wrong. You wanted him to believe he could be loved. He was worth it, even if he couldn't see it. You wanted to make him see it.

"Says who?" You asked.

He sighed.

It was his concious decision. Nobody had to tell him. He knew he can't be a bad man and expect good things to happen to him. The past had told him enough.

"Says me," he muttered eventually, "I know what I am, I know what I've done. You, on the other hand, you–"

You interrupted him, "Don't give me that, Arthur. I know what you are, too. And so what of it? You're not a bad man, you're just... broken."

"And I won't burden you with fixin' me. Don't do this to yourself, don't go gettin' hurt over someone like me."

"What if I want to be burdened with it?"

That was foolish, way too foolish, to love someone for such a short period of time, but the feeling for some reason so strong you wanted to be their bandage, their stitches, their cure. It didn't make sense, but has love ever made sense?

But, damn it, Arthur would be lying if he said he didn't want it. He had lied so many times already, saying he doesn't feel the same, but his heart ached for you. He wished he could touch you, kiss you, feel you, fully convinced it could fix him so easily.

"We're both fools," he said, his eyes meeting yours and in them you could see the truth. He could reject you as many times as he'd like, but his eyes were longing for you in ways you wished for.

"Maybe," you agreed, your lips curling into a sad smile, "but if being a fool means having the chance to love you... then I'll gladly be one."

Not letting you love him was what broke you, but he was scared letting you do it, would be even worse. But this time, he didn't pull away when you moved closer to him.

Maybe in his eyes, he wasn't worthy of you, of your feelings, of being fixed, of any of what you were willing to give him. But in yours... he was worthy of way more than what this life could offer.

You reached up, your palm landing on his jaw, the stubble nicely tickling your soft skin. This touch was something he longed for from the moment he knew you wanted him the way he wanted you. Your touch sent a weave of warmth through him, as if it had any healing powers.

He closed his eyes, partially because he couldn't quite bear the weight of his own feelings, and partially because he wanted to stay like this for as long as possible. To memorize your touch in case this will never happen again.

"We're both fools," he repeated, his eyes opening, and he gently took your wrist and moved your hand so that he could place a kiss on the back of it, "but if you're willin', then I reckon I am too."

There was just something about you that made this man feel like maybe misery isn't something he's sentenced to for the rest of his life. Maybe there was a flicker of hope, too. Maybe for once he could love and be loved in peace, if he tries to deserve it.

[thegreatirene]

Traveling Witch(Adrian Tepes x witch!reader) Part6

Rating: Mature for language

Here it is everyone! The last chapter! I hope you guys like it and let me know if you like it! I’ll be starting on some other fic for other fandoms. I think I plan on writing some more fics of witchy reader and Adrian. Nothing to do with the storyline but like prompts I’ve seen floating around on here. So look out for those too. Again thank you for reading!

For some reason I’m not able to link part one to here. Probably cuz I’m doing it from my phone but the tags should lead you to the other ones. If I’m able to I’ll make a post with all of the chapters on it so it’s easier that way too!

Part1. Part2. Part3. Part4. Part5

It’s been about a week since you’ve been back to your timeline. Walking through the tunnel of time felt a lot colder than usual and you were not sure if it always felt that way or because of Adrian. As soon as you got back you went straight to your room and started to read about The Alucard of Wallachia. Everything seemed to be as it was the first time you have read it. Nothing out of place or even added. As if you weren’t even there to disturb it.

You sighed as you looked up at your ceiling and letting your mind wonder to Adrian. The books you have of him are few. Not many details of him sadly. It had nothing to do with you and more with how every vampires lived. Adrian was a private person to begin with so you’re not surprised he didn’t have a journal he wrote in.

You want to go back so bad but what’s the point if you have to go through the whole process again.

You sign once again as you got up and walked to your desk getting ready to do some research on where you can find your precious rock. You stopped in your steps as you felt an energy coming from your bag. Walking over to it you rummaged through the bag and stopped when you felt a book. You pulled it out and examined the book.

“Where did this come from?”

The cover was red and it looked old. You don’t remember getting any books recently. You sat down at your desk as you opened the book. A light breeze flowed around you as you opened it. Looking around the room to see if something came in, you looked down at the pages. It was blank. Each page was blank. You flipped through the pages and landed on one and grabbed your pen. You drew a little bunny face on it and leaned back in your chair. It wasn’t like you to buy a journal but then again you haven’t been in your right mind lately.

You were about to close the book when something caught your eye. Writing appeared above the bunny.

‘Found you’

You frowned as you looked at the words and got up as you felt a familiar presence. You ran through your house as you made your way to the front door. The doorbell rang and your mother was already there. Answering it by the time you came around the corner.

“Hello, can I help you?” You heard your mother ask. You were breathing hard as you slowly walked up to her and placed a hand on her arm. She looked at you with a smile as she opened the door wider for you to see the stranger.

“Just the person was looking for” came that sweet honey voice you have been dreaming about since the first day you had heard it. Tears stung your eyes as you smiled at him.

“Adrian” you hiccuped as you threw yourself at the man. He immediately held you to him as he fell to his knees. You understood when someone said getting hugged by your loved one feels like home. Adrian right now is making you feel like everything is complete. He was your home and you hope you were his.

You pulled back and held his face as you looked up at him.

“Oh my god look at you!” You brushed a stray tear from his cheek. “You’re even hotter than before!” You pinched his cheeks and he chuckled rubbing his thumb over your hands.

“And I’ve missed you too” his cheeks a bit red from your pulling on them as he brought you closer to kiss you. You were determined to show how much you missed him with this kiss. Your hand whined into his hair as you pulled him closer to you. You needed to feel him against you. You needed to taste him again. The both of you pulled apart as you heard your mother clear her throat.

“Apologies, ma’am” Adrian stood up and pulled you along with him. He held his hand out to your mother who you totally forgot was the one that answered the door. She laughed and took his hand bringing him into a hug as well.

“Adrian Tepes. I’ve meet your parents a couple centuries ago. You look just like your mother” she said with a sweet smile. Adrian gave her a quizzical look to her statement.

“We’re witches remember” she said with a smile.

“Yes y/n said but I did not know you could surpass human life”

“With some learning and knowing what spells and potions to make we can probably live as long as a being like yourself” you closed the door as you followed your mother and Adrian. She continued to explain as she sat Adrian in one of the seats in the living room and you went to make some tea and snacks. By the time you were done both Adrian and your mother were laughing at a story Adrian was telling.

“She’s told me only little things about her trip” your mother said as she looked at you when you passed her a cup of juice.

“I told you what happened” you told her as you gave Adrian a cup as well and sat next to him on the couch. Adrian smiled at you and scooted a little closer to you as he took a sip of the juice.

“Mhm” your mother looked between you and Adrian. She chuckled to herself as she got up from her seat.

“I’ll be out for a couple of hours,” she walked to the kitchen “don’t do anything while I’m gone.” She playfully said as she heard you groan at her teasing. You heard the front door open and closed and the room became quiet.

“I’ve noticed you’re speaking English” you turned to look at Adrian with a smile.

“I’ve picked it up a long the way. I can see why you chose the way you did to learn mine” he sat the cup down on the table and looked at you. He brought his right hand to your cheek and you leaned into it. You’ve missed him even if it was only just a week or two. For Adrian you knew it was longer. Your want for him wasn’t as bad as his was. You could see it in his eyes as he looked at you with so much love.

“I’ve missed you” he whispered as he brought your face closer to his lips. You held on to his shirt as you kissed Adrian again. This time the kiss was slow. You could feel the want and love for you as he kissed you. Even though you wanted to stay back with him in the past. You knew what you did was the right thing to do. Now you didn’t have to part ways. You can grow old with Adrian now in the present time without worry of harm coming to him. You pulled him down on to you so he could lay between your legs and rest his head on your chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Finally everything is fine now.

.

.

.

.

.

Epilogue:

“Oh I forgot to give you something” Adrian said as he was sitting on your bed and held out his hand. His bag that he was carrying came to him and landed in his hand. He rummaged through it until he pulled out a small box with a red bow on it.

“For you my lovely” you walked over to him as you finished drying your hair. You excitedly jumped on the bed and threw the towel at him as you grabbed the box.

“Ooo whatcha get me!” You opened the box and in the center of the box cushioned by fluff was the trovant. You squeaked as you threw yourself on to Adrian and peppered his face with kisses.

“You remembered!” You gave him one last kiss and got off the bed. You ran to the door that lead to your garden and placed the little rock in your little section of a zen garden. You stood up and placed your hands on your hips with a proud smile on your face. Adrian wrapped his arms around your waist and placed his head on top of yours. You leaned back and looked up at the night sky. The full moon shined brightly down at the two of you as Adrian rocked you side to side.

“I really do love you Adrian”

“I love you too y/n”

You looked back at him and he gave you a sweet kiss and placed his forehead against yours. The both of you closed your eyes and swayed to the motion of the night.

[mypoisonedvine]

now here’s a thought: jonathan crane being seduced by one of his patients

I WAS SERIOUSLY THINKING ABOUT THIS LIKE A JOKER/HARLEY QUINN MOMENT!! aaaand that's how it turned into basically a whole ass oneshot, oops

hook, line, and sinker - 1.6k words

warnings: manipulation, sexual themes/groping (18+ only please), fluff but with a dark-ish twist

"Sometimes I think you're the only one who understands me," you admitted shyly, biting your lip and looking down at the tile floor beneath you.

He leaned in a little closer, resting his arms on the table between you. "You know," he replied, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it though not quite a whisper yet, "sometimes I feel the same way."

You smiled as you looked up at him again, finding a new brightness in his eyes. "Really?" you beamed.

"Yeah," he agreed, laughing, "I really enjoy our little talks. I mean, sometimes I can't believe I'm getting paid to see you."

Giggling a little, you remembered the first time he let his guard down with you, just a bit; for weeks he'd easily dodged any personal questions, clearly knowing it was a slippery slope to countertransference and an inappropriate relationship. Unfortunately for him and everyone who had insisted that Arkham was the only facility you'd never be able to escape from, you knew from the beginning that you could use him.

You could smell it on him: that deep, overwhelming loneliness. You were far too familiar with it yourself to miss it in someone else. Sure, he kept it hidden under layer after layer of intelligence, professionalism, faked normalcy-- but it was there, and it was calling out for someone else to truly see him. You saw him from the second he walked in that armored door, back when they still kept you in the jacket; now, months later, you'd convinced him you weren't a threat and that he was the one in control of these sessions.

The other facilities, with their inspiration murals and their bean bag chairs, they were a breeze to break out of. You knew that Arkham Supermax was going to be an entirely new challenge, but you'd been preparing since the beginning. Each week with Dr. Crane, you got him to be a little naughtier for you-- first it was as simple as convincing him to let your sessions go long, leaving everyone else waiting as you poured your soul out for an extra half hour. Convincing him that you needed him, that only he could help you. Then it was the praise-- you're changing my life, I've had so many shrinks and you're the first that really listened, you're so incredible-- all that shit he'd probably been craving since his daddy didn't hug him enough or something.

Once you'd given him some compliments, he returned one to you: you made up some sob story about your low self-esteem just to get him to admit that you were attractive, and you took the compliment with a coy little thank you, Dr. Crane... that's high praise coming from you.

Then it was contraband, just little stuff. He snagged you an extra serving of dessert on your birthday; he brought you a copy of your favorite book, as a reward for increasingly good behavior. Sometimes you thought about just asking him straight-up for a metal file or few paperclips, but that would be risky-- you could throw away all your work if you jumped the gun too soon.

Then there was the journal... you knew, no matter how much he swore he wouldn't, that he was going to read that fucking journal. You couldn't be sure if that was always the plan, or if it was just a temptation he would eventually surrender to, but you wrote all these fucked up little fantasies in that journal and imagined how he'd have to loosen his tie when he read them.

Back in January: Dr. Crane keeps asking about my nightmares, I couldn't possibly admit that I've started having sexual dreams about him...

And then there was the entry from March: I didn't mean to upset him yesterday but he snapped at me when I was talking about my anger-- he said I wasn't taking accountability-- and when he got stern with me I felt myself getting wet, is that bad?

And the best one yet, just a few days ago: Dear diary, I swore I wouldn't tell anyone what he told me, so I won't even tell you-- but I'll just say that when Jonathan showed me his mask, I fell totally in love with him. People are always hiding who they really are, but he knows me, and now I know him, too. I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. I know we're meant for each other.

Your heart was racing as you realized it might all pay off tonight. Listening to his rambling rants about fear and society and humanity, journaling about your 'crush' like a schoolgirl, making doe-eyes at him during sessions-- it was all about to happen, you had him in your pocket.

"Sometimes, I..." he began again, looking down at your hands shackled to the table, "I think about seeing you more. When I'm not even here, I mean..."

You pretended to be surprised by that. "Really? I mean... do you think about just talking to me, or...?"

He smiled a little, his face turning a bit pinker. "Do you think about us doing more than just talking?" he turned the question on you instead.

"Doctor, I--"

"Jonathan."

You had to fight off a smirk; you reached forward across the table, jingling the chains that held you down, but they were just long enough to reach to his hands. You gently brushed your fingers over his, hearing him sigh as he opened his hand for you to place your hand in. You ran your middle finger delicately in a line along his palm, and he shuddered a bit. Hook, line, and sinker. "Jonathan," you started again in a low purr, "I think about so much more than talking."

"Do you ever think about... about if we could be together...?" he pressed, closing his grip to hold your hand. After this long of a seduction, you couldn't deny that touching him in such an innocuous way was getting you a little hot. Just because you were manipulating him didn't mean you were completely faking an attraction, he was sexy-- and gullible. You liked that in a man.

Trying to look conflicted, you glanced away. "I try not to imagine that," you explained, "it's... it's not possible, with me in here. I'm fine with this, if this is all I can get-- seeing you three times a week for our sessions, telling you things I never thought I'd tell anyone. I can be okay with that. Just knowing you feel even a fraction of what I do is like-- it's like-- I don't even know how to describe it. It's amazing."

Leaning in even more, he reached up and held your face-- tenderly, reverently-- and you shut your eyes as you leaned into his touch. "I wish I was as unselfish as you," he replied, "but I need more-- I need to really be with you."

You brought your hand up to hold his, jerking the chain a bit. "I need-- I need you, too," you mumbled. "Please, Jonathan," you begged in a whisper as you opened your eyes to meet his wanting gaze, "I wanna be yours."

He sat up and leaned over the table in a split second, kissing you hard; you had to tilt your head back to accommodate the height difference as you were still sitting, and it made it even easier for him to hold your head like they used to in those old Hollywood movies-- the ones they showed here on Thursday nights, but you weren't allowed to go because you 'didn't integrate well with the general population' or whatever.

As he kissed you, hungry but relatively reserved, it was you that took it further: carefully running your tongue over his lips, opening your mouth for him to claim, having to hold back a grin when he moaned softly against you. "Touch me," you begged him in a rare moment of reprieve from the kiss, "please-- I've wanted you to for so long--"

He groaned a little as his hand slid down to your chest, opening one button of your uniform jumpsuit; he kissed your neck as he dipped his hand inside, groping your chest underneath the fabric. Your hips naturally rocked forward in the metal chair, your deprived body desperate to be filled after almost a year of forced celibacy in this prison. "Fuck," he mumbled against your skin, tweaking a nipple between his fingers, "you know we can't-- not here--"

"I know," you purred, only barely able to reach his shoulder with your hands chained-- otherwise you'd be running your fingers through his hair, holding on to his neck, pulling him closer. "But I need you-- I don't think I've ever needed anything this much..."

He shook his head; "Me either," he admitted.

"I need to feel you inside me."

He growled, grip tightening on your breast, and you smiled proudly. "I can't just leave you here," he realized, like it was his idea. "We need to be together-- outside of this place."

"I'll go anywhere with you," you promised him.

Pulling back and looking into your eyes, he brought both his hands to your face, brushing your hair aside quickly. "If I do this for you... you have to promise me. You have to be mine."

"Can you really do that?" you wondered. "Get me out?"

"I'll find a way," he assured, "I'll do anything."

You smiled up at his determined expression, flashing your best big-wet-needy eyes at him. "Jonathan," you cooed, "I'm already yours."