#neither of them talk about it though of course

[gf2bellamy]

hiya! i had a cute request if you’re interested in writing it. spencer reid x reader where they finished a case and go back to a hotel to sleep and reader goes to spencer’s room (friends with feelings?) asking if she can sleep with him cause they case damaged her mental state. and it’s just cute and cuddly how they figure out how to sleep and such. maybe they can even sleep through the alarm or maybe emily finds reader missing and goes to spencer to ask if he’s seen her only to see the two of them together.

entangled — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of reader having a rough time with a case ( no explicit mention of the details of the case though ) a/n: hiii !! such a cute idea - i love writing sleepy spencer !! hope you like this <3 also lets just pretend emily got into the room with magic cuz i couldnt figure out how she'd get into the room 😭

You hesitated before knocking, your knuckles barely making a sound against the wooden door. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, tapping your shoe nervously against the carpet.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open, revealing Spencer standing there in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly tousled from sleep. His hazel eyes softened with confusion. 

"Hi," you greeted weakly, offering a tired smile. 

"Hi," he echoed, his brows furrowing. "Are you okay?" 

You couldn't blame him for asking. After all, it was two in the morning, and you'd shown up unannounced at his hotel room after an exhausting day working on the case. You swallowed hard, suddenly second-guessing yourself. 

"I—" You faltered, unable to find the right words. Because no, you weren’t okay. That’s exactly why you were here. 

Spencer didn’t wait for you to finish. Instead, he stepped aside, silently inviting you in.

"Come in," he said gently. 

You stepped inside, as your gaze drifted across the neatly arranged space—the open book on the nightstand, his clothes folded with meticulous precision on the chair. The sight of such organization brought a small, fleeting smile to your lips. 

“What’s wrong?” Spencer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, his long fingers resting lightly against his knees. He gestured for you to sit beside him, and you did, your knees brushing his as you settled in. 

You let out a slow breath. "I just... can't sleep," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. 

Spencer studied you for a moment, and you knew—he knew. He had noticed throughout the day how the case had weighed on you.He had also noticed the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked softly, his voice free of pressure, just an open offer. 

You shook your head. “Not right now.” 

He nodded, understanding as always. 

You hesitated before biting your lip, your knee pressing just slightly harder against his. The warmth of the touch sent a thrill through both of you, hearts drumming faster in unison. 

“Can I ask you for a favor?” you murmured, your voice unsure, almost timid. 

Spencer tilted his head, his expression soft but curious. “Anything.” 

Another silence. You exhaled slowly, gathering the courage to say it. 

“Can I sleep here? I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

The words felt fragile as they left your lips, almost afraid of being rejected. You kept your gaze down, suddenly fascinated by the wrinkle in the hotel comforter, unwilling to meet his eyes. 

Spencer didn’t hesitate. He nudged your knee again, firmer this time, silently coaxing you to look at him. And when you finally did, he was already nodding. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Of course you can.” 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Spencer, meanwhile, was doing his best to suppress the way his pulse had kicked up at your request. 

He stood up, and instinctively, you did too. Neither of you knew what to do next. 

“So, uh… I can just sleep on the floor. That’s no problem,” Spencer offered, scratching the back of his neck.

His voice was uncharacteristically uncertain, and you didn’t miss the way a faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. But then again, who could blame him? The girl he was in love with was standing in his hotel room, asking to stay the night. 

“No, no,” you shook your head quickly. “Spence, I didn’t come here to take over your bed and make you sleep on the floor.” You gave him a small smile, hoping it would ease his nerves—yours too. “I just… I don’t want to be alone.” 

Your voice was softer this time, more vulnerable, and as you said it, your gaze drifted toward the bed.

And that’s when it really hit you—what you were asking for. To sleep in the same bed as Spencer. The same Spencer you had been in love with for what felt like forever. 

Your stomach twisted, equal parts nervous and thrilled. 

“Oh—oh, yeah. Right,” Spencer stammered, nodding rapidly. His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I-I mean, so we can—uh—yeah, that makes sense.” His words tripped over each other, and you swore he somehow got even redder. 

You bit your lip to hide your smile, but a quiet chuckle still slipped out. It was strangely endearing—seeing the usually composed, genius-level profiler completely unravel just at the thought of sharing a bed with you. 

Trying to keep yourself from overthinking, you stepped toward the bed, moving to the left side.

You pushed back the covers, feeling Spencer’s eyes on you the entire time. He hadn’t moved yet, just stood there, frozen, like his brain was short-circuiting. 

“Spencer?” You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hm?” He blinked rapidly, snapping out of his daze. 

“You getting in, or…?” 

“Oh! Yes! Right,” he said quickly before practically tripping over his own feet to join you. The bed dipped slightly under his weight.

“I hope it’s okay if I keep a small light on,” he hesitated, his voice softer now. “But if you’d rather have it off, I can—” 

You turned your head toward him before he could finish, smiling at the way he was so concerned about your comfort. “It’s fine,” you assured him. “I actually think I’d prefer a light right now.” 

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, nodding slightly. “Okay.” 

He glanced at you, just for a second, before quickly looking away again. The warmth on his neck deepened, the blush creeping to his ears now. He reached over and switched off the harsh overhead light, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

You shifted slightly, turning your head toward him, and Spencer, still lying on his back, hesitated before tilting his head just enough to meet your eyes. 

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” you murmured, voice small, genuine. 

His brows pulled together slightly as he found the courage to fully turn onto his side, facing you completely. 

“You’re never intruding,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made your stomach flip. 

His eyes traced the way you absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair away from your face. The small, simple movement felt oddly intimate, and before he could even think about it, his own hand twitched as if he wanted to do the same. 

Instead, he clenched his fingers into the sheets, trying to steady his heartbeat. 

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. Close enough to see the way his eyelashes flickered against his cheeks, close enough to count the freckles on his nose, close enough that if you moved even slightly forward, you— 

You pushed the thought away. 

“It was a rough case,” you suddenly mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Spencer's hazel eyes scanned your face with concern. Even in the dim light, you could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something but was carefully choosing his words. 

“Yes, it was,” he agreed, his voice soft but laced with worry. 

A beat of silence passed before he spoke again, this time more certain. 

“I hope you know that you did a great job,” he said, his words gentle. A small, nervous smile flickered on his lips.

You bit your lip, your chest tightening at his reassurance.

“Thank you, Spence,” you whispered, letting your eyes meet his. 

And before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand, giving it a small squeeze. 

Spencer froze for half a second, his breath catching in his throat. The warmth of your fingers against his sent a shiver up his spine.

And maybe it was the way your fingers lingered a little longer than necessary, or maybe it was the way you kept biting your lip—something he had long since learned you did when you were nervous—but suddenly, Spencer found himself feeling just a little bit braver. 

So when you started to pull your hand back, instinctively retreating, he didn’t let go. 

Instead, he gently tightened his grip, his fingers threading through yours, locking them together like they were always meant to fit this way. 

Your breath hitched, eyes flickering up to meet his again. 

“I’m glad you came here,” he whispered, his fingers tracing over your hand in slow, delicate patterns. His gaze flickered downward, watching the way your fingers remained tangled together.

“Me too,” you admitted, your voice just as soft. 

You hadn’t even realized you had scooted closer—not until the space between you was barely there.

But then Spencer moved. 

With a shy kind of confidence, he turned onto his back and gently pulled you toward him.Your head landed against his chest, and for a split second, your breath stalled. 

But then you relaxed. 

The warmth of him seeped into you. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your cheek. And even as you adjusted, your fingers never let go of each other. 

Spencer swallowed hard, doing his best to seem normal, like his heart wasn’t practically slamming against his ribs at the fact that you were here, curled up against him, trusting him enough to be this close. 

His free hand hovered for a moment, uncertain, before he slowly—hesitantly—let it settle at your back. 

“You’re warm,” you mumbled sleepily, your voice slightly muffled against his shirt. 

Spencer let out a small, breathy chuckle. “So are you.” 

You tilted your head just slightly, peering up at him. “Is this okay?” 

Spencer looked down at you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “Yeah,” he murmured, like there was never a doubt. “This is more than okay.” 

A small smile tugged at your lips as you settled back down, letting your eyes flutter shut. Spencer’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly.

Both of you ended up falling asleep smiling. And maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt the weight of loneliness pressing down.

Either way, neither of you stirred when Spencer’s alarm went off the next morning. 

The alarm buzzed faintly before silencing itself, unnoticed by either of you—too wrapped up in sleep and in each other. 

At some point in the night, you had shifted, your body now draped over Spencer’s, your face tucked against his neck. His arm was wound securely around your waist, holding you close as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. 

Neither of you heard the knocking. 

When Emily hadn’t been able to find you anywhere else, she had hoped—guessed—that you might be with Spencer. Maybe going over case notes, maybe just talking. But when she knocked again and got no response, her brows furrowed. 

“Reid?” she called, twisting the handle.

The moment she stepped inside, she froze. 

Her eyes landed on the sight before her—Spencer, tangled up with you in bed, your body curled against his like you belonged there, his arm tight around you, his face buried somewhere in your hair. 

Emily blinked. Then blinked again. 

A slow smirk spread across her face. 

“Well,” she murmured to herself. “Would you look at that.” 

Not wanting to wake either of you (and also definitely wanting to use this as future blackmail), she carefully backed out of the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. 

As she walked down the hall, she pulled out her phone. 

Emily: Guess who I just found cuddled up in bed like a couple of love-struck teenagers? 

A second later, her phone buzzed. 

JJ: NO. WAY. 

Derek: Finally. 

With a satisfied grin, Emily slipped her phone back into her pocket. 

[cherry-coffees]

On Thin Ice

academic rival!Caitlyn x reader (part 2 of Again & Again)

cw: 4.1K words | academic rivals/college AU, rivals to lovers, elements of girly girl!reader, Jayce/Caitlyn sibling dynamic, reader doesn't know how to skate, Cait teaches her, insane amounts of fluff

As quickly as the autumn leaves change into winter snow, your relationship with Caitlyn Kiramman changes right along with it. 

The wind grows colder and windowpanes frost over, but the coldness in your interactions lessens. Once academic rivals who couldn’t stand each other have become academic rivals who…kind of can?

It starts with the decline of insults at each other: the way her glares whenever you walk into a classroom turn into amicable glances, and how snippy comments turn into casual conversations. You still feel a sense of pride when you outscore her on a test, of course: the flare of competition still remains. Caitlyn’s pride, too, causes her to be just as smug when she outscores you in return. Both of you have worked too hard to let your motivation for the top grades dwindle. Though, while you once hated that about her, there seems to be some sort of mutual respect ever since the completion of your project together.

It’s never something either of you have acknowledged out loud. No. Not when you come into class one day, taking your usual seat beside her, and Caitlyn’s eyes flick to your bag. “I like your bag,” she comments, eyeing the puffy, white tote bag as you set it down next to your chair. 

“Oh, um-" you’re not quite used to her compliments. Which, speaking of, have been steadily increasing over the past few weeks. “Thank you.”

Caitlyn merely nods, tapping her perfectly manicured fingernails against her laptop. “It suits you,” is all she says before the professor calls everyone’s attention, and you’re forced to focus on the notes you’re supposed to be taking.

Most days go something like this now. You’re not complaining: having one less thing to worry about in your already stressful classes is more than welcome. Though, the way Caitlyn’s gaze has gone from filling you with annoyance to making your stomach dip just the slightest bit is more than a little concerning.

One day, after an especially difficult history test, you’re a little dazed when you pack up your things to leave class. You’re an amazing student, always acing your tests and quizzes after a copious amount of studying and note-taking. But the questions on this one had been so out of nowhere, so unfairly challenging, that you hadn’t seen them coming.

You’re still reeling from the test when you’re barely out the door before a hand touches your shoulder from behind. You turn, expecting to see one of your friends, but your eyes widen when you see a flash of dark hair and icy blue eyes and realize that it’s Caitlyn. 

“Hey,” Caitlyn hesitates, fidgeting with her own bag. “Uh, I know we never talk about tests, but…those questions were insane, right?”

You just blink at her for a moment. It’s true: the two of you never speak about tests unless it’s to gloat the higher score over the other. You’re academic rivals, after all: it’s not some friendly competition. Usually, neither of you can stand to admit you didn’t know something to the other.

But something about Caitlyn’s honesty — though unexpected —  compels you to do the same. “Yeah,” you scratch at the hallway floor with the toe of your shoe. “I didn’t expect any of that; it was nothing like the study guide that we got last week.”

Caitlyn nods, the tension in her muscles seeming to loosen at your agreement. “Gods, yes,” she exhales in her accent that just screams her wealth from the rooftops. “I’m hoping I pass at the very least, and you know I’d never say that about anything.”

“Yeah,” a small smile tugs at your lips as you glance up at her. “I know.”

Caitlyn feels a slight pang in her chest. Whether it’s from the realization that (despite your rivalry) you actually do know her, or it’s the way your features actually look cute relaxed when you’re not glaring at her, she doesn’t know. All she knows is that when you start down the hallway, she finds herself falling into step beside you. Strange. Caitlyn Kiramman doesn’t follow anyone — especially her rivals.

Little does she know, a similar thought occurs to you as Caitlyn continues to talk about the test and you find yourself walking together. That’s already a weird realization on its own, let alone the thought that you actually like it. You quickly dismiss it with a subtle shake of your head.

If Caitlyn Kiramman holds a good conversation, then sue you.

“Right, well,” Caitlyn clears her throat as the both of you exit the building. “I’m headed back to my parents��. Good luck with your score, I suppose.”

“You too,” you bite the inside of your cheek. A few weeks prior, you’d have made some snarky comment about how Caitlyn can’t stay away from the wealthy lifestyle of her family for too long. But now, all you do is adjust your bag on your shoulder and offer her a small wave. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“See you,” Caitlyn murmurs, barely audible as you turn to head in the direction of your dorm. She stands there for a few moments longer, taking in the sight of how the light reflects off your hair, and how the wind tousles it, and how you draw your coat more tightly around yourself to brace the cold weather, and oh-

Caitlyn is so, completely, inevitably screwed.

|------» ~~~ «------| 

“Okay,” Caitlyn huffs to herself, pacing back and forth across her luxurious bedroom at the Kiramman manor. “It’s not a big deal. She’s just my rival. I’ve talked to her so many times, what’s different about talking to her outside of school?”

She stops in front of her full-length mirror that stands against her wall. “Would you want to hang out sometime?” Caitlyn tries, facing her own reflection and speaking as if another person is actually standing there. Namely, you. “No, that’s too casual,” she shakes her head before trying again. 

“Would you maybe want to study together sometime?” She makes another attempt, continuing to stare at her reflection as if it’ll somehow morph into you and answer back to her. Another shake of her head. “No, she’ll never want to study with her competition. Gods, I need to get it together.”

“Get what together?”

Caitlyn spins around to see her bedroom door ajar, Jayce’s head peeking in to witness her failed practice of talking to you. She must not have heard it open, too absorbed in her own thoughts. “Gods, Jayce,” she rolls her eyes. “I asked you here for a specific reason, not to scare me half to death.”

“Sorry,” Jayce grins, unapologetic as he moves across the room to join her. “You’re on edge today. What’s going on?”

“Well,” Caitlyn huffs, crossing her arms. “I just need some advice. Some, input on how I should talk to someone, if you will.”

Jayce’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. This is about a girl.”

“It is not,” Caitlyn shoots back, almost indignant at his assumption. But when Jayce gives her a look as if to say be serious, she sighs in defeat. “Fine. It’s about a girl.”

“Well, it seems the Caitlyn Kiramman is in love.” Jayce’s smile is almost smug from having guessed correctly, but he softens slightly as Caitlyn’s eyebrows contort in frustration — mostly with herself. “What’s wrong, Cait? Why do you need my advice for some girl you like?”

“Because,” Caitlyn’s eyes flick to the floor, almost like a child embarrassed of a wrongdoing. “She’s my competitor. We were always fighting over our grades until a few weeks ago.”

“What changed?”

“Well, we were working on a project, and I realized she wasn’t nearly as insufferable as I made her out to be,” Caitlyn’s cheeks tinge with color. “That and she’s super pretty and smart, and she always calls me on my shit and—"

“She’s perfect, then?” Jayce comments with a flick of his hand, but it’s more of a question than a statement.

Caitlyn shifts uncomfortably, her usually confident tone is replaced with an unusually shy mumble of confession. “Basically.”

Jayce sighs, moving to stand behind her reflection in the mirror. “So, this girl’s your rival. If you want to ask her out, then why don’t you just challenge her to another competition?”

“Another competition,” Caitlyn repeats, her eyebrows furrowing in thought. “How is competing with her going to win her heart?”

Jayce places a hand on her shoulder: the epitome of the big brother figure he’s always been to the much younger Caitlyn. “You take things too seriously, Sprout. It’s not a competition you try to win; it’s something you use to get her interested, and then you just…have fun. Playful competition, you know what I mean?”

Caitlyn considers this, opting to plop down on her stool as she leans her chin on her palm in thought. “I suppose I could try it.”

Her thoughtful expression quickly changes into one of slight annoyance as Jayce ruffles her hair. “Less thinking, more doing.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

“A ninety?” You spit out the words with distaste, unable to help yourself from voicing them alone when you see the 90 at the top of your latest test. 

Caitlyn glances over at you from her seat beside you. She holds back her usual glee at topping your score, and instead bites her lip to keep her 93 from tumbling out of her lips. 

You don’t need her to, though. One look at her paper, and you’re already biting back a scowl. You cross your arms, leaning back in your seat and wearing an expression that Caitlyn can only describe as a pout.

Gods, did you have to be so impossibly cute?

“Listen,” Caitlyn clears her throat, shifting slightly in her seat to face you. You assume she’ll gloat over her superior quiz score as per usual, but her gaze flicks from your paper to your face. “We’re always competing over tests, and all we do is go back and forth. How about another competition?”

You narrow your eyes at her, wondering what she could possibly be plotting against you. “What are you suggesting?”

“Ice skating.”

You blink. You must not have heard her correctly. “…What?”

Caitlyn’s eyes widen, surprising even herself with how blunt that sounded. “Um, I mean,” she quickly tries to justify her idea, desperately putting the pieces together in her head as to not sound as lame as she feels. “You know, it’s winter, and there’s a rink not too far from campus. It’d be…convenient?”

“Okay.”

A moment passes, Caitlyn just staring at you in slight disbelief. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Why not? I’d never back down from any challenge you throw at me. I hope you know that by now.”

“Oh, I— okay.” Caitlyn stumbles in her wording. She hadn’t been prepared for you to just agree like that. “Are you free Thursday night?”

You think about it for a moment, going over your schedule for the week in your mind. “Yeah, I should be. Meet at seven?”

“Sounds good. I’ll text you the address.” Caitlyn adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder as she stands to leave the classroom. She has your number from when you had worked on the project together, she remembers. 

“Okay,” you mumble, staring down at your hands resting on the desk in front of you.

Why do you have plans with your rival on Thursday night?

Scratch that.

Why do you have plans to compete with your rival in ice skating when you’ve never skated before?

|------» ~~~ «------| 

You arrive at the ice rink at seven exactly: right on time. You don’t have a plan for what you’re going to do, exactly, when Caitlyn finds out that you can’t skate. But you’re sort of trapped now, and your pride is far too high to call off any competition with your biggest rival. 

Fake it ‘till you make it, or some shit. 

Caitlyn’s already there, sitting casually on one of the benches outside the rink. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail that frames her face as she glances at her phone, and the thought briefly occurs to you that she looks so, distinctly pretty.

She hastily stands when you approach, clicking her phone off. “Hey-" Caitlyn starts, but the words die in her throat the second she lays eyes on you.

“Hi,” you give her a small smile. Caitlyn should respond, should usher you inside so she can go on about this competition that she secretly planned as a date, but she can’t. She can’t because you’re gorgeous.

You’re wearing a short, white skirt with a baby pink top and a white, fluffy coat. Your boots, leg warmers, and scarf are white to match, and gods you just look so soft. So soft, so cute, so bundled up and warm that Caitlyn wonders what it might be like to wrap you in her arms and—

She blinks as if to shake the thought out of her mind, awkwardly gesturing towards the entrance. “Should we go in?”

You nod, stepping forward to enter the rink. It’s outdoors, all pretty-looking with fairy lights strung up above the ice. Caitlyn holds the gate open for you, and you can’t help but note the height difference between you two. Gods, who had to make her 6’1”? 

Once you’ve both entered the rink, Caitlyn claps her hands. She’s ever the efficient, assured Kiramman heir. “Okay, we should rent our skates, and then we can go-"

You tune her out after her first sentence, staring wide-eyed at the ice. Shit. You underestimated your ability to be able to fake being good at ice skating when you’ve never even put on skates before. “Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, not really hearing her. “Sure.”

You walk over to the stand with Caitlyn, renting two pairs of skates. You open your wallet to pull out your card, but Caitlyn just shakes her head, pushing your hand away. “Let me,” she assures as she swipes her own card and takes both pairs of skates from the worker.

“You don’t have to-" You start. You know Caitlyn has more than enough money to have anything she could ever want, but you still feel obligated to pay for your own.

She cuts you off, her icy blue eyes meeting yours. “Let me,” she repeats, this time slightly firmer: a tone that you can’t help but listen to. The way she’s looking at you, her eyes almost imploring, fills you with nerves you can’t quite identify.

Caitlyn’s leading you over to one of the benches moments later, and you mimic her movements as she laces up her skates. Her movements are easy; she’s done this before. Oh, you’re so screwed.

That much is obvious when you stand, your arms immediately flying out as you try to steady yourself, holding onto the gate that leads to the ice. Caitlyn easily slips through it, gliding onto the ice like she’s some kind of professional. She turns to face you, tilting her head in curiosity. “You coming?”

Well, fuck.

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out. Gods, you hate the way those words fall from your lips so easily. You never admit to not knowing anything in front of Caitlyn — not in this world in which you’re constantly trying to one-up each other in absolutely everything. But all you know now is that you can’t go on that ice.

Caitlyn furrows her eyebrows, skating back towards the gate where you’re standing. “What do you mean? Why can’t you skate?”

“I— I literally can’t, Caitlyn,” your gaze drops to the floor beneath you as you prepare for her onslaught of teasing. She had suggested this to you as a competition, after all. This is her automatic win.

But to your total shock, she does’t. “Hey,” Caitlyn murmurs, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it before. “It’s okay. If you can’t skate, I can just teach you.”

Now you look up to meet her eyes, shock evident in your features. “What? But this was supposed to be a competition.”

Whoops. Caitlyn had forgotten about that little excuse Jayce had suggested she make to get you to agree to hang out with her. She brings one hand up to scratch at the back of her neck, almost sheepish. “Right. Well, it doesn’t have to be. I can teach you, and we can just…have fun. Is that okay?”

Something about her unexpected sweetness is just a little endearing to you, and so you nod up at her. “…Okay.”

Caitlyn reaches out to take your hands in her own, her hold surprisingly gentle. “Here, keep your eyes on me,” she instructs. “Don’t look down.”

You don’t say anything in response, just focusing on doing as she says. You keep your eyes locked on hers, and she does so in return. Holding her gaze yet again just makes the nervous butterflies from earlier return, and it’s so distracting that you almost don’t notice how she slowly guides you onto the ice.

Almost.

Your grip on her hands tightens, desperately fighting against your instinct to squeeze your eyes shut in fear. “What if I fall?” You choke out, and your eyes are so rounded and your lips are tugged into a pout — Caitlyn internally swears that you’ll be the death of her if you keep looking at her like this.

“Then I’ll catch you,” her thumb strokes over the back of your hand, and fuck, two rivals really shouldn’t be behaving like this, but you’re in too deep to pull away now.

That, and you really can’t pull away. Or you’ll fall.

Caitlyn guides you around the rink a few times, only picking up the pace when you’re slightly more comfortable with her movements. Your grip on her loosens little by little, and by your third lap around, you’re actually enjoying yourself. Whether that’s because you’re actually learning how to ice skate or because Caitlyn’s the one teaching you, well, that’s for you to know.

“Alright, I’m going to let you try on your own now,” Caitlyn gently moves her hands away from yours, but murmurs soft words that almost sound like she’s cooing at you when your expression becomes one of panic. “It’s okay, I won’t let you fall.”

You believe her, you really do. For once in your life, you trust that your rival will be here to catch you instead of rejoicing in your failure. So you take a deep breath and let yourself stand on your own. Your skating isn’t perfect — not even close. Your legs shake a little, and you have to hold out your arms for balance more than a few times, but you’re still doing it. You’re actually ice skating.

“I’m doing it,” your expression contorts into pure delight, your smile bright enough that Caitlyn can feel a warmth that feels like sunbeams warming her skin in the summer. 

“You are,” she returns your smile, moving to skate alongside you. You stay like that for a while: her purposefully moving a bit more slowly to sync her pace with yours. It’s peaceful; almost bliss as you find yourself making conversation with her. You notice her accent more when she talks passionately about something, you realize.

After some time has passed, you’re getting a little tired of not being on your feet, so you attempt to slow yourself to a stop. Though, due to your inexperience, that doesn’t go very well. You’re not really sure how to stop yourself, so as Caitlyn comes to a stop in front of you, you just end up colliding with her. It’s not a hard collision since you’re not skating very quickly: more of a bump that knocks you straight against her chest.

“Um,” Caitlyn’s suddenly thankful that your head is below hers, and thus you can’t see her cheeks tinge with pink. She stumbles in her wording yet again, which she never does. Usually. Curse you for making her so flustered. 

“Sorry,” the half-smile you flash up at her as you pull away is slightly abashed. 

“It’s- it’s okay,” Caitlyn clears her throat, opening the gate and helping you off the ice. “You’re new to this, you know, it’s normal…” she trails off, scrambling for coherent thoughts. She doesn’t have any. The only thing her mind supplies her with was how warm and soft you felt against her, and it has her imagination wandering to how your body would feel snuggled into hers as you wake up together in her bed one morning.

Stop. Not helpful. She silently reprimands her own brain.

You wobble over to the bench you had previously sat on to lace up your skates — this time to unlace them. But before you can even lean down to start doing so, Caitlyn’s there in a flash, kneeling to tug at the laces. “Oh,” you start in surprise, eyes widening at her gesture.

“I’ve got it, don’t worry,” Caitlyn excuses, navy blue strands of hair falling from her ponytail and around her face as she works at undoing the laces. She’s done in a matter of moments, quick and efficient as per usual. You’d expect nothing less from Caitlyn Kiramman.

She undoes her own, but she still reaches out an arm to steady you as you stand on your own two feet again. “You feeling okay?” She asks as she moves to give the skates back to the renting kiosk. “Did you have fun? I didn’t push you too hard, did I?”

“No, no,” you reassure her, slipping your boots back on. “It was really fun, actually. I’m happy I learned how to skate.” And that you were the one who taught me, your mind supplies, but you don’t voice it aloud. None of these thoughts about your rival makes any sense. You’re supposed to hate her, compete with her — not get all flustered when she looks at you and imagine being wrapped in her arms and- 

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You like her.

Luckily, or unluckily, Caitlyn interrupts your train of thought as she follows you out of the ice rink. “Here, let me buy you a hot chocolate,” she insists, desperately trying to come up with any ideas to make the night last a little longer. That’s what Jayce would tell her to do, anyways, and he’s really the only person she goes to for romantic advice.

“Oh,” your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She just keeps surprising you. “Okay, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s none at all,” Caitlyn responds immediately, already making a beeline for the little stand right outside of the ice rink. Minutes later, she’s passing you a paper cup filled with the warm drink, a few marshmallows bobbing at the top. She takes her own as well, and the two of you start the walk back to campus. 

“You know, I’ve always wondered,” you voice after taking a sip from the cup in your hands. “Why do you have a dorm on campus? I mean, I feel like living in one of the biggest mansions in Piltover would be much nicer.”

“Ah, well, it’s easier to get to and from class-" Caitlyn starts, her usual excuse easily slipping out. But this time, she hesitates. Because it’s you, and even though you’ve been competing with each other for gods know how long, there’s been a shift ever since the project you worked on together. Scratch that: there’s been a shift tonight. The way you trusted her on the ice, admitted you couldn’t skate, let her guide and teach you because you trusted that she wouldn’t let you fall.

Something buried deep inside Caitlyn knows that she can be honest with you.

She exhales, her breath coming out as a visible puff in the cold, winter night. “It’s that. But it’s also…I need some space from my parents. My mother, especially. She wants me to follow in her footsteps, assume her seat in the council after she’s retired. I don’t want that; I don’t want some desk job. I want to be an enforcer to protect my city and its people.”

Caitlyn pauses, glancing sideways at you to meet your eyes. You’re listening attentively, actually hearing what she has to say without any teasing or judgement. “I don’t want power that’s handed to me. If I have power, I want to earn it, just like I want to earn the city’s trust that I can protect them. I want to build my own life, and I just couldn’t live at home while I’m trying to figure all this out. Not full time, at least.”

You’re quiet for a moment when she finishes. “Wow,” you mumble. “I never knew.”

“I never told you.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” you bite back a smile. “I guess I just never expected it. I teased you for wanting to be an enforcer, but I didn’t know you wanted it like this. I’m sorry.”

It’s the first genuine apology you’ve given to her for your biting remarks, and Caitlyn revels in it. Not for her own pride, but for what it signifies. Apologies mean doing things differently, mean moving forward in the relationship. Or, just maybe, moving forward into a different kind of relationship. “It’s alright,” she sighs. “I’ve teased you enough in return. I’m sorry for that as well.”

You wave her off, the cold air suddenly not bothering you so much compared to the warmth that’s spreading inside you. “Maybe it was good. It made me more motivated in my classes.”

“Yeah, me too,” Caitlyn laughs softly, and she avidly fights the urge to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “You know, I didn’t tell you earlier, but you look really pretty tonight.”

“Oh,” you really hope she doesn’t notice the way your cheeks burn at the compliment. “Thank you.”

“No, like really,” her tone grows softer by the moment. “You’re really pretty.”

And it’s something about this. Something about this compliment feels like a subtle confession. All that Caitlyn’s done for you tonight: teaching you to skate, renting your skates, buying you hot chocolate, her compliments…it’s your turn, and you know it. So you do something.

You push away the anxieties flooding your mind, your hand reaching for hers. Caitlyn freezes at the touch, a slight jolt going through her body. Nevertheless, she responds in kind, her hold on your hand achingly gentle. Your fingers lace with hers.

Neither of you say anything for the next few minutes, content to walk with the physical contact. Your hands swing slightly between you as you walk, and it’s a little scary how happy that detail makes you when you notice it.

Unbeknownst to you, Caitlyn’s a little scared of how happy it makes her, too.

It’s almost disappointing when the campus buildings start to appear, and you’re in front of your dorm before you know it. Caitlyn lives just a few buildings over, but she stops in front of yours to say goodbye. Walking you to your dorm, ever the gentlewoman she strives to be.

“So, um, I’ll see you tomorrow?” She murmurs, turning to face you. It’s how the two of you usually say goodbye: with an acknowledgement that you’ll meet again in your shared class the next day.

But something about the way she’s looking at you: her eyes so blue and so kind, makes you hesitate. You’re lingering and you know it, trying to prolong this goodbye for fear of the spell between you breaking and everything going back to your normal academic rivalry in class tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you repeat her words. “Tomorrow.”

You can’t stop yourself before you’re stepping forward and wrapping your arms around her.

Caitlyn tenses just slightly before she completely melts into the contact, her arms coming up to encircle you. She hugs you close against her chest, and it just feels so right, like that’s where you’re meant to be. Maybe you are. She certainly wouldn’t mind it.

“Thank you for tonight,” your mumble, reluctantly stepping back to give her a shy smile. 

“Of— of course,” Caitlyn’s breath catches, and once again, she has no idea how to respond to you. You drive her crazy, make her mind go all haywire when she’s been taught for all her life to be composed and proper. None of that seems to matter around you.

“Goodnight, Caitlyn,” you walk backwards towards the entrance of your dorm building, entering after one last smile.

Caitlyn stares in your direction long after you’re gone, almost wistful, missing you already and wishing she had the guts to just confess already, to make you hers.

“Goodnight, princess.”

I think this is my best writing yet >///<

Inspired by my desire for an ice skating date but also having never been ice skating so I don't know how to do it.

ANYWAYS! My university finals are over yayyy! I can write again! Missed you guys smmm and I hope you're doing well <3

~Cherry 🍒

[endearng]

Supernovae

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader Summary: Spencer doesn't matter where life leads you, as long as it takes you back to him. Whatever it is between you, he doesn't want to let it go, even though he can't speak those words. WC: 3k Warnings: pining. pining. pining. oh and there's also drinking and brief mentions of a case. nothing too hard. fluff with an open ending. <3astronomy metaphors<3 A/N: I'm a tad obsessed with bittersweet pieces lately. Feedbacks are highly appreciated! <3 Masterlist | dividers by the lovely @cafekitsune <3

From the other side of the street, an elderly woman watches two people sitting and talking. It happens periodically. Weeks would go without her seeing their young, bordering naive faces. Sometimes, their lips move alternately. Simultaneously, at other times, voices mingle together excitedly and hurriedly, even though she can't hear them. The exchanged smiles and stolen glances don't go unnoticed by her either, but the young duo seem to ignore them altogether. When the young woman drinks, the glances would linger for just a moment more as they sat closer to each other — it seems as if that their senses become heightened, asking, demanding for more of each other.

Across the old woman's house, up on the roof of the building of the apartment you share together, you and Spencer sit together, like you do many nights when you have the time and he is at home. The chilly wind makes your hair stick in every direction and the warm beer is oddly soothing, but what really gets to you is your companion. Next to you, Spencer has his legs crossed as he rants about the last book he had read about the solar system. It is a sight to behold. You, a little inebriated, and Spencer speaking to his heart's delight, not a care in the world. If anyone who knows him were to witness that moment, they would twist their faces in confusion as to how could such different people be around each other so naturally, so peacefully?

The answer is one neither of you are ready to acknowledge. Perhaps it is better to let it pass unnoticed.

On one side, you, who drinks much more alcohol than anyone he knows (he doesn't know many people). Secretly and selfishly, you live with an aching relief that he is the one you get to share your space with after searching endlessly for an apartment and a companion who wouldn't annoy or bore you to death. Then, came Spencer. Quiet, soft-spoken, endearing and full of unique... quirks. At first, you thought it was better to leave him be, not to pester him with your bad habits. But as fate would have it and since things don’t ever go your way anyway, you found your way to him, because of course he was the kind of person to light up and fuck up your entire world as you gradually get to know him. It was with you that Spencer learned how to throw in the towel, since you always have a very compelling way to show him he’s not always right. So, this is what you have, a delicate routine, both of you dedicated to your unique choreography of pushing and pulling away from each other, aware and respectful of each other's boundaries. It worked, for the most part.

Things started to get ambiguous when Spencer began to toss and turn, unable to sleep, unable to hold himself together. Then, it became your job, for some nights, to comfort and lull him to sleep. Spencer, who was so composed and serious all the time, clung to your side like a baby who was too afraid to live life with and through its own limbs. You would always wake up before him, dazzled by the sight of his parted lips and by the small noises he let out while he was sleeping. You never complained, too afraid he would pull away from the brightness your heart would show if you were to ever say anything to address the situation. No, it is better like this. Sitting together, him by your side, you felt happily bitter — at this point, you wouldn't know what to do without him in your life.

Now, though, this is getting out of hand, the way you struggle to absorb his words, unlike you normally can. You blame it on the alcohol. You are lying. Mostly, to yourself.

As you smile at him, your silent way to tell him you were listening, Spencer feels seen. Your tousled hair, the flush in your cheeks and your sparkly eyes makes the universe and its complexities seem so simple compared to the maelstrom of feelings brewing inside him. He looks at your lips and remembers the day he quietly traced them with his fingertips as you slept, allowing himself to the simple action of touching, without feeling wrong or disgusting for wanting it. Long before he slept on your bed for the first time—your offer and his reluctant acceptance, fearsome of what it could lead to inside his own head—, Spencer daydreamed about you. Something about you makes something inside him snap and light up. Almost as if reading his thoughts, you ask softly, "Tell me about supernovae."

At that, he perks up, eyes brimming with excitement and joy. You and him, alone, together.

You, you, you.

Your question felt fitting. So he answers.

"There are two kinds of supernovae." He starts, as if warming up for the word vomit that was about to make its way out of his lips. You smile, already familiar with the sight and the fluttery feeling in your heart when you knew he was going to explain something to you, especially. "The first type, which is the one most people know about, happens when a star collapses because it runs out of fuel. Um, when that happens, the pressure drops, which makes the star explode." He continues, gaze unwavering. "What keeps a star together are two forces that are mutually opposite forces. The star's gravity tries to keep it as small as possible whereas the nuclear fuel, burning in its core, creates pressure. The two forces, when imbalanced, hence why I talked about the drop of pressure, cause a supernova. It is the biggest explosion us humans have ever taken notice of."

A swig of beer and your heart drops to your stomach at his soft, content features. "What about the other type?"

"Oh, this one happens between two stars. When they orbit one another." He replies, almost bashfully now, having your sole attention on him. "One of them has to be a white dwarf whose size has to be similar to Earth's. If the white dwarf pulls too much matter from the other star or collides with another, it can explode. Supernovae are not very common, but when they do happen, the explosion is so bright that it can outshine galaxies for up to months." He finishes, looking up at the sky above you.

Don't they sound like us?

His hyper-focused mind makes up the question, but he suppresses his lips from muttering them. He shrugs, almost imperceptibly, as you take another sip of the warm beer. Suppress it. It's for the better. "Hey, uh, I was meaning to talk to you about something," you begin.

"Of course. What is it?"

"I'm leaving for a few days," you say, face lighting up in sheer joy after a flash of something he couldn't quite figure out. "Godmother-slash-aunt duties."

Spencer feels confused, a mix of feelings taking over his senses. On one hand, he is happy for you for having somewhere safe to come back, for having a good relationship with your family, for being important for them. On the other hand, he feels almost betrayed and sick with the bubbling jealousy to the point of mentally scolding himself from thinking it. You are important to him, too. He is already used to your quiet yet steady presence around the house — you have a very stable routine and it’s rare for him to come back home after working hours and not seeing you right away. Spencer, albeit knowing it was nonsensical and selfish, feels almost abandoned. He attempts a smile, but his heart isn't in it. "Okay... I'll... I'll take care of the apartment."

"Oh, you better," you quip, trying to shrug off yet another ambiguous moment. "If I come back and there's a pile of dishes in the sink, you'll regret it."

He winces, attention diverted briefly to the shame about his sluggish ways when it comes to household chores. "Okay, okay. I will keep an eye on it. Or don't eat anything at home—"

"You better not survive solely on take-out food."

Spencer groans, but it isn't half as serious as he tries to make it out to be. "Fine. Fine."

He could do it. Or at least, he thinks so.

—

Countless days, countless cases, an inhuman amount of sheer violence and grief. Two weeks. Fourteen days. 336 hours. 20160 minutes. 1,290,600 seconds of not seeing your face.

Yet, Spencer has had time to lay at night, sometimes wide awake, wondering what were you up to, wondering what you two would be doing if you were here, in your apartment. His mind is always wandering to all sorts of possibilities that revolve around you, but he brushes aside the one about telling you everything. It is far too risky, and he finds that he wouldn’t be able to deal with the aftermath if things ever went wrong between the two of you. No. He would not be responsible for it.

The loneliest night thus far hits him hard. The team had just finished what had been truly an awful case at work and his mind was all over the place, sleep deprivation stopping him from making connections and defining patterns as he normally could. Getting home, he feels tired, guilty, angry, upset... He plops down on the couch, burying his face in one of the cushions and groans loudly. A few moments of external silence go by, even though his mind thrums with the sense of failure.

Begrudgingly, he stands up and takes a long shower—the running, steaming water does little to quench his turmoil. After putting on a fresh change of clothes, he finds his way into your bedroom instead of his. Soon enough, he is buried in your covers, holding a shirt you'd forgotten to put in your suitcase. Lying on your bed, he feels as if he was there for ages, the restlessness and cortisol levels giving way to a steadier breathing rhythm and a slower, calmer pace in his heartbeat. Smelling your shirt softly, he processes what longing feels like. An undeniable force tells him that you exist in a bigger space than you cared to think, that your gravitational pull is too strong on him. A poor single, lonely star amidst the galaxy.

His cellphone—a much too technological device, that he had bought upon your insistence of being able to reach him faster— rings. He picks up after reaching for it, not minding to see whoever was calling. Spencer figured that it would be someone close enough to not mind his overall moodiness, so he picked up either way.

It was your voice. "Hi." It makes him shiver in relief, but he brushes off as a coincidence, the way you two are so connected that upon his discomfort you were the one to reach out for him.

"Hey."

"You were going to bed, right?" He hears the question, a hint of hesitation covering your tone. "Sorry, sorry."

"No, I... I'm glad you called."

"Oh, okay. I just wanted to check on you. How are you, Spencer?"

"I'm... I'm doing good," he says, clutching your shirt tighter. He clears his throat, willing his voice to not crack. "How are things going over there?"

"I think the best part about being a godmother is that I can return her to her parents whenever she gets too much," you quip, chuckling, which brings a small grin to Spencer's face. "But, yeah, things are going great."

"I'm happy to hear that."

"You're not busy, are you?" You try again, fearing having ripped him from his job or his rare moments of free-time.

"No, no," his voice trembles as he denies it, and he inhales the lingering perfume on the shirt, which rests just against his face. "I'm... I'm happy you called."

I miss you.

Talking feelings—despite knowing pretty much everything about them, such as what caused them—is not very familiar in Spencer's life. The words never feel right, so he often decides to not say anything. Tonight, though, it's different. Like he fears you're not coming back, so he tries. "You never mentioned... You never said how long you'd stay with your family. When... when do you fly back?" He asks, a glimmer of hope blooming in his chest at the thought of having you close to him again, even as his voice cracks at the last word.

"In two days." You answer, and he wants let himself believe there's relief in your voice. "I'll be back in two days."

"Good."

"You better be there to welcome me," you jest, and his heart feels a lot warmer with the joy in your voice.

"I will," he replies, not entirely sure whether he'd be able to. He wants to believe he will.

—

He isn't there. You don't hold it over his head—there are several miniatures of your favorite pastry sitting on the counter. Your heart swells at the thoughtfulness, and you know he had done them wishing he could be here to talk about the process firsthand. He isn't. So you wait for him to come home.

You're unpacking in the living room, humming to Drops of Jupiter, when Spencer walks through the door and you wish you could photograph when his face lights up at the sight of you—not that your expression was more subtle. Relief floods his being when he sees you, and it's clear that your absence was deeply felt, but you won't give space to such a thought. Instead, you become hyper-aware of how your bodies mold together as he approaches and hugs you, burying his head on the crook of your neck and sighing. It had been a fortnight, yet it had felt like years. Spencer wonders if you feel the same way when he's away on his cases. Probably not.

Now that she's back in the atmosphere...

"You're home," he addresses and it comes out as if he's talking about the weather, but the words and their meaning hold a deeper significance to him.

"You baked for me." You respond, giddily, squeezing him a tad bit stronger.

Pulling away, just enough to catch a glimpse of his pretty, tired face, you grin. "I missed you."

Affection was a common, safe ground for you. Something so simple that you dominated so effortlessly, and he feels a little jealous of how easy it is for you to just speak up your heart. He wonders if that's all you feel and if you're completely honest, given your comfort. He wonders if he'd be honest if he could see the world through your eyes.

Instead of answering, he rests his chin on your shoulder, unable to keep away any longer. And the closest still wasn't close enough. He pushes you gently into the couch, laying on top of you and closing his eyes as he feels your scent invade his senses and a deep feeling of tranquility wash over him. It's truly like being home. It is being home. The weight of his body presses yours on the couch, and even though your limbs may get numb at some point, you don't find it in yourself to move. No, you don't move. Instead, you gently rake your fingers through his hair, brushing a little against his ears, and the touch makes shivers erupt on his skin—thank God for his long-sleeved shirts.

He mumbles in his sleep, but you don't hear it. Missed you too.

Nevertheless, his actions are enough to tell you how he feels, but his lack of verbal confirmation leaves you hanging, but your heart feels lighter as you fall asleep under him.

—

Leaving work, you make your way to the nearest museum, where Spencer is waiting for you with one of his colleagues—they're not tagging along, don't worry. As you hurriedly make your way through the crowds, too careful to not step on anyone's foot, you look up and immediately find Spencer on the staircase. It's magnetic, the way his gaze pulls yours and it's addicting how neither of you have the strength required to look away. The coincidence makes you want to run to him, but instead, you blindly stride, the strong stare of his eyes like a tightrope over which you could walk with closed eyes. He wouldn't let you fall. If he did, he'd catch you before you hit the ground.

Here you are.

The sculptures are mesmerizing. Both you and Spencer are speechless at the beauty of it. The preciseness required to sculpture marble doesn't go unnoticed by either of you, and Spencer finds himself wishing to have you as his muse. Not that he was an artist—but he could, if he tried it—, but the thought of having you at his mercy, your body as his temple of inspiration to be passed on for infinity makes something inside him stir. His mind is suddenly plagued with thoughts of being the one to capture your beauty and turning it into art.

As you comment on trying to fight the urge to touch the marble, Spencer closes his eyes and he's able to picture your face and its expressions. The way your smile reaches your eyes, making them almost close in the shape of crescent moons... The way your lip quivers just slightly before you get emotional.

The way your lips would be plumper if he'd kissed you relentlessly, just like he dreams of doing.

Reality comes crashing faster than he anticipated when your hand unconsciously grips his bicep, unconsciously both grounding him to reality and sending his senses into overdrive. His skin dips with the gentle pressure, and he thinks of you two as statues, frozen, touching, always in each other's orbits.

Supernovae are essential to create life, despite their lethal brightness that might eventually turn into a big, black hole. Those are dangerous, sucking everything around them, dragging it inside to never return again. Nevertheless, even though you're strong, too strong, too blazing, pulling him in and he nearly tips over the edge, he musters up the strength to pull back before he's burning up in you.

Spencer, at least for now, settles for small slivers of your blinding brightness, happy to watch it happen—your life—from afar.

It's as close as he'll allow himself to get as he hopes you'll draw him in.

Tonight, the woman who sits by her window catches a glimpse of the two shadows dancing in one of the apartments through its window. It's one of her few certainties at this point in life: the young, in love couple across the street.

[petalsandantlers]

Jily prompt:

"Why did you lie?"

“About what?”

“Saying you were out of curfew to cause mischief. When You were only helping a sick friend”

Hi, thank you for the prompt! hope you enjoy xx

Lily found James Potter exactly where she expected him—leaning against the stone wall just beyond the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, arms crossed, head tilted back as if he had all the time in the world. His tie was loose, his hair even more disastrous than usual, and there was a streak of dirt across his cheek. He looked every bit the troublemaker he was meant to be.

Or at least, the one he pretended to be.

“Out late again, Potter?” she asked, stepping forward, arms folded.

James startled a little, but his smirk found its way back quickly. “Evans,” he greeted, straightening. “Fancy seeing you here. Did you miss me?”

“I think McGonagall might kill you if you keep sneaking out after curfew.”

“Ah, but then who would keep her on her toes?”

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she tilted her head and studied him properly. He looked tired. Not just the usual lack of sleep that came with too much Quidditch practice or too many late-night prank planning sessions with Sirius, but properly exhausted. His eyes were rimmed with shadows, and his posture, though casual, was too loose—like he’d been holding something heavy all night and only just set it down.

She knew, of course. She had known for a while now.

“Why did you lie?” she asked, quieter now.

James blinked, his smirk flickering. “About what?”

Lily hesitated. She could let it go. Let him keep pretending. But she was never very good at leaving things alone.

“Saying you were out of curfew to cause mischief,” she clarified. “When you were only helping a sick friend.”

Something passed over James’ face—something fleeting and unreadable. Then, just as quickly, he grinned. “Ah, well. Trouble sounds much more exciting, doesn’t it?”

Lily’s lips pressed together. “You know I know, don’t you?”

James didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at her, something quieter settling over him. When he finally spoke, it was without bravado.

“I figured,” he admitted. “You’re too clever not to.”

Lily exhaled, running a hand through her hair. The halls were quiet, the castle asleep around them, but this moment felt startlingly awake.

“You didn’t have to cover it up,” she said eventually.

James huffed a laugh. “Didn’t I?” He shifted, glancing down the corridor as if weighing whether he should just make a break for it. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, Evans—Lily—it’s not really my secret to tell. And even if it was…”

“You don’t want people knowing you’re a decent person?” she finished for him, arching an eyebrow.

James smirked again, but it was smaller this time, softer. “Bit of a blow to my reputation, yeah.”

Lily shook her head, something warm curling in her chest. She didn’t know why she had followed him tonight. She had told herself it was just to make sure he didn’t get himself into more trouble, but standing here now, she thought maybe she had just wanted to see him.

See this version of him. The one who stayed up late helping a friend. The one who let his guard down when he thought no one was looking.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him, but there was no bite to it.

“And yet,” James said, tilting his head, “you’re still standing here talking to me.”

Lily opened her mouth, then closed it again. He had a point.

A few beats of silence stretched between them. Then James exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Alright, well. If you’re done with the interrogation, I should probably get some sleep before Moony wakes up and gives me hell for fussing over him.”

Lily hesitated. “James.”

He looked at her, brows raising slightly at the use of his name.

She swallowed, pushing past the strange feeling creeping up her spine. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Something in James’ expression shifted, just a fraction. And then he smiled—smaller, realer than before.

“Neither do you,” he said simply.

Lily didn’t have an answer for that.

So she just nodded and watched as James turned, making his way toward the boys’ dormitory.

And maybe, just maybe, she stayed there a little longer than she needed to, watching the spot where he had stood, thinking about all the things he never said.

[irlnorthshaw]

cooltiger fic - extra time

no im not insane. i did not write two fics in one day!! i just found this in my google docs a while ago and never revisited it for some reason. but hey! i polished it up a little and BOOM!! we all need a bit of fluff here and there so i come with my own offering

also massive shoutout to @sharrrrt bc her cooltiger art really inspired me to finally finish this fic!!

Some things in life are better kept under the rug. Not that opening up is necessarily a bad thing, but certain truths have the power to turn everything upside down. In this case, it was a relationship. More specifically, a relationship between two superstar athletes where cameras and the public eye were constant threats. How frustrating would it feel to pull off a grandiose trick with your teammate and not be able to smooch them then and there? On paper, it seemed easy enough. But for Supa Strikas’ very own midfield duo,  Cool Joe and Twisting Tiger, it was a different story– though they’d both agree it was especially hard for the former.

“It’s just hard to not say anything about it,” Joe irritably texted his boyfriend, who sat two rows in front of him on the Strika Bus. A moment later, he heard a distinctive chuckle. “It’s not funny!” Joe texted again, only to receive back a laughing emoji.

Their relationship had started in the most unexpected way. It began when Tiger’s car broke down after a grueling session at the STC, and Joe, always one to help, offered him a ride home. What was supposed to be a short drive turned into a long, mindless cruise through the city, filled with music and deep conversation. That one ride turned into another, then another, until their late-night talks became a habit neither wanted to break. Before Joe knew it, those moments quickly turned into something more, something deeper. That was six months ago, and while sneaking around made things thrilling, it also drove him up the wall. Keeping quiet was never his strongest trait, especially when it came to someone as effortlessly cool and striking as Tiger.

God. His boyfriend was Twisting fucking Tiger!

This was the problem. Joe was a flashy guy. Not as over-the-top as El Matador, sure, but still a straightforward person who wore everything on his sleeve. If he was pissed off, people knew. If he was excited, everyone felt it. And now? Now, he was stuck on this bus next to Klaus, when it should’ve been his wonderful partner. He imagined them sharing earphones, listening to music together, and napping through the whole ride. Instead, he had to settle for drowning his feelings in the playlist they made together.

That peace didn’t last long.

“I think– I THINK I NEED THE TOILET AGAIN!” Klaus practically shouted, jolting in his seat.

Joe put a hand up before Klaus could utter another word. “Nuh uh, go bother someone else this time.”

Klaus pouted but climbed over Joe’s seat anyway, plopping down besides Shakes, who was intensely focused on his game. “Shakes… can you ask Coach to stop the bus? Pleaaaase”

“Again, dude? Why can’t you ask him yourself?” Shakes didn’t even glance up. But when Klaus took a deep breath– clearly preparing to scream– Shakes groaned and threw his arms up in defeat. “Fine. Fine! Coach, can we get a bathroom break?”

The whole bus groaned in unison as they tallied up Klaus’ stops, with Tiger still in the lead.

“Ha! Yes! I knew it would be double digits!” Tiger grinned triumphantly, turning to see Joe’s reaction. Catching sight of Joe sulking, he marked, snapped a picture, and sent a text:

Tiger: don’t sulk so much

Tiger: ur gonna end up like uragiri!

Tiger: get it?... ur gonna end up being old

Tiger sent you a photo.

Joe clicked the notification and let out a small chuckle at the messages.

CJ: I am Joseph Maseko! Even in Uragiri’s age, I’d still look fine as hell

“...Crap, that sounds weird.” Joe cringed at his own text, but before he could overthink it, a fast reply came:

Tiger: of course, i know very well you would ;)

Joe’s heart skipped. His face felt way too warm. He could hear Tiger’s quiet laugh from the front row. All he could do was shake his head, sinking further into his seat.

Again, see, that was what made this so difficult. Tiger knew exactly what he was doing and Joe hated it. Well, he secretly loved it– but it did make his job of “keeping quiet” just extra hard.

"Get it together, Joe," he cursed to himself as the bus slowly came to a halt by a gas station with an attached café. When he looked up, everyone had already rushed to jump out the bus for some fresh air.

“Alright, boys. While we’re here, why don’t we get some lunch?” Coach suggested, only to then realize the bus was empty.

Inside the café, the team found their seats and immediately ordered food to silence their rumbling stomachs. Amidst the chaos, Coach walked in, looking exhausted. Everyone turned to him, suddenly falling silent.

Coach frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that? And why are you… not being annoying?”

“Oh, we just thought you might be pissed at us,” North replied casually through a mouthful of food. Crumbs flew everywhere, making the others recoil in disgust.

Coach sighed. “No, I just had a heated argument over parking, that’s all.”

The team exchanged amused looks, knowing whoever had argued with their coach was probably regretting it by now.

Joe was about to dig into his food when he felt someone nudge his foot under the table. He glanced up, only to find Tiger sitting across from him, a subtle smirk playing on his lips before he looked away as if nothing had happened. In the noisy café, with the team chattering, it was as if, for just a moment, they were in their own little world. The warmth lingered where Tiger’s foot had brushed against his, setting Joe’s nerves alight. He swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of every movement, every glance. Tiger wasn’t even looking at him anymore, but Joe could feel his presence still. Like gravity itself.

Oh, this is killing me.

He busied himself with his food, trying not to stare anymore, but then Tiger stretched– his shirt riding up just slightly. Joe choked on his drink.

“Woah. CJ, you good?” Shakes asked, raising a brow.

“Y-Yeah! Just– uh, wrong pipe.” Joe waved him off, but Tiger was definitely smirking again.

This was gonna be a long meal.

Later, when everyone had eaten and scattered, Joe managed to slip away unnoticed. He found a quiet corner outside of the café, leaning against the wall with a deep breath. Not even a second later, Tiger popped up to join him, hands casually stuffed in his pockets.

“All alone, handsome?” Tiger teased. “You’re not very good at hiding things, you know.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. And you’re too good at it, though. Not fair.”

Tiger hummed, stepping closer. “I think you like the challenge.”

Joe hated how accurate that was.

And again, the world had shrunk down to just the two of them. The distant hum of the café, the muffled voices of the team– it all faded into the background. Joe felt the warmth of Tiger’s presence beside him, steady and comforting. Then, without a word, Tiger reached for his wrist, fingers brushing against his skin before giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze. A silent promise.

Joe exhaled. “One day, I will slip up.”

Tiger smiled. “I know.”

“...You want that to happen, don’t you?”

“I mean… It would be funny!”

Joe groaned, but before he could retaliate further, a voice called from outside.

“Everyone back to the bus! We’re leaving in five minutes!”

Joe shot his boyfriend a look. “This isn’t over.”

Tiger chuckled. “Yeah, well… Definitely looking forward to it.”

With a reluctant sigh, Joe followed Tiger back to the bus, knowing full well that hiding all of this was only going to get harder from here.

[carlyraejepsans]

for real WHERE does the idea that [utdr humans] are nongendered so that "you can project on them" come from. their literal character arcs are about NOT being a blank slate to be filled in by the audience

i think i understand the assumption on some level for undertale, because there is a very intentional effort to make you identify with the "player character" in order to make your choices feel like your own (the beating heart of undertale's metanarrative lies in giving you an alternative path to violence against its enemies after all, and whether you're still willing to persue it for your own selfish reasons. YOUR agency is crucial).

of course, the cardinal plot twist of the main ending sweeps the rug from under your feet on that in every way, and frisk's individuality becomes, in turn, a tool to further UT's OTHER main theme: completionism as a form of diegetic violence within the story. replaying the game would steal frisk's life and happy ending from them for our own perverse sentimentality, emotionally forcing our hand away from the reset button.

i think their neutrality absolutely aids in that immersion. but also, there's this weird attitude by (mostly) cis fans where it being functional within the story makes it... somehow "editable" and "up to the player" as well? which is gross and shows their ass on how they approach gender neutrality in general lol.

but also like. there's plenty of neutral, non PCharacters in undertale and deltarune. even when undertale was just an earthbound fangame and the player immersion metanarrative was completely absent, toby still described frisk as a "young, androgynous person". sometimes characters are just neutral by design. it's not that hard to understand lol.

anyone who makes this argument for kris deltarune is braindead. nothing else to say about it.

[the-mononoke-facade]

One of these days I'm going to figure out when 瞳 (hitomi) is supposed to be referring to someone's eyes and when it's supposed to be referring to someone's pupils, because slitted/narrowed eyes and slitted pupils have two different connotations, did you narrow your eyes or do you have cat eyes? This is important information okay

[onepiece-polls]

I love your polls and it’s great you try to be on both sides to give fair chance to everyone, but the way you talked about shanks/buggy is crazy They’re fine together but in canon they’re brothers and your shipping googles got so tight you actually sounded like you could believe they’re anywhere close to canon which is u know stupid af

lmao, okay, this came out of nowhere 😂 Like... I talked about that months ago. But okay.

Anyway, Shuggy is canon. They're making out behind you right now.

[nihiltism]

having a platonic cuddle buddy is so cool everybody should have a platonic cuddle buddy. having somebody to come over at a set later time in the day to lay on me for 2 hours and leave is so cool bc it also just. is a manual wind-down. whenever I try to get things done with my night after the buddy leaves I end up just passing out on my computer. manual wind down successful. the only tragedy is this is only one day a week

[multifandomlandfill]

Watching the death note musical and man, I just want to give Light some tea and terrible unlicenced therapy.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: short fics (blurbs?) characters: leona, floyd, jade, vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

It's eight in the morning after another disappointing attempt at rest, and now you can't even sleep in. Damn visitors.

You throw open the front door.

"What? What could you possibly- wh- Leona?"

The housewarden smirks. He looks a little too proud of himself for this early in the morning...

"A little wolfie told me you weren't sleeping well. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. Now, are you gonna let me in, or what?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the couch in the foyer.

He pats the spot next to him.

"Listen..." you say. "I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine."

"Don't be proud. I don't pity you, I just... owe you. Now get your butt over here, yeah?"

Leona isn't so scary when he's asleep. He's more like... the world's largest pillow. Of course, you're at risk of being smothered until you crawl into a better position, but once you're on top, he's surprisingly warm and comfortable.

You can tell you're being watched before you hear anything.

And you think you might just know wh-

"Shrimpyyy!"

For two boys so tall, the tweels are awfully quiet. Especially when it comes to "surprising" you in random places. This time: the hall.

Floyd pulls you into a bone-crushing hug while Jade watches from behind, smiling subtly.

When he finally lets you down, you're dizzy. (Though, at this point, you'll take whatever physical touch you can get).

"Shrimpyyy, why didn't you tell us you were lonely? We had to squeeze it outta Spade," Floyd pouts.

"His face makes fascinating expressions when he's afraid," Jade says, merrily.

Before you can answer, Floyd's already got you under his arm (seriously? Where do they find the strength?) and is heading straight towards the hall of mirrors.

You already know there's no getting out of this one...

Floyd is, unsurprisingly, all over, from leaning his whole body weight against you to lying across your lap, to biting your shoulder (in his sleep...?) Oh, and he drools, too.

Jade sits on your other side, one hand holding yours, the other leafing through an almanac from twenty years ago.

You're almost hesitant to admit just how nice it really is.

"And nothing else has worked?" Vil says, throwing open the door to your bedroom with no regard for a "hello" or, "how are you?"

You blink. "...Hello to you, too. May I ask what you're talking about?"

He storms inside, standing over you with his hands on his hips.

"Just that I overheard Epel Felmier asking my vice housewarden if he would be willing to satisfy your need for physical affection. You've been struggling? With sleep? And you didn't think to come to me, first?"

He almost sounds... offended that you didn't.

"...Well... I wasn't making a big deal about it,"

"So, no teas, no vitamins, no pills- nothing has helped?"

You shake your head. He sighs.

"Perhaps it is purely psychological... very well. Get up. I hope you don't toss and turn much, I'm a light sleeper,"

Vil is completely still when he sleeps. No tossing, no turning, no drooling, no snoring. He also insists on sleeping on his back, you, clinging to his side, and a single arm around you. Just as elegant as when he's awake. He'd be a true sleeping beauty if not for the mumbles of nonsense that come from him every few minutes. You swear you can make out your own name, once or twice or three times...

He is warm nonetheless, and his mumbles and idle stroking of his fingers on your waist is enough to satisfy you for a night of good sleep.

[itsraceweekbitches]

NAPKIN CONTRACTS

summary: You and Charles signed a contract as kids to get married at the age of 28 in case you’re both single. Charles makes a joke, but his messages with you get leaked and now everyone believes you’re getting married for real. Luckily, Max comes to the rescue. ✤ pairing: Max Verstappen x reader ✤ wc: 2.3k ✤ tags: fem!reader, childhood promises, marriage talks, fake relationship

215 days left until our 🎂 & 💍!

It’s supposed to be a simple, harmless countdown to your birthday, a happy and exciting celebration, but that ring emoji at the end equals a vicious threat in your mind. 

The whole thing began fifteen years ago, when you and Charles were playing video games in his room during one of your family’s annual extended stay in Monaco. He told you about a movie he saw, where the main characters made a promise to get married if they’re both alone when they’re thirty. 

“I wouldn’t wait that long, though. Thirty is… meh, every movie uses that age,” he began the explanation with a roll of his eyes. “Twenty-nine is too close. Twenty-eight, though–that’s good.”

All you managed to say was a confused “Huh?” before he paused the game and jumped up to run out of the room. After only a minute or two, he returned with two napkins that he put on his desk, then picked out a pen from the drawer.

When you walked over to him to see what he was doing, he glanced up at you with a grin. “I’m writing a contract. If neither of us is married when we turn twenty-eight, we get married,” he stated as if it was something you had both agreed to do.

But you hadn’t, you only listened to his train of thought when he picked the age. “Why on a napkin?” you asked curiously as you looked over his shoulder.

Charles let out a quiet chuckle as he shrugged. “That was the first thing I found.”

You signed it, believing it was nothing more but a game. 

Yet, a decade and a half later, here you are in Australia, looking at the countdown he has just sent you. Sure, there have been occasional jokes about this agreement after breakups, but now it seems to be more than just a joke.

It’s more like a promise. 

Being born on the same day, in the same hospital, brought your families together, and it inevitably led to the two of you becoming best friends. Whenever you were in the same city, you were inseparable, and your close friendship often raised questions about whether or not there was more to the story. 

The internet was full of articles, social media posts and edits that tried to prove the two of you were together, but you both learned to ignore them for your mental health’s sake. At first, of course, his team tried to stop the rumors, but then you just simply gave up. 

A loud banging on your door snaps you out of your thoughts, and your watch begins to vibrate on your wrist too, telling you Charles is calling. With a groan, you pick up your phone and accept the call.

“Geez, calm down, I’m coming,” you tell him with an exasperated sigh.

You jump off the couch and put the device on the coffee table before heading to the door. It’s free practice day, but you weren’t planning on going to the track just yet, the deal was a visit on Sunday. 

The only reason why you came to Australia was to talk to Nicole, who you had met at a race last year. She’s funny, the mother of your best friend’s jokingly-adopted child, it’s only natural to try and be friends with her. 

Before you can open the door, your watch notifies you of another call from Charles, which makes you wonder what’s so important. The moment you open the door, you take a deep breath and start a speech about how he should learn to be patient at his age.

But it’s not Charles that’s standing in the door. It’s a very confused-looking Max. 

“Mmm, okay?” he says slowly. “What did Charles do this time?” 

With a groan, you step aside to let him in. Since he and your best friend get along, you don’t have to pretend like you hated him too, but before that, you followed the Monegasque’s lead in this matter whenever they didn’t get along. Well, officially. Unofficially you’ve been friends with Max since your teenage years without a break.

He climbs over the back of the couch to sit down, then turns to you with a grin you can’t really place. “The countdown?” he suddenly asks.

When you hear his question, you’re mortified, because you definitely did not want anyone to know about your silly little agreement. Once you sit down too, you rest your elbows on your thighs and bury your face into your hands,

“Okay, it is about the countdown,” Max begins, dragging out each word as if he had to think about what to say. “Hey, just because you made some promise as kids, and because you both happen to be single in the year of the deadline–”

“You know about the deal?! How?”

Letting out a laugh, Max nonchalantly waves with his hand. “He told me when we were drunk at a party, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that maybe it’s not such a bad thing. You have absolutely no luck when it comes to relationships, he’s also been single for a good month now,” he explains. 

“Wow, thanks. So?”

“So, you might as well double down and get married sooner,” he suggests with a shrug. A shrug that’s a little too casual to your liking. 

You want to respond, you want to say something—anything, really—but no words come to your mind. You definitely do not want to marry your best friend, it would be too weird, too cliché, yet you have absolutely no idea how to tell him that if he’s serious. 

Meanwhile the always observant Max notices your hesitation and puts the puzzle pieces together. “You don’t want to do it,” he says flatly, his head slightly tilted to the side as he watches you. 

When you nod, he lets out a sigh and leans back and rests his arm on the back of the couch.

“Look, I was just teasing you with the idea of getting married right now. If you ask me, that deal is more like a joke, I’m sure Charles isn’t serious about getting married. He’s just messing with you.”

“You think so?” 

“Yeah, absolutely. But if you’d rather avoid him just to be sure, or you feel like staying away from him, you know you’re always welcome at RBR,” he says with a warm smile.

Drawing in a deep breath, you lean back too and look at the ceiling. You probably just overreacted, that’s all. 

Charles doesn’t want to get married anytime soon, he said it himself last year when he was still in a serious relationship, so nothing pointed in the direction of a change of his mind.

Maybe Max is onto something with that avoiding him solution, maybe some time is what you need to let the panic go. Because you did start to spiral at the thought, which usually didn’t happen to you.

The comfortable silence between you is interrupted by a knock on the door, and you both turn around to look in that direction, as if you could see through the wood. Not a cell in your body is ready to talk to yet another human being, in fact you’re thinking about gently asking Max to leave too. 

But the knocking is followed by the notifications of an incoming call, and Charles’s name flashes on the screens. You let out a tired sigh, which is followed by a thoughtful hum from Max. 

“You’re not gonna answer? He’s probably the one knocking,” he says eventually. 

“Maybe I should,” you respond, yet you can’t get yourself to move.

Rolling his eyes, Max decides to take matters into his own hands and walks over to the door himself. You hear a hushed conversation, but you can’t make out the words, although you can imagine what it’s about.

And sure enough, you can see Charles shake his head as he mutters something under his breath before heading inside. “That was supposed to be a joke, don’t worry,” he announces while he walks around the couch to stand in front of you. 

Meanwhile Max caught up with him and stopped on his side. “That’s exactly what I told her.” You give him a pointed look that draws an exasperated sigh out of him. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that look.”

“It’s a good joke if it stays between us, but if you keep telling about this to random people you meet—”

“Random?” Max scoffs with his hands on his hips. “Thanks.”

“How do we know who else he told this about? Does Pierre know?” you ask, turning to your best friend.

Charles nods in response, but it’s painfully obvious that the accusation hurt him. “But he’s the only one. Beside Max, obviously. And maybe Lorenzo also knows. He found the contract back in the day,” he admits with a sheepish grin.

There’s nothing you could say to that, so you blow out the air you’ve been holding, then lean your head back to look at the ceiling. “Anyone else?” He holds up his hand in an attempt to prove to you he swears there’s no one else. “Good.”

“Buuuuuut—” 

This elongated but grabs your attention immediately, because he usually says it this way when there’s something you definitely do not want to hear. So, you look back at him with a questioning look, your fingertips nervously tapping on your thighs.

“Well, maybe you should see this,” he begins as he opens an app on his phone, then hands the device to you. 

You look into his green eyes, waiting to hear some kind of hint to know what this is about, but he says nothing, only tears his gaze away. With a sigh, you look down at the screen and your brain stops functioning for a second when you read the title of the article. 

CHARLES LECLERC’S SECRET COUNTDOWN

Oh, fuck. 

The article is about what you expected it to be. In a leaked chat conversation Ferrari’s golden boy sent a countdown to his best friend—you, obviously—and the end date is their shared birthday. And what makes it so special is the ring emoji at the end of the event’s name, followed by a message that explicitly says he’s excited and can’t wait.

So, long story short, Charles and you will get married according to this gossip site. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t the kind that’s usually reliable. 

“How bad is it?” you hesitantly ask as you give him back the device.

Charles lets out a low, humming sound. “It spread like wildfire,” he then admits. When he sees the mortified look on your face, he sits next to you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. “My team is already working on a way to fix this.”

You don’t say anything, mostly because you have absolutely no idea what you could possibly say in this situation. Meanwhile Max snatches the still unlocked phone from Charles’ hand to take a look at the article he has just shown you. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see that shit-eating grin on his face that always annoyed you. “What’s so funny?” you ask him.

Finally, he sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, and casually throws the phone to Charles before speaking up. “You have no choice but to spend the weekend with me,” he announces. 

“Ooooor, I’m not going at all. I’ll order some snacks and watch the race from here.”

“What? No,” your best friend protests immediately. “I mean, we want to discuss what to do now.”

Max lets out a laugh, seemingly enjoying this way too much. But the laughter is clearly meant for Charles, and your suspicion is confirmed when he speaks up. “What’s there to talk about? We all know you and Alex got back together like… two weeks after the breakup. You’re taken, mate.”

When you look at your friend in disbelief, you see him shake his head with a pained groan. “Thanks, she didn’t know,” he admits before turning to you. “Listen, I didn’t know how to tell you. I know you like her, but I guess I was afraid I’d screw it up again. I didn’t need a speech.”

“Awkward,” Max mutters as he tears his gaze away to look at the TV on the wall.

Both you and Charles give him a pointed look at this, then you turn back to explain to the Monegasque that you would have been happy to be there if he ever had doubts. You’re not scolding him, you’re just being nice. 

Once you both fall silent, Max lets out a sigh. “Do you have a recent photo with Alex?” he asks, earning a nod in response. “Ask her if you can post it, then post it. And you,” he begins as he turns to you, “need a boyfriend. It can be a fake relationship, and you know what? I volunteer.”

“What?” you and Charles ask in unison.

That you weren’t expecting. A fake relationship with Max? This would be big. Like, social media would explode in seconds, kind of big. You’re not sure if you would be ready for something like this.

Seeing your hesitation, he decides to explain the plan. “We will break up after your birthday. Or not, maybe by that time there will be a real proposal,” he adds with a grin and a wink.

“God, no,” you protest, and he makes a face of exaggerated hurt. “Max, this is sweet and nice, but I can’t do this.”

He shrugs. “It’s your decision, but think it through. There’s no other way.”

The boys leave eventually to head to the track, while you stay behind to think. As painful as it is to admit it, reading the comments and posts only make you realize that Max was onto something. There’s no other way. You have to start a fake relationship with him.

Well, fuck. 

That wasn’t part of the plan for this year. 

note: Thanks for reading. I wanted to keep a kinda open ending for two reasons. One, I want everyone to have their own version of the ending. Two, I have absolutely no idea how this fake relationship would end (breakup? engagement?)

[mediocre-writing]

Fic recs Jungkook

Some recs from JK too, please read them! They are amazing writers with amazing works.

The Jorts (M) | JJK - @gukslut

{Warnings} impreg kink. i’m tired. there’s cum. over-stimulation, multiple orgasms, cock-warming, doggy style, oral (f), dirty talk, swearing, ttc. it’s filth but its love, of course. 

—

mature - @jiminrings

glimpse: the good thing about professing your feelings to jungkook is that it'd be over with, whether or not he likes you back — the bad thing is that he rejects you, even if you haven't confessed.

—

MOTHERFUCKIN’ TRAIN WRECK! ⋆ 정국 - @lovieku

when renowned fuckboy jeon jeongguk catches feelings, he loses his mind. only when it comes to you, though.

—

NNN (NO NUT NOVEMBER) ! ... thanksgiving special - @voyter

jungkook and his friends are all in on the internet's most ridiculous trend: no nut november. but you’re determined to make your boyfriend lose — and you know just how to do it.

—

Unspoken || Jungkook - @armpirate

Summary: You thought you had a happy relationship with your boyfriend, you were convinced nothing would ever come between you two. At least until you first met Jungkook, Mingyu's friend and base partner, for a holiday break. His pull toward you was immediate, but also forbidden. Neither of you needed to express how you felt about each other, your attraction was unspoken. Although it'd only get out of control the second you both confessed how you felt about each other.

—

swipe right - jjk | m - @ppersonna

♡ summary-  after a horrible breakup, you sign back up for tinder and ironically match with your best friend, jungkook. a date for fun is harmless, right?

—

Put Your Head on My Shoulder - @kkukverse

Pair : husband!jk x wife!reader

—

LIE WITH YOU ⋆ JJK - @girlygguk

in which jungkook doesn't realize what he has until he just about loses it.

—

summary: in which for you, jungkook would commit crimes and his mother would peel oranges. - @onlyswan

—

admiring from afar - @jeonsalibi

summary: you owed a friend a favour, a favour which entailed a blind date. but the catch, it was only blind on your side.

[cthulhus-curse]

Leather & Lace

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4,012

Warnings: Age Difference, Breeding, Degradation, Jealousy, Mommy Kink, Nursing, Pervy!Stepmom!Wanda, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Slight fluff, Somnophilia, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering | 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: After a split-second decision, Wanda finally gets what she wants from her lovely little stepdaughter.

Eyes remained emotionless as a front to the anger that lay beneath them. Watching intently, they studied the somber scene, narrowing as they watched a hand lower to a spot they had previously claimed as their own — of course not officially, but you could only dream.

You hadn’t spoken a word during the entirety of the morning. Glaring at your father was second nature at best as you hid behind the excuse of him being away for too long and never having time for you. Adulthood carried on many things, one of them being a disdain for being around him. The same couldn’t be said for your stepmother though.

Wanda laughed as the man whispered something in her ear, biting down on her bottom lip — it was a move you found to be adorable each time you feasted your eyes upon it. She was finishing off the dishes, breakfast already having been served in earlier hours. The perfect housewife was to keep you all fed, to be a submissive entity for your father to walk all over.

“We were thinking about going to the park today. Wanda wants to take the twins there,” your father piped up when turning to you. A set of twin brothers from Wanda’s previous marriage were the only ones to keep to sane as you watched the relationship between your dad and stepmom develop further for years. “Wanna come?”

“Whatever,” came your huff. The harsh gaze Wanda threw at you made you squirm, but your eyes faltered and ignored it out of fear.

“Come on, don’t be like that. We just want to have some family time-”

“Not my family,” you repeated as you had many times through the years. “I’m not a kid. I don’t need mommy,” you turned to Wanda staring daggers, “to take care of me. The only reason I haven’t moved out is because I’m waiting to finish college. Then I’m getting the fuck out of this shit town.”

“Y/N, don’t you dare talk like that,” your father warned.

“Or what? You’re not even around enough to give a shit about whether I move or not. It’s always work, work, and wo-” as you rambled on about his absence since his divorce from your mother, his phone rang. Not even a Saturday, the boys with their father for the weekend, could be spent in peace with his own family. “Speak of the devil. Are you gonna answer that?”

Without a word, your father excused himself. During the early years of having moved with him, you surely blamed him for the lack of parenting he carried out. You’d move with your mother if she wasn’t halfway across the world teaching English as a second language in various countries, living her life to the fullest as she ignored her motherly duties. All through high school you had been alone. Now in college, the one person you didn’t know you could count on was the surrogate caregiver who pranced to your side.

“Darling, that’s no way of speaking to your dad,” Wanda said in a low voice, tender as fury rose from the depths of her words. “You should apologize. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“I’m not doing jack-shit for you. You’re not my mom, you bitch.”

Surely the tone was harsher than you meant it to be, especially when the woman towered over you in the kitchen, you sitting on the stool by the island gulping down a know of fear. She tilted her head and suddenly all the years of anger, hatred, and surprising lust you felt for her vanished, let alone for the last one of course. With dark viridescent eyes dripping with need, she dropped her gaze to your lips.

Neither of you were fazed when your father ran to get an overnight bag ready. His job called for spontaneous trips across the world much like your mother, seeking out investment opportunities for this technology company, and yet most of the time you deduced he was simply using it as an excuse to fuck his secretary — same as he had done with your mother before marrying Wanda.

While he was adding the finishing touches to his bag, distracted as ever, Wanda grabbed your arm. She didn’t hesitate to use undying strength when pulling you away, the heels of her flats clicking against the hardwood floor when you made your way upstairs. Regardless of how much you attempted to twist away, she still held you in place.

“Stupid girl,” she growled. “It’s time we have a little chat about those icky moods of yours.”

You never expected to find yourself thrown over your bed, the woman locking the door as quick as she could. Many times she’d be the one to crack it open and watch as you undressed, a hand shoved between her legs as she hummed at herself. Not that you knew, but she was devoted to making you hers.

“You’ve been in a terrible mood all week, I get it, but don’t you ever dare speak to me like that,” was the first thing Wanda yelped as she towered over you, you sitting by the edge of the bed while she stood proudly. “You need to learn to behave.

“Oh shut up.”

To say her fury escalated at that would be an understatement.

“What’s gotten into you?” She frowned at you, crowing her eyes before stalking forth. As soon as Wanda tilted her head once again, a trademark move of hers, you knew you were done for. She explored your features, eventually averting her gaze down between your legs that you were rubbing against one another. “Oh I see.” A smile spread across her face as she softened up. “Does it maybe have anything to do with this?”

Eyes widened as Wanda, who was well pressed against you, heavy hot breaths falling on your face, cupped your clothed sex. She roughly pressed her fingers against you until she rubbed you, giving you pleasure even with the layers you wore. The hum she let out was all-knowing. Leave it to her to solve a mystery that to you ages to come up with an answer for.

“Wanda what are you-”

“Shhh be quiet, baby. You wouldn’t want your dad to find out, right? Don’t you want to be a good girl for mommy?” She raised her eyebrows, deep green eyes crawling into your soul and pulling out the submissiveness that lay beneath, and you couldn’t help but nod immediately. “Good. Now let me make it better. Your little pussy is all sticky and needy huh? I bet you get all hot and bothered when you see mommy. Tell me, sweetheart, have you touched yourself before? Has my pretty girl made herself cum at the thought of her mommy? I know you have, I’ve seen it. Those fingers look so cute inside your cunt.” She leaned in dangerously close. “Maybe I can show you some of the pictures I’ve taken of you like that.”

“Sometimes,” you admitted to her question, although in your hazy mind you couldn’t tell which one. Closing your eyes, you gripped the bed sheets while she rubbed your clothed cunt lazily.

“Yeah? Well, you have to remember that this is all mine. Mommy owns this pretty pussy of yours. Whenever you want to play with my property, you have to ask for permission.” Wanda sighed with relief as she allowed herself to bask in the wet noises your throbbing pussy made while she touched it. Even with your pajama pants on, she could tell you were oozing with juices. “You have no idea how long mommy’s been waiting for this. I’m glad my beautiful princess seems to like it.”

You didn’t fight back as she began tugging off your clothes until you were fully naked, her own being thrown over the floor only moments later. Being pushed back, you allowed your head to hit the mountain of pillows, the chill of the Fall coming through small gaps in your window causing you to shiver.

Seeing Wanda in her nude gloriousness made you drool. Perfection was her name. Her breasts stood perkily waiting to be played with, a toned stomach, slightly full with beautiful rolls, sitting there adorably crafted just for your enjoyment. There were stretch marks along her thighs, chest, and tummy which you urged yourself to kiss, only she hovered above you before you could so much as move.

Lips pressed against your own languidly. Numerous times you fantasized about what it would be like to kiss her, to have her naked frame brushing against your own, hard nipples on your skin, as your mouths danced to a steady rhythm.

“Touch me, please. Just fuck me or something…” you murmured as Wanda dropped a chaste kiss on your mouth. “Do it now. Fuck,” you grabbed her hand and let it fall on your pussy, humping it as you did with your pillows. “That’s good. Oh Wanda that feels so fucking amazing.”

“How pathetic,” she noted with raised eyebrows. Rather than keep touching you as you wished, Wanda slapped you harshly, brushing against your clit slightly and making you scream. “I said to stay quiet. Are you too stupid to understand? Maybe you’re just a mindless little slut for mommy. I bet there’s not a thought behind those pretty eyes of yours, huh?”

While you wished to relinquish some power, you quickly realized Wanda wouldn’t let you have any of it. After years of stressfully marrying your father, all she wished was to turn the tables, to have a submissive pet to use as a means to relieve all her stress. Watching you from afar, peeking through your door or even taking lewd pictures of you without your knowledge only enticed her madness; especially when she rummaged through your underwear drawer and stole a few pieces to wear while getting herself off at the sight of such images. Her craving for you drove her to the depths of desperation. You’d have to do as she said whether you liked it or not.

Fingers teased your entrance, a mocking laughter coming from Wanda as you squirmed beneath her. Neither of you noticed nor cared about the words of goodbye your father threw into the ghost house, the front door closing as you had a space just for yourselves. A weekend entirely devoted to her destroying you and claiming you as her own — how fun.

“I really should punish you for having such a dirty mouth. Cute princesses like you shouldn’t be saying those words, or making their mommies sad at that,” Wanda explained as she placed a kiss along your jaw, fingers making quick work to sloppily thumb at your clit. Folds were then parted, her hand coated with your slickness. When you sobbed at her words, she chuckled. “Oh but you’re just a little puppy, aren’t you? My lovebug doesn’t know any better. That’s okay. I’ll let it slide just this one time, but if you behave like a stupid whore again then I won’t hesitate to punish you.” She smacked her hand against your aching cunt. “Am I clear?”

“Yes,” you breathed out, arms wrapped around her shoulders as you pulled Wanda close.

“Yes what?”

Crying, clinging to her for dear life, you gave in. “Yes, mommy.”

“Good girl.” In all the years you had known her, never did you feel so many tremors running down your body in the presence of Wanda. “Now lay back and let mommy play with you, toy. Let me see how many fingers I can fill your cute pussy with.”

Heat radiated from her body as she began easing her fingers in your tight hole. For a moment she closed her eyes and thought back to the times she had seen you in compromising positions on top of a girl she knew was a friend from college, touching herself while imagining . Kate was never liked by your stepmother, and seeing as she possessively swiftly thrust a pair of digits inside grunting ‘mine’ beneath her breath, it was clear why.

“So wet and so fucking warm for me. Oh baby you feel divine,” Wanda moaned as she pressed her thumb against your clit, the two fingers inside your sticky, aching pussy being pushed deep until her knuckles brushed upon you. “My little baby was just so fussy. Can’t think straight without mommy’s help? Now, next time your princess parts get icky like this, you tell me about it. No need to be a bad girl. Just tell mommy and she’ll make it all better.”

“Yes, mommy,” you whined. “I wanna cum.”

“Already? Oh no little one I’ve barely touched you! You can go a bit longer for mommy, right? I know you can,” she announced. The way her tits brushed with yours, nipples erect and hypnotizing enough made you want to suck harshly on them. With her newly found position as her mommy, you’d surely ask for that. “Good baby bears only cum when mama bear says so, and I know my girl is really good.”

While making out with her, Wanda nipped oh so softly on your lower lip to silently ask for permission that you gave her. Wetness coated your mouth as she swirled her tongue inside, exploring the area while devouring your own tongue, making all that was yours her own. All she desired was to own you, and without much effort she got exactly what.

“You’re such a little whore, you know that, right? I’ve seen the way you touch yourself. Do you think about me when you stretch your pussy out with two fingers, sweetheart, or is it your friend that you imagine? You don’t need her. Mommy will teach you how to be good, and I promise I will always take care of my pretty angel. I don’t think she can do that, can she?” Wanda’s jealousy was rampant, but had always remained silent and simply waited for the time to take her prey as the predator she was. “Hmm and you’re so tiny. Such a delicate doll. It’s so cute how much of you I own already.”

By no means were her movements tender. She had waited long months to have you, always coming second to the disdain you had for humanity let alone for Kate. The poor thing was nothing but a friend you had fun with at times, but Wanda wasn’t about to let you whore yourself off to someone else when she was to care for you. Daily inspections would be a must to ensure her little one was hers.

“So full,” you whispered with your heart on the line for her. All Wanda did was curl her fingers up, making you scream with her mouth hovering above your own. “I’m so full with you, mommy.”

Your velvety walls clamped down harshly against her causing Wanda to grunt. “Hmm time for my little puppy to cum. Be good and show me what I want. Show me who your rightful owner is.”

When you finally did come undone, Wanda was there kissing your pleasurable screams away, still deep in your pussy fucking your through your orgasm, not letting you catch your breath as she made you hers.

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

During certain nights Wanda found her desperation growing by the second. She didn’t have trouble slipping away from her shared bed with her husband and instead waltzing into your room, a rather large toy nestled comfortably between her legs. Entering your room in the depths of darkness was nothing new, but with the hunger she felt, it would be the first time she took you without caring for what you had to say in response.

Earlier that day you had excused yourself to explore the world with friends. Weekends were the only times where you got to relax, to ignore all the workload being crammed through the week and instead find your inner peace. Since the weeks you’d been secretly seeing Wanda you’d spend extra time with her, the boys and your father away on certain occasions, so not having you around was a rather lonely task your stepmother had to get through by herself.

All Wanda had wished to do was wrap you up safely in her arms and nuzzle her face against your shoulder. After having cleaned on that day, the twins having gone away with your father on a camping trip, she entered your room. There she found a frame picture of you and her from when you finished your first year of college and were taken out to dinner as a means to celebrate. Once she undressed herself and eased down on a stuffed animal of yours, one she gave you as a birthday present the previous year, Wanda began getting herself off. Humping the plushie and teasing her clit with one hand, the other held the picture in place as she eyed your shining face, moaning your name as she came.

Now in the late hours of the night, she’d finally get her toy to play with.

When she first shifted over the bed, you slurred slightly. The last thing she’d want was to awaken you from your peaceful slumber knowing you never got enough sleep with all the stress that floated around you.

“Close your eyes, baby,” Wanda’s voice was low as she pulled at your pajama pants along with your underwear, her silk robe already pooling on the floor. “Let mommy touch you a bit. I’ve missed my little slut so much.” Laying you on your side, your cunt in full view, she ran a hand through your slick folds. “So wet already. Oh I bet you spent all day fantasizing about being fucked like the whore you are. Now be a good girl and take my cock.”

While still asleep she grabbed her strap and slid it up and down your slit, making sure to pry your legs open a bit so she could swirl it across your clit. Once fully coated with your juices, jerking herself off a bit as though it was real, Wanda began inching inside, groaning as she basked in the sloshing sounds that came as she stretched out your tight hole.

Strong hands went to grip your hips in place. Wanda pressed her faced against the back of your neck, cheeks flushed and barely visible in the dimly lit room as she fucked you nice and slow. Even in your sleep you were responsive, little noises coming from your parted lips. The deeper she moved her cock in your pussy, the more you stirred.

“Mommy?” You groggily asked, eyes fluttering open slightly. “What’s going on? I feel really weird.”

“It’s okay, princess. Mommy just missed you. Won’t you let me touch you?” Although exhausted, you nodded. “Good girl. I even brought the special toy. You can have all of mommy’s treat. Do you want it now, baby?”

Hugging you from behind, Wanda pumped her cock in and out of your puffy cunt, a hand sneaking between your legs to stimulate your clit. She had to remind you to be quiet, that only good girls would get rewards. The last thing she wished was to alert your father of the rather taboo relationship you held, especially knowing it would come to an end.

For a few moments your mommy allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of your pussy. She desperately wished to truly understand how tight you were as your walls held her faux cock, the toy sliding past your folds as you hungrily took it all. Neither of you minded the mess that formed on your sheets, Wanda being far too blissed out as she desired to take everything from you – your sanity, your freedom, and your love would be all hers.

“Whatever my baby wants she gets,” she husked out.

Wanda pulled out her cock, leaving you empty and sobbing with exhaustion. Right as she was about to squeeze her drenched length, you grabbed her wrist, turning over so you could face her. She left you with droopy eyes and drool falling down your chin.

“Mommy, inside please,” you begged. Grinding yourself down against her bulbous dildo, you threw your head back. The way in which you clung to her, hands on her shoulders with eyes drifting down to her uncovered tits made her pity for you grew. “Please, I need it.”

“Oh but honey I don’t want to get my fleshlight all dirty.” Wanda nuzzled her face against your own, her flushed cheeks brushing yours. “Maybe if you beg a little…”

“Please mommy! I promise to be such a good girl, a whore, and let you use me whenever you want to. I need you to stuff me. I can't stop thinking about you inside me filling my pussy up with your treat. You can use me even when I say I don’t want to. Please, just cum inside me. I need it so bad.”

Wanda was more than content with your response. She cupped your face with a hand, the other guiding her strap-on back inside your pussy. “Hmm such a good slut. So desperate to have her cunt pumped full with my cum. Maybe I can even give you a baby. Would you like that, sweetie? For mommy to stuff you so full that you have my pups? Oh how cute you’d look.”

The redhead didn’t waste any time squeezing her cock halfway inside you until white sticky drops began squirting in your pussy. Foreheads remained together, your lips tenderly touching down upon hers, kissing mommy innocently, as she filled you up. With cum dripping down your inner thighs, Wanda made sure to fuck all of the seed back into you.

“Mommy’s fleshlight,” Wanda breathed out as she held you in place, hips moving and turning your bodies into one. “All mine. No one can have this pussy, baby. Only I can stuff you with pretty pups. Never forget that.”

“I’m full,” you cried. Not only did you have your cunt all pumped with cum, but also Wanda’s thick cock stretching you out.

“I know baby, mommy knows.” Wanda kissed your worries away, eyelids feeling heavy as she shared her love with you. She pulled down your head so you’d press up against her chest, humming calmly. “You can use your mouth if it’ll make it better, darling. Latch on. Mama is here to help you get some more sleep, okay?”

Nodding, you did as you were told. You had yet to reach your climax, so close yet too tired to beg for more. Wrapping your lips around one of her erect nipples, you latched on quickly. Many times you spend laying on top of Wanda, your hazy mind drifting you into Sandman’s realm, as she helped you relax against her. It was one of the many ways she coaxed your stress from school away.

While you began falling asleep once again, mouth suckling on Wanda’s breast, the older woman thrust her hips. She spent the rest of the night using her fleshlight – your aching cunt – before removing the strap from her waist and riding one of your thighs. Holding you close to her chest, mouth agape over skin, Wanda moaned whenever her clit brushed against you. She was practically dripping – only a few minutes passed up until she came undone after having brought you orgasm after orgasm.

To your dismay she was gone by the time you woke up in the morning. That Sunday was spent happily dancing around each other, Wanda’s hand brushing against your ass from time to time before she pressed you against the kitchen counter from behind when no one was looking – it was the perfect opportunity to grope your tits then. Each little moment the two of you got alone, you were sure to make the most of it. And of course when you showered, your stepmother was there peeking through the curtain with a hand between your legs – at least until you invited her inside, through the week rewarding her with various texts with lewd pictures of you she’d treasure forever.

[solelifauna]

With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (PT. 1)

TW: Mentions/allusions to cannibalism, death, and violence.

Three years had passed since that fateful day and your life had only gotten more miserable. Whatever hopes you had for being a part of a family were thwarted as soon as you stepped foot in the household. Bruce doesn't care about you, Dick was straight up mean, Jason (as the pack protector) was aggressive, Tim found you annoying, and Damien simply loathed your existence and would join Dick with his cruelty.

Both Stephanie and Barbara were civil with you, but neither really cared about what you did. Cassandra was nice, sometimes signing to you and giving you scented clothing, but she still didn't really go out of her way to engage with you. The only person who you felt truly cared about you was Alfred.

The first two years you tried your hardest to fit in and get the others to like you. You did whatever they wanted, made sure to learn their interests so you could talk to them, never complained, and made sure to respect the pack's boundaries.

You hoped that eventually, you’d all move past this hurdle and soon you would get along and be allowed in the pack den and other pack activities. Unfortunately, you realized that you would never be considered part of the family or the pack. Which as heartbreaking as it was, was the least of your worries.

You see, there was an ancient custom in werewolf culture concerning new pack members and pack initiation. When a new werewolf is introduced to a pack and their territory, the new werewolf has a certain amount of time to be accepted into the pack; if they’re not, well, they're killed and eaten. 

Yeah… quite terrifying and barbaric if you think about it, but mostly only the old lineages still continue this practice. Which is why you’re absolutely fucked. See, typically when children come to a pack they get accepted immediately, pups were (usually) considered precious.

In your case, being a half-blood severely reduced your chances and well, you guessed the Wayne family just didn't like you. Which sucks because you only have until your 18th birthday to get them to accept you, and considering your 16th birthday was coming up, your time was coming to a close. 

Or, you could always just run away. Hey! It was an option, one that you weren't sure the Bats would even let happen. Still it was worth a try. Which leads to your current situation in Bruce's office; you were trying to cut your losses a little early.

~~~~~~

“Look, I just feel as though this is the best course of action for your pack’s and my own safety.” Came your exasperated and desperate voice.

“Safety?” Bruce questions, causally flipping through some Wayne Industries documents, as if he doesn't know exactly what you're talking about.

“Considering Damian’s tried to kill me five times, two of his attempts almost being successful, and Jason's pit aggression that has him ready to rip my throat out, you can see why someone would feel unsafe.” You state, voice raising slightly in pitch.

He hummed noncommittally, his eyes still focusing on whatever paperwork he was going over.

“I'll think about it.” He replies, still disinterested.

“There’s nothing to think about! I should be allowed to leave if I want to, and if anything I'll finally be out of your pack's way.” You say, finally letting your frustration show through.

Why couldn't he just let you leave? Did he seriously want to keep you here just to kill– sorry, eat you in another two years?

“Excuse me?” He finally looks up from his work, his blue eyes meeting yours. He was unimpressed, you could tell that much at least, coupled with a dark look of simmering anger.

Okay, so maybe you should tone it down a notch.

“Come on, I'm not an idiot. I know me being here is simply a public formality, good fluff bits for the press y'know. But I'm not part of your family, and I'm certainly not part of your pack. You and the others have made that very clear. So please, allow me to do us both a favor and get out of your way.” You add.

“Where would you go?”

“Huh?” You blink in surprise.

“Where would you go?” Bruce repeats again.

“That–that is honestly none of your concern.”

“None of my concern? Aren't I entitled to know where my kid is?”

“No, you’re not. Sure you're biologically considered my father, but we all know I'm not really considered your kid.”

“Is that what you think?” He questions.

“Am I supposed to think any differently?”

“You carry the Wayne surname do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then you belong to the Waynes. To me. Which means that I decide what happens to you.”

There was the familiar darkness that you saw pooling in Bruce’s eyes, the type that left the Joker a tortured mess, the type that disemboweled Ra’s Al Ghul, the type of darkness that reminded you that Batman doesn’t kill. Oh no, he maims and tortures instead.

You unconsciously take a careful step back. 

Bruce’s stare felt like ice, and his words hung in the air, thick and heavy with an authority that was absolute. You wanted to argue, to say something, but every instinct in your body screamed for caution. There was a darkness in his gaze that you had seen glimpses of before, but never directed at you, and now it was there, unblinking, cutting through any hope you’d harbored for mercy or understanding.

Your heart hammered, yet you forced yourself to stand straighter, swallowing down the instinctive fear. 

“With all due respect,” you began, your voice smaller than you intended but steady, “staying here for another two years just for you all to—to follow through with that—custom, doesn’t seem fair.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t soften, but his posture shifted slightly, his gaze piercing through you like he could see every thought you tried to hide. 

“Belonging is earned. It isn’t granted because of blood,” he stated coldly. “If you truly wish to belong somewhere, you work for it.”

“I’ve tried,” you said, voice thick with frustration. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve followed your rules, I tried with everyone, and stayed out of everyone’s way. But nothing I do is good enough.”

“You assume that acceptance is given on your terms,” he replied, voice as controlled as ever. “Pack structure doesn’t bend to anyone’s whims. Least of all a half-blood who hasn’t proven their loyalty.”

The words stung, tearing open a wound that you thought had scarred over. You clenched your fists, feeling the sharp ache of your own nails digging into your palms. “And what exactly does proving myself look like here? Surviving Damian’s attacks? Letting Jason rip me apart every chance he gets?”

“Watch your tone,” he warned, his voice low, cutting through any retort you’d planned.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to take another step back from his desk. Challenging him wouldn’t help. He’d already decided where you stood, and nothing you said would change that. Maybe it was better to save your energy, conserve your strength for the day you’d finally slip away.

“Understood,” you said, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. “If that’s how it is, then I’ll stay out of everyone’s way.”

 But you’d still leave when the time comes.

Bruce’s gaze hardened, like he knew what you were thinking. “Your place is here until I decide otherwise,” he said, a finality in his tone that told you any further argument would only worsen things.

He dismissed you with a look, returning to his papers as if the conversation were over, as if you were no longer there. Every step you took out of the office felt heavier, like the manor itself was holding you down, binding you to this place that was never truly a home.

As you closed the door behind you, the cold emptiness of the hallway wrapped around you, and you knew then—you were on your own. If you were to survive this, it would be on your own terms.

It's like clockwork when Alfred calls you down for dinner. The same time, the same routine.

You show  up to dinner, hands still shaking and mind still reeling from your disturbingly cryptic conversation with Bruce. But, never mind that you’d just eat quietly and leave like you always do. You moved to your normal seat only to find that all the chairs near the end of the table had disappeared. What the actual fuck. Was this some type of powerplay? Something to imply that you didn’t even have a seat at their table anymore? 

You mean, you wouldn't mind eating in the safety and comfort of your own room. With an exasperated sigh, which had a couple of heads turn their attention to you, you grabbed an empty plate and started loading it up with food. You were about to head back to your room when you heard an outraged growl from behind you.

The kind of growl that had you tensing, ready to submit and roll onto your back.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Jason growled out from behind you.

You freeze.

“To my room?” You responded meekly, curling in on yourself as much as you could.

“And pray tell, why do you think that’d be acceptable?”

“Uh–um, ‘cause my seats’ gone?”

Jason only smirked, the feral kind that almost always promised pain to his enemies.

“Oh, but your chair isn't gone, it's right here.” Jason says pointing to a chair right near the head of the table.

You blanked. That's not right. Only pack was allowed that close to the head of the table, where Bruce sat, where the pack leader sat.

“B-But, I can’t–”

“Did that sound like a suggestion?”

You shook your head no, swallowing down a whimper that almost escaped your lungs.

“Then sit your ass down,” Jason growled.

He didn't have to tell you twice.

Immediately you shakily sat down in your new seat, on the left side of Bruce’s seat at the head of the table with Jason sitting at your left shoulder and Dick across from you. Not good, not good at all. You could feel the acidic, green gaze of Jason burning into the side of your face whilst Dick languidly sipped his wine, a sickeningly sweet smile (with way too many teeth to be considered anything but malicious), plastered on his face as he stared at the new seating chart. You let out a shaky breath, trying to get your heart rate back to normal; you were so gonna die tonight.

Thankfully, Bruce arrived and sat himself in his seat at the head of the table; right next to you. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on getting air in your lungs and slowing your racing heart. Unbeknownst to you, Bruce shot a knowing stare at the rest of the table. As much as you tried to conceal it, they could all hear your rapidly fluttering heartbeat and your poorly hidden breathing. Tim and Jason both watched you amused; you looked so darn pathetic, sitting there trembling like a leaf. 

You glanced down at your plate, picking at the food without really tasting it, hoping that staying silent would help you melt into the background.

Bruce, however, remained still and silent, his presence looming over you, radiating the authority that seemed to keep everyone else in check. But even that felt like a facade; the way his gaze lingered on you for a split second too long told you he was watching closely, assessing.

You forced yourself to take a bite, trying to steady your hands enough to appear somewhat composed. But the sound of your own heartbeat seemed to echo in your ears, loud and unrelenting, as if amplifying the anxiety that twisted in your gut. They could hear it too; you knew that much from the way Jason’s smirk deepened, from the way Tim’s lips twitched with barely-contained laughter.

As the dinner dragged on, every clink of a fork, every quiet murmur, felt like it was directed at you. The food turned to ash in your mouth, each bite only reminding you of the eyes trained on you, dissecting you with every chew and every breath.

The rest of the dinner passed in strained silence, every second an endurance test as you forced yourself to stay seated, to keep your head down. When Bruce finally pushed his chair back and dismissed everyone, the wave of relief was almost enough to make you lightheaded. Quick as a whip, you practically ran up the stairs towards the safety and solace of your room.

When you make it, the locks on your door are immediately fastened (not that it would do much if anyone wanted to actually force their way in). You exhale in relief as you try to collect your thoughts. Fuck, everything was going to shit; the worst part being you had school tomorrow (which thankfully you did not go to Gotham Prep; you'd kill yourself if you did). You groaned at the thought, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes to relieve the ache shooting through them.

Looks like another night of shitty sleep.

Taglist!!: @lostsomewhereinthegarden, @the-rouge-robin, @confused-they

[suguann]

He has a feeling that the new girl running the front desk at the gym is going to be a problem—a distraction disguised in a gym uniform polo and khaki pants.

It starts with you smiling too brightly as he walks in one morning, all teeth and that little twinkle in your eye that feels like trouble when you scan his membership card.

“Good morning, Mr. Riley.” 

“It’s just Simon,” he tells you as he takes his card off the counter. 

The following day, it’s the same, except Johnny is there to make it worse.

He nudges Simon with his elbow. “She’s kinda pretty, huh?”

“Say it any louder, and she’ll hear you, mate,” he grumbles.

Simon’s not blind; of course, he knows you’re pretty, but he doesn’t have time to commit to anything outside of work—even if you smile at him like you’re happy to see him and how he’ll think about it later: on missions, at his desk, during morning runs. His head is nothing short of woven webs with thoughts of you stuck in the middle.

Honestly, it’s that you—

(You try to make small talk with him every morning, and Simon is starting to think it’s just for him because on the days he doesn’t come alone, you merely scan his card and go back to reading the open paperback book on the desk.)

It’s weird because it’s almost like you—

(He bumps into you at the supermarket and makes a dumb joke about carrots that makes you laugh. It makes him a little tongue-tied and awkward afterward because he realizes he hasn’t talked to a woman outside of only wanting a quick fuck in a really long time, but more importantly, he wants to hear it again. 

Instead, he tosses potatoes in his cart and walks away.)

He tells himself it means nothing, or not how Simon wants it to.

You’re just…he’s not even sure; acquaintances? Maybe more than that, but less than friends. Somewhere in that odd in-between phase where he only knows bits and pieces but not the whole picture.

Sometimes, he wishes—

(Simon doesn’t know what he’s doing the first time he invites you to meet the guys from work on a night out. He’s dated around a few times and had his fair share of hook-ups, but this isn’t like that. His palms are sweaty, more than usual, and no amount of wiping them on the thighs of his jeans keeps them dry.

Then you walk into the bar in a dress that’s probably too light for early spring in London—even though he stares appreciatively at the long expanse of your legs as you walk up to the table—and he wishes he wasn’t introducing you as his friend.)

But you—

(A new development happens after you slip him your phone number on one of the gym’s business cards—it’s weird that we don’t have each other’s numbers, so message me sometime or whatever—and he messages you ‘hey’ right before he leaves for a mission a few days later. 

It slowly shifts and changes over time.

You start sending him texts in the morning. Never an actual good morning text, but of the dogs you take on walks, the sunrise, the new flower box in your window. Somehow, it’s better.)

You really are—

(His house feels too hot, and he’s distracted from the movie by how close you are, how your leg drapes over his under the blanket, fingers fisting into his sweater at his stomach that clenches. An ache that grows, throbbing, spreading from his abdomen to his groin.

It feels monumental—something more than the gentle touch to the elbow to squeeze by each other in his entryway earlier or giving you his jacket that night at the bar—a tilt of the axis that makes the messy pieces fall neatly into place. 

He must be staring because you glance up at him, smiling, and the sound from the TV turns into white noise in the background.

“Can I…would you—fucking hell,” Simon runs a hand through his hair. “Can I kiss you?”

When your lips press against his, and his hands are pulling you onto his lap, where you settle hotly against his dick tenting in his jeans, he wonders why neither of you has done this before. Just kissing—him licking the seam of your mouth, and you panting his name.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you mumble, lips brushing his.

“Me too,” and he fists his hand into the hair at your nape and pulls you back to his mouth.)

“I knew you’d be trouble,” he tells you one day, glaring at the bloke further down the bar who tried making a swipe at your ass before Simon showed up, towering over his shoulder with your fruity cocktail in hand.

“Oh, yeah?” you giggle, leaning into his side.

“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth quirk, though he hides it when he presses a kiss against your temple. “A real pain in my ass, love.”

“But yours.”

This time, he does smile. “Yes, but mine.”

Masterlist