#the fact that they tolerated EVERYTHING he said before

[mistressemmedi]

Red Bull really said "I can excuse and tolerate racist remarks, but I draw the line at him talking to the press about ongoing events within the team. Muzzle the old man"

[gyaruhana]

Hey could you write the frontman smut, I need that man it's not even funny, yk the chair/sofa he always sat on in S1, when watching the game? Imagine cockwarming him there while he's praising us...

Frontman/Hwang In-ho - Cockwarming

Synopsis: Cockwarming your husband as he watches the games

A/N: This is a short little piece but I hope it's good anyway.. Ty for the frontman request bc he spoke to me in season 2..

Warnings: Cockwarming,

To many, the frontman was a reserved man who is not to be crossed. He’s been responsible for the death of many people - whether at his own hands or the hands of the guards that work for him. Not a lot is known about him among the people who work for him other than the fact he has a very pretty wife. You.

It was no secret that he would not tolerate any disrespect towards you. Some have had to learn that lesson the hard way. He’d always make a point of making sure no harm comes to you by warning people of the dire consequences that come with endangering you. It was all out of love for you, of course. He only wanted to keep you safe from the dangers of his deadly work. That’s why he was always nearby. Like right now.

The first game was about to begin and he was relaxed in his chair in the dark room as he watched the screen. You were on his lap making sure to keep still so as not to bother him. Otherwise, he’d likely deliver some sort of punishment. His cock was buried deep inside of you but he paid little attention to how your hole was squeezing his cock. He was too focused on making sure the first game goes according to plan. Everything needed to be in order so the VIP’s could have something entertaining to watch and keep paying for more.

“You’re being so good for me - keeping so still like this,” he spoke as he moved a hand to your hair and began to gently brush his fingers through in a soothing motion. He knew how hard it was for you to stay still when all you wanted was for him to start fucking into your tight hole. However, good things only come to those who wait so he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted just yet. 

His eyes stayed on the screen as he watched people start to drop dead like flies. It never got old to watch the panic on people’s faces when they realised their lives were at stake. He reached over to the table beside him and grabbed his glass that contained whiskey before gently spinning the glass around for a moment. He then took a sip out of the glass before turning his attention to you.

Teasingly, he thrusted up gently to force a reaction out of you. “You really need it, huh? You’re squeezing me so tightly,” he said with a small smirk. He put the glass back down before putting both his hands on your hips. “Just be a good girl and wait a little longer. I know you won’t disappoint me,” he spoke again as he firmly held your hips down to keep you completely still.

He looked back towards the screen and continued to watch the death game. He could hear your shaky breaths in his ear as you became impatient. He found it amusing to see his dear wife be so desperate for his cock to fuck into her with reckless abandon. Well, he’d give you what you wanted soon. As long as you just sat still on his cock like the good wife you are.

“Such a good wife for me, hm?

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

♡ TW: yandere, noncon, incest, twincest, blind!reader, twin brother!satoru

♡ FEM reader

Overprotective twin brother Satoru…

He was born with an abundance of cursed energy, while you got none and no heavenly pact or anything at all to show for being a Gojo.

You can’t even see curses. In fact, you can’t see at all.

It’s as if in the womb, Satoru harvested everything for himself so that you would always depend on him.

He sees it differently, though. He’s the older twin—and that means everything to him. You’re his. His good half. You were born with the heart, and he was born with the rest, all in order to spare and protect you.

“The royal guard walks at the front to keep the princess safe” is something he started saying when you were younger. “That’s why I was born first. To keep my princess safe.” 

He always holds your trembling face in his hands while saying it. And although you can’t see, you still feel it, how he’s sticky and warm, soaked with the blood he’s spilled—all in the name of protecting you.

You don’t think you were scared of your twin brother when you were toddlers, but you’re not sure. You were still young when he learned how to use his techniques. He’d never had any tolerance to speak of and no mercy to spare when that non-existent tolerance was tested. Still, of course, he’d never ever think of harming you.

That’s not what worried you…

No, rather, it was the staff and any other unsuspecting visitor you feared for and how they might have the misfortune of crossing the hair-thin tripwire that triggered your brother’s cold-hearted rage.

Maids were fired every other day—often after having suffered at his hands, sometimes with limbs missing, sometimes with senses lost. None of them could ever measure up to his standards, especially when it came to you. You were to be treated like a goddess, not a child, despite that being what you both were. His sister deserved only the finest and was to be dressed to new perfection every day, hand-fed only your favorites, and never ever allowed to lift even a single finger yourself. That’s how Satoru saw it.

And if anyone were to fail to understand that, they’d meet with his swift judgment. Even being blind, you’d still see the awful glowing blue of his eyes before the screams and the sudden smell of rust all around.

You remember the first time it had happened. Your nurserymaid had insisted it was time the two of you no longer shared the same bed—said it wasn’t proper. You must have been about six years old. One second, she was there. Next, you were covered in her.

The two of you had slept in it. 

No. Satoru had slept, tucked snugly against you as if nothing was amiss. 

You had barely slept since.

You never stopped sharing a bed. You’d tried at a point to tell him how it wasn’t right, how it wasn’t something siblings should do. He’d only asked you who’d put those silly ideas in your head. And you’d been wiser not to raise the thought again, fearing for the lives he might decide were responsible.

Still, despite his lack of moral restraint, you’re older before he decides sleeping in the same bed just isn’t enough anymore.

You’d always known of the way he looked at you. You’ve felt it. Always there as a silent voyeur during your dress fittings and baths, studying you in a way a brother shouldn’t. You’d done your best to ignore that ever-present feeling of yearning coming from him in those moments he’d touch you, feeling his long slender fingers run cold over your bare skin, always insisting on giving you a helping hand, to dress and to undress, to eat, to walk. 

You’ve always known what he’s wanted.

Still, you’d thought some type of decency would hold him back from ever acting on it. 

You realize now how foolish you’d been…

As head of the Gojo clan, he makes decisions as he sees fit and announces your engagement before the entirety of its ranks and members as if it were only obvious. And under the pressure of his six eyes, no one dares even utter a gasp at the outrageous prospect. No, all they do is smile and clap while giving their blessings.

In the end, you’re the only one who objects.

“Satoru?” you ask after the assembly. Walking, or rather wandering, unsteadily on your plank shoes in the direction of his voice, hearing him talk about clan matters he’s never bothered to include you in—it’s not for you to worry about, is all he’ll ever say. Always treating you like a child despite being the same age.

“Princess!” he exclaims, rushing over to you, holding you up as if you were in danger of getting knocked over by a sudden draft. “What are you doing up? How many times have I told you, just tell the carriers where you want to go and they’ll take you there.”

You purse your lips and bite your tongue from sounding too chagrinned. Embarrassed enough already to want to cause more of a scene. Only muttering, “I can walk fine on my own–”

But Satoru isn’t convinced, nor concerned with the same matters as you, much too busy with protecting you from the terrors of standing on your own two feet. 

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Come,” he decides, dismissing the elders he'd been talking to.

You listen to them leave, lifting a hand to call them back, “No wait, but–”

But nothing. As always, Satoru doesn’t listen. Picking you up without further bickering. He lifts you off your feet and carries you away like an infant, back to the cozy den of pillows and blankets he insists you sit on during assemblies, calling it your throne despite it not being much different from your bed.

He doesn’t set you down. No, instead, he sits down with you, holding you in his lap as he gets comfortable in the plush nest.

“So, princess? Did you like my announcement?” he asks cheerfully. Already picturing you in wedding attire—so hopelessly incapacitated in the heavy layers, how you’d need his help every step of the way, even with walking down the aisle. 

“We can’t marry, Satoru…” You break his line of thought with a mumble. “You’re my brother.”

You're unable to say it with your chest—rather, you only muster enough courage to whisper it. Feeling anxious about his reaction. All he ever seems to care about is dolling you up so you can sit pretty next to him. And for so long, he hasn’t allowed anything else. You have no idea what to expect now that you’ve finally asked. 

Of course, you hope he’ll respect your words and see reason, but somehow, you doubt he’s ever really thought or cared about what you think you want—intent on making all those decisions for you.

“Silly princess,” he starts, closing the distance between the two of you by cupping your face as he so often likes doing, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Who else would we marry if not each other?” 

It’s as you thought. He doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. And still, there aren’t many options other than you trying to reason with him. Despite only being brave enough to do so by mumbling, “It’s—it’s… not right...”

To that, he just hums, nose-kissing you despite how you try to duck your head away—his voice dumbifying your worry, saying “Don’t you love me, princess?”

It’s an unfair question… beside the point, and yet to him, it makes the point. Still, there’s nothing else to say but “Of course, I love you, Satoru.”

It comes out as a croak, somewhat choked in the feeling of hopelessness, all of which he just finds so endearing. Rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he watches those milky eyes of yours grow teary.

“Then who’s to say it’s wrong?” he croons, kissing your forehead as if you’re a silly child crying over silly things, and further explaining it to you just so, “We’ve belonged to each other since birth. Marriage is just to appease society's structures. It means nothing compared to what we already have and have always had.”

His other hand kneads your midriff, keeping you snug against him as if sensing how you wanted to leave. But you don’t try it. No, you barely manage to shake your head.

“I love you,” he says, but it isn’t the same way you say it. No, it’s something far more disturbing. “Sometimes, I wish we were the only two people on earth, like it was when we shared the womb together.”

You shudder, feeling his breath hit your face with your heart causing a ruckus in your chest, telling you to do something to stop what’s coming.

“I want to be close like that again. Just you and me and nothing else.”

You accept it for a moment—his lips against yours. Thinking you had no choice. But as you sit there, willing yourself to stay still, a sickness starts climbing up from the pit of your stomach, until you suddenly can’t stand it anymore. 

And with both hands pushing him away, you shriek, “Don’t!”

Prying yourself out of his embrace, you throw yourself back so fast you end up falling out of the elevated throne bed. Still, the pain in your rear barely registers as you wipe your mouth free of the spit your brother had left behind. Cringing at the stickiness, feeling nothing short of abhorred, as if it were the last thing that should ever touch your tongue.

“It’s disgusting. I won’t. I—” You’ve raised your voice now, for the first time in your life. Your brows furrow as you put all your might into the next words. “I refuse.”

And then, as if almost regretting it, you swallow thickly. Ears burning for any sign of his reaction, everything remains silent, deadly so, only disturbed by the heavy ups and downs of your own labored breath. 

Until…

“Disgusting?” he repeats.

And you don’t know why, but something about the edge in his tone makes you whimper and shuffle back. It was as if something about the very air changed, feeling heavy, crushing, all of a sudden.

“No… You don’t mean that, princess.”

You hear his steps come after you, soft first, stepping through the pillows, then light against the marble tiles, unhurried, knowing you’re not able to go anywhere. 

“You’re just reciting whispers you’ve heard,” he hisses under his breath. Then, darker, growling, “I ought to cut out everyone's tongue. That’ll teach them.”

“No–” you object, but he’s done now with listening to you. 

Shutting you up instantly with a dismissive, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, princess. I’ll teach you too. This is how it’s meant to be.”

You kick off your plank shoes at that, struggling in your heavy dress as you twist around onto your hands and knees before getting up, holding the many fabrics in your arms as you run—only… you have no idea where. 

Anytime you’d snuck out of your room to explore the grounds, trying to map out a route you’d never dared admit was for an escape attempt, your brother had always come and collected you before you’d made it down the first hallway. And so, blinder than blind, you’re completely lost even in your own home. And the panic makes you slip on your skirt before you’ve even made it halfway down the assembly chamber, accompanied by the awful sounds of your own fumbling being echoed back as if mocking you.

You hear him sigh heavily behind you. And then his hand grips your upper arm, harshly—in a way you’ve never felt. 

It’s enough to make you yelp, starting to thrash—panic in your chest, you’re shaking your head, trying to pull yourself free by pushing him away. “Please, Satoru—please, let go–”

Before you know it, you’re pushed flat against the floor. Cushioned by your weighty dress, it’s like a soft bed, but with the way Satoru holds a hand over your mouth and forces you down, you feel as if you’re drowning.

“Keep this up, princess, and eyes won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” he barks. Not even giving you enough time for the freight in your chest to settle before worsening it. “Run away, and I'll take your legs. Fight me, and I’ll take your hands. Keep talking back, and I’ll take your tongue too.”

Balanced between your legs in the mess of your skirt’s many layers, bearing over you with his back hunched, he keeps you pinned as your whole body starts to quiver. 

“Is that what you want?” he questions. “Is that what it’ll take for you to behave?”

More tears flow then, in nothing short of a storm. Flooding down your cheeks, wetting the hand he’d locked over your mouth.

It brings a pang to his chest, and he realizes what he’d just said.

He peels his fingers off your lips, then cups your cheeks instead, shaking his head. 

“No, princess, I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t. I would never hurt you—you know that—”

He kisses your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips, then your neck, where he nuzzles himself as he continues to coo at you, “Sh-shh, princess. Listen to me. Listen to your big brother. I just want to love you. Won’t you let me love you?”

You sob, shaking your head, trying to crawl out from beneath him and the tongue he has against your neck, sucking and biting at your collar with a mouthful of heated words, “Trust me, princess. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see. Just like always. And there’s never been anything wrong with that.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[gghostwriter]

Three's a Sideshow

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 2 || Part 3 Summary: Spencer misses an important date and ends up paying the consequences Trope:Angst w.c: 4.2k a/n: this is one of the many many requests of @lavonee (her exact request was: maybe spencer misses an important date/anniversary because of jj and reader is finally fed up being second place to her) trying my best to address all of them. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The hazy dim light of each candle on the white linen covered table gave the restaurant an orange hue. Various aromas of meat, wine, and complimentary cheese wafted through the enclosed space. Sensual tones of the saxophone lightly played on the speakers perfectly weave through each muted conversations between loved ones—couples and families. The high-end restaurant basked in good food and great company. 

Everything was perfect.

Every costumer joyous and warm from the delicious wine. 

All except for one, alone by the corner booth, phone pressed to your ear and eyes scanning for the tall, lithe form of the date for the night.

Beep. Beep. Be—

You grimaced at the busy line tone that answered you, again. Hands gripping the draped linen, trying your best not to tap your newly manicured fingers on the table—trying to blend into the background, unsuccessfully. 

You stuck out like a sore thumb. All dressed up with no partner or food on the table, just a glass of once chilled wine—condensation all around it like tears of abandonment and longing. 

The same waitress who escorted you to the table—15 minutes ago, approached with a perfectly rehearsed smile.

“Ma’am, are we ready to order?”

You sighed. “Actually, my boyfriend isn’t here yet—”

She bit her lip, nodding, before quickly averting her eyes to the queued up line outside the premise.

Right. It was a Friday night and every adult in the vicinity wanted a night out to unwind and start their weekend on the right foot.

You tightly smiled, the embarrassment of tonight painting your cheeks a deep maroon, unnoticed through the flickering of the orange candlelight. “—you know what, I think I’d just have a slice of your chocolate cake to go. Yeah, I’m sorry about holding up the table.”

The waitress nodded, understanding washing on her face. “That’s alright. I’ll have your order packed and ready to go.”

“Thanks,” you murmured as you watched her leave. 

Tonight was suppose to be special. 

You dressed up in the same white with purple printed flower midi length dress, styled your hair effortlessly, and spritzed on your favorite perfume that smelled like a luscious garden after a rainy night.

Everything was just like how it was two weeks ago—including your boyfriend of three years, Spencer Reid, not showing up for the date.

You didn’t even know why you bothered. Why his promise of being here tonight made you feel giddy and trusting. Why his commitment on having do-over for the actual anniversary dinner that he missed two weeks ago made you think it was going to end differently and why you gave him another chance—

Another chance to let you down.

Another crack in your belief that you were important.

Another heartache to soothe.

Another let down. 

When you first entered the relationship, you understood the gravity of his work. How his career will always come first and how unpredictable it all may be.

That part—accepting those facts, were easy. You were always one to be tolerant and understanding ever since childhood, labeled as the easy kid—the independent, the self-sufficient. Mixed in with your highly demanding career as a doctor, you got it—the patience and consideration of a saint.

A martyr, your good friend once bluntly said. 

But what good was being a martyr when the person you’re killing yourself for didn’t notice?

It didn’t matter at first. Missed messages, missed calls, missed dates were just a work of rotten timing from both ends. Sometimes it was you having to run to the hospital for an emergency surgery and sometimes it was him having to catch a plane to a latest serial killer case.

The tandem of both independent and busy people in the relationship worked, love blossomed regardless.

What made it different was, there was three of you in the relationship.

The third party being an intense platonic, as he once defended, connection with Her.

You felt it for the first time during a get together with his found family. Your set of eyes trained to read in between the lines for the truth patients unwittingly hide from their doctor. It was a skill that you honed and never hated, up until that moment.

The stolen glances when the other wasn’t looking.

The emotion veiled between the eyes.

The unsaid words that seemed to spill from the silence.

Never mind that there were two presences in the vicinity that could have their life altered in any minute from the secrets long hidden in vaults. It was as if you and her husband were considered ornaments, pieces of a possible aftermath not worth saving. 

You knew of their past—Spencer admitting to having a crush on her during his early days with the team and asking her out on a baseball game date.

Everything was water under the bridge, your boyfriend assured you. But the thing was, water had a way of overflowing from confinement, turning deadly, and ravaging what once was an idyllic garden that bloomed from your affection. 

Now as you pay for the tab and collect your things, you felt the tides that destroyed the solace inside of you well up to your eyes—wanting the release you’re fighting to keep at bay.

A fight you’re bound to lose.

You whispered a thank you to the waitress, soft and quiet that you were unsure if she even heard it but that was the best you could do, the sobs closing your vocal chords and threatening to escape, making you a spectacle—leaving the restaurant alone, with a boxed cake on hand.

What a sad sight.

You fumbled with the phone again, hands shaking as you insert the key on the ignition.

Beep. Beep. Be—

Nothing. 

What even was the point of all of this, you wondered. All this emotion, love, that was once sweet and heavenly now all felt rotten, puss oozing from its pores and flies exalting for a feast. 

Slowly backing your black 4-door sedan out of the parking lot, you pondered if this was the end—did you have any more left to give? Or was this just a bump on the road for the your future selves to learn and heartily laugh about? 

———

The rattling of your keys as you dropped it on the ceramic plate across the main door disrupted the silent, empty apartment.

A small smile graced your face as you remembered spontaneously booking a ceramic wheel class with Spencer in tow. His initial worries about getting under the nails dirty and the bacteria that could be collected from any stranger that used the items before the both of you swept away with your giggles and assurances to double up on vitamins. 

There was a wide grin on his face then, accepting defeat from the sight of your enthusiasm and glee. 

It was one of your greatest memory with Spencer and when the glazed pottery came from the mail—yours, a wonky blue green plate and his, an uneven moss green bowl, you had him promise to take you again.

A promise that never came to fruition.

You sighed, eyes tracking the rented space you never quite moved in to. The walls painted this dark green color, reflecting the somber mood you frequently found yourself in and the shelves filled to the brim with books you never dream of reading.

in hindsight, maybe your subconscious was telling you something. Why you never agreed to Spencer’s casual asking of you to live with him. Why you were adamant of keeping your own apartment regardless of the nights you spent outside of it.

This place became your pseudo-home, comfortable but never quite permanent. 

The distant murmur of a car being parked on the street had you clambering up from your defeated, slouched position on the leather couch. In your gut, you knew who it was.

You spotted them exiting the SUV.

The two figures that make the relationship three—a sideshow for everyone to see.

Spencer and JJ. 

They talked for a bit, probably saying pleasantries of goodbyes, before she leaned in for a hug. One that he reciprocated, patting her back as he went. 

They looked like a couple and if you were in your right state of mind, you’d chalk the exchange up to nothing but you weren’t—you were wounded and unsure of your standing ever since you exited the restaurant.

Were you his first still?

Or were you just second place? 

They were questions you never wanted no, needed, to be addressed but it seemed like tonight was the night of reckoning.

As you watched Spencer enter the apartment, the smile on his face from spotting you slowly become a furrow between his brows, you fidgeted—pulling the coat tighter to your body, the one you never hung on the back of the door—ready to bolt.

“Love, I’m so sorry I missed our reservation—”

He went in for a kiss on your glossy lips. 

A simple act that you didn’t have the energy to accept, you turned your head to the side. His lips catching your cheek instead.

“It’s fine,” you sardonically replied. “It wasn’t like I was waiting for you for half an hour to show up. It’s fine, Spencer.” 

His brow twitched. 

“It sounds like it’s not fine. Why don’t you tell me what you really feel? We promised to openly communicate, didn’t we?”

You huffed, throwing your hands up in the air. “I said it’s fine, Spencer. Why don’t you give it a rest?”

“You look beautiful,” his calloused fingers gently caressing your hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t show. It’s just that JJ and the tea—”

Your last thread of reason snapped clean from hearing her name.

“It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it? Me coming after her?”

“Love.”

“Don’t touch me—don’t call me that,” you pushed his hands away, tucking the escaped tendrils behind your ears. 

His own, raking the wavy brown hair you loved, in frustration. You could tell, with how his hands opened and closed, that he was itching to touch you, comfort you. 

“Her? You mean, JJ? She’s a friend. Just a friend.” 

“And if this friend wasn’t married with kids, would you still be here with me now?”

Silence. 

There, you said it.

“What—yes, yes of course. Why would you ask that? Why would you doubt it? Doubt me?”

Your gut twisted inside of you. It was inconceivable for someone like Spencer to lie, wasn’t it? He was a good guy, one of the best. But all the hidden resentment in your heart—a pile you weren’t even aware of, no longer wanted to be silenced. It no longer wanted to be pushed to the side for optimism and denial. 

“I don’t know, Spencer. Maybe it’s the way you look at her—” voice raising up an octave. You’ve lost control, verbally dumping out everything. “Do you think I don’t see it? You look at her with this, this nostalgia and—and this emotion that I can’t compare to—never seen it when you look at me! Or maybe, maybe it’s because you drop everything for her? Including me?”

“Are you talking about when Henry got sick?” his hands finding a home on his hips. “I thought you understood—you of all, should have.”

Your laughter turned into a sob. “I do—I did, until you dropped me of unceremoniously back here, in this apartment, just so you could rush out to her home. Like I was some kind of secret, you didn’t want to bring around her. Like I was some sort of disease, you didn’t want her catching. Didn’t you think I would be of great help? A licensed medical doctor?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight—I thought you, you shouldn’t be exposed to the type of flu Henry contracted. You could have gotten sick too and could have passed it on to your other patients.”

“It’s my job to take care of the sick, don’t you think I take measures for my own health? Spencer, please, for once just be honest with me.”

He tilted his head. “Honest about what?”

“If it’s her you really want and if I’m just a passable substitute to settle down with.”

You could see his eyes blazing with such—disgust? Anger? You didn’t know what emotion it was before it was snuffed out, leaving his expression blank and almost sad. It was a look you were familiar with, his profiler look.

“I don’t need you profiling me and my insecurities, Spencer. I just want the truth. The God-honest truth.” 

“I love you. I can’t imagine a life without you—I won’t imagine it. Isn’t that enough?”

Your hands drop to your side.

“I don’t know. Is it?”

The distance created by the silence between you and Spencer was vast. You’ve never felt quite alone and isolated in the relationship until this moment. Was this it, then? The end to your once dreamed of happy ever after? 

“I’m sorry I missed the dinner. Why don’t you let me make it up to you? We can book the same restaurant for next week and—”

“You can’t just make up for a make up anniversary dinner, that’s not how it works in real life, Spencer. And besides, I don’t want to see the same pitying looks the workers there give me when they realize my date is again, and again, a no-show.”

He sighed, slowly invading your space. The arms that once felt like home to you, circling your waist, now felt foreign. You never imagined you’d get here but then again, who did? 

Your hands clasped his button down before loosening its grip. Taking in one more whiff of his cedar-wood and mint perfume, you pushed him away. Stepping backwards from his presence and all he had to offer.

“It’s late. We’re both tired—”

He nervously smiled. Intertwining his fingers with yours and started to walk backwards to the direction of the bedroom. “Yeah, we can talk about it in the morning once you feel better.”

You wiggled your hand free.

“Actually, I think I have to go.”

Spencer paused, panic coloring his face. “That’s—that’s not what I meant, love. Anything but that. Please, please I love you and I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Spence. Me too.” 

You slowly gathered your things, sans the chocolate cake left opened and untouched on the coffee table. 

“Happy anniversary, I need space to think this all through—to think us through.”

He stood still, blocking your way, trying to wrap his head around the direction this was going to. The inevitable downfall of him and you. It was a car crash no one could no longer escape from. 

“Please, let me fix this. I can do it, just—tell me how. Do you want me to limit my time spent with JJ? I-I can try, just please, don’t leave me.”

It wasn’t a promise, you noted. With how many broken promises there were between the span of your relationship, you wondered if that was a conscious choice of wording from him. It sounded hopeful, gleaming with oath even. But they were just words at the end of the day, packaged pretty for you to swallow.

“I need time, Spencer. I’m not breaking up with you, I just need space,” you placed a kiss on his cheek, wet from tears. “Can you give me that, love?”

He choked a sob. 

“Promise me you’ll be back. Promise me.”

You tightly smiled, making your way back to the door. The unanswered plea hanging in the air like a blade, waiting to slash down between you—waiting to sever the connection that was once shiny and new. 

Shakily removing the spare key of the apartment from your chain, you chanced one last look at his hunched form—sobs emitting from his sweet lips and acid rain spilling down his cherub cheeks, regretting that this might be your last memory of Spencer Reid.

You didn’t know if you’d be back. 

If the thought of being second place will ever go away.

But the sinking feeling in your gut tells you the truth—that this is it.

This is final.

This is the end. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[smittenmeraki]

Hc that Neil Josten has an insanely high pain tolerance yet says 'ow' to everything. Bumped his knee on the coffee table? Chirps out a little 'ow' subconsciously. Knocks over his water bottle with his foot? Instinctively says 'ow' as he leans over to pick it up, nevermind the fact it barely taped his shoe. Andrew watches him do this at least a dozen times before he has to say something when Neil drops something that doesnt even touch him but he still mutters an 'ow shit' before scooping it up.

"That didnt hurt." Andrew deadpans

"What do you mean?"

"You said 'ow', it didnt even touch you."

"Did I?"

"Yes, you do it every time."

"Never noticed"

*deadpan flabbergasted*

[somnoir]

Prodigal son beyond Time - part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

Damian first met his great uncle Danyal when he is three years old. His mother says he's met him long ago, when he was but a babe with a memory too fuzzy to remember. But the man before him is his grandfather's favorite child. The son that scowls at his father as he cradled Damian in his arms.

"What have you done?" His uncle scowled, a gentle hand pressed against the back of Damian's head. "He's a child!"

"Danyal!"

"You weren't like this with me." Danyal spat, keeping Damian in his arms and pressing his lips towards his nephew's forehead. Damian notes how cold his uncle's skin felt like, but more welcoming than that of his grandfather's.

"Danyal, he is to be trained like a proper Al Ghul." Grandfather said, frowning at Danyal.

"You trained me like a proper Al Ghul when I was older than him!" Danyal immediately protested, "He's three!"

"Danyal—"

"Ukht, I understand that you wish the best for your son but this is not it." Danyal immediately said, looking apologetic for interrupting Talia, but went back to glaring at Ra's. "I've tried to tolerate the fact that you handle an assassin league, father but this? You taught me to be loyal to the family. You taught me to cherish the family, you're blood—why the fuck aren't you giving the others the same treatment you gave me?!"

"Because they are not you!"

Damian doesn't recall what truly happened that day, but he does remember how his uncle's eyes went from soft blues to the same shade that the Lazarus pits glowed.

Damian remembers everything going dark.

Damian grows up differently.

He continues on his training, but everything is kinder to him. The world is kinder when his uncle is home, having tea with grandfather and overseeing his training. Mother loves him and uncle Danyal the most, claiming that they are blessings to her life.

Grandfather is quieter nowadays, almost docile with his uncle around.

It's a little more peaceful. The assassin's continue to train, to fight. But their reign of terror fall upon those that are corrupt and destroying the world. It's one of the compromises uncle Danyal and grandfather have led too.

Damian grows up differently.

Damian's arrival to the Bats' lives was unprecedented and quite confusing. He was a child raised by assassins, a child raised to become the next leader of the league. But he was... Strange. Strange for that kind of standard. 

Damian was rather sociable, hostile but not downright murderous towards them. 

His uncle did make sure that he had friends in the league.

Ra's had been utterly ecstatic to find out that he had two more grandchildren while Talia was quite pleased to know that she had a niece and nephew. 

Damian had a pair of strange cousins who snuck him out of training to go watch the stars, often getting them scolded, but it was worth it. Dante was older than Damian by five years. He was what other would call an angsty teen with how he often rebelled against his father. Meanwhile, Janelle—preferebly Ellie—was only a year older than Damian himself. She was a mischievous person who made sure that everything around her was swallowed by her own chaos. So when he entered the manor, suddenly struck with the reality that he had multiple siblings instead of just one elder brother, Damian knew what to do. 

Murder was not the answer. 

But by the words of his gracious uncle and the wisdom of his excellent cousins: fight your siblings like a feral child but defend them by being even worse to others. 

So Damian's first act as Dick Grayson's younger brother was to bite him. 

The undead were restless, rising from their graves or haunting their own corpses. It wasn't something they usually dealt with, forced to call upon magicians. 

But even Constantine was bewildered by just how cursed Gotham's lands were. To bring back the dead. Jason was a miracle but this was like an abomination, a literal zombie. 

No one really knew how to properly deal with the dead...

Well...

"My uncle would be willing to provide his assistance in this matter." Damian piped up, examining the contained zombies from a safe distance. All eyes were quickly drawn to him, bewildered and questioning. 

"I hardly think that Dusan would be suitable for this." Bruce sighed. 

Damian scowled, "Not him. My grandfather's first-born is whom I speak off. He is knowledgeable in the occult arts of the dead." 

"Damian... Ra's Al Ghul only has one son." 

"Untrue. Grandfather's greatest pride was always my uncle. He is precious to grandfather and ensures that no one knows much off him. I expected you and Drake to be aware of the first born." 

Tim stiffened, "They weren't rumours?! Ra's actually has some cryptid son?" 

Bruce, who had heard of the old tales of the Demon head's beloved heir, had always thought they were stories to scare the assassins. He's never seen the man, nor has he found any evidence of him in the league. 

Jason finally started paying attention, "So the league's golden boy can help? Dami, I don't think Al Ghul will even let his favorite kid anywhere near us." 

"You underestimate my uncle's love for me."

"You met him?" Bruce quickly interjected. 

Jason shrugged, "He helped me out back then. Patched me up when the pit madness got worse and helped me manage it. But his face was usually covered and no one really knew his name."

"Aside from myself, grandfather, and my mother." 

Bruce frowned, "Nyssa and Dusan don't know their brother's name?" 

"Grandfather says that they do not have the privilege of knowing his name. Mother was the first of his other children to have met my uncle."

"And what about you? You won't give us his name?" 

Damian scowled, feeling rather displeased with his father's choice of words. "Names are powerful, father. My uncle taught me this when I was young." 

Constantine narrowed his eyes, "You're uncle some kind of fae, kid?" 

"Watch your mouth, hellblazer. He does not like you." Damian hissed, having heard all his uncle's rants about the Laughing Magician, especially whenever he'd just randomly pick up Talia and walk around Nanda Parbat like she was a kitten rather than a deadly assassin. "But I shall call upon my great uncle and ask him for assistance. This matter with the undead shall surely pique his interest."

"Tell the old man I said hi!" Jason cheerfully added, sounding quite pleased to hear about the mysterious uncle. 

"No." Damian blatantly denied. As much as he loves Todd (and he will never admit that), he was not going to let anyone threaten his status as his uncle's favorite child. Over his dead body. 

Damian was quick to walk away from all of them, quickly retrieving all the materials he'd need to summon his uncle. Dark green paint for the summing circle, five candles, and an astrology book. 

"Bats... Why the hell is your son performing a summoning ritual? For a ghost of the realms too." Constantine's tone was strained, clearly disturbed and wary of Damian's actions. 

"Damian." Bruce warned but Damian just waved him off. He watched as Jason started lighting up the candles, humming an unfamiliar tune. 

"D'you think the old man will help us?" 

"Of course! Uncle adores me." 

"You think he'll give me his name?"

"I will gut you, Todd." Damian immediately responded with the most nonchalant tone he could ever give. 

Jason shrugged, before taking a step back. 

"Damian! Whatever you're summoning—" 

"I'm summoning my uncle, father. He's the best person to go to with these issues." Damian insisted, before muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Bruce was startled when Constantine grabbed him, eyes wide and rapidly turning pale. "Why the hell does your son know how to speak the language of the—"

Fire burst forth from the circle, slowly morphing into an icy blast. 

"Dead." Constantine's breath hitched, "Holy shit, your brat just summoned the ghost king." 

Bruce grabbed Damian the moment a hand emerged from the blast of cold. He shoved his on behind him, suddenly feeling frightened as his entire body felt goosebumps. Fuck. Did Damian really just perform a summoning ritual for such a powerful being? He never expected for Ra's to brainwash his son into believing that such a powerful thing—

"Nephew!" 

Bruce blinked, suddenly blinded by the light. 

"Uncle!" Damian escaped from his grasp, rushing into the circle. Constantine practically screamed once Damian ran into the arms of what was supposedly his uncle and the ghost king. 

In front of Bruce was the most gorgeous man he's ever met. 

The floating hair that reminded him of snow and the green eyes that were purer than the Lazarus pits. He couldn't help but swallow thickly, blinking. Damian was held up by the ghost king, allowing the boy to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. 

"Hello, dami (my blood)." The king cooed, his pronunciation of the nickname much different from the shortened version of Damian's name. "I was not expecting you to call me. What's happened, my dear?" 

Damian hummed, but before he could speak, he was immediately interrupted.

"Long time no see, old man!" Jason yelled, waving his arm as if he wasn't in the same room as the king. 

"Jason! Hello! How are you? The corrupted ecto hasn't returned, has it? If it has, just tell me. I'll schedule a check up with Frostbite." The king quickly fussed, not minding the way Damian was baring his teeth at Jason. "Damian, behave!" 

Damian just seemed to whine, refusing to behave and opting to pestering the king. 

"I'm good, uncle. Haven't gone out crazy since you took me to the doctor." Jason smiled, already ripping of his domino mask to show that his eyes were green tinged with blue, not glowing green like the pits. 

"Good, good. But I really must know why I've been called." The king softly said, directing his words to Damian who was already trying to wriggle our his grasp. Gently, the king settled Damian back on his feet. 

"Right. Uncle, my father, Batman. Father, this is my uncle." Damian introduced, his tone hurried and a bit hesitant. 

The king, Damian's uncle, smiled at Bruce. "Hello there, Mr. Wayne. I've wanted to meet you for a long time." The king hummed, "My name's Danny, but the Al Ghuls call me Danyal." 

"Uncle!" 

"Hush, hush, Damian. I can give my name to anyone I want. I don't suppose that your father is worthy of it."

Bruce really should be more concerned about the fact that the king knew his name. 

"But what of the others?" 

"Little one, I sent Nyssa and Dusan letters ages ago. But rest assured, dearest Talia is still the first to earn it." Danny—Danyal—the ghost king softly spoke and patted Damian's head. "And... Oh, it's you."

"Your majesty!" Constantine enthusiastically greeted while Danny scowled. 

"Tax evading bastard." Danny huffed, shaking his head before promptly ignoring the tax evading bastard in question. 

"Damian." 

"The dead are rising."

Danny blinked, blinked again, before he groaned and shook his head. 

"Okay, sorry. That seemed to be caused by an error on my side. Some prisoners of my realms started a riot and some of them managed to break out. Some have most likely decided to overshadow their old bodies." Danny sighed, "I'll have this taken care of. Apologies for the inconveniences."

"These... Zombies have been wrecking havoc across my city." Bruce frowned, "They've been harming people."

"Vengeful spirits do that. They're criminals meant to be in prison. It's rare for breakouts to happen, in all honesty." Danny paused, just long enough to run his fingers through Damian's hair. "But if you wish to take charge, by all means. These are corpses being possessed by their own spirits and... Well... They're out of their minds. Not really considered revenants since the possession isn't quite permanent." 

"Alright, Bats. We've gotta make a proper deal here. His Majesty was summoned so we've gotta offer him something—" 

"That's not necessary." Danny immediately waved Constantine away, evident displeasure from the man. "The sigil I gave Damian was just to call me to him. No need for an exchange."

"Seriously?" Constantine blurted out. 

Danny just shrugged, "He's family. And my favorite nephew." 

Damian smirked, absolutely smug. "I am your only nephew, uncle."

"Mm... Jason's also my nephew." Danny chuckled softly, easily stepping out of the circle and removing it from the floor—leaving not a single stain. "Now... Shall we deal with the dead?" 

Bruce Wayne has made many bad decisions in his life, especially when it came to his relationships. Damian's ghost king of an uncle might be one of them.

Masterpost

[plethorawrites]

Here I request a damian x sunshine! fem! reader where reader is extremely passionate about art and everything magical. She loves translating whimsical visions into paint and flowery scenes too!!! Despite her extremely bubbly personality, her precious smile falters when people complement her works and she ends up stiff and avoiding eye-contact. Pair that with a tsundere Damian and I see sm fluff and cuteness><!!!! If u have the time ofc:D!!!... Otherwise, have a lovely day!! or night... x3!

I can absolutely make time. (I'll admit, I did have to look up tsundere because I'm not heavy into anime aside from a few shows, but I know now!)

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Damian Wayne would HATE a sunshine reader at first. The over the top, bubbly, smiling appearance annoyed him to no end.

School was beneath him and had been since he was in middle school. He thought he had grown to at least be able to tolerate it by the time he was a senior in highschool, so close to escaping it. Maybe his father would finally accept that he didn't need futile lessons when he already had an IQ higher than Einstein.

But then, in his very last year, he was thrown one last curve ball. A perky, energetic, irritatingly happy girl who somehow managed to be in every single one of his classes.

How anyone could be sitting with her done and her clothes pressed, thrilled to be alive at 7 am for Political Science, he didn't know. He certainly had no interest in it.

She always raised her hand to answer questions and always got them right, too. His only real interest was the art program he had right after lunch.

It was just his luck she was there too, sitting right next to him, humming while she spread her paints on the palette, mixing colors. It took at his willpower not to tell her to shut up. He figured she'd stop at some point.

The humming persisted until her brush actually hit the canvas, then, it was dead silent. He glanced over, confused by how she had miraculously shut up for basically the first time since 7 am. Her eyes were focused on the canvas, watching the paint smoothly spread over it. He looked over again and again throughout the class, noticing the way her forehead crinkled and her teeth sink into her bottom lip while concentrating.

He scowled, though, when the teacher complimented her painting, claiming it was "Bright, but had a hidden depth to be explored." Unlike his, which was. "Very dark and telling of his thoughts."

That annoyed him a bit, but not for long because it was replaced by confusion when she just shrugged meekly, avoiding the teacher's eyes. She did that a lot, he soon found after watching her a bit more instead of making a conscious decision to stop ignoring her entirely.

He saw her cheeks redden when the teachers said her answers were right or congratulated her on a text. He noticed her looking down at her desk when a classmate said something along the lines of asking for her help because she was doing really well in the subject. He saw her bury her head in her locker, pretending not to hear when guys asked her out.

Eventually, he was just too damn curious and after yet another football player got shot down, she took a breath, lifting her head out of her locker right before Damian slammed it shut with his hand.

He leaned against the locker beside it, his arms crossed, asking what was wrong with the guy for her to reject him. "Aside from the obvious lack of brain cells and the fact that he's on a one way track for steroid addiction and early balding, of course."

She snorted a laugh, covering her face as it reddened, before clearing her throat and replying. "Just wasn't interested."

"Who are you interested in, then?" He couldn't help but ask. "You've turned down the jocks, the nerds, the supposed bad boy who is a Mama's boy in disguise, and the suave poet who left notes in your locker. Not many cliques left. So, you're clearly not finding anyone who's your type. What js your type, anyway?"

Her lips quirks. "Are you stalking me, or something?"

No. Of course not. He had way better things to do. But...it wasn't like he wasn't bored out of his mind during school hours since he already knew everything in every class. So, maybe in a way, he was watching. Slightly.

"You're not interesting enough for me to bother," he retorted with no real bite. "You are a bit of an enigma though. I don't like those."

"Sorry. Not trying to be," she promised just shrugging. "But if you ever want to try to figure it out, go for it."

So, he does. He could easily run a background search, but that wasn't how he wanted to do it. No, he'd rather figure her out by himself.

During class, he paid special attention to her notes, taken with a pink pen, mostly covered in doodles of flowers and mountains, or a forest of some kind with a creek.

She, he admitted to himself, was quite good. Even better with paints during art class. He started asking questions, starting off easily.

"Why those colors?"

"Is there a memory attached?"

"Did you have a sketch to go off?"

Then, he started catching up with her at lunch, because it was the best time to really grill her.

"Why did you move to Gotham?" "

Where are you from?"

"No siblings, I'm sure, because you don't ever text or talk about one."

"You look allergic to carrots, since you keep picking them out of the salad during lunch. That or you just hate them. Which is it?"

He'd occasionally slip up though, without realizing, by starting a question with a compliment.—"Since you're good at art, I assume you've practiced since you were a child." The tips of her ears burned red and he frowned. "Why can you never take a compliment?" He asked.

"I can, I do," she defended.

"Yeah, but not well. You get all...weird about it." His voice was a bit less accusatory and more gentle.

She shrugged. "Just don't like them."

He couldn't understand that. Everyone liked compliments. It was the reason the world was polluted by attention seekers looking for praise.

"How come?" He pushed.

"Just don't," she insisted.

"Don't really feel like they're accurate." He hummed. "So, you have low self esteem despite your annoyingly perky attitude, then," he surmised.

Her eyes widened. "I do not!"

She definitely did, he knew then and there by her reaction. Her cheeks got redder, flushing to the point it looked like heavy blush and she stormed off, leaving her salad.

He ate the carrots, nodding to myself. He had finally figured her out.

But, for some reason, that wasn't enough.

He thought he'd be satisfied, but he wasn't. If anything, he felt a bit bad for pushing so hard when she clearly didn't like attention despite always being the center of it, just by being herself.

The next time they had art class, he complimented her painting, just to see her blush. It was really quite cute. So was she. Not that he could admit it.

He did it again and again until she was frustrated and he was amused, asking her to just admit it, which she finally did when they were alone in the classroom after it was let out.

"Fine!" She exclaimed. "Yes, I have low self esteem. I don't like compliments, they make me feel weird."

"That's called validation. You get it because you're good at things," he told her, his voice completely sincere despite trying to be sarcastic.

She held her arms, avoiding his eyes like she always did when she got a compliment. "Great, I'm competent. Doesn't mean people have to say."

Damian frowned a bit. "Humans are hardwired to say what we see. Just like we're designed to see what we say. But you don't do that part. You never see the reason behind all those compliments," he explained.

She scoffed lightly and it was perhaps the first time he'd ever seen so much attitude from her. "I see plenty. Students who want to walk all over me like a door mat because I'm nice and every guy just want to date me to say they've done me—" "

That is an incredibly crude thing to say about yourself," he interrupted. "Not to mention entirely untrue."

She rolled her eyes. Again with the attitude. It seemed she really was capable of it when she was fed up with something or he supposed someone. Him.

"Oh, please, spare me," she muttered sarcastically.

"I'm serious," he repeated. "That's untrue. Some guys, yeah, maybe even most. Definitely the dumbass football guy who is failing homemaking somehow. But plenty of men, who actually know how to be respectful, would appreciate you. And for more than your looks, as well."

"Oh, the sparkling personality, you mean? The one you think is a facade."

He had thought that. At first.

He sighed, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "It's not a facade, but you have more layers than that." Her head tilted so he elaborated. "There's more than just the pink pens and highlighters, like the study method you use to scribble and write simultaneously for better retention rates. You're naturally bright, probably a B average if you didn't study, but you do."

"So?" She wondered.

"So," he parroted. "You make A's because you have a strong work ethic. Because you come from a family who prioritized it, maybe even to the point you were almost neglected from how often they were gone because you always seem fine going last, or getting whatever scraps you're handed inside of fighting for anything else."

She frowned, not at all liking to hear that. Not only because it was slightly true. Alright, definitely true. But also because it was something she worked to keep hidden.

"I thought you said I don't put up a facade?" She countered.

"You don't. You're happy, and bubbly, always looking on the bright side and that's not a ruse. It's who you are," he clarified. "But you can still get angry, frustrated, annoyed, especially when your character is called into question. Clearly."

She didn't know how to feel about the tone in his voice during that last part. "You can stop, now."

But he didn't. He didn't want to. He'd spent so long trying to figure her out and he was so sure he had done that he was his work to pay off, for her to admit he was right or at the very least hear what he had to say, even if she didn't want to say it was true.

"You're not vain about your looks, even though you could be without effort because you're easily the prettiest girl in this entire school."

Those words came out of nowhere, especially the last few. But he had said them and there was no taking them back, even if he wanted to.

It was silent for a while.

"You really are a stalker," she quipped quietly, looking to the floor.

He huffed in annoyance. "Take the damn compliment," he insisted, stepping closer to her, lifting her chin. "Look in my eyes, not away and just accept it."

He waited, to see if she'd push him away or let him compliment her. He swallowed, suddenly feeling the urge to go red as well, but refusing to allow himself to.

"Fine," she agreed in a whisper, locking eyes with him. That alone was clearly already hard, but she was trying. "You're not just the most beautiful girl at this stupid school," he muttered. "I think you could quite possibly be the most beautiful I've ever seen at all. Especially with that blush you seem to hate and hide."

Her cheeks got redder, her lips twitching to avoid any sign of emotion and it was clearly hard for her to look away, hating the level of attention. "It's not cute, it's utterly embarrass—"

"Don't try to refute it either," he interrupted, shaking his head calmly. "Just...just accept it. Please."

He said please. God, he hated doing that.

But it seemed to work and she gave a small nod, finally listening.

He nodded back, letting go of her jaw, stepping back and clearing his throat.

She stared for a bit, before grabbing the rest of her things and leaving him alone to blow out a long sigh, mentally cursing himself for that entire exchange. Perhaps even getting curious about her in the first place.

But then, a second later, she walked back in, the flush less prominent on her cheeks and ears. It was replaced by the look in her eyes, which seemed rather determined despite a bit of apprehension.

"You asked me, like six weeks ago, what my type was," she reminded him.

His eyes narrowed, recalling the conversation. The first time they ever actually had one. He meant it mostly as a quip or some dig. "Yeah, considering you've turned down like 3/4 of the boys in this school. Plus a few girls, for that matter."

She huffed a laugh, gripping the books in her arms closer to her chest and nodding. "Yeah, well, they weren't my type, you were right," she confirmed causing a bit of a smug expression to cross his face. "I didn't even really know I had one, but uh- I think I might."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?" He questioned, adding another quip. "Let me guess, older guys. You've been giving the math teacher eyes all week."

She shook her head firmly. "No, definitely not," she told him. "I'm pretty sure my type is the weird, stalker boys who are actually really sweet."

[dellieghtful]

LADS: Period Pain Simulator

🍓A/N: Yeah, I'm on my period too~ hope this can bring in a good laugh or two. This will be my bare minimum effort for the week since I have work tomorrow lol this is the fastest thing I was able to finish 2nite

SYNPOSIS: Period pain and men. That's it.

📍characters: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Separate) Looking to get notfied? Tag yourself here!

XAVIER

Actually volunteers to try it out to better understand how it goes for you during your monthly visit.

"This is actually fine". He says, before you crank up the pain at the highest level, there you could see Xavier succumbing to the pain, going all out on all fours on the floor. Gripping the area near his stomach, gasping out in pain. "Holy fucking shit!" He groans out, attempting to stand up by grabbing the edge of the chair before he stumbles over a non-existent bump on the floor and falls face-first on the floor.

Prefers to either crawl on all fours or drag his body from point A to point B because of the pain. You asked multiple times if he was okay but Xavier only responded: "Crank it up, I can take it".

He in fact, could not take it and ended up passing out on the floor and waking up to find himself on your couch with a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body.

"You know, you didn't have to go through it". You said, his head now resting against your lap as you comb through his very soft and messy hair.

"I did it so I could understand your pain. I don't want you to suffer all that and not get the comfort you deserve." He says, looking up at you as he holds your hand firmly against his chest. "I'll work hard to do more for you." He promises, placing a kiss against your hand.

"That's so sweet, you definitely deserve a good treat for all your trouble," you commented as you reached out to grab your phone. "I hope Charlie's bakery is open, we can have him deliver those cookies you like".

Xavier's smile twitches and slowly forms into a frown. He hated to admit it but Charlie's cookies are good and he definitely needed the comfort food after the hell he just went through. Xavier made sure to make a mental note to sneak into Charlie's bakery and nab his cookie recipes to make some for you during your period week.

ZAYNE

Being a doctor grants him the knowledge of understanding your monthly cycle and struggles so, being given the opportunity to actually try out the simulator was a chance for him to actually better understand how it affect the human body.

At first, everything was fine. The first two settings were tolerable and then he decided to crank it up a bit, that's where Zayne started to feel the actual roller coaster ride of hell.

Just to make matters worse, Greyson entered his office to discuss a new case they were expected to dive into in a few days.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Greyson asks, lifting his gaze from the documents and eyeing Zayne with much concern.

Zayne who was clearly uncomfortable with the hell he inflicted upon himself, stands at a very awkward position, with his hand on his couch holding for support and another attached to his hip in hopes adding pressure would somehow ease the pain.

"Never better". He responds with a tight smile. That same day, he came home to you with flowers of your favorite type and bags of your favorite meal. When you asked what it was all about, Zayne could only respond by pulling you in a tight hug and peppering you with the sweetest and softest kisses all over.

RAFAYEL

He passes out and doesn't make it pass through the first setting.

Cuddles you non-stop after waking up from his pain-induced experience.

Rafayel was basically attached to you like a newborn Koala, refusing to let go. "Come on Rafayel. I have work in a few minutes". You whine as you try to untangle yourself from Rafayel.

He whines and continues to grip your waist tighter as he sprawled himself on your couch like an octopus, trying to weigh you down.

"No! That was like hell for me, how much more would it be for you? Stay at home and let me take care of you, just this time". And when I tell you, Rafayel gives out the sweetest and cutest pout you'd ever seen, it's hard to say no to such sweet face.

With your leave for the day granted, Rafayel wasted no time in ordering you all your favourite meals and giving you all the kisses and cuddles he could offer before it was his turn to get all the cuddling and babying treatment from you.

SYLUS

A lot stronger than you think, he actually could handle the pain even if it was nearing the highest. But you could definitely tell he was about curl up any moment.

Sighing, you get up from your seat and walk towards him, wrapping your arms from behind and bring him closer to your body with your head resting upon his.

Sylus, suprised by your sudden gesture could only put out a small smile on his lips as he gently flips through the files he was so intrigued on reading.

"You know, you could call it quits and we can go out for some good seafood". You commented, hugging him a little tighter.

"And let you gloat about how I can't handle pain? Please. There are many things that I face on a daily, this is just a little bump on a road of trials". He comments, pulling you a little closer to him because whether he would admit it or not, your warmth and all that you are were enough to drive the pain away.

That same night, he burns the pain simulator to ashes, out of sight, out of mind

CALEB

Crumbles to the floor as you hit the highest setting on the simulator, groaning and panting on the floor as he tries to rub his stomach to ease the pain.

"Between getting shot and this, I'd choose getting shot any day". Caleb says, as he curls into a fetal position before changing forms and rolling himself on the floor like a log.

Doesn't pass out but chooses to drag his body from point A to B across the apartment, you could actually see him crawling towards the couch before collapsing on the floor with a loud thud.

Not long after, Caleb rips off the simulator from his body and pulls your body onto the couch for a long cuddle. "That shit was nasty, I can't believe that happens to you monthly!".

Afterwards, Caleb decided to make your day as special as he could. He pampered with all the things you could ever want and need because he cares for you that much. "I'll make sure to make it easier for you each day." He promises to you and he always kept his promises, making sure to fulfill your every request without complaint.

[suncoved]

HANDS OF AN ANGEL ! — RAFE CAMERON (18+ smut mdni)

in which, washing rafe's hair didn't go as you planned.

you looked up slowly from your book to the sound of your bedroom door opening roughly, rafe trudging in lethargically. your eyes followed him around the room as he threw off his clothes one by one, a trail of fabric following him until he was just left in his boxers.

you rolled your eyes at his unnecessary messiness and let your eyes travel back down to the off-white pages of your book.

you could only read about three words before rafe huffed rather dramatically across the room.

you ignored his annoying sighs and groans until it was physically impossible to not pay attention to him, slamming your book closed and looking at him from the bed.

"what is it rafey?" you asked sweetly, even though you knew what he was gonna ask. "shower" he said simply, nudging his head towards the bathroom from where he stood right outside it. "can't baby, i already put all my lotions and oils and stuff, you're gonna have to have one without me" you answered, watching his face turned into that of a five-year-olds if they were just told they couldn't go to disneyland that day.

"ok" he huffed, turning around and entering the bathroom, but leaving the door open so you could see everything. you giggled softly, turning your attention back to the book in your hands.

you only perked up when you heard the tap of the bath turn on, not the shower. rafe was having a bath?

if there was one thing you had to know about rafe cameron, is that he hated baths, more than an average human being did. he only tolerated them because he could feel you up more in the bath than in the shower because of the close proximity.

but he always took a shower after because he doesn't like 'bathing in his own filth for half and hour'

you itched to get up and hop in the bath with him, but that's what he wanted, because why else would he torture himself like that?

after about 5 minutes of reading the same line over and over again, you untangled yourself from your bedsheets and made your way over to your vanity. reaching your hand into the brown paper shopping bag, you pulled out bottles of shampoo, conditioner, hair masks and hair oils, making your way over to the bathroom with an arm full of hair products.

he heard you from a mile away, staring straight at you as you walked into his trap. "got you baby" he said, hinting at the fact that he was having a bath, for you.

"nope" you said, padding your way over to the bathtub. he looked at you quizzically at the new products you had with you.

you were glad that even though he was very very naked, there were mounds of bubbles covering him, his face and shoulders the only thing showing above the water. because after you spent nearly an hour after your shower rubbing oils and creams over your skin, you really didn't want to end up in the bath with rafe

"what've you got there bug?" he asked as you dragged your soft bathmat to the edge of the bathtub so you could have something to kneel on, placing the products softly on the floor.

"gonna wash your hair rafe" you state, reaching over and running your hand softly through his wet hair. "yeah?" he asked, tilting his head softly in admiration. "i went out and got some stuff for your hair type, not that you need any help with your hair at all! i just wanna do stuff for you like you do stuff for me." you quickly got quieter by the end of your sentence, avoiding eye contact with him.

"c'mere baby" he whispers, matching your soft tone. you hesitantly look at him, biting your lip nervously. your chin felt wet as he gripped it softly, bringing your lips to touch his as he kissed you. he pulled back first, resting his forehead on yours as he looked at you. "thank you, baby. i don't do the stuff i do for you to get repaid, but i love that you think of me"

you beam at his words, leaning down again and placing one last peck on his lips.

you pull up the sleeves of your long-sleeved white pyjama shirt before you lean over to squirt a generous amount of shampoo on your palm.

after rubbing your hands together to create a milky white texture in the shampoo, you leaned over the tub. the white acrylic made contact with where your bra wire would be had you been wearing one, oblivious that as you were reaching your arms to rafe's hair your tits were being pushed together, his eyes immediately staring holes into your cleavage.

"your hair is gonna be so soft rafey!" you exclaimed, using your acrylics to massage the shampoo into his scalp, making his eyes roll to the back of his head in pleasure.

you pulled back after sudsing up the liquid, biting your lip in concentration as you placed your hands on the side of his head and lowered his hair in the water.

he looked up to you, your hair hanging over him, your stare so concentrated, and your tits fully in his face.

rafe knows you didn't notice how much harder it was getting to hide his hard-on under the now less soapy water, the combination of you scratching his scalp and your cleavage fully on view making him spiral.

"ok, all done! once you get out, ill-dry it and put some oil on the ends." you voiced after raking the conditioner and leave in treatment through his hair, leaning down to kiss him after he made a come here motion with his fingers.

what you were unaware of though, is that as rafe was deepening the kiss between you two, he was pulling his hands out of the warm water and straight to your chest.

"rafe!" you gasped, pulling back instinctively as his hands made your once white shirt now see-through at your nipples.

"shh baby, c'mere. don't make me ask you again" he groaned, sitting up straighter so he could use his hands to pull your body towards his.

as he began another steamy kiss with you, he traced your nipples through your shirt, making you shiver. "rafe... i don't wanna get all wet" you whined, pulling back for a moment, giving him a chance to latch his mouth onto one of your tits.

"ill help you put more cream on later, now let me fuck that sweet pussy of yours" he rasped, pulling your shirt and shorts off as you came to a stand in front of him.

"can't believe my baby would think that i would let her win and sit out there reading her book. so naive" rafe cooed, his soft mannerisms of holding your hand until you made it safely in the tub being a complete juxtaposition of the nasty words he had uttered before.

you melted in the somehow still-warm water as he sucked at your neck, his hands roaming all around your body until he made it to your core.

"you're lucky we're in the tub bunny, because i'm gonna make you cum so hard you're gonna make a mess" he whispered into your ear, bringing a strong hand up to rest firmly around your neck, and the other now making circles on your clit.

you looked up at him in a daze, you're eyes already glossed over as you laid your head against his chest. due to the confined space, you could already feel his hard length resting below your ass, making you squirm.

he entered one finger into you without warning, making you gasp. "shhh, quit whining. you're alright." rafe commanded, beginning to pump his finger in and out of you. he placed soft kisses on your head, his hand on your throat providing a comforting presence to you somehow.

rafe always made sure that during these times you felt loved and appreciated by him, knowing that your mind had the tendency to roam with thoughts 24/7.

"ready for another baby?" rafe asked, your walls somehow still tight around his finger. your hum in reply earned rafe to tighten his hold around your neck, urging you to use your words.

"yes rafey, please" you replied, snuggling more in his chest and looking up and him with glossy eyes. "ok, are you sure you can take it?" he teased, earning a whine to come from your chapped lips.

he slipped another finger into you, pumping them in and out as you squirmed. "good girl, such a good girl for me" he praised, beginning to pick up speed as you gleamed at his praise.

"g-gonna come rafey" you whined, gasping as he quickly pulled his fingers out of you. you immediately turned your head to look up at him in shock, annoyed that he wouldn't let you come to his reach.

"don't look at me like that brat, you can cum on my cock" he remarked, placing another kiss on your head as you whined once more.

he pulled his hand cock to line up with your entrance, stroking your cheek as he slid into you softly. "shh, your alright sweet girl. i got you" rafe reassured in response to your gasp.

he groaned as he bottomed out inside of you, stalling for a moment to look at your expression before beginning to pump in and out. "shit, most perfect pussy i ever had. taking my whole cock like the perfect girl you are, love you so much" he rambled, his mind in a haze as you squeezed around him.

he began picking up his pace, slamming into you from below as the water rippled from his movements. you were to cock drunk to worry that the water could splash out of the tub, gasping as he brought a finger down to circle your clit.

"rafe" you whined as you tightened around him, signalling to him that the knot in your tummy was about to burst. "i got you baby, milk my cock"

you squeezed your eyes shut as you came around him, hearing his groan echo in your ears as he shot his load inside of you. you rolled your eyes to the back of your head as he worked you through your orgasm, slowing the circling of his fingers as he stroked your hair as whispered in your ear

"so perfect for me baby, so so perfect"

[applejuicinator]

The LADS men and your jealousy.

TW: Angst that is very easily resolved, misunderstanding, Zayne fucking up just a teeny bit.Our baby is only human. Also my first fic in years so it’s probably garbage. Tumblr is now my fic dumping ground.

****************************************************

Green isn’t your best colour

Whilst jealousy isn’t something completely unknown to you, the situation in front of you seemed to stir an unbridled fury deep within your gut.

❄️ Zayne ❄️

Your beautiful and caring partner in crime was a literal angel when it came to your needs, whims and wants. He had never given you any reason to doubt him or his faith in your relationship, it was something entirely foreign in your mind, as though your brain couldn’t even compute a possibility of him cheating.

But when you walked into his office, well into the night mind you, to see a beautiful young doctor shoulder to shoulder with your boyfriend as they sifted through papers… something horrible and cold came to rest on your shoulders.

You knew nothing had happened, even with the surprising contact Zayne was sharing with another person. He normally didn’t tolerate people in his presence for very long never mind them touching him. He looked up from the report in hand, a look of surprise skimmed his sculpted features, but the sparkle of joy in his expression was hard to miss.

The young woman next to him rolled her chair away from him slightly, as though she had been caught red handed. Zayne, you trusted with your whole heart, your entire physical and mental being.

But this woman, this gorgeous, tall modelesque doctor who tracked your partners movements subtly with her body, was a different story. She probably didn’t realise you saw through her easily, the nervous ramrod straight posture was evidence enough. You had spent years fighting wanderers, watching closely and intensely to shifts in the world around you meant you were very adept at picking up on the small things.

You walked over to his desk with a perfect practised grin, learned through your many undercover missions. Zayne’s small smile disappeared however when he noticed the stiffness to your lips, the unusual tightness in your gaze. He was attuned to your every emotion, knowing perfectly how you felt even if it was a quiet exhale. In fact he was oblivious to pretty much everything except you and his patients, so a hot woman trying to hit on him probably flew straight over his head. .

This was both a blessing and a curse.

“Darling I was just checking up on you before I headed home” He leant into your touch as you delicately kissed his cheek, cooing internally at the red tint to his ears.

Your gaze now shifted to the doctor next to him, who had rolled a few more inches away, papers clutched tightly between her fingers. She didn’t look at you though, instead focusing on the words in front of her, willing you out of existence.

“This is Lillian, a new junior doctor from Skyhaven” Zayne introduced you both matter of factly, unaware of the silent battle ensuing. Lillian smiled at you kindly but it didn’t quite reach her eyes which irritated you even more. If you’re going to be so clear with your fascination for someone else’s boyfriend at least have the decency to look a little shameful.

“I didn’t realise the time; I’ll finish looking through these reports with Lillian quickly. Do you want to wait for me?”

For some reason the way he said her name rubbed you the wrong way, as though they were old friends. His other colleagues simply received a title or their surname, but she had somehow received the privilege of being on first name basis.

Had Zayne ever witnessed you being outwardly jealous before? You think back through your loving five year relationship, filled with some ups and down like any other, but never had you experienced an intense pang of jealously like this. There were times when women had hit on him but… look at the man! He was ethereal, heaven sent. Zayne never spared them even a single glance, barely registering their existence. You were so confident in him that the jealousy never reached more than surface level.

But this felt different, she wasn’t just a random woman who blipped by. This was a woman who held his gaze even if it was just a professional one; he was aware of her.

It didn’t help that Zayne was one of the most beautiful and kind hearted people you had ever laid eyes on. It caused people to flock to him despite his icy atmosphere, because they knew he genuinely cared.

“Darling?” You’re startled from your thoughts by a gentle hand taking yours, Zayne fixing you with a concerned look. “Why don’t you head home without me?”

You subconsciously pulled your hand from his grip, the interaction leaving him more confused.

It was only reports, he was only looking through reports with a fellow colleague. Nothing more you told yourself. The thought of leaving him alone with this woman made your stomach church.

Just colleagues. Heck, even if they were friends, it’s not in your right to tell him who he can and can’t mingle with. You’re not so old fashioned that you don’t think that men and women can’t be friends.

But you could see the gleam in Lillian’s eyes, from the way she angled her whole body to hang on every word he said all the way to her tongue coming to nervously dampen her lips whenever he spoke.

You trusted Zayne. And you couldn’t really find any excuse to stay behind to wait for him.

“Yeah I think I’m just tired. Please don’t stay too late” you clipped, giving him a rushed goodbye kiss and hightailing it out of there without sparing Lillian a second glance. He’s just showing her the ropes whilst she gets used to Asko.

If Yvonne noticed your grimace as you hurried from the building, she doesn’t mention it.

However, you should have known things never go that smoothly.

Lillian continued to rear her ugly head for the next few weeks, subtly at first but then more and more you saw her almost glued to Zayne’s side whenever you visited. You were biting your tongue the whole time, wondering when and if you should even say something. After all they weren’t crossing any boundaries and Zayne was still enamoured with every breath you made.

You scoured forums and advice columns about what to do – how to handle jealousy. Nothing of note ever came back, mostly just people venting how they felt and never really any solutions. You felt too ashamed to talk to your friends; it was such a new feeling and what if they confirmed your fears that you were being vindictive? A horrible nasty woman green with envy.

So you bottled it all up and pushed your complaints into the pit of your stomach. Even when Zayne mentioned her in passing at home, even when he told you not to come give him lunch because he needed to show Lillian some things.

But things came to a head, all things snap and break under pressure eventually.

You blinked down at the Asko hospital official account on Linksta, the page opened to their most recent picture which was a glimpse of the ‘Esteemed Medicine Gala’ which aimed to give due credit to hardworking doctors and allowed them to share tips and stories. The picture was a snapshot of golden hues and ornate declarations, with a group of well dressed people gathered in the middle posing elegantly. There you could see Zayne’s solemn figure, his face impassive aside from the slight upturn of his lips in the ghost of a smile. Lillian, hair professionally tousled and dripping with decadent jewels stood beside him. She wasn’t touching him, in fact she was stood quite far from him but it made your blood boil nonetheless.

You had debated bringing this up with your boyfriend for the past week, ever since you had stumbled across it. This Gala was something you attended with him every year but the event was delayed and you had ended up being at a conference in Skyhaven when it was finally reorganised. Absolutely typical timing when your emotions were a fraught storm of unease and jealousy.

You very much know that a junior doctor like Lillian wasn’t privy to the gala, unless she had attended as a plus one. Zayne’s plus one.

He confirmed it when you first mentioned the photo, just in passing so it seemed casual enough. He was upset it wasn’t you beside him, he said as much, but that was it. And it felt like a punch to the gut. Why had he even brought her in the first place? Surely Zayne, who was incredibly emotionally intelligent under normal circumstances, must understand how bringing another woman to a public event like that would look to your significant other.

Or did he notice and he just… didn’t care? Had he grown tired of you? You were at war with yourself, with your own thoughts pushing you further and further into this spiral of negativity and suspicion.

What did ring true is that you couldn’t keep this to yourself anymore.

When Zayne entered through the door close to midnight to find you staring blankly at the tv which was off, he immediately knew something was wrong. He had noticed your shift in mood and demeanour for the past few weeks, but when questioned you had waved him off with it being due to the back and forth hunters conferences. With your new promotion at work… he believed it without question.

But this was new.

“Darling?” He questioned gently, he placed his keys in the entry way bowl, cringing as the metallic clinking echoed through the quiet apartment. You hummed to confirm you heard him but didn’t move to greet him, your eyes remained glued to the empty tv screen. Zayne came and sat beside you, he shrugged off his coat and laid it on the arm of the plush setae. The silence stretched on for a few moments before Zayne shuffled closer, resting his hand on your thigh in quiet comfort.

“What’s the matter? Has something happened?” Had it been work again? Were they pushing you above and beyond your boundaries, you often did overtime to help out others. Your caring nature was something he adored about you, but not when it came to the detriment of your health. He supposed you were both a pair of workaholics.

You bit your lip, inner turmoil obviously painting your features. Zayne waited patiently, calmly and lovingly as he always did.

“Something has been bothering me lately and it isn’t work” you glanced at him from the corner of your eyes, his face beautifully bathed in the orange glow of the side table lamp. “I really don’t know how to even… say this” you inhaled, then exhaled.

“I’m uncomfortable with how close you’ve gotten to Lillian, and I probably should have told you earlier but I didn’t want to come off as possessive” You rambled, your voice hitched with nervousness but you kept your gaze trained on a spot in the corner above the cute potted plant he bought you recently. You couldn’t look at him. Your voice tapered off quietly, and when Zayne didn’t respond immediately you felt your hear beat stacatto, the thumping loud in your ears.

“My relationship with Lillian is entirely professional, I don’t believe I would even qualify us as friends” Zayne sounded confused, if you turned to look at him you bet he’d have that cute scrunch to his brow that always appeared when something baffled him. Which you did. Often.

His statement was composed and matter of fact, that should have made you feel better. But it didn’t. It was evident this man didn’t feel a shred of anything for the bright eyed, bushy tailed junior. But his statement was dismissive, even though you know he wasn’t trying to be. It sorta fucking hurt.

“I know I know, and I trust you wholeheartedly but there are just some things that don’t sit well with me” You expected Zayne to maybe ask what made you uncomfortable and how you could both try to come to a solution, or at least comfort you but instead your boyfriend did the opposite.

“She’s a fellow doctor, someone I have to work with for the care of my patients. I can’t just ignore her” Your head snapped to him so fast, as though it was on a swivel. First of all you hadn’t even suggested such a thing, second of all he didn’t even ask what was making you uncomfortable in the first place. You questioned yourself for a moment; intensely staring into his eyes. You pushed his hand off your thigh, jumping from the couch like a coiled up spring as unease jittered beneath your skin.

“I’m not asking you to ignore her Zayne!” His name left your mouth with more force than necessary. You two didn’t argue often, once in a blue moon and usually about smaller things like your similar habits of staying out at work late but this felt very different. You felt your hands shaking, you were angry, footfalls heavy as you paced in front of him.

“Well, what would you have me do?” Zayne’s voice was level just like normal but this aggravated you like nothing else. It made you feel as though you were blowing things out of proportion.

The two of you continued to swap passive arguments for what felt like hours but in reality was only minutes. Your pitch continued to get louder and louder, you weren’t aware you were shouting until Zayne told you that screeching wasn’t a way to get your point across.

Screeching? Screeching?

Your mouth snapped shut. You looked down at yourself, chest heaving with anger and anxiety, frustrated tears threatening to gush forth like a dam. The two of you stood apart from one another, the distance seemed like an unbridgeable gap. The man you loved more than anything stood the other side.

For Zayne’s part he didn’t really understand what was happening. He had told you that he didn’t even consider the woman a friend, which he didn’t, he couldn’t even remember her face once he stepped past the hospital threshold. Bubbling indigence spilled from him in waves. It felt as though you were questioning his motives, his love and loyalty to you. He gave all he had, everything was for you and you only.

“Zayne.” The cold frost that seeped from your tone made whatever he was about to say die on the tip of his tongue. The name you usually spoke so lovingly, dripped in honey and happiness, was instead replaced with cold venom. “I repeatedly walk in on you alone, with another woman late at night.” Zayne’s eyes widened slightly, as though he didn’t even realise.

You held up your hand, urging him to let you continue.

“Like you said, you’re both doctors and I understand that you can’t just ignore her. I wouldn’t ever ask you to. But the overtime you’re sharing with her, the missed lunches…” you tried to maintain composure, words coming out coherently to communicate your thoughts and feelings, he is right in the fact that raising your voice isn’t helping either of you.

You fought back tears instead, the reality of this argument stifling the atmosphere of your usually warm apartment and pressing down on your chest.

You know that if you started crying, Zayne would panic and fold immediately, his anger dissipating like a summer breeze in winter. But you didn’t want him to feel bad. You just wanted him to understand what was going through your mind. To work to a solution.

“And the final straw.” You looked him in the eyes, and hurt seemed to reflect back, it almost made you pause, give up on this whole tirade entirely. But this wasn’t something that could be buried deep in the recesses of your mind anymore. “You took her to the Esteemed Medicine Gala” You choked on the last word, your hands coming up to wipe at the stray few tears that slipped over your cheeks. You had tried, but saying it out loud that your boyfriend had gone to that gala without you, another woman grasping his arm, made bile rise in your throat.

“Just think how you would have felt if I had taken Xavier to the Hunters’ Ball. Of if you had even told me beforehand so it didn’t blindside me”

Zayne opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to come out. He looked panicked, a look that was rare on him.

You should have told him how you felt earlier, about how uncomfortable their closeness made you feel, Zayne isn’t a mind reader. You had become so accustomed to him putting your every need first, you relied on him unfairly, Zayne was only human.

And you expected so much from him, too much

At the same time, you were also only human. Someone flawed who loved the man in front of you so deeply it hurt.

“I don’t want to do this anymore” your words came out quietly, you had meant it in the way that you didn’t want to fight anymore but to Zayne, the words implicated something horrendous, something he couldn’t contemplate. You flinched as he grasped your hands, his palms which were normally cool and dry felt clammy with nerves.

“Please- I didn’t -…” Zayne stuttered, but words died when he saw your crumpled expression.

“Just forget… just forget I said anything” you mumbled lowly before hastily retreating to your bedroom, and once the door had clicked shut, everything hit you all at once. It started off as silent flow of billowy tears but it wasn’t long before you were hiccuping and groaning into your pillow. Your heart hurt.

Regret began to replace anger and sorrow.

It was pointless now, why had you even mentioned it. Was your trust in him so brittle? No wonder he looked so wounded, that beautiful face that gazed at you with adoration normally, looked so distraught.

He didn’t come after you either, you had truly fucked it.

You woke to a cold hand cupping your cheek, the touch so gentle and tender that it made your heart quiver. The grogginess made you slur as you reached out for his other hand to clasp within your own. The skin around your eyes itched from dry tears, you bet that they’d look like two baseballs stuck to your face at this moment in time.

“Whatsh the time” you shifted towards him, head resting beneath his chin as arms came to pull you in even closer to him.

“Early, go back to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning” His voice seemed far away and distorted, the throws of sleep and the comforting embrace lulling you back to deep needed slumber.

You blinked clearly as warm rays of sun filtered through the blinds you’d forgotten to shut. The memories of last night seemed to rush back to you like a hurtling freight train with no brakes.

You always said never to go to bed angry with each other. What a hypocrite.

Ugh.

You patted the bed beside you, wondering if you had imagined Zayne’s presence last night, but the tell tale twisted sheets were definitely him all over. The muffled sound of the tv playing reached your ears at the same time the earthy scent of roasting coffee graced your nostrils.

You sat up, the sheets pooling at your waist. You needed to apologise, at the very least for raising your voice at him. Shouting never solved anything.

At this point you just wanted to forget this ever happened, forget about Lillian and just fall into his embrace.

You left the warm bed and freshened up in the bathroom, splashing your face with some cold water and brushing your teeth to feel less like the living dead. Your reflection looked haggard, eyes bulging and red.

You headed to the living room with soft footfalls, the chill of the laminate raising goosebumps on the backs of your arms. And there he was, your ethereal boyfriend busying himself in the kitchen as the news channel garbled on about stocks and wanderers. He glanced over his shoulder at you, the skin around his eyes was blotchy and puffy.

“Sit down and I’ll bring you some coffee”

You swallowed the guilt and did as he said, nestling yourself in the confines of the blankets and pillows like you were in a cocoon. You felt a dip in the couch moments later as a steaming coffee made in your favourite plush mug was handed to you.

Your hands grasped the mug tightly, the nerves didn’t fade even with the kind gesture.

You didn’t want him to break up with you.

“Darling” Zayne spoke first, shattering the barrier. “Can you please look at me?”

You did as he said, shifting to face him. He looked tired, more haggard than when he’d worked a 24 hour shift. He put his coffee to the side, elegant fingers brushing against your knee featherlight. It was as if he was coaxing a small and frightened animal.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”

“No Zayn-“ you began, placing your coffee cup next to his on the table. You needed to touch him, feel his warmth.

“Please let me continue” he moved closer, taking your face in his hands. You felt each ripple and ridge of his scarred palms against your cheek, even the subtle tremble to his hands. “I reflected on what you said, how my actions and attitude must have come across.” He held your face tighter.

“You came to me with legitimate concerns and I just brushed them aside without even thinking.” He inhaled shakily. “I love you so much, the world for me spins only because you’re by my side”

“Oh Zayne..” you sniffled, vision beginning to blur once again with tears.

“It is no excuse, however I only took Lillian at the directors request so she could network with other doctors. But I should have told you this, rather than just expecting you to be okay with it.” You knew there would be a story behind her attendance, but jealously picks at the threads, pulling at them until everything is coming apart.

“And the lunches and late nights… I’m such a fool.” He looked ashamed. “Even if I didn’t see it that way I should have realised that it wasn’t appropriate”

You placed your hands over his, exhaling a deep breath of relief that had been stewing for weeks.

“I love you, more than words can describe. More than I thought was possible” He repeated again.

Your heart clenched, the sincerity and adoration in his cadence made everything feel right.

“Will you forgive me? For being so so stupid”

You nodded as you flung your arms around his neck, nuzzling your cheek against his, his scent immediately calming your frayed nerves. Like a sailor coming home to dock.

He pulled you into his lap, grip ironclad as he nosed against your neck, peppering light kisses to the soft skin.

“I’m sorry too” he pulled back to look at you, confusion painting his features. “I should have told you earlier about my concerns and I should never ever have shouted at you.” Zayne shook his head, not dismissively, but in disagreement.

“Sweetheart, you were not in the wrong for sharing your concerns with me.”

“But I could have handled it better and for that I’m sorry.” Zayne didn’t think you needed to apologise at all. Your partner postponing lunch dates to spend time with another woman? What sort of fool was he. How could he have made you cry, the woman who loved him to his flawed core.

“I love you” You kissed him, his body slotting against yours like the perfect puzzle piece. You peppered his face in loving pecks, murmuring words of adoration in between each one. He received each touch, each statement happily, responding to every single one with his own declaration of love

You stayed glued to each other for a while, head resting on his shoulder. This closeness you both craved settled into pure bliss on a lazy Sunday morning. His rough hands brushed up your sides softly, the touch making your legs quiver. You huffed against his neck, the gasp and shiver not going unnoticed.

“Why don’t we go take a shower and I’ll show you how sorry I am…”

You looked up at him, pure reverence in his gaze as you brushed your thumb against his lips, a dark red flush blooming across his pale neck.

“I want a long, hard apology” You watched him shudder.

“Anything for you” He kissed you hard, grasping at you like you were his only reason for living.

❄️

A good old short fic to get me back into writing, so please be aware that this won’t be a masterpiece. I’m probably going to place all the fics that don’t make it to AO3 on here.

Also I’m going to do one for each of the boys. I picked Zayne first for this because why not, and whilst I recognise he’s incredibly emotionally intelligent I think that sometimes he forgets to make his internal thoughts known. Do I think he’d be as oblivious as I portray him… probably not. He is a man infatuated after all.

This was way longer than I expected - also probably filled with errors and waffling. Feels nice to finally write again tho.

[chuluoyi]

MARRIED ON PURPOSE

- gojo satoru x reader

"for one, i can show you incredible things!" jujutsu, madness, heaven, sin. the strongest sorcerer is sure to show you all of that during the whole duration of your six-month marriage contract.

genre/warnings: marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers, crack, fluff, slight satosugu angst/comfort, kamo!reader, very suggestive. gojo clan is portrayed as very traditional, meanwhile kamo clan is rather unpleasant here

note: the unholy amount of times i've edited this story *sigh* but okay i must drop it here or else i'm going to keep editing it and losing my mind. despite my misgivings and all, i really had fun writing this and i hope you enjoy it! wc. 5k !

a part of 1K MILESTONE EVENT

general masterlist

Some would say... marrying Gojo Satoru would be living the dream.

“Don't look that sour now, wife.”

“…sigh.”

A playful nudge at your side, a lighthearted voice— “You're going to make them question our veeery happy marriage, you know… We don't want that now, do we?”

But to you, it was more like nightmare dressed in a daydream.

It was peak comedy because why would you put marrying Gojo Satoru in your life plans? He was incorrigible, a child trapped in a man's body, and there was also the very fact that you hate him. His only redeeming trait was being born in the esteemed Gojo clan, and now held the title of the strongest.

You know you must have accumulated karma, but out of everything else, why must you end up in this predicament?

Hailing from the great clans of jujutsu society, both of you know well that marriage is the essence to make the clan greater. And when it involves the big three clans, its importance amplifies even further.

It was just that you two were too rebellious to follow it through, for one reason or another. Everyone knows Gojo Satoru was faithless to any woman, and you were not exactly thrilled with the idea of marriage as a whole.

He was the one who came to you, proposing this insane idea of a temporary marriage.

"Look at it this way," Satoru said with a wry grin, contrasting your puzzled frown on that fateful afternoon. "It's either me or Zen'in Naoya for you, isn't it? It's so clear which is the better man."

That was what grated you the most. You would be damned if you married the misogynist.

"What do you get from this arrangement, really?" you questioned begrudgingly.

His name would give you security, stop the harassment from your clan, and maybe even a better life, but you didn't quite get what he'd get from the offer he willingly extended to you.

Satoru flippantly shrugged. "Nah, you are not exactly my type, but you're still far better than the boring puppet my family have considered to be my wife."

"Who?"

"Don't remember her name. All she goes on about is that she'll be the good wife and mother of my child. Ew."

Seven hells. You scowled. Gojo Satoru and his penchant for chasing the thrill. Boring women would kill him before an actual curse would.

"And hey, for one," he shot you a smirk, visibly smug. "I can show you incredible things!"

"That's not the point! Gojo, do you even realize—" your voice rose, pulsating with righteous fury, "—how serious all of this is? My life, your life! We're going to be stuck—together!"

"Six months," he blurted, tilting his head slightly. His sunglasses slipped down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his sparkling eyes. "It's enough time to work through our shits, and by then if you have enough, we're through."

At that time, it seemed feasible. Both of you tolerating each other to avoid a much worse match.

. . .

BACK TO PRESENT—barely a week ever since you were paraded around as his wife, now you and Satoru were stiffly poised in the studio in your formal garbs, capturing your official wedding photos.

At that time, it seemed feasible, but now, it felt like a chore, as you realized that conversing with him either spiked your blood pressure so much that you wouldn't even be surprised if you ended up with hypertension or completely sapped your energy that you were left exhausted.

"Come on, show a smiiile," Satoru said in a sing-song voice, gesturing toward the camera as it flashed for the pictures. You were beyond appalled, shooting a glare in his direction.

"I am smiling, Gojo."

"Liar. You're pouting, wifey~"

Sigh… this really is going to be one hella of a ride, huh?

MONTH ONE, and you found out that Gojo Satoru is apparently as mad as people made him out to be.

"You've got to be kidding me!" you fumed, right after he hauled you into one of the rooms in his grand, traditional estate. Your glare pierced through him, a blood vessel ready to burst. "We never agreed on ‘consummating’ the marriage!"

You wrote him a goddamn contract. And the three conditions of this chaotic marriage are: one, it would only last six months; two, no personal feelings involved; and three, nothing borderline disturbing.

And this, you concluded, was the height of what could be called as disturbing.

"We will not," Satoru replied with a hint of disdain, grimacing, as if the notion didn't sit well with him either. The audacity! "We're just going to make it as if we are—"

"And why?! Why should I do that?!"

"Why else? Because my old fart believes that we indeed haven't done so."

"Then it's your fault? For failing to convince him? Why turn it into my problem!"

"Because, dear wife," he drawled, his tone taunting on the final note. "Now we're on the same page, in case you have forgotten."

Great clans and their hollow expectations spare no one, not even Gojo Satoru. They place importance in the most banal things, such as the continuity of sacred bloodlines and such.

The only alternative wasn't appealing either. Should you be found out that you married only to divorce... sigh, you didn't even want to know how big of a scandal it would be. One thing was certain: your clan would chop you to shreds.

You really had no choice, huh?

"Five minutes," you warned, glaring at him. "Make it loud. Make it so that no one wouldn't question this anymore."

Oh and sure he would. As Satoru pulled that shit-eating grin, you were in for another ride. You waited out until several maids were nearby, left the wooden door ajar, and began the show—

His hands wrapped around your waist—the feeling was peculiar, but you ignored it—and you let him pull you near that open door. He snuggled his face on your neck—his hair tickling you in the process, but you ignored that peculiarity again—as he started making suggestive noises. "Mm, you're so pretty, darling."

You could hear those maids gasp in surprise. And to add the flavor, you faked a moan.

This is... kinda fun? A twisted part of you suddenly found satisfaction in fooling the maids. A smile tugged at your lips as you shoved him away, and Satoru eyed you in surprise and irritation.

"Husband, you're... insatiable," you worded languidly, and he immediately caught on your act, grinning. "Anyone can walk by, you know."

"Oh? But that's the point." Satoru's bright blue eyes twinkled with utter mischief, and even you couldn't deny the exhilarating rush. "I want them to know."

And suddenly you got this very brilliant idea. You swiftly moved past him and sent the books and trinkets on his desk flying to the floor, causing questionable noises.

"Oh my!" a girlish voice exclaimed.

"The master! And the lady!"

Satoru shook his head, thoroughly entertained. And you rolled your eyes. Those nosy maids would finally have enough now, and this charade would end—

"What's happening here?"

The old fart. Both you and Satoru grunted in unison. You really thought you would leave it up to the maids to spread the word, but then you were taken by surprise when he wrapped his hands around you and flung the door open, slamming you against it—and damn it hurt!—offering everyone a front-row seat to your charade.

The maids squealed. His grandfather raised a righteous, demanding eyebrow. You wanted to scream.

"Hey, gramps," he greeted jovially, breathless, his grip on you tightening and you felt heat radiating from his palm. "Ah, sorry, opened it by accident—the wife here is feisty, you see."

Your veins felt ready to burst. Was this a part of his plan all along? How would you show your face before your grandfather-in-law now that he had seen this... atrocity?!

"So, yeah, we'll resume our business!" Satoru, the idiot, said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "See ya!"

With that the door slammed shut, but oh no, it was not the end.

"Mmmph!?" you protested, unintentionally loud and eyes widening in alarm when Satoru muffled your mouth with his hand.

The rotten bastard! You found it nearly impossible to breathe, shooting daggers at him. "Mmmrgh! Mmmrrgh!"

"Oh... so that boy really does it huh," you heard the elder mutter in thoughtful manner from outside—and you were in disbelief at how trusting he was—before rounding the stunned maids and barked, "What are all you doing here? Go!"

You nearly sagged with relief when Satoru loosened his grip slightly, allowing you to breathe, as his meddlesome grandpa finally stalked away. Done. This horrible act was over! But wait, why did he still had his hand on your mouth?

"That went splendidly!" he snickered, appearing rather pleased with what had unfolded. "Now, if only we work together like this more often—"

This is… my life now, you lamented the reality. The feeling of his calloused hand on you made you feel things, honestly speaking, but another emotion—and impulse—currently overpowered that.

Seething with resentment, you fiercely chomped down on his hand hard, causing him to swear and pull his hand out of you.

"You—you devil! You bit me!"

"Serves you right!"

Okay, he was bad. He was insufferable. But to be frank, sometimes it wasn't all chaos.

And what's more, by MONTH TWO, you realized that being married to Gojo Satoru also comes with several perks.

"Miss, please, you're trespassing—"

You looked at the police with the haughtiest look you could muster, unamused. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No, but it shouldn't—"

"I'm that man's wife," you declared regally, motioning towards a certain tall shuttlecock a few meters away. "Is that not clear enough for you?"

For one, no one can look down on you anymore, because should they try, you have the power to raise your chin high and declare yourself as the wife of the infamous sorcerer. The very moment you did, that nosy police stopped yapping, and let you through.

The cursed boy, Yuta and his classmate had just been trapped inside a barrier a curse user pulled down, and you were assigned to look into this case by the headquarters. As much as it boggled you—because certainly, the strongest sorcerer was enough to investigate this—you still had to do your job.

“What is this?” you asked Satoru, who was observing something far beyond what your measly ordinary eyes could see. “What happened here?”

He turned to you, all with bandaged eyes. “Hmm? Oh, you’re here too?”

“Don't act surprised. Answer my question, Gojo.”

"You’re too uptight, wifey," Satoru's lips curved upwards playfully. He had taken to addressing you with pet names as of late, if anything, only to get a rise out of you. "Isn't it the time for you to start calling me by my given name?"

You let out a weary exhale, exasperated. "I'm serious, did you find anything? Who is behind this?"

"Nah, nothing for you to worry about," Satoru waved his hand dismissively, grinning. "More importantly! Let's head back and have dinner! My treat!"

You weren't that oblivious. You noticed things too.

"What do you want tonight? Sukiyaki? Sushi?" he hummed nonchalantly. "Or shabu-shabu?"

You gave him the stink eye. "Is that all you think about? Food?"

"As a responsible husband, it's my duty to feed my wife, no?"

"News flash: temporary wife."

"But still my wife, regardless. I overheard you earlier. Being Mrs. Gojo is convenient, yeah?"

You ignored how a part of your jolted at the emphasis he placed on that word, grunting. "Nah, it's meh."

Call it a feeling or hypothesis. It was similar to how he treated his students. He always said the dumbest things, but it actually served to make them feel at ease.

Then it occurred to you, could this be actually his attempt to change the subject?

"You can't cheat your way out of this." You shot him a pointed look. "You know something. Tell me."

"Hmmm? And what would I get in return?"

"Don't make this difficult. I'm on this assignment too!"

"Nah, if you call me by my name, I might consider it."

Hah. You should really read a parenting book one of these days. Taking on your husband was more or less the same as facing a kid.

"Satoru," you tested, the name rolling out of your lips far easier than you thought. Somehow, using his given name felt like some sort of a leap of faith.

He stopped right in his tracks, turning to you. His glossy lips quirked into a meaningful smile, and you felt funny.

"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" he winked, and you covered the strange heat creeping onto your face by rolling your eyes and huffed.

Needless to say, he still didn't tell you even a clue. You finally gave up, thinking that if he insisted on not disclosing it, then so be it. You trusted him on this, even as he turned your help away, and you hated admitting it, because, well…

You’d trust him with your life. He knows how to handle this better than anyone.

Being a a woman in Kamo clan is, in fact, not any better than in Zen'in—you're regarded more as a commodity than a human being.

"When will you bear the child of the bearer of Six Eyes?" in your father's eyes, you were but a tool to tie the Gojo at his hip, and your worth probably wasn't even twice of Noritoshi's. You had known he would ask this when he summoned you to Kamo ancestral home, and you weren't that naive—you had asked Satoru to join you too. But your father had insisted him to stay at the foyer, while he dragged you into his chamber.

Just because you had seen it coming didn’t mean you liked it. "Is that all? Do you really make me come here just to ask me that?"

And what came next was like a crack of thunder.

"How insolent!"

You shuddered, hating how his voice still had control over you. You wanted to stay deviant, but you couldn't keep yourself from shaking. You thought you would have to endure this shit just like you did before, until—

"Now, now... That's my wife you're talking to. I'd watch your words, if I were you."

You had never whipped your head so fast.

There stood Gojo Satoru, your husband, in all his glory. He was smiling but it was clear that he was displeased, evident from his cutting remark, and most notably, how he had unveiled his striking cerulean eyes for all to see. Truth to be told, you didn't expect him to barge in here at all.

"Gojo-sama," your father bowed his head, displaying utter respect towards him, contrasting the blatant disrespect he showed towards you just now. Satoru paid him no heed, as took big strides towards you and seized your arm, prompting you to rise to your feet.

"What is this? Why are you yelling at her?" His voice lacked its usual hint of amusement or teasing, sending a chill down your spine.

"Gojo-sama, I apologize for my tone towards my daughter earlier. I was just trying to educate—"

“My wife. She is my wife now, and it would do you better to remember that,” Satoru asserted firmly, putting emphasis in the way he addressed you, his gaze hardening. "She is an adult. There's nothing left for you to educate her." Pausing, he added, "And the way I saw it, you were just unnecessarily rude."

"Gojo-sama, there were just certain things in our clan that—"

"Please, don't call on us again," Satoru interjected decisively with a light yet firm voice. You could swear your heart was somersaulting at the sight of him staring down your natural enemy. "I'm sure you're aware, but your daughter bears my name now, and she will get the respect she is due. I will have a word with anyone who fails to treat her accordingly."

Somehow or another, Satoru whisked you away from that hellhole, your hand tightly clasped in his. Your relieved sigh didn't go unnoticed by him, as he looked back to you.

"Have you gone soft?" he teased, eyeing you with a playful snort. "Did you forget who your husband is? You've got nothing to fear. Not even him."

"Thank you," you murmured. Your heart was still pounding and your mind blanked, rendering you unable to engage in your usual banters.

His clear blue eyes widened a touch, blinking at your display of vulnerability, Then, he wore the most innocent expression, even sporting a silly smirk—the hardness from earlier gone. "I was really cool, huh? Totally made you swoon I bet."

And in MONTH THREE, you realized, as he laced his fingers with yours, as his laughter filled the air, as calmness swelled on your chest, and as you loudly snorted at his remark, that—

You felt warm, so warm, in fact, and maybe—

"Pfft, you wish."

—maybe... being with him isn't so bad after all.

MONTH FOUR, and you finally found out that it was Geto Suguru.

Everyone knew that your husband and the criminal used to be the best of friends. You saw them during your high school days, and heck, you used to think that Geto was the better man.

You could only imagine what he must feel.

. . .

When he got back to your shared house after the whole ordeal—after he ended his best friend with his own hands, Satoru honestly didn't expect that you would be waiting for him.

"You okay?" you asked him, brows furrowed in concern. It was probably one of the very few times you had displayed emotions other than contempt towards him.

It felt strange because he was used to your jabs, and he was not sure what sort of expression he should pull now, because truthfully, now he felt empty. Blank. All he comprehended was that he had killed Suguru, that he was gone, and that was something he must do.

It would be just like any other day if hadn't just committed a murder. On someone he held dear.

"Of course, who do you think I am?" Satoru swiftly replied, sounding smug—or at least tried to. "I'm the strongest. I’m unscat—"

"No, not that." You frowned, meeting his gaze squarely. "After everything."

Satoru struggled to choose how he should react, partly because most of his energy had gone after walking Yuta back and reassuring him earlier, and by default, the two of you should be hellbent on hating each other and wishing for this contract to end soon.

"Aww, are you worried about me?" he quipped with a touch of sarcasm just because he had to, to show you that it wasn't enough to ruffle him.

Because he is still the strongest, even when alone. Especially when he is alone.

You let out a sigh, looking away. "Can't I?"

"Whoa, that's sweet of—"

"Don't fool yourself," you stated in straight-laced manner, meeting his gaze with a composed expression. "You're not okay. You might be Gojo Satoru, but no one will be after doing what you just did."

You might be Gojo Satoru, but no one will be after doing what you just did.

Despite himself, his smile fell, and his chest burns. What is this? Were you sympathizing with him?

Does that mean that you don't see him as the entity... that was the strongest?

Before now, Satoru remembered you as the most uncooperative Kyoto girl he had ever met. Your first meeting in high school sealed your fate as the two of you could hardly get along. You didn't mince words, you didn't take shit from anyone else—heck, sometimes when he thought of you, what came up to mind was an impenetrable diamond.

Which was why he chose you. You were someone he could trust. You were pretty in the eyes and certainly wouldn't bore him either. His reasons were purely based on logic. And after four months with you, Satoru came to a conclusion that you indeed fulfilled all his expectations, if not more.

And he felt comfortable, or dare he say, secure even. He felt like he had gained a friend, who could see past his bravado and wouldn't judge him for it.

"You're..." you sighed, casting a sympathetic glance at him, your forehead slightly creased. At that moment, Satoru couldn't help but think you were incredibly endearing, fretting over him. "...an idiot."

"Heh." I really am, aren't I?

"I never knew him well..." you chose your words carefully, hesitant. "Did you try to convince him, before this?"

He barked a bitter laugh. "I did, we even made a scene in front of freaking KFC," he remarked with a scoff. "He didn't listen to me, until the very end."

You wanted to tell him “You have done everything you could” but the words faltered on your tongue. You couldn't bring yourself to say it when you saw the faint quiver of his lips, the slump of his shoulders—the very sight of a boy grieving the loss of his friend.

Your heart pricked too, somehow, seeing that expression on him. And you once again realized that your silly, exalted husband was just as human as anyone else who made him think he wasn’t.

"And you know what he said in the end?" Satoru's tone was flippant, as if asking the most normal thing around, but carried a trace of grief, evident in the slight drop in his tone if you squinted. "He said he didn't regret it, not even a bit."

"I'm sorry," was all you could manage.

Satoru's smile was lopsided. Now that he had finally accepted it, something inside him finally bleeds, and it freaking hurts. The pain gripped his chest like a swirling inferno.

But then, you boldly clasped his hand in yours, gently tracing soothing circles on its back.

"What?" he peered at you, feeling a ghost of a smile forming.

"Consider this emotional support."

And he chuckled softly. Despite the lingering ache, despite the gloom he was sure he would carry for the rest of his life, he felt the pain was more bearable with you by his side, somewhat.

How?

You blamed it on the alcohol, because it was MONTH FIVE and you were kissing Gojo Satoru, daringly.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you rasped between kisses, breathless, as your own sinful hands plucked the buttons off his shirt. The intoxication might have played a part, but the intense heat coursing through you made it hard to think straight.

Satoru crashed his lips against yours again, consumed by blind lust. "Yeah, we shouldn't," he replied in a rush. His breath was hot as he trailed his lips down your jaw and neck next, savoring the softness of your skin.

You two had attended a banquet for the elite, and you were unbelievably beautiful. Standing by his side as his wife, you drew admiring glances, with everyone marveling at what a remarkable couple you made. The Gojo heir who was born with the legendary Limitless and the Kamo heiress, as lovely as her clan's name was powerful.

His deft hands roamed the curves of your body, exploring every inch of you. The warmth of his hands tickled something inside you as you closed your eyes to sink into this very moment. Next you knew, his bare body was against yours and you were stripped out of your evening dress.

Lust flickered in his honored eyes, as he took in the sight of you in your undergarments.

"You're really pretty, you know," he whispered. The intensity with which his eyes scanned your form made you nearly squirm. "Shame we don't always get along."

"You're one to talk," you retorted, a hint of exasperation in your tone, as you willed all other thoughts away. Thoughts like what comes after this. Thoughts like—

Is it heaven or sin, if you feel both at once?

His thumb tenderly caressed your plush lips, a hint of a smirk on his beautiful face.

He has long been thinking about your body. He was but a man, after all. He just didn't expect that you wanted this too.

There was always this tension, only this time, neither of you could hold it back anymore. Perhaps it was impulse—hell, most certainly it is, but there was another thing, something more that even Gojo Satoru still didn't dare to say out loud.

"Eager, are we?" he taunted when you leaned in, yearning for the touch of his lips on yours again.

You huffed. “Shut up and kiss me.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks at the slip of those words. You were about to rectify it, taken aback by your own boldness, but then he drew you close, silencing any further protest with a gentle hush—

"Too late, sweetheart," his husky voice entered your ears, lips curling into the most wicked smile, and you were in a trance. And Satoru was once again convinced, that choosing you as his wife was the rightest thing there was.

If the two of you went with this, then there would be consequences. Things would become more complicated, harder to sort out.

But, he decided, as he captured your lips in another heated kiss, everything else can wait.

MONTH SIX, and you were dreading the day of your divorce.

You brought this upon yourself. Whenever you reminisced about that night, you wanted to smack yourself in the face and bang your head against the nearest wall.

This marriage has a time limit. And you were doing it out of convenience in the first place.

You weren't supposed to… goddammit—fall in love with him.

But what's done is done, there is no going back in time. Awkward exchanges and lingering stares had been gnawing at your insides these days, and you were sure Satoru too must have noticed them too. You two used to be more relaxed with each other, and he'd even flirt with you, but weeks ever since that night of drunken passion, you almost reverted back to your high school personas—ignoring each other.

This was tough. You didn't like this. And more than that, you were faced with a more pressuring matter...

Gojo Satoru, with everything he possessed, could have had any woman he wanted. This arrangement with you was temporary in the first place, soon he would forget you and flit to the next woman.

The thought made your heart ache, because you had involuntarily gave your heart away to him. Siiigh… What a predicament you put yourself into, huh?

With just a month left together, maybe you should just make the best of it.

. . .

If you thought that things were any better with Satoru, then you were sorely wrong because he too, was debating with himself often nowadays.

Days spent with you were fun and fulfilling. You irked expression somehow had made its mark in his heart. You were pretty, fit to be by his side publicly and preferably, behind the closed doors. With you, he didn't feel the need to carry this facade of being strong—he could be a clown tripping over his own trap and you would amuse him with your deadpan expression.

And ever since that night, he was constantly reminded by how soft your skin was against his. It almost drove him crazy now that he was deprived of it.

How was it the last month already? He wasn't ready to let you go yet.

When he got back home later after his class ended and found you in the dinner table setting the food, all he could muster was, "Hey. Haven't eaten?"

You whirled around to face him in surprise. "Oh... you're back. Just about to. Want to join me?"

Of course he would. And yet as the two of you sat down, it was so painfully awkward Satoru felt like he was dying inside.

Why couldn't he pull off a smart line or two? Where did his suaveness go? He was smoother than this, surely, with his colorful history. One night of passion was supposed to enhance the relationship, not to derail it. What happened to you both?

The salt was near his side when you reached to grab it and bumped into his hand. "Uh-oh."

Turning towards you, he found your spooked expression and your adorable eyes widening in surprise. "S-sorry..."

It was just freaking salt! Salt! Why on earth were you apologizing?!

Enough, he thought. This utter madness of being jumpy with each other. He'd start from his side.

Does he want you to keep being his wife even after all this ends? Yes.

Why? All reasons already listed above.

Does this mean he likes you? Apparently and supposedly, yes. Because if it isn't then he doesn't know what this funny feeling driving him mad is.

With that sorted out, then he only had one more thing to confirm. He put down his spoon and crossed his arms together. "Tell me the truth. Do you like living with me?"

His question obviously took you by surprise. "Huh? What brought this on?"

"Just give me an answer."

"You're so pushy," you grumbled, lips pursed, and he felt like you were finally back to your usual dynamics somewhat. Good.

"Sooo, the verdict? Do you enjoy being with me or not?"

Because to him, it was a resounding yes and more.

Ignoring the warmth that surged to your cheeks, you rolled your eyes. "Surprisingly, not bad, yeah," you admitted, mustering the courage to meet his gaze. "You're annoying, an idiot, a bit crazy—"

"Hey!"

"—but eventually you're still... manageable," you added, feeling your face truly start to sizzle. But covered it up by looking down and playing with your fingers as you still had more to go on. "What I want to say is... I'm glad that I agreed to this—with you—because I can’t imagine it with anyone else."

An unfamiliar tingling emotion rushed to his chest as his face too started to heat up, letting your words sink in. Is he blushing? Oh God. He sure is. And so did he feel hella giddy.

Then it’s sealed.

Suddenly he procured a piece of paper from his work uniform and showed it to you. You first saw his lazily scrawled signature before it dawned on you.

The contract. You almost forgot that you made him sign that looming piece of paper. You were almost dismayed, thinking that he would end this right then and there, but then—

“Well, then… I suppose we no longer need this.”

Riiip~

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when Gojo Satoru tore out your contract right in front of your face, the most brilliant of his devilish grin adorned his handsome face, as he took off his blindfold to see you far clearly than ever. Heavens, you are cute, he thought.

“Soooo~ seems like you’re stuck with me from now on!”

You gaped, awestruck at the blatant meaning of it all, feeling how your heartbeat started to pick up the pace, when he pulled the rag out of your feet once more by tilting his head to the side, looking at you with a winning smile.

“Let’s start over! What did they say again? Ah, yeah. Here’s to the first day of our lives!”

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Real Man"

Older Au Chapter 3.

THIS IS A MATURE STORY. IT HAS SOME SEXUAL SENCES, IF YOU DONT LIKE DON'T READ. Ok yall ik i said i was gonna post this last night but i hated it so i rewrote it! if it sucks don't say anything pls. sorry if it's repetitive, lmk whose team ur on!!! And what you want to happen next. comments, reblogs, likes and kind asks are always appreciated. If this one random anon keeps sending theses crazy things, i'll have to remove anon asks, which I dont want to do. I love my anons, so pls be nice. Send in asks, I miss yall, I've been sooooo busy with school lately and I havent had time to get on here. THIS IS MY 1ST TIME WRITNG ANYTHING LIKE THIS SO LMK HOW IT ISSSSS

WHY AM I GETTING THE FEWLINF EVERYONE HATES THIS??? IM ABT TO DELEYEB TS NGL 😭

Six months had passed since that night—the night you let Slade’s words sink into your skin like venom and made the choice that changed everything. For better and worse.

You hadn't accepted his offer easily. Not after what happened with Two-Face. That betrayal still sat in your chest like a dull ache, a constant reminder of how easily people could take what they wanted and leave you with nothing. You had sworn not to trust so easily again, not to let yourself fall into another cycle of being used and discarded. So when Slade made his offer, you hesitated.

"You're smarter than this," you had told yourself that night. "You know what happens when you trust the wrong person. You know what men like him want."

And yet, here you were. Living in his world.

Not as a prisoner, not as a puppet, but as something more. The lines were blurred, shifting with every glance, every order he gave that you didn’t question, every moment that stretched too long in the dim glow of your shared space. Because that’s what it was now, shared.

The apartment Slade had set up was far from a safe house. It was huge and spacious, Slade wasn't a cheap man. It felt lived in. Your things mingled with his, your scent lingering in the air. You bought vases and filled them with flowers, you organized the kitchen and bought him real groceries, not just canned food. You hung pictures you developed of you and him. Ones he didn't know you took. You roped him into painting your room a baby blue, a color he swore he hated, yet he still slept in your room every night. It was comical to see such a large man laying in a pastel colored room on your floral bedsheets, the last man you let into your bed was equally large. But we don't talk about him.

Slade cared for you deeply, or at least tolerated you. At first you were always at each others throats, each person throwing a more cutting remark than the other. When your arguements got so bad that you began to ignore him, he brought home women, made sure he heard them moaning through the walls till you snapped and began screaming.

You hated Slade Wilson

But after the first month things began to change, Slade never said anything about it, but you caught the way his eyes would darken when he returned from a mission, his gaze sweeping over you like he needed to confirm you were still here. Like he expected you to disappear.

You leaned against the counter, watching him from the corner of your eye as he cleaned his weapons. The rhythmic motion of his hands, the way he handled each blade with the kind of care most reserved for something fragile, it was almost mesmerizing. Everything he does is.

“You’re staring,” he said, not looking up. God, he's so smug.

You scoffed. "No, you are. I don't stare at creepy old men. In fact, it's usually the opposite."

His lips curled into that knowing smirk, the one that made something tighten in your chest. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

The nickname used to irritate you. Now, you weren’t sure what it did. All you knew was that it made your heart race the way only one person had before. He used to call you sweetheart too.

Slade’s presence in your life was suffocating, an unshakable force that wrapped itself around you, squeezing tighter with every passing day. He was cruel in the way he trained you, brutal in his expectations. If you failed, he had no patience for it. Slade trained you for greatness and he wouldn't tolerate anything less.

“You call that a punch?” he sneered one evening in your early days of training, after you had barely managed to land a hit on him. “Pathetic. I’ve seen senior citizens put up more of a fight,"

Gritting your teeth, you launched at him again, only for him to sidestep effortlessly. A sharp pain bloomed across your ribs as he shoved you down, hard. The thing that you loved and hated most about Slade was that he treated you like an equal. He didn't see you as his younger, fragile, kind-of girlfriend; he saw you as an equal opponent.

“You hesitated,” he said, standing over you. “That hesitation will get you killed.”

You spat blood onto the mat and glared up at him. “Or maybe I just don’t care if I live or die. Nothing is ever really this serious.”

Something flickered in his eye, dark and unreadable, before he crouched beside you. His fingers dug into your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He didn't understand your humor sometimes, considering he's old enough to be your father.

“Oh, but you do, you want to survive. To be great, ” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

He let go of you with a sharp shove and stood. “Get up. We’re not done.”

The tension between you both had only grown over the months. Slade had a way of pressing in, invading your space without ever needing to touch you. Sure you guys fucked almost twice, sometimes three times a week, but there was that small sliver of confusion and hesitation.

Sure, he slept in your bed ever night now, called it "our room," and sure you stayed up waiting when his missions would take too long. Yeah, you would run and jump into his open arms, feeling nothing but content as he kissed your forehead and took you to the bed, it's normal that ya'll didn't even have sex some nights, that you just cuddled.

Sometimes, you swore he was waiting, waiting for you to be the one to close that final inch between you. But you never did. You couldn't bring yourself to do it.

Instead, you fell into a rhythm. Training. Fighting. Learning with him and laughing with him. He pushed you harder than anyone ever had, demanding perfection, never letting you slip back into old habits. He didn’t coddle you like they did. He didn’t pretend you were something delicate. He made you strong.

Most nights, after an exhausting day of training, you would sit on the brown leather couch cuddled up to him with your head on his chest and his arms around you, the dim glow of the television flickering between you. Slade wasn’t much for small talk, you talked enough for the both of you, but the silence between you felt... comfortable, almost warm

“Why did you take me in?” you had asked once, voice barely above a whisper.

He had taken a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. “Because I saw something in you,” he finally answered. “Potential. Something you’re too afraid to admit to yourself.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, you wondered if there was truth in his words. You liked that he believed in you, no one had done that before.

Then there were the other moments. The ones that made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge. The way he stood too close when showing you how to hold a blade properly, his breath warm against your skin. The way his hands lingered too long when correcting your stance. The way his gaze dropped to your lips before he forced himself to look away.

Neither of you ever acknowledged it. You weren’t sure if you wanted to. It's completely normal for your teacher/mentor/enemy to sleep in the same bed as you every night. It'd be weird if you didn't make breakfast and dinner for the two of you. It'd be weird if you didn't know his favorite foods and if he didn't know how to braid your hair. It'd be even weirder if he didn't make you coffee exactly how you like it and help you put away the dishes.

Slade had become an inescapable presence, his control over you extending far beyond training. He knew where you were at all times, had a way of appearing when you least expected it, his eyes always sharp, always knowing. Some nights, when you tried to slip out for air, you’d find him already outside, leaning against a wall as if he’d been waiting for you. He let you do what you wanted, think you were free, but he was always watching you.

If you were singing at a bar, you could count on him to be in the crowd. If you met with Selina at a restaurant you could count on him to drive you home. Slade was always there. Selina thought it was strange, you took comfort in it.

“You really think you can go anywhere without me knowing?” he had mused once, a shadow of amusement in his voice.

It should have bothered you. Maybe it did. But part of you had started to crave it, the way he made you feel like you belonged to him, even if neither of you would ever admit it.

Slade had been… watchful lately. More than usual. He came back late from missions, missions he didn't let you come to, sometimes with a tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before. He was hesitant to let you go and preform at bars, sometimes convincing you to just play the songs on your guitar in the living room and run your fingers through his hair as you both laid on the couch.

There were the calls—brief, coded. You were offended, Slade told you almost everything these days but somehow no amount of sweet talk and bedroom eyes could get him to budge this time. And then there were the other things. The subtle shifts in the city’s underworld. More movement in Gotham than usual. The quiet whispers of old ghosts stirring, names you hadn’t spoken in almost a year.

Dick. Jason. Tim. Damian. Bruce.

You saw it in the way certain streets had too many eyes. As if waiting. As if listening.

And then there was the whisper of something else. Something darker, something clawing at the edge of your awareness. A name that had once sent a thrill through you, now only bringing unease and resentment.

Harvey Dent.

A name you hadn’t spoken in months, yet it clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake. A man you couldn't bare to even think of. A drink left for you at a bar you hadn't performed at in weeks, a coat draped over the back of a chair that looked too familiar.

Slade noticed before you did. “You’ve got a ghost,” he murmured one evening, the flicker of a knife between his fingers. “One that doesn’t know how to stay buried.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant. You didn’t have to. You already knew. You just didn't know why. Had he finally seen through Tiffany, now that it was too late?

At first, you didn’t question it. Slade had always been territorial—watchful, overbearing when he wanted to be. He had a way of controlling things without seeming like he was. That was how he worked.

So when you first noticed the shifts, you didn’t react. Your schedule changed, but not because you changed it.

You used to go out when you wanted. Walk the streets when they were quiet, feel the Gotham night press against your skin, the air cold and sharp. Not anymore.

Things began to change this week. Now, every time you thought about leaving, something stopped you.

The fridge was always stocked, eliminating any reason to step outside. Your favorite food. Your favorite drinks. Little things appeared when you needed them; new clothes, supplies, anything that might have made you leave for even a moment. Things you mentioned only in passing, like the new lipstick you wanted or a pair of vintage heels or a new bag.

If you reached for your coat, Slade would speak before you even touched the door. Asking where you were going, trying to be casual.

It was never a command. Never outright control. But the implication was there. And every time you hesitated, he won. If you needed to leave or just wanted to go out, he would come with; a silent yet protective figure always in the shadows.

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that should have been peaceful but wasn’t. The apartment smelled like old wood and gun oil, the faintest trace of smoke lingering from Slade’s cigar earlier. You had just stepped out of the shower, skin still warm from the heat, hair damp as you walked barefoot across the floor in your towel.

Your hand brushed against the pretty golden door knob absentmindedly.

And then you froze. Something was different.

Your fingers curled around the lock, tracing over the new ridges, the reinforced structure. The weight of it felt wrong.

It wasn’t your lock. Not the cute one you insisted on buying at the antique shop that Slade hated. It didn't match the walls.

Your stomach twisted. You turned slowly, your damp hair clinging to your skin as your mind raced. This wasn’t an accident. You hadn’t imagined it. Slade had changed the locks. The thought sent something icy down your spine. Alarm bells blared in your mind.

You tried to shake it off, tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Maybe it was security. Maybe he just wanted better protection.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. Because he didn’t tell you. Because Slade never did anything without a purpose. Because Slade Wilson didn't need a lock to keep people out. And because you hadn’t noticed until now. You took a slow, steady breath and turned toward the living room.

Slade was there, like always, seated in his usual chair by the window, sharpening a knife. The sound of steel against whetstone was rhythmic, deliberate. His posture was relaxed, but you weren’t fooled. His fingers were too steady, his shoulders just a little too still.

He was waiting. Watching. Like he had already predicted this moment, like he was ready for an argeument. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, heart pounding too fast, not caring if you were in a towel.

"Planning on keeping me in a cage?" you muttered.

Slade didn’t pause. Didn’t even look up. “Planning on keeping you alive.” The words were so smooth, so easy, that your stomach turned.

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t hiding it. He wasn't denying it. Not anymore. This wasn’t a mistake. This was intentional.

You forced a laugh, though it felt hollow in your throat. “Right. Because I’m just so incapable of keeping myself safe. Even after all the training we've done. Even with my literal super-human abilities.”

Slade finally looked up. His eye locked onto yours.

There was no humor in his gaze. No smirk, like he usually had on while teasing. Just that slow, assessing stare that made your pulse stutter.

"If I thought you were capable of that," he murmured, voice quiet, too quiet, "we wouldn’t be having this conversation."

Your chest tightened. Because the way he said it sent something sinking into the pit of your stomach. This wasn’t just about protecting you. This was about making sure you never left.

Two days later, you decided to test it. Just to see what would happen. Slade had stepped out—or so he wanted you to believe. The moment you heard the door shut behind him, you moved.

Your fingers curled around the knob.

Turned it— but a large, scared hand beat you two it

"Going somewhere?"

Your entire body locked up. You gulped and licked your suddenly dry lips, he had you cornered with one hand on the knob and the other caging you in as he towered over you. His voice was smooth, calm—too calm. You turned slowly, pulse thrumming in your throat. Slade stood right behind you.

The door was still closed.

Your heart stuttered. You hadn’t heard him come back. Hadn’t even realized he was there. So much for super hearing. Nothing worked on Slade Wilson. You kept your expression neutral. Didn’t let him see the panic creeping up your throat.

"Didn’t realize I had a curfew," you muttered with an uneasy grin, trying to start your usual banter. Slade didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched you.

“You don’t.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. But he didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. Didn’t let you leave. The silence stretched too long.

Finally, you forced a smile, tilting your head. “Then I’ll be back in an hour.” Nothing changed in his expression. But you could feel the weight of his stare. Then he tilted his head, eye dark and calculating.

“It's not safe out there anymore. Not for you.”

You blinked. Something in his tone shifted.Not amusement. Not control. Something else. Something darker. Like he was waiting for you to figure it out.

Your stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t even move.

Just let the question hang in the air, stretching the silence tight between you. And that’s when it hit you.

He wasn’t stopping you because he was afraid you’d leave.

He was stopping you because something else was waiting outside.

Something he wasn’t telling you about.

Your mouth went dry. Slade finally let out a slow, amused breath, pushing off the wall.

And then—

He stepped aside. A challenge. Daring you to open the door. You hesitated. And that was all it took.

The moment you hesitated, you lost. Slade smirked, shaking his head like he had already predicted every move you would make. "Let's get to bed." He rasped out, looking at you with dark, seductive eyes.

And then he turned, walking past you like the conversation was over. Because it was. Because he knew you wouldn’t leave now.

The next morning, the locks changed again. The windows were reinforced. Your pretty pink curtains replaced with black shutters. Your phone stopped working. You couldn't call Selina. Every excuse to leave was removed before you could even think about it. You tried not to panic. Tried not to question it.

But Slade was closing the walls in. And you weren’t sure if it was to keep someone out—

Or to keep you in.

The first time, you thought it was a coincidence.

You had slipped into a bar down the street, needing to breathe, needing something normal.

The moment you stepped in, your stomach turned. Something familiar. Cologne. Not just any cologne. Expensive. Sharply tailored. The scent of whiskey and authority.

You froze.

Your mind screamed at you. It’s just someone else wearing it. It’s just your imagination. And then you saw it. A glass at the bar. Untouched. Neat. No ice. A double pour. your breath hitched.

Harvey’s drink.

It wasn’t until you came home that you truly realized. Because that’s when you saw the rose.

A single red rose on the kitchen counter.

Waiting for you. Your entire body went cold. It wasn’t from Slade. It couldn’t be from Slade. Slade would never bring you roses, he wasn't a gentleman. And he knew you liked hydrangeas and peonies now.

You turned slowly and nearly threw up.

Slade was already standing there. Watching. Waiting. His jaw was tight. His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t say anything. And that’s when you knew,

He had seen this coming.

“Where did that come from?” you asked, voice thin. Why was he doing this? Was shattering your heart not enough? Did he want to ruin things with you and Slade?

Slade didn’t answer. Instead, he walked forward, plucked the rose from the counter, and rolled it between his fingers. Slowly. Deliberately. Then, he crushed it.

Your stomach dropped. The petals crumbled to the floor. His voice was dangerously calm. "You tell me, sweetheart."

For the rest of the night, he didn’t let you out of his sight. Not directly holding you hostage, but you felt it. The way he lingered in doorways. The way his hand ghosted too close when you passed him.

Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to ask. Waiting for you to figure it out. Waiting for Harvey to stop playing games and make a real move.

You weren’t sure when it had happened; when you had stopped keeping track of time, stopped caring about the difference between one night and the next. Slade made sure you had no reason to count the days. He made sure you had no reason to want anything. You woke up every morning in his arms and went to bed satisfied and well loved. It wasn’t a prison but it wasn’t freedom either. It was something in between. A limbo of his design. A small slice of heaven in hell.

You were happy. But something was off, Slade was being more paranoid and he got less subtle about it each day.

You weren’t trapped, not physically. Slade let you leave the apartment. You weren’t chained to the walls, weren’t locked in a room. He took you out on missions, let you get your hands dirty alongside him, let you breathe in the crisp Gotham air under the cover of night. In some ways, those nights were the only times you felt alive, other than when you were with Slade. The weight of a blade in your hand, the burn in your muscles from the chase, the sharp adrenaline rush of the fight, of using your powers on someone they affected; it reminded you that you still existed outside of this quiet game he played with you. Because that’s what it was. A game.

Slade never said it outright, never told you he was keeping you on a leash, but you could feel it tightening with every passing week. At first, it was small things. The way he subtly redirected missions away from Gotham’s city center, keeping you to the outskirts, where the shadows were deeper and the chances of running into familiar faces were slimmer. The way he always made sure you stayed close during a job, always just within arm’s reach. It wasn’t just protection. You knew better than that. It was control. He was testing you, waiting to see if you would try to slip away, if you would give him a reason to remind you just how easily he could pull you back.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the real test wasn’t in the field. It was what happened after.

After the job was done, after the adrenaline had settled into exhaustion, after the long, banter filled walk back to wherever Slade had decided to keep you that night. It was in the way he never let you wander too far. The way his hand would hover at the small of your back without quite touching, guiding you down the streets like he was the one who decided where you went. It was in the way he never left you alone for too long.

At first, you told yourself it was coincidence. Slade was always working, always had something that needed his attention. But then you started to notice the patterns. You ate together, you slept together, trained together, hell; you even showered together. You were never alone for more than a few hours. If he had business elsewhere, you were given something to occupy your time—training, surveillance, a task that kept you exactly where he wanted you.

You tested it once again, just to see what would happen. After he had left for what you thought was a routine meeting, you had grabbed your coat and made your way to the door. You weren’t even thinking about leaving him, not really. You just wanted to see if you could. If there was still a part of you that could step outside without feeling the weight of his presence pressing against you.

Your fingers had just curled around the doorknob when you heard his voice. Low. Even. Inevitable.

“Going somewhere?”

You were getting de ja vu. This happened last time too. You had swallowed hard, pulse spiking in your throat as you turned. He was standing right behind you.

You hadn’t heard the door open. Hadn’t heard his footsteps. He was just there, watching, waiting. The worst part was that he wasn’t even angry. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you, wasn’t raising his voice or blocking your way. He didn’t have to.

Slade had simply leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eye scanning you with that sharp, unreadable expression that made your stomach twist. “Didn’t realize I needed permission,” you had said, forcing your voice to stay steady. You wouldn't let him control everything, not another man would be in charge of your life.

“You don’t.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he had already solved. “Just wondering if you really think it’s safe out there.”

Not this odd shit again.

That made you pause. The way he said it. Not like a threat. Not like he was trying to scare you into staying. He said it the same way as last time. Like he already knew something you didn’t.

Your grip on the doorknob tightened. “What are you talking about? You said this last time.”

Slade didn’t answer right away. He just let the silence stretch, let you feel the weight of your own hesitation. Then, slowly, he took a step back. Another challenge.

“If you want to go,” he said, gesturing toward the door, “go.”

Your breath caught. You should have. You should have walked out.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew that if you did, if you stepped outside now, you wouldn’t just be walking into Gotham. You would be walking into something else. Something waiting.

Slade knew it. And now, so did you.

You swallowed hard, stepping back from the door. Slade huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head like you had just proven his point. Then, without another word, he walked past you and disappeared into the other room. That was the moment you knew, whatever was waiting for you out there was worse than what was waiting inside. You just didn’t know what it was yet.

You found out a week later. A part of it, at least.

The envelope was waiting for you when you returned from a job with Slade, slipped under the apartment door like a whisper of something you had tried to forget. You had bent down, fingers hesitating just for a second before picking it up. The paper was thick, expensive. No return address. No markings. But you didn’t have to open it to know who it was from. The sharp smell of cologne gave it away.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising in the back of your throat as you tore it open, your hands gripping the edges a little too tightly. The letter inside was simple. Only four words.

You won't forget me.

Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled. Because the worst part was, he was right. No matter how much Slade consumed you, or your occasional fantasy about Clark; he also stayed on your mind

You barely had time to process it before you heard the apartment door shut behind you. Your fingers snapped the letter closed, chest tightening, but it was too late.

Slade had already seen.

His expression didn’t change, but you could feel it. The shift in the air. The way his shoulders set just a little too still, the way his single eye flickered from your face to the envelope with something dark and unreadable. He stepped forward, not rushing, just closing the distance between you with the kind of inevitability that made your breath come short.

You turned, but before you could move, his hand shot out. Not rough, not gentle like usual, just firm. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, halting you in place.

“Let go,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached for the letter.

You pulled back.

Slade’s grip tightened. “Let me see,” he said, his voice low, controlled. He wasn't used to you denying him these days, not when you loved him.

Your stomach clenched. You didn’t let go, but it didn’t matter. Because Slade never asked twice.

With one sharp tug, he tore the letter from your grasp, unfolding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. You watched as his eye scanned the words, his jaw tensing, his fingers tightening around the paper just slightly.

Then, finally, a quiet chuckle. A dark, amused sound. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Your breath hitched. Slade looked at you now. Expression unreadable.

“Do you miss him?” Your heart stopped. You denied it, but you could see in Slade's eyes that he didn't believe you. In the way he turned away from you that night. You didn't blame him, you didn't even believe yourself.

Harvey always knew how to play the long game.

Small things began to shift in your life and you knew who was behind it. The song on the radio. A scarf. A photo photo. They were never coincidences, he didn’t believe in coincidence. The man was calculated, meticulous in his pursuits. When he wanted something, he played patient, steady, unyielding, watching from the shadows, striking when you least expected it.

Slade was the same way, but Slade never needed patience. Slade took what he wanted. Harvey waited for it to come back to him.

The jazz playing in the bar was nothing, just white noise in the background while you sat beside Slade, nursing your drink, your head still fogged from the last mission. You weren’t thinking of anything other than how good it felt to finally sit still.

Then, days later, the scarf appeared. Neatly folded on the couch, like a gift wrapped in silence, waiting for you to pick it up. You hadn’t touched it at first, just stood there, staring at it, fingers twitching at your sides. It was a trick of the mind, an old memory manifesting in a way that didn’t make sense.

Except it wasn’t.

He had been here. Or close enough to touch. You should have told Slade. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And then, the photo. A photo Selina took of you and him dancing at the Pink Pony Club. It smelled like him too.

That was what shattered the illusion of security, the idea that you had control over this. The moment you saw it, you knew.

Harvey had always been a sentimentalist, clinging to memories long past, treasuring things most people would discard.

You, once upon a time, had been one of those things. And now? You weren’t sure. You weren't sure what he wanted, especially since he had Tiffany. You had placed the photo down carefully, afraid to crumple it, afraid to acknowledge what it meant.

You had kept your movements neutral, your breath steady, but Slade had been watching. His presence in the other room was a solid weight pressing into your chest. The shuffle of files, the slow deliberate sound of metal being set down, he was waiting.

He had noticed. Of course, he had. Slade noticed everything. And yet, he didn’t say a word.

You lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling Slade’s presence next to you like a silent storm waiting to break. He wasn’t asking. He was waiting for you to give yourself away. To tell him the truth, to trust him like he trusted you.

Slade had been watching you too closely, keeping his invisible leash tight without ever pulling. That was the way he worked, he let you think you had freedom while keeping you within his reach. If you had tried to leave through the door, he would have known.

So, you didn’t.

You waited, feigned sleep, forced your breathing into something slow, even, something convincing. You heard him move in the other room, heard the creak of his chair, the slow inhale of a cigar.

You moved the moment he shifted. Window, not the door. Silent steps. A fire escape that groaned beneath your weight. By the time Slade glanced back toward the couch, you were already gone.

Harvey knew you would come.

You knew that from the moment you stepped onto the rooftop, the Gotham skyline stretched out behind him like a kingdom.

He turned before you could say anything, a slow, easy movement, his face shadowed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. And then, he smiled. Not a smirk. Not the sharp, dangerous grin you had been expecting. It was something softer. Something more desperate. Like a man in the desert coming across a well.

“Took you long enough, didn't think you got my message. I started thinking that maybe the note didn't reach you.” he murmured. The message he left in the women's bathroom at a bar you and Slade frequented.

Your throat felt tight. You felt hurt all over again. Like someone reopened the wound of his betrayal. Like the same broken girl Slade took in six months ago. You came here for closure. So that it wouldn't hurt when you said his name or sang the songs you wrote for him. “How did you find me?”

What did he want? To torture you? Rub salt in your wounds?

Harvey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I never lost you.”

Only Slade called you that now. The words made your stomach twist, a cold knot settling in your chest. You should have walked away then. But you didn’t. Because you had to know.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you haunting me? Not letting me move on?” Your voice shook as you said it. This conversation was long overdue.

Harvey’s fingers gripped the railing, his knuckles white. “Because I need you to listen to me. Just once. Just this once. Hear me out.”

Your heart hammered. Hear him out? He could've started with an apology.

“You think I’ll forgive you?” you spat. You would, because when you looked at him, you still felt the same warmth you did all those months ago; only this time it was mixed with resentment and longing.

He flinched. And for the first time, you saw it—the raw, desperate emotion that he had always hidden behind sharp words and confident grins. The mask cracked, just for a second.

His voice turned rough, unsteady. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know that. But I need you to hear me out.”

You shook your head, stepping back, but he reached out—not touching, not yet, but close.

“You don’t know what’s happening,” he continued, his voice dropping into something urgent, pleading. “Your family—Tim, Dick, all of them—they’re figuring it out. They’re finding out the truth about Tiffany. They'll realize what she's doing, like I did.They'll know soon, maybe not today or tomorrow; but soon. They'll realize she's been using her powers on them like she did to me.”

Your breath came too short. No. This was not happening. Not when you were finally happy again. Not when you think you've fallen in love with Slade.

“No,” you whispered.

Your vision blurred. It was happening. Everything you had tried to scream about for years, everything they had ignored, it was going to come to light. Harvey’s fingers brushed your wrist.

Soft. Careful. Like he was trying not to scare you away.

“And when they realize what they did to you,” he murmured, “they’re going to come running. Crawling back like I am.”

Your stomach twisted.

“They’re going to act like they care,” he continued, voice soft, insidious. “Like they’re sorry. But they’re not. Not like I am. You know that, don’t you?”

Your lips parted. You hated how much sense it made. Hated how deep the doubt had already burrowed into your skin. Hated how genuine and honest he was being, you could sense it. Harvey tilted his head.

And then, voice lower, almost fragile he said, “You don’t have to go back to them.”

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back. “I’m not going back,” you said, voice shaking. Never.

Harvey swallowed hard. And for a moment, you thought he might break, that the weight of what he had done, what he had lost, might finally crush him. But then, he looked at you.

And you saw it, the shift. The danger. Not Two-Face. Not the cold, calculated criminal.

Just Harvey Dent. The man who never let go. “You think you’re free?” he murmured.

The words sent a chill down your spine. Harvey smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “You think he just let you leave?”

Your chest tightened. You tried not to show the flicker of doubt, the small crack in your resolve. But Harvey saw it.

And then, voice so soft, so dangerous—“He’s not going to let you go either. He'll keep you locked up. I won't.”

You should have never gone to him.

You had known it was a mistake the second you saw him standing there, leaning against the rooftop railing, the glow of Gotham’s skyline making him look almost human.

But you had gone anyway. Because Harvey had always been a mistake you kept making.

You clenched your fists, how dare he talk about Slade? What right did he have to tell you who to trust. "Yeah and I'm gonna take advice from you. That's rich."

He softened immediately, his regret and remorse so obvious; yet he refused to apologize. You wanted to hit him, hurt him like he hurt you; yet when he stood in front of you in the moonlight, your treacherous heart still beat for him. Your heart didn't want to hurt the man who showed you what love is. The man who picked up the shattered pieces your family and Clark left and rearranged them beautifully. It didn't care that he broke them again; he could fix it.

“I made a mistake. I paid for it, I know the truth now.” He said steadily stepping closer, sensing your reluctance.

Your pulse pounded. “What do you want from me?” You were here for answers, not to rekindle an old flame. Not when you were starting one.

Harvey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing from you. ”

The words hit you too hard. You understood what he was implying, what he wanted. You knew he would come crawling back someday, you just didn't expect it so soon

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “Why?”

His smile faltered. His hands curled around the railing, gripping it like he needed something solid to hold on to.

"You know why. But that's not what i called you for. I called you to warn you about your family and Tiffany,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher. More desperate. “I can throw them off for a little while, lead them off track and make sure they don't know the truth. If that's what you want. But once they know the truth, they won't leave you alone. Certainly not with him.”

You hated the way your chest tightened with affection at his consideration. You hated that you were here. You hated that he still had a hold on you. You hated how he talked about Slade. You hated hearing him say Tiffany's name, it brought back so much hurt and hatred.

“I don't care about them Keep them away for as long as you want. You know I'm not here to hear about them or your whore.” you said viciously, your eyes shining and your teeth sharpening.

Slade would be proud.

Harvey didn't react to your fangs, he wasn't afraid of you. He came closer and grasped your hand, his eyes so heartbroken that it gave you satisfaction, only for a minute.

His voice cracked slightly. “Nothing I do or say can make up for what I did.” His jaw tightened. “I know that.”

You should have walked away. But you didn’t. Because Harvey’s voice dropped lower, his words curling around you like a trap you should have seen coming. “But I need you to know something,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. “She wanted to be you, she tried so hard.”

Your breath hitched. You knew this. But hearing Harvey say it made you feel so much better.

Harvey’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “But she never could.”

Your stomach dropped. Why did this have to happen now? Why now when you finally forgot about him?

“She dressed like you,” he continued. “Talked like you. Watched the way you moved. The way you laughed.” His voice hardened. “The way you loved.”

You shook your head, backing away. You couldn't take this anymore. You wanted to run back into Slade's arms, where nothing could touch you. “Shut up.”

Harvey didn’t.

“She wanted to take everything from you.” His expression twisted. “And maybe, if I had been a different man, I would have let her.”

Your skin crawled at the thought. Harvey let out a breathless laugh, bitter and sharp. “But I couldn’t. I had to go digging, looking for clues.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “Because she wasn’t you. No matter how hard she tried to be. No matter how much she played with my mind, she could never replace you.”

You hated him.

You hated that you believed him.

You hated how you still loved him.

Harvey exhaled sharply, tilting his head, watching you with something frighteningly raw. “Every time she touched me, every time she tried to take something that wasn’t hers—” his voice dropped into something dangerous, low and dark and broken— “I was thinking of you.”

Your breathing came too fast.

Harvey stepped closer.

“Every time I kissed her,” he whispered, “I wanted it to be you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop. I don't care.” Lies.

“She wasn’t you,” he repeated, voice almost pleading. “She never could be.”

Your throat closed. Your eyes watered and your teeth burned with unshed venom just thinking of his betrayal. Why was this happening.

Harvey’s fingers ghosted over your wrist. Not touching, not quite.

“I never wanted her, not really” he murmured. “Not once.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. This was all you wanted to hear, all you wished for for so long. So why did you feel trapped. Harvey’s voice dropped even lower. He moved even closer

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

You forced yourself to look at him.

“If you don’t care,” he whispered, eyes burning, “why are you still here? Why do you want answers so bad? Why do you still look at me like that?”

You shouldn’t have come.

But you hadn’t been able to help yourself.

Because Harvey always knew what to say, how to linger in your mind like an open wound that refused to heal.

And now here you were, standing under the dim glow of the rooftop’s city lights, your eyes watering, the weight of his gaze pressing into you, sinking into your bones like something familiar, something dangerous.

You forced yourself to keep your stance steady, your pulse even. “You don’t get to ask me those questions.”

Harvey let out a breath, almost a chuckle, but there was no humor in it. His hands curled around the railing as he moved away from you again, gripping the cold metal like it was the only thing keeping him from reaching for you.

“Do you know how many times I told myself you were gone? That I lost you, ” His voice was steady now, but there was an edge to it—something dangerous. “How many times I tried to let you go, to let you move on?”

Your chest tightened. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something else, something more dangerous. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me. I didn't want you to regret your choice. I didn't want anything but happiness for you. No matter how much you hurt me.”

Harvey’s fingers twitched.

“No.” His lips pressed together in a thin line, he knew the truth, that you always wished the best for him. “No, you didn’t.”

The wind curled between you, cold and sharp, carrying the weight of everything unsaid. You should have turned away. Should have walked back the way you came.

But then Harvey laughed, a bitter, broken sound.

“She used her little snake charm but somehow,” he continued, “after a week I was thinking of you. I never loved her. Couldn't even bring myself to like her, honestly.”

Your stomach dropped. It was a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. He saw it—the flicker of emotion in your face, the tightening of your jaw, the way your breathing caught for just a second too long.

And Harvey, Two-Face, the man who never let go, moved forward, voice soft, eyes burning.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I never stopped loving you”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Shut up.”

He ignored you. Again.

“I love you so much,” he said, voice low. “You love me too or you wouldn't be here.”

“I said shut up.” He was right, he always is.

Harvey smirked, but there was nothing victorious in it. It was almost self-loathing.

“I never loved her,” he whispered again. He was making sure you knew.

“She wanted me to,” he continued. “She wanted to take everything from you.” His jaw tightened. “And maybe, if you had been a different woman, I would have let her.”

The thought of it made your skin crawl.

Harvey, Tiffany. Together. The ultimate betrayal.

“But I couldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “Because she wasn’t you.”

He kept repeating it, trying to speak his remorse into your heart directly. You hated how much it affected you. Hated how your chest ached, how your mind burned with the thought of what could have been. You shouldn’t care. But you did. And Harvey knew it.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, forcing steel into your voice. “You used her, just like she used you. You wanted to spy on Bruce and I wouldn't do it.”

Harvey let out a sharp breath. “Yeah.” His eyes met yours. Unflinching. “I did.”

There was no shame in his voice. Just cold, simple truth. No regret anymore. He didn't regret using her, he regretted hurting you.

“But it wasn’t revenge, sweetheart,” he murmured, his Gotham accent slipping in the angrier he got. “It was survival. She had me under her little spell at first; when that stopped working, her little dream team made sure I never stepped outta line. Never came crawling back to you, never told anyone the truth. But I'm done with them now.”

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Harvey stepped closer.

“Every time I kissed her, every time I played along, I was thinking of you.” His voice dipped, lower, darker. More desperate. “Every time I called her by her name, I wanted to say yours.”

Your breathing came too fast. This wasn’t fair. Harvey was not supposed to be able to do this to you. Not anymore. He was supposed to be dead to you. He had killed himself in your mind the day he let himself be used, the day he betrayed you.

And yet—

Yet.

You couldn’t move.

Because deep down, a part of you knew—you had thought of him, too. When you weren't with Slade, Harvey consumed your thoughts.

Your stomach twisted as he stepped closer again. “You’re smart, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You always were. Choose carefully.”

You swallowed hard. This wasn't about your family anymore. This was about him and Slade.

“You don’t have to go back to them.” He repeated himself again trying to convince you. His words settled in your bones, heavy, unshakable.

You clenched your jaw again. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Harvey’s eyes flickered, something dark and pleased curling at the edges. And then, voice low, almost dangerous, “Then why are you still with him?”

Your breath hitched. Slade. Your body went rigid.

Harvey took another step closer. Your noses almost touched and you nearly threw yourself into his arms.

“You think he's better than me?”

Your chest tightened. Doubt crept in. You had been so careful. So quiet. Hadn’t you? Harvey saw it. And he smiled.

A slow, knowing smirk. “He’s not going to let you go, he won't give you a choice. I don't blame the man, if I hadn't fucked everything up; I wouldn't let you go either.”

Your stomach dropped. The realization hit you all at once, suffocating, crushing. You hadn’t been careful. You had been playing into Slade’s hands all along.

Because Slade always knew. And if he hadn’t stopped you?

That meant he was letting you dig your own grave. A shiver ran through you.

The moment Harvey’s voice dipped, the second his fingers ghosted over your wrist like a lover’s touch—you should have walked away. But you didn’t. Because part of you needed to hear him say it. Needed to hear him tell you what you already knew.

That he still wanted you. That he never stopped. That you were never meant to be replaced. And it felt amazing to hear the regret in his voice and see the pure longing in his eyes.

The wind curled between you, cold and biting, but Harvey’s presence was stiflingly warm. He was watching you the way he always had; like you belonged to him, like the months between you hadn’t changed a thing. And for the first time all night, you let yourself look at him.

Really look at him.

The scars on the left side of his face had deepened, his two-toned gaze more piercing than before. The weight he carried in his shoulders was heavier, more defined. He was still Harvey, but he wasn’t just Harvey anymore. He had become something darker, something rough around the edges, something broken in a way that made you feel like a piece of you had broken along with him.

You swallowed. “I have to go.” Before you did something you couldn't take back.

Harvey exhaled, slow and deliberate. He nodded, but he didn’t move. He didn’t stop you. But he wasn’t letting you go, either.

“You’re going back to him.” It wasn’t a question. A statement, like he knew it was coming

Your pulse stuttered. “It’s not like that and you know it.” You still felt the need to defend yourself, even though you knew you didn't owe him an explanation.

You still loved him, that much was clear.

Harvey let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Sure it isn’t.”

You took a step back. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t say anything to stop you, but his presence curled around you like a shadow, wrapping itself around your spine, keeping you anchored in place. And then his voice dropped. Low. Certain.

“I’m letting you walk away. But I'm not letting you go. Not when we still love each other.”

Your throat tightened. He wasn’t chasing you. Not yet. But you felt it. The promise in his voice. The inevitability. You didn’t respond.

You didn't deny that you still loved him, it was like a child insisting they didn't eat cookies when they have crumbs all over them.

You just turned and forced yourself to walk away.

The apartment was silent when you returned. Slade was waiting, seated in his chair, drink in hand, legs spread, glaring at the walls. He didn’t turn when you entered. Didn’t move when you stepped further inside, carefully shutting the door behind you. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

You slipped off your shoes, moving slowly, watching him, waiting. Nothing. No reaction. Just that unshakable stillness. The kind that had always been more dangerous than his anger.

You took a steadying breath. If you didn't speak first, he wouldn't speak at all. “Slade—”

“I knew you’d come back.”

His voice cut through the room, sharp and even. Your fingers curled at your sides. “Of course I came back.”

Now, he looked at you. Finally. And when he did, it felt like a blow. That single eye, cold and assessing, swept over you, taking in every detail, every movement, every breath you tried to keep steady. Then, his lips curved. Slow. Controlled.

“Did he tell you what you wanted to hear? Make you want to run into his loving arms again?”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t let it show. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Slade exhaled through his nose, the faintest huff of amusement. “Don’t insult me.”

Your jaw tightened. Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. You weren’t sure if you were waiting for him to snap, or if he was waiting for you to confess. Then, finally—Slade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, voice lowering into something dangerous.

“Tell me something,” he said lowly.

You didn’t move. “What?”

Slade tilted his head, watching you like he was already playing out the end of this game. “Did you hesitate?”

The words hit harder than they should have. You swallowed. You could lie. You could tell him what he wanted to hear. But it wouldn’t matter. Slade always knew. And that was the worst part.

Slade was quiet for too long. Then—he sighed. Tired. Expectant. And that was worse than anger. You hated when he treated you like this, so indifferent. You liked his anger better, at least then you could get a reaction out of him.

“Take off your coat,” he said. You hesitated. Slade’s expression didn’t shift. “Now.”

Slowly, carefully, you did as he asked, slipping the fabric from your shoulders, letting it drop onto the chair beside you. Slade’s eye flickered toward it. Then, back to you.

You weren’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe he was looking for something Harvey left behind. Something you didn’t even realize you had carried home with you.

Then, after a long pause—Slade smirked. And it wasn’t kind like the ones you've grown accustomed to.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You stiffened. “Realize what?”

Slade leaned back again, completely relaxed. Like he had already won. “You'll know soon.”

Your breath caught. Where was he going with this? You hated when he spoke like some ancient being and he knew that. He was gonna be insufferable these next few days; he always is when you do something he doesn't like.

“Doesn’t matter where you go,” he continued, his voice so damn certain. His smirk widened, mocking. “You’ll always come back to me.”

Your chest tightened. You hated him. Because he was right. He knew you hated it, too.

You lay awake that night. Not because you couldn’t sleep. Not because Slade was in the other room, making you sleep alone for the first time in months, still awake, waiting, watching, knowing.

But because you couldn’t shake the way Harvey had looked at you before you left. Not angry. Not resentful. Just patient and remorseful. Like he already knew something you didn't.

Slade never brought it up again. Not directly. You weren’t sure if that was worse. You weren't sure if you wanted him to scream at you and demand you never see Harvey Dent again. You would rather anger than the silent treatment.

He didn’t demand answers. He didn’t press the issue. He simply carried on as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t watched you walk through the door smelling like another man’s presence.

That should have been a relief. But it wasn’t. Because Slade didn’t let things go. He let them fester.

It was in the way he touched you now, more deliberate, more possessive. The way his hands lingered a little too long on your waist when he passed you in the kitchen, the way his fingers grazed your wrist, as if reminding you that you were still there, still his.

It was in the way he watched you. He had always been observant, but now it was different. Sharper. He wasn’t just looking at you, he was reading you.

Every twitch of your fingers. Every slight shift in your breathing. Every time you looked over your shoulder without realizing it. You had brought something back from that rooftop, and Slade knew it.

And still, he said nothing. Instead, he tightened his hold.

It was late. The apartment was quiet, but neither of you were asleep. Your back pressed into the cool sheets, heartbeat steady but too aware of the man beside you. It'd been three days since Harvey and Slade was finally sleeping next to you again, but you knew he wasn't truly letting things go.

Slade’s fingers traced slow circles against your wrist, his grip loose but present. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he murmured.

You exhaled, shifting slightly beneath his hold. “And you have?”

A quiet chuckle. “I sleep when I need to.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the dim light of the bedroom. “And when do you need to?” You missed teasing him.

Slade’s smirk was lazy, knowing. “Whenever you’re not around to keep me entertained.”

You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t let you pull away. His grip tightened, just enough to remind you he was there.

“You think too much,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Keeps you restless.”

“Maybe I like thinking,” you shot back booping his nose. You lived to annoy him, to push his buttons in a way only you could get away with.

Slade hummed, shifting to prop himself up on his elbow, still watching you. His fingers trailed down your arm, you would've though he was trying to start something if his movements weren't so slow and calculated.

“What are you thinking about now?” He said reeling you into his trap, his eyes hard. You hated when he tried to trap you. Your pulse skipped. Nothing you said would be the right answer.

Slade’s lips quirked up slightly, but there was something in his expression—something darker, something expectant.

“You can say it,” he mused. “Say his name.”

You were tempted to do it, moan Harvey's name just to piss him off, but that was a line even you knew not to cross. You rolled your eyes, "God, just let it go Slade. It wasn't important."

Why couldn't he just let this go? Slade smirked, mocking. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t break his gaze. Didn’t look away. Because he knew. He always knew. Nothing goes over Slade Wilson's head.

The next morning, you woke up to a message. Not a text. Not a voicemail. A gift.

The small wooden box sat on the kitchen counter, neat, precise. Like it had been waiting for you. Your blood ran cold. You hadn’t heard anyone come in. You hadn’t even felt him. But Harvey had been here. You swallowed, fingers brushing over the lid before carefully lifting it open.

Inside was a single playing card.

The Two of Hearts.

And beneath it—folded carefully, as if it was meant to be unwrapped like some kind of sentimental treasure—was the same scarf he had left before.

Except this time, there was something else. Perfume. Your perfume. It smelled like you and him. Like Harvey had held onto it. Like he had kept it close. Your stomach twisted.

Harvey had been here. And you hadn’t even noticed.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the box, breath coming a little too sharp, too shallow. The walls of the apartment felt smaller. You didn’t hear Slade approach, but you felt him before he spoke.

His voice was smooth, dangerous. “Something I should know about?”

You forced yourself to breathe. “No.”

Slade leaned against the counter, eyeing the box like he already knew exactly who it was from. And then—he laughed. A quiet, amused sound, as if this was a game he had already won. “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” he said, in the same tone some used when regretting not buying a book before it sold out.

Your stomach dropped. Slade tilted his head, eye still locked on you. “But you wouldn’t have liked that, would you?”

You said nothing.

Slade smirked, shaking his head. “Soft spot for old flames.” He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist. “That’s your problem.”

You clenched your jaw, jerking your arm away. “And what’s yours?”

Slade’s gaze darkened. “I don’t have problems.”

You let out a breathless, humorless laugh. Always with the tough guy persona, honestly it must be tiring always acting untouchable. “Right. Sorry, I forgot. Because you don’t feel anything.”

Slade didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, unreadable. His hand reached for your jaw, firm, demanding. His thumb traced your cheek, slow, deliberate. And when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I feel plenty.” You swallowed. Slade smirked. “You just don’t like what I feel.”

You stepped back before you could do something stupid. Something that would make you forget about the box on the counter, the scent of Harvey still lingering in the air. Something that would make you forget that you weren’t sure who you were more afraid of losing.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Harvey was right. They were going to find out the full truth soon. And when they did, they would come for you.

Now, a week after your meeting with him, your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Message after message, call after call, each one from Tim Drake-Wayne. All asking you questions about Tiffany, about yourself. About where you were.

Your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled through the texts, hands shaking, stomach twisting itself into knots so tight you thought you might be sick. Of course Tim was the first to figure out something was wrong. He was about five years too late though.

Tim: We need to talk. Please answer. I have questions. About Tiffany..

You could barely breathe. He wanted to investigate, to look deep into Tiffany. Now?

Now, after years of pushing you aside, after ignoring every cry for help, now he wanted to take your warnings seriously.

Your eyes burned, fingers tightening around the phone, your mind screaming at you to respond, to finally say all the things you’d held in your chest for too long.

But you didn’t. Instead, you turned the phone off. You shoved it under the pillow, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to push away the tears, trying to ignore the way your chest ached with something ugly and desperate.

The moment you walked out of the bedroom, you knew he had seen.

Slade was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, gaze heavy with something unreadable. The phone was still buzzing beneath the pillow in the other room, and somehow, you knew he had heard it.

He had been waiting for this. You swallowed, standing stiffly near the doorway, trying to pretend like everything was fine. Slade didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

“Took him long enough,” he mused, his voice casual, controlled.

You rolled your eyes. He's been bitchy ever since the whole Harvey thing.

Slade’s eye flickered to your hands, still clenched at your sides. “And let me guess—you ignored him.”

You hated how easily he could see through you. You glared at him, jaw tight. “None of your business.”

Slade chuckled, shaking his head, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was lower now, smoother, curling around your spine like a threat disguised as affection. “Everything about you is my business.”

You tensed. Slade reached up, tracing a gloved finger along your cheek, tilting your chin up slightly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“He’ll keep calling,” he murmured. “He’ll keep begging. He'll figure it out and tell the rest of the little squad and they'll all come running back. Just like your dear old Dent. ” His lips curled into something mocking. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Make mistakes because they know you'll forgive them?"

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. Not to hurt you, just enough to remind you who was in control.

His thumb brushed over your lips, slow, deliberate. “What are you gonna do?”

Your breath hitched. Slade leaned in slightly, voice dropping even lower. Dangerous. “Do you want Tim to tell the others? Want your family back? Want him back? Even after he fucked your sister while you were lying sick in your bed?”

Your throat tightened. He was toying with you. Mocking you, trying to hurt you. Making you say it. And you didn’t want to say it. Because you didn’t know. Your family had been your world.For so long, all you wanted was to be seen.

To be loved.

To be something more than just a ghost standing in the background, watching them fawn over someone who had stolen everything from you. And Harvey gave that to you, before he betrayed you.

And now, he was sorry. Soon, they would all know the truth and be sorry.

The emotions clawed at your throat.

You wanted to scream at Tim. Tell him it was too late. Tell them that he could never fix this. No amount of investigating and apologies could make up for years of neglect.

But another part of you, the part that still ached for their love, the part that still wanted them to prove you wrong,

That part whispered, “What if?” What if when they found out the truth, they would love you? What if this time, they actually stayed?

What if this was your chance to finally have the family you always wanted?

The war inside your head made you dizzy. And Slade knew it. He was still holding you, still keeping you rooted to him, while your world spun out of control. After a long, suffocating silence, Slade finally sighed. “You’re a mess.”

You glared at him, pushing away from his grip. “Fuck you.”

Slade chuckled, unfazed. “You do it almost every night.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, "You're a child, you know that?"

You turned away, grabbing a glass from the counter, hands still shaking slightly as you filled it with water. You weren’t thirsty, but you needed something—anything—to keep yourself grounded.

Slade leaned against the counter again, watching you with amusement, but something deeper lurked beneath it. Then, in a voice so casual it almost didn’t register, “I’ll make him stop. I'll make them both stop.”

The glass almost slipped from your fingers. You turned sharply, eyes wide. “What?”

Slade shrugged, like it was nothing. “You don’t want to deal with them. You don’t want to make a decision. So I’ll make it for you.”

Your breath caught. Slade never dealt with things peacefully, he got rid of problems permanately. “You can’t just—”

“I can.” His smirk deepened. “And I will.”

Your stomach twisted. Because the worst part was; you weren’t sure if you were relieved or horrified. Because Slade was right. You didn’t want to make a choice. You wanted someone to do it for you.

And Slade was more than happy to take that burden.

The first thing you noticed the next morning was the silence. No more buzzing. No more messages lighting up your screen. Slade had done it.

He hadn’t waited for you to argue. Hadn’t given you the choice. By the time you checked your phone, every number had been blocked. Every contact erased like they had never existed at all.

And maybe that’s what Slade wanted.

For them to be nothing but ghosts in your past. A clean break. A fresh start. So why did it feel like your chest was splitting open?

You had spent years craving their attention. Years begging for even a scrap of love. And now? Now you had the chance to get it. And you ignored it. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t need them. That you had spent too long chasing something that was never meant to be yours.

And yet, as you stood in the quiet of the apartment, phone gripped too tight in your hands, you ached. Because you had wanted them to fight for you.

Slade had left that morning, his usual teasing smirk in place, but there had been something off.

Maybe it was the fact that his mission was dragging out longer than expected.

Maybe it was the way his fingers had lingered under your chin before he left, thumb brushing over your jaw like he was making sure you were still his.

Or maybe it was the way he had muttered, “Be good while I’m gone, sweetheart.” as you kissed him goodbye.

Like he already knew you wouldn’t be. Like he already knew something was coming. The apartment felt too big without him. His absence wasn’t something you should have noticed.

But you did.

It was in the empty space beside you when you sat on the couch. The extra portion of dinner you made out of habit. The lack of footsteps behind you. The missing weight of his presence pressing against your world, keeping you safe.

It was the first time in months you had been truly alone. So you did the only thing you could think of.

You took a nice, long, hot, shower, trying to dull the ache below your hips. You and Slade had sex last night, but somehow you were already wanting more. It was like your body could sense his absense.

You stood under the hot water, letting the steam curl around your skin, letting the heat scald away the thoughts clawing at your mind.

Maybe Slade was right. Maybe it was easier to just let go.

There was a sound. Soft. Distant. A creak where there shouldn’t be one. You wouldn't have heard it, wouldn't have sensed the body heat if you didn't have your powers. Your heart stopped. You turned off the water immediately, listening.

Nothing.

Maybe it was just—

Another creak. Closer this time. You swallowed, pulse hammering, every nerve in your body screaming at you that something was wrong. Slade was gone.

No one should be here. But you weren’t alone.

The second you stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your damp skin, fangs reader and a knife in your hand, you felt him.

The shift in the air. The weight of someone watching. And then, his voice.

“Gotta admit,” Harvey mused, voice smooth, mocking, as if he had any right to be angry “didn’t think you’d be the type to shack up with a guy like him.”

Your stomach dropped. You turned sharply, eyes darting across the room, breath catching in your throat when you saw him.

Sitting on your bed. On Slade’s bed.

Harvey was leaning back against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other, looking far too comfortable. Like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t the intruder in this equation.

Harvey sat there like he hadn’t broken in, hadn’t shattered what little peace you had left. The moment you stepped out of the shower, still dripping, wrapped only in a towel, you knew, he was waiting for you.

Your fingers clenched around the towel’s edge, jaw tight, pulse pounding.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve," you muttered, stepping further into the room, closing the distance between you and him.

Harvey leaned back against the pillows, one arm draped lazily over the headboard, watching you with something smug, something knowing.

"Had to see you," he said simply. Like it was normal. Like it was nothing.

Your stomach twisted. It was never nothing with Harvey.

"And let me guess," you bit back. "You just let yourself in."

His smirk widened. "Door was unlocked, it’s not breaking and entering if you used to live together."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Bullshit. That’s exactly what it is, Dent. We don't like together anymore. Never did officially either."

Harvey didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze slid lower. Over the damp strands of your hair. Over your throat. Your collarbone. Your bare legs.

You knew that look. It made something ugly stir inside you.

He looked at you, gaze slow, deliberate, taking in every inch of you. The damp strands of hair clinging to your skin. The way the towel barely covered enough to keep you decent.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Don’t stop on my account. Nothing I haven't seen before.”

Your fingers clenched around the towel, pulse thundering. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Harvey let out a quiet chuckle, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Relax, sweetheart. Just thought I’d drop by. Say hello. You wouldn’t answer your phone, so I figured—” he spread his arms in mock innocence, “—why not pay a visit?”

You hated how calm he was. How easy he made it look. Like he hadn’t just broken into your home. Like he hadn't broken your heart. Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, heart hammering against your ribs. Slade was gone. Gone.

No one was coming. But you could handle yourself. And Harvey knew it. His eyes flickered down your body again, this time slow, calculating. Looking at all the marks and love bites Slade had left the night before. “You always did have a thing for older men,” he mused.

Your jaw clenched. Low blow.

Harvey smirked. “What’s the matter? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Thought you could just run off and play house with Gotham’s favorite mercenary and I’d let it slide?” He tsked, almost disappointed. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”

You glared at him. Where did he get the audacity? “You don’t own me. Especially not now. Especially not after what you did. Your apology didn't change anything. You've got no right to be here.”

Harvey’s expression darkened, but only for a second. Then he grinned. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking about him.”

Your stomach twisted. Because you knew what he was doing. He wanted you off balance. He wanted you to doubt. It was working. Because a part of you—a part you hated—was already wondering what Slade would do when he found out. Because he would find out. How jealous would he be? Would he finally drop the whole nonchalant act, ask you to be official?

Harvey’s smirk widened. “You think he’s coming back soon? You waiting for him? That's real cute princess.”

Your throat tightened. “He'll be back tomorrow.”

Harvey shrugged, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How missions can just drag out longer than expected?” His grin turned sharp. Cruel. “Would be a real shame if something happened to keep him… occupied.”

Your blood froze. Harvey watched you, waiting for the realization to sink in. He knew. He knew Slade wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

Your fingers curled into fists and suddenly you were on top of him, fangs bared, “What did you do?”

Harvey simply leaned back, enjoying himself and the view of your almost naked body on top of him. He turned his neck, as if trying to give you more access to him.

Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Now, now. Don’t go blaming me. I didn’t lift a finger.” His grin widened. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know who did.”

Your breath was coming too fast, too shallow, panic creeping up your spine. Slade was gone. Harvey was here. You were trapped. And Harvey knew it. Your pulse pounded. Slade was gone. Harvey was here.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pinning him down harder against the mattress, your fangs bared, breath coming in sharp, furious exhales.

"What did you do?" you hissed again, voice low, dangerous, shaking with barely contained rage.

Harvey smirked up at you, completely unbothered. His eyes gleamed with that same smug amusement, like he was playing with his food.

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmured, voice infuriatingly smooth, teasing. "No need to get all worked up."

You pressed your thighs against his sides, pinning him harder. "Answer me, Harvey."

He let out a slow breath, his smirk twitching, dark amusement flickering across his features. "You always were so determined. I love that about you."

Your fingers tightened, nearly scratching his back, sharp acrylics pressing into his skin through the fabric of his white button down. You didn't want to hurt him, not badly at least.

"Tell me why Slade’s mission is taking so long," you demanded, your weight pressing down on him, your legs gripping him tighter.

Harvey’s hands moved then; sliding slowly up your thighs, gripping just hard enough to make your breath catch.

"You really think I’m gonna make this easy for you?" he murmured, voice dropping to something lower, something thicker with something he wasn’t bothering to hide.

Your stomach flipped, heat creeping down your spine, twisting through your limbs. He knew. He felt it.

His smirk widened, his hips shifting beneath you just slightly.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Throbbing. Pressing against the thin fabric of his slacks, against the barely-there barrier of your towel. You nearly moaned, stop being a slut, you tried to tell yourself.

You froze, just for a second. And Harvey noticed.

You were straddling him, baring your venomous fangs. You could kill him. And he was hard. You could feel it, it was impossible not to, thick, twitching against your inner thigh, pressed right against you.

Your powers didn’t help. They never fucking did. The second you got close enough to feel body heat, it was over. It was a constant hum under your skin, that ache, that need, clawing at your sanity. Your towel barely clinging to your damp skin, the heat of his body seeping into yours, you didn't know how much longer you could hold on.

He let out a low, pleased chuckle, his good hand settling on your waist, just barely gripping. "Didn’t know you missed me this much, sweetheart. Thought you were over me?"

Your nails dug into his chest even harder, but he didn’t flinch. He never fucking did. "Tell me where Slade is," you demanded.

Harvey hummed, mocking. "You sure you wanna talk about him right now?" His fingers flexed against your skin, his smirk widening as he shifted slightly beneath you again. "Because from where I’m sitting, you got bigger problems."

Your breath hitched, and you hated it. Hated the way your traitorous body reacted to him. Hated the way he felt so familiar.

His gaze flickered, taking in the flush on your skin, the way your thighs squeezed involuntarily around him. He felt it too. The heat. The tension. The pull that never really disappeared, no matter how many times you had tried to convince yourself that you were done with him.

"You always were greedy," Harvey murmured, tilting his head, eyes dark with something wicked. He was loving this. "You just can’t get enough, can you?"

Suddenly, you were angry at him again. You remembered Tiffany. Your grip tightened around his wrists, holding him down, pressing harder into him, and his smirk twitched, just slightly.

Good. Let him fucking squirm. "You still think you have control here?" you whispered, lowering your head, your breath grazing the sharp line of his jaw.

His breathing faltered. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, just as quickly, his lips curled again, sharp and taunting.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice deep, smug, full of sin. "As long as youre on top of me or under me, I don't give a shit who's in control."

Your entire body tensed. Your nails dragged down his chest, slow, teasing, right over his shirt. You could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath your fingertips, fast, erratic, out of sync with the smug bastard act he was putting on.

He was burning for you. Just as much as you were for him. But you weren’t going to give in.

"You still think you can do whatever you want to me?" you whispered, leaning in, letting your lips hover just over his.

Harvey’s eyes flickered. A muscle in his jaw ticked. And for the first time since he had shown up, his smirk finally fucking dropped.

You grinned. Then you moved your hips and ran your fingers up and down his chest.

Harvey cursed sharply through his teeth, his grip on your waist tightening instantly, fingers digging into your skin like a vice. His dick twitched against you through his slacks, so fucking hard and aching that you could almost feel the pulse of it.

You let out a slow, breathy chuckle. "Guess you do still want me, huh?"

Harvey’s breathing was uneven. "Careful," he rasped, voice lower, darker, more dangerous now. "You’re playing a real stupid game, princess."

"Why?" you taunted, grinded your hips again, watching the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to snap. "Because you can’t handle it? Because you can’t handle me?"

It was fun being in control. Slade never let you do whatever you wanted to him, barely ever in the bedroom. You loved control, especially when it meant having a man at your mercy beneath you.

Harvey’s eyes flashed. Then, he flipped you. Fast. Brutal.

You barely had time to react before you were the one beneath him , your towel barely hanging onto your body, his hand locked around your wrist, pinning you down, his body hovering over yours, pressing you into the mattress.

His breathing was hard, uneven, tense.

"You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?" he murmured, so close now.

Your chest heaved. You got too cocky, too confident, and now you were paying the price, "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Harvey laughed softly, mocking, brushing his nose against yours. "Liar."

You swallowed, pulse hammering.

"You love this," he said, voice like gravel against your skin. "The attention. The desperation and groveling. You love seeing me beg. The way you talk like you want to kill me, and the next second," his lips ghosted your cheek, his cock pressing hard against your thigh, "you’re grinding against me like a fucking addict."

Your breath hitched. His grip tightened.

"He ever let you get on top?" he murmured, lips just barely grazing yours.

Your stomach twisted. "Don't."

His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Did you think about me when he had you at first? Did you close your eyes and pretend it was my hands on you even after I broke your heart? Should I tell him that?"

Your nails dug into his shoulder, your body betraying you, the heat between your legs only getting worse, stronger, overwhelming, unbearable.

"You wish," you rasped, but it sounded too breathless, too shaky.

Harvey smirked. He knew. "Say you don’t miss me," he challenged.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head away, trying to ignore the way your body burned beneath his.

"Say it," he demanded.

You tried to, but the words wouldn't come out.

Harvey hummed. Then, his fingers slid lower, trailing along your bare thigh, teasing the hem of the towel.

"Yeah," he mused, smug and cruel. "That’s what I thought."

His fingers flexed against your thighs, his grip tightening.

"Little desperate, aren’t you?" he murmured, his voice thick with something smug, something rough.

You scoffed, but your heart was hammering, your body betraying you. "If I was desperate," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips were just barely brushing against his, taunting, teasing. "You’d already be inside me."

Harvey let out a low groan. He flipped you back around, giving you full control. Letting you be on top. You lost yourself for a moment, lost the plot. You melted into him and began kissing his neck slowly and unbuttoning his shirt as you slowly moved against him. But then, you saw the picture frame you hung of you and Slade, right behind Harvey.

Slade made you take down all the photos whenever he went away on a mission, in case someone broke in and saw them, and decided to hurt you to get back at him. It was the only one you refused to remove.

It was of you and him, two months ago. Slade had a mission in Paris and he let you tag along, after you were done, you made him go to an ice cream shop. Some sweet old man asked if you wanted a picture together, Slade wasn't smiling, barely even smirking, but you could see the happiness in his eyes as he had his arms around your waist, looking down at you.

You felt nauseous, all the arousal you felt was gone. You were a whore. How could you do this to Slade? You stopped moving as your eyes watered, what if Harvey had done something to him?

Harvey's hands snapped up, gripping your hips, grinding you down onto him. He wasn't gonna let you stop now.

"Fuck, baby, I forgot how good you are at this. Don't stop, please." he exhaled, almost begging, his jaw tightening, his cock pulsing against you.

You bit your lip, trying to fight the heat clawing through your body, the way your nerves lit up at the sheer pressure of him beneath you. It felt so good. You were horny again. But you could use this to your advantage, Harvey wanted you even more that you wanted him.

"Tell me," you whispered, rolling your hips just slightly, torturing him. "Tell me what you mean when you say Slade's occupied.."

Harvey’s smirk curled, his hands dragging you down harder, making you feel every inch of him. " What’s it worth to you?"

Your breath hitched. Harvey’s fingers trailed up your back, slow, possessive, teasing. "You wanna make sure your merc comes back in one piece?"

You swallowed hard, your body thrumming with frustration, anger, something else. All control you had was slipping, your powers were making you horny but they weren't working. Harvey wasn't listening to what you told him to do.

"Make me happy, sweetheart. If I’m happy," his smirk deepened, his voice dripping with dark amusement. " the bastard stays alive."

Your chest tightened, heat roaring up your spine, burning you from the inside out. You hated him. You wanted him. You needed to keep Slade alive. Harvey’s hands slid lower, his thumbs tracing slow, burning circles into your skin.

"Make a decision, pretty girl, his flight leaves soon." he murmured, his dick twitched against you, heavy with need. God, how could he be horny while threatening your teacher/ mentor /situationship's life?

You couldn’t lose Slade.

So you kissed him. Hard. Desperate.

Harvey groaned against your lips, his hands flying up to grip your waist, dragging you down harder against him, practically trying to merge your bodies together.

"That’s my girl," he muttered, his voice rough, victorious, possessive.

Your stomach burned with shame, with need, with something twisted and terrible. You hated him. You loved him.

You needed Slade to live.

But you couldn't do this to Slade, couldn't betray him on the bed you shared every night. He would be livid, what would he do in this situation? Probably kill Harvey. But you weren't Slade, you weren't as brave or as cruel as him.

So you did what you do best: You ran.

You jumped off of Harvey, punching him in the nose, still only in your towel that somehow stayed on, and shut the bedroom door in his face. You had powers, you were faster than Harvey, maybe even stronger than him. You made it to the front door in seconds, but your heart dropped as you saw the three new deadbolts.

Fucking Slade. You debated letting him die at that point.

Suddenly, you felt him behind you, grabbing you and pinning you against the door.

“Goddamn,” He laughed, amused, mocking, “you really thought that would work?”

You snarled, struggling harder, but he didn’t budge. His grip only tightened.

“Let me go, Harvey.”

His breath hitched at the way you said his name. Not Dent. Not Two-Face. Not some alias meant to keep distance. Just Harvey.

And it made something in his chest clench. His fingers flexed, his other hand dragging up your spine in a slow, deliberate motion, making you shudder.

“You always run, don’t you?” His voice was low, smooth—but there was something dangerous beneath it. “Always running from someone.”

His grip tightened on your wrists, pressing them into the wall, “From them. From me. From yourself.”

You hated how well he knew you. You hated that he was right. You hated how he got you into bed willingly even as the guilt ate you up. You hated how good he made you feel, how you couldn't bring yourself to say no. If you did, he would stop, and you didn't want that.

"Don't act like you don't want me now. You were all over me not even a minute ago." He sneered, as he ripped off your towel like it offended him.

You didn't know how many times you came, or how long you went for. You felt so good, but somehow you've never felt worse. Even as Harvey made you scream his name, you thought of how Slade would react.

You felt even worse as the night wore on, and instead of rough sex, you began to make love. Harvey buried his face in your neck as he muttered apologies, still buried inside you, and swore he would make it up to you.

You began to cry, it felt so good. But it was so wrong, so disgusting.

And you knew you never felt true regret until you woke up the next morning in Harvey Dent's arms, naked on the bed you slept on with Slade Wilson.

WHAT YALL THINK?? 1-10?? ALSO COMMENT DOWN BELOW TO BE ON THE TAGLIST FOR THIS STORY

[heartyluv]

Note: Literally after I thought about this and after Ivy said that I need to do it, I had to deliver. So everyone, kindly thank @asiatic-apple because she is a phenomenal motivator. The day I take a break from Tumblr fr will be a day for the booksss LOLL. Also, forgive me if this is not the best. Ideas were rushing and I did this under an hour. 🙏🏽

Creds to @/dollywons for the dividers!

Rating: Explicit - !!Minors DO NOT Interact!!

Warning: Smut (Not too detailed), Caleb is toxic and a baby trapper…

ToxicBabyFather!Caleb/Reader

✦ Okay, so you and Caleb have been together since like high school. He was in several of your classes and the first time you two had a conversation, he knew that he would forever be wrapped around your finger.

✦ The behavior he portrayed that caused you two to break up in the first place was not something he’s ever kept hidden from you. Truthfully, because you loved him so much and loved how he loved you, you believed that you could tolerate it enough until he fixed it. He never did.

✦ Possessive, obsessive, overly protective, crowding, overwhelming—just the definition of too much. But unfortunately, you were with him for almost a decade and in that time, you two had a baby girl that he and you love to death, but it wasn’t enough to keep you together.

✦ He’s definitely tried proposing to you several times, before and after you got pregnant, but you always said no. And you believed your pregnancy was an accident, a broken condom. But you thought it could be a good thing—that a baby would fix him.

✦ You never knew the man had gotten you pregnant on purpose the night you two had one of your more serious fights. He got on his knees and apologized over and over until you caved in and let him fuck you stupid. So drunk on dick, you never noticed when he sneakily took the condom off after he pulled out to swiftly change positions.

✦ “You can’t leave me, please don’t leave me. I’m everything you are…you’ll always be where I am.” His strokes would’ve been deep and forceful, oh my gosh…He had you bent over, back arched, and you had those sheets balled up in your fists while you’re fucking DROOLING!!!

✦ Despite the nasty words exchanged and his intense gaslighting in that fight, you stayed long enough for your daughter to be four years old before you actually called it quits, “for good”. But Caleb never relented. Because of that little girl, it was the only reason he had access to you. Just like he wanted, exactly how he planned.

✦ He was always on time to pick her up and to drop her off, but you’ve always known that it was just so that he could get under your skin, to make your body hot and your cunt hungry for him. You were weak with him.

✦ He makes sure to slide in his little threats, too. Even does it with a smile.

✦ “I hope you haven’t been bringing anyone in here. You wouldn’t want to make your future husband angry, would you baby?”

✦ You’re not allowed to date. He made that clear. I know what you’re thinking. How the hell could he control that? Simple. He has you obsessed with that COCK!! It has become physically impossible for you to even think about fucking or being with anyone else because of him. And you refused to say it out loud, but the fact that you let him fuck you RAW EVERY SINGLE TIME, tells him that you’re just as addicted.

✦ Never did you think you’d be a woman hung up on a man’s dick the way you are with Caleb’s, but if you’ve never had it, you’d never understand.

✦ Caleb’s dick is thick and it’s long, but not to where it’s scary. In fact, he fills you up so perfectly. Y’all are like a majorly fucked up puzzle. The way the tip of his cock always kisses your cervix like a threatening promise, making you feel how he’ll always be this deep in you is INTOXICATING OMG….

✦ And Caleb will literally come back to see you the same day he picks your daughter up. He’ll drop her off with his mother or something, and you hate that because it’s supposed to be his time with her. But when he has you spread wide for him in your bed, your pussy sucking him in so desperately, it becomes quite difficult to focus on anything else.

✦ “For someone to hate me so bad, you love begging me to fill you with my cock, don’t you pretty?” he mockingly coos, your legs over hooked around his arms. “Maybe I should get you pregnant again, hm? I already own you. Why don’t I just do it again so I can make sure everyone sees how much?”

✦ Your bodies mix and work like perfect fucking chemistry. YOU KNOW BED CHEM BY SABRINA CARPENTER?!?!? YEAH, YEAH THAT’S YOU TWO!!!!

✦ He’s always whispering the filthiest things, too. And you hate love that you clench around him tighter when he threatens imaginary men you’ve never even met.

✦ “Gonna take a picture of my cum dripping out of you before I leave. Maybe I’ll come back to stuff you again so you won’t forget that I was here, hm?”

✦ “If I ever find out you let anyone else touch my pussy, step foot under the roof I put over your head, I’ll blow his fucking brains out.”

✦ “I’ll wait till you come back to your senses and you’re begging me to come home. I’ll keep having you like this until then, yeah? And my cock hungry princess is gonna let me.”

✦ “You’re so pretty for me, baby. So, so fucking pretty. You feel me in your stomach? Wait until I put another baby in you. You’ll be feeling me for a loonngg time.”

✦ Should you stop fucking the man you were supposed to have left? Yes. Should you stop letting him come over and fuck you whenever he wants to? Absolutely. But could you give up that euphoric buzz he grants you every time his dick pulses inside your walls? Fuck no.

Tags 🏷️: @obeythebutler @honeymoonfleur

[al-1-na]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

Pairing: Drew Starkey x Younger!Reader

Rating: NSFW / 18+

Vibes: Soft beginning, intense rough/praising smut, soft emotional aftercare

One Shots Masterlist

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

You met Drew through mutual friends at a wrap party—one of those chaotic Hollywood nights where you didn’t know half the people and didn’t care to. He was standing near the back patio, cigarette in hand, hoodie up, a little detached from the crowd, like he wasn’t built for the scene but tolerated it when necessary.

He caught your eye because he didn’t look at you like everyone else did. No lingering up-and-down glances, no creepy smiles. Just one look—steady, curious—and then he tipped his head in acknowledgment like you were in on the same secret.

You ended up outside with him half an hour later, sharing a cigarette you didn’t even want, listening to him talk about a role he was prepping for. You barely said anything, just watched him talk, his voice low and steady, hands moving with soft, easy gestures. He was older, calm in ways you weren’t, but that only made the whole thing more magnetic.

He got your number before the night ended.

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

Months passed. You became friends—well, friends on the edge of something heavier. Constant texting. Calls that lasted until 3 a.m. Watching movies at his place, too close on the couch, never acknowledging the weight in the air.

You knew you wanted him, and you knew he felt it too. But there was this unspoken line. The age thing. The career gap. The fact that everything with him felt so much more intense than any of the casual crap you were used to.

But tonight, that line finally vanished.

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

You were sitting on his bed, knees curled under you, wearing one of his shirts—oversized and soft, smelling like his cologne and the kind of comfort you didn’t want to analyze. You were talking about something stupid, laughing too hard, and he was just watching you.

His eyes were darker than usual, jaw clenched just enough to be noticeable. And then, quietly, he said:

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your laughter died instantly. “What?”

He leaned in, voice low and firm. “I’ve been trying to be good. I’ve been trying to wait. But you’re killing me.”

You swallowed, heart hammering against your ribs. “Then stop waiting.”

That was it. One second, you were staring at each other—and the next, his mouth was on yours, hands cupping your jaw like he needed to ground himself in your skin. The kiss was slow at first, exploring, learning every curve of your lips like he’d imagined it a hundred times and wanted to make it count.

But it didn’t stay slow for long.

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

Drew guided you back against the bed, climbing over you with careful, almost reverent control. His hands slipped under your shirt, dragging it up and over your head, eyes dragging over your bare chest like he was memorizing you.

“God,” he muttered, fingers grazing over your breasts, making you arch into him. “You’re perfect. So goddamn perfect.”

Your hips lifted automatically as he pulled your shorts down, exposing soft skin and the soaked fabric of your underwear. He paused, eyes locking with yours.

“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice ragged.

You nodded, breathless. “Please.”

That was all it took. He kissed down your body slowly, lips trailing fire across your stomach, hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. And when his mouth finally found you, tongue licking through your wetness, you almost cried out.

He licked slow and deep at first, teasing your clit with gentle flicks of his tongue, then sucking just enough to make your back arch. His hands held your thighs open as he devoured you, murmuring praise against your skin.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he breathed. “So damn good for me, baby.”

Your hands found his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned in response, the vibration sending shocks through you. You were already close, your legs shaking, and when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right, it was over. You came hard, gasping his name, thighs clamping around his head as you trembled.

He kissed back up your body, not giving you a second to recover. “I need to be inside you,” he growled. “Now.”

You barely managed a nod before he was stripping out of his own clothes—ripped shirt, jeans, briefs—all of it gone in seconds. His body was lean and strong, muscles carved and golden under the soft light. You reached out to touch him, but he caught your wrist, pinning it above your head as he settled between your thighs.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “You ready for me?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please. I need it.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he filled you completely—stretching you, pressing deep, making your entire body go taut. He stayed there for a second, kissing your temple, your jaw, your throat.

“You feel so good,” he whispered. “So tight. So warm. Fuck, I could stay inside you forever.”

Then he started moving.

His thrusts were hard and deliberate, hitting deep, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. One hand held your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip, guiding your body to meet every drive of his.

“You take me so well,” he murmured, voice wrecked with pleasure. “Such a good girl for me.”

You were moaning, crying out with every snap of his hips, and he didn’t stop—just kept pounding into you with brutal, perfect rhythm, praising you through it all.

“Look at you. So beautiful. So desperate for me.”

“You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Your second orgasm built fast, overwhelming, and when you clenched around him, he groaned your name like it was the only word he remembered.

He fucked you through it, thrusts getting rougher, sloppier, and finally, he buried himself deep with a sharp gasp, coming hard inside you, his body shaking with the force of it.

₊˚ʚ 🎀 ₊˚✧ﾟ.

For a long moment, the room was quiet. Just heavy breathing. Sweat-slicked skin. The soft rustle of sheets as he collapsed beside you and pulled you into his chest.

“Hey,” he murmured after a few beats, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “You okay?”

You nodded, pressing your face into his chest. “Better than okay.”

He laughed, soft and low, and kissed the top of your head. “Didn’t mean for that to happen tonight. But I’m not sorry.”

“Me neither,” you whispered.

He tilted your face up, looked at you with something that felt dangerously close to love.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said, voice raw.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

[callmezayka]

Ok but imagine Nikto with a girl just as weird as he is.

You don't even know how you ended up in the military, or how you ended up being accepted, but you were. And on Nikto's unit. It's not that you're insane, you just don't care enough about anything. It's like an eternal autopilot and you're just surfing in it. But for others, you're straight up psycho.

During a mission, while everything just got fucked up, your unit cornered and the chances of any of you leaving the place were minimal, you pulled up a aerosol deodorant and a lighter and threw fire on a enemy who got too close, creating the perfect distraction for your unit to catch the enemies off guard and eliminate them. You basically saved the unit? Yes. You gave a damn about it? Definitely no. “I did what needed to be done” is what you said when your captain came to thank you.

Nikto, on the other hand, wasn't as impressed as the rest. He thought the same, you just did what needed to be not, nothing special, yet he found himself observing you more than he probably should. The way you were so nonchalant about everything, even when you got shot, was weirdly interesting to him, and he found himself curious to know what you liked, even if his nonchalant attitude showed the opposite.

He wasn't just interested, he was obsessed. Had already memorized your favorite weapons, your daily schedule, favorite book and even the size of your gear. What can he say? It's just curiosity.

Until one day he just sat by your side in the common room while you read the same book you read a hundred times. He didn't say a word, just looked at you for a few seconds, nodding at you as you looked at him and nodded back, going back to your book. From this day, a strange friendship formed between the two of you.

You barely exchanged a word or two, but worked in perfect harmony while in the field, being unstoppable when together, and spent most of your silent time reading by each other's side in the common room. You were always together, except in your quarters, you still valued your moments alone.

If anyone asked any of you what you were, the answer was the same for both of you “we tolerate each other”. Weird choice of word, tolerate. You were almost symbiotic, and yet you claim to just tolerate each other. Sounded almost comical, if there wasn't such possessiveness in your relationship.

He wouldn't accept any other soldier helping you with your guns or gear, glaring at them as if he could kill with one look. You wouldn't accept any other soldier sit by his side in the cafeteria, motioning with your head for them to move away. They had half a mind to argue with any of you. And if the possessiveness wasn't enough, there was this obsession too. You simply knew everything about each other, even each other’s schedule and toothbrush color. It was strange, you two just kept thinking about the other every damn second.

The other soldiers simply started to treat you like a couple. You were his girlfriend, and he was your boyfriend, at least in the soldier's eyes. You didn't care, in fact, since it wasn't true. What a ridiculous thing, dating Nikto.

Until it wasn't ridiculous anymore.

During a mission, you got shot. Nothing serious, just a bullet in your leg, but you did lose blood and ended up spending some days in the infirmary. Boy, the man was restless. He wasn't snapping at anyone, he's a soldier, he had self control, but anyone could see he was grumpier than normal, glaring at anyone who tried to approach him. You weren't any different, bored to death and feeling strangely lonely, something that never bothered you before, but was bothering you now. You missed your weird companion. A lot.

Until you heard the nurse's voice asking Nikto what he was doing there, at the infirmary, your head snapping up to meet his gaze. “I came to see my girlfriend”, was his answer. Blunt and short, as always.

Girlfriend. The word sounded so strange on his tongue and on your ears, but at the same time it carried some sort of silent endearment and agreement between the two of you. You were his girlfriend, he was your boyfriend, and that's it.

“I brought your book”, he said, handing you your favorite book and sitting on the chair by your side. How did he manage to get it from your room? Who knows. You were just happy to have your book to keep you distracted and your boyfriend to keep you company.

[starfinss]

ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴀᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴅᴅʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇʟᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱ — ᴡʀɪᴏᴛʜᴇꜱʟᴇʏ

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Genshin Impact

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Wriothesley + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 12,925

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: After beginning work as a doctor at the Fortress of Meropide, Siegwinne decides you and the Duke are a good match, and will do anything in her power to get you to together, even if she has to take drastic measures.

Or, alternatively, Siegwinne adds a little something extra to the Duke's tea. Chaos ensues.

As soon as the suture needle so much as touched the man sitting before you, he was already flinching away.

“That hurts!” He cried, “please, doctor, be gentle with me.”

It was almost laughable, really. Monsieur Phillip was a hardened criminal, or so you’d been told. He was a career criminal, you remembered the Duke remarking, and he’d been sentenced to serve time in the Fortress of Meropide for a myriad of things, such as assault, and even attempted murder, but here he was, a hulking mass of a man, whimpering in pain at the slightest prick of a needle. 

“Hush,” you said, tutting gently, “the quicker I start, the quicker it’s over. Now hold still.”

He flinched back again, eyeing the needle like it was out to get him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Please try and relax. I can assure you, I did go to medical school.”

Before he could say anything else, you made the first stitch, carefully, but quickly enough so as not to cause him too much pain. Even with the numbing gel you’d applied, it seemed that the patient’s pain threshold was quite low. It usually removed enough sensation that any leftover pain would be no more than a pinch, but even with that, you could see tears beading at his lash line.

A hardened criminal, indeed.

You finished the sutures quickly before bandaging the injured shoulder and giving Phillip some care instructions.

“And,” you said, “no more getting into altercations about work times, okay?”

Phillip sighed, casting his eyes away from you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smiled, kindly. “That’s doctor to you.”

It wasn’t wholly unexpected. Men tended to have lower pain tolerances than women did. You’d given stitches to many people before, and when it came to whining, the men tended to be the most common offenders. 

After Phillip left, you checked up on a woman who was resting in one of the infirmary beds, and after taking her temperature and walking away with your clipboard, you nearly tripped over Siegwinne, who had somehow snuck into your path without you noticing.

“Archons,” you exclaimed, a hand flying over your heart, “I need to put a bell on you.”

Siegwinne ignored your remark. “May I see the patient’s chart?”

You handed it to her. “The patient shows signs of improvement. Her fever has broken, and her delirium has started to clear up. She should make a full recovery.”

Siegwinne hummed meaningfully. “Very good. I was worried about that one. I am glad to hear she is healing well.”

You nodded, then turned, starting towards your desk, but before you could make it, Siegwinne called your name, making you pause.

“Yes?”

Her expression remained impassive, eyes curious, unsuspecting, and she tucked the clipboard under her arm as she closed the distance between you.

“Have you seen the Duke today?”

There it was. You didn’t know what you’d been expecting aside from this. Ever since Siegwinne had caught onto the fact that you’d developed a crush on the Duke, she’d tried to do everything in her power to set you up with him. In the beginning, that was all it was. A crush. It was a crush in the same way one would develop an infatuation with a colleague or schoolmate, based on their appearance or the limited positive interactions they had with them. It was no secret that Wriothesley was an attractive man. He was tall, and handsome, anyone with eyes could see that. You’d heard the whispers among female inmates and guards alike. You were not unique in feeling some form of attraction to him. 

But to Siegwinne, your silly crush was an opportunity. 

“You’re a good woman,” she told you, “and His Grace is always stressed. I fear for his health. I think you would be the right person to keep him company. You are a good match. Your influence and affection would do him much good.”

Siegwinne came to you with this a few months after you’d started work at the Fortress, completely out of nowhere, stunning you to silence. You had no idea how she’d caught on to your feelings, and when you expressed as much, she went into a rambling tangent about human behavior, something about the dilation of pupils, and how she’d been taking notes, and that was when you cut her off.

“Absolutely not.”

But nevertheless, she persisted. 

Siegweinne’s matchmaking attempts rarely ended conclusively, since she tended to see things as a logical cause and effect, and did not at all fit the way any normal human would attempt to court another. They mostly involved putting you and Wriothesley into situations that forced you to speak or interact with one another, with little to no regard to how much said situations were an inconvenience to you. Her first attempt, as such, embarrassingly enough, involved telling the Duke you’d had some kind of accident with an inmate, and when he came to the infirmary to check in, finding you unharmed and working at your desk, all that ensued was a lot of confusion. You wondered why he’d come all that way to see you, and he was surprised to find you not laying on one of the infirmary beds.

But, what her attempts did do, was make the way you felt about Wriothesley, which was no more than a passing fancy at first, grow into something more. 

And despite your best efforts, that only made Siegwinne latch on even harder. 

“Hello?” Siegwinne said, shaking you from your thoughts, “I believe it is polite to answer a question when asked one, or have human customs changed?”

You brushed off her unintentional rudeness, instead answering what she’d asked you.

“No,” you said, “I have not seen His Grace today. He’s a busy man, Siegwinne. You know that.”

“Well, you should go see him.”

You sighed, leaning down to take your clipboard from under her arm, then crossing to your desk.

“I don’t have a reason to go see him,” you said, sitting down, “and like I said, His Grace is a busy man.”

She didn’t push after that, simply going back to work as you did yours, and you tried to put it out of your mind. You and Wriothesley were friends, you’d say. Even though you usually found yourselves meeting in less than normal circumstances, you were still fond of him. You enjoyed his frank, matter-of-fact personality, and dry sense of humor, and he seemed to enjoy your company as well. Your relationship was as casual as it could be between you and a man who was technically your boss, and friendly enough that you had conversations outside of work related matters. You’d never let Siegwinne know this, but her repeated and clumsy attempts at setting you up were not without some benefits. 

That was fine, you supposed. You’d bonded over Siegwinne and her antics, and built a friendship over a shared love of tea, as well as an author you both enjoyed, among other common interests. But that was it. As much as Siegwinne, and, begrudgingly, you, would like to say otherwise, you and The Duke were only friends. 

And, it seemed, as you settled into that fact quite comfortably, Siegwinne only grew more brazen in her attempts at Melusine style matchmaking. 

Her latest attempt involved trying to shut you in a locked room with The Duke, which failed when Wriothesley produced the master key in order to open the door. It happened a little over a week ago, which made you nervous, because Siegwinne didn’t like letting too much time pass between her less than gentle shoves. You were almost completely certain that Wriothesley knew what was happening, he’d have to be stupid not to, though he hadn’t said anything about it. This was probably to spare you from any further embarrassment, which you appreciated. 

The situation was hopeless. You knew that well. But Siegwinne didn’t, and that was beginning to become a problem. You didn’t know why you’d let her get away with this for the handful of months that you had, but maybe, deep down, you hoped that something would actually come from all her meddling. 

And apart from that, you had a certain degree of professionalism to uphold. Wriothesley was your boss, and you were both his employee and his doctor. As much as you found yourself wishing otherwise, pursuing your feelings, even if that was an option, just wasn’t ethical. 

But still, you could dream, you supposed. Dreaming was harmless. 

“I need you to run an errand for me.”

You turned in your chair, raising an eyebrow at Siegwinne, who was staring over at you innocently, a thermos in her hands. You looked at it, then back at her, puzzled.

“Siegwinne, I’m not in the mood.”

She frowned. “To do your job? How unbecoming. I’m simply asking you to deliver this tea to the Duke. His Grace is suffering from a headache. I delivered some to him this morning, but the problem still persists.”

You glanced at the thermos again. “Tea? What’s in it?”

She immediately became defensive, and for a moment, you almost felt guilty for doubting her. 

“Medicine!” She cried, “what do you take me for? I’ve brewed a painkiller into the tea. It should help with His Grace’s headache. If you don’t trust me, you can take a sip yourself.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why can’t you do it?”

Her brows pinched together in annoyance, and maybe a little indignance. “I have to go see a patient, thank you. A young man is complaining of nausea, and finds it hard to stand because of it, so I am going to see him in his cell. Now, will you bring His Grace the tea, or not?”

You sighed. In your own mind, your hesitance was completely justified. Siegwinne had tried to trick you into being alone with Wriothesley many times before this, but then again, if the Duke was actually feeling unwell, and you refused to bring him medicine, what kind of doctor would you be? 

And so, you relented. With another sigh, you stood, snatching the thermos from Siegwinne’s outstretched hand. 

“Fine,” you said, “I’ll be back as soon as I drop it off.”

If Siegwinne was disappointed by this, she hid it well. She simply nodded, then crossed over to her desk to busy herself with her medical bag. You glanced over a few more things at your own desk before scooping up the thermos and leaving the infirmary after calling a quick few words of parting to Siegwinne, who only nodded. 

You shivered a little as you left the infirmary. Siegwinne tended to keep it warmer there, with a space heater sitting in the corner to combat the cold dampness of the rest of the Fortress of Meropide. It was better for the patients, she said, if they had somewhere nice and warm to rest and recover. You were fairly certain she also said something about humans and their preference for warmth, but that wasn’t important at present. 

The clang of your boots against the metal floors rang out as you walked, head held high, thermos in your grip. The air smelled of iron and brine, a scent you’d grown used to in the time you’d been working in the Fortress. Artificial light cast everything in a sort of ominous hue, and the low strength of it left everything in partial shadow. It used to make you nervous, not knowing what hid behind them, using them like masks. Now you knew that whatever was waiting for you was something you could handle.

You glanced down at the thermos in your hands. It was warm, likely just brewed. There was no way Siegwinne would have you serve the Duke cold tea. The thermos was plain; unassuming. It was slate gray, probably stainless steel. You turned it over in your hands, studying it. It was just tea. You had no reason to think it was anything other than that. But with Siegwinne, you’d learned to expect the unexpected.

Absently, you stepped into the elevator to take you down to the administrative floor. The car jerked, and with a mechanical clank, began to move. You turned the thermos over in your hands again. It’s just tea. For the Duke. Your poor, ailing boss. You twisted your mouth. It was fine. There was no way Siegwinne would ever do anything to actually harm Wriothesley. You tapped your nails against the surface of the thermos, almost jumping from your skin when the elevator came to an abrupt stop as it reached its destination, jostling you where you stood and ejecting you from your tangled thoughts. 

You sighed as you left the elevator, tucking the thermos into your arms and against your chest. Everything was fine. If Siegwinne took anything seriously, it was health. You’d caught her staring intently at you on many occasions, and when you asked her about it, she told you she was making sure you were healthy, in a very matter-of-fact tone, like it was obvious. She may be odd, but she wasn’t going to try and harm anyone. 

As you reached the doors to the Duke’s office, you reached into the pocket of your skirt, digging out the key to the lock. Because of the Fortress’s status as a prison, it was only natural that important areas such as the office of the warden would remain locked. The only way to get in was if you had a key or if you were invited by Wriothesley himself. There was also the off chance that the Duke left the doors unlocked, but that was uncommon. Regardless, before you put the key in the lock, you raised your hand, knocking on the door with a great clang. 

“Your Grace?” you called, though it was unlikely he heard you through the thick steel, “I’ll be coming in now. I have some tea for you.”

And with that, you pushed the key into place, twisting. With a grunt of effort, you pushed the doors open.

It was as you were opening the door that you heard him, calling to you. It was muffled under the mechanical clank of the doors, making you only vaguely aware of his call of your name, and you hurried to close the door to answer him. The lock clicked as you did, signifying that the mechanism had reset to its previous locked state. 

You expected Wriothesley to call out to you again after your lack of response, or even possibly to come see you. It was unlikely that Siegwinne would send you on an errand without previously announcing your arrival. But instead, you were met with silence. You gripped the thermos more tightly, hesitating.

“Your Grace?”

You heard something else then. A soft intake of breath, only able to be heard because of the complete lack of noise, save for the quiet hum of machinery from beyond the doors. Then, you could hear him clearing his throat. 

“Yes,” you heard Wriothsley say, from up the stairs, “up here.”

You sighed, relieved, as you made your way up the curving staircase and into the main office.

And as for things you expected to see, this was not among them.

Wriothesley was sitting at his desk, but he looked more than a little disheveled. His coat had been discarded, draped over the back of his chair, and his tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck. His waistcoat was also unbuttoned, as were the top two buttons of the dress shirt he wore underneath the garment. His gloves had also been removed, laying out on his desk beside an empty teacup. His hair was tousled, more than usual, and his face…

You furrowed your brows, suddenly concerned. His face was flushed, a deep pink settled in the apples of his cheeks, very evident against his usually pale skin. Breath, feather soft, expelled itself through parted lips, almost too quickly, as he looked over at you, brows pinching together, as if pained or troubled before the expression calmed. Wriothesley straightened, clearing his throat again, and he was hurriedly fixing his clothing, deft fingers doing up the buttons of his shirt, smoothing back over his hair. 

His eyes fell to the thermos in your hands, lingering, before sliding up to your face. 

You stared at him, your concern growing more by the second, and after a beat, you crossed to the desk, setting the thermos down.

“Your Grace,” you said, “I’ve brought you painkillers for your headache, but you look… May I examine you? You do not look like you’re feeling well.”

“Examine me,” he repeated, then took a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut before shaking his head, as if clearing away a fog. He swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, and it was then that you spotted sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Yes,” you said, gently, already in doctor mode, “please, let me help.”

He cleared his throat, for what was probably the third time, and you narrowed your eyes. You were rapidly beginning to get suspicious in addition to concerned. There was something he wasn’t telling you. Absently, you found yourself mentally scolding yourself for neglecting to bring your medical bag.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he certainly didn’t look fine, “please, don’t trouble yourself. You’ve come all this way for me, so would you at least sit with me for a cup of tea?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. It was fine, though, you supposed. Staying around wasn’t a terrible idea. It would give you a chance to more closely study the Duke’s behavior, and try and figure out what the problem might be. And so, you stepped to the table off to the side, picking a clean tea cup from the collection displayed there. 

“I don’t need any, really,” you said as you leaned over to take the thermos from the desk, “Siegwinne made this for you, for your head. I am happy to sit and talk with you, though, if you want me to.”

Wriothesley smiled easily. “If you like, I can brew you a cup from my personal collection of teas. What do you like?”

You flushed, feeling special, and you turned to busy yourself with arranging his cup of tea to hide the pink in your cheeks. 

“You already know my preferences, Your Grace,” you said, over your shoulder, “just a cup of earl gray is fine.”

You heard shuffling, then the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and you knew the Duke was rifling through the collection of teas he kept stored in his desk. Shifting your focus, you removed the small travel cup attached to the top of the thermos, then unscrewed the lid. Immediately, you were hit with the scent of the tea. It was unexpectedly sweet, and sort of floral. It certainly wasn’t the Duke’s usual style, that was for sure. You took another lungful of it, and could make out notes of various medicinal herbs, including rosemary and feverfew, both known to help with headaches. You could also smell a hint of lavender. But there was still that floral, sort of rosy scent, undercut by the bitter, citrus aroma of the feverfew. It smelled a bit like rainbow roses; of petrichor and morning dew and sweet fresh petals. It certainly had herbs in it, some of which were known to help with what the Duke needed, but the combination of them that you were able to discern was puzzling to say the least.

You put it out of your mind, chalking up the roses to being there to help with the bitterness of the feverfew. With a sigh, you poured the steaming liquid into the teacup. It was sort of a deep rouge color, bordering on purple. A nice color, you decided, and not entirely unexpected with what was contained in the tea. You placed the cup on a saucer, then carried it, alongside the still half filled thermos over to the desk, setting them before the Duke. In exchange, he handed you the tea bag you’d requested, which you accepted gladly. 

After you’d filled a cup with boiling water, which the Duke always seemed to have on hand in any nearby kettle, ready for a quick cup. You added the tea bag, as well as a few spoonfuls of sugar, then took your seat on the couch by the tea table. 

Wriothesley’s face twisted as he took the first sip from his cup, seemingly troubled. 

“It’s very sweet.”

You tilted your head. “Is it not to your liking? I’ll be sure to tell Siegwinne to tweak the recipe.”

Wriothesley waved a dismissive hand. “No,” he said, “I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s not my usual style, but I don’t dislike it.”

You nodded meaningfully, blowing over your tea once more. 

“How are things over in the infirmary?” He asked, and you sat up straighter, engaged. 

“Fine. The usual. I had a man who was scared of needles just before I came over,” you said, “I’d barely touched him before he was telling me to stop.”

Wriothesley laughed, amused. He took another swallow of tea.

 “Oh, really?” He said, “Monsieur Phillip, I suspect? That man always gets into brawls, but is terrified of medical treatment. And he never wins those brawls. The gardes always have to pull the other guy off of him.”

You hid your smile behind your teacup. “I know,” you said, “Siegwinne is always scolding him when he comes in for being reckless.”

Wriothesley rested his head on a closed fist, thoughtful, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Maybe a few rounds in the Pankration Ring would do him some good,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t go putting any ideas in his head,” you said, “he might become a permanent resident of the infirmary if he starts entering into any matches.”

Wriothesley made a face, pale blue eyes moving to rest somewhere in the depths of his teacup. “Maybe he’d pick up a few things about proper combat, though.”

It was your turn to laugh. “Maybe, but at the cost of his health.”

You enjoyed this. It was hardly the first time you’d been invited to stay for tea, in addition to being personally invited to tea a handful of times before. Wriothesley’s presence was pleasant and inviting, despite his intimidating stature and appearance. His height dwarfed many other people, and you’d seen few as tall as he was, save for the Iudex, who was far more slim than the Duke was. Where Monsieur Neuvillette was tall and lithe, Wriothesley was broad and powerfully built. His sheer size alone, made only more prominent by the bulky coat he wore around his shoulders, was enough to intimidate anyone.

But despite that, he was an amicable and good-humored man, earnest and straightforward. He made you feel at ease, and your growing affection for him settled low and warm in the spot behind your heart. 

His face was getting more pink, you noticed, with a start. You took another sip of tea, watching him closely. His brow furrowed, just briefly, and he was fiddling with the bands of leather around his throat, as if they were suddenly too tight. He shifted in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Your Grace?” You said, and he seemed to snap out of whatever had overtaken him, regarding you with raised eyebrows and an expectant expression.

“Sorry,” he said, “what were you saying?”

You studied him, eyes narrowed, and he laughed, a little awkwardly.

“You’re doing that thing Siegwinne does,” he said, “the thing she does with her eyes. I don’t know how you replicated it so perfectly. There’s nothing wrong, I promise. It’s just suddenly kind of hot in here. Do you feel that?”

You shook your head. In fact, to you, the room was cold. Just as cold as the rest of the Fortress, save for the infirmary. It was the reason for the thermal lining in the pale blue overcoat of your uniform, the color that marked you as medical staff, as well as the reason for the thicker uniform fabric worn by the majority of the other general staff. 

“No,” you said, and Wriothesley looked puzzled. 

“Oh,” he muttered, puzzled, “I was warm earlier, but I’m starting to get… hot now. I don’t suppose that’s normal?”

You cracked a smile at that. “No, I don’t think so.”

A spell of silence passed before your mind snapped back to what he’d just said.

“You were feeling overly warm earlier? When did that start?”

Wriothesley furrowed his brows, considering your question before answering. He took another sip from his cup, then poured more of the contents of the thermos into it.

“This morning,” he said, “I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, but it was maybe shortly after I had a cup of tea.”

You snorted, amused. “You realize how little that narrows it down, don’t you? You drink more tea than anyone I know, Your Grace. I need a measure of time, not cups of tea.”

He chuckled at that. “I apologize. I believe it was after Siegwinne delivered the tea she made for my head. Which is feeling much better, by the way. I think what I’ve been drinking while we’ve been chatting has helped kick the rest of it. I’m almost finished with the thermos.”

Suddenly, you made the connection. 

Almost robotically, and with learned efficiency, you went over the contents that you’d smelled in the tea, along with their uses. Feverfew, maybe some lavender, and rosemary. All of those had various uses, though they all had one thing in common, which was pain relief. Finally, there was the rainbow rose. The petals and buds were used for medicinal purposes, and could be used as such, similarly to common red roses, for anything ranging from headaches to a sore throat. 

Something was missing. Something was wrong. The scent itself had been off.

“The tea,” you said, “from before. Was it sweet?” 

Wriothesley nodded, taking another gulp, and finally, pouring the last of the contents of the thermos into the cup. “This brew is sweeter, though.”

You stood, then reached for his teacup, bringing it to your nose and inhaling. You caught the same things as before, but as you mulled them over, something else clicked. 

Siegwinne wouldn’t. Would she?

“It’s really hot,” Wriothesley said, and you could see the sweat beaded at his hairline, sticking the hair at his temples to his skin, cresting down his cheekbone. 

You reached out, and when the back of your hand made contact with his burning forehead, he flinched, making a soft sound in surprise and alarm.

“Why is your skin so much colder than mine?”

Your skin wasn’t cold. In fact, your body was at an average temperature, kept warm by the layers of clothing you were wearing. By your own assessment, your hands were probably relatively warm. You frowned, reaching into your pocket and withdrawing your penlight, circling the desk to situate yourself closer to the Duke.

The way he was looking at you when you drew closer was strange. Almost hungry. Famished, ice blue hues swept over your form, and you watched as his hands, previously resting on the desk, folded in front of him, over his lap. 

You moved closer, leaning halfway over to him, hand making contact with his face to tilt it towards you. He flinched at your touch, breath shuddering, and you studied his eyes closely before muttering a warning and shining your light into his face, instructing him to follow the light with his gaze.

“This isn’t… necessary,” he protested, weakly, and you ignored him. His pupils were blown wide, dark pits in the center of the sky blue of his irises. 

“Mydriasis,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him as you switched off your light and pocketed it. 

Your hand dropped from his face to just under where his jaw met his throat. You pushed aside the leather straps, just enough to access his pulse point, pressing two fingers to the spot. His heart was racing, quick and erratic, and you felt him shudder, breath heavy, his jaw setting tightly as your hands drifted across his skin, probing and searching. His skin was burning with heat, feverishly so, and coupled with the elevated heart rate, the blown pupils, and the way he seemed to flinch whenever you made contact with his skin directly, you could only make one conclusion.

“So,” you said, backing up to stand up straight, “this started after you had the first brew Siegwinne dropped off, yes?”

Wriothesley nodded. “It did.”

His voice. It had dropped several octaves in the time you’d been examining him, and you cursed the effect it had on you, coursing hot through your bloodstream. It felt so deeply unprofessional for a doctor to even think of her patient in the way the brief thoughts that fluttered through your mind suggested you do.

“Is it worse after this second batch?” You forced yourself to say.

He huffed a laugh. “You could say that.”

And it was then when you noticed, from where you were standing, that Wriothesley’s belt was undone. Rosy hues colored your cheeks as you yanked your gaze away.

“You need to tell me all of your symptoms,” you said, “spare no detail.”

Panic briefly flashed across his face as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

“Hot,” he said, “I feel far too warm. Do I have a fever?”

You narrowed your eyes. He was purposely hiding the truth, but nonetheless, you answered.

“Yes,” you said, “but I believe it’s because your body is overheated and not because you're fighting an infection. I just said not to leave anything out, Your Grace, please tell me everything. As your doctor, I–”

“I’m… Archons, I don’t want to say it,” he paused, searching, almost frantically for something else to focus on. “What was in that tea?”

You swallowed, leaning back to rest against the desk. 

“Herbs,” you said, “rosemary, feverfew, and lavender. All meant to help with pain and headaches. But I could also smell rainbow roses.”

Wriothesley brightened. “Yes, I thought that was what I tasted. It brings such a unique flavor to the table, don’t you agree?”

You fought a smile, endeared by him, but now was hardly the time. You needed to figure out what was wrong with him, not to discuss tea. 

“Yes,” you said, “but it was strange. Too sweet. It only gets to that level when the powdered roots of a Sumeru rose are included alongside the powdered roots of a rainbow rose, in which case the combination can make–”

Oh. Oh. 

As you were talking, it clicked into place. The scent, which you’d thought was much too sweet before, suddenly made sense. Sumeru rose must have been the final ingredient. It was flavorless when consumed, but smelled quite sweet. When combined with rainbow roses, the scent of the two grew overpoweringly saccharine. Unless diluted, it would almost resemble a syrup. If the rainbow rose petals were boiled alongside the powdered roots of the Sumeru rose, it could become a powerful medicine able to soothe a bad cough. But if the roots of both plants were powdered, the results were…

You cursed yourself for being so stupid. Of course, Siegwinne would see nothing wrong with this. Medicine was medicine, regardless of what the outcome of its ingestion spelled, so long as it got the desired result. To her, the suggestion of something unbecoming would be taken with great offense. 

“‘Can make?’” Wriothesley supplied, and were already imagining the ways in which you were going to rip Siegwinne a new one.

“I need your symptoms. Now. I am a doctor, Your Grace, I promise I will be as non judgemental as possible, just please–”

“Damn it,” he interjected, face hidden in his hands, “I’m aroused.”

Anything you’d just been about to say left your mind, swept away by dread, because you knew what was happening.

Siegwinne was evil. You could already picture her expectant, innocent face, asking just how her little ‘experiment’ had gone, and it filled you with boiling rage. 

Though, there was also the fact that she could simply be misinformed. Melusines had different reactions to some medicines than humans did, and it was equally possible that she simply thought that, if dosed with the tea, the Duke’s feelings for you, if he had any, would just be made more prominent. For her sake, you hoped it was the latter. 

“Aroused,” you parroted, trying hard to stay professional and failing miserably, because this was unethical on so many levels, “tell me more about that.”

He made a strangled, startled sound. “You want to know more?” 

You wanted to melt into the floor. “I need to know how strong the dose you’ve been given is.”

“Dose?!” He said, “of what?”

You refused to look at him. “When mixed together, the powdered roots of a Sumeru rose and a rainbow rose create a powerful aphrodisiac. I believe the first dose you received was a weaker version, and this one is much stronger.”

Silence followed as Wriothesley took in the information, then cleared his throat.

“Do you have an antidote?”

You raised your head to look at him properly. He looked almost haggard, the flush from his face creeping down his neck. 

“There… kind of isn’t one.”

Wriothesley made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, hands raising to card through his hand, and it was then that you noticed it. Now that his hands were no longer hiding it, you could see it, there, outlined against the dark fabric of his slacks. 

He was hard. 

A wave of suffocating, shameful arousal washed over you, and you forced yourself to look away, to ignore it.

You could only begin to imagine how he was feeling. The way you were feeling was nothing compared to him, his condition undoubtedly much more intense than your own physical reaction in response to his arousal, and you could feel his eyes on you as you scrambled to find a solution. 

“What am I going to do then?” He asked, “it’s getting… I’m sorry, It’s getting rather unbearable. I tried everything. It’s impossible to ignore, and I know I can’t use my hands.”

You spared him a glance. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, “I was already trying that. It wasn’t enough.”

Oh. The unbuckled belt. His disheveled state when you’d walked in. He’d already been dealing with the effects of the first dose, or at least attempting to. The call of your name, as you were entering the office. The silence before he summoned you up to the second floor.

Fuck. He’d been thinking of you. 

That had to be one of the hottest things you’d ever heard, professionalism be damned. Arousal rolled over you like a breaking wave, making you bite into your lower lip.

You knew what needed to happen. You knew the effects of this particular drug would take, and you knew that the only way to relieve his symptoms was either to very painfully wait it out or to… find relief. In this case, that entailed another person. 

“You need to have sexual intercourse,” you said, “or you can wait it out.”

Wriothesley cleared his throat. “Wait it out,” he said, “right, I can do that. How long will that take?”

You twisted your hands together. “It… depends. You were likely given a pretty strong dose, even for someone your size. By my estimate, it would probably take several hours for it to work its way out of your system.”

He chuckled dryly, humorlessly. “Great.”

You cleared your throat. “Do you have someone I could… call? A girlfriend?”

He snorted, as if amused by the idea. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

That would make sense, you supposed, if he was calling out your name, and not the name of another woman. 

“We both know what Siegwinne is doing,” Wriothesley said, “not just with this, but for the past few months. I can’t pretend I’m not fond of you, and neither of us can pretend there isn’t something between us.”

It was like the ground dropped out from under you at the sheer brazenness of his admission. You stared at him, thunderstruck. 

“You… what?” 

A cavalcade of thoughts crashed together as you rapidly attempted to process what he meant by that, but he barely gave you any time before he started speaking again.

“Look,” he said, “if you don’t feel the same, I can accept that. I’ll wait it out, and we can pretend this never even happened. But if you do, are you even… slightly interested in um… helping me? Because honestly, I feel like I’m about to explode.”

Heat coiled low in your stomach, threatening to overtake you as the lovely rasp of his voice made any of your logical thoughts close to meaningless. This was so vastly unprofessional. He was your boss, and you were his doctor. But something dangerously close to want was settling neatly over that space you usually reserved, that you looked to for reassurance about your professional standing with the Duke, to tell you that your feelings for him, ever growing, were improper. 

And when you turned, watching his face, the way his hungry gaze traced your body through your uniform, something in you snapped, and you threw caution to the wind.

Head lowered, face flushed, you swallowed your rationality and any remaining hesitance you had left. 

“I suppose,” you said, “I could use my hands.”

Wriothesley’s body jolted in anticipation, and his eyes betrayed his hesitance, darkened to steel blue with lust as he nodded once, then once more.

“Hands,” he repeated, “yes, hands are good. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

You found it touching that he was at least trying to take your comfort into account, even when he was drowning in desire, and you took a slow step forward as he shifted, pulling his chair out enough to allow you room to situate yourself on the floor in front of him. As you took another step, he took his coat from the back of his chair and laid it at his feet, another gesture you appreciated. 

Once you reached him, you knelt down between his thighs, and he watched you with burning eyes, flinching when your palms smoothed over his clothed thighs, jaw tightening. Medical curiosity echoed briefly in the back of your mind, taking note of just how sensitive the drug had made him to the simplest of touches, how he shivered as your nails grazed against the insides of his strong thighs. 

Fuck, he was radiating heat. So much so that it was beginning to affect you, and you shifted back on your knees to remove the overcoat layer of your uniform, leaving you in the blouse and underskirt beneath it. Wriothesley’s eyes followed your motions with rapt attention, and when you moved forward again, settling, you felt him jolt when your palm met his leg once again.

This close up, you could see it, just how much he was straining against his trousers, his erection pressed against his zipper, and hesitantly, you cupped it in your hand.

The Duke gasped at your touch, fingers twitching where he’d curled them around the armrests of his chair, then tightening in a white-knuckled grip as you ever-so-gently squeezed. He twitched against your palm, and you removed his belt entirely, dropping it to the floor with a clatter before you were unfastening his button and zipper.

You palmed him through the fabric of his underwear, and you could already feel how big he was just from that. A sort of eagerness threaded its way into the burn of your arousal as you pushed away any remaining layers, pulling him free.

Fuck. He was so thick, and when you slowly wrapped your hand around him, your fingers just barely met. He was long, too, though you supposed it made sense for a man of his size. He was flushed red, painfully hard, and when you squeezed, you felt him twitch once more, his body tightening like a coiled spring. His hands tightened their grip on the armrests, flexing, and you felt his hips shift forward, unconsciously. 

The first stroke made his head roll back, the sound he let out one of relief, just from that simple touch alone. It made you squirm in place, the sound of his voice and the stricken hitch of his breath causing the desperation of his arousal to bleed into your own building need. Precum was beaded at his tip, and you almost wanted to lean forward to lap it up, especially as more leaked out in response to the way you were stroking him in slow, even movements. 

Heavy breath expelled through clenched teeth, followed by a low, low groan as your thumb found his tip, rubbing in slow circles, and it was then that you leaned forward, giving into temptation as your tongue pressed to the underside of the head of his cock in a slow lick.

“Oh,” he gasped, “oh, you don’t have to– oh, fuck.”

He cut himself off as you lapped at his slit, groaning through his teeth. He was already completely lost to pleasure as you pumped the base of him, and when you took him into your mouth, sucking on the tip, you heard him curse, a sound drawn out with a low, decadent groan. 

“You said your hands– oh!”

Arousal was settling low and smoldering hot in the pit of your stomach, pooling between your thighs, and you whined as he whispered your name. You released him from your mouth, hands moving to rest on his thighs, and you dragged your tongue up and along the underside of his dick, gathering up any precum that had dribbled down. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his slacks, lips grazing the side of his shaft, and he repeated your name, louder, voice twisted with an urgency that made your blood sing.

It was embarrassing, just how quick you’d gotten like this, punch drunk on the reactions he gave you, the way his body reacted to your touch. It filled you with an addicting sort of power, one that threatened to overtake you if you weren’t careful. But right then, all you wanted was to add fuel to the ever growing fire. And, with the way he was breathing, rough and ragged and broken, you doubted he’d be opposed to that. 

Your tongue flicked out, against the fold of skin just below his tip, and he tensed, crying out helplessly. When you finally took him in your mouth, fully, his head fell back against his chair, a feral groan tearing itself from his throat as your tongue pressed firm against him. Your hand moved from his leg to encircle the base of him again, squeezing and stroking in tandem with the slow bob of your head, and making the Duke gasp at the sensations. 

When you sucked, just a little, Wriothesley babbled a string of curses, hips twitching up towards your mouth, and when you ducked down, bobbing your head, one of his hands flew from the armrest to the back of your head. You thought he’d push, or maybe take control, but all he did was lace his fingers into your hair, unmoving. His body shuddered under the roll of your tongue, under the press of your free hand to his stomach, creeping under the layers of clothing covering him, his skin fever hot against your own.

You took him deeper, and he twitched, hips jumping as you hollowed out your cheeks, drawing back before surging forward once again. You relaxed your jaw further as his hips bucked, and he muttered an apology, breathless and feverish. His head pitched back as you rubbed your thumb against his base, and he twitched again, sharply. When you looked up at him, through your lashes, he was gazing down at you with hooded, burning eyes. There was desperation in his cool blue hues, a wordless plea for anything, everything you could give him.

And with everything you had, you delivered. 

You dropped your jaw, swallowing as much of him as you can, drinking in the sound of his breath shuddering, tapering off into a low moan. You sped up, gradually, and the sounds he made were so madly erotic that you found yourself aching to reach between your thighs and take care of your own growing need, but you could hardly focus on anything apart from taking him as deep as possible without choking. The sheer girth of him was enough to make your jaw sore, and when you moved forward again, he hit the back of your throat, making tears catch in your lashes. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, drawing the word out with the sound, long and low and you kneened around him, making him curse and buck. 

The hand not tangled in your hair raised to his face, balling tight, and he bit down on his fist, stifling his uncontrolled cries of ecstasy, eyes squeezing shut, brows pinching in concentration. He was trembling beneath your touches, twitching against your tongue, and when you moved back to suck on the tip, slow and indolent, the noise that left his mouth was nothing short of pornographic. 

“Yeah,” he seethed, voice breathy, needy, “fuck, yeah, don’t stop.”

Not a chance in hell you were doing that. You clamped your thighs together, squeezing around nothing, and you knew you were soaked, evident in the way your panties were sticking to your skin, your thighs tacky with sweat and the soak of your own arousal. Your hand curled into a fist where it rested on his stomach, then flattening once more and flexing, searching for anything to anchor yourself. When you took him into your mouth once more, fully, he bucked his hips, groaning with no regard for volume. He was close, teetering on that edge, evident from the way his grip on your hair grew tighter, the way you could feel the muscles in his stomach tensing, and when you took him deep and sucked, he moaned, long and low, the sound almost forced from his fraying lungs. The sensitivity had to be maddening, you decided, and you’d use that to your full advantage. 

Slowly, you pulled back, lapping at the leaking tip, hand working tirelessly at the base of him, and you barely had any warning before he tipped over the edge, back arching, breath all but leaving him. You shifted back in surprise, reflexively, and cum painted itself across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the seam of your lips. You closed your eyes in an attempt to keep anything from getting into them before you were hurrying to take him in your mouth, sealing your lips around him. His hand was fisting in your hair, and the sound he made, a low, breathless groan, was one of sheer, debauched relief. 

You sucked, and he let out an obscene moan as you swallowed down his cum, hips jerking, the hand previously fisted between his teeth flattening against the desk, palm slamming down, just once, and you heard the rasp of wood under fingernails as he moved to grip the edge. 

You slowed, working him through the intensity of his orgasm, as he twitched and throbbed under your touch, the sheer volume of cum surprising you. It leaked from your mouth, down your chin, and you did your best to swallow as much of it as you could. He slumped, boneless, against his chair, and when you moved to clean him with your tongue, you got to listen to the delightful sound of him gasping from oversensitivity.

“Fuck,” you heard him say, dazed and utterly breathless, “fuck.”

Slowly, you drew back, and his eyes followed you, breath hitching and gaze darkening as he took in your appearance. The sight of you, knelt before him, covered in his cum, was enough to make him groan aloud, cheeks flaring pink.

“Archons,” he said, “that has to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a short, breathless chuckle.

“Do you have a rag or something?”

He nodded, once, and you stood on shaking legs before leaning sideways against the desk, and he pulled you closer, gently wiping your face clean with a tissue before depositing it in the trash situated under his desk. 

“How do you feel?” You asked, and he huffed what may have been a laugh, nearly disbelieving.

“That was… Incredible. But I’m still, um…”

You crooked an eyebrow, watching him, expectantly.

He looked almost guilty. “I’m still hard.”

Oh. Oh. 

You weren’t completely surprised. You didn’t know if a blowjob alone would be enough to work the drug from his system, and clearly, it wasn’t. Not that you minded. Your own arousal was a steady pulse below your skin, working like a second heartbeat. Desire coursed through you, and you pressed your thighs together once more. You wanted it. You already knew that. You wanted him. 

“Alright,” you said, and what was left of any phantom of resolve, or the shreds of your until recently professional relationship with him all but vaporized, “sit back.”

“You don’t have to,” he started, the protest as fragile as glass, but you cut him off.

“I want to. I’ve… wanted this– you– for a while. So please, Your Grace– Wriothesley. I want it all. If you’ll have me.”

That was all it took. With a low, shuddering breath, a signal of his rapidly fraying restraint, he was yanking you forward and into his lap, his fingers working the buttons of your blouse open, hurriedly shucking it down your shoulders once undone. He made quick work of the ties fastening your skirt to your body, and you briefly shuffled off of him to drop it to the floor, along with your stockings, before resituating yourself on his lap. 

“If I’ll have you?” He rumbled, the low, rough ombre of his voice sending prongs of lightning down your spine, and he yanked you closer, mouth dragging along the curve of your jaw.

“How could I possibly refuse?”

And then, for the first time, he was kissing you. 

His lips were burning hot against yours, and your fingers found his hair, threading into messy locks, nails dragging against his scalp. He huffed a sigh into your lips as he nudged his tongue between them, tilting his head to slot his mouth more firmly against yours, and when his tongue dragged against yours, you moaned, low and soft, into his mouth. He kissed you slow and deep, almost a juxtaposition to the way he was feverishly running his hands, large and calloused, down your body, and when his fingers grazed over the patch of nerves just where your lowest rib met the curve of your waist, you shuddered in his hold. 

You could taste the tea he’d been drinking on his tongue, cloyingly sweet, and it was almost too much when mixed with the heady, spiced smell of his cologne. Everything about him was overwhelming you in the best way possible, rendering you pliable and soft in his hands. Fuck, Wriothesley needed his own warning label. It was almost funny, really, just how riled up you were when he was the one who had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. 

His teeth caught your lower lip as he drew back, tugging, before he was diving back in, hands planted firmly on your hips, and you let out a stuttering gasp as he pulled you forward, his bare cock pressing against your stomach. 

The way he shuddered at the contact was enough to make your head spin with arousal, and when you shifted forward once more, just to see what he’d do, the grip on your hips grew to nearly bruising. 

“You have no idea,” he husked, low and rough, the very threads of his sanity slipping from between his fingers, “how hard you’re making it to hold back.”

His words shot straight between your thighs, and you rolled your hips again, loving the way he stiffened. You felt his palm, dragging slowly up your body, then finally moving to cup your breast through the fabric of your bra, squeezing. You arched your chest into his touch, his name whisper soft on your lips. 

He unfastened your bra after some fumbling, his coordination clearly beginning to become impacted by the drug. Once the garment was discarded, he barely gave you time to breathe, and you gasped when his head dipped down, mouth dragging across the valley of your breasts, skating along the side of one before his lips found one of your nipples, drawing it into the heat of his mouth.

He groaned at the taste of you, indulgent, as he laved his tongue over your flesh, hands sliding up to grip your waist, holding you in place, allowing him to explore the newly exposed skin with his mouth as much as he pleased. He was strong, his grip like iron, but it didn’t prevent you from slowly rocking your hips, rubbing your clothed cunt against his bare cock, and the way he groaned into your skin was a sound of delirious pleasure. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost disbelieving, “fuck, I’m a lucky man.”

His tender words made your heartbeat quicken, and you squeezed him closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt, and you quickly unfastened them, pushing the cloth away to smooth your palms over his bare skin. Gently, you pushed him back against the chair you were both situated in to look at him, and the sight before you was almost too much.

You already knew he was muscular, that much was obvious by just looking at him. But beneath his clothing, among thickly corded muscle was a patchwork of scarred flesh. You’d known about some scars; three of them crept up over the collar of his shirt, partially hidden by the straps he wore around his throat. There was also a collection of them on his arms, and of course, the one under his right eye. The ones that were hidden wove their way across his chest like a roadmap, some of them faint, and others more prominent, pale threads across his already pale skin. You laid your palm against him, tracing the one closest, and he shuddered, leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers skimmed down his chest, to his trim waist, and when your thumb caught in the deep v at his waist, he let out a soft grunt. 

One of his hands moved from your waist to your hip, squeezing the plush flesh, then migrated to the apex of your thighs, and when his middle finger rubbed you through the sodden fabric of your panties, a high, breathy whine tore itself from your throat. He pressed harder, and your back arched, eyes falling half-lidded when he circled your clit through the fabric.

Then, without warning, he was pushing the cloth aside, and the feel of his calloused finger dragging across your entrance was enough to make you jerk in his hold.

He dipped his head, forehead making contact with your shoulder, and it took you a moment to realize he was watching himself, observing the sight of his hand between your legs. When your hips twitched, he used his opposite hand to hold you steady, effectively forcing you to stay in place as he did what he pleased with your body. 

“Please,” you whispered, and that was all it took for him to tire of his teasing, sinking his finger inside you with a slow, indulgent movement.

You gasped, the sound bleeding into a moan when his finger curled inside of you, and he pushed you down, forcing you to take him to the knuckle. You whispered his name as he curled his finger again, and when he added a second finger, you squeezed your eyes shut. He groaned at the sound it made when he thrust his fingers into you, the lewd, embarrassing schlick of you around him, and you had to take a moment for your jumbled thoughts to catch up with you. His fingers were so much thicker than your own, not to mention longer, and he was hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. He thrust again, and you cried out, hips twitching, causing him to tighten his grip. 

The curl of his fingers hit a spot inside of you that made you see stars, and when he felt the way it made you tighten around him, he began to abuse it with everything he had. 

“Oh, Gods,” he groaned, “you’re so wet.”

You could do no more than gasp as his palm ground against your clit, and he held you there, forcing you to take it as he pressed in slow, maddening twists of his wrist before replacing his palm with his thumb.

It was arousing how easily he could manhandle you, and you had absolutely no desire to fight against him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were getting close, embarrassingly quickly, and you could do nothing to stop yourself from hurtling towards that end, walls throbbing and contracting around his fingers.

One of your hands shot between you, encircling his thick wrist, and you weren’t sure what the purpose of that was, either to push him deeper or simply to find purchase, but you did know that your desperation made his dick twitch where it was pressed between you, forcing him to stifle a groan.

You convulsed in his hold, hips jerking in his iron grip, his name on your lips, and with a final press of his thumb against your clit, you came hard around his fingers, biting down into his shoulder, and he worked you through it with slow thrusts that made stars and celestial bodies dance across your closed eyelids. You called his name, urgent and drawn out, yet high and needy, and he replied with a groan of his own, his free hand flying from where he was holding you in place to wrap around his own cock, palming it, thumbing the head, forcing a moan from between his teeth.

You slumped heavily against him as you fell from your high, and when he withdrew his fingers, you let out a shuddering breath, the sensitivity sending your thoughts into nonsense. Your head was spinning, thoughts in a daze, and all you could feel was him as he panted for breath. 

Seconds of silence, only interrupted by heavy breathing, passed before you rose on unsteady legs to discard your panties before you were settling over him once more, and he watched with hazy eyes as you shifted forward, pressing your bare cunt against the underside of his shaft in a slow grind. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, brows pinching upwards, the sensitivity clearly unbearable. Suffocating, maddening lust worked its way through your bloodstream like a toxin, and you knew he needed more, from the way his hips rutted up in halfway thrusts as you rubbed against him.

“Fuck,” he choked, head falling back as the tip of his cock caught against you, “I wanna–”

You rocked forward, and his entire body jolted, tearing a groan from deep in his chest.

“What do you want?” You asked, breathless, and he lifted his head to look at you, the fog of desire in his eyes downright sinful.

He yanked you close, trapping his cock between your bodies, and into a frenzied kiss, his restraint all but gone as he unabashedly moaned at the feel of your skin. 

“I want,” he husked, mouth pressing open kisses against your jaw, and he stopped, breath hot against your ear, “to be inside you.”

Your breath left you in a rush, and you drew him into a deep kiss, one he returned with vigor, hands smoothing down your body to grab at your hips, pressing you forward and against him once more, and when you pulled back, his eyes were wild with desperation and maddening lust. 

“I don’t have protection,” he said, and you shook your head, dismissing him.

“I’m on birth control,” you said. Siegwinne made the tonic you took, something she supplied even to female inmates to help with lightening periods. But right now, it would be used for its intended purpose. Wriothesley nodded as he took this information in, seemingly relaxing a little.

“Please,” he mumbled, and you blinked, surprised to hear him beg for anything, but you were hardly going to deny him, “I’m going insane. I need you.”

You took a shuddering breath as you shifted up, using one hand to brace yourself as you took his cock in your hand, pressing him against you. You both cried out in unison at the feeling, even the slightest whisper of much needed friction enough to make you feel lightheaded, and you felt his hands grasp your hips, urging you downwards.

You sank down, slowly, and even the tip of him was a stretch, a dull ache blossoming as you pressed closer. Both hands landed on his shoulders, breath heavy, and he groaned lowly at the sensation.

“Slow,” he said, fighting for control, “c’mon, you can take me. Relax, deep breaths.”

You nodded, once, as you did as he instructed. Your knees shuffled as you pressed yourself down, met with more resistance, and forcing you to stop, gasping for air. He was only halfway in and you already felt full, stretched to accommodate him. It was unfamiliar and new, and you weren’t used to this, but his grip was tightening, and with a deep breath, you thrust down, taking the rest of him in one quick motion. 

The sting of the stretch danced across your frayed nerves like a livewire, and you grit your teeth, head slumping forward as Wriothesley let out a long, low groan, both of his hands rushing to your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place. 

A string of curses left his lips as his head fell back, and you could feel him throb inside of you, so deep you could hardly believe it, stuffed full to the brim. 

“Just– oh, or you could just take it all. Fuck,” he quieted, breathing heavily, before speaking again, “are you– did that hurt you? Are you okay?”

The pain wasn’t horrible, and you hesitated to even call it pain. It was just an ache, dull and unpleasant, but you’d been wet enough that taking him hadn’t caused you any actual damage. You sat still as you adjusted, the aching burn of the stretch rapidly fading into something maddening, replaced by a desperate need. 

“I’m fine,” you said, voice strained, “I’m okay.”

He nodded, once, before drawing you close, linking your mouth to his in a kiss far more gentle than you’d expected. You felt him throb, and when you squeezed, you got the pleasure of hearing him groan your name.

“You’re so tight. Please, please– yeah–”

His head fell back as you rocked your hips, lifting yourself up, only to sink back down, and when you repeated the action, he groaned helplessly, a string of almost nonsensical praises spilling past his lips, only serving to make you want to wreck him even further. 

Sheer, uncontained relief was tangled inextricably with every sound he made, his hands squeezing your hips as you took him again, and again, and again, and oh fuck, you felt like you were being split open, impaling yourself repeatedly on his fat cock. The burn from before turned into pure ecstasy, the stretch of him inside of you intoxicating, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck as you moaned out his name. He wasn’t even bothering to stay quiet, not that it mattered, nobody could hear from outside the heavy office doors, which was an advantage right then. 

You keened as his hips rose to meet you, the base of his dick rubbing against your clit. You sank down, taking him fully, ejecting any rational or sensical thought from your head, grinding in deep, easy circles, and you could feel blunt nails digging into your hips as he held you in place, totally drunk on pleasure. 

His grip eased as you slid back up before taking him again, and he was kissing you frantically, one of his hands flattening against your breast, rolling the nipple under the rough pad of his thumb, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Faster,” he hissed, pulling back to meet your eyes, “faster, ride me faster.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, using them as leverage to move yourself faster, arching your back as the new speed made you see stars, and you whined, burning pleasure shooting through you at the grind of his cock against your clit.

“Good girl,” he groaned, dizzy with pleasure, “yeah, just like that.”

You could feel yourself getting close again, and you groaned his name as you swiveled your hips. Your thighs were beginning to burn with the exertion, even with just the short time you’d been moving at this pace, and when he felt you shudder, his hands found your waist, helping you along.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” Wriothesley panted, “that’s it, fuck me just like that.”

He was moving you with his own hands, easily, and you tried your best to move along with him, swiveling your hips whenever he bottomed out, and his head fell back in rapture, gasping for air. 

Your orgasm was approaching fast, and you were helpless to its pull as you sped up, chasing after it frantically, the sound that filtered through your clenched teeth one of desperation. You felt like you were losing yourself, and when you sank your teeth into the soft flesh of his throat, an unrestrained groan fell past his lips, his hips bucking up with enough force to make you see stars. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you tipped over the edge hard, stilling as you clung to him, sobbing his name into the curve of his shoulder.

You tightened to a vice grip around him, throbbing as your climax crashed over you, and you heard him growl at the sensation, hips bucking, still working his cock up into your messy cunt. Before you could even start to come down from your high, you were moving, and the frigid steel of the floor met your back, rapidly heating from contact with your skin. One of his hands gripped at your leg, tucking beneath your knee and holding it up, and then he was driving forwards, hips slapping against yours as he filled you once more.

He paused, shaken by the intensity of the sensation, before his head pitched forward, breath heavy, and he was thrusting again with a renewed vigor, nails digging into your flesh. 

His name was the only thing on your tongue as he fucked you, so good it made you feel like your head was emptying itself out. His mouth found yours as he leaned forward, supporting his weight on his forearm, laid beside your head, giving him more freedom to do what he pleased with his hips. The base of his dick was rubbing against your clit once again, and you whined, squirming beneath him, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Wriothesley,” you gasped, head fuzzy, completely cock drunk as he broke the kiss to mouth at your neck, “deeper.”

He groaned, low and indulgent, and when his hips snapped forward, filling you completely, your back arched against his chest.

“Deeper?” he repeated, the baritone timbre of his voice lowered to an uneven bass, “you want it deeper? That what you want, gorgeous?”

“Please,” you sobbed, “please, give it to me.”

A low, rough chuckle was the only warning you got before he was thrusting forward, hips flush against yours, and he repeated the action, again, and again, and again, making you bite your lip to keep from wailing at the intensity of it all.

“Oh, fuck,” you heard him gasp, stricken, indulgent, “fuck, yeah, that’s it.”

It felt so good you could hardly think, and when you babbled his name, lust drunk and fucked dumb, he pressed soft kisses along the column of your throat, almost like a reward, a thank you for letting him do this to you. 

His pace was growing sloppy, but he showed no signs of letting up, and in the back of your mind, you figured was probably just going to keep on going, even if he came. It was rapidly beginning to become far too much for you, and you moaned, high and breathy, when he rammed himself all the way in, grinding his hips before pulling out less than a quarter of the way, then thrusting back in. He was so deep, and you writhed under him, fingernails scraping against the floor before you were clinging to him. He was moaning, low and breathless, the way he was moving causing you to helplessly spasm around him, forcing you violently over the edge when the base of him rubbed just right against your aching clit. 

You could feel tears, beading at your lashline as the sensitivity became maddening, but he wasn’t letting up, even as you arched and bucked and wailed beneath him, the intensity of your climax rendering you incoherent. He knew exactly what he was doing, just how to push every button he needed to, and you were halfway between deliriously begging for more or sobbing at the sensitivity. 

A string of curses left his lips as he came, gushing hot and thick inside of you, but he wasn’t even pausing, even as his groans tapered into breathy moans from the way he was overstimulating himself. You could feel him, throbbing, pulsing inside of you as he filled you, uncaring of the way his cum  dripped out of you. The sound of it, combined with the slap of skin against skin, was unbelievably lewd, but you hardly had the wherewithal to even think, let alone be any kind of embarrassed. If anything, it only drove you higher. 

“Fuck,” Wrothesley cursed, low and broken, “I need it again, please, again– fuck!”

He shifted back, grabbing at your legs and pressing them down beside you, and you thanked the Archons you were flexible as he continued, leaning forward once he had you in the position he liked and taking your body with abandon. He was hardly bothering to hold back his strength as he hammered into you, and your head fell back against the floor with a soft thud, eyes rolling back. 

You’d never felt like this before in your life. Your legs were growing sore, and your back was going to be stiff from the way he was fucking you into the floor, but you didn’t care, not as you got to listen to the way he was saying your name like a prayer, how he was caressing and kissing your body like it was sacred. Exhaustion was a heavy weight against the blurred edges of your mind, and all you could do was lay there and take it as he chased after what he so desperately needed.

It didn’t take long for him to grow close again, and he whispered your name as his end quickly approached. You yanked him into a kiss, which he returned with a groan of ecstasy, and then, with a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he was cumming. The force of it made his entire body tremble, and the sound he made was one of satiated, relieved bliss as he emptied himself out inside of you, the heat of him almost suffocating, burning you from the inside out.

His hips jerked with unconscious movements and spasms as he drifted down from the staggering height of his climax, his breath heavy, and he slumped, weakened, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. His mouth pressed lazy kisses against your skin, and you lifted a hand to run it through his hair as he finally, finally began to grow soft inside of you.

The two of you lay there, still joined, for what felt like hours, bathing in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of it all. His breath fanned across your skin, feather soft as he lifted his head to join your lips together, before he slowly pulled out, rolling off of you, dazed. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice hoarse, and you arched your back, flexing your body. You winced at the soreness. You were undoubtedly going to have bruises from how hard he had been gripping you. 

“I’m fine,” you said, “are you–”

He snorted. 

“Yeah,” he said, “that uh… that did the trick.”

You laughed, a little breathlessly. You didn’t know how you’d be able to stand after that, genuinely. Your legs felt like jelly, and a deep, all consuming exhaustion was settling over your senses.

“You think it’s gone?” You asked, “the drug, I mean.”

He looked at you sidelong. “I don’t feel uncontrollably horny anymore, so I’d say so.”

Wriothesley sat up, flexing his shoulders. He tucked himself back into his pants, and then he was gathering you into his arms, rising to his feet.

“What are you doing?” You asked, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

“Taking you to the bath,” he said, “I have a bathtub, in my living quarters.”

You relaxed, settling into his arms. “Oh.”

His living quarters were attached to the office, through a door you’d somehow never noticed before. You were far too tired to take in any of the details of it, instead opting to close your eyes and rest your head on the nearest comfortable spot on Wriothesley’s chest, which he didn’t seem to mind at all. 

He set you in the tub, and after the water was run, you were surprised to see him climbing in along with you. It wasn’t unwelcome, and seeing him completely bare was hardly a bad thing, and you were pleasantly happy when he began to gently wash you, and once he was finished, he tugged you back, settling you against his chest.

The bathroom was silent, save for the musical sound of running water, and you allowed yourself to close your eyes, settling into the comfortable atmosphere. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” Wriothesley said, and you opened your eyes to look up at him.

“What?” You asked.

“About being fond of you,” he said, “you’re… an amazing woman. I want–”

You leaned up, kissing him, and effectively giving him an answer to his thoughts. He sighed into the kiss, content, one large hand rising to cup your face, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone.

“I guess Siegwinne succeeded,” you said, and Wriothesley smiled, amused.

“I guess she did.”

You stayed in the bath much longer than you expected, until the water became cold, and once that happened, Wriothesley whisked you off to the bed, tucking you under the covers after supplying you with one of his shirts to wear. You smiled when he joined you, now dressed in a pair of sweats, chest left bare, and curled up beside you, tucking you close to his chest. 

Sleep came quickly after the lights were switched off, the exhaustion from before spreading over you like wildfire. 

And, when he thought you were asleep, you felt him, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his body relaxing against yours.

BONUS:

You were agonizingly sore. Your stiff muscles had stiff muscles, and while Wriothesley was sheepish, and apologetic, and promised he’d treat you to dinner to make it up (which you would be taking him up on), it made walking back to the infirmary the next morning a little difficult. 

What was even worse was the look on Siegwinne’s face when you entered, ruby red eyes knowing as she watched you approach.

“How’s the duke?” She asked, and you handed her the accursed thermos without saying anything.

“Fine,” you said, slumping down into your chair with a sigh. 

She smiled. “Good. Are you seeing him again tonight?”

You turned, brows furrowed. “How did you know about that?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Someone saw you leaving his office this morning. I suppose what I put in the tea worked a little too well.”

You stared at her. “Siegwinne, you put an aphrodisiac in his tea.”

She paused, concerned. “No I didn’t. I put a supplement to further enhance his desire for you. If we’re being frank, it’s closer to a love potion. Just to get rid of any inhibitions. It’s medicine. But it isn’t meant to cause anything like–”

You rolled back your sore shoulders. “Yeah, well, it did.”

Her face went pale, but she briefly covered it up. “I… suppose I miscalculated.”

You laughed, then. Really laughed. It startled Siegwinne, who stared at you with growing concern.

“It’s fine,” you said, “whatever, Siegwinne. At least you don’t have to keep going with trying to set us up. Focus your energy on making ‘love potions’ that aren’t aphrodisiacs in humans, okay?”

She flushed, quiet, then nodded, once, her eyes taking on a determined look. You were beginning to regret saying anything. 

With a smile, and a good natured nod, she put her hands on her hips, ever the dutiful nurse.

“I’ll get right on that.”

Fin.