#defi lecture

[positiveattitudechallenge]

Quand on est aidant, devient-on le parent de son parent ?

Une question sensible qui touche de nombreux aidants Dans le parcours d’un aidant, certaines questions reviennent souvent. L’une des plus marquantes est sans doute : “Quand on est aidant, devient-on le parent de son parent ?” Cette interrogation reflète un bouleversement profond dans les relations familiales. Quand un parent perd en autonomie – en raison de l’âge, d’une maladie neurodégénérative…

[aubins]

Lambert had taken his time to read more into his students’ records and profiles. Of course, the documents were vague and didn’t offer that much information about them- which was expected considering their condition as abyssinians, where anything about one’s self as past are kept well under a veil, an unwritten rule to not pry. But at the very least, he wanted to know their birth dates.

Regardless of what they did or didn’t do, of who their true self is, of how their past developed- Lambert wished to at least celebrate the very fact that they chose to defy fate, persevere and now live.

“It is good to see you, Yuri.” The professor approached slowly, an easy smile on his features. “Not much going on today, I assume?” Which was a blessing. As much as the Wolves tried to function like an academy house, in the end they doubled as the Abyss’ main line of defense. Days where everything was peaceful and attempts to infiltrate the underground’s many tunnels were few to none were incredibly rare. “One must keep their eyes open at all times, but taking a moment to rest both mind and body is also a necessity.”

A wooden box was produced from under his cloak, the cover a deep brown and unassuming as he handed it to the house leader. “For you. To make an already good day even better, or so I hope.”

It was a board game- chess. Lambert had found it in one of his days walking around Garreg Mach’s marketplace, eventually coming across a small store of antiques. It was a chess game like any other, but such resources in the Abyss were difficult to come across and depended solely on the merchant's willingness to bring business underground.

“I thank you for everything you do for Abyss and its inhabitants. And for what you have done for me, as well. You are the best student a teacher could ask for.” He smiled fondly. "We may play a match later if you would like. Enjoy your day, Yuri.” Happy birthday.

It is a quiet day in Abyss, as far as days in Abyss go. Unusual, certainly, but never unwelcome. Yuri counts the minutes of their shift in silence, time ticking even when there is no clock to hear. Even still, despite the quiet, the approaching footsteps do not earn the mockingbird's startle.

No, they come from the wrong side for an intruder.

Lilacs turn toward the professor, lips twisting into a grin in greeting. Where Lambert's is slow and easy, Yuri's is sharp, its pointed edges more familiar upon their features than a warm smile might have been. “Hello, Professor Lambert,” they hum, perfectly at ease. “No, it seems our usual friends haven't been up to it today, but there's never any rest for the wicked. I don't suppose you're here to relieve me of my shift?”

They've memorized the schedules; they already know he is not. Either Constance or Hapi will come around in the next ten minutes or so, and Yuri will be free to wander off to their own business. But until then, they doubt Lambert is only here for some idle chatter. He must have some business.

And he reveals such from beneath his cloak, the box accepted with a curious quirk of their brow as steady hands work to pry it open and see what secrets lay within.

Then, Yuri laughs. Not unkindly— perhaps it is merely innocent surprise.

Ah, chess. They suppose they must have an old set somewhere, stored away in some dusty corner to be forgotten. This one is new and pristine, and they pick a piece— the white king— to twist between their fingers as they glance back at Lambert. He makes no mention of their birthday, but they doubt there's any other reason for it. How thoughtful of their dear professor.

Their smile warms, just a little. Really, if you've been on their good side for long enough, it's not such a strange expression on their face. “Now, now, professor. You flatter me, but don't let anyone else hear you say that. You might be accused of favoritism.” They let the piece drop back amongst the rest of its peers, the box snapping shut. “But thanks. I'll hold you to that game later.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

words for when your characters ______

Agree

accede, acceptance, accord, acknowledgment, acquiescence, align, avowal, bear, cohere, compromise, consent, contract, draft, enlist, give in/give up, go along/go along with, grant, negotiate, unanimous, yield

Deny

abjure, abuse, affront, attack, backstab, bad-mouth, belie, blacken, blemish, confront, curse, darn, defamation, defile, demur, denigrate, detract, dig, disclaim, discountenance, disgrace, disown, disparagement, downplay, explode, flout, fulminate, gainsay, gird, invective, jeer, lament, lecture, malign, minimize, mouth, needle, oppose, protest, put down, put-down, rebuff, refute, remonstrate, renunciation, run down, satirize, scold, show up, sit-in, slander, smear, snap, snub, squeal, sully, swearing, taunt, tirade, turn, underestimate, vituperation, write off, yammer

Explain

account for, admit, apprise, cite, clarify, come clean, concede, confirm, corroborate, defense, demonstrate, dilate, elucidate, enlighten, evidence, expand, explicate, gloss, illustrate, itemize, let on, palliate, plea, prove, recite, simplify, speak out/speak up, spell out, translator, warrant

Fabricate

aspersion, belie, disprove, profane

Inform

acknowledge, address, advertise, allow, allusion, apprise, bare, betrayal, blab, breathe, briefing, broadcast, chronicle, clue, come out with, confession, convey, debunk, define, detail, dictate, divulge, expose, feature, furnish, give, gossip, hint, intimate, issue, lecture, newscaster, orate, out of the closet, pass, post, proclaim, promulgate, publication, publish, release, reveal, show up, speak, spill, squeal, talk, tip, uncover, unveil, weatherperson, whisper

Instruct

bar, educate, prescribe

Persuade

advance, argument, bend, budge, carry, coerce, convince, discourage, draw, drum up, elicit, entice, forward, goad, hammer away/hammer into, induce, influence, invite, lobby, motivate, negotiation, pitch, prevail upon/prevail on, prompt, reason, spur, sway, urge, win/win over

Promise

assurance, avow, commitment, ensure, go back/go back on, oath, portend, vouch, warrant, word

Suggest

advice, advocate, ask, come up with, connote, drum into, exhort, fish for, get at, guide, imply, insinuate, moralize, move, nomination, pontificate, preach, propose, recommend, urge

Praise

accent, acclamation, accredit, adulation, apotheosis, applause, benediction, bless, champion, citation, commend, compliment, congratulations, credit, dedicate, deify, elevate, endorse, eulogize, exalt, extol, flatter, flattery, glorify, homage, laud, lionize, obsequy, plaudits, puff, salute, thanks, tribute, worship

Warn

admonish, alert, caution, caveat, defy, enjoin, exhortation, foreboding, foretell, page, remind, warning

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

[sixeyesonathiel]

nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while you’re just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, “technically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.” he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like it’s a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like it’s a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.

he has no less than ten tabs open at all times—reddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled “do cats defy newton’s laws?”, a google doc labeled “reasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,” and none of it has anything to do with the assignment he’s supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it “me and my universe.” somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.

he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like “i feel like a misaligned proton today” or “the moon’s energy was too sarcastic last night” and you just blink at him like🧍‍♀️while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, “it’s a metaphor for duality.” has five alarms labeled “wake up genius,” “ur gonna flunk,” “your girlfriend will leave you,” “pls satoru,” and “EMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITING” and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled “top 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.”

his laptop is a biohazard—dusty, overworked, full of files like “time_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptx” and “uRwrong_iMright.docx.” the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like it’s a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, “this part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.”

and yet… he’s so fine it’s borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, “do you think our cells are spiritually linked?” he doesn’t even try to be charming—he just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.

you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when he’s excited, and how his hands start waving like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you don’t even bother trying to follow every word—you’re just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because he’s so beautiful when he’s passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.

so now he’s all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him “lol ok.” kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like “what if we held hands inside a particle accelerator 😳👉👈” sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his “favorite constant,” even if you don’t get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.

he makes playlists named “gravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,” draws you in lab coats saying “ur the thesis to my hypothesis,” keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like “this is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.” if they blink weirdly, he’ll just smile and say, “it’s okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.”

being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said “yeah, i’ll stay,” and now he’s rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure it’s perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks “our theories.” buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people “she’s the reason the data graphs came out prettier.”

nerd!satoru who’s helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like it’s a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you “you’re my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.”

and he thanks you—not in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.

his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits you—and he’s never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.

[yourlocalsurrealism]

DPXDC PROMPT : ALFRED IS IMMORTAL

Alright. Don't get me wrong, I love au's where John Constantine is like "soul tax evader supreme", but hear me out.

Alfred.

Alfred, Alfred Pennyworth. Who just doesn't die. The guy's immortal. The reason for this is that Alfred is awesome, so anytime he dies, whether it be from old age or a bullet or a world-wide catastrophe, he looks Death straight in the eyes and tells them that he will die when the day comes that no one needs him anymore, and not a second before, and then he just kinda pops back to life. Because let's face it, the batfam would fall to pieces without him.

So, Alfred Pennyworth has basically just been cheating death for centuries, by this point.

Needless to say, Death is none too pleased. Finally, Death goes to Phantom, the new king, who is much more reasonable than Pariah Dark was and who agrees to actually help.

Clockwork helps Danny set up a portal and he zaps into existence in the middle of a Wayne movie night. The bats are all prepared to fight this mysterious weirdo, but Danny ignores them and turns to Alfred, who he then begins lecturing about ghostly tax evasion and how defying death isn't a good thing, so he needs to file paperwork through the proper channels to stay as an immortal almost-God.

Alfred is chill, he plays cards with Clockwork once when he dies, so he knew this was coming, but the batfamily thinks that this mysterious entity is going to kill Alfred, so they're all panicking, trying to think of ways to avoid this horrible future. Alfred calmly listens to Danny, then he interjects.

"Sir, are you aware of the fact that there is a revenant on earth? One who is most certainly under threat of more paperwork than I, seeing as he has been using the Lazarus Pits to revive himself for millennia. I, however, have only been alive for a few hundred years, so I should think that he is a bigger priority. "

Danny glances over at Jason, doubtful. "He doesn't look several millennia old, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Certainly not, seeing as Master Jason is not. Besides, his Undeath License was filed. I have a copy of it if you need to see it, your Majesty?" Alfred answers, demure as always.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, sir."

Alfred leaves and returns, moments later with a light green glowing piece of paper. he hands it over to Danny, who examines it.

"Seems legitimate. I assume you filed it during one of your many encounters with Death?"

"Indeed. I have it on good authority, however, that the other revenant, a man by the name of Ra's Al Ghul, has not renewed his License in at least the last half millennia, most likely longer."

Danny sighs. "Where can I find him."

"Nanda Parbat. The signature is impossible to miss."

"Alright, Mr. Pennyworth. I will return once he is dealt with, be it by filing his paperwork or returning him to the Infinite Realms."

"Very well. I will be ready." Alfred answers.

Danny opens a portal to the area around Nanda Parbat and then another, which plops him down right in front of the Demon's Head himself, in a strategy meeting with his daughter and several commanders.

They all raise their weapons, but he just basically grabs Ra's by the ear and tugs him through a Lazarus Green portal, lecturing him about tax evasion and paperwork and bureaucracy the whole time. The League is thrown into uproar, and Ra's is set down in a room with all his overdue paperwork from the past few thousand years. He feels a little bit like crying; if he had known immortality meant this much paperwork, he would've just died, honestly.

Meanwhile, in Wayne Manor, everyone is crying, because they think Alfred is going to die, Jason is confused about the whole revenant Undeath Certificate thing, Bruce is trying to make contingency plans, Tim is contacting the Justice League, and Alfred is planning out his defense and going through every ghostly law loophole he can think of because if he leaves these emotionally constipated crime-fighting vigilantes, he knows that the house that Martha so loved will go up in flames within a month.

Eventually, Danny comes to get Alfred for his ghostly court trial/hearing or whatever, and Alfred says goodbye to Bruce and everyone, goes to the Infinite Realms. Clockwork is on his side, and Alfred ends up winning the court case, on the condition that now that the has an Undeath License, he actually renew it every twenty years, like he's supposed to.

A week later, Alfred returns, crashes his own funeral, and explains that no, he will not be dying anytime soon.

Two weeks after Alfred's return, Constantine shows up at the manor basically begging to learn how the hell he managed to avoid death, and not only that, win a damn court case against them.

[scottguy]

So this is essentially a map of the stupidest people in the state.

In case you were wondering, this is how one of the dumbest people in Congress was elected.

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

frontman x reader whos a player but not because of debt but because she was investigating with gi-hun and ju-hon and got in the limousine and then in-ho falls in love with her and gets her out of the game with him like at the end of the season

can u also like not write it like a hate love relationship? like readers conflicted but still likes in-ho

Keeping you safe

Hwang In-ho x reader

hiii, pleasure writing your request! hope it’s the way you imagined :)

Word count: 3,3k

Warnings: violence, murder,…

Requests are open! i would also like to write something about Jun-ho or the salesman, so hmu

When you jumped into the limousine after Gi-hun you didn’t consider its consequences. Jun-ho trusted you to keep your eyes on Gi-hun at all costs and you were going to keep your word, even when it meant making yourself vulnerable.

The gas was sweet on your tongue and Gi-hun already slumped down on the plush leather of the limo seats. But you were wide awake, somehow defying sleep’s influence, shaking, still processing what the deep voice implied and Gi-hun demanded. “Put me in the game. But leave her out of it.”

Those words were followed by a dry laugh. You knew that meant there was no way out of it now. You started whispering into the intercom to Jun-ho, saying how sorry you were. His panicked voice was cut off by you turning off the device while you prepared yourself for the Frontman’s reaction, closing your eyes and taking shallow breaths.

“No. Those are my games and my rules. Might make them more interesting, don’t you agree, player 456?”

Then the gas started rising up from the floor. Gi-hun grabbed your hand, rumbling about how sorry he was. You smiled wearily, pressing his hand. “It’s okay, Gi-hun.” You both knew it wasn’t. It was as far from ‘okay’ as possible.

His fingers went limp and you resigned, waiting for the inevitable. With muted senses you watched the tinted protection shield go down. Behind it was the man in the mask himself, looking at you over his shoulder. Just when his gloved hand hovered over his mask, shrugging it off, you were engulfed in darkness.

***

After the first game, you thought that nothing could surprise you anymore. As much as Gi-hun tried to keep you from all the bloodshed, even he couldn’t cover your eyes and ears every time there was a gunshot. Still pale and shaken, digging dirt and blood from beneath your nails, you sat on your bed with the provided food in your lap, watching your surroundings. At least Gi-hun could be happy he found here his long lost friend, with whom he was now talking. You still didn’t speak to anyone else. You were scared that if you did, they would be dead by tomorrow.

You barely noticed there was any commotion until the sudden silence peaked your interest. There was a skirmish between three guys, two of them working together, which made the outcome of the fight quite obvious. There was another player stalking towards the group, trying to break up the fight.

“I said save the lecture for your own damn kids.” one of the guys shouted at him. That’s when you noticed the player’s still frame, like a cat before launching at its prey. And you were right; within a blink of an eye, he put both of the guys on their backs, not even breaking a sweat. You looked closer at him, reading the number 001 on his back. Even from afar you could see how deadly calm he was while choking one of them. After a moment the rage left his body and he released his grip. You didn’t expect the applause that followed his actions. You exchanged a look with Gi-hun. Were you the only one who sensed something foreboding?

You turned your attention back to the food in your lap and decided that even though you weren’t hungry, you desperately needed the energy. But in your mind, all you could think about was the player 001. Was he a police detective like Jun-ho or a former marine like Jung-bae or Dae-ho? Or something else entirely?

It took you a while to get out of your head and notice that his bed was right next to yours. With a sigh, player 001 sat down, grabbing his unfinished food. Just then he noticed your searching look and gave you a tentative smile.

“Hello, sir,” you began, looking down at your hands. A sudden wave of nervousness came over you. “I’m Y/N. Do you mind telling me your name?”

“No bother, Y/N,” he replied and you stared at his lips, at how perfectly they formed your name. “I’m Young-il. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” you grinned at him in response, holding out your hand that he tentatively shook.

“Nice moves there,” you pointed your chin to the middle of the dormitory where the fight took place. “You could teach me if you had time, I’m terrible in combat.” A lie. Jun-ho himself taught you how to hold yourself and how to hold a gun. You were just trying to find out who Young-il was.

“If we have time, yes.” he nodded absentmindedly, scooping up a mouthful of rice.

“Do you mind me asking? I was just wondering if you have any children.” you said carefully.

“No, I don't.” Young-il replied, suddenly his gaze sharp.

“Well, I just thought that, based on your reaction to what that other player told you-“ you searched for the answer in his closely guarded expression. “You lost your child, didn’t you?”

Young-il didn’t say anything to that, his cutlery going limp in his hand.

“I just- I’d know that look anywhere. I know it’s not something to bond over,” you gave a startled laugh, fidgeting under his everlasting gaze, “but if you’d like to talk about it-“

“Thank you.” He reached out and squeezed your hand. His touch was calloused and warm. “I mean it.”

You smiled softly, squeezing his fingers in response. “I know.”

Preparing yourself for lights out, you couldn’t ignore his lingering gaze following your movements. Thankfully Gi-hun approached you and sat next to you on the bed, guilt visible in his expression.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to drag you into this. And I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe-“

“Don’t worry about that, sir. I can take care of myself. Anyways, I was only following Jun-ho’s orders. It had nothing to do with you.”

Unconvinced, Gi-hun sighed and moved to his own bed, not having the energy at the moment to argue with you. You finally lay down, moving the thin blanket over your body, curling up on your side.

“I overheard you talking about Jun-ho, and I couldn’t help but notice how familiar that name sounds to me,” Young-il broke the silence, looking at you with curiosity in his eyes.

“Well, he used to work as a police detective so that’s why you might know him.”

“Oh, yes, that might be possible,” Young-il gave you a restrained smile. “And he is to you-?”

“A friend. I used to work as a secretary in his department, that’s all.” you smiled back.

“Oh, sorry to pry.” he looked at his hands.

“Not at all.” He looked into your eyes and your eyes crinkled with another smile. Only when he looked away did you turn around in your bed. A few minutes later you heard Gi-hun and Young-il talking and even though you didn’t want to, it was impossible to not overhear. Young-il was explaining the story of why he’s in the games and why he chose to continue playing - how his pregnant wife was gravely ill and he needed the money due to her medical bills. Somehow, this answer shocked you, even though you shouldn't have been thrown off by it. Of course he was married.

Only after the whole dormitory fell silent did you finally fall into a fitful sleep.

***

“Thank you, Young-il.” you whispered to him, gratefully touching his shoulder. Young-il turned his gaze your way and the corners of his eyes crinkled under the influence of a smile. Only his supportive words during the six legged pentathlon could calm you down, which resulted in you successfully completing your mini game. The memory flashed through your mind - tears welling in your eyes, hands shaking as you reached again and again for the gong-gi pebbles. You could sense your teammates’ growing unease but that even worsened your situation. After the third attempt, Young-il grabbed you by the elbow, leaning closer as he said: “Ignore everything else okay? Just listen to me and focus.”

You nodded, bewildered eyes setting again on the pebbles. You were kneeling in a puddle of blood, which didn’t exactly help calm your nerves.

“Just concentrate. I know you can do it. Look at you, all flushed red and focused. This look suits you.” The pebbles balanced on the knuckles of your hand, just one more throw. You looked up at Young-il, lips slightly parted. Were you hearing correctly? Maintaining eye contact, you threw the pebbles op with a sudden surge of confidence and caught them flawlessly. Everyone cheered and you were hoisted up by your team, but all you could hear were Young-il’s last words whispered in your ear: “Good girl.”

Now he was looking at you, this new tension between you two palpable.

“Anytime.”

***

While you tried to act nonchalant, it was just impossible. The way Young-il now watched you at all times drove you crazy, feeling his gaze like a branding on your body. You were grateful for keeping a watch during the lights off, thinking that it could distract you from your own dirty thoughts. But it was quite the contrary.

Overlooking the silent dark room, those words echoed in you even more soundly. Good girl. With a sigh you stretched out your legs, trying to ignore the tightness in your underbelly. You were annoyed with yourself. Why did the words of a stranger make you feel this way? Words of a married stranger, more like it.

“You seem distracted.”

You jumped at that impassive raspy voice. Thankfully, once Young-ho sat down next to you, he couldn’t notice your flushed cheeks due to the impassable darkness. Your shoulders touched and to your surprise he didn’t immediately move away.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” you smiled with your head bowed, nearly chuckling at how clueless he must be.

There was an awkward silence following your reply, so, without thinking about it, you said: “Thank you again for today, truly. You helped me a lot.”

Young-il looked at you, searching for something in your expression. Apparently he found it. “You think about that a lot, don’t you?”

“Sorry?” you stumbled over your words, not knowing how to react, what to say.

“My words alone made you quiver. Now imagine what my tongue could do.” he whispered, teasing you, a spark in his eyes.

“Young-il-“ you breathed out, suddenly aware of how close his face was to yours. You felt your underwear getting wetter by the minute. But you put that all in the back of your mind as you said: “I know you are married. Expecting a child, even. You shouldn’t say things like that.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Does that bother you? Or are you bothered by the effect I have on you?”

You sighed, looking away from his handsome face. Was he sent here just to test your boundaries?

“I still have enough self control to know right from wrong.” But your body wasn’t in line with your thoughts.

Young-il stared at you for a moment, then sighed, irritated. “My wife and my child are gone. I just don’t enjoy talking about them in past tense. I joined the games out of misery, nothing more. Are you happy now?”

You froze, looking at the way his arms formed into fists at his sides. It was like having ice cold water poured all over you.

“Young-il, I’m so-“

“Don’t be. It’s been a long time.” Eyes meeting, he smiled at you tentatively. You squeezed his warm hand and he relaxed, loosening his fist.

“Right now, I don’t care about anything but you.” He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Moving closer, he kissed the bruise already blossoming on your jaw. And you let him.

“I don’t want to scare you away with my… infatuation. But right now, I’m so desperately weak for you.” Your breathing hitched as he moved his lips to your ear.

Just when you thought he would kiss you, he suddenly pulled away.

“I’ll take over the watch. You should sleep, muster some energy for tomorrow.” You nodded as if in a trance. He helped you stand up and led you to your bed. Young-il left you standing there, leaving only the whisper of his lips branding your cheek.

***

The third game was a whirlwind of movement. Only thanks to Young-il were you still alive and breathing. Every time a number was announced, he firmly grasped your wrist and dragged you with him wherever he went. Not that you were complaining - you were so overstimulated by all the commotion that you were glad you could keep up with him.

When one player tried to separate you from him, Young-il bared his teeth and kicked him square in the chest. “She’s mine,” There it was, the cold expression and clenched jaw. Even though you were on the brink of dying, a shiver ran down your spine.

You made it safe with your group into one of the rooms and soon were walking out to play the last round. You knew exactly what the woman’s voice was going to announce and you were right: “Two.”

Young-il was already moving, pushing people out of your way. Everything seemed to go smoothly, until you reached the room; a player was already inside.

“Get out.” Young-il growled and reached the man, trying to get him on his legs and out of the room.

“We were here first,” the player whimpered. You noticed other players running to the door you were standing next to and panicking, you closed it, pushing your whole body against it.

You looked over your shoulder at Young-il, wanting to see if he was any closer to pushing the player out through the doors. But you froze when you saw he was holding the man in a headlock, choking him. All you could do was stare.

Young-il was looking straight back at you. And with one smooth motion of his arms he broke the man’s spine, leaving him staring at the ceiling, going limp in Young-il’s grip.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N.” Young-il said, slowly getting up. You couldn’t tear your gaze from the lifeless body on the ground.

Only when he knelt in front of you did your eyes meet his. He grabbed your cold, shaking hands, kissing the knuckles while staring into your eyes.

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“You poor thing,” Young-il said absentmindedly, wiping your tears away. “I can keep you safe, Y/N. I promise. All I’ve done was to prove that to you.”

“It’s scaring me how far you’re willing to go for me,” you sobbed, fighting the urge to flinch when he caressed your cheek. Still, you couldn’t find a reason to hate him. All the things he was saying were true, he did all of this for you, he killed a man for you, for your own safety.

The lock on the doors clicked and you closed your eyes, letting yourself be guided by Young-il out of the room. You knew that if you looked once more at the corpse, you would never let Young-il touch you again.

So you kept your eyes closed, choosing the easier path.

***

When the lights went out, all you could do was hold Young-il as hard as possible and count the minutes until the slaughter was over. Head against his chest, you concentrated on the sound of his heartbeat, every other sound pushed into the background. His hand was on your lower back, holding you as close as possible.

“I want to go home.” you whispered, clutching the front of his T-shirt like a small child. It was all a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.

“Okay, you will, okay? When we disarm the guards, you stay hidden, but once we take control of the rest, you have to come to my side, you understand?”

You nodded into his chest. Young-il kissed the crown of your head before leaving you under the bed as the guards tried to take control of the situation.

After many gunshots fired, you were crawling to the group of players formed in front of the main doors. Without hesitation you claimed one of the smaller guns for yourself. Somehow, the familiar weight of it calmed you down a bit. Young-il looked at you with tenseness.

“Keeping secrets, I see.” In reply you just loaded the gun, staring back.

Gi-hun looked your way over his shoulder, sending you a quick nod. The group exited the room, moving quickly down the corridor. Young-il stayed back, moving slower than the rest. Once the first guards got in your way, he pushed you to the side, saying: “This way!” Looking over your shoulder, everyone was shooting at the enemy, moving the other way. You looked back at him, unsure.

“You wanted to go home, didn’t you? Well, this is it.” seeing how indecisive you were, he sighed, “You trust me, don’t you?”

Hesitant, you followed his lead. You took the side stairs up and you got a bad feeling in your stomach. Young-il didn’t bother to check the corners, nor the other stories as you climbed the stairs. He walked like someone who knew this place, someone who wasn’t scared that he might be shot.

You stopped in your tracks, aiming your gun with a trembling hand. Young-il, upon noticing you were not following him, turned around. There was something like betrayal shining through his demeanour.

“You’re going to explain.” you said, trying to keep your voice and hand steady.

“Oh, Y/N, I think you already know.” Young-il pointed out, a corner of his lips curling up. He took one step towards you.

“What. Is. Your. Real. Name.” you said through gritted teeth, cocking your gun.

“Hwang In-ho.”

All this time, he was the long lost brother Jun-ho was trying to find. You felt the sting of betrayal in your bones.

“Was any of this real?” Tears stung in your eyes and you hated yourself for being so vulnerable.

“Oh, baby,” In-ho sighed, walking to you, kneeling in front of you again. The muzzle of the gun touched his forehead, which he seemed unbothered by.

“Everything.” he said, looking up at you.

“I keep trying to hate you,” you whispered, trying to muster at least some hatred that would make you pull the trigger. “It would be so much easier if I did.”

In-ho reached out and gently took the gun from your trembling hand. He threw in on the ground, making it slide on the floor.

“I know,” he whispered, grabbing your hips with his hands. He stared at you yearningly. There was a burning ache in your chest clawing its way into your throat.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t. And I don’t think you want me to either.”

The worst part was that he was right.

“I know I should stay away from you, but I can’t. It’s not that simple.” A sob tore out of your throat, making it hard for you to breathe. There were so many emotions in you that your head was spinning. All you knew was the fact that you couldn’t hate the one person who deserved it the most.

“Stay with me, love. I beg you,” In-ho said hoarsely, gripping you harder, trying to make you understand. “You will be safe with me. I will not break that promise.” His eyes were filled with hope. “You felt it too, I know.”

You closed your eyes, composing yourself and your thoughts. You knew it was wrong. But you always had a weakness for the forbidden.

In-ho stood up, taking your face in his hands. He kissed your forehead, your temples, your jaw. And when he kissed you on the lips, you let yourself melt into the touch, forgetting everything else.

“You’ll be the death of me.” you whispered against his lips and he smiled into the kiss, knowing you were his.

[heavenlybodies333]

The Devil Works Hard, but You Work Harder -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

“You’re grounded. Again.”

Your father’s voice rang in your head like a judge’s gavel.

You were so over it.

Okay, maybe you’d gone a little overboard. Caught with a fake ID, trying to sneak into a Georgetown bar that apparently had ties to an open BAU case. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong dad. You were twenty so what was one year more? Except who the hell waited until legal age to drink. To make matters worse, Hotch wasn’t a federal agent playing Daddy Cop of the Year—he had the badge to back it.

But now he was gone, along with the rest of the team, off to retrieve old case files from a station barely two hours out. Quick trip, back by midnight, if not earlier. That gave you time. Just enough.

Unfortunately, Spencer Reid had been designated babysitter.

“Your father just doesn’t want you to get into trouble,” he said now, from the other side of the bullpen, launching into a monologue about legal penalties for fake identification and—was that a tangent on Soviet dishonesty post-Chernobyl? Jesus Christ.

You turned your back to him mid-sentence and made your way into your father’s office. If Spencer even noticed your disinterest, he didn’t let on. The man could give lectures to a wall.

He kept talking, “…and when Pripyat was evacuated, many of the locals weren’t even informed of the reactor’s condition until days later…”

You rolled your eyes and peeled off your hoodie. Then your tank top. Replacing it with a black silk romper, low-cut and backless. The one that made your boobs look gravity-defying and your legs go on for days. You pulled your hair down, shaking it out like a hair commercial, and slid on your scuffed white Converse.

By the time you emerged from your dad’s office, Spencer’s voice faltered like a scratched record.

He stared. And not subtly. “…uh.” His mouth parted, eyes dropping, then snapping back up. “Where are you—why are you—?”

You looked down, slowly, at your neckline like you hadn’t just intentionally flashed him half your cleavage. Then up again with a lazy smile. “You were saying something about nuclear fallout?”

His jaw clenched. He dragged a hand down his face. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not going out,” you replied, voice syrupy and innocent. “Because that would violate the very serious and totally not overblown grounding my father gave me.”

“You’re grounded,” he reminded you, eyes still visibly trying not to look at the way your tits bounced slightly when you grabbed your phone. “Your dad said—”

You interrupted him, tapping your phone screen. “Uber Black’s two minutes out.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’re seriously going?”

“Obviously. I’m grounded, not in jail. And my romper’s already on, so…”

“You’re not supposed to leave.”

“I heard you the first time,” you said, slipping on a jacket and flipping your hair. “But that’s your problem. Not mine. Bye, Spence,” you sing-songed, grabbing your bag. “Try not to miss me too much.”

You got to the elevator and just before the doors closed, a hand slammed between them. Spencer.

“Where?” he asked.

You smirked. “Greek row, frat party. Duh.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Yeah, as if” you laugh, half expecting him to stay.

“I’m coming,” he repeated, stepping inside. “Your dad trusted me.”

Fifteen minutes later: Frat Row

The bass hit before you even stepped out of the car. The front lawn was packed with sweaty hormonal undergrads, red solo cups, and the haze of weed in the air.

You didn’t expect Spencer to follow you. But there he was ten minutes later, standing awkwardly at the door, dressed like a narc with his messenger bag and worried face.

You turned toward him, “Try not to look like you’re here to arrest someone.”

“I should arrest someone,” he muttered, watching two guys size you up from across the yard.

You leaned in close, lips at his ear. “You gonna arrest me, Spence?”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t test me.”

You left him fuming by the hedge, hips swaying as you headed toward the keg line. A blonde guy with a backwards hat was already waving you over, leering like he’d just hit the jackpot.

Spencer’s knuckles were white where they gripped the railing.

When the blonde leaned in and whispered something into your ear—too close, too confident—Spencer was already moving. Controlled, precise, like a shark slicing through a pool of drunk fish.

He reached you just as the guy’s hand brushed your lower back.

Spencer’s voice cut through the noise. “Can I talk to you? Now.”

You raised an eyebrow, playing innocent. “Why? Jealous?”

“I’m not—” he stammered. “This is incredibly irresponsible. Do you have any idea—”

The frat guy piped up. “Yo, man, she said she was good—”

Spencer stepped forward, hand curling around your waist as he pulled you gently—yet firmly—away. “Hey,” Spencer said, voice low and polite and dangerous. “She’s with me.”

The blonde snorted. “Didn’t ask, dude.”

“I’m not repeating myself.”

The guy backed off, laughing under his breath. “Whatever, man. Chill.”

Spencer turned to you, eyes dark. “We’re leaving.”

You let Spencer drag you out the door.

“Jesus, Reid. Controlling much?” you teased once you were outside.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. “What were you thinking?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea what your dad would do to me if something happened to you?”

You leaned in close, smirking. “So make sure nothing happens.”

His breath hitched. “You can’t just—this is completely inappropriate—”

“Then take me somewhere appropriate.”

The Uber back to Quantico was silent, your thigh pressed against his, his fingers twitching on his knee.

You barely made it to the back seat of his car in the BAU parking lot before you were straddling him, your mouth hot on his, his hands gripping your thighs like he was trying to convince himself this was still a terrible idea.

“Spence,” you breathed, rolling your hips down. “I’ve wanted this forever.”

His voice was strained. “This is so, so—so unethical—”

“Then stop me.”

He didn’t. Instead, he groaned as you rocked against him, your soaked panties grinding against the thick, twitching bulge in his slacks.

“God, you’re—” he swallowed, “—you’re Hotch’s daughter.”

“And you’re hard as hell,” you whispered, kissing just beneath his ear. “What’s that say about you?”

Something in him snapped. He shoved the seat back, pulled your romper aside, and dragged your panties down with a single, desperate motion. The groan that left him when he slid his fingers through your wetness was guttural.

“Fuck,” he hissed. He undid his belt with one hand, still working you with the other. When he pushed inside, your moan was broken, needy, raw.

“Fuck—fuck, Spencer—”

“I know, baby,” he panted against your mouth. “I know.”

He fucked you like he’d been waiting forever. Deep, controlled strokes that had you crying out in the cramped backseat, his hand wrapped around your throat, his mouth crushed to yours to muffle the sounds.

“God, Spence,” you moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. “You feel so fucking good—”

His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you in place. “You have no idea what you do to me.” he muttered, voice rough.

“Oh, I think I do.” You clenched around him deliberately, biting your lip when his eyes rolled back for just a second. “You gonna come for me, Dr. Reid?”

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, his grip slipping beneath your ass to bounce you harder on his cock. “You’re not supposed to talk like that.”

“Still doing so good though,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “So deep… feels like you wanna fill me up.”

His pace faltered as he bottomed out again, every motion more frantic than the last. The windows were fogged, your hair was sticking to your forehead, and your romper was bunched around your waist like a sin waiting to be confessed.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—” His voice broke, and you tugged his hair to bring his mouth back to yours.

“Inside,” you begged. “Spence—inside.”

He came with a strangled groan, thrusting up one final time as he filled you, panting into your neck. You stayed like that, shivering against him, still shaking from your own orgasm, his come dripping slowly between your thighs.

His hand was still around your waist, trembling slightly as the adrenaline faded. “We’re so fucked,” he muttered into your collarbone.

You grinned lazily, brushing a kiss over his jaw. “Mmhmm.”

You were slipping your romper back up when you glanced at your phone.

47 missed calls.

Hotch: Get back. Now.

You winced, tucking your hair behind your ear. “So… slight chance I’m dead.”

Spencer sat back up, face in his hands.

“Want me to say you tackled me and confiscated the vodka?”

He groaned. “Please stop talking.”

Back inside the BAU – 12:47 AM

You walked back into the BAU with Spencer in tow, your hair messy, your thighs still sticky, and a smirk on your lips like you hadn’t just been railed by the genius of the BAU.

Hotch was standing in the middle of the bullpen. Waiting. His face was stone.

“I asked you for one thing,” he said, his voice low and furious. “Stay put. Don’t leave. And you couldn’t even manage that.”

The team was silent. Morgan froze mid-coffee sip. JJ looked like she wanted to disappear.

Hotch turned to Spencer. “You’re not in trouble,” he said tightly. “You tried to do your job.”

“You and I are going to have a very long conversation,” he said, voice steel.

Spencer stepped forward, but Hotch stopped him with a raised hand. “Not your fault, Reid. I should’ve known better than to think she’d listen to anyone. I’m not blaming you for her choices. I know she’s manipulative.”

Ouch.

Hotch stood at the railing. “Office. Now.” You sulked up the stairs, giving Spencer one last smile before entering hell.

He shut the door a little too hard.

Then came the voice that could quiet nations. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think this is a joke? You think you can just disappear while grounded and embarrass me like this?”

You leaned on the chair across from his desk, feigning innocence. “I came back, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the point. Spencer is not your damn babysitter—he’s a federal agent, and you put him in an impossible position. You’re not a child anymore, but you sure as hell aren’t acting like an adult.”

You rolled your eyes.

He paused. “You smell like vodka.”

And now he looked like he wanted to break something. You waited for him to yell more. Instead, he just stared at you.

“You’re grounded until further notice,” he said finally, voice dead cold. “No car, no phone, no campus housing. You’ll be commuting from here. I’ll pick you up from classes myself if I have to.”

You scoffed. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so the team outside couldn’t hear. “You disobeyed me. Lied. Left this building after I explicitly said not to. Do you understand how serious this is? Do you understand what would’ve happened if something had gone wrong?”

You opened your mouth to argue but he cut you off.

“I’m not just your father. I’m a federal agent. And when your name gets dragged into places like this? It doesn’t just reflect on you. It reflects on me. On my team.”

“I’ve seen murderers with more impulse control than you,” he continued, tone clipped, full of bite. “And the fact that you think this is about a party or a drink or a fake ID just proves how out of your depth you are.”

You scoffed. “Please. If I wasn’t your daughter, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“That’s exactly the point,” he snapped. “You are my daughter.” His eyes narrowed, jaw tense. “So here’s what’s going to happen.”

You crossed your arms. “Do tell.”

“This is the last time. Indefinitely. No car. No phone. You go to class, you come home, you breathe under my roof and nowhere else. Try me, and I’ll have one of the team walk you to every lecture, every building, every fucking bathroom if I have to.”

”Dad, if you would just let me FUCKING EXPLAIN!” you began to raise your voice at him. Wrong choice.

Hotch’s voice turned ice-cold. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

You looked away. “I just needed to get out. Just for a night. I didn’t want to be… here. Locked in. Under a microscope.”

“You’re not under a microscope,” he said.

“You assigned Spencer to watch me like a damn parole officer,” you snapped. “That’s not normal parenting, Dad. That’s surveillance.”

“I know that,” he snapped, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know. But that’s not the point. The point is you keep crossing lines like they mean nothing. And one day, you’re going to cross one you can’t come back from.”

The room was too quiet now. Just the low hum of the BAU bullpen outside the office glass. And you, shrinking a little more with each second.

Hotch stepped back from his desk, paced once, then turned.

“This is over,” he said. “You’ll be escorted to and from your classes for the next month. You’re grounded until I say otherwise. And if I catch you near a bar, a frat house, or—God help me—another federal agent, I will make your life hell. Understood?”

You nodded, muttering. “Understood.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face, suddenly looking more exhausted than furious. “Go home. Get in the car. Don’t say a word to anyone.”

Downstairs, Spencer was pacing.

His tie was loosened, hair mussed from your fingers, cheeks flushed red like he was still feeling the way you clenched around him. His eyes lifted the second you emerged.

“Well?” he asked.

You grinned. “Grounded. Again.”

He exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face. “Jesus.”

You stepped close, so close he flinched. “Was it worth it?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just the way his eyes dropped to your mouth, then your throat, then lower—like he was memorizing every inch again. Like he already regretted how badly he wanted more.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice like gravel. “But it can’t happen again.”

You smiled, pressing your lips to his ear. “That’s what you said last time.”

a/n: I’m not saying this is why I’m going to hell… but it’s definitely in the top five

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[pomegranatelifethis]

A Crimson Dawn

The air in your chambers was heavy with the scent of lavender and old parchment, a fragile sanctuary woven from silk drapes and the soft glow of candlelight. You sat by the arched window, your fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of your gown, oblivious to the world beyond the stone walls of your kingdom. The distant clamor of steel and the cries of men were but faint echoes, dismissed as the clamor of routine drills. Your brothers, ever protective, had ensured your world remained untouched by the chaos that bled across the borders. They called it love, but the locked door at the end of the hall felt more like a cage.

You were the youngest, the cherished princess of Eryndor, raised on tales of chivalry and starlit balls, your heart a garden of dreams yet to bloom. War was a concept as foreign to you as the shadowed lands of Gotham, your enemy across the sea. Your brothers—Cassian, the eldest, with his stern brow, and Lysander, the scholar with ink-stained fingers—had shielded you from the whispers of bloodshed. Even now, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of fire, you hummed a soft melody, unaware of the storm that had already broken your kingdom.

---

In the heart of Gotham’s war camp, Prince Damian Wayne stood amidst a sea of crimson banners, his armor slick with the blood of Eryndor’s knights. The battlefield stretched before him, a tapestry of ruin—shattered shields, broken blades, and the lifeless forms of those who dared defy him. His men called him the Red Lord, a title born from the rivers of blood that followed his blade and the unrelenting fury in his emerald eyes. To them, he was a demon, a force of nature cloaked in obsidian steel.

But to Damian, this war was not for conquest or glory. It was for you.

He had seen you only once, at a diplomatic summit two summers past, when the air was sweet with peace and the halls of Eryndor rang with laughter. You had stood beneath a chandelier’s golden glow, your smile a beacon that pierced the shadows of his guarded heart. You were purity incarnate, a vision of grace in a world he knew only as cruel. He had watched you from afar, memorizing the way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, the way your laughter danced like music. He had been a prince of Gotham, heir to a throne forged in iron, but in that moment, he was merely a boy, struck silent by a longing he could not name.

When Eryndor’s king rejected Gotham’s alliance—rejected *you* as a bride for Damian, citing his blood-soaked lineage—the prince’s heart had turned to ash. The war that followed was a fire kindled by that rejection, a desperate bid to claim what his soul demanded. He would tear Eryndor apart if it meant you would be his.

The door to your chambers rattled, startling you from your reverie. You turned, expecting Lysander with his usual stack of books or Cassian with a lecture on court etiquette. Instead, the door remained shut, the lock unyielding. A faint shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the unmistakable clatter of armored boots. Your heart quickened, though you didn’t understand why.

“Cassian?” you called softly, rising from your seat. “Lysander?”

No answer came. The shouts grew louder, punctuated by the sharp ring of steel. You pressed a hand to your chest, your breath hitching. The world beyond your door was unraveling, and for the first time, the weight of your ignorance pressed against you like a physical force.

Your brothers had locked you away three days ago, their faces pale and drawn. “For your safety,” Cassian had said, his voice tight. “Stay here, little dove. Trust us.” You had nodded, ever obedient, believing their promises of protection. But now, as the castle trembled and the air grew thick with the acrid scent of smoke, doubt crept into your heart.

Damian carved his way through Eryndor’s stronghold, his sword a blur of death. The guards who stood between him and you were no match for his wrath. He had planned this assault for months, every move calculated, every sacrifice weighed. Gotham’s forces had crushed Eryndor’s armies, and now their castle was his. But victory meant nothing until he found you.

He stormed the upper towers, his heart a war drum in his chest. The rumors of your brothers’ desperation had reached him—how they had hidden you away, shielding you from the truth of their defeat. It only fueled his resolve. You deserved better than to be caged, better than a life of ignorance. He would free you, even if it meant staining his hands with more blood.

A final guard fell before him, and Damian kicked open the door to the royal wing. The corridor was lined with portraits of Eryndor’s kings, their eyes seeming to judge him as he passed. At the end of the hall, a heavy oak door stood barred, its iron lock gleaming in the torchlight. He knew you were behind it. He could feel it, as surely as he felt the ache in his bones.

You flinched as the door shuddered, a deafening crack splitting the air. The wood groaned, then splintered, and the lock gave way with a scream of metal. You stumbled back, your gown catching on the edge of a table, your eyes wide with fear. The figure that stepped through the wreckage was a nightmare made flesh—tall, clad in dark armor, his cape dripping with the crimson of battle. His face was half-hidden by a helm, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a fire that stole your breath.

“Princess,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, as he removed his helm. Dark hair fell across his brow, and those eyes—green as jade, sharp as a blade—locked onto yours.

You didn’t know him, yet something in his gaze felt achingly familiar, like a dream you couldn’t recall. “Who… who are you?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He took a step closer, and you instinctively retreated, your back pressing against the cold stone wall. He stopped, his expression softening, though the blood on his armor gleamed in the candlelight. “I am Damian Wayne, prince of Gotham,” he said. “And I have come for you.”

“For me?” Your mind spun, grasping for meaning. “Why? My brothers—”

“Your brothers are defeated,” he said, his tone gentle but unyielding. “Eryndor has fallen. But you… you are safe now. With me.”

The words made no sense. Fallen? Defeated? Your world, so carefully curated, shattered like glass. “I don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking. “Why is this happening?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He wanted to tell you everything—how this war had been for you, how his heart had waged its own battle long before the first sword was drawn. But you were trembling, your innocence a fragile thing he feared he might break.

“Because I love you,” he said at last, the confession raw, unguarded. “And I would burn the world to keep you safe.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. Love? This stranger, this blood-soaked prince, spoke of love as if it were a vow written in the stars. You should have been afraid, should have screamed for your brothers, for the life you knew. But something in his eyes held you captive—a truth that stirred the untouched corners of your soul.

The Red Lord had come for you, and the world you knew would never be the same.

[riddlemelater]

Above Me - M.R

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

masterlist | nav | part 2

summary: It was supposed to be simple—just sex, no strings, no expectations. Mattheo didn’t do attachments, and you weren’t looking to fix him. But the lines are starting to blur, and neither of you are willing to admit it.

word count: 4.8k

warnings: unprotected p in v, smut, slight dom!mattheo, fem! reader, dirty talk, praise, use of pet names, emotional repression, fwb type relationship.

a/n: first time writing for Mattheo, and my first post here! let me know what you think. all likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! ✯

How the arrangement started didn’t matter, only that it worked. You both had something to gain. For Mattheo, it was low maintenance and high reward. You never outstayed your welcome, and he never lingered. Just a wink, a smirk, and a muttered "Same time tomorrow?" That was the deal.

It was guaranteed satisfaction without the risk of raised expectations— and even if they did catch feelings, he'd crush them the next day when he acted like they never existed.

He'd leave them tangled in his sheets and smirking by breakfast, already moving on before their names could stick. You'd seen how he operated — quick, careless, and never around long enough to deal with a morning-after attachment. He didn't want to be fixed, he just wanted someone willing.

And who was more suited for his needs than you.

Of course, no one would suspect a thing — not that he would care if they did anyway, he was practically fluent in attracting unwanted attention. But you, well you were the perfect solution to his little problem. Ever the golden girl of his little band of misfits, all soft smiles and sharper words. You were in a league of your own, far better than he deserved, and Mattheo loved defying the odds.

You suppose Mattheo had become a friend, in the loosest sense of the word. Unfortunately for you, loyalty to Pansy outweighed your indifference to him and his equally debauched friends. And as Pansy and Draco had resumed their on-again-off-again relationship— truly a mystery to all involved— you'd found yourself in his company more often than not.

With Pansy gravitating towards her blonde disaster of a boyfriend, your meals were punctuated by tales of Mattheo's latest sexual trysts. Your evenings, usually spent solely with Pansy, were now hijacked by the overwhelming stench of testosterone and crudeness.

Eventually, you ended up at the very centre of it all—behind everyone else's backs. And really, who were you to look a gift horse in the mouth?

✯ ✯ ✯

"Psst."

It took his third, maybe fourth, attempt to catch your attention. Reluctantly, you lifted your gaze from the parchment you'd been taking notes on, only to be met with his dark eyes.

You glanced past him toward the front of the room, where Professor Binnes — as lively as ever — was drifting lazily by the chalkboard. The chalk screeching faintly against the board, its dry scratch slicing through his relentless drone.

Clearly, the ghostly professor was either unaware or unbothered that half the class had taken his lecture as an opportunity to doze off, quills abandoned mid-sentence and parchment stained with ink blots where their hands had slumped. The remaining half, which was very few, were barely pretending to care about the painfully dull history of the 1289 Warlock Convention— a truly mind-numbing subject even by Binnes’ usual standards.

Mattheo kicked back in his chair at the desk in front of you, the very picture of disinterest whilst he twisted his wand between his fingers— the cool glint of his Riddle signet ring flashing each time his hand twisted in a hypnotic rhythm.

Beside him Lorenzo looked to be fast asleep, cheek squished against the back of his hand, practically drooling onto the untouched textbook in front of him. The lack of his usual elegance had you fighting back a shaky laugh. Your eyes drifted back to Mattheo, his head tilted against the back of the chair, a lazy sort of grin tugging at his lips.

"What?" you mouthed, lifting your quill in a vaguely annoyed gesture, as if to ask why he was interrupting you in the first place. But you already knew the answer, he was bored and without Enzo to entertain him, you were next in line.

Not that you were a swot. You certainly weren’t a teacher's pet either. But unlike Mattheo, you actually planned on leaving Hogwarts with something to show for it. A goal he openly mocked anytime someone dared remind him he still had exams to sit— Dark Lord’s heir or not.

Mattheo didn't reply, not with words anyway. He just grinned, clearly amused, watching you shake your head and continue writing down names and policies Binnes’ mentioned. Just because he wasn’t working didn’t mean that you had to stop. A fact you reminded yourself of firmly when flipping the pages of your textbook with extra purpose.

And that sentiment lasted… all of thirty seconds.

Before his face reappeared in your peripherals, far closer than you’d have liked, arm braced on your desk, body turned entirely to face you. Waiting with that stupid smirk on his face.

"What do you want, Mattheo?" you sighed, keeping your voice low to not disturb Binnes dulcet groans. You leaned back slightly, meeting his eyes with an unimpressed stare. He smirked in retaliation— of course he did— that same glint in his eyes you’d come to recognise all too well.

Nothing good ever followed that look.

"Why do you think I always want something, hmm?" He asked, idly toying with the corner of your parchment.

His gaze didn’t waver, and you realised almost immediately what this was about but you wouldn’t say it. If he wanted your attention then he could ask for it himself. His lips parted, like he was about to elaborate but you beat him to it.

"Because you do always want something."

Mattheo’s jaw dropped open playfully, putting a hand to his chest in feigned offence. “Harsh. I was just trying to be friendly.”

“You don’t know how to be friendly.” You retorted, shooting him a flat look.

He grinned — wider now, all teeth and trouble. Like you’d walked right into his web. And in a sense you had, falling for his pestering and giving him the satisfaction of stealing your attention, even momentarily.

“Sure I do. I think you’ll find I’m being very friendly right now. Offering you a break. A bit of stimulating conversation. Emotional support during this soul-draining lecture.”

You glanced towards the front of the classroom, where Professor Binnes was still rambling on, utterly oblivious to his wilting audience. Most had committed to sleep now, heads tucked into folded arms. You envied them.

“You. Emotional support. Right.” You scoffed dryly, turning back to your parchment and suppressing the urge to roll your eyes.

But Mattheo didn’t retreat. If anything, he leaned in closer, close enough that you caught the faint mix of smoke and amber that clung to his robes, a scent so unmistakably him.

“You busy later?” He eventually asked, voice low enough not to attract any attention.

You kept your eyes on your notes, dipping your quill into the ink pot impassively. “I will be, if you carry on talking and ruin my notes.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Not very friendly of you.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, knowing he was looking to get under your skin. Instead you hummed, underlined a random sentence in your textbook and forced a blank expression that gave nothing away. The quill scratching at your parchment a welcomed distraction from the brief silence.

“Anyway,” he pressed, still frustratingly close, “Thought you might want to come by tonight. Usual time.”

At this, your gaze finally raised from your parchment, mouth agape. “Is that what this little performance is about?”

He shrugged. “Can’t a guy check on what’s his?”

Sometimes you really couldn’t believe the gall of him. His. Heat rose in your cheeks. Part of you wished to retort sharply, to remind him nothing about you was his, but the words stuck in your throat.

“Not in the middle of class.” You said quietly, a little feeble in comparison to what you wanted to say.

“See, love, that's where you're wrong.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to keep up the mask of indifference, but your lip twitched just slightly. You cursed yourself for it, but it was already too late. He noticed of course, he always noticed.

Mattheo leaned back at last, victory written all over his face. “I’ll take that as a yes."

Immediately you wanted to say no, to cut him dead and laugh him off. Deny him the satisfaction of being right, but as you deliberated he could already see it in your eyes.

"I'll see you later, darling,” he said resolutely, and with that he turned back around, not waiting for your response. You could practically see the smugness radiating from him as he rested his chin on folded arms and fell still. Meanwhile, you tried not to stare daggers into the back of his head, or let your gaze linger on his dark curls too long.

✯ ✯ ✯

It was past midnight when you slipped through the dungeon entrance, an old quidditch jumper thrown over your clothes to guard against the castle's evening chill. The halls were quiet, eerie almost, but that didn't calm your racing pulse as you padded through the corridors, footsteps echoing off the stone floors.

You knew the route like the back of your hand. Left at the suit of armour, down the hallway where the sconces flickered more than glowed. A familiar path to his secret little hideaway— one of many, you'd learned. Merlin forbid Mattheo Riddle ever be predictable.

Your hand pushed one of the doors on the left open, the hardly used hinges creaking as they worked, revealing an old classroom that wasn't in use much anymore, forgotten and dusty until Mattheo had stumbled upon it — or so he said anyway.

He was there already, sprawled out across a transfigured leather couch, legs stretched out like he owned the place. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned just enough that his collarbone peaked out from behind the crisp white material, and his sleeves were pushed carelessly up to his elbows. He looked relaxed, carefree almost. Like he hadn't interrupted your entire evening because of something so trivial as he was bored.

"You're late." He said, not looking at you as he flicked his wand lazily toward a cluster of objects on the desk beside him. An ink pot, a feather quill, and what looked suspiciously like one of your hair ties hovered in the air, slowly orbiting each other like planets. His wand spun idly between his fingers as if there was barely a thought behind the magic.

"I wasn't aware you were timing me," you replied, shutting the door behind you with a gentle push. "You asked. I showed up. Don't push your luck."

At that he finally looked up, smirking at your deadpan expression. "You know, most people are a bit happier to see me."

You scoffed. Typical Mattheo arrogance. "Keep dreaming, Riddle."

He didn't reply. Instead, he flicked his wand and let the objects fall one by one— the ink pot thudded against the armrest, the quill floated down to the floor, and your hair tie was caught lazily between his forefinger and his thumb. He flicked it aside with a grin, watching your lips part, every inch of him smug and lethargic. Then, he patted the spot beside him on the couch like he was coaxing a dog to jump up beside him.

You stayed rooted to the spot. In half a mind to turn around and walk straight back to bed. But you didn't move an inch despite yourself.

"I don't bite," he said, lips twitching with amusement like he could see the conflict in your eyes, "...unless you ask nicely."

"I'm fine here, thanks." Your eyes rolled.

"Suit yourself then," he shrugged, leaning his head back against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. "Rough day?"

You blinked. Since when did he care how your day was? You studied him for a moment, the sharpness of his jaw softened by the flames that danced in the small fireplace. He didn't open his eyes.

"Just... long." you admitted after a pause, voice quieter than you meant it to be. Still a little startled by his sudden interest in how you day had been.

He hummed in response, a mix of acknowledgement and a noncommittal invitation to say more. But he didn't push, just let the silence settle, surprisingly comfortable despite the tension.

After a moment, and an intense inner debate, you crossed the classroom and dropped onto the couch beside him, making sure to leave just enough room between you. He cracked one eye open and smirked slyly.

"Change of heart, love?"

"Oh, shut up." you hissed but there was no malice in your words, leaning back into the leather and letting the plush cushions absorb you. Your own eyes fluttering shut and exhaling a deep sigh.

You both sat there in the thick quiet, the flames painting restless shadows across the stone. Neither one of you spoke and you weren't sure who was more stubborn, him for not breaking the silence, or you for refusing to ask what he was thinking.

It was always like this between you. Charged, flirty, messy— but when all the noise fell away, all that remained was this gnawing stillness. The kind that burrowed into your stomach, sickening even to think about.

Eventually, he exhaled sounding both sharp and tired. “You know, you don’t have to keep showing up.”

You didn’t look at him, eyes still firmly shut. “Is that your way of uninviting me?”

You couldn't see him but you could picture the expression on his face, and when he scoffed you knew there was no real bite to it. None of the usual malice or teasing. "I'm just saying... if you're expecting anything— anything more. Then don't."

It was your turn to scoff, peeling your eyes open and turning your head slowly to face him, his eyes meeting yours instantly. "I'm not."

“Good,” he said in a flat tone. He turned his head away again, but the silence that followed didn’t feel easy this time. It pressed in from all sides, too loud, too sharp. You didn’t know what you hated more—that he meant it, or that you did too.

"Good." you reiterated with a slight nod of the head, letting the silence burn for a moment longer.

You leaned in first, perhaps it was out of spite but more likely because you were tired of talking. He met you halfway, mouth crashing against yours in that now-familiar kind of desperation. His lips were bruising, and so were yours, like it was a silent competition where both of you were trying to win something.

His hands quickly found their place, one skirting up to grasp the side of your jaw whilst the other settled at the curve of your knee, dragging your body closer to his. His tongue darted out, licking a stripe across your bottom lip, demanding entry and you opened to him without hesitation.

Mattheo hummed approvingly, sinking himself backwards till his head hit the armrest once more, pulling you down with him till you were straddling his hips. You panted softly, pulling away from his lips for just a second whilst dragging your core against his jeans hazy and slow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly with the buttons of his shirt, pulling till the fabric parted, bearing him to your hungry gaze. He let out a hiss at the feeling of your nails dragging across his abdomen slowly, teasing him.

Still, his mouth was glued to yours, tongue lapping eagerly against your own, another unspoken fight for dominance. His hips bucked impatiently against you, drawing a moan from your lips that had him smirking into the kiss.

Your hands roamed instinctively, mapping the taut lines of his chest like you'd done a dozen times before — only this time it felt different, sharper somehow. Like each brush of his skin was dragging something raw from you.

He pulled back just enough to speak, breath ghosting over your slightly swollen lips. "Still not expecting anything?" he murmured, voice rough and teasing.

You exhaled a sharp laugh, leaning forward and mouthing at the curve of his jaw, dragging your teeth across his skin, down his throat until you found that spot that drove him insane, and sunk your teeth into it. Hard. With a low groan he tilted his head back, his fingers tightening at your hips as he cursed.

"Didn't think so." he breathed with a dry laugh, groaning once more as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to the tender skin.

You would've laughed if you weren't so focused, heart beating quickly and a familiar ache building between your thighs. Your teeth nipped at his collarbones, hands sliding down to the waistband of his jeans, fingers dipping just low enough to hear the satisfying sound of his breath catching.

He bucked his hips up once more, more desperate this time, and you relished the power you had over him, watching him lose that razor-sharp composure he always wore. It might've been intimate if it was with anyone else, but Mattheo Riddle didn't do intimacy, this meant nothing.

"Insufferable," he mumbled, dragging his lips down the side of your throat teasingly. "Fucking— impossible."

"And yet," you whispered lowly, voice dangerous and sultry, "You keep letting me in."

His breath hitched. Another low groan. And there it was again— that flicker of something just beneath the surface, something dangerous. Vulnerable. Real. You felt it like a thread between your bodies, pulled taut and impossible to ignore.

But before either of you acknowledged it, his mouth was on yours again, swallowing any words that might've slipped out in the heat of the moment. It was frantic, less like kissing and more like trying to consume each other. Like he was trying to erase whatever had just threatened to bubble to the surface.

His mouth moved feverishly against yours, all tongue and teeth, until suddenly he pulled back, panting. Your breath caught, lips swollen, eyes blinking open in confusion. Staring up at him with furrowed brows.

Mattheo's gaze was heavy, dark and lustful. His hands tightened against your hips, but he didn't move, he just stared like he was trying to figure out whether to devour you now or drag it out till you were begging.

"You done showing off, princess?" he asked in a low voice, rough with arousal but edged in something cooler. More dangerous.

You blinked, tilting your head innocently. "What?"

He chuckled, slow and wicked. "Acting like you're in charge. Cute, really. But you and I both know how this ends."

You didn't get the chance to argue back. One moment you were straddling him, the next he was pushing himself upright, shifting you easily onto your back against the couch, and looming over you. All in one fluid motion.

You let out a noise as he pushed a palm against your chest. Not harsh, but just enough to remind you he could pin you against the leather if he wanted to. And Merlin, judging by the look in his eyes, he wanted to.

His head dipped down again, kissing up your throat. "Open your legs for me," he murmured against your throat, tongue dragging across your pulse point. "That's it. Atta girl."

The praise fell effortlessly from his lips as you moved beneath him, sending a shiver straight through you intensifying the ache between your thighs. He noticed, of course, and his grin widened.

"Always so good for me," he continued mockingly, sliding his hand beneath the fabric of your jumper, the tips of his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. "Always act like you don't need this, like I don't own every fucking inch of you."

Your moan cut him off as his fingers slipped a little lower, dipping under your skirt and teasing the edge of your underwear. He chuckled darkly like that sound alone confirmed everything he already knew.

"That's what I thought, princess."

He kissed you again, but slower this time. Lethargic, almost. Like he wanted to savour the control he had over you. His fingers curled under the fabric of your clothes like he had all the time in the world. Like he was the only thing that mattered.

And if the way your body was reacting to him now was anything to go by, he was.

Your world narrowed to the weight of his body pressed on top of you, the heat of his hands, the drag of his lips across your hot skin. Mattheo’s teeth scraped just below your jawline and paused there as if marking the spot for later. His hand splayed out across your stomach. Fingers moving in slow, taunting circles, not quite giving you what you wanted.

“You know what I like about you?” He spoke, words slurred into your skin as he peeled away at the layers covering you. “You’re always trying so hard to pretend you’re above this… above me.”

You let out a shaky breath and his lips curved against your collarbones, listening to your needy whimpers as his fingers stroked closer and closer to where you craved his touch most.

“But then you come crawling back every time, don’t you?” He added, his voice tinged in faux sweetness that made your stomach flip. “So fucking needy for it… even if you won’t admit it.”

His hand finally breached your underwear, skimming over the wet fabric of your panties with a maddeningly light touch. The pads of his fingers swiped across the dampness that had gathered, and he knew he had you then. Light touches that were just enough to make your hips rock against his fingers, your pupils blown wide with lust.

“Look at that,” he cooed, smirking at your trembling lips. Smugly basking in the gasp that came from somewhere deep in your throat as his fingers pressed light circles around your clit.

At the same time he leaned down and pressed his lips to your throat, kissing and nipping the skin as he went. His nose brushed against the hollow of your neck, and you knew he could feel your pulse— fast and erratic— which only made him chuckle against your skin.

“Please,” you whispered hoarsely, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut. It was maddening how easily he could get you like this. How simple it was to have you trembling and greedy for him.

A wrecked-sounding curse tore from his throat at your plea, his hand curling under your thigh and tugging it around his waist so he could settle between your legs, pressing his still-clothed, hardening cock flush against you. Then he rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, dragging a broken moan from you.

“Begging already?” He smirked, pressing his forehead to yours his chest heaving. You knew he was savouring this, enjoying how you crumbled from a few swipes of his fingers.

“Mattheo…” you moaned impatiently, meeting his darkened eyes as another string of plea’s left your lips.

That was all it took to convince him. Sitting back quickly, his hands worked at his belt to free his cock from its constraints. The sight of him before you, all needy and desperate, had you whining. Eyes fixed on the bead of pre-come already gathering at the tip as he stroked himself eagerly, hissing at the feeling.

“Merlin you look perfect like this… so wrecked for me.” He muttered, tugging your panties down your legs with little care for where they landed. You could only gasp in anticipation, watching his face as he guided his cock towards your aching cunt.

You hissed as he rocked his hips forward in one sharp motion, your walls pushing against him as he pressed forward. Groaning as he sunk deeper into you, his eyes fluttering shut as you adjusted to the stretch.

“Fuck, look at you— taking me so well.” He praised leaning down to press a messy kiss against your lips. You clenched around him, feeling the pain receding.

Mattheo groaned softly as he pulled out then thrust into your cunt once more, sending ripples of pleasure through your body and coaxing another moan to tumble from your mouth. Slowly he found his pace, hips rutting in a lazy rhythm against yours.

Sighing softly he fucked into you, his face buried into the crook of your neck, sucking bruises onto the skin you’d have to hide tomorrow. His steady pace made you see stars already, but you needed more. He made you insatiable.

“That all you got, Riddle?” You choked out when his hips stuttered for a beat, temporarily losing his rhythm. And you regretted it immediately.

“Oh,” he retorted, breath hot against your ear, “Is this not good enough for you, Princess?” He mocked, punctuating his words with a hard thrust, pleased with himself when you whined at the sudden change of pace.

His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, and then his hips snapped forward, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. His grip tightened and he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Another sharp thrust had your back arching off the couch, a strangled sound catching in your throat. He didn’t give you a moment to recover—his rhythm turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make a point with every motion.

“That better?” he growled, eyes flicking down to watch the way you writhed beneath him, the knot in your stomach building. “That what you wanted, sweetheart? For me to remind you who you belong to?”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of begging. But your body betrayed you—hips tilting up into his, quiet gasps slipping from your lips. He chuckled low in his chest, satisfied that he was the only person who could see you like this.

“Thought so,” he breathed, releasing your wrists so his hands could trail down your sides, slow and deliberate. His large hands brushing across the curve of your hips. “All that attitude, and now look at you…” he tutted. He caught your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. His gaze burned into yours, full of heat and something hungrier underneath. All his attention focused on watching you shatter beneath him, and you did. Hard.

Eventually, the frantic rhythm slowed. Mattheo's breath was hot against your bare shoulder, his chest heaving with exertion as he dragged his lips across the side of your neck one final time and came with a near-animalistic growl.

Neither of you spoke. Panting, he collapsed on top of you, sweaty and spent. The only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire that had burnt down to embers, and the rush of blood in your ears.

You stared up at the ceiling, a hand resting in his damp curls, your chest still rising and falling in shallow waves. Mattheo hadn't moved, hadn't said a word— just lay there with his face buried against your neck like he didn't want to face the aftermath.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, and you knew you should say something. That you should shove him off and make a joke, brush it off with a biting remark that made him smirk like usual. Make it easier for yourself.

"Mattheo," you said softly, not a question or a plea. Just his name. He shifted at that, enough to pull back and glance down at you. In his fucked-out haze, his eyes were softer— less shielded. Like there was something fragile in his face, buried beneath all the sharp edges and scars.

Then his jaw clenched and he pushed himself up without ceremony, pulling out of you like his body suddenly weighed too much. He didn't look at you as he reached for his discarded shirt and pulled it on with jerky, irritated movements.

The silence was thick between you, loud and obtrusive. You sat up, wincing slightly, and began gathering your clothes. The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air and his back was to you— deliberately. You could feel it in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his posture, like he was holding back.

As you made your way toward the door, you glanced back once. He was leaning against the mantel now, head bowed, cigarette perched between his swollen lips, gaze fixed on the dying embers in the grate. He didn't look at you.

You knew you had to leave. The tension was suffocating, and the silence between you had stretched too thin. Your chest tightened, but you forced the words out before you could lose your nerve.

"I'm not here to fix you," you said quietly, barely loud enough over the crackle, and for a moment you didn't think he'd heard you. He didn't flinch, but something in his posture shifted— just a flicker, then it was gone.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he murmured, the words rough and worn at the edges like they cost him something to say. And somehow, that hurt worse.

The smoke curled around him like armor as you reached for the handle and walked out into the darkness, leaving the door open long enough for the silence to follow you out.

©️riddlemelater 2025.

[ahqkas]

♯ THE SWEET ESCAPE ( you find out the batboys have fanfics written about them ! )

— gn!reader, fluff + comedy, suggestive comments in dick’s part, jason’s too ( couldn’t stop myself ), based on this req.!!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

. . . BRUCE WAYNE !

THE WAYNE MANOR WAS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOFT CRACKLE OF THE FIREPLACE and the gentle tapping of your fingers against your phone screen. bruce sat at his desk across the study, engrossed in paperwork, his reading glasses perched on the sharp bridge of his nose. the evening had fallen into a comfortable silence, the kind of peaceful lull that felt rare amidst the chaos of dark gotham.

every so often, though, he’d glance up, noticing the way you seemed utterly absorbed in whatever you were doing on your phone. your brows would furrow in concentration, then smooth out as a quiet laugh escaped you. it wasn’t just one laugh either; it was a series of them—sometimes soft giggles, other times a burst of snickers that you quickly tried to stifle.

you were so adorable and you had no idea.

bruce’s natural curiosity was piqued. you weren’t the type to be easily distracted, especially not for this long. “what’s so funny?” he asked, his deep voice breaking the quiet.

you didn’t immediately answer to his question, too caught up in scrolling through whatever was on your screen. another chuckle slipped out before you glanced up, realizing he was watching you with an arched brow.

“oh,” you acknowledged him now, your grin widening mischievously. “curiosity got to me.”

the man tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to elaborate.

“i’m checking out your batman fanfics,” you explained with your voice sounding entirely too casual as you went back to scrolling the net.

for a moment, bruce simply blinked, processing your words. “my what?” disbelief and concern were etched in his voice along with his eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“fanfiction,” you repeated, looking up at him with a glimmer of amusement in your eyes upon witnessing his reaction. it was funny, seeing him like this. “you know, the stories people write about you. well, about batman, but still. there’s an entire app of it.”

bruce leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that made him look both skeptical and mildly intrigued. his sharp, discerning eyes, the same ones that had seen through countless lies and hidden riddles, were now fixed squarely on you. the faintest crease appeared between his brows, betraying just a hint of exasperation beneath his otherwise calm exterior. “and what exactly made you decide to look this up?” he asked in a steady voice but carrying the subtle undertone of someone bracing for impact—like a detective piecing together a story he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the ending of.

you shrugged, biting back another laugh as your eyes returned to your phone. “i was curious. i mean, it’s not like you have a PR team or interviews for people to obsess over, so this is where the public’s imagination goes. it’s fascinating.”

pinching the bridge of his nose, the weight of your words settling over him like a blanket, and he let out a long, measured sigh. it was the kind of sigh reserved for moments when bruce wayne—esteemed billionaire and relentless vigilante—was confronted with something that defied his finely logic. his fingers pressed lightly against the frame of his glasses as if trying to stave off an impending headache. “fascinating isn’t the word i’d use,” he said in the end. there was no anger, just the faintest trace of amusement buried beneath the weariness, as if he couldn’t decide whether to lecture you or just accept the absurdity of the situation.

“it’s harmless.”

rising to his full height, he raked a hand through the dark strands of his hair. as always, curiosity—or perhaps concern—won out. he made his way over to you, his steps unhurried but purposeful. stopping just beside your plush chair, bruce rested a hand lightly on the back of it, his towering frame impossible to ignore as he looked down at you. “i’m not sure i want to know what that means,” the slight quirk of his lips betrayed the fact that some part of him couldn’t help but be curious.

“oh, you definitely don’t,” you teased, holding your phone away as he leaned down to try and get a look. “some of this is so creative. did you know there’s a whole subcategory where you’re a single dad trying to raise the batkids and find love?”

bruce raised an eyebrow. “you mean something i actually am doing?” except he’d already found love in you.

“exactly! except in this version, you’re baking cookies for PTA meetings and teaching kids how to ride bikes. it’s adorable.”

he shook his head slowly, the movement like it belonged in an old movie, as if trying to dismiss the mental image of whatever ridiculous stories you’d found. “and what about the rest of it?” he asked. “should i be worried?” the words were light, almost teasing, but there was a thread of genuine concern, as if he were bracing himself for the possibility that your exploration into this strange corner of the internet might have uncovered something truly outrageous—or worse, embarrassing.

“well . . . ” you hesitated, your grin turning a bit sheepish as the answer to his question brewed in your mind. “let’s just say not all of it is as wholesome as the single-dad stories.”

frowning, he leaned more into the back of your chair. “how unwholesome are we talking?”

you burst into laughter at his expression, your hand flying to cover your mouth and silence the sound of joy. “bruce, don’t worry. i’m not reading anything too scandalous. though . . . ” you trailed off, pretending to think deeply, “there was one story about you and superman . . . ”

bruce groaned again, this time louder, the sound resonating with a mix of frustration and resignation as if he had just heard the most absurd thing imaginable—which, frankly, he had. he dragged a hand down his face, his fingers briefly covering his glasses as though shielding himself from the mental image your words had planted. “i don’t think i want to hear the rest of that sentence,” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.

the thought of batman x superman was enough to make even his composure falter. he shook his head slightly, as if trying to physically dispel the notion, but the faint pink creeping up his neck betrayed his discomfort. there were certain things even a man of the likes of bruce wayne was unprepared to confront, and apparently, this was one of them. just image clark’s reaction to this literature.

“but it was so well-written!” defending, you shook with laughter now. “i mean, the dialogue was spot on. and the angst! i had no idea people thought you two had a forbidden love affair going on.”

the poor stared at you, deadpan. “you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“of course i am. how often do i get to tease you about something you can’t control? this is gold.”

you laughed again, your joy infectious, and bruce couldn’t help but smile despite himself. the whole thing was ridiculous, but seeing you so happy—and knowing you could find lightness even in the strangest corners of his world—made it all worthwhile.

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

IN WAS A QUIET EVENING IN YOUR SHARED PENTHOUSE, the kind where the soft hum of the city below became a soothing backdrop to the peace inside. dick grayson, having wrapped up his latest patrol, was lounging on the couch, his legs stretched out and his suit traded for something more comfortable: a fitted t-shirt and sweatpants, casual yet effortlessly put together. you were curled up beside him, your phone in hand, completely absorbed in whatever you were doing. every few moments, a soft chuckle would escape your lips, followed by a quiet giggle, and your boyfriend couldn’t help but glance over at you, his curiosity piqued.

“hey,” he said, shifting on the couch and propping himself up on one elbow. “what are you reading? you’ve been at it for a while now.” His voice, as always, was light, teasing in its usual playful way, but with a hint of genuine curiosity. he could never resist wondering what kept your attention so thoroughly when he was nearby.

you glanced up from your phone, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you turned to face him. “curiosity got to me,” you said, voice carrying an almost conspiratorial tone. “i’m checking out nightwing fanfics.”

dick’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he blinked a few times as if trying to process what you’d just said. for a split second, he was silent, before his lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “fanfics?” his voice dripped with amusement. “about me? are you telling me there’s a whole genre of stories about your boyfriend?”

you gave a little shrug, the hint of a grin tugging at your lips. “well, nightwing, i guess,” you corrected, “but yeah, turns out there are a lot of people who find your nightwing persona pretty . . . inspiring.” you paused and then added with a playful glint in your eye, “some of them even think you’re, like, the ultimate heartthrob. you’ve got a pretty good following.”

a soft chuckle escaped dick’s lips, and he sat up fully now, his eyes narrowing in mock contemplation. “heartthrob, huh? i knew i was good, but i didn’t realize i had a cult following.” he ran a hand through the dark strands of his hair, his usual cocky grin settling on his face, though there was a warmth to it as he leaned toward you. “you sure you’re not getting jealous over my popularity?”

laughing, you shook your head, the sound light and teasing, but there was something in your expression that made your boyfriend pause. it wasn’t just the laughter—it was the way your eyes lingered on the screen, a spark of genuine curiosity dancing in their depths. amusement tugged at your lips as you scrolled further, like you’d stumbled into some strange, secret world that you couldn’t quite tear yourself away from whatever strange rabbit hole you’d fallen into.

“so what are they writing about?” dick asked, now more intrigued than ever, leaning closer. he wasn’t the kind of person to shy away from teasing himself, and the thought of others putting him in such exaggerated, dramatic situations made his amusement even more apparent. “anything interesting? how am i portrayed? a misunderstood vigilante with a heart of gold?”

you scrolled to one of the stories, reading aloud a few choice lines. “this one’s about nightwing coming back from a long mission, injured, and you get nursed back to health by your adoring fan who just so happens to be the one who had intrigued you,” the mischievous smile now curled fully on your lips.

dick blinked, his blue eyes widening with mock disbelief as he leaned closer to you, trying to catch a glimpse of your phone screen. “wait, me?” he asked with his voice pitching slightly between surprise and amusement, the edges of a grin tugging at his lips. “i get hurt? in a fanfic?” he scoffed, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest, feigning offense. “i call bullshit. i’m practically invincible,” he added with confidence, tilting his head as if daring you to prove him wrong. but there was a playful glint in his eyes, the kind that told you he was just as entertained by this as you were, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it. “what next? i’m crying because i stubbed my toe? these people clearly don’t know me.”

“well, apparently you’re human in this one, but you’re still handsome as ever.”

“but i mean, you know,” dick began, shifting a little closer to you on the couch, his grin widening as he tilted his head, watching your reaction, “if you want me to join you in reading through this . . . i guess i could show you how to write a real nightwing fanfic.” his voice was light and teasing, but there was an unmistakable edge to his tone—suggestive, playful, with just enough of a challenge to make your cheeks warm. his eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in slightly, closing the space between you, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smirk. “maybe it’ll be . . . more accurate,” he added, his voice dropping a fraction lower, the words rolling off his tongue like a dare. there was something so undeniably dick grayson about the way he said it—effortlessly charming, but with a teasing bite that left your mind spinning.

you gave him a sideways look, raising an eyebrow as you grinned. “and what’s the plot for that one, mr. grayson?” you asked, amused by his suggestion.

“i don’t know . . . maybe i’m the ultimate love interest who saves gotham and his secret love from some terrible villain, only to get up hurt and you have to kiss it better.” his voice dropped into a mock-serious tone. “it’ll be perfect.”

you burst out laughing, unable to keep your composure at the thought of that kind of nightwing story.

the two of you spent the next several minutes reading through the stories together—dick teasing you for the over-the-top details and wild scenarios, while you kept showing him new stories that had him both amused and mildly flustered. eventually, the two of you settled into a comfortable silence, the evening turning from playful banter into a warm, quiet togetherness. it was a rare moment of normalcy in the whirlwind life of a vigilante—and one dick cherished.

. . . JASON TODD !

JASON TODD WAS SPRAWLED ACROSS YOUR COUCH, HIS LONG FRAME TAKING UP MORE SPACE than seemed fair, boots kicked off and discarded in a lazy mess by the door. his socked feet, one crossed casually over the other, rested on the coffee table—much to your disapproval, though you’d given up pointing it out by now. the soft glow of the television flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw as he absentmindedly flipped through channels before settling on an action movie he’d already half-forgotten. explosions and dramatic music filled the room, but his attention wasn’t really on the screen.

it kept drifting away, landing on you instead. you were curled up at the far end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and your phone clutched in your hands like it held the secrets of the universe. the light from the screen illuminated your features, catching the faint furrow of your brow as you scrolled. every so often, your expression shifted—a small smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, a quiet snort that made his ears perk up, or the way your eyes lit up just before you let out an amused laugh.

jason couldn’t help but watch you.

he wasn’t the type to pry into your business, but the way you kept snickering under your breath was impossible to ignore. “alright,” he finally said, his voice cutting through the quiet, “what’s so funny over there?”

you glanced up, startled by the sudden question, your fingers pausing mid-scroll as if caught red-handed. for a moment, your face was blank, a deer in headlights, but then the corners of your mouth began to twitch, giving you away almost instantly. there was a mischievous glint in your eye, one that jason knew all too well—a sure sign you were up to something. “nothing,” you said in a pitched voice, as if the word alone could absolve you of whatever it was you were hiding. but the slight curve of your lips, the way you bit back an involuntary grin, made it clear that “nothing” was far from the truth.

your boyfriend gave you a pointed look, the kind he’d perfected over years of interrogating lowlifes and getting them to crack under pressure. it wasn’t harsh—jason wasn’t like that with you—but it carried enough weight to make even the most confident liar squirm. his head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smirk that betrayed his amusement at your obvious reluctance. “uh-huh. sure, baby,” he said, his voice dripping with mock disbelief as he rested an arm on the back of the couch. “what are you reading?”

you hesitated for a second, weighing whether or not you should tell him. but then you shrugged, the grin on your face widening. why not? “curiosity got to me,” you admitted, holding up your phone. “i’m checking out your red hood fanfics.”

jason blinked, his head tilting slightly as if he hadn’t heard you right. “my what?”

“fanfiction,” you repeated, clearly enjoying his confusion. “you know, the stuff people write about you. well, about red hood. there’s a whole world of it out there. i just had to see it for myself.”

for a moment, jason just stared at you, his expression frozen in a mix of disbelief and sheer confusion. it was as if the words you’d just said refused to compute in his brain, the concept too absurd to fully grasp. his eyebrows furrowed slightly, a crease forming between them as he leaned back, clearly trying to piece it all together. “you mean to tell me,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with a cautious incredulity as he reached out to set the remote down on the coffee table with deliberate care, “that people are out there . . . writing stories about me?” the way he emphasized the word stories made it clear he was half expecting you to say you were joking. but the flicker of amusement in your eyes only deepened his bewilderment, and his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite find the words. his gaze flicked to your phone briefly, then back to you, like he was trying to decide whether to be flattered, annoyed, or just flat-out amused.

“not you, exactly. red hood.”

“i don’t know what’s more insane—that people are doing this or that you’re actually reading it.”

you bit your lip, clearly trying not to laugh again. “you’re this super suave, dark-and-mysterious antihero who sweeps women off their feet with your tragic backstory.”

he snorted. “tragic backstory? yeah, real original.”

jason shook his head, his laughter rumbling low in his chest as he reached over to you with that quick, calculated motion you were used to. his long fingers closed around your phone before you could react, plucking it right out of your hands. “alright, that’s enough internet for you,” holding it just out of your reach when you tried to grab it back, he had the audacity to laugh even more

“hey!” you protested. “i wasn’t done!”

“oh, you’re done,” he said, grinning as he tossed the phone onto the couch behind him. “because if i have to sit here and listen to one more fanfic version of me, i might actually lose my mind.”

you pouted, crossing your arms. “but it’s so entertaining!”

he smirked, leaning in closer until his face was just inches from yours. “you want entertainment?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “how about the real red hood shows you why fanfics don’t do me justice?”

. . . TIM DRAKE !

TIM SAT ACROSS THE ROOM, HIS LAPTOP OPEN IN FRONT OF HIM as he worked on a few cases, tapping away at the keyboard with his usual speed and precision. the hum of gotham’s nighttime ambience outside the window, mixed with the soft buzz of the bat-computer, was strangely calming. yet, despite his focused demeanor, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

you were sitting next to him on the couch, your attention seemingly consumed by your phone. the screen lit up your face in the dim light of the room, and occasionally, a quiet chuckle escaped your lips. tim furrowed his brows, trying to focus on his work, but the sound of your laughter distracted him again.

it wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from a joke shared between the two of you, but rather something more private—an inside joke between you and whatever was on your phone. tim glanced over, raising an eyebrow.

“what are you doing?” he asked casually, though he was genuinely curious, a little intrigued by what could possibly be so entertaining.

you looked over at him, a smirk creeping onto your face. “curiosity got to me,” you said nonchalantly, clearly enjoying the moment. “i’m checking out your red robin fanfics.”

tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, the words hitting him with an almost physical force. he blinked, not entirely sure he had heard you correctly. “what?”

“fanfiction,” you repeated, turning your phone so he could see the glowing screen. “it’s a whole thing. i got curious, and it turns out that there’s quite a bit of red robin fanfics out there.” you gave the boy a grin, clearly amused by your discovery.

his mind raced. fanfic? about him? his alter ego? the boy suddenly felt a mix of embarrassment, intrigue, and a strange sense of amusement. he’d never really considered that people might write about him outside of gotham’s criminal scene. of course, he was familiar with fan culture, having read a fair share of comics and stories himself, but the idea of himself as a character in someone else’s imagination was a completely different world altogether.

“i—i mean, i guess i never thought about it,” he stammered with his voice a little less composed than usual. “what exactly do they write about?”

you leaned back, glancing at the page for a moment before looking up at him with a teasing glint in your eyes. “oh, you know. heroic rescues, dramatic fights, the usual stuff. but there are some . . . interesting spins.” your eyes sparkled as you watched him squirm slightly.

his face reddened just a touch. “interesting spins?” he repeated, his fingers subconsciously tapping against his thigh. “like what?”

“like you getting saved by batman.”

tim shook his head, his hands rubbing over his face as if trying to erase the image you’d just created in his mind. “okay, that’s . . . that’s a little too weird,” he muttered, half laughing at himself for even considering the possibilities. “i never thought i’d see the day when i was a fanfic character. did they get anything right?”

“actually,” you said, leaning in with mock seriousness, “some of it was kind of spot on. i mean, they really captured the whole brooding, self-deprecating vibe you’ve got going on.”

“i do not brood.”

“i beg to differ,” you shot back.

he glanced at you, a teasing smile still playing on his lips. “yeah, well, next time you want to get curious, just ask me. i’ll tell you all the ‘heroic rescues’ you need to know, no fanfic required.”

you laughed again, leaning against him, the warmth between you both more comforting than ever. tim’s nerves had been stretched thin when you first brought up the fanfiction, but now? now, he was just grateful that the conversation had turned into something lighter, a moment of genuine connection between the two of you. as you both sat there, laughing and joking about what ridiculous scenarios you’d found online, tim couldn’t help but feel a little proud. he might not have expected to find his alter ego splashed across the pages of a fanfiction site, but in a strange way, he was glad it was a part of the world people cared about. it made him feel, for once, like he wasn’t just a vigilante—he was someone worth writing about, someone worth being remembered. even if that meant a few ridiculous, outlandish stories in the process.

[swordgrace]

𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄.

༺ cregan stark x fem!northern!reader.

SYNOPSIS: a longtime friend of cregan stark, you seek him out to train you with a longsword. though, a duel in the wolfswood leaves you with more of a desire for other things instead of swordplay.

anonymous request.

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 9.3K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), friends to lovers, sexual tension, mutual possessiveness, size difference / size kink, cregan is much bigger than the reader, dominant cregan, cregan is a big, brooding hunk, sexually-charged dueling, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, all stark men have a breeding kink, neck biting / marking (biting in general), rough sex, cunnilingus / oral sex (fem!receiving), hair pulling, fingering, groping, light bruising, mild manhandling, soft ending & soft aftercare.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: You can tell that I’m inspired because I’m putting out fanfics at the pace of a madman. I absolutely loved this request, huge thanks to the anon who gave me this wonderful idea and allowed me to bring it to life! ❤️ I loved writing for Cregan and I definitely wouldn’t mind doing so again! Thank you to all the love & support, you all mean the world to me! Enjoy!

“𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 — 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫.”

Lord Cregan Stark’s usual stoicism held a vast amount of protectiveness, the desire to better you in the right way, the Northern way. You had been taught all about swordplay by your father, but through the years, as you grew into your place as Lady of Barrowton, your skills had declined.

Ladies of your station were admonished for possessing any inclination of violence — a woman could not hold a sword, she could only hold an embroidery needle. A woman could not rule, only guide the men that do, and a woman could not become tempestuous, for it meant that she was simply a bad product or undesirable.

Thankfully, Cregan defied all expectations and pledged to teach you, hone your skills again from the ground up, if necessary. You could not be anymore grateful to him for assuming that mantle when he didn’t have to.

Your longstanding relationship with the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark, was the byproduct of many childhood years spent together — it was often you, Cregan, and his late younger brother. A deadly trio, to be sure, running through the Wolfswood and terrorizing Winterfell with typical childish antics.

The joy of youth had begun to run dry — you were nine-and-ten now, Cregan one-and-twenty, ruling over the entirety of the North. Your father was Lord Roderick Dustin, Lord of Barrowton and an infamous fighter, bannerman to House Stark. Of course, his duties were often torn between Barrowton and Winterfell, and so you were left in the care of your uncle.

Learning to fight again as a man would involve many hours and countless sessions held within the Godswood behind the Great Keep. It was only a handful of times each week, provided that Cregan was able to attend despite the rest of his duties.

His closest advisors had beseeched him to abandon teaching you, to let it die and rest with those with more time on their hands. Cregan refused to leave you in the hands of a less capable swordsman — what good was that, letting you learn the wrong way?

A crow’s cry reverberated throughout the Wolfswood, the beat of a flock soaring through the heavily wooded hills. Your sessions inevitably relocated from the Godswood to here, to allow for the cover of privacy and a lack of wandering eyes.

Hardened earth had turned damp and muddy in the presence of a deluge days before, certainly not sturdy ground for true fighting, but it would prove to be a challenge for the both of you. Rain wasn’t common in the North, but it proved to be quite a nuisance whenever it fell — and it fell hard.

He was under great scrutiny for doing this anyway, and Cregan preferred to keep the lectures of old men at-bay for a time, if he could. The young Lord sat beneath the sprawling branches of a massive oak tree, his horse tethered several feet away.

Using a sharpening stone, he turned dull steel into razor-sharp weapons, abandoning the practice swords he often brought with him whenever he met with you. That happened to be another point of contention — meeting with a young maiden, alone in the woods, without any chaperone.

Cregan would never tarnish your honor or sully your dignity — betrothal was inevitable for a man of his station, but he wanted to forget about it. Things were easier when it was just the two of you, sparring in the woods — he did not feel so weighed-down by duty, by leadership.

He felt less like the Warden of the North and simply Cregan Stark.

The mantle of leadership had become heavier with the visit of Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, asking that he supply his mother’s armies with Northmen. House Stark was an honorable one — he wasn’t about to break vows of fealty sworn before the late King Viserys to make his daughter heir.

It meant that war was on the horizon, a war that would involve himself and his people, a war that held the potential to rip the realm asunder. Cregan had prepared himself for a time like this, when oaths and honor transcended old traditions. Whatever storm was approaching, he was prepared to face it head-on.

His head lifted from admiring polished steel, gray eyes searching for the dappled coat of your horse as it thundered through the Wolfswood. His heart felt lighter when his gaze found you, guiding your steed toward his own to tether it to a sturdy branch.

Love was a dangerous thing, just as perilous as any war fought by men — both on different fronts. Cregan had lost plenty in his life, and he feared losing you. This friendship you had, it almost seemed to take on a life of its own, abandoning the line of propriety and molding into something else, something affectionate.

Cregan didn’t know what he felt for you, but he knew that it wasn’t anything a friend should feel.

Despite the bitter chill of the North, the day was temperate enough, one where he didn’t feel the desire to wear a heavy cloak or layer himself in furs. The adrenaline of swordplay often got his blood rushing anyway, and he would be hot by the time this was all said and done.

The cheer and excitement you often felt was displayed so openly upon your face, lips curled into a bright smile. Cregan had teased you for being too amiable for a Northerner, but admittedly, he looked forward to seeing your sweet countenance and sparkling eyes. There was a warmth you possessed, a warmth hot enough to keep him comfortable when in your presence.

“Dour, as always,” You hummed, dismounting from your gelding with a look of mild amusement. You abandoned the lengthy silks and pretty dresses of a maiden whenever you came to train, outfitted with leather armor that seemed somewhat ill-fitting on you. “I wish to see you smile, Cregan.”

With a sardonic huff, a twinkle reached Cregan’s stormy-gray eyes as he looked to you, brows furrowing together. “I suppose you caught me on an odd day,” He replied, placing the sharpening stone upon the pillar of flat rock he sat atop. “Duties of the Warden of the North.” He sighed, turning his eyes toward the dismal skies.

You could detect his stress from where you stood, moving closer to him until you reached the smooth rock, taking a seat at his side. “Something is wrong,” You stated. Despite the constant banter you shared, you were still friends — Cregan wore his exhaustion on his sleeve in moments of vulnerability. “What is it?”

His shoulders rolled in a shrug, letting the blade of his longsword turn downward into the dirt, its weight resting against his thigh. “Winter is here,” Cregan murmured, countenance etched with a somber look. “War is brewing in the South. I am torn on two fronts.”

The conflict between Rhaenyra and King Aegon II — you knew of it. The realm was prepared to rip itself apart instead of seeing a woman’s ascension, something that you felt a great deal of sympathy for. “What will you do?” You inquired, able to see the furling of tension within his body, even beneath his sparring leathers.

“Uphold the oath made before King Viserys I, and before the realm,” Cregan replied, his eyes filled with something stern and solemn. He would never break an oath — it wasn’t something Northerners took lightly. “We swore to see the ascension of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and we shall fulfill it. I’ve pledged two-thousand greybeards to send South, when the time comes.”

The admiration you felt for Cregan only grew tenfold — it was the Cregan Stark that you had felt affection for, grown fond of. He was honorable, a gentle yet powerful man who wielded leadership with thoughtfulness and integrity. Your lips curled into a warm smile, as smoldering as a summer’s eve as you reached his arm.

“You’re a good man, Cregan.” It was all that needed to be said. There were plenty more sentiments conveyed in your softening stare alone — many things left unspoken, but some of it boiling beneath the surface.

A soft huff escaped him before he shook his head, dismissing your praise with a shrug of his shoulder. “I do what any honorable man would do,” He murmured, but the both of you knew it wasn’t true. Cregan showed great humility even when he didn’t need to. He moved to his feet, holding a longsword in each hand. “But we didn’t come here to speak of a grim future.”

The noticeable difference in stature was a point of teasing between the both of you, and one that Cregan took full advantage of. You stood across from him, head canting to one side. “The only grim future that I see is your face, my Lord.” You chimed, and he let out a mirthful scoff at your prodding and playful use of his title.

He stepped closer, offering you the glimmering blade of a longsword. Your surprise was noteworthy, and he very nearly made a comment, electing to hold his tongue. Cregan knew how to handle a blade — he was a talented swordsman, seasoned and experienced despite his age.

“These are real,” You stated, feeling the weight of the blade within your hand. You half expected the practice swords, but this was a welcome surprise. “Do you think that this is wise?” Admittedly, there was a pang of fear at the thought of swinging a real sword. What if you accidentally maimed him?

Cregan huffed, visage one of stoicism despite the amusement that crept into his stern, Northern timbre. “You’ll have to learn to leave the play-fighting behind, my Lady,” He murmured, watching as you white-knuckled the hilt. He was surprised that your hand didn’t rip apart. “Don’t hold it too tight.”

With a sharp exhale, you glanced at Cregan, whose gray eyes were akin to the onslaught of a winter storm, dark-chestnut tresses framing his face. He was beginning to grow a bit of scruff on his face, likely a byproduct of the stress of his duties.

He was handsome — Northern perfection made flesh and bone, a gentle mountain of a man. In your youth, you had always fancied Cregan to some degree, but his birthright often prevented you from acting on impulse. Then again, it was best left as a fantasy.

You froze when his hand wrapped around yours, calloused digits forcing your grip to loosen. “Don’t keep your hands together,” Cregan rumbled, repositioning your grip — one toward the top of the hilt, and the other closer to the pommel. “You’re acting as if this is day one.” He challenged, and that got your attention.

“It’s heavier,” You murmured, recoiling away with a disdainful expression. Cregan knew that he was beginning to get a rise out of you, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk. “It’s not as easy to handle as the swords we used before.”

“Did you expect a longsword to weigh as much as a feather?” Cregan inquired, attempting to smother his amusement when you rolled your eyes at him. He prepared himself, squaring up into an attack formation, handling his ancestral blade with ease.

A scoff escaped you, and you mirrored his stance, holding the blade to the best of your ability. There was a burn in your arms from the newfound weight, but you pretended that it didn’t bother you. “I might throw this feather at you.” You grumbled, and at last, that earned you a brief chuckle from Cregan.

“Ready yourself,” He warned, circling you with steady steps. Cregan knew that he wouldn’t hold back for your sake — you were strong enough to take it. You insisted upon it many times before, even if he was initially reluctant to do so. “Don’t hold back.”

With a soft grunt, you brazenly charged at Cregan, hoping that it would catch him by surprise. He seemed to be expecting this, nimbly dodging your sloppy charge as he stepped to the side. You swiveled around, blades clanging together as they reverberated throughout the Wolfswood.

The silver of steel glinted within the pale rays of sunlight glistening through the canopy above. Cregan maintained a stalwart expression, though it began to crack at the seams as you swung again. He parried the blow, shuffling within the fallen leaves and damp earth.

“You’re swinging like a drunkard,” Cregan quipped, knowing that you were smarter than this. In one smooth stroke, he shoved you aside, grabbing the bicep of your sword arm. “Don’t fight like one.” He grunted, brows furrowing together as you struggled within his ironclad grasp.

In a brief stroke of genius, you smacked Cregan’s side with the pommel of your longsword, causing him to loosen his hold as you shimmied away. He let out a grunt, watching as you quickly made distance. It was a dirty fighting tactic — he most certainly didn’t teach you that.

The flash of a triumphant smile crept onto your features, but not before the King in the North charged forth, the both of you bringing your swords up. Something blossomed between the both of you, a strange tension fueled by unspoken feelings. Cregan bared his weight down upon you, causing you to maneuver to the side in order to evade him.

There was a fire within his eyes whenever he fought, a spark that turned into a bright flame. Adrenaline made his blood run hot, and the more the two of you brought your swords together, moving about as if it were a dance, the more enticed and invigorated he became.

Cregan found you beautiful, strands of hair sticking to your shimmering temples, framing your creased brow. The concentration written upon your visage was enough to make him pause, admire the intricacies and commit them to memory. Even when you wore men’s garb to spar, you were still enchanting.

You were perfect when fighting, pouring all of your efforts into beating him, if that were a possibility. Cregan didn’t want to doubt you, knowing that you possessed a raging inner fire, a quiet strength that grew with the tenacity of a wolf whenever you were provoked.

Steel ripped against steel, the duel commencing deep within the heart of the Wolfswood. His heart hammered with excitement, breath hot and labored as he parried another one of your quick, flourishing strikes.

He pressed his advance, barreling forward as he began to back you toward the rock underneath a sprawling tree of reddish leaves. Cregan noticed the panicked look in your eyes, the way in which you tried every move he’d taught you to gain distance.

“The wolf descends, my Lady. Think hard,” Cregan rumbled, wanting you to try and get out of this situation. “The enemy will not wait — they will strike, and you will end up here.” You were intelligent, a quick thinker — he wanted you to be smarter than this.

In what you considered to be another dirty tactic, you kicked a mound of damp dirt in his direction, providing enough of a distraction for you to hop the gap. Again, it only seemed to corral you into a corner. You attempted to swing down with an overhead strike, but Cregan very nearly knocked you into the ground.

“Never strike like that again, unless you want a blade through your belly,” He grunted, watching with mild awe as you brought it down to the side instead, forcing him to parry. Both of your blades locked at the side, struggling to maintain your balance. “Good.”

The dance continued, becoming a game of wit — outthinking and outmaneuvering the other, blades clashing again and again. He pressed you back into a corner as he had before, the distance slim. Cregan didn’t want you to yield — he knew that you wouldn’t.

Anticipation grew, and you found yourself weighing the odds. Perhaps you were simply too prideful to surrender to Cregan, even if all of this was a learning moment. Either way, you continued to fend him off with quick slashes of your blade, to no avail.

The rock became dangerously close, nearly brushing against your back as Cregan pressed his advantage. In a stroke of what you deemed as desperate thinking, you lashed out with a mule kick to his sword hand, loosening his grip enough to knock it away.

You shoved him with all of your strength, and much to your own surprise, he fell right into the dirt. Your heart hammered within your chest, and seeing the King of the North strewn across the ground made you feel some sense of victory.

Cregan huffed, brows knitting together as he stared at you from below, quickly recuperating. “I didn’t teach you to fight like a sellsword.” He grunted, but he had to admit, it was good thinking on your end — even if it was dirty and unsportsmanlike.

A smile fluttered across your features as you wiped the sweat from your brow, preparing to assail Cregan with whatever witty blows you could think of. “It wouldn’t hurt you to learn a thing or two.” You mused, canting your head to one side.

With a stoic grunt, Cregan decided to employ a dirty tactic of his own. It was a playful move, acted out without any malice and instead, wanting to hear the end of your teasing. He lashed out with his boot, sweeping your legs right out from underneath you.

Cregan smirked, watching as you buckled and toppled over, though he never intended for you to unceremoniously land right on top of him. You dropped your longsword somewhere along the way, forehead narrowly avoiding smacking into the hard earth. Cregan caught you before that could happen.

With labored breaths, you immediately hit his chest with a light punch, not enough to ever cause any real harm. “What was that for?” You grumbled, realizing how close the both of you were. He was a large man, warm and muscular beneath you.

“I’ve learned a thing or two, my Lady.” Cregan corrected, a twinkle within his stormy-gray eyes. When he fully noticed the compromising position the both of you were in, his breath hitched slightly. There was nothing stopping him from grabbing your hips and kissing you then and there.

Before fantasy could become reality, you hastily rolled off of him, feeling a light sting of arousal growing between your thighs. You wanted to avoid such a disaster — Cregan was your friend, he was the King in the North. To ascend all bonds of propriety and try for something more would be improper.

He stayed on the ground for a moment longer, moving into a sitting position as he shook his head. “Throwing dirt, pommel-striking, and kicking,” Cregan remarked, planting a palm atop his knee. “Have you been training without me?”

“Never,” You wouldn’t dare seek out another swordsman — there were none like Cregan Stark. “I wouldn’t dream of having another teacher,” You hesitated, lips twitching into a bemused smile. “Though, if I am not mistaken, you do sound jealous.”

Cregan happened to stand before you did, outstretching a gloved hand for you to take. You did, murmuring your gratitude as he hauled you up and right into the expanse of his chest, emblazoned with the direwolf of House Stark. There was something indiscernible within his eyes, steely yet softening in sight of you.

The unusual tension had crackled from mere sparks to an open flame, your throat becoming tight as Cregan’s gaze bored into you. His shadow swallowed you whole, wisps of dark, chestnut hair sticking to his face, perspiration glittering across his temples. You still held his hand, watching as his jaw tensed.

“I sound jealous, my Lady?” Cregan rumbled, timbre gentle and thick with his Northern accent. The closer he pressed, the more the reality of the situation dawned upon you, keeping you grounded. You were afraid of resorting to action, afraid that something would happen to tear you both apart.

It was easy to tear down your teasing, playful side to nothing more than a smitten maiden when Cregan huskily addressed you that way. His eyes momentarily flickered across your beautiful features, particularly the soft curve of your mouth, and what little of your neck had been exposed to him.

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, lips parting as a soft exhale escaped you. “You do,” You whispered, searching his countenance for any sign of discomfort or hesitation. When you found none, you began to lean up, rocking closer than ever before. “Quite jealous.”

Cregan silenced you with a kiss, one that could melt even the hardiest of ice. It was blazing and passionate, yet slow enough to savor the moment. You reciprocated, palms flat atop his chest as he wrapped a thick, bulky arm around your hips, hauling you in until no sliver of space remained.

You kissed him fervently, allowing your many months of smothered affection to boil over. Despite Cregan’s indomitable, intimidating appearance, he was as gentle as they came. He handled you with respect, his other hand coming to seize your waist, kneading into your curves through your sparring leathers.

Tension boiled over, fueling the fire that had been stoked between the both of you for some time. Ravenous was a mere understatement — you wanted Cregan then and there, if he would indulge you. The ground was muddy and certainly no place to bed.

He bit at your lower lip with a grunt, brows furrowed together in concentration. He hunched in on you, bringing you flush against his body, heat replacing the bitter sting of the Northern chill. Cregan was rough, but inherently passionate with how he treated you — no malice, simply a wolf’s hunger.

“Cregan,” You huffed, mouth agape as you attempted to regain your composure. Whatever restraint you had was hanging on by a mere thread, prepared to snap. “I …” Admittedly, you were at a loss for words, still reeling from the shock of having your affections reciprocated.

His mouth pressed against your jaw as he buried his scruffy visage into the crook between your neck and shoulder. “Seems you’re cold, my Lady.” Cregan grunted, feeling the onslaught of gooseflesh that had permeated your skin, continuing to prickle along your spine.

With a brief chuckle, you reached for his chestnut tresses, tugging on his hair in order to bring him closer. “Fortunately, I have the King in the North to keep me warm,” You hummed, gasping when he brazenly groped at your haunch, strong hands kneading into you. “I want you, if you’ll have me.”

“Here?” Cregan uttered, timbre deliciously thick and husky with desire. Even if he wanted to claim you for himself, he would’ve taken you somewhere warmer, somewhere comfortable. “You’re no animal, my Lady. I wouldn’t fuck you into the dirt like one.” He rumbled, able to taste your yearning.

Honorable and gallant — you only wanted him more after that. As much as you desired to rip your armor off and let him have his way with you upon the rock, the mud and grime afterward wouldn’t have been pleasant. “Your chambers, then?” You mumbled, feeling his warm lips clamor from your jaw to your mouth.

“If that’s what you want,” Cregan murmured, a playful smirk toying at either corner of his mouth. It shattered his stoic countenance, melting away all of those dour inclinations he held before. “You might change your mind, and I wouldn’t fault you for it.”

A huff escaped you, brows furrowing together as you shook your head. Cregan thoroughly enjoyed that you spoke bluntly and plainly — he wanted you more than you realized, keeping his composure for the sake of propriety. There was no telling what could happen once you reached Winterfell.

“I will meet you at Winterfell.” Your answer was clear, solidified in stone. You appreciated that Cregan had given you an out, but that was the last thing you wanted. He gave you another kiss, teeth nicking your lower lip before you retrieved your longsword and mounted your horse.

Cregan watched you ride off from the Wolfswood — the new Lady of Winterfell.

A cold dusk cast its looming shadow over Winterfell, and with it, bringing the sting of ice and a light snowfall. Clouds made their presence known, gray and ominous, covering up the stars until none remained. Snowfalls in the North often ranged between fleeting and treacherous, and tonight seemed to be somewhere in the middle.

Following your dance in the Wolfswood with Cregan, the ride back to Winterfell gave you plenty to consider. You found his hesitation to be noble, but you had made your mind up some time ago. The moment where friendship now transcended into something else had come, and you knew what you wanted.

Perhaps you had kept him in suspense on purpose, waiting until the rest of the Great Keep was silenced before you made the tenuous trek to Cregan’s chambers. You had cleaned up perfectly well, clad in thick, furred robes, ones that left little to the imagination. You assumed that you wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight at all, if Cregan were still intending to follow through.

The doors to his chambers were heavy, embossed wood carved from the thick trunks of Wolfswood oak, the handles resembling the heads of wolves. There was no guard posted outside — there never was.

If anyone knew Cregan at all, it was his staunch independence and his desire for privacy. He was one of the greatest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, and no guard would change such a thing. You stood outside, steeling yourself for what was to come.

Your hand hovered above the wood, palm pressing against it before you knocked thrice, breath hitching slightly at the sound of footsteps from the inside. Nervousness suddenly gripped you — none of this felt real at all, and you were prepared to wake up in some distant dream.

For the longest time, part of you had silently yearned from afar for Cregan, knowing that he would someday take a wife, and it wouldn’t be you. You were just friends, and you were cursed to admire him for all eternity with nothing coming to fruition. You had come to terms with it, but now?

Everything had changed.

He kissed you with a fervor in the Wolfswood, a kiss reserved for lovers — had he felt the same way, as you did? Was it simply the desire to have someone he trusted warm his bed? You were uncertain, and you wanted clarification.

The groan of oak reverberated throughout the stone corridors as Cregan opened the door, standing there, tall and indomitable, a tunic clinging to his chest. You could see so much more of him without the chain-and-leather armor, without the obstruction of a thick hide cloak. His broad shoulders seemed to relax in your presence.

Gods, you looked beautiful — Cregan had seen you dressed up on a handful of occasions, but they all paled in comparison to how you looked now, clad in the pelts of wolves, visage free of dirt. His grip tightened along the edge of the door, an effort to restrain himself from devouring you then and there.

“May I?” You asked, wringing your hands together in order to alleviate some of the tension. Cregan stepped aside, stormy-gray hues transfixed upon you as you crossed the threshold into his chambers. Your heart hammered within your chest as he shut the door, crossing the room to tend to the fire.

“I must know what this is, before we go any further.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, strained and desperate for an answer. “What have years of friendship come to, in your mind?” The question was direct, demanding that he state his intentions.

Cregan appeared perplexed, stepping toward you with a hooded expression. “Was that kiss in the Wolfswood not clear enough, my Lady?” He rumbled, hooking an arm around your hips. “I am a man of honor, and I wouldn’t dare tarnish your own. I am still your friend,” Cregan uttered, reaching up to cup your face, “And I am your lover.”

“If I wanted you to tarnish my honor?” You murmured, watching his countenance contort into a look of desire, as if you were invoking a challenge. Heat radiated from him in waves, sinking into your bones, making residence there. He was comfortable, a mountain of a man who held you so gently.

A brief huff escaped him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, yet it did not come to fruition. “I would do as my lady commands.” He grunted, pressing a kiss against your jaw. You tasted perfect, if that were even an accurate description.

His honeyed, husky words excited you — his commitment to you was laid bare before you, and you felt a familiar surge of arousal deep within your bones. “No one else?” Possessiveness swelled within you — you wanted Cregan for yourself. If this were to become something serious, you would make it clear.

“I am yours,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together as he made his pledge to you. “And you are mine. I would not have it any other way.” He assured you, calloused hand kneading into the swell of your hip through the thick layer of fur that concealed your body. He wished to see it all for himself.

Your foreheads touched for a moment, and despite the charged, tenuous element of sexuality floating about, you quite enjoyed the tenderness of it. “I am yours, and you are mine.” The pledge was soft-spoken through you lips, prompting Cregan to press a kiss against the top of your head.

Without hesitation, your fingers curled into the coarse fabric of his tunic, gripping tightly as you pulled yourself up for a kiss, but Cregan met you halfway in a frenzy. His kiss was ravenous, filled with a rapturous hunger that did not appear subtle at all.

Gone was the chill of winter, replaced by the burning fire that smoldered between the both of you. He kissed you hard, teeth raking across your lower lip as he hauled you close, until there was no sliver of space left between. There was no shortage of desire or passion either, as Cregan’s hand pushed against the leather ties of your robe, wanting to feel your soft skin underneath.

“Cregan.” You exhaled, shivering when you heard that growl reverberate within his throat. Your hands joined him in their lascivious crusade, untethering the rough leather strings of your gown, loosening it up until it sagged upon your body. You nodded to him, a subtle signal that he could have whatever he wanted.

He pushed the thick material aside, watching as it fell around your feet, softly thudding against the stone. You wore nothing at all underneath, supple and beautiful, skin as soft as silk, all belonging to him. “Expecting something from me, were you?” Cregan murmured, pushing your tresses aside, exposing the expanse of your pretty neck to him.

A soft groan tore past your parted lips, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished. He pressed a hot trail of kisses along your face, starting there as he began to move downward. “Perhaps.” You huffed, listening to his chest vibrate with a brief bout of laughter. The sound was like music to your ears.

“You’re so beautiful.” He mumbled his praises into your flesh like a prayer. His roughened palm moved to clasp against the nape of your neck, digits reaching for your hair as he brought his mouth to your jaw, teeth and lips working in-tandem.

Cregan shivered when your colder fingertips hitched beneath his tunic, feeling the thick, corded muscle of his torso, the few scars here and there. Your digits toyed with the leather waist of his trousers, skimming upward to flatten your palm against his abdomen.

You moaned when he bit into your neck, hard enough to leave a mark, but delicate enough not to break through your skin. He felt along the soft dips and bends of your curves, traveling wherever he pleased until he sank his hands sank your haunches, unable to keep from touching you.

Everything about you invited him in, intentionally or unintentionally. The scent of various herbs and perfumes clung to you, intertwined with that of leather. Each embrace of his mouth was purposeful, burying into the hollow between your shoulder and throat, seeking to make his mark, imprint himself upon you.

He moved enough for you to remove his tunic, assisting in maneuvering the garment off and away from his body. You let it drop to the floor, kicking aside your robes to form a growing pile of garments.

Cregan was perfect — a true Northman, with a hardened body to prove it. He was all thick muscle and strength, sturdy and broad-shouldered. It was refreshing to see a man that didn’t lack in fortitude, and you reached forward, caressing your fingers over the plane of his musculature. He shuddered at your embrace, lips parting slightly.

He kissed you again, devouring your mouth with an unrestrained desire. Even if lust had taken hold, Cregan preferred displays of rough passion instead, wanting to show you just how much you meant to him, the things you did.

A growl stirred within his chest, hands grabbing your hips as he steered you toward the furs in front of the hearth. You reached for his head, tugging on his chestnut tresses as you reciprocated each kiss with one of your own, one that echoed his own fervor.

“Lay down.” He rumbled, gaze simmering with ardor as he watched you descend onto the furs, pelts of direwolves that enveloped you perfectly. Cregan towered over you, lowering himself onto his knees as he pushed your legs aside, bullying himself between them.

You shivered when he kissed your collarbone, roughened palm kneading into the pliant flesh of your thigh. He wanted to savor all of you first, taste you upon his tongue, let your scent linger. Cregan’s mouth was domineering and rough, biting wherever he could, listening to your satisfied whimpers.

“I want to taste you.” Cregan murmured, his voice a husky timbre that sent shockwaves throughout your body, striking at the pit of your stomach. It filled you with a sense of desire, goosebumps cascading along your spine. His inquiry was masked as a statement, but he awaited your approval.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you nodded, feeling a lick of excitement trail down until it settled between your thighs. “Please.” It was all you really needed to say, your incendiary gaze alone inciting a rapturous hunger inside of him.

His descent was slow, ensuring that you felt every nip of his teeth, every kiss emblazoning itself upon your flesh. You sighed with passion, meeting his tempestuous, gray-eyed stare, one that smoldered with desire. You reached for his face, fingers sweeping around his jaw, and you watched as he kissed your palm.

The gesture was brief yet sweet, a break in the swelling tide of carnality and wanton need. Cregan pressed a kiss against your collarbone before he continued his downward venture, lips drifting over both of your breasts, hungrily making his mark against your sensitive skin.

A low grunt escaped him when your digits threaded themselves into his tresses instead, finding their purchase at the base of his skull. The warmth of his mouth drifted over your stomach, feeling Cregan bite at your hips, inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. It drove him wild, the desire to claim you seeping into his bones.

Cregan wasn’t much of a talker during acts of sensuality — he preferred to show you through action, instead. When he made it to the apex of your thighs, he settled against the furs, orange firelight dancing across the taut, thick muscle of his shoulders. He pushed your legs apart, letting them rest across his back, rough hands kneading along your legs.

Your breath hitched within your throat, stomach churning with excitable butterflies and arousal. The slick warmth that had coagulated between your thighs was a welcome sight to Cregan, who felt a twinge of smugness knowing that you’d gotten wet already.

He listened to the tremor within your exhale, the squirming of your body atop the furs, the subtle twitch of your thigh when he bit into the sensitive flesh. You were endlessly soft — velveteen beneath his fingertips. The contrast between his rough palms and your smoothness was a perfect duality.

The gray intensity of his stare left you breathless, and he did not break eye contact as he kissed your slit, prompting you to shiver. His tongue raked hot embers across your aching cunt, deliberate and intentional, driving you to an agonizing madness.

Cregan pulled you closer, a growl ringing within the depths of his throat as he sought your cunt, greedily lapping over your slit. He split past your folds, ravenous for whatever you would give him. It made you moan, hand gripping his hair, hips absentmindedly jolting into the vigor of his mouth.

He seemed so herculean, even now as he rested between your legs, broad shoulders etched with a slight tension. His brow was creased in concentration, a low hum escaping him as he devoured your cunt. Cregan did not have any qualms about staying there, head buried between your thighs.

That taut heat within your stomach had been wound so tight, like a coil threatening to snap in two. His mouth was voracious, lapping and kissing wherever he pleased, with the enthusiasm of a man starved. He was passionate and somewhat rough, occasionally turning to bite into the pliant flesh of your thighs.

“Cregan,” You moaned, writhing beneath him, feeling his strong hands clamp down upon your legs, locking you into place. It was pure bliss and agony all rolled into one, your other hand fisting the thick furs beneath you. “Don’t stop,” A whine tore past your mouth, with the wolf more than willing to oblige. “Don’t stop.”

A huff escaped him, one that filled his belly with a raging fire. His cock throbbed within his leather breeches, aching with want for you. He wasn’t about to let you buck and move at your leisure — he wanted you all to himself. His tongue continued to lap at your cunt with heavy strokes, stoking the flame of your arousal.

You tasted sweet upon his tongue, honey-thick and a feast to sate his appetite. If he would choose his fate, it would be in between your legs, listening to the myriad of moans and throaty whimpers leave you. It was satisfying to know how much you enjoyed this; derived pleasure from it.

A tremor gripped your legs, little spasms of delight making their way throughout your body. Cregan’s mouth forged a blazing path from the hood of your cunt to your entrance, tongue greedy and hot, before he went back up again.

The sound of your soft, pleading voice calling his name made him grunt, digits digging into your thighs, hard enough to leave faint bruises. You enjoyed the display of strength, his desire to mark you, claim you for his own. The wolf festered within him, and you were prepared to submit to him.

Cregan was stoic and dominant, yet those storm-colored hues softened whenever they flickered toward your visage, the image of grace and beauty. You had always been pretty, yet your perfection reared its head fully when you opened yourself up to him. He was enthralled, reduced to a mere pup in your presence.

His mouth pursed around the pearl of your cunt, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. You gasped, the sensation sudden yet blissful, causing your thighs to squeeze his head slightly. Cregan grunted, forcing you apart again, nose grazing your folds.

The growing shadow of his coarse beard scratched against your thighs, providing you with a brief sting — a delicious sting, at that. You had often teased Cregan for being baby-faced, but he had elected to grow out a bit of scruff, and for that, you were grateful.

He wanted to stay there, rooted between your legs, mouth consuming your cunt as if it were his last meal. Cregan favored it, thoroughly reveling in the way your body reacted to him, visceral and ecstatic. He gingerly suckled on your clit, feeling your fingers tighten within his chestnut locks, grip him tight.

The warmth from the hearth danced across your body, illuminating your soft curves and silky skin. Inklings of perspiration began to shimmer against your chest, the fire’s intensity combined with Cregan’s constant body heat. He ran hot, hot-blooded like any Northerner.

His mouth didn’t relent, continuing to suck and kiss at your clit, tongue flicking against your slick entrance. He let one hand drop from your thigh, yet the other still kept you pinned into place. The first stroke of his thick digits against your core made your head spin in a delirium of desire.

Your hips lurched forward, attempting to gain any shred of friction, despite Cregan keeping you locked into place. You felt as if you were going to explode, seeing stars within your vision as his teeth grazed your clit. The sudden sensation made you shiver, hand fisting into his hair.

Cregan teased your entrance, searching your face for any signs of discomfort as his digits worked their way inside of you. You were tight, slick and warm around him as he sluggishly pumped them in and out of you. “That’s it,” He rumbled, grunting when you pulled on his tresses again. “Easy, my lady.” His tone held a playful remnant to it.

A brief huff escaped you, one of mild amusement. The sweetness that ebbed between the both of you soon dissipated into an air of seriousness once again, with Cregan tormenting you, mouth on your clit. He drew each sound out of you with a vengeance, feeling your legs tremble on either side of him.

A comfortable silence filled the gap between you, intermingled with the sounds of your pleasured cries and Cregan’s sonorous grunts. That heated coil within your stomach began to unfurl, bringing an onslaught of arousal with it as you bucked into his mouth.

“Cregan,” You moaned, grabbing his hair so tightly that you feared you might rip it from his scalp. The roughness of it only spurred him on, enjoying your ironclad grasp as he assailed your cunt with careful laps and thrusts of his fingers. “Gods, I’m close!” You huffed, back arching off of the furs.

He wanted to do it to you again — again and again, make your body submit to him. Lust and passion swelled within him, blossoming through his chest, coupled with the possessiveness he felt over you. You belonged to him, now — his Lady of Winterfell, his.

Cregan didn’t intensify his pace or slow down, and instead, continued his ministrations with a sense of fervor and duty. His fingers and mouth worked in a blissful tandem, nose occasionally bumping into the hood of your clit, tongue dancing across your slit. He felt you shudder beneath him.

A flood of sheer ecstasy consumed you, flesh prickling with an overwhelming warmth as you shivered, reaching your climax in a white-hot crescendo. Your back arched completely, head tossed back against the furs, hands wrangling with Cregan’s tresses.

The buzz you felt afterwards was a pleasant feeling, and as you rode out your peak, you sank back into the mounds of wolf’s fur beneath you. Your grip began to slack on Cregan, enough for him to lift his head, gaze hooded and affectionate.

He pressed a series of sweet kisses along the inside of your thigh, reaching up to the bend of your knee. Perspiration glittered along his temples, but he was far from over — his hunger still prevailed. “You’ve got a grip like steel.” He grunted, moving forward to rest his head against your stomach.

A brazen, lascivious thought passed through him — your belly swollen with his child, an heir to Winterfell, a child of House Stark. It was reckless and wild to think of something so bold, but he couldn’t get it out of his head.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, somewhat flustered at your capability to nearly rip Cregan’s tresses right from their roots. He shook his head, his steely-eyed gaze flickering toward you. “I was quite consumed by the moment.” You confessed.

Cregan crawled forward, pressing a kiss against your mouth. You could taste yourself upon his tongue, evoking a whimper from between your lips. “Never apologize.” He rumbled, briefly nudging his forehead against yours. You observed him in silence, gaze swimming with affection as he rolled off of you.

He immediately stooped down to scoop you right off of the furs, hooking his bulky arms underneath you. You laughed, palms flat against the warm expanse of his chest, foreheads pressed together yet again. You didn’t need to say anything — you knew what came next.

Cregan gently deposited you onto his bed, his shadow eclipsing the glow of the firelight. He seemed massive at this angle, but his gentleness was notable with how he handled you. He unlaced the leather ties of his breeches, stepping out of them.

You happened to swallow at the sight of him — a mountain of a man, truly. A pang of nervousness struck at your gut, afraid that he wouldn’t fully fit inside of you, but it was fleeting. You knew that he would make sure that you were comfortable above all else.

His countenance, often laced with an unapproachable stoicism, softened at the sight of you — it wasn’t something commonplace. You had certainly eased the tension, his shoulders no longer weighted with stress or the burden of leadership.

A brief ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth — if you blinked, you might’ve missed it. “Are you smiling?” You whispered, doe-eyed and enamored with your Northman. Your hands trailed across the honed muscle of his shoulders, nails tracing across his back, and then to his chest.

Admittedly, it was difficult to keep a stony face around you, especially now, with your vibrant, exuberant smile and smitten gaze. Though, in the spirit of playfulness, he let out a rumbling hum, joining you atop his bed. The frame beneath groaned slightly in protest. “Perhaps.” He murmured.

He covered you with his burly physique, chestnut tresses framing his face, gray eyes drinking you in with a hint of tenderness. For as rough and rugged as he could be, Cregan became gentler for you — it wasn’t something he was used to.

Chest to chest, you craned forward, lips seeking his own as you kissed him. It was sickly-sweet, as gentle as a maiden, and Cregan found himself wanting you all over again. A low grunt of approval emerged from his throat, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated.

You reached for his bicep, palm unable to grip around the bulk of his muscle. It made you realize how much smaller you really were than him, in all senses of the word — stature and muscle mass. He had all the advantages on you, but you quite enjoyed the amusing contrast of sizes.

To Cregan, it thoroughly aroused him, seeing your silky digits attempt to wrap around his arm, only to fail miserably. He treated you like a prized jewel, afraid to harm you, afraid to drop you — it made his cock twitch against your thigh, and he heard the hitch within your throat.

“I’ll be gentle.” Cregan assured you, calloused palm gliding along the length of your thigh in an attempt to ease your worrying. You feared that he would split you in half with his cock — not that it was a terrible way to go, but you did want to walk on the morrow.

He lowered his head to your chest, peppering kisses all along your breasts and collarbone, the ridge of his nose brushing over your sternum. The tip of his hardened length slid across your slick entrance, prompting you to shiver with anticipation.

With a shove of his hips, the head of his cock pushed into your cunt, his girth and size something you needed to adjust to. A strangled whine left you, lips agape and slack, hands clawing at his biceps as he gingerly made his way inside of you, inch by agonizing inch.

The discomforting pang of being stretched made your body crawl, attempting to get comfortable beneath him. Cregan noticed the twinge of pain that fluttered across your countenance, and he soothed you with a kiss against your brow, palm still caressing your thigh.

It felt incredible — certainly an adjustment, but pleasurable nonetheless. The girth of his cock filled you completely in ways you hadn’t felt before, and you knew that he would be the only one you would ever want. Discomfort inevitably dissipated into bliss as Cregan gave you time to grow used to him.

“Need you to move,” You whimpered, noticing the fire burning within his eyes, like smoldering embers come to life. Those stormy-gray hues drank you in with the hunger of a starving wolf, and he moved your back up enough to place a feather pillow beneath your hips. “Cregan.”

The newfound angle made you reel from ecstasy, feeling the way in which his cock hit that spot of pleasure for you. He shuddered when you moaned his name, and it activated something salacious inside of him. He thought of you, the Lady of Winterfell, Lady Stark, full and round with his child, his heir.

He moved, then.

His hips snapped forward as he attempted to restrain himself from fucking you into a stupor, executing a great amount of gentleness, fueled with an amorous intensity. Cregan was passionate, cock rutting into you, hitting new depths as he began to show you just how much he wanted you.

A grunt left him when your knees bumped into his hips, occasionally squeezing him like a vice, but the bulk of his musculature kept you properly spread apart. Your mouth clamored for his, lips meeting in a tangle of tongue and teeth. Your nails dug into the thick muscle of his bicep, other hand reaching for the nape of his neck.

You felt him reach for your hand, roughened digits intertwining with yours as he placed it beside your head, pounding into you with a gentle fervor. Cregan was tempered and measured about his movements, sheathing his cock inside of you fully with each thrust.

A myriad of needy moans and whimpers left you, and you did little to conceal the height of their volume. You groaned into Cregan’s mouth when he snapped forward again, and you felt as if he might break you in half — in the best way possible, of course.

His cock was akin to the force of a battering ram in slow motion, ensuring that every thrust drove you to madness, your walls tight around him. The friction between your bodies only contributed to the tension, your chest snug against his, lips tangled together, his roughened digits groping at your thigh.

Your nails raked faint trails of red across the thick muscle of his bicep, prompting him to growl into your mouth, kissing you as if it would be his very last time. There was a subtle desperation to Cregan, coupled with that innate instinct to breed, fill you with his seed and let you carry his child.

The Northern winds began to howl outside, bringing with it an onslaught of snow, and yet you had never been warmer, happily trapped beneath the herculean mass of Cregan Stark. Your foreheads touched on occasion, each kiss building with want until it had exploded into something hot and messy.

Perspiration lingered upon both of your bodies, as his chambers became increasingly hot, like that of a fever pitch. Cregan used some of his body as leverage, pushing himself inside of you again, cock sheathed within you completely until he pulled back, and thrust again. The action became increasingly intense, yet he kept himself in-check.

Your body was perfect, a sight for him alone, made by the Old Gods — he couldn’t thank them enough. Cregan gave you another blistering kiss, letting you linger upon his tongue before he withdrew, mouth lowering towards your chest once more. He was hellbent on pleasing you while chasing after his own release.

As he took one of your breasts into his maw, he felt the sly return of your digits tangling within his hair, and he couldn’t help but briefly smirk into your flesh. He reveled in the way you manhandled him so brazenly, gripping him tightly as your leg hitched around his hips.

Cregan didn’t relent, cock driving into you with a needy force, aching and throbbing inside of you. Your thighs twitched and trembled, and he continued to trace his hand across it before grabbing at your haunch, pliant flesh filling his palm.

Grunts and low rumbles escaped him, colliding with your own symphony of moans and whimpers, desperate for him to come undone. You rolled your hips forward whenever you could, friction creating another delicious wave of heat between the both of you.

He gently bit at your chest, face nestled there as his pace became a touch quicker, cock battering into you, kissing your slick cunt over and over again. Those tantalizing fantasties of filling you with his seed tormented him, driving him into a frenzy.

He hit that spot between your legs that seemed to make you writhe, grabbing at his chestnut tresses, back arching slightly as he turned your senses into mush. Cregan groaned, the sound heavy and husky in your ear as he came, spilling himself deep inside of you. He continued to thrust into you afterwards, the motions considerably softer and less invigorated.

A huff escaped him, a quick breath to regain his composure. His stamina was rather impressive, and if you asked it of him, he would’ve continued on well into the night, but your countenance seemed etched with mild exhaustion.

You whimpered when he stayed inside of you, head bowing towards yours as he pressed a kiss against your forehead, and then to your lips. The gesture was inherently tender despite his rough demeanor, enough for you to loosely drape your arms around his shoulders.

Cregan rolled over to lay next to you, his large form taking up a sizable portion of his bed. He coaxed you close, thick arm snaking around you as he tugged you into the warm expanse of his chest, propped up against the pillows.

The silence was a comforting one, a blissful aftermath of affectionate sentiments and declarations of adoration. He made sure that you were comfortable, shrouding you in the blanket of wolf pelts, showering you in gentle kisses. His grasp was inherently protective, as if he were shielding you from some invisible force.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” Cregan uttered, checking to see if you were unwell. He sometimes got carried away in the moment, and you weren’t exactly tall and stocky like himself. He needed to accommodate you, and that sometimes included being gentler.

With a smitten smile, you nodded, peering up at him through your lashes. Your thighs continued to scream with a dull ache, cunt throbbing and sticky with his seed and your arousal. “Very much so.” You replied, head resting atop his chest as you traced patterns against his abdomen. “If I weren’t so spent, I would ask you to do it again.”

A brief huff of amusement left Cregan, who held you close, reaching for your hand as he cradled it within his own, his other hand firmly situated atop the swell of your hip. “I cannot promise that I would not ravage you the second the opportunity arose.” He murmured, pressing a kiss against the top of your head.

“If that’s what I wanted?” You challenged, noticing the way his expression contorted into a look of desire, but above all, pure devotion. Cregan enjoyed your flirtatious remarks and subtle challenges, chest vibrating with a hum of approval.

“Then you are in for a long night, Lady Stark.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal or translate my works onto other platforms or claim it as your own.

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 23

<<<Previous Next>>>

Chai Latte Cookie, ever loyal despite your hubris, patted your back gently. “That’s what happens when you eat three bowls of ice cream before lunch.”

“Two and a half,” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered, still bitter about the theft. You lifted your head weakly and turned to Chai Latte with the desperate look of someone nearing the brink. “Is there magic for this?” She blinked. “Magic for what?”

“For this.” You gestured helplessly to your very existence. “An enchantment, a charm, I don’t know instantaneous relief from the consequences of my own poor decisions.”

 Chai Latte bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “You want me to look up a spell for… pineapple overindulgence?”

“Yes,” you said with all the solemnity of a scholar pleading for divine intervention. “Please. I am perishing. If the Academy can’t help me now, what is it even for?”

“Wow,” Hazelnut said. “We’ve reached the dramatic arc of the tragedy.”

Earl Grey, as ever, lifted his teacup with impeccable timing. “We’re in the climax, I believe. The fall comes next.” 

You reached for Chai’s sleeve and tugged at it like a child desperate for a potion. “You’re the most powerful Cookie I know. Please. Save me.” 

Chai Latte Cookie looked over at Shadow Milk Cookie, who was still seated beside you, observing the chaos with that familiar, unreadable calm. “Should I try something?” she asked him with a grin, clearly enjoying herself. “I do have a restorative charm somewhere in my notes.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you, his eyes gleaming just faintly with that quiet mirth he only ever revealed around you. “If they believe it will work,” he said softly, “then perhaps it will.” 

You turned to Chai with renewed hope. “You heard him. That was approval from the Sage of Truth…er, Fount of Knowledge himself. Please. Cast the magic.” 

Chai Latte Cookie giggled and placed both hands gently over your forehead like she was about to grant you a blessing. “By the powers of steamed milk and logic-defying loyalty,” she whispered dramatically, “I call upon the ancient art of Get-It-Together-Already.”

 A light breeze brushed over you as she summoned a small charm from her bag just a little rune-carved stone that pulsed faintly with warmth. She pressed it to your temple for a beat, then let it go.

“…Do you feel better?” she asked. 

You blinked. Sat up. Paused. “…Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe I just love you too much to admit it didn’t work.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned in just enough for only you to hear, his voice a low thread of amusement. “Placebo,” he murmured, “is still magic, if you believe in it.” 

You looked at him, hand still lightly pressing your stomach, and gave a weak smile. “Then I’ll believe in it,” you whispered back. “Because right now, I need something.” 

You stared at Chai Latte Cookie, deadpan. “That was it?” She tried really tried not to laugh. “Hey, you said you wanted magic. I gave you magic.”

“That was barely magic,” you groaned, dramatically slumping against the table again. “You waved a pebble at me and whispered some steamed-milk nonsense. I feel exactly the same.”

“It was rune-etched!” she protested, holding up the little charm. 

“Yeah, well, the runes must’ve spelled out ‘suffer.’” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted into his tea. 

Earl Grey Cookie didn’t even bother to hide his smile. “You should’ve expected this outcome.” 

You turned slowly with purpose to Shadow Milk Cookie, who was seated beside you, quietly watching the entire display like a scholar observing the collapse of an experiment. “Please,” you said, lifting your head from your arms with the desperate gravity of a knight pleading for mercy. “You. You’re my last hope. Do you have real magic for this?” 

His brows lifted, just slightly, as if amused by your escalation. “Real magic?”

“Yes,” you said, dramatically clutching your stomach. “You’ve seen me conquer theorems and diagram nightmares and live through Professor Almond Custard’s lectures without falling asleep. Don’t let this be what takes me down.” 

He blinked slowly. “Pineapple ice cream?”

“Too much pineapple ice cream,” you corrected. “A tragic downfall. I flew too close to the sun, and the sun was delicious.” 

Chai Latte Cookie covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

“Focus!” you waved your hand vaguely in the air. “Please. I know you’re the Fount of Knowledge or whatever now, but surely you have something. A spell, a charm, a profound truth that can reset my digestive equilibrium.” 

He regarded you for a beat, expression unreadable… and then he moved, gently setting his teacup aside with all the elegance of someone far too calm in the face of your suffering. “I suppose,” he murmured, “there may be one method.” 

Your eyes widened. “Yes. Yes, I’m listening.” He leaned in just slightly, so no one else at the table could hear and said with maddening serenity, “Drink water.” 

You gawked. “That’s it?” 

He gave you the softest smile, like the gentlest stab to your pride. “I find that it aids most ailments caused by overindulgence. Especially when one consumes three bowls of pineapple ice cream before lunch.”

“I earned those bowls,” you whispered, scandalized. “Clearly,” he said, tone dry as parchment. 

“I can’t believe this,” you muttered, turning to Chai. “This is betrayal. I came to both of you for help and got tea leaf nonsense and hydration tips.” 

Chai Latte Cookie reached over to pat your shoulder. “We love you. But we also love the comedy.”

“You’re all monsters,” you grumbled, grabbing your cup and downing your water like it was a potion of immortality. 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand gently brushed yours as you set the cup down, his gaze softer now. “However,” he said quietly, “you keep coming back to us.” 

You blinked. “…Yeah,” you murmured, lips tugging upward despite everything. “I really do.” You quickly got up and beelined for Earl Grey your final hope…you’d said that twice now.

Earl Grey Cookie had barely lifted his cup before you were on him not menacing, but certainly dramatic, arms sliding loosely around his shoulders from behind like a student collapsing into academic despair. 

He stiffened ever so slightly, not from discomfort, but from surprise. “Earl,” you pleaded, forehead resting against his back. “You’re the smartest friend I have. You read things for fun. You cite philosophers in casual conversation. If there is anyone on this cursed campus who can undo a pineapple-related catastrophe it’s you.”

His teacup paused midair. “You’re being overly generous.”

“You know I’m not.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted beside him. “You’re lucky Earl’s too classy to throw you off his back.” Chai Latte Cookie was full-on cackling now, hands over her mouth. “You’re going to suffocate him with flattery.”

“I need to suffocate him with flattery,” you wailed. “My stomach is a war zone. I need genius magic. Not hydration. Not milk-based rituals. I need Earl Grey brilliance.” Earl Grey, still impossibly composed beneath your desperate draping, finally set his cup down with a sigh regal, like a prince preparing to descend into the chaos of commonfolk. 

He reached back, patting your hand once, lightly. “I am not a healer,” he said calmly. “I do not deal in spells or charms.” 

You made a wounded sound. “But you deal in solutions.”

“Yes,” he said, “typically of the academic variety.” 

You peeked over his shoulder, eyes wide. “This is academic. The body is a system. A flawed, pineapple-gluttonous system. I just need you to fix one input/output equation.”

“I will throw you,” he said, but the edges of his voice curled with amusement.

“You’d never,” you whispered sweetly. “You love me too much.”

“I like you just enough not to let you perish from hubris and sugar.”

You gasped. “That’s practically affection!” 

Earl Grey Cookie turned just enough to glance at you sidelong. “If you want true affection, I suggest asking your mysterious scholar sitting just there.” 

You blinked, glancing over. Shadow Milk Cookie had not moved, but the weight of his gaze was unmistakable. Calm. Neutral. And yet his eyes flicked toward where your arms were still loosely wrapped around Earl Grey’s shoulders.

You immediately let go, stepping back like you’d just remembered gravity existed. “Right. Well. That’s enough academic integrity for today.” 

Chai Latte Cookie tried to stifle another laugh. “Ten out of ten. Beautiful spiral.”

“I don’t regret it,” you said, straightening dramatically. “And I’ll have you all know suffering builds character.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised his cup. “To character.” And Earl Grey Cookie, without missing a beat, lifted his as well. “To pineapple-fueled desperation.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie, at last, smiled faintly behind his own cup. You sulked back to your seat, groaning softly. “I’m going to haunt the kitchens. As a ghost. Who warns students never to follow their frozen desires.”

“Make sure they write that on your statue,” Chai Latte said, already nudging her dessert your way. “The martyr of indulgence.”

And you? You leaned back, stomach aching, heart full, pride thoroughly bruised and still, somehow, the happiest you’d been all day. Shadow Milk Cookie was being impossibly composed. Too composed. You narrowed your eyes at him across the table, ignoring the snickers from your friends, the lingering ache in your overstuffed stomach, and the very real danger of becoming a cautionary tale in the Academy's culinary archives. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” you said, pointing your spoon at him like it were some divine instrument of justice. “That’s suspicious.”

“I find silence to be restorative,” he replied mildly, sipping from his tea. “Especially in the presence of melodrama.”

“Oh, so now I’m melodramatic?” 

Chai Latte Cookie leaned in, stage-whispering, “He’s deflecting. That’s what this is.”

“I see that,” you said, twisting in your seat to face him more directly. “You’re trying to outlast me. But I’m nothing if not persistent.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie murmured, “This is going to be good,” as he leaned back in his chair.

“I ate too much pineapple ice cream,” you declared, placing your hand dramatically over your heart. “And I may never recover. Surely, as the Fount of Knowledge, there’s a spell, a charm, a gesture, something you can do to relieve the immense tragedy occurring in my gut right now.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head. “You do realize I am not a healer.”

“You’re everything else,” you countered. “Are you telling me you can open portals to forgotten dimensions, solve logic puzzles that would make entire councils weep but you can’t help me digest ice cream?”

“I believe you’re capable of digesting your consequences,” he said, entirely too calm. 

You blinked, then narrowed your eyes again, scooting just slightly closer. Earl Grey Cookie looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I will not be deterred,” you told him. “I’ll list reasons. I’ll get scientific. I’ll plead poetically. I might faint for dramatic effect.”

“I do not think you have it in you to faint quietly,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched. A near-smile. Victory. 

“I can be quiet,” you insisted. “In fact, I’ll prove it. If and only if you help me.” He considered you for a moment, eyes glimmering with restrained amusement. “Is this what your scholarly determination looks like when pointed inward?”

“Absolutely. This is me harnessing the full strength of my academic resolve.”

“On indigestion.”

“Deadly indigestion.”

A long pause passed between you. Then, with a soft exhale that almost sounded like defeat or amusement, or both? he set down his cup and extended one hand toward you, palm up. You stared at it. “…Is this the spell?���

“Would you like to find out?”

You hesitated for half a second, then placed your hand in his. It was warm. Steady. You felt the familiar tingle of magic thread lightly through your skin gentle, careful, like rain weaving through silk.

“There,” he said simply. “A subtle charm to ease your discomfort.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” The ache did feel like it had dulled. Maybe it was his magic. Maybe it was the placebo of affection. Maybe it was just the effect he had on you. “…I was going to keep going,” you muttered, looking down at your linked hands. “I had a whole speech prepared about the tragic fall of the pineapple princess.”

“I’m certain it was devastating.” 

You sighed. “I wanted you to cave.”

“I did.”

“…Oh.” Your voice softened. The table had gone quiet. Your friends were watching you, amused, but they said nothing. Beneath the table, Shadow Milk’s fingers curled just slightly around yours. “Next time,” he murmured, “perhaps eat less pineapple.”

“Next time,” you whispered back, “just help me sooner.” He huffed, a quiet laugh barely audible over the clink of dessert spoons. Your fingers slowly slipped from Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand beneath the table, a reluctant parting, soft and unspoken. 

You gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before releasing it, letting the connection drift like smoke. Your gaze wandered drawn not by romance this time, but by the absurd. There it was. Glorious. Beckoning.

The pineapple ice cream. Even under the magically stabilized chill of the dessert station, it glistened like a forbidden artifact, golden and triumphant. And though you were still recovering from the last time you’d piled too much into your bowl, your stomach stirred with the memory of its tangy sweetness, as if contemplating rebellion.

You squinted. “Hey…” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stopped mid-sip of his drink. “Oh no.”

“Do you think,” you continued slowly, as if testing the idea aloud would make it real, “it would be possible to craft a spell that lets you eat anything… like, literally anything… without ever feeling sick?” 

Chai Latte Cookie blinked, then leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “You mean, like… magical digestion?” Earl Grey Cookie didn’t look up from his tea. “We are not enchanting your stomach lining.”

“But think about it!” you insisted, gesturing animatedly between them all. “Endless pineapple. No consequences. Just pure culinary bliss.”

“I think that’s called a curse waiting to happen,” Hazelnut muttered. “You’d eat your weight in sugar before you remembered you were mortal.”

“I am mortal,” you sighed dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. “And that mortality is what stands between me and my third bowl of ice cream.” 

Chai snorted. “You don’t need magic, you need moderation.”

“That’s boring.”

“You say that like you didn’t almost collapse from dairy-induced regret twenty minutes ago,” Earl Grey said dryly.

You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, gaze pleading. “You’re smart. Ancient. Wise. Couldn’t you make that kind of spell?” 

He looked at you with something like bemusement. “I could,” he said, tone unreadable. “But I won’t.” Your mouth dropped open. “Why not?”

“Because I have read of civilizations fall to less hubris than what you are proposing.” You groaned and dropped your head onto the table with a dramatic thud. “One of you has to believe in me.” 

Chai Latte Cookie reached over and gently patted your head like a tragic child in mourning. “We believe in you. Just not your stomach.” Laughter bubbled up around you again, light and easy, and though your hand no longer rested in Shadow Milk’s, his presence beside you still felt like a quiet tether. The ice cream could wait. But then your eyes landed on it again.  

Golden. Glossy. Glorious.

The pineapple ice cream sat like a radiant crown jewel in the buffet lineup, lit by soft morning enchantments that made it gleam like the answer to every question you never asked. You inhaled, reverent. 

“There it is.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie followed your gaze, already skeptical. “Oh no.”

Chai Latte Cookie leaned over, squinting. “You’re not seriously about to go down this road again.” You didn’t hear them. Not really. Your hand slowly raised, index finger pointing toward the dessert like you were about to deliver a prophecy.

“Listen,” you said, solemn. “If the universe offered me the stars, the moon, a thousand-year library pass, or one more bite of that pineapple ice cream while my stomach could still handle it…” You placed your palm flat over your heart. “…I would not hesitate.” 

“Because that ice cream? That’s more than dairy. It’s divinity in frozen form. It’s sunshine you can eat.” 

Chai smiled at you gently. “Are you composing poetry about it again?”

“You say poetry like it’s not deserved.” You straightened, voice rising with full dramatic flair. “It is tart! It is sweet! It is citrusy grace! It is a dessert that dares to love boldly!” 

Earl Grey, without looking up from his teacup, said, “It’s literally just pineapple.” 

You gasped. “You take that back.” Shadow Milk Cookie let out the quietest hum beside you, and you glanced at him. He hadn’t looked at the dessert not even once but his eyes flicked toward you now, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“So,” he said calmly, “nothing could top it?”

“Nothing,” you declared, pressing both palms to the table. “Not jewels. Not glory. Not the unraveling of ancient magical secrets.”

“And… not people?” he asked, so lightly it almost didn’t sound like a challenge.

You opened your mouth then paused. Your face slowly flushed. “Okay, maybe some people.” 

Chai grinned like a cat. “Some?” 

Hazelnut leaned in. “Some?” 

Earl Grey didn’t even bother hiding his smirk now. “What an unfortunate omission.” You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. “I walked into that. I absolutely walked into that.” Chai was already laughing. “You sprinted, love.”

“But they were so passionate,” Hazelnut said between wheezes. “I think you scared the kitchen staff. You made it sound like a romance epic.”

“It is a romance epic,” you mumbled into your palms. “With consequences. And mild lactose intolerance.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned slightly toward you, voice low, just for you to hear. “Then I suppose I should feel honored to even come second.” 

You peeked out between your fingers. “You didn’t take me seriously did you?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, almost amused. “How could I not? You speak of pineapple as though it were the key to immortality.” 

You sat up straighter, pointing your spoon at him. “Don’t tempt me. I will ask you to research that.” Laughter erupted again around the table, warm and bright. And even as you leaned back with a sigh and a smile, you cast one last longing glance toward the buffet. One day soon, when no one else was around, that ice cream would be yours again. And this time?

This time you’d savor every spoonful like it was love itself. Eventually, the teasing died down though not before Chai Latte Cookie promised to write a tragic ballad about you and the pineapple ice cream’s doomed love affair. Earl Grey and Hazelnut Biscotti were the first to stand, carrying off their trays with the kind of practiced elegance that only came after a semester of routine.

Chai lingered for a moment longer, giving you a subtle smile and a pointed look before she finally followed after them, muttering something about enchanted spoons and overdue readings. And just like that, it was quiet again.

Just the two of you. Shadow Milk Cookie hadn’t moved much, only turned his head slightly once the others were gone. He studied you for a long moment, expression calm too calm. Your eyes were already drifting toward the buffet station. More specifically, toward the golden glow of the pineapple ice cream under its frosted dome. He exhaled through his nose. “You’re thinking about doing it again.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you replied, already scooting an inch closer to the edge of your seat. 

His voice dropped into that low, patient cadence that meant trouble. “If you do what I think you’re about to do, I won’t help you a second time.” You blinked, affronted. “You wound me.”

“I mean it.” He folded his hands neatly on the table. “I’ll let you suffer.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “Not even if I got on my knees and begged for mercy to be placed upon me once more?” 

He tilted his head ever so slightly, golden gaze sharpening. “Not even if you composed a sonnet. In interpretive dance.” You gasped. “That’s cold, Shadow Milk. That’s cold.”

“It is justice,” he replied, too dignified for the gleam of amusement dancing in his eyes. You pressed a dramatic hand to your chest. “You’re really going to watch me walk into dairy-induced doom and do nothing?”

“I will document it,” he said, unbothered. “For academic purposes.”

“Monster.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You stared at the buffet. The ice cream sparkled with all the magic of temptation and regret. You glanced at him. He arched a brow. Your legs bounced once under the table.

“…What if I only get, like, half a bowl?”

“I’ll consider that self-restraint.”

You grinned slowly. “So you are rooting for me.”

“I am observing you,” he said evenly. But when you stood, your tray in hand and heart full of ridiculous purpose, you could still feel his gaze on you quiet, watchful, and betraying the smallest curve of a smile. Not indulgent. Not approving. Just… fond. And, fine, maybe a little resigned.  

You returned with your bowl a modest scoop this time, if only because Shadow Milk Cookie was still watching you like one observes an unwise experiment in progress. You sat down with ceremony, digging in with all the gravitas of a scholar about to unlock a forbidden text. He didn’t say a word. Just arched one finely shaped brow. You took a slow, exaggerated bite. Chewed with care. 

Then let out the softest, most content sigh imaginable. Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. “Are you genuinely trying to convince me?” 

You swallowed, pointing your spoon at him like a wand. “I am telling you no, testifying this is divine. Ambrosia. Art. History rewritten in frozen form.” 

He looked vaguely unimpressed. “It is fruit and cream.”

“It is transcendence, Shadow Milk.”

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being stubborn,” you shot back, jabbing your spoon at his side of the table. “You should try it.” 

He regarded you as if you had asked him to renounce the stars. “I’ve survived this long without succumbing to dessert peer pressure.” 

You leaned forward, eyes bright. “But have you lived?” That made him pause. Not because he was convinced. But because, for a second, you could see the thought flicker across his face some quiet calculation behind those golden eyes. And something else, too. Something softer. Fonder.

 “…A single spoon,” he said at last, and your entire face lit up. Victory. Sweet, pineapple-infused victory. 

You were already scooping a bite for him, offering it like a peace treaty forged in ice and sugar. He accepted it with a quiet sigh, the spoon lingering a breath too long before he took it from you.

He tasted it. And blinked. You watched him, anticipation on your face like sunlight. “…Well?” you prompted.

“…I suppose,” he said slowly, “there is… merit.” You gasped. “That’s practically a love letter!” 

He rolled his eyes. “Do not get used to it.” You beamed, triumphant. “Too late.” And beside you, though he made no move to take another bite, Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze lingered just a little longer on your bowl, and then on you like perhaps, he was starting to understand the magic in simple, mortal indulgences.

Even if he’d never admit it out loud. Shadow Milk Cookie dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin precise, composed, almost ceremonious and set it down as though that single act marked the official end of the meal.

You glanced up from your mostly-empty bowl of ice cream, your spoon still lazily swirling through what remained of your pineapple conquest. Something in his expression shifted lighter at the edges, but lined with that familiar gravity that usually accompanied announcements you didn’t like. 

He turned slightly toward you. “Tutoring,” he said gently, “will be postponed today.” 

Your spoon clattered softly against your bowl. “Postponed?” His head tilted, golden eyes watching your expression closely. 

“There’s a meeting this afternoon. The council would like to review the speech I’ll be delivering for the end-of-semester ceremony.” You blinked, mildly stunned. “Like… in front of the entire Academy?”

He gave a slow, resigned nod. “Yes.” You stared. “You need to rehearse a speech? You could probably wing the entire thing, quote a few dream-scholars, stare at the stars once or twice and people would call it transcendent.” 

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “And yet, the council prefers the speech to be ‘accessible.’” You made a face. “You? Accessible? Blasphemous.”

“I said nothing about agreeing with them,” he said, tone perfectly deadpan. You slumped dramatically over your bowl. “So no session? Not even a short one? What if I promise to understand a concept on the first try?” 

He arched a brow. “Do you intend to keep that promise?” You hesitated. “…Maybe?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s smile softened, just slightly. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. For now, I need to endure the endless revisions of others who fear I might use the phrase astral epistemology in a public address.” 

You gasped. “Would you?”

“I was going to,” he muttered, under his breath. You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you leaned back in your chair. “Fine, go. Be grand and inspiring and all-knowing. I’ll stay behind and try not to conjure an ice-cream-related curse on myself.”

“You won’t succeed.”

“I never do.”

He stood, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves with elegant precision. “You could review your notes while I’m away.” You blinked up at him with mock betrayal. “That was so unromantic.”

“And yet, practical.” You reached for your spoon, sighing. “Alright, fine. Go be ceremonial.” He lingered for a moment longer, gaze soft, and said quietly, “Thank you for understanding.” You didn’t say anything, just smiled, watching him disappear into the light-dappled corridor, the weight of his new title chasing quietly at his heels. As the door to the dining hall swung closed behind him, you sighed, turning your attention back to your bowl.

“…I’m definitely going to enchant this.”

You were alone in the dining hall again, the clinking of silverware and conversation from earlier now just an echo in your memory. Morning classes had ended. Lunch hadn’t officially begun. And your friends had scattered like petals on the wind off to labs, meetings, and quiet study corners. Shadow Milk Cookie was in the Scholar’s Wing, reviewing his speech draft with the High Scholars. You’d offered to help…kind of, and he’d smiled that patient smile the one that meant this is something I must do alone, but I appreciate the offer. So here you were. Alone.

With pineapple ice cream. Again. The cursed jewel of the buffet table. It glistened like morning sun through a prism, golden and cold and full of promise. You sat down slowly, notebook in lap, spoon in hand. The spell circled in your mind, straight from your History of Food lecture: “An Analysis of Courtly Banquets and Magical Moderation.”

Professor Brambleberry, who you finally learned that was their name… had made a passing comment that royal chefs often used Appetitum Temperare a mild enchantment to allow nobles to taste exotic dishes without fear of indigestion. It had been used in feasts with sixteen courses.

You had one bowl of ice cream. This would work. You flipped open your notes, finger tracing the old script you’d scribbled during lecture next to a drawing of a pineapple wearing a crown. Very serious scholarship. You sat cross-legged, centered your breathing, and placed your hand lightly over your stomach. “Appetitum temperare… leniter descendat…” 

You tapped your spoon once to your temple ritual focus, as the lecture described then dipped it into the bowl. The ice cream shimmered, just slightly.

You thought you imagined it, until a faint, citrus-scented breeze swirled past your face. A sign, surely. First bite: heaven. Crisp, cool, the perfect balance of tang and sweetness. Second bite: you smiled, triumphant. Third bite: you leaned back with all the pride of someone who had truly earned their dessert. You whispered under your breath, “I am a genius. An academic pioneer.”

And then the tingling began. It was subtle at first. A warmth in your stomach. Then a slight bubbling. Then a fizzing, not unlike the time you mixed three different potions together during lab and tried to convince Chai Latte Cookie it was an “elixir of insight.”

“...Oh,” you said. You glanced down at your stomach, as if you could reason with it. “We’ve done this before. We’ve learned. We’ve grown.” 

Your stomach gurgled like an ancient crypt being disturbed. “Okay…okay, this is salvageable.” You closed your eyes. Willed the magic to settle. Maybe it just needed time. Maybe it was adjusting. Or maybe…Maybe the spell was meant for rich meats and sauces, as the lecture mentioned. Not cold desserts.

You grimaced. “I should’ve read the footnote.” Because there it was, scribbled in the margin: ‘Ineffective on chilled or dairy-based meals unless modified with a cooling rune.’ You knew that. You’d just… skimmed. You looked down at the spoon again, now mournfully dripping pineapple nectar back into the bowl.

“…Still worth it.” You lay your head on the table with a dramatic sigh, one hand clutching your notes as if they could save you now. “Shadow Milk is going to lecture me for days.” And yet… you still reached for one last bite.

Because if you were going to suffer, you might as well suffer sweetly. Your spoon hovered in midair, betrayal melting gently down its silver curve. Your stomach was beginning to gurgle again like it was warming up for a performance and, in a moment of belated responsibility, you cracked open your notebook. There, in the margins of your History of Food notes, beneath a page titled “Appetitum Temperare – Court Enchantments of the Second Era”, was a line you’d definitely skimmed. You narrowed your eyes.

Note: Not compatible with chilled or frozen foods. Spell may result in stomach heat surges, bloating, unpredictable magical feedback, or temporary hallucinations of dessert-themed familiars.

“…Excuse me?” you whispered, already clutching your stomach.

You flipped the page. There were more warnings.

Risk of temporary sugar-induced euphoria is high. Spontaneous dairy intolerance reported in 12% of trials. May cause fruit-based dreams for up to 36 hours. DO NOT COMBINE WITH ENCHANTED GELATO. Underlined three times.

You stared at the words, the faint shimmer of spell residue still tickling at your skin like citrus static. “Why is this more detailed than the textbook,” you muttered, flipping another page only to be greeted by your own doodle of a pineapple-headed sorcerer wielding a wand like an ice cream cone. You blinked. “I am not a serious scholar.” Your stomach made a whoomp sound that did not sound natural. 

You sat straighter. “Okay. Okay. Breathe.” You set the spoon down with reverence, as if that small act would appease whatever ancient dairy god you had offended. Then you pointed to your notes dramatically.

“I get it. Lesson learned. No magic digestion spells on frozen desserts.” Another gurgle answered. “Never again,” you whispered, placing a hand over your heart. “Unless someone else tries it first and survives.” 

You slumped forward, head hitting your notebook. Across the dining hall, a few early lunch-goers trickled in but none came close enough to witness your noble downfall. Thank the stars. Still, as you lay there, stomach in gentle revolt, your eyes drifted toward the untouched half of the pineapple ice cream…Maybe just one more bite? 

No.

Yes?

…Maybe.

You sat in silence, shoulders hunched over your tray like a scholar guarding forbidden knowledge. The side effects had arrived not all at once, but in small, increasingly regrettable waves. Your stomach still swirled with enchanted heat, a low and persistent churn that made your breathing shallow and your posture suspiciously stiff. There was a faint tingling at your temples, and though you prayed it was your imagination you were pretty sure the shimmer around the pineapple ice cream had grown brighter. 

You did not want anyone to know what you’d done. Not Shadow Milk Cookie, who would probably sigh and say “I warned you.” 

Not Chai Latte Cookie, who would look heartbroken and say “After all that support?” 

And definitely not Earl Grey Cookie, who would never, ever let you live it down. You could already hear the snarky commentary forming behind his perfectly composed facade. You sank lower in your seat, shielding your notes with your arms like they might absorb your shame. “I’m fine,” you muttered to no one, as if saying it aloud would make it true. The enchantment’s heat pulsed again, low and slow like a kettle just starting to boil. “I’m fine.” You forced your hands to stop trembling and carefully turned the page in your notes, pretending to study the diagrams of court banquets like you hadn’t just cast a semi-forbidden food spell on yourself in broad daylight.

“I’m so fine it’s suspicious,” you muttered, adjusting your posture to look more… academic. Normal. Innocent. You dared a glance around the dining hall. No one had noticed. Yet. No pineapple-headed hallucinations. No glowing aura. No magical indigestion-induced levitation. Not yet, anyway. 

You exhaled, placing a hand carefully over your stomach like you were trying to pacify an ancient beast. “Just… go away. Quietly. Peacefully. Let this be a lesson only I have to learn.” The pineapple ice cream glistened beside you, cheerful and unrepentant. 

You refused to look at it again. From now on, you decided, if any magic was going to happen in your digestive tract, it was going to be supervised by multiple professors and possibly signed off by Shadow Milk himself. You weren’t sure how long you sat like that, silently bargaining with your insides, but eventually the heat dulled to a simmer. And still just to be safe you whispered to yourself, “No one ever has to know.”

Then you closed your notebook, tucked it into your bag like it hadn’t betrayed you, and stood up with the gait of someone who had absolutely not just cursed their own stomach out of greed. You tried. You really, truly tried.

But no amount of steady breathing or internal pep talks could muffle the growing crescendo in your gut the telltale signs of a spell gone awry. Heat flared again beneath your ribs, and a strange tickling sensation began climbing your spine like a warning bell. This was beyond what a quiet prayer to moderation could fix.

So, with your pride officially defeated and your insides staging a full revolt, you packed up your things and bolted from the dining hall. The halls of the Academy blurred around you. The ornate sconces, the polished floors, the gentle hum of distant enchantments they were all background noise to your very real, very urgent situation.

Avoid Shadow Milk. That was the first rule of your new survival strategy. You admired him. You may or may not have kissed him behind a hedge recently.

But you were not letting him witness your self-inflicted magical food disaster. You’d rather be swallowed whole by the Great Library’s overdue fee ghost. You veered into the Scholar’s Wing like a rogue gust of wind, clutching your notebook to your chest as if the right page might still hold salvation. 

Now came the hard part. Shadow Milk’s office was tucked deeper down the corridor, in a space reserved for the most revered minds of the Academy.

Which meant you were currently wandering the marble halls of the high scholars noble, elegant, terrifying Cookies who existed on levels of thought you barely understood on your best day. You never came here alone or at all just tutoring. But desperate times, and all that. Please don’t let him be in the hallway, you chanted inwardly, scanning each polished door and hoping to glimpse a familiar, non-Sage-of-Truth silhouette.

You turned a corner and nearly ran straight into a robed Cookie with a pile of books floating beside them. “Ah sorry!” you gasped, stepping back. The scholar or professor?...blinked at you. They looked vaguely familiar someone who’d guest-lectured for your Enchanted Systems class once.

Their robes were deep violet, embroidered with constellations, and their gaze was more curious than annoyed. How come their robes were different? “Can I help you?” they asked, voice calm. You swallowed. “Um. I…yes. Maybe. Do you, uh… know anything about ancient digestive enchantments…and pineapple ice cream…?” 

A beat passed. Their brows lifted just slightly. “You cast a banquet-era spell, didn’t you?” You winced. “…Hypothetically?”

They sighed through their nose in a way that felt entirely too knowing. “Come on. Let’s get you off the main floor before someone important sees you glowing.”

“I’m glowing?!”

“Not literally,” they said. “Yet.” You whimpered softly and followed them without question. Shadow Milk would never hear about this. You refused to let him know. Unless, of course, it got worse. Which given your luck it probably would. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the quiet of the study space seemed to press in like a soft blanket. Gentle magical lighting pooled across the stone floor, illuminating a desk stacked with annotated cookbooks and several enchanted kettles. The space felt lived-in but orderly, not intimidating like the main hall offices of the high scholars. You could breathe here. They gave you a long, assessing look, one brow raised, but not unkindly. “Alright,” they said, setting aside a cup of steeping tea. “You clearly did something.” You nodded, half-wincing. “I did something.” They gestured to the chair across from them. “Sit. Tell me everything. Preferably before the pineapple takes you out.”

You collapsed into the seat with a grateful sigh, clutching your notebook like a shield. “Okay. So. You know Professor Brambleberry’s History of Food Enchantments?” They hummed. “Infamous for their weekly pop quizzes and love of magically aged vinegar. Go on.”

“Well, we had this lecture a while ago about historical digestive spells used at royal feasts, and I remembered this one spell that helped nobles digest heavy meals during week-long banquets.” You flipped open your notes, pointing to a margin covered in half-baked sketches and enthusiastic, underlined phrases. “I thought…hey, what if I adapted it for pineapple ice cream?” They blinked. “...Pineapple ice cream?”

“It’s enchanted,” you said defensively. “Very enchanted. Possibly too enchanted. And I had too much of it earlier. Again. So I figured I’d try this.” You traced the spell’s incantation with your finger. “It didn’t seem complicated. I even remembered the gesture from the lecture! I thought I was being smart!”

“Until?”

You winced. “Until my stomach started… bubbling.” The professor leaned back in their chair with a sigh that was far too familiar. “Did you read the footnotes?”

“I skimmed them!”

“The ones that said it’s calibrated for hot foods only?”

“I saw the word broth! I thought that was optional context!”

They gave you a long look, then shook their head with a sigh that was more amused than annoyed. “You students and your shortcuts.” You flushed. “I just…Shadow Milk wasn’t around, and I didn’t want to get in trouble, and I really didn’t want to tell him what I did.” The mention of Shadow Milk made them freeze for a second but they didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m not a high scholar, if that helps,” the professor said lightly, reaching for a small wooden box labeled Digestive Corrections For the Stubborn and Curious. “Just a humble lecturer in enchantment history and magical culinary studies. Professor Kettlebranch, by the way.” Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. 

“That… does help, actually. Professor Kettlebranch. Thank you.” They handed you a softly glowing vial, the color of golden tea. “Sip slowly. This will neutralize most of the side effects. You might still feel a little warm. And next time?”

You nodded sheepishly. “No ice cream experimentation without supervision?” Kettlebranch smirked. “No enchantments without reading all the context. But yes also maybe wait until you’ve passed the class before recreating ancient food magic.” You laughed, just a little. “That’s fair.”

“Now go,” they said, already tidying their notes. “Drink water. Walk it off. And avoid dairy-based desserts for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Yes, Professor,” you said, gripping the vial like it might save your life. As you stepped out of the room sipping the potion,  your stomach already felt a little less rebellious. You’d made a mistake, sure but at least you weren’t alone in fixing it. And maybe you’d wait a little before going back for more pineapple ice cream. 

You jogged through the sun-drenched courtyards, potion still warm in your hand. Lunch hour had arrived without fanfare, and the usual hum of students filling the dining halls greeted you like an old song. Your stomach had settled barely. You felt mostly okay. Okay enough to sit, not eat. Okay enough to pretend none of this happened.

You slipped through the doors, scanning for the familiar. Sure enough, your friends were all seated at your usual table: Chai Latte Cookie sipping delicately from her cup, Earl Grey Cookie mid-annotation with a quill far too elegant for a lunch tray, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie balancing a roll on his nose while no one watched.

You slid into your usual seat at the dining table, setting down your tray which was empty save for a single cup of tea. With a sigh that could only be described as the sound of someone who had narrowly escaped death… by dessert. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward immediately, eyes glinting. “Okay, spill.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised a brow. “You look like someone who just crawled out of a cursed bakery.”

“I told you it was the ice cream,” Chai said, nudging your arm. “What did you do?”

You dropped your head into your hands. “Okay. Fine. I admit it. I cast a digestive spell on the pineapple ice cream.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…A spell?..,” Earl Grey Cookie repeated. 

“Pineapple ice cream,” Chai echoed. 

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at you. “Why?” 

You lifted your head and gestured to them all like it was obvious. “Because I wanted more of it, okay? It was early, and the dining hall had already brought it out, and it was just sitting there in the buffet line like a gift from the stars. And I was still recovering from breakfast but I thought, you know, what if I made the ice cream not make me sick?”

“You cast a spell,” Earl Grey said slowly, “on your own digestive system.”

“It’s in my lecture notes!” you defended. “From Brambleberry’s class. Week four. Digestive enchantments used in royal banquets? I figured, hey, if it worked on dukes in golden feasting halls, surely it could handle a few scoops of pineapple ice cream.”

“And did it?” Chai asked, trying not to laugh.

“...No,” you muttered.

Hazelnut nearly fell out of his chair. “Oh what happened?” 

You looked off dramatically into the distance, like a war survivor reliving their battle. “There was bubbling. Gurgling. I thought my intestines were being pulled into another plane. It was like my entire stomach launched a formal protest.” 

Earl Grey raised a brow. “And this was ice cream?” 

You nodded solemnly. “Completely mundane. No enchantments. Just dairy. Cold. Betrayal in a bowl.” 

Chai clapped her hands over her mouth, snorting. “And let me guess… you didn’t read the footnotes.”

“I glanced at them!”

“You are so lucky Shadow Milk didn’t find out,” Hazelnut Biscotti  said, still wheezing. “He would’ve given a speech so intense your stomach would’ve fixed itself out of shame.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said quickly. “I avoided him entirely. I found Professor Kettlebranch. They’re in enchantment history and food magic. I gave them the full tragic tale, and they gave me this.” You held up the now-empty vial from earlier. “Said it would neutralize the spell. Also told me not to eat anything for a few hours. And to not cast anything until I pass the class.” 

Chai giggled, poking your arm. “So no more breakfast spellcasting for you.” 

You slumped. “I learned my lesson. I just… I wanted a little extra pineapple joy, okay?” Earl Grey sipped his tea. “Well, in fairness, few mortals can resist the siren song of yellow fruit.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m quoting you.”

Hazelnut grinned. “Well. At least you’re still alive.”

“Barely,” you muttered. Chai draped an arm over your shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll live. You just might never be allowed near the dessert counter unsupervised again.” 

You groaned and laid your head on the table. “Please don’t tell Shadow Milk.”

“Tell him what?” Earl Grey said innocently. “That you tried to bypass your mortal limits for pineapple?”

“I will cry.”

Hazelnut snickered. “We won’t say anything. But you owe us.”

“For life,” Chai added sweetly. You sighed, defeated but grateful. “Fine. First round of dessert is on me next time.”

“Not ice cream, though,” Earl Grey said flatly. 

You didn’t answer.You were already thinking about your next attempt. You leaned your chin on your hand, swirling your cup of tea idly as the teasing died down. Chai Latte Cookie had moved on to sketching dessert diagrams in her notebook for a spell she swore would revolutionize whipped cream texture, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie had gone strangely quiet likely trying to beat Earl Grey Cookie’s record time on a crossword in the campus paper. You cleared your throat lightly, the remnants of your pineapple-induced misadventure still tingling at the edge of your thoughts. 

“So,” you said casually, nudging your empty tray further down the table, “tutoring got postponed today.” Chai glanced up, eyes immediately curious. “Really? Why?” 

You raised your brows meaningfully. “Council meeting. They’re reviewing his end-of-semester speech.” 

Earl Grey gave a slow nod. “Ah, yes. The ceremonial address. Important enough to cancel tutoring for.” 

“I told him he could probably just quote some obscure dream-scholar, gaze dramatically at the stars, and everyone would call it transcendent.” Earl Grey sipped his tea, lips twitching. “Am I to assume he didn’t appreciate that suggestion?”

“He was insulted and amused,” you said, smiling. “Which, for him, is practically a love letter.” Chai tilted her head, doodling a tiny moon next to her whipped cream runes. 

“So, no studying today? Not even a little?” You leaned back in your chair, groaning. “He told me to review my notes. Which, I suppose, was his version of saying ‘I care.’” 

Earl Grey raised a brow. “And you immediately tried to enchant your insides for ice cream instead.” You buried your face in your hands. “I am the definition of a cautionary tale.” Hazelnut patted your shoulder. “At least you’re self-aware.” You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do not tell Shadow Milk.” Chai leaned closer. “He’d find out eventually.”

“I beg you.”

Earl Grey just smirked. “We’ll consider our silence… a gesture of friendship.” 

You exhaled dramatically, staring toward the ceiling like it held mercy. “I’ve never been more afraid of academic love.” And for now, your friends let the subject fade letting you rest in the quiet chaos of your own making, wrapped in laughter, affection, and pineapple regret. You weren’t eating just sipping your tea slowly, content with its warmth and the way it settled gently in your stomach. After the morning you’d had, even the idea of food felt ambitious. But you weren’t upset. Just a little tired. Still, your friends noticed. 

“Still avoiding food like it’s cursed?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie asked, grinning into his mug. You lifted a brow. “Technically, it was cursed. I cursed myself.”

Earl Grey Cookie hummed, swirling his tea. “You’re lucky you didn’t enchant the entire dessert table. We’d still be pulling students out of the infirmary.” 

You smiled faintly, eyes crinkling. “Noted. No more rogue culinary experiments.” A soft clink of ceramic broke the lull, and Chai Latte Cookie, seated beside you, tilted her head as she rested her cheek against her palm. She watched you with the kind of fondness that made you feel immediately seen but not in a scrutinizing way. More like she was just… curious.

“So,” she said casually, brushing a finger along the edge of her saucer. “Are you ever going to tell the world?” 

You blinked. “Tell the world what?” She gave you a look. “About you and our favorite philosopher-poet-star-walker.” You flushed just faintly not out of embarrassment, but the way one might when a secret was said aloud, and still, nothing bad happened.

“Oh,” you said. “That.” She smiled, soft and amused. “Mhm. That.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, not tense, not cagey just honest. “I like it how it is right now.”

“No judgment,” she said, lifting her hands. “I’m just nosy.” You chuckled into your tea. Hazelnut Biscotti leaned over from across the table. “So it’s really happening? You and the Sage of ‘Nothing Escapes My Insight’ Truth?”

“I’m not answering that,” you said, hiding your smile behind your mug.

“You didn’t deny it,” Earl Grey observed smoothly. You rolled your eyes, setting your cup down. “You’re all impossible.” 

Chai leaned closer, her voice quieter now. “I think it’s sweet, actually. You don’t seem like you’re hiding it out of fear. Just… choosing to keep it where it’s quiet.” You nodded, smiling at that. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. It’s nice, having something that’s just ours. Not for display. Not under scrutiny.”

Earl Grey nodded approvingly. “A private truth. Fitting.”

“Besides,” you added, stretching slightly, “I think the world would faint if they saw him laugh at one of my pineapple rants.” 

Hazelnut sarcastically spoke. “I’d pay to see that.” 

Chai gave your hand a quick squeeze. “Well, whenever you do want to tell the world, we’ll be right here cheering like fools.” You gave her a grin. “I’d expect nothing less.” And just like that, the topic faded into another round of tea, light chatter, and the steady, comforting rhythm of friendship. Nothing had changed.

Nothing needed to. For now, your secret stayed right where it belonged warm, tucked between the lines of shared glances and unspoken things. As the lunch crowd began to dwindle, trays clattered softly into return bins and laughter echoed through the arches of the dining hall. 

With no tutoring today thanks to a certain council speech review you found yourself with an unfamiliar stretch of free time. And though the pineapple ice cream fiasco had left you wary of food and magic alike, the quiet companionship of your friends made the weight of the morning feel distant. You glanced over at them Hazelnut slouching comfortably, Earl Grey polishing off the last of his notes from lunch, Chai already halfway through planning your entire evening for you in her head and felt that familiar tug in your chest.

“…Hey,” you said, setting your teacup down, “since I don’t have tutoring this afternoon, mind if I tag along to your lectures?” 

Chai’s eyes sparkled. “You? Voluntarily attending a class you’re not enrolled in?” Hazelnut Biscotti let out a low whistle. “Must be the pineapple. It’s rewired their brain.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I just thought it might be nice. You know. To go with you. That way we can all head to dinner together after.” Earl Grey looked up from his planner, raising a single brow. “You’re inviting yourself to our schedule in the name of companionship?”

You gave him your most dramatic, innocent look. “It’s not a crime to want to walk with my friends, is it?”

Chai was already scooting over to make room. “Never. Come sit with me. I’ll even take notes for you.” You blinked. “I can take my own notes.”

“I know,” she said cheerfully, “but mine will be cuter.” Hazelnut stood with a stretch. “Let’s not forget my class is first. You’ll be stuck listening to me try not to snore during Tactical Applications.” 

Earl Grey gave him a long-suffering look. “You’ll stay awake this time.”

“No promises.” You smiled softly, gathering your things. Maybe the afternoon wasn’t going to be so aimless after all. “No pineapple ice cream detours,” 

Earl Grey added as you all began to make your way out of the hall. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you lied. And just like that, the four of you melted back into the flow of students, shoulder to shoulder, step for step your afternoon stitched together with light conversation, shared glances, and the kind of easy presence that didn’t ask for anything but your company.

The afternoon slipped by in a haze of laughter and barely-contained chaos. You had almost gotten the group kicked out of lecture not because of anything malicious, of course, but because Chai had whispered something to you during a particularly dry part of the lesson and you couldn’t hold back your snort. 

Hazelnut had definitely made it worse with his perfectly-timed follow-up joke, and Earl Grey had tried so hard to stay composed he ended up coughing into his sleeve for five full minutes. The professor gave your row many looks.

You all gave your most innocent stares in return. Dinner came and went in a similar blur, full of shared bites, mild bickering over the last roll, and an impassioned debate about whether or not the new enchanted citrus glaze was actually better than the classic moonberry reduction. It wasn’t. You were right. Everyone else was wrong.

And before you knew it, you were back in Chai Latte Cookie’s dorm, sleepover in full swing. Soft music hummed quietly from the enchanted music box on her windowsill, casting lazy constellations across the rose-hued ceiling. Sleeping bags were sprawled across the quilted rug Hazelnut’s looked like it had been through one too many camping trips, and Earl Grey’s was precisely folded before he even lay down. You, however, climbed right into Chai’s bed with absolutely no hesitation. Hazelnut raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even gonna pretend to be humble about that?” 

You stretched luxuriously against her ridiculous collection of pillows, folding your arms behind your head. “It’s good for the brain. Something about sleep quality and, uh… bed softness.” Chai snorted as she pulled on a pair of starry slippers. “You’ve been using that excuse since first year.”

“And it’s still working.”

“Barely.”

Earl Grey glanced up from his journal. “One day we’ll actually get an explanation rooted in science.” 

You grinned, nestling further into the blankets. “Today is not that day.” Chai just laughed, shaking her head fondly as she dimmed the lights with a flick of her wand. The strands of fairy lights blinked overhead, casting a cozy glow across the room. 

You could hear Hazelnut already slipping into sleepy rambling, something about how he would definitely wake up early tomorrow, and Earl Grey muttering a polite “no, you won’t” in response.

And you, buried beneath Chai’s soft quilts with a pillow that smelled like rose milk and cardamom, let out a content sigh. Warm. Safe. Together. No pineapple incidents. No tutoring stress. Just you and your friends, drifting into night with nothing but laughter left to carry.

You didn’t remember falling asleep just the soft hum of Chai’s music box and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing beside you, the comfort of blankets too plush for a school dorm and the distant echo of someone snoring…Hazelnut Biscotti. Always Hazelnut. But suddenly, there was light creeping in through the gossamer curtains, painting soft gold across the ceiling, and-“Rise and shine,” Earl Grey Cookie said in a voice far too calm for this hour. 

You groaned, burying your face deeper into the nearest pillow. “Absolutely not.” Chai Latte Cookie made a muffled noise from beside you, arm flopping over your back. “Is he serious…?”

Earl Grey, unbothered by your collective protests, moved about the room with graceful precision. He was already ready, bag tucked neatly beneath one arm. He stepped over Hazelnut’s mess of a sleeping bag with all the dignity of a professor dodging chaos. “We’ll be late for breakfast,” he said, smoothing his sleeves. “And late for breakfast means we’ll miss the fresh melon pastries. Again.”

That got Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie to sit up abruptly, hair a mess, blinking blearily. “Wait. Pastries?” Chai groaned louder, curling more tightly into the blankets. “You’re evil. You know that?”

“You’ll thank me when you’re properly caffeinated,” Earl Grey replied smoothly. You peeked out from beneath the covers, hair probably sticking up in five different directions. “You didn’t even sleep in. Did you just… sit there like a brooding tea ghost all night?” 

Earl Grey didn’t dignify that with a response, simply adjusted his collar and held the door open like some gentleman from a storybook. “Five minutes.” Chai sat up with a dramatic sigh, rubbing her eyes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming. Let me brush my teeth and threaten Hazelnut first.”

Hazelnut, already halfway to pulling on his boots, yawned. “As long as there’s food, you can threaten me all you want.” You stretched, blinking toward the window. The light was still soft, just barely morning. You were tired, but not unhappy. The lingering warmth of the night still clung to your skin, made the grogginess feel worth it. And maybe you were looking forward to seeing who else might already be at breakfast. You swung your legs out of bed, still wrapped in Chai’s too-long cardigan she’d thrown over you sometime in the night. 

“Alright, tea ghost,” you said, brushing past Earl Grey with a sleepy grin. “Lead the way.” He arched a brow. “That’s Sir Tea Ghost to you.”

And just like that, your morning began with yawns, banter, and the quiet comfort of your friends leading you into the day. The morning air was crisp, tinged with dew and sunlight that filtered lazily through the Academy’s ivy-draped windows.

You were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the group of you spilled out of Chai Latte Cookie’s dorm, bleary but unified in purpose. Earl Grey Cookie led the way, his uniform perfectly in place, not a single thing out of alignment. But then Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie said something about melons fresh from the celestial groves a blatant exaggeration and everything changed. “First one there gets the last flaky corner,” Chai declared suddenly with wild determination. 

It was all the spark needed. Earl Grey didn’t say anything. He just broke into a run. “Hey!” you shouted, laughing as you darted after him. “I saw them first!” Hazelnut hollered, charging past with his robes practically flapping behind him. Chai let out a battle cry, sprinting ahead with a hand outstretched like she was diving for a relic of ancient power. “No mercy today!”

You laughed so hard you nearly tripped, racing to keep up, breath puffing white in the chilly morning as the four of you tore across campus like kids who hadn’t a single responsibility in the world. 

For a brief, ridiculous moment, it felt like you were younger again before the weight of portfolios, tutoring, impossible lectures, and love you couldn’t quite name had sunk in. Just you and your best friends, running like misfits down the marble corridors in pursuit of pastries like it was the most important quest of your lives. 

And maybe, in some small way, it was. By the time you reached the dining hall, breathless and grinning, your hair tousled and your limbs sore from laughter, the trays were still warm.

A fresh batch of melon pastries lay waiting beneath a light enchantment to keep them soft. Earl Grey didn’t even pretend to act composed. He snatched a pastry with a gleam in his eye, his smile reckless. “I’ll have you know, I abandoned every principle I live by for this.”

“You leapt over a first-year,” you wheezed. “I saw it.”

“I was efficient,” he said with a smirk. Hazelnut, already halfway through his pastry, gave you a crumb-covered thumbs-up. “Totally worth it.” Chai was still catching her breath as she handed you one of the warm pastries she’d claimed for you. 

“We should be chaotic more often.” The moment you all sat at your usual table, everything settled. Like a spell had worn off. Earl Grey smoothes his robes down. Chai adjusted her hair. Hazelnut licked sugar off his thumb and leaned back in his chair. But the warmth lingered. Not just from the pastries. From that rare, untethered moment you’d all stolen together.

And for a little while longer, you just let yourselves eat and laugh and exist as if you weren’t all being pulled in different directions, as if everything could stay like this forever.

A/N Y'all I had the best nap ever. I dreamed I had a perfect life in a cottage with the love of my life on the mountainside of Montana overlooking the Lamar valley, amethyst mountain peeking over. Then I awoke knowing I need to get a 91/150 on my final...chat do we think we can get a 91?? LET ME GET A HELL YEAH!!!

Also I will be checking my inbox tomorrow did not get the time for it today unfortunately...and good news I recovered 2k words and only had to write 1k, I had the file open twice and one of them had some of the words I lost? I felt so lucky

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

[iniquitousyearning]

tom riddle. | this is your punishment

PAIRING: tom riddle x fem!reader

SUMMARY: prefect tom riddle catches you breaking the rules again, and this time decides to provide a different type of punishment he’s certain you won’t soon forget.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, dubcon (entirely consensual), dom!tom, brat!reader, BDSM (light), intense humiliation kink, sexual punishment/ forced orgasm, inappropriate use of magic/spells, clit-stim orgasm, begging.

You had thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes to dance with disaster. Thirty minutes to dodge destruction. Thirty minutes to descend into the depths of the library, infiltrate the restricted section, slip the book on occlumency you clandestinely borrowed back into its rightful place, and ascend back to your dormitory before the harbinger of your nightmares—Head Prefect Tom Riddle—emerges from the prefects' bathroom and winds his way back down to the dungeons.

Thirty minutes felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. The weight of impending doom pressing down on your chest as you crept through the darkened corridors, each shadow a lurking menace, each creak of the ancient floorboards a deafening scream that could betray your presence.

And though the stakes were disastrously high, you weren't entirely worried; you knew Tom Riddle's schedule as intimately as the lines on your palm, and he was nothing if not a creature of habit. But of course, there was always the chance. The slim, terrifying possibility that he might deviate from his usual routine. And being caught by him was the absolute last thing you needed right now.

Every second felt like a blade poised above your head, ready to drop at the slightest misstep. It was no secret that Tom Riddle had it out for you. By now, it was practically etched into the very stones of Hogwarts, a fact as immutable as gravity. Everywhere you went, every step you took, he was always there—watching, waiting, eager to catch you in some transgression.

The relentless scrutiny was exhausting. The number of detentions you'd served was staggering, the punishments you'd endured endless. Not to mention the droning, entirely condescending lectures and disappointed yet gleeful stares he always made sure to give you as he personally hauled you to Dumbledores office.

It was all bullshit, and certainly had nothing to do with your frequent rule-breaking or constant sneaking around. No, of course not. You most definitely never toed the line. You were as innocent as they come. As pure as the driven snow. In your mind it all boiled down to the fact that Tom Riddle had it out for you, plain and fucking simple. A personal vendetta written into the fabrication of his identity.

Because even if he did. Even if he did somehow manage to track you and uncover your clandestine activities by just being the perceptive cunning bastard that he is, there are certain things that simply defy logic. Some occurrences that just don't add up.

There are just some instances that can't be explained, save for the simplest conclusion: Tom Riddle has been inside your mind for months.

And that was precisely why you sought out the book on Occlumency—you needed it. Needed to learn how to block Tom out because if he wanted to play mind games, you were determined to play better. You were determined to keep up.

You knew Tom took pleasure in continually getting one step ahead of you, and as much as it utterly ticked you off—perhaps a twisted part of you enjoyed being caught by him—savoured the banter you shared including his threats that next time he'd take matters into his own hands, since even Dumbledore was growing tired of your antics. Perhaps you revelled in provoking him, in defying him like no other student dared, relishing the thrill of the chase.

Perhaps you simply loved to hate him. Because he was always so goddamn good at everything, always in control. It was maddening, intoxicating, and you couldn't deny the rush it gave you. His perfection was a thorn in your side, and yet, you craved it, sought it out like a moth to a flame, even if you'd never admit it.

Not to yourself, and most definitely not to him.

As the night droned on, you managed to make it to the library unscathed, slipping into the restricted section unseen. Everything was going according to plan, not a soul around to forsake you. And yet, just as you slipped the book back onto its origin shelf, you heard a distant yet distinct voice, accompanied by the determined clacking of perfectly polished dress shoes.

"—ah, yes. I believe I informed him that I would have an answer by tomorrow evening."

That voice. You could never fucking mistake it.

"—well, yes, Mr.Riddle—but he said—"

"No matter." The footsteps ceased. "You'll both await my determination until tomorrow's eve. Continue pressing and I will see to make you wait two more."

The bile rose in your throat, threatening to spill over onto the floor beneath you. His arrogance had always been a towering monument, casting shadows that seemed to suffocate all reason. Sure, he was the brightest star in the firmament, undeniably brilliant with features rivaling the gods themselves—chiseled jawline, captivating dark eyes—practically born to bask in his own glory.

Yet, for all his outward perfection, his self-assurance bordered on the verge of the grotesque.

"—yes, o-of course, Mr. Riddle..." you stifled a distasteful scoff. You weren't sure how that individual was even standing with such lack of spine. "—t-thank you, sir."

You didn't stick around to hear a response or the lack thereof. The voices were far enough to keep you breathing but close enough to damn near make you faint because you knew he was most likely just outside the iron gates. You couldn't afford to ponder the improbability of his presence or the surrealness of your predicament. You had to move—deeper, further out of sight.

Which was going perfectly well until you rounded a corner with a little too much intensity and collided directly into a small round table. The sharp screech of wood against wood cutting through the thick silence like a blade, echoing ominously in the vast, dim library. Panic seized you, every nerve electrified, as if the table's cry had been your own.

And it was roughly ten devastating seconds after this that you heard the creak of the iron gates opening behind you, and those same polished footsteps drawing forward with haste.

Fucking hell.

You'd spent enough time in the Forbidden Forest to know how to keep your calm, to know how to effectively avoid being noticed—how to silence your footsteps and slip around obstacles without leaving a trace, how to mask your scent with earth and leaves, how to blend into the shadows to avoid becoming prey to the creatures that lurk in the depths. Yet, the only predator you'd never been able to successfully evade was the one you were currently running from.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A shadow that clung to you, a hunter whose senses were always sharper, whose instincts were always keener. No matter how well you hid, he always seemed to find you, as if he could sense the very beat of your heart.

Tonight—to your naive surprise, was no different.

"Think you can hide from me, do you?" Tom's voice slithered through the narrow gap between the shelves, smooth and dark as midnight. "Not quite stealthy enough, I'm afraid."

You pressed your back against the cold wood, trying to steady your breathing, but his words seemed to wrap around your throat, squeezing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with something dizzying.

"Why don't you come out, little snake?" He purred, his footsteps drawing closer, each one a death knell. "We both know how this game ends."

Little snake. Two words that rooted you to the spot. It was impossible, inconceivable that he could know it was you. Yet the nickname, the venomous familiarity of it, left no room for doubt.

You slipped around the corner, the two of you making calculated moves like chess pieces. Your board was one of evasion, his one of domination. The gates were in clear view now as you paused to determine his position, silently mapping the space between here and there, certain that if you ran fast enough you could make it—if you moved quietly enough he wouldn't know which direction you were heading.

"You're only making this worse for yourself, darling." Arrogance so thick you weren't sure how he wasn't choking on it. And as much as you detested it, something about it sparked heat between your thighs. "You know I always win."

With the desperation of a cornered, wounded animal, you decided you were done playing and began making a silent yet brisk path toward the gates. You knew you could get about three shelves deep before you needed to take cover again. The silence was deafening, urging you to move faster.

And just as you were about to reach your next hiding spot, just about to duck back in between the shelves, a sudden sensation of pressure coiled around your ankle, cementing you to the spot.

"What the f-"

It was as if the very air had turned to iron, suffocating you with its weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared down, disbelief flooding your senses. The once innocuous carpet beneath your feet now glowed with enchantment, its fibres twisting and contorting, snaking around your ankles and climbing steadily up your calves.

"There she is." It was an echo from behind you, deep vocal inflection choking you with its pride. "Always so deliciously predictable.”

The fibres wound tightly around your upper calves, constricting tighter against your leggings as you squirmed, struggling to free yourself. Tom appeared beside you with a leisurely saunter, his smirk so smug it seemed almost tangible.

Your frustration bubbled over into a groan of disbelief. "You charmed the fucking carpet?"

"Of course," Tom replied. "Why do things the hard way when magic can do it for you?" He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over you, drinking in your entirety, running the tip of his wand up your arm. "You should know, little snake, I always find a way to catch my prey."

You watched as two dark eyes dipped low, lingering over the thickness of your thighs, fighting against the tendrils of the enchanted carpet that had now crawled tightly around them. You certainly felt like captured prey, tangled in a web of his making, awaiting his next move—and he certainly didn't miss how tantalizingly prepared for him you were, like a gift waiting to be unravelled.

"Impressive, Riddle—you've really outdone yourself this time," you spat the words through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to smack his wand away, battling the unwanted heat pooling in your core. It was the way he was looking at you. The way you wanted him to keep doing it. "Guess you can add 'carpet tamer' to your long list of accolades now, huh?"

Tom huffed, a glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he forced them up to meet yours. The corners of his lips curled upward in a smirk, every pore radiating control. He looked at you as though you were a puzzle he had already solved, a game he had already won.

"Now now, darling, no need to be so dramatic." His free hand reached up and grasped your jaw, kinking your neck back as he stepped closer to you. "Though, I think 'little fucking brat tamer' might be the more notable achievement to add to the list."

Your stomach leapt, your teeth sinking into your tongue for a moment as you fought to gather your sanity. Your defiance was draining like sand in an hourglass.

"Hm." You huffed, the grip on your jaw firm as steel. "Quite the mouthful."

"So I've been told," he shot back, his eyes glinting like shards of glass under the dim light. "You'd know all about mouthfuls, wouldn't you?"

"You fucking wish." You hoped he did.

His smirk deepened, his fingers digging into your skin like iron claws. You could tell he was amused by you, as though you'd just delivered the punchline of the century, as though you were the world's most revered stand-up comedian. It was maddeningly infuriating and dangerously captivating all at once.

"Still wielding that weapon of a tongue, even when you've so clearly lost." He remarked with a click of his own tongue, releasing his grip on your jaw. Stepping back, his eyes devoured the sight of his spell tangled around your thighs. You caught the tension in his jaw before his eyes snapped back to yours. "Tell me, little snake, do you know why I admire this spell so much?"

Your gaze remained fixed on him, anticipation crawling over your skin like a colony of ants as he scrutinized you. You offer him a shake of your head, a scowl etched deep on your features. "Can't read your mind, Riddle. Not everyone is a skilled Legilimens like yourself."

Tom's chuckle rang out, swallowed by the thick tension in the air, suffusing the oxygen you desperately tried to gulp down. He moved to circle you, and you felt his presence looming behind you, his body brushing against yours like a whisper in the wind. One hand found your hip, however softly, as though he was reluctant to touch you.

"It's a very versatile spell, darling," he dismissed your sass, his voice stripped of all emotion as his lips hovered closer to your ear. "The best part being...I know exactly how to manipulate it to get you to listen."

Words withered on your tongue, attitude wilting in your lungs, and oxygen fleeing from your veins—never to return. Tom's looming presence behind you was enough to make your chest constrict, but his words—his words were a different beast altogether. In the countless times he's caught you, never once did you imagine yourself here, like this, with him.

And never once did you imagine yourself enjoying it this fucking much.

"One might describe it as remarkably adaptable, catering to a multitude of desires..." his hand floated away from your hip, his fingers subtly dancing—the coils responding to his ministrations and slithering higher up your thighs. "And you, little brat, have a plethora of desires at this moment, do you not?"

Your jaw nearly smacked the floor as you watched him command the spell without the aid of his wand. You felt your stomach twist into an iron knot, something heating your blood to flame. Perhaps you underestimated him, perhaps you-

"F-fuck-" you gasped as the charmed fibres slithered between your thighs, coiling higher and higher, wrapping around your waist and ensnaring your arms at your sides. The pressure on your cunt sent your head reeling, your entire body quivering. "Tom...what..."

You know Tom is just beaming with satisfaction, the tremor in your voice eliciting a low growl from deep within him as his hold on your hip resumes, his lips teasing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"Speak up, little doll, articulate your thoughts," he murmured, his words dripping with cunning like poison. "I know you possess an abundance of them."

You suppress a groan, squirming in a futile attempt to free your wrists, to move against the relentless hold. The heat of Tom's presence behind you has your senses in a frenzy. Your head spinning, your body silently yearning for more. You despise how much you're enjoying this, whatever this even is.

You whimper, lids fluttering. "This...this isn't fair..."

"Neither is disobeying the rules every fucking chance you get—but here we are," his hand brushed against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing, his voice drifting further from your ear. "You should understand, this is all your own doing...the charm merely responds to your desires, adapting to fulfill them.”

That insufferable bastard. The list of descriptors you'd use to paint his portrait would stretch longer than the very library you're standing in, and then some. Every time you think you've unraveled his mysteries, he unveils another layer that exposes just how brilliantly twisted he truly is. How charming. How intoxicating.

You loathe him, relish in despising every fiber of his being. Yet you can't deny the fact that he outmaneuvered you, in the most tantalizing manner imaginable.

But still, you attempt to deny it. "That's...that's not..."

He muses. "Isn't it?"

Tom withdraws his hand from your thigh, and almost immediately, you ache for its return, the absence of his touch leaving you yearning. Caught off guard by the tendrils of the charm exerting pressure against your core, teasing over your clit, you squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip to stifle any sounds.

"It appears you have a penchant for challenging me..." his voice is a certain murmur. "It seems the charm knows precisely why.”

All the smugness of a deity himself, a walking, talking colossus among mere mortals. As inevitable as the sunrise each morning. It made you want to bare your teeth at him, but instead, all you could manage was a groan, struggling against the pleasure his charm inflicted upon you.

"I'm not quite certain what you would deem a fitting punishment..." he continues, voice as deep as the depths of your desire. As dark as an all encompassing black hole. "—given the countless ones you've endured in the past months, which have clearly taught you nothing."

You groan again, your head bowing as you gaze down at the tendrils of the enchantment, ensnaring you in the clutches of a man with teeth of diamonds, fingers like razor-sharp claws. It'd been a relentless dance of dominance between you for years, a battle of wills that always seems to end in his favor.

You despise how he effortlessly wields his power over you. How he has so easily read between the lines of your story—knowing precisely the effect he has on your body, knowing exactly what you crave.

You fight back a moan. "Mmmff—fuck..you..."

Tom maneuvers his mouth to your ear, his presence pressing against you from behind, the ghost of his breath caresses your skin as he whispers;

"You wish you could."

Beautiful, insufferable bastard.

"Fuck," you huff through gritted teeth, sweat gathering behind your neck, fingernails biting into your palms as you clench your fists, still battling against the overwhelming pleasure. "Get out of my head.."

You feel a low chuckle resonate against your back, its vibrations stirring something primal within you, his fingers grazing against your side.

"Do you truly believe this is mere manipulation, little snake?" Tom's touch begins to ascend, feather-light and elusive, barely registering against your clothes as he presses closer behind you. "I am intimately acquainted with your desires, darling. I've been privy to them for months." You can almost taste the smugness in his voice. "The truth is fairly simple—you crave me, and you despise yourself for it."

Tom takes a deliberate step back, circling around to stand before you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form. Your breath comes in rapid gasps, your skin flushed with desire, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from him. You yearn for more of him, yet you resist acknowledging it, even to yourself.

It's as though he can see your thoughts, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in. "You'd go to any lengths to avoid admitting it, wouldn't you?"

"Gods—" he's right, and you hate him for it. “Mmmf.”

Tom hums softly, his lips barely suppressing a smirk as he steps closer to you. He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he tilts your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.

"How about we try a simple question?" His dark eyes bore into yours, their depths ablaze with a devilish glint. "Do you wish it to stop?"

You're rendered speechless. The egotistic side of you wants you to say yes—while the other, larger part is consumed with an insatiable hunger for more, for him. The charm swirls over your clit, applying increased pressure against your leggings, causing you to bite down on your bottom lip again to stifle a desperate moan. You couldn't answer him if you tried.

Tom's eyes roam over your face, not willing to miss a thing. "Use your words...tell me what you need..."

The sensation against your clit intensifies further, as if dancing to the rhythm of his words. You can feel his gaze boring into you as the heat between your thighs surges, and you realize you're on the brink of climax. And Tom knows it.

"Fuck..." your hips twitch involuntarily—torn between craving more friction and fleeing from it—your mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. Tom brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, his gaze fixed on his own movements, and you feel yourself unraveling, succumbing to the scorching intensity of his eyes—two dark pools of permanent ink. "Tom...please..."

His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. "Say it."

Shame courses through your veins, searing your skin like molten lava, the prickling sensation drowning you. You're on the verge of climaxing from an enchanted carpet, a manifestation of his spell, and the humiliation threatens to consume you.

"I need you-" you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips in a pitiful plea, desperation sinking its claws into your soul. So close...too close. "Please—please, I—I don't want to cum from this—I..."

Oh, but you do. You most certainly fucking do though the mere thought of admitting it feels like a dagger twisting in your gut. Tom's eyes glint with amusement, his head cocked slightly as he regards you with a faux expression of pity, as artificial as the plastic plants in the common room.

"I've truly made a mess of you, haven't I?" His hand glides down from your face, tracing a path along your neck, lightly grazing over your collarbone. "Tell me what you want from me."

Gods, you ache to strike him—yet crave to kiss him and cry out his name with equal fervour. Your defiance lies shattered, a broken relic at your feet.

You peer up at him, pleading. "Please, Tom, please touch me—I need you..."

A smirk toys at his lips, his fingers slipping under your jaw once more to hold you steady as he leans in closer.

"Touch you?" His voice is like a loaded gun, his fingers the bullets—intent cocked and ready to annihilate, but instead he taunts you, keeps you on edge, pressing the barrel against your temple just to see the look in your eyes. "You want me, the man you so madly fucking detest, to touch you."

You lack the strength to command him to go to hell, but oh, how you wish you did. Just to witness his reaction, to see what he’d do next. Despite his appalling self-assurance, you can see behind the mask—see how he is genuinely taken aback by your submission, as though he never expected you to surrender, to confess your desire for him.

"Tom, please..." you beg, trembling with anticipation, your impending climax a rapidly swelling tide. "I want you...I want you to make me cum—you-you win."

Tom pulls back from your ear to regard you, his gaze fully focused this time. He takes in the sight of you—trembling, panting, wide-eyed before him—his expression conveying complete contentment in simply observing you as you struggle to persuade him to touch you.

That familiar taunting grin lingers upon his lips, uncontainable, and you know he's relishing this moment far too much.

"I know," he says softly, his thumb tracing your jawline as his hand falls to your neck. "I always do, don't I, little doll..."

His voice drifts over you like smoke, thick and intoxicating, wrapping around you in a dizzying embrace. The intensity of the charm wavers slightly, granting you a momentary reprieve to catch your breath as Tom leans in, so close that you can feel his exhales caressing your lips. Your head spins, every sense overwhelmed by his presence.

"But you deserve this—" he continues, his voice a rumble like thunder through your veins. "—you deserve to be humiliated like this, to break for me without my hands ever touching you." His mouth hovers just millimeters from yours, taunting you with its nearness. "This is your punishment, little doll...and you're going to take it."

The pleasure between your thighs swells once more as the charm resumes its sinuous movements and you can't suppress the moan that escapes your lips, mingling with the groan of utter frustration. All you can do is stare at him.

Tom hums, amused. "Because you revel in it, don't you? Being a little disobedient brat..."

Your eyes glaze over, your pulse soaring as Tom's breath once again brushes against your parted lips. The ache for him is almost unbearable, as if he's injected something into your veins, rendering you unable to function without him. It's maddening, in the most exquisite way imaginable.

"You're-ohh-fuck.." your voice comes out as a moan, low and breathy, the words trailing off as the charm adds pressure to your clit, stars dancing at the edges of your vision. "Gods..."

"There we go, just as I like you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your jaw. "Unable to unleash that pretty little mouth. Perfectly shattered for me."

You clench around nothing, yearning to scoff. "Mmmf—never..."

Tom chuckles at your feeble attempt at defiance, though the sound carries a hollow, half-hearted quality. You both know you've passed the point of return. His fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, until his palm cradles your face, his thumb brushing gently across your lips.

"Is that so?" He murmurs softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "Well then, go ahead...let that pretty mouth run wild...prove that your defiance is more than just an act..."

The way he wields his power has you teetering on the brink of madness, and you despise the fact that you've revelled in every torturous moment of it. You long to snap back, to wield your tongue, to curse him—anything to grasp onto even a shred of control. But every fucking word is a struggle, every moment not focused on your breathing is an achievement.

You squeeze your eyes shut, channeling all the energy you have left. "You...you're such an...arrogant—mmf—I...I hate you..."

"Mhm. You hate me." He cooes. "And yet, here you are..." his voice is as soft as feathers, as warm as the morning sun, the unmistakable taunt laced within. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping between your teeth. "...falling apart for a mere spell, begging for me, for my touch..."

You feel Tom's thumb pressing against your tongue as you whimper. You attempt to speak, to convey something, but instead, you find yourself instinctively sucking lightly against his thumb in response.

"Mm." Tom's brow lifts slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He seems pleased with your reaction. "A much better use for that mouth."

You're beyond caring about the way he's taunting you, how he's systematically humiliated and debased you, stripping away every ounce of defiance without ever even touching your skin. Tremors wrack your body from the overwhelming sensations, rendering coherent thought nearly impossible.

Your head lolls to the side, constrained by his hand, as waves of pleasure crash over you, your climax approaching rapidly and dangerously.

"Fuck-I'm..." you manage to squeak, his thumb still nestled in your mouth. "Mmmf-"

Tom's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches you unravel, his thumb pressing deeper into your mouth, a silent command for you to keep sucking. The enchantment continues its relentless assault—tightening around you, swirling over your clit and amplifying the pleasure until it's almost unbearable.

"Go on," he murmurs, his voice a blend of silk and steel. "Let go for me. Show me just how much you need this."

Your body trembles violently, your muscles tensing as the climax rips through you. You can't hold back the moan that escapes around his thumb, your entire being consumed by the intensity of the release that you've desperately fought off for so long. Tom's grip on your jaw tightens, keeping you in place, ensuring you can't escape the exquisite torment he's orchestrated.

"There it is," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Perfectly broken, just for me."

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it's almost painful, his thumb buried in your mouth muffling any sounds of pleasure that threaten to escape. The evidence of your desire pools between your thighs, your embarrassment stripping you raw as you slowly begin to return to reality, the spell gradually losing its grip around you.

You struggle to find your breath, your thoughts, your sanity, but Tom doesn't grant you much reprieve before he's tugging your head back towards his, forcing you to focus on him.

"You should see yourself." He withdraws his thumb from your mouth, trailing the remnants of saliva over your cheek as he assesses you. "You're a vision."

You try to summon the strength to argue, to reclaim some semblance of defiance, but the attempt dies in your throat, unable to comprehend the fact that those words sounded like a fucking compliment. Your body is trembling with the aftershocks of your climax, and you can only manage a soft whimper. He looks at you as if you are his masterpiece, perfectly crafted and beautifully ruined.

"Remember this, little snake," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Remember how easily I can break you. How much you crave it."

You exhale slowly as you feel the charm dissipate, the carpet settling back into its rightful place at your feet. Tom's hand falls away from your face, but the tension between you remains palpable, neither of you daring to make a move.

"And as for the book," he adds, his eyes flashing to the bookshelf behind you, the one home to the Occlumency text you borrowed. "You may want to keep it. You're not nearly as skilled as you think you are."

And with that, he smooths out his uniform and strides past you without a second glance.

thank you to my babies @doremimosasol and @pizzaapeteer for proofreading this. means the world to me🖤

[littleslaywrites]

Can you write about reader giving hotch the silent treatment, but it turns into a smut

silent treatment | aaron hotchner x bau!reader

nsfw, mdni 

summary: when aaron yells at you after a case, you give him the silent treatment, but he’s determined to get you to talk.

word count: 1.9k

cw: smut, dom!hotch, brat!reader, spanking, unprotected sex, p in v, hair pulling, use of "good girl", slight size kink

You knew Aaron hadn’t yelled at you because he was mad. He was scared, worried about your safety when you took what he called an “unnecessary risk”. You disagreed completely, justifying the risk with the fact it saved the victim from further harm. Besides, you weren’t hurt beyond a mild concussion, not even having to go to the hospital.

Even though you knew he was just upset over the thought of losing you, you were still embarrassed about the public scolding. It’s not a great feeling to have your boyfriend reprimand you in front of your coworkers.

Rather than arguing back, you stayed silent. You knew you’d lose if you tried to defend yourself. So you simply stared at him, watching him tire himself out on his tirade. 

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” he said when he was done chewing you out.

You only shook your head in response, turning around to get in the car. The whole team was tense, knowing your silence does nothing to calm Hotch down. You caught Emily and Morgan exchanging a look, signaling the awkwardness the upcoming jet ride would bring.

Hotch got into the driver’s seat, meeting your silence. He wasn’t going to chase you, not in front of his team. You two were locked in a battle. Even on the plane, you opted to read a book, putting on your headphones when you thought he might try to talk to you.

Upon landing, you cut in front of him, getting into your shared car. You almost got in the driver’s seat, knowing it’d make him even madder, but you knew you could only bother him so much before he snapped.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks when you pull into your driveway. Instead of answering, you walk into the house, not waiting for him behind you. Usually you’d enter together, falling into your usual routine of unpacking and relaxing. He immediately notices this change, and storms in behind you. You had a time advantage, as he had to close the garage door and grab his bag. By the time he’s inside, he can hear the shower running. Trying the bathroom door, he realizes you’ve locked it. You never lock the door.

While you’re trying to cool off in the shower, Aaron is sitting on the bed, not even bothering to change, only taking off his jacket and throwing it over the dresser. He’s simply fuming waiting for you to emerge. He’d make you talk, no matter what it takes. 

When you come out, you’re wrapped only in a towel. You intend on walking past him to get to the closet, but he grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. 

“You better start talking before I have to make you.”

You know his threat is empty, and tear your arm away to move past him. 

“Y/N,” he says, in that commanding voice you like a little too much. 

Before you can get the closet door open, he comes behind you, pressing himself against you. Your breath hitches, both from surprise and the feeling of how much larger he is physically. He’s pulling out all the stops, knowing just what’ll make you comply. 

“This little stunt you’re pulling stops now.” His words are spoken in your ear as he leans against the door, trapping you between his arms. 

You almost decide not to be mad at him in that moment, but remembering the lecture he gave you earlier makes you think he needs a little more teasing. You slide down the wall, crouching down to escape him.

Hotch knows he must be beet red at this point. You’re defying him in a way you’ve never done before. You hadn’t disobeyed him before or after you started dating, always respecting his authority as your boss. Your stubbornness was endearing when it wasn’t targeted toward him, but now he was clenching his jaw in anger. 

You don’t make it far before he grabs you, turning you around to face him. His hands are on your waist, gripping you tightly. Leaning his forehead against yours, you can feel his heavy breathing. His clear anger brings a smile to your face. He may have physical power over you, but you have control over all his emotions in the moment. 

He doesn’t speak for a second. You can see his brain working to figure out an interrogation method that’ll get you to talk. Running out of ideas, he pulls the towel off of your body, letting it drop to the floor. He reaches around, grabbing your ass and bringing you closer to him. You can feel his breath on your eyelashes. 

Even standing completely exposed in front of him, you’re still not satisfied, staying silent to urge him on. His hands are all over you, groping shamelessly. You refuse to give him even a whimper. You’re not even looking at him, staring straight ahead. Taking a hand away from your body, he grabs your hair and pulls it so you make eye contact with him. Meeting his eyes, you feel his pupils burning into yours. His anger is visible in his gaze, studying you for any sign of remorse. Seeing none, he turns you around, pushing you so your face down on the bed with your feet planted on the ground. For the first time since you started your silent treatment, you let him control you, not moving from the position he pushed you down into.

He presses his hips into the back of yours, and you can feel his hardness. Another smirk comes across your face. You love the effect you have on him. He grinds into you a few times, before reaching around your waist and pulling you back up. 

“Is this what it’ll take to make you talk?” he says, hands moving to play with one of your breasts. “Are you going to make me fuck the attitude out of you?”

Getting no response, he manhandles you onto the bed so you’re on your knees and he’s behind you. Aaron gently wraps a hand around your neck, nipping at your shoulder. He’s biting, marking you up in the places he knows your shirt will cover. 

His hands leave you, and you hear the sound of his belt coming off. You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him, but you can assume from the pause that he’s taking his pants off. When he wraps his arms back around you, you realize it’s not just his pants, but all of his clothes. Teasingly, you move your hips back, grinding on his now unclothed crotch. 

He holds back a groan, not wanting to give in to your games. Drawing his hand back, he spanks you— once, twice, three times. 

You’re also fighting your own sounds, biting your lip to choke back a whimper. Your face is pressed into the mattress now, arms weak from the impact. If this is your punishment, you might never speak willingly again. You try not to wiggle your hips too much, still trying to hide your pleasure. 

Aaron isn’t fooled, thumbing at your slit, feeling the wetness that’s gathered. The mattress mutes your heavy breathing, but the way you clench around nothing at the simple touch is sign enough of the effect he’s having on you. 

“You can’t hide from me, baby,” he says, the only warning before he pushes into you fully. 

A shiver running through your body, you moan, the first noise you’ve given him all night. He chuckles, knowing you’re defeated. The full feeling has you forgetting any reason to be mad at him. Your arms are near useless now, weak as he slowly drags in and out of you.

He’s thrusting slow and deep, at a pace he knows will keep you right on the edge. Gripping your hips, he pulls you so close that your back arches mindlessly. 

Leaning down so his chest is pressed against your back, you can feel his form. You imagine how he must look, panting above you. Your breath quivers, focusing on the way you can feel every detail of his cock at his measured pace.

Still too proud to beg, you begin pushing your hips back into him, searching for more stimulation. He knows you too well, remembering just the speed that’ll leave you wanting more.

Sensing your need for release, he grabs ahold of your hair, pulling you up to whisper in your ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, you consider your options. You’re still mad at him, not over the shame of his biting words. But with one hand tangled in your hair and the other squeezing your hip, you let go of your dignity.

“Aaron,” you whine out, still gathering words.

He tugs on your hair, a signal that it’s not enough. 

“Please, I can’t–” You’re trying to form full sentences, but the way he impales your sweet spot has your brain nearly blank.

“Use your words, y’n,” he says, punctuating your name with a sharp thrust. 

“I need to cum.” If not for his hands supporting you, you’d be flat on the bed. “Please let me, Aaron.”

“Only good girls get to cum,” he grunts into your ear, stopping his thrusts to simply grind against you, “and you’ve been bad today.”

You cry out as he stills. “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be your good girl,” you beg.

He starts to thrust into you again, content with being back in control. He removes a hand from your hair, pushing you down by the back of your head so your knees aren’t even supporting you anymore. Your whole body is flat, hips pushing back into him as he speeds up. 

You can hear every groan and grunt as he presses his body on top of yours. You’re too focused on the warmth in your stomach to care about the moans you’re producing. Again, you have no words to say, but this time it’s not by choice. Aaron’s cock feels too good for you to have any thoughts other than him.

When you start fluttering around him, he knows you’re close. Determining that you’ve had enough punishment, he keeps the pace, reaching around to grab a breast that’s been pressed into the bed. 

Closing your eyes, you let your release overtake you. One of your hands grabs at the sheets, searching for an anchor as you get lost in your orgasm. You don’t realize it in your haze, but you’re calling out Aaron’s name. The sound of your voice and the feeling of your walls grasping for him brings him to his own orgasm, stilling as he fills you up. 

He collapses on top of you for a second, comforting you with his weight. Even as he rolls off of you, you stay face down, still recovering. He has to turn you over himself and pull you into a tight embrace for you to come back to reality.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says, reminding you of the reason he yelled at you in the first place. Just annoyed enough to not say anything, you simply curl in closer to his chest. 

“Are you sorry for your behavior?” he asks.

Sensing an opportunity, you grin into his chest and shake your head.

Sighing, he turns you over so he’s on top of you again. Both of you are more than aware you’ll keep this up for as long as you need. As Aaron captures you in a deep kiss, you prepare yourself for a long night.

[adispit]

Hii! Do u write for xiao ?? If u do can u do with a amab reader who is extremely sensitive during sex and gets overstimulated really easily and cries??

A Hefty Price

Xiao x bttm m! thief reader

content warnings: slight dubcon, overstimulation, reader cries, Xiao is a little ooc bc he’s irritated and pissed here, mindbroken reader (fucked into oblivion), punishment sex (?)

note: hiya I didn’t know if u wanted plot with it so I just did it, hope you enjoy 😭🫶

You always thought you could get away with it. Xiao’s warnings, his sharp glares, the low growl in his voice whenever he caught you—it had become almost a routine, something predictable. You'd brush off his words, slip through his fingers, and disappear into the night with whatever prize you'd set your eyes on.

Maybe that’s why you kept going. Deep down, you believed Xiao would be lenient with you forever. That no matter how many times he cornered you, no matter how many times he said, “This is your last chance," there would always be one more.

But tonight was different.

The moment you saw him step out from the shadows, his figure illuminated by the pale moonlight, you knew something had shifted. His eyes weren’t just filled with the usual exasperation or annoyance. There was something darker, more primal, simmering beneath the surface.

You should’ve stopped.

But instead, you smirked, brushing off the unease creeping up your spine. "What, are you here to lecture me again, Xiao?" you teased, trying to keep your voice light. "You know how this goes. I’ll be gone before you even—"

You never got to finish your sentence.

Xiao moved faster than you’d ever seen him before, closing the distance between you in an instant. One moment, you were standing, your usual bravado shielding you from the weight of his presence, and the next, you were pressed against the stone wall of Wangshu Inn, your wrists pinned above your head in a grip so tight it made you gasp.

"Xiao—" you choked, but the words were caught in your throat as you met his gaze. His golden eyes bore into yours, no longer just filled with warning, but with an animal like intensity that sent your pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear—and everything to do with something far more dangerous.

"You think I’ll let this slide again?" His voice was low, rough, almost unrecognizable in its rawness. His face was mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "That I’ll keep letting you walk away like nothing happened?"

His grip tightened around your wrists, his body pressing you harder against the cold stone. The sudden, brutal force of it made your heart stutter, a flicker of panic mixing with something else you didn’t want to name. He wasn’t just angry—he was done. Done with your games, done with your teasing, and done with your refusal to take him seriously.

"You always brush off my warnings," Xiao growled, his voice so close, so filled with something dark and primal that it made your knees weak. "You think I’ll be lenient forever, that I won’t do anything to stop you."

You swallowed hard, the smirk that had once danced on your lips now completely gone. Your breath came in shallow gasps as you tried to understand what was happening. Xiao had always been intense, but this—this was different. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

"You’ve pushed me too far," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. His hand left your wrist, sliding down to your throat in one swift, controlled motion, his thumb pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. "You think I’ll keep forgiving you? That you can keep stealing, keep defying me, without consequences?"

His eyes darkened as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "No more."

Your chest tightened at the finality in his tone, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. You had always played with fire, but now, you were burning. Xiao’s restraint, his patience—it was gone, replaced by something far more wild, far more dangerous.

"I… I didn’t think—" you stammered, trying to gather your wits, but Xiao wasn’t having it.

"That’s your problem," he interrupted, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make you still. "You never think. You believe you’re untouchable, that you can keep running from your consequences."

His fingers pressed harder against your skin, his body trapping yours completely against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he watched the realization wash over you. For the first time, you truly understood—you had gone too far. You had pushed him too far.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something, but nothing came out. His grip on you was unyielding, his presence overwhelming. The usual playfulness you had wielded against him was gone, shattered under the weight of his fury.

His other hand slid down your side, pinning you in place with a strength that left no room for argument. You gasped, the pressure making it clear that this time, there was no escape.

"You never took me seriously," he murmured darkly, his lips brushing against your neck, sending heat coursing through you. "But I’m going to show you exactly how serious I can be."

Your breath hitched as his hand moved lower, tracing the lines of your body with a possessive touch, one that made it clear—he wasn’t playing around anymore. There was no teasing, no games. You had crossed the line, and Xiao was about to teach you the consequences of defying him.

"You’ll remember this," Xiao muttered, his voice filled with quiet dominance as he pressed you harder against the wall, his body leaving no space for resistance. "You’ll remember who you belong to."

Your heart raced, fear and something else—a darker, more dangerous thrill—mixing together as you realized just how far you had pushed him. Xiao wasn’t fucking around anymore.

And now, you were going to pay for it.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, your heart thundering against your ribs as you stared up at him, completely at his mercy. Letting out a quiet whimper at his gaze, you could feel heat pool in your core, inwardly groaning as his body pushed against yours, giving you no space to retreat or run. “Quiet, (name). Take your punishment.” He shot you a silent glare of disapproval as he fumbled clumsily at your pants.

You weren’t stupid, despite haven’t done this kind of thing before, but you knew what the Yaksha was trying to do, and was clear to your eyes. There was a flash of thought that crossed your mind that if Xiao was the one standing before you, and you weren’t pinned against a wall, you might have considered sharing your first with him.

Your body, however, was much more honest. As he freed your cock, it was already erect, as pearls of precum slid down your length, the cold night air graced your naked lower abdomen. Teeth chattering as the cold wind blew, it didn’t stop your cheeky mouth teasing him much to your regret later on, “Seems like the yaksha is quite the inexperienced one— Ah!” He gripped your dick forcefully, sending a shock of mixed sensations of pain and pleasure through your body. “You never shut up do you, mortal?” Xiao rebuked unhappily as he gingerly jerked your cock up and down, bringing about an onslaught of sheer pleasure and ecstasy that seemed to intertwine with each other.

Being a virgin yourself, it didn’t take for you to release, splattering ropes of white cum into his hand as you let out a strangled gasp. Your eyes widened as you felt Xiao's teeth graze your sensitive skin, a shudder running through your body. The combination of pleasure and discomfort had your nerves alight, every touch sparking a new wave of sensation.

"Nnh...haaah..." You whined, hips bucking involuntarily as you grinded down against the firm muscle of Xiao's thigh. The friction provided some respite, but it wasn’t enough to quell the ache building in your core.

“Stay still.” He let out a growl of frustration before biting down on your collarbone, fangs glinting in the moonlight, sunken into your sinewy skin. The bruising pain and burning pleasure felt indistinguishable as your mouth hung open with inaudible gasps escaping.

“You don’t listen,” he murmured darkly, his breath warm against the raw skin of your collarbone. His teeth released your skin, leaving the bruised, throbbing mark of his claim, the sting lingering like a brand. “You never listen.” His tongue flicked out to trace the bite, sending another wave of heat through your body.

Not intending to give you a break, his fingers thrust into your waiting hole, making you squirm and writhe, insides clenching around his fingers. “Hhn!” A gasp left your lips as you felt the fingers prodding a certain bundle of nerves, nudging it repeatedly until you was moaning incoherently. A little sob even escaped you, as your cock twitched, spurting white all over your own pelvis again. Your whole body quivered, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the stimulation didn’t cease, your breath came out in ragged gasps, each one more shallow than the last as your body trembled under his control.

The Yaksha’s name left your lips in a stutter.

The pleasure left you reeling in its wake like a tidal wave engulfing your body in full force. Tears began to decorate your eyes as you let out small hiccups and chokes from the merciless sensations that seemed to plague your fatigued body endlessly.

Xiao’s hand shifted from your ass to your chin, forcing you to look at him. His golden eyes bore into yours, sharp and unyielding. For a moment, something flickered in them—a recognition of the tears that now streamed down your face, glistening in the moonlight.

But his grip didn’t soften.

“Are you crying?” Xiao’s voice was rough, his words cutting through the haze between you. His thumb brushed against your cheek, smearing the tear across your skin. “After everything, you still don’t understand.”

“I’ll make you understand.” You let out a scream as he impaled you on his cock, the girthy length bullying his way into your insides, searing his shape into your walls. There was pain, yet most of it became pleasure as Xiao started to thrust in and out of your tightness. Inaudible, slurred cries escaped you as you hung your head low, body rocked back and forth as Xiao fucked you deep and slow. The tears kept falling, but you were helpless to stop them. Everything about this moment felt too intense, too overwhelming.

Half-sober, you muttered pleas and apologies from your hoarse throat amidst the obscene squelches of his cock kissing your walls repeatedly. “Too late.” He huffed a noncommittal sigh as he put your arms over his shoulders and carried your limp legs with his arms before driving his hips against yours with full force.

Your brain was mush at this point, barely registering anything as your overstimulated hole rapidly twitched and clenched around Xiao’s disappearing cock into your hole. Your cock let out pitiful drops of cum, if that could even be called that, as you had truly lost count on how many times you had climaxed simply from the sensation of his cock scraping against your sensitive walls.

You had truly paid a hefty price.

note: might have made him a little too intense here sry 😢 but i ran w it he’s tired w readers shit lol 😹

Reblogs are appreciated!