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kunareads · 2 months ago

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brat | track one

360

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 2k

content: smut, fluff, smau / exhibitionism (concealed in a public setting), fingering, drug/alcohol use, ambiguous relationship status / a little scene-setting before we get into it next chapter :)

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Variety — YEAR OF THE BRAT: SUGURU GETO AND YN HAVE THE INDUSTRY IN A HEADLOCK (AND THEY’RE LAUGHING ABOUT IT)

Vulture — INSIDE THE CULT OF YN AND GETO: WHY EVERYONE’S COPYING THE CHAOS

The Cut — THE ART OF BEING WATCHED: THE ROLLOUT THAT TOOK OVER YOUR TIMELINE

[ seven days, 14 hours to drop ]

you’re chewing gum when you walk in.

the meeting room is glass-walled, over-lit, aggressively air-conditioned. it smells like money and emails. a brand director is mid-slide, gesturing at a screen filled with words like reach and multi-platform ecosystem. someone else chimes in about vertical integration.

suguru trails two steps behind you with half a croissant in his hand, headphones slung around his neck. he doesn’t say a word—just drops into the chair beside yours and opens his laptop as if the room isn’t full of people.

you don’t take your sunglasses off. their fault for lighting the place like an interrogation chamber.

“the aim is cultural virality,” someone says. “we’re thinking cross-brand utility meets niche rebellion.”

you blink slowly. blow a bubble. pop it.

“is there a slide where you tell us what the fuck that means?”

suguru doesn’t look up, but he does smirk beside you—the silent, crooked kind he gives you when he thinks you’re being mean on purpose. (you are.)

a younger exec tries to pivot. “no, like—we just want to elevate your image without diluting the—”

“please don’t say authenticity.” you cross your legs. “i’ll have to light myself on fire.”

[ six days, 12 hours to drop ]

@/cultyn (instagram post) 📸 : your silhouette behind a sheer curtain with silver tinsel, suguru’s tattooed hand pulling the curtain aside. 💬 : countdown in bio. don’t be late ⏳

@/cultgeto (instagram post) 📸 : same as yours. 💬 : it begins 🔄 360 video friday

[ four days, 22 hours to drop ]

you feel it before you name it—that warm, sparkling edge of visibility. the music’s perfect. the lights are forgiving. everyone’s looking, seeing exactly what you want them to.

but the only eyes that matter are fixed on you from a corner—suguru, legs spread and an arm slung over the back of the couch like the section belongs to him. (it does.)

he waits.

you let it build. air-kiss people you barely remember. twirl a girl’s hair between your fingers, whispering something that makes her giggle. lean into camera flashes, catching light in your earrings, your clothes, your teeth.

and when you’re satisfied, you cross the floor, hips swinging like a threat, and slot yourself between his knees. he leans back and gives you that look—somewhere between dare and devotion.

“having fun?” he asks, amused.

you straddle his thigh without answering. your skirt rides higher, his eyes drop lower. instead of stopping you, he grabs his jacket from the seat and drapes it over your bare shoulders—possession dressed as modesty.

“so fucking spoiled,” he mutters, more observation than complaint. like he’s proud. like he made you this way on purpose.

you roll your hips once. then again, slower, dirtier. a palm settles on your ass to guide you, not stop you. his show now, not yours. every grind hits harder as you fall into the rhythm he sets.

he takes your drink, downs it in one swallow, sets the glass aside. you watch his throat work before that same hand trails condensation up your thigh and under your skirt.

you’re slick through your panties.

“you’re such a fucking handful,” he says with a smirk, planting kisses from your cheek to your jaw. his voice is hot in your ear, close enough to catch between beats. “you know that?”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “wanted you to touch me.”

his smirk deepens when you slide your knees wider on the seat for him. he shifts your panties aside and sinks two fingers in.

your mouth drops open as he sets a pace. you arch into him automatically, grinding harder, already after something without permission. his palm presses over your clit with every thrust. it’s sloppy—shallow breath, parted lips, heavy eyelids.

you try to keep the rhythm, to stay composed, but his fingers work in time with the music, eyes pinned to your face. he kisses you when he catches it—the split second where it stops being teasing and starts being need.

“breathe.”

your hips stutter, the warning landing between your lungs and your legs.

“you’re gonna cum too fast.”

you nod, or shake your head—you don’t know. you ignore him like you always do, desperate now, chasing it like you’re not surrounded by strangers. if anyone’s watching, suguru’s already made sure they can’t see anyway.

“you wanna be fucked on this couch in front of everyone?” he asks, voice dropping to something fond and a little mean. “or are you gonna behave?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hitching as his cologne fills your senses. you’re right on the edge—

“i know, baby.” he murmurs it like a spell, dragging his thumb up your clit. “i know. make a mess if you need to.”

you cum on his hand like it was his idea. like you didn’t start the whole thing in the first place.

he keeps you there, fingers still inside, letting you come apart in pieces on top of him. your hips twitch and you whimper into his throat, melting against him. he lets you ride it out. lets your slick flood over his fingers and down his hand, then pulls out slowly. tucks your panties back into place too carefully for what just happened.

then he brings one finger to his mouth, licking it clean. he offers the other to you, and you take it like you always do—lips parted, tongue out, wrapping around him slow in the way you know drives him insane. you suck, humming low in your throat like a thank you.

you start to lift your head, suddenly aware of where you are and the fact that the song’s changed twice, but a hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he kisses your temple.

“not yet,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.”

so you exhale and let yourself sink into him fully. your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm snug around your waist, jacket still warm over your shoulders. the music keeps playing and the lights keep shifting, but for a few more seconds, you stay where you are.

[ four hours to drop ]

you’re twenty-five minutes late and only partially dressed when you go live.

you rarely do interviews separately. don’t take meetings separately either, unless you’re trying to scare someone. livestreams are the same—it’s him or nothing.

suguru stands behind you, black shirt half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up. he’s halfway through lacing your corset, rings flashing as he works the ribbon like he’s tying a gift.

“i told you to start getting ready two hours ago,” he mutters, eyes on his hands.

“you did,” you agree with a nod, squinting at the phone propped against the hotel mirror. the chat scrolls too fast to follow, but you catch a few:

SUGURU HANDS WATCHERS STAND UP he’s doing it wrong but like… sexy?? she’s so calm i would be screaming and crying and biting

“chat says you’re doing it wrong.”

“chat can’t get you out of a corset with one hand,” he deadpans, not even looking up.

you seal the joint in your hands with a slow press of your tongue, dragging it across the paper like you know he’s watching. (he is. he always is.)

he finishes with a final tug, knotting the ribbon tight and smoothing the laces like he’s proud of himself. his fingers trail down your spine in a lazy line as he kisses your bare shoulder once, soft and thoughtless.

the lighter clicks. you inhale, exhale. watch him in the mirror as he disappears from the frame to rifle through the jewelry you’d dumped onto the counter earlier.

he returns with earrings, necklaces, and bangles in hand.

“stay still.”

his fingers are cool where they skim your neck. he hooks the earrings in slow, fastens your necklace, slips each bracelet on one by one and brings your hand to his lips when he’s done.

you pass him the joint.

“we were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago and it’s thirty minutes away,” he says, exhaling smoke.

“mm,” you reply, dabbing on lip gloss. “better hurry up and pick my shoes then.”

i’ve never wanted to be a joint so bad in my whole life HE PICKS HER JEWELRY?????? is this foreplay or a grwm

[ 30 minutes to drop ]

the diesel party is still going by the time you leave. your heels click loudly against the sidewalk. suguru’s hand rests low at your back, half-steering. he smells like weed and your favorite cologne.

someone with a press badge calls your name—matte lipstick, eyes wide like she can’t believe you’re real. she catches you just before the car with a mic, a cameraman, and a hopeful smile.

“just a second—can we get a quick word? you both look—” she hesitates, trying to find the right language. “—unreal.”

suguru stops halfway behind you, not moving his hand from your waist.

“so,” she starts, practically vibrating. “what made you two want to show up together for tonight’s diesel launch?”

“we love a party,” you reply, smiling.

she laughs like it’s charming. follows up with something about your sound, the visuals you’ve been putting out recently. you let suguru answer that one—you’re busy watching the lights bounce off the gloss you left on his cheekbone.

“okay, last one. you probably get this all the time, but—are you two… together?”

suguru grins. “we’re the same person.”

you don’t miss a beat. “worse.”

the interviewer laughs, flustered and delighted. “right. okay. thank you—”

but you’re already sliding into the backseat.

the car door shuts and the world cuts out. no bass, no flashing lights. just dark leather and air conditioning and exhaustion behind your eyes.

you exhale once, sharp, and start leaning forward to unbuckle your shoes.

suguru stops you. “let me.” like it’s obvious.

he pulls your feet into his lap one at a time, slipping the heels off like you’re breakable. his thumb circles your ankle, slow and grounding. your breathing evens out.

outside, cameras flash against the windows, but the tint’s too dark for them to get anything real.

it echoes in your head. are you two together?

“you didn’t say no,” you say softly, eyes closed.

he keeps rubbing. “you didn’t either.”

when you look at him, he’s smiling at you, eyes soft like he’s listening for something unspoken.

you settle deeper into the seat, one hand resting over his.

neither of you has said it.

but he always shows up. always looks at you like you’re the only person in the world speaking his language.

and you do the same.

you’re each other’s. just not in a way you can put in writing.

[ three minutes post-drop ]

the 360 video drops at midnight. it’s trending by 12:03.

the internet does what it always does.

@/bratchive: every brand strategist watching this with tears in their eyes

@/getogirl: brat / tamer dynamic so loud you can hear the leash drag

@/forynonly: legacy is UNDEBATEDDDDD icon behavior

you don’t check your phone, but you feel it—the shift, the buzz, the spin of it all. the world catching up to something you’ve already lived through.

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catcze · 9 months ago

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#MULTI — The excuse he uses to hold your hand wc: 0.7 fluff, teasing, established relationship, hand holding !! — How's he gonna get out of this one?

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

It catches you by surprise— where you had both just been walking along, enjoying the atmosphere, the touch of his fingers weaving between yours is something you hadn't been expecting.

It wasn't unwelcome, though. Far from it.

The tangent you had been rambling on about trails away like leaves in the wind as you blink down at the hand that gasps yours securely. Beside you, he carries on as if there were no such change, even having the gall to raise his eyebrow when he notices you falling silent.

"You were saying?" he asks, as if to prompt you back into your ramble, but you practically bulldoze over his faux nonchalance by squeezing his hand and waving it between you two.

"Oh, look at you, being so forward," you tease, swinging your hands back and forth. "I'm not at all complaining, but, well, I didn't think you'd be so bold."

He huffs at you a bit, eyes narrowed in an expression that you'd dare say is petulant. Maybe even flustered. The first thing out of his mouth is—

"It looked like you wanted to hold hands. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking." He says, gaze not meeting your own, but hand still firmly holding yours. You have to fight back an amused smile.

When you teasingly try to let your hand slip out from his, relaxing your grip, his own immediately tightens. His narrowed, accusatory gaze snaps to yours so fast that for a second you worry he might injure his neck.

"Uh huh, you keep telling yourself that," you tease, sidling up close enough that you can nudge him with your shoulder.

It's cute, you think, how he immediately leans closer to you when you come near. Like he's not even aware he does it, like his body just wants to be closer to you. When he realizes what happened, there's a moment where his eyes widen— then his gaze is trained on the path in front, decidedly not making eye contact. Cute, you think again.

"i like holding hands with you, you know" you tell him tenderly, quietly— a sweet secret just between the two of you. You squeeze his hand and, unhesitatingly, he squeezes back. "I wouldn't mind doing it more often."

And oh, he hopes you don't notice the heat to his cheeks, and the darkening of the tips to his ears. Hopes you don't notice the quirk to the edges of his lips that he just. can't. keep. down. Hopes you don't make out how damn pleased he sounds when he says, "If that's what you want," knowing that it's exactly what he wants, too.

— Scaramouche / Wanderer, Xiao, Cyno, Boothill, Dr. Ratio, Alhaitham

"Why? Am I not allowed to?" Comes his teasing response, making you roll your eyes.

"You know that's not what I meant," you grumble, playfully punching his arm, knowing that you did little to no actual damage. Still, he pretends to wince and rub the area you hit, grimacing.

"No need to get violent," he says, "You're hurting my feelings, love."

"You're awful," you tell him.

"And yet you've still yet to let go of my hand," he reminds you all-too-happily, raising said hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

At the gesture, a tingle runs up your spine and butterflies come to life in your stomach— you wonder if he can hear the frantic pulse in your wrist, if he can see the way you cover up how damn flustered you are with a scowl.

You hate hate hate the way he's turned the tables on you— how he's managed to turn what was supposed to be you teasing him into him turning you into a gooey mess yet again. And yet...

"Oh shut up and keep walking," you say in defeat, not able to look him in the eye. You might just combust on the spot if you do.

He sounds all too pleased as he lets your hands drop between you two, fingers still weaved together, swinging your joint hands easily to the breeze.

There's a smile to his voice when he says— "Whatever you say, beloved."

— Wriothesley, Jing Yuan, Argenti, Childe, Ayato, Kazuha, Lyney

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arrenjo · 3 months ago

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Summary: it’s been a couple of weeks since your rooftop interaction with Robby and the lingering touches have you feeling some type of way, Robby comes to find you to thank you.

Notes: I’m a slut for a slow burn, it makes my little heart happy. Enjoy!!

Back | Next

The lingering touches from Robby had gone from making you feel warm and fuzzy to like lightning bolts on your skin. You hadn’t really talked about the roof, but Robby was a little warmer to you these days. You would find hot coffee at your workstation on the days you worked with him. You also didn’t miss the way he placed both hands on your shoulders as he squeezed by, or gently brushed you as he rounded a corner. You couldn’t help but wonder what his touches would feel like on your bare skin, and sometimes your mind ran with that thought.

So when you were in the clean supply room on a particularly quiet afternoon, folding washcloths to stock rooms with and letting your mind wander, you were completely in your own little world. You didn’t hear the door open or close behind him, and had no idea he was there until he grabbed both of your arms from behind and shouted “Boo!”

“Holy fucking shit!” You jumped and spun to face him. That was the kind of shit Langdon used to do to you, so Robby was not the face you expected when you whirled around, the stack of washcloths now in the floor. Robby was shaking with silent laughter. Your eyes went wide and your face immediately flushed, realizing this was in fact the man that you were just imagining doing unholy things to you.

“Robby, I- uh,” you stumbled, his laughter subsided after a few more seconds, you could feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked, still smiling.

What the fuck why was he so hot?

You nodded, wide eyed and still embarrassed. There was no quick recovery from this and you had no idea how to explain yourself.

It’s just a crush.

“Talk to me,” he urged, his voice immediately softer now that you were struggling to come up with words. He gestured to the counter that was now behind you, swiping the unfolded wash cloths to the end of it so that you had room to sit down. You pushed yourself onto it, still facing him, refusing to meet his gaze. He was standing in front of you, just past the end of your shoes.

You laughed humorlessly.

“I really wish I could come up with a good story right here on the spot, but I feel like Dr. Javadi on her first day.”

Robby tilted his head to the side, not understanding. Victoria Javadi was an innocent med student and her first day was the day of the Pittfest shooting. She had had the hots for Matteo from the first time she laid eyes on him and it was no secret to the nurses around the unit.

“Okay, I’m not sure that I really want to dig into that one,” he said, running a hand through his hair and shoving it back into his hoodie pocket, “But I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

You swallowed and looked up at him, flecks of green and gold in his brown eyes that were soft, full of emotion.

Focus, focus, focus, you told yourself.

“Yeah?” You asked, Robby nodded.

“I never really told you thank you,” he started.

“You did,”

“No, not really. Not genuinely. I needed you that day, and you were there. I’m pretty sure you are the only person that could have gotten through to me. Thank you for doing what you did, to try to help me.”

“What do you mean I’m the only person who could have gotten through to you?” It was a valid question. He was closer to other people in the ED than you. Dana, Jack, they absolutely would have been able to get through to him.

Robby sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I- shit,” he groaned, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing,” He muttered and turned away from you.

“Robby,” you urged, leaning up to tug on the sleeve of his hoodie to bring him closer to you, as he took a step closer, Jack barged in the door of the clean utility room.

“Robby, multi-car accident on-“ He stopped mid sentence when he realized what he had just walked in on.

“Princess owes me twenty bucks.” He said with a smirk, turning to leave.

“No, she doesn’t!” You called back after him, the door closing behind him. A nervous laugh escaped your lips and the heat rose to your cheeks again. You scooted back to the back of the counter in an effort to put more distance between the two of you and pressed your back against the wall. Your eyes locked with Robby’s for a few seconds and that seemed to be all the confirmation he needed as he closed the gap between you, placing himself between your knees. Your knees were on either side of his thighs and his hands came to rest on the top of your knees. Your hands found his, but you both stopped there, afraid to make any more movements. There was nothing overtly sexual about anything you were doing, other than you were probably closer than two coworkers should be, but the feeling of your legs on either side of him and his hands on you shot chills up your spine and turned your stomach into a knot.

“I… don’t know what I’m doing,” He admitted with a shake of his head and giving you a tight lipped smile.

“Sounds like that’s not something you’re used to,” You countered, a smirk tugging up the corners of your mouth, not daring to move a muscle. It was like some kind of fucking fever dream.

“We should go,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words pained. Like it physically hurt him to think about leaving this moment with you. He never broke eye contact. You ached to touch him. Jack and the several other doctors could handle the traumas coming in, but no doubt your presence would be missed and then the rumor mill would start.

“We should,” you agreed, your voice just as soft as his. As if he were waiting on your permission, he placed himself at your side and offered his hand as you slid off of the counter. You took it, and as your feet hit the ground you realized you were standing directly in front of him, inches from each other. He looked down at you and reached to cup your cheek, almost like it was an instinct. The contact took your breath away and you closed your eyes, savoring the quiet moment with him. His thumb trailed gently over your bottom lip and you were, again, still as a statue, not daring to move. The tension in the air was palpable. He slowly dropped his hand from your face and turned to open the door for you.

“Let’s go,” he said, following you out. He placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you through the busy ER, a gesture that was missed by most of your coworkers in the hustle and bustle.

Though “most” didn’t account for Dana, who made direct eye contact with you as you followed Robby out of clean supply. Her eyes widened and she let out a surprised laugh that she quickly tried to cover with a cough.

‘I’ll kill you’ you mouthed across the nurses station.

‘Not a fucking word.’ You threatened with a smile that you just couldn’t hide.

Dana made a zipping lips motion and blew you a kiss with a smirk. You rolled your eyes and turned your head just in time to hide a grin.

#the pitt #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #the pitt fanfiction

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lovemomhatepolice · 4 months ago

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as pretty as a flower - f1 drivers multi!

navigation taglist requests

pairing: f1 drivers x fem!reader

warnings slightly suggestive, English is my second language

belonging: f1 drivers multi!

type: fluff, pure fluff

summary: short stories about how you were gifted with a beautiful flower from your boyfriend

more content: formula 1 masterlist, as a boyfriend - lando norris, latest oscar's one-shot, as a boyfriend - oscar piastri, as a boyfriend - max verstappen, as a boyfriend - charles leclerc

carlos sainz - red camellia [symbolizes: love, passion and admiration]

The Monaco sun bathed the restaurant's terrace in golden light as Carlos leaned against the balustrade, with an undoubted gleam in his eyes. Between his fingers he held a single red camellia whose petals were full and velvety, as rich as the fire that burned within him every time he looked at you.

"This flower signifies deep admiration and love," he muttered, twisting the stem of the freshly picked flower.

You raised an eyebrow, taking the flower from his hands, running your fingers over its red petals. "Is that so? And who exactly do you admire, Señor Sainz?"

Carlos smiled, reaching up to slip the camellia behind your ear gently. "Who else?" - he murmured, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice. "How could I have anyone else in mind when you're by my side, no matter how bad my day is. You're always watching over me, like the most beautiful of angels, and you're just here being yourself."

You immediately felt your cheeks heat up. You had always been proud of how you supported him, but hearing it out loud - knowing that he could see it - made your heart speed up.

Carlos embraced your cheek and his thumb brushed your skin too. "Camellia also means passion, and you drive me crazy every day."

You laughed quietly, leaning under his touch. "You're quite the romantic, aren't you?"

He shrugged his shoulders, drawing you close in a warm kiss. "Just for you, cariño."

—————

alex albon - blue forget-me-not [symbolizes: faithful love & remembrance]

It was a quiet evening, one where the world slowed down enough to make room for gentle words and gentle gestures. Alex sat on the couch, holding a small bouquet of delicate, blue forget-me-nots, their tiny petals creating a sea of soft colors.

You tilted your head in amusement as you entered your living room when you heard Alex call out to you. “Forget-me-nots?”

Alex smiled shyly. “Yes, I thought they were fitting. They symbolize faithful love and memory.”

You carefully took the flowers and smiled at him, sitting down next to him on the couch. “And what exactly are you trying to remind me of?”

He exhaled, leaning back into the pillows. “That no matter where I am—whether I’m halfway around the world at a race or right next to you—I always think of you. Always.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart expand. Just for a while.

"Besides," he added with a crooked smile, "You often forget about a lot of things, so maybe these flowers will work their magic and you'll stop doing that."

You laughed, putting the flowers on the table for a moment to put them in the right vase and leaning against its side.

"You're overreacting," you mumbled, waving your hand. "What am I forgetting?"

"Mm, maybe the cake you put in the oven an hour ago?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow and nodding towards the oven.

At that moment, a smell reached you, maybe not burning, but definitely tending towards it. You quickly got up from the couch and ran to the kitchen.

"Why didn't you remind me?!" you shouted at him, quickly opening the oven and airing it with a cloth.

"Didn't I tell you you'd need them?" he laughed and put the flowers in a vase in the middle of your kitchen table, looking at you with an amused look.

—————

oscar piastri - bluebell [symbolizes humility, gratitude, and everlasting love]

Oscar wasn't the best with words, but when it came to you, he felt everything so intensely that sometimes it scared him. He loved you—not in a fleeting, random way, but in a way that made his chest tighten every time he looked at you.

And that was why, after returning from a long weekend of racing, the first thing he did was place a bouquet of bluebells on your dressing table in your bedroom.

He didn't do things like that often, but you deserved the reminder. Especially when he was away on long trips and couldn't show you his love on a daily basis.

You walked into the bedroom, setting your bag down before your eyes landed on the bouquet. You blinked, smiling to yourself, and walked over to the dressing table. "Oscar?"

You didn't have to wait long, Oscar had been leaning against the door frame from the very beginning, looking at you with that quiet but loving expression on his face. "Yes?"

You turned one of the flowers over in your hands and looked at it, giggling under your breath. “These from you?”

Oscar looked at the flowers, then at you, and snorted under his breath. “Who else would they be from?”

Then he hesitated for a second, before pushing himself away from the door frame, closing the space between you.

“I missed you.”

You swallowed hard, your breathing quickening. It had been a long time since you had been this close, hadn’t felt how much you missed each other. Standing this close, with his unwavering gaze, you could feel every unspoken word between you.

You smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I know. Me too, every single day"

Oscar leaned into your touch, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer to him. You stood in silence because you knew it was worth just as much as the words that had previously fallen from your mouth.

—————

lando norris - sunflower [symbolizes: adoration, loyalty, and positivity]

Lando appeared outside your door with a sunflower almost as tall as he was. "Before you say anything, yes, I did look ridiculous carrying this around."

You stifled a laugh, taking the bright yellow flower from him and letting it fall inside. "Lando, this is huge."

"Just like my love for you," he said dramatically, then smiled. "I'm joking. But not really. No, I'm not joking."

You shook your head, tracing the golden petals of a sunflower. You thought for a long moment about where you could put it, reminding yourself once again how big a flower it was.

Lando quickly came up with a solution, helping you set the sunflower in a vase on the ground so that it wouldn't fall in any direction. Thanks to your efforts, the flower stood still, and Lando confidently and contentedly propped his hips up, looking in your direction.

"They always turn towards the sun, you know? No matter what. A bit like I always look for you - after the races, on the bad days, and even on the good ones."

Instantly, you felt warmth spreading through your chest. "You're soft, Norris."

"Just for you"- He admitted, putting his arm around you and kissing your forehead.

kimi antonelli - daisy [symbolizes innocence, purity, and new beginnings

You rolled over on the blanket on the other side laughing, looking at Kimi, who was forming a delicate bouquet of daisies next to you, trying to put them together in some sort of a bouquet. The two of you were together in the meadow that day, soaking up the last moments before his first season in Formula One.

You raised yourself carefully on your elbows, looking up at him. “Is this for me?”

Kimi, focused on tying the grass around the white little flowers, nodded. “Si”

You took the bouquet from his hand and sniffed them, feeling them gently fill your nostrils. “How lovely.”

Kimi smiled warmly in your direction, brushing back your hair, which fell across your face. “Like you.”

You put the flowers down next to you, moving closer to your boyfriend and stroking his luscious curls, which were particularly unruly today. You saw a blush on his cheeks, which made you burst out laughing quietly, cuddling up to him.

—————

george russell - red tulips [symbolizes true love, passion, and deep commitment]

George always had a knack for making even the simplest of things seem wonderful, so it was no surprise when he showed up with a perfectly arranged bouquet of red tulips before your date. Everything was perfectly coordinated - his suit, his hair, and the flowers that sparkled beautifully in his hand.

You smiled sincerely, accepting the flowers from him as he walked through the door to your apartment. "Red tulips? Let me guess - there's some meaning behind it."

He smirked, ever the gentleman. "Red tulips symbolize a declaration of love. I thought it would be fitting for us." he replied, stepping deeper into your apartment. "You know, a first anniversary is no small feat."

Your heart beat faster as you poured water into the vase, leaving your boyfriend behind. You arranged the flowers nicely on the table and turned to him uncertainly.

"So are you declaring something?"

George took your hand and smiled gallantly, kissing your knuckles. “Haven’t I been declaring that all along?”

You laughed quietly and touched his jaw, stroking it. “Maybe, but I like hearing that.”

George chuckled, pulling you closer. “Then I’ll keep saying it. Every day.”

—————

lewis hamilton - lavender [symbolizes calm, devotion, and protection]

"I'm here!" you shouted, entering your shared apartment after a long day at college.

The last month had overwhelmed you, you spent many long hours there every day, and after returning you had no time for yourself or your boyfriend, who was a rare sight in your home, because he was constantly traveling to races.

The scent of lavender wafted through the air before you saw him. Lewis was standing at the kitchen counter, skillfully arranging a bouquet of delicate purple flowers.

You leaned against the door, looking at him. "Since when did you become a florist?"

He smiled crookedly, not looking up. "Since I realized you needed it."

You took a step forward, snuggling into his warm back.

The scent of lavender filled your nose, and the presence of Lewis, who protected and cared for you, even when you didn't take care of yourself, immediately made you feel like your head was getting lighter.

“I thought it would help you relax.”

Your chest tightened—he was always in tune with you, always knew what you needed before you even asked. “You always take care of me.”

His smile softened as you wrapped yourself even tighter around his back. Lewis touched your hands with his own and gently turned you around, pulling you completely into his arms. He kissed the top of your head and hummed quietly.

“That’s it.”

—————

charles leclerc - lily of the valley [symbolizes sweetness, happiness, and the return of joy]

It was one of those days when you could afford to spend a lot of time in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets and cooking whatever came to mind. You hummed to yourself as you set two plates with the rest of the dishes in your dining room. Despite Charles's playful protests that you should sit down and relax, you still stubbornly wanted to do everything yourself.

The man sat on the couch for a long moment, watching you move around your apartment with agility, and then, as if remembering something, he stood up and disappeared into the other room. When he returned, he was holding a bouquet.

You looked up as he approached you with a full smile and beautiful lilies of the valley. You winked, putting down the spoon you were holding in your hand.

"Charles…"

He smiled widely, hugging you to him with one hand and carefully protecting the bouquet with the other. "Surprise."

You gently touched one of the petals, still standing in his embrace. “They’re beautiful.”

“I’m glad,” he murmured, resting his chin on your head. “Maman helped me.”

You shook your head, amusement glinting in your eyes, but there was something softer underneath—something knowing. Charles didn’t buy flowers just to buy them. He especially didn’t ask his mother for help with something so trivial.

You looked at him, your voice quieter. “Tell me.”

Charles exhaled, his eyes flickering between yours before he finally spoke. “Because I love you.” He ran his thumb over your cheek, his expression impossibly sincere. “And because every time I come home to you, I realize more and more that I never want to live a life without you. You helped me get out of the dark place I found myself in. And I feel like I'm not showing you this enough."

And with his words, there was silence between you. But it wasn't unpleasant, you both knew it and appreciated it more and more. Because in that silence, there was love. Pure love.

max verstappen - white carnation [symbolizes pure love, faithfulness, and good luck]

The apartment in Monaco was dimly lit, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows on the walls. You entered, dropping your bag by the door, exhausted after a long day. But then you noticed it—white carnations resting on your pillow.

You carefully picked it up, its petals fresh and crisp. As if they had just been picked up from a florist. "Max?"

The man appeared next to you in an instant, smiling to himself. He was tired too, you had just returned home from the race, but he had already made sure to welcome you home nicely.

"You left this for me?"

He nodded, grabbing your hips. "Mhm."

A smile appeared on your lips. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Do I need a reason?" he asked, stroking your hips as if seeking solace in it.

Your fingers brushed his, and your eyes crossed, causing an invisible spark between you. "No," you mumbled, "but I still like to know."

Max exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he laughed sincerely. "You put up with a lot," he admitted. "Mostly me."

You smiled pityingly and kissed him sweetly on the lips, feeling him pull you even closer to him. Your apartment was quiet, very quiet, and the only sound was the cars outside the window and the clock that Max couldn't turn off, even though it irritated you so much.

"Oh, you put up with a lot too," you laughed, pulling away from him for a moment. "And now you'll have to put up with me longer."

"I guess I'll survive," he mumbled against your lips, smiling.

—————

oliver bearman - lily [symbolizes devotion, purity, and a gentle, protective love]

When you woke up after a hard night due to illness, your eyes caught sight of a beautiful bouquet of pink lilies standing in a glass of water on your nightstand. They weren't there last night.

It wasn't long before you also felt the gaze and warmth of someone's body behind you - you knew exactly who it was. So you lazily rolled over to the other side, throwing off the tissues that were your only salvation at night and smiled to yourself.

Ollie was lying on the other side of the bed, staring at the muted TV and just like you, he was snuggled up in the sheets. Even at first glance, you didn't notice that he was in your matching pajamas. His hair was still ruffled from sleep and his facial expression was relaxed.

You cleared your throat slightly, trying to regain your voice and at the same time get the boy's attention. "When did you come?"

Ollie glanced at you and nodded. "Four hours ago?" he asked himself and moved closer to you slightly. "You slept for a long time, it's already after 3pm"

You yawned, still waking up. "Sneaking around again, aren't you?"

Ollie smirked, moving closer. "I'm not sneaking around. I'm just…making sure you wake up to something nice. Especially since you supposedly barely slept the whole night before"

She ran a finger over his face, and warmth blossomed in your chest. "You're too good for me, you know that?"

He shrugged, blushing slightly and showing you one of his most beautiful smiles. "Someone has to be."

The moment of silence between you two was broken by your giggles and you slightly pulled away from the boy, looking into his eyes. "Now I'm sad that I'm sick, because I can't smell at all"

—————

franco colapinto - wild rose [symbolizes love, adventure, and untamed beauty]

Your walks with Franco had become a daily occurrence, whenever you had the chance - especially now, when spring was coming with great strides and all life was waking up. The first flowers were blooming and Franco couldn't pass by the wild rose bush indifferently when you walked by it.

"A beautiful rose for a beautiful lady" he said, handing it to you with a smile.

You took it hesitantly, holding back your laughter. A small, pink rose that smelled wonderful and had apparently only recently appeared there in one piece.

"You just stole it" you snorted under your breath, looking at the boy.

He shrugged. "Borrowed. Nature won't mind".

You carefully put it in your bag so as not to destroy it and grabbed Franco's hand, gently nudging him. "You're impossible".

“And yet,” he mused, wrapping his arm around you, “you’re still here.”

You looked at him, rolling your eyes. You let go of his hand and walked forward, trying to hold back the laughter that was escaping your lips. “For now.”

Franco smiled broadly, shaking his head and following you. “Liar!”

—————

arthur leclerc - daffodil [symbolizes new beginnings, hope, and joy]

The apartment still smelled of fresh paint and new furniture. There were boxes lining the walls, some half-open, others untouched. The space wasn't fully yours yet—not until they had time to settle in—but it already felt different. Like the beginning.

You sighed, stretching your arms and looking around. "This still feels unreal."

Arthur, standing at the kitchen counter, smiled wickedly. "I know, but we'll get used to it," he muttered and pulled something out from behind himself, revealing a small bouquet of bright yellow daffodils.

You winked, smiling sincerely at him. They fit perfectly here. "Flowers?"

"For the apartment," he said, stepping closer. "And for you."

You took them carefully in your hands, brushing your fingers over the soft petals. "Daffodils?"

Arthur nodded, his expression unusually sincere. “The lady at the flower shop advised me. A new place, a new beginning. I thought they were a good fit.”

Your heart warmed, and at the same time, you bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re such a sucker.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile never left his face. “Yeah, yeah. Just put them in water before they die.”

You laughed, standing on your tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Our first flowers in our first apartment. I love them.”

Arthur’s hand found your waist, pulling you into a hug. “Good. Because there’ll be more.”

—————

daniel ricciardo - marigold [symbolizes warmth, passion, and unwavering affection]

The door to your apartment slammed loudly, practically making you jump from where you were standing in the kitchen. Then, like a torpedo, Daniel marched in, grinning from ear to ear.

You looked at him, but you weren't very surprised. He used to barge into the house like nothing had happened. And then he was surprised that your heart rate was racing.

Daniel raised his hand, holding a marigold, as if he was handing it over as if it were a trophy, grinning from ear to ear. "For you, love."

You accepted it with a smile, looking at your boyfriend. "What's the occasion?"

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "I thought you should have something bright."

You glanced at the golden petals, then back at him, looking at his beautiful wide smile. "You're already doing it for me."

His smile softened and he tilted his head to the side. His Australian accent was more audible than usual. “Yeah, well. Now you have two of us.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “You’re riddiculous.”

“And you like that.”

You sighed dramatically, placing the flower in the vase where other flowers from Daniel were. “Unfortunately.”

He pulled you closer, brushing his lips against your temple. “Lucky me.”

A/N: please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

a bit longer chapter, because I didn't want to split it into parts. spring blew in, huh? hope you like it <3 feedback always welcomed!

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art-by-jas · 1 month ago

Text

Let Me Show You

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader Chpt.1 (AO3) Tags: Slow Burn, Feelings Realization, Hospital Gala, Flirting, First Kiss, Suggestive Themes, Age Difference, Age Gap, Mentions of Jack/Samira Word Count: 4k Summary: Your mood is sour when your 'situationship' ghosts you, but during the hospital gala, Robby checks in on you. As the night continues, things are confessed, and lines are crossed. A/N: Excuse the poorly photoshopped Noah; I had little time, and I couldn't find any pics of him in a suit that I liked. This is gonna be a multi-chaptered fic so get ready!

You step out onto the balcony and take a moment to breathe deeply, letting the cool, crisp night air embrace your face. It flows through you, washing away the day’s weight as a sigh of relief escapes your lips. You take a seat on the balcony patio chair, looking out at the night sky. Just when you’re lost in the stars, the familiar sound of the sliding door opening behind you breaks the tranquil spell.

Robby walks out onto the balcony and sees you sitting there, gazing at the night sky. He stands next to you and asks in a soft, concerned tone, "Are you okay?"

You look over at Robby, his well-fitted suit hugging his body perfectly and emphasizing his broad shoulders. You realize you've been staring at him for a little too long and quickly recover, clearing your throat before replying, "Yes, I'm fine. Just needed some fresh air."

Robby looks at you, still seeming concerned. He simply nods and asks, "Mind if I join you?"

You look at Robby, feeling a sense of comfort in his presence. "No, not at all," you reply, gesturing for him to take a seat next to you.

Robby sits down next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body just a few inches away from yours. He turns to face you, his gaze fixed on your face as if studying you, trying to read your thoughts.

There's a moment of silence between you, but it doesn't feel awkward. Robby breaks the silence, his voice soft yet firm. "You know, you can talk to me if something's bothering you. I'm a good listener."

You look at Robby and ask, "Aren't you supposed to be Gloria's show pony schmoozing around the gala?"

Robby chuckles at your comment, amused by your bluntness. "Yeah, I guess I am," he replies with a smirk. "But I needed a break from all the small talk and fake smiles." He pauses for a moment before continuing, his expression turning more serious. "Besides, I couldn't just leave you out here by yourself. You looked like you could use some company."

You feel a warmth spread through you at his words, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thanks," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I appreciate that."

Robby smiles at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze shifting back towards the night sky.

Robby turns to you again, his expression softening. "But seriously, are you alright?" he says, his voice filled with genuine concern. "If something is bothering you, you can talk to me. I'm not going anywhere."

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your scattered thoughts as your heart races uncomfortably in your chest. "It's...it's about a guy," you finally blurt out, your cheeks burning hot with embarrassment, eyes fixed firmly on your fidgeting hands.

Robby listens intently, his eyes never leaving your face. He can sense the turmoil inside you, the way your body tenses as you struggle to get the words out. "A guy, huh?" he says, his voice gentle. "What about him?"

"A guy I really like—have liked for months now. He finally noticed me, and we texted all night while he was at work. The… Uh, the texts got spicy, and it was fun. Then it’s as if nothing happened the next day, and it's been eating me up inside."

Robby's expression darkens at your words, his protective instincts kicking in. His jaw tightens. "He made you feel that way and then just acted like it never happened?" he asks. "That's not right. You deserve better than that."

"It just…. It feels like he's playing games," you admit, your voice cracking slightly as a wave of pain washes over you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you continue, "One moment he's all over me—texting constantly—and then the next, he vanishes completely, acts like I don't exist for days." You wrap your arms around yourself. "It hurts. And it's messing with my head. I keep asking myself what I did wrong, if I even meant anything at all."

Robby's expression darkened instantly, eyes narrowing dangerously at the thought of the guy toying with you like this.

"You're brilliant, fun to be around, and one of the most caring souls I've ever known. You shouldn't waste another moment settling for someone who treats you like an afterthought when you should be their entire world." Your heart gives a small flutter at his words.

For a moment, you see a flicker of something in his gaze that you can't quite place. It makes you feel strangely safe.

"You...you think so?" you ask, a hint of hope creeping into your fragile voice.

Robby slowly reaches over and places his hand over yours, his touch warm and soothing. He gives your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, his gaze still locked on your face. "I know so," Robby replies.

You give Robby a small, grateful smile, appreciating his confidence in you. The touch of his hand on yours sends a jolt through your body, causing tingles to race up your arm and down your spine. His gaze is unwavering, locked on yours as if he's searching for something deep within you.

The moment is broken as Jack suddenly slides open the balcony door, barging in. "Hey, man, I need you back on the floor," he says to Robby. "The donors are asking about you."

Robby looks at you with an apologetic expression and reluctantly stands up to go back inside. As you get up to follow him, Jack lingers and turns to you, asking with genuine concern, "Hey, kid, are you okay?"

You pause on your way inside, touched by Jack's concern. "Yeah, I'll be fine," you reassure him, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "I just needed some air."

Jack gives you a gentle smile and nods in response. "Well, if you need anything, I'm always here," he says earnestly. "Now come on, let's get back in there."

You nod and follow Jack back inside, the cold night air replaced by the warmth and noise of the gala. As you enter the room, the scent of expensive perfume and alcohol greets you once more, mingling with the sounds of music and laughter. You scan the room and find Robby engaged in conversation with a group of well-dressed donors, his charming demeanor back in full force. You can't help but feel a pang of longing as you watch him from afar.

As you are lost in thought, Mohan and Santos saunter up to you, their eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hey there, love," Mohan says, a sly grin playing at the corner of her lips.

Santos chimes in, twirling a strand of her hair playfully. "We couldn't help but notice you looking a bit... distracted," she adds, shooting a knowing smirk at you. "You were out there with Robby for quite a while," Santos adds. "What were you two up to, all alone on the balcony in the dark?"

You quickly snap out of your daze and compose yourself. "It was nothing really," you say, feigning indifference. "I just needed some air. Robby came to check on me, that's all."

Mohan understands what you're going through with your situation and says, "We know how it feels," with a sigh. "It's tough when someone plays games with your heart like that."

You genuinely thank the girls for their understanding and give them both a warm hug. Then, with a smirk, you turn to Mohan and tease, "So, speaking of relationships, what's going on between you and Jack?"

Trinity replies, nudging Samira jokingly. "Yeah, Samira, spill the beans. What's going on with you and Dr. Abbot?"

Samira blushes furiously and playfully swats at Trinity. "Nothing is going on, I swear," she insists, though her tone betrays a hint of excitement. "Jack's just a great friend and an even better teacher."

Trinity rolls her eyes, her laughter filling the air. "Oh, I bet he teaches you some things, all right,” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You can't help but burst into laughter at Trinity's comment, the tension from earlier dissipating. "You guys are impossible," you manage to say between giggles.

The girls join in your laughter, continuing to tease and joke around. It's moments like this that make you grateful for their friendship, their easy banter, and unwavering support helping to distract you from your heartache.

The night continues, filled with a whirlwind of activity. You pose for pictures, answer countless questions from curious donors, and chat with various well-dressed guests. Throughout it all, Robby seems to appear by your side every so often, a steady presence that both comforts and confuses you. You find yourself at the bar, watching as the gala slowly starts to wind down.

"Fancy meeting you here," a voice comes from behind you.

You spin around on the barstool and come face-to-face with Robby, his smirk in full force.

"Well, well, look who it is," you reply, feigning surprise. "What brings you here?"

Robby takes a seat beside you, signaling the bartender for a drink. "Just thought I should check in on my favorite resident," he says with a wink, his gaze lingering on yours.

You raise an eyebrow at Robby's words and playfully remind him, "Didn't you tell Langdon earlier that you don't have a favorite anything?"

Robby smiles, caught off guard by your quick recall of his earlier conversation. "Touché," he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But let's just say you're a special exception."

Robby notices the lingering sadness in your eyes, and his expression softens. He leans in closer and asks softly, "That guy still on your mind?"

You're taken aback by his question, not expecting him to bring up the subject so bluntly. You hesitate for a moment, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden shift in conversation.

"Yeah," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Is it that obvious?"

"Some people are just selfish," he finally says. "They thrive on the attention and the thrill of the chase, but the moment something real and meaningful appears, they crumble—utterly incapable of handling anything more than their own desires."

Robby gazes deeply into your eyes, his dark pupils dilating with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. "You don't need a boy who makes you cry," he says firmly, his jaw clenching slightly as undeniable jealousy threaded through his voice, making his words sharper than intended. "You need someone who will make your heart race, who will make you feel good inside and out, who won't leave you hanging afterward."

You try to hide the effect his words were having on you, but the heat in your cheeks gives you away. You look down, feeling a mix of surprise and excitement. "And...and where am I supposed to find someone like that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He raises an eyebrow and gives you a cocky half-smile. "Maybe you don't have to look too far," he teases, his eyes flickering with desire.

Your eyes widen at his words, the heat in your cheeks spreading down to your neck. That smile, the way he looked at you...it was too much.

You try to play it cool, to match his teasing tone. "Oh, really? You got someone in mind?" you ask, your voice slightly shaky.

"Well," he starts, his eyes slowly moving from your eyes to your lips and back again, his voice rough and deep, making you shiver a little. "There's this guy I know. He's smart, funny, and super charming..."

As he continues, you can feel your heart racing in your chest, butterflies dancing in your stomach. You knew he was trying to tease you, but there was something behind his words, something that had you feeling both flustered and excited.

"Sounds like quite the catch," you manage to say, your voice quivering as you try to maintain your composure.

He leans closer to you, his face just inches from yours. His breath is warm on your skin, sending tingles down your spine. He drops his voice to a whisper, the rough edge making him sound almost dangerous.

"I'd say he's definitely a catch," he says, his gaze moving back to your lips. "He'd treat you like a queen."

You swallow hard, your mind racing with thoughts and desires. Robby's proximity is intoxicating, the way he looks at you making your head spin.

You find yourself leaning closer to him, drawn magnetically to his presence, his gaze. It feels like there's an electric current running between you, and you can hardly breathe.

"Is that so?" you manage to say, forcing the words out through the haze of desire clouding your senses.

His smirk widens as he notices your reaction, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you. "Oh, definitely," he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your face. "He'd spoil you rotten."

You're both aware of the invisible line you're dancing on, the one neither of you has crossed...yet. The tension is thick, palpable. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the warmth of his body so close to yours. It's almost unbearable.

Robby leans even closer, his mouth now hovering just above yours. His gaze is so intense that it's almost hard to breathe.

He whispers, "Can I kiss you?"

Your heart is pounding in your chest at an impossible rate, the thrill of the moment consuming you. Your breath hitches as he asks the question. Without thinking, you find yourself nodding, your gaze locked on his.

He leans even closer, the last bit of space between you evaporating as his face inches closer to yours. You feel his stubble graze your chin. His hand comes up to cup your chin as his lips hover just millimeters away from yours. You're both afraid and excited, knowing that once he makes contact, there's no going back.

Finally, his lips meet yours, and it's like a match igniting a flame. The kiss is electric, sending sparks through your entire body. Your fingers instinctively find their way into his hair, grabbing onto him like he's a lifeline. He deepens the kiss, his hand moving to the back of your neck to pull you closer. Your thoughts fade away, replaced by pure sensation, pure desire. You surrender yourself to the moment, to the kiss.

After what feels like an eternity, you both break the kiss, breathless and panting. Your heart is still racing. When you open your eyes, you see Robby's face, still so close to yours, his face fully flushed; it’s endearing and adorable.

Robby is the first to break the silence, his voice deep and slightly breathless. "Wow," he whispers, his gaze still fixed on your face. "That was..." he trails off, his eyes flickering down to your lips.

"Intense," you finish for him, your own voice hoarse. You both share a moment of silence, still trying to regain your composure after the intense kiss.

Robby takes a deep breath, his hand still lingering on your neck, the touch sending little jolts down your spine. His gaze is still intense, his eyes searching yours. "I've been wanting to do that for so long," he admits, his voice so low you almost missed it.

"Really?" you ask softly, an almost involuntary hint of skepticism coloring your voice. Your heart pounds in your chest, the heat of his body against yours overwhelming your senses.

Robby pulls back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he searches your face. He can tell you're doubting his words. A small frown tugs at the corner of his mouth, but instead of irritation, there's a hint of something else in his gaze. A challenge. He presses closer, his body flush against yours, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive grip, fingers digging into your flesh possessively.

"You don't believe me?" He whispers, his voice low and gravelly.

You're momentarily stunned by the intensity of his gaze. You realize you've made him mad, but there's something about it that makes your heart race even faster.

"I...I don't know..." You hesitate, your voice betraying the mixture of desire and fear that courses through you.

"I'm going to make you believe me," he promises, his voice huskier than ever. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll have no doubt left in that pretty little mind of yours just how much I've been dying to get my hands on you."

You're rendered speechless for a moment, a thousand different emotions warring within you. His words, so confident, so possessive, send a shiver down your spine. You want to believe him, but there's still a tiny part of you that doubts. You look into his eyes, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all you find is raw desire.

"I...I don't know what to say," you finally manage to stammer, your voice hardly above a whisper.

Robby's gaze darkens, and a sly smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. He can see the conflicting emotions etched across your face, and it only fuels his desire. He leans in, his mouth hovering just inches from your ear.

Robby's mouth is so close to your ear that you can feel his warm breath against your skin. His voice is deep and seductive as he speaks.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your body. "I'm going to be a gentleman here and tell you to go home right now and not come back to my apartment with me."

You feel a pang of disappointment at his words, but he's not finished.

Robby's grip on your hips tightens slightly, and his body presses even closer to yours. His voice is low and rough with suppressed desire as he continues, "No matter how much I would love to see you squirm underneath me tonight," he whispers, his words sending a jolt of excitement through you. "I plan to take you out on a proper date. Do this the right way."

You find yourself breathless for a moment, the intensity of his words taking you off guard. There's a part of you that wants to protest, to tell him you don't care about going on a proper date, that you just want him now, but the look in his eyes silences any protests you were about to make. He's serious, and a small part of you is touched by his determination to do things the "right way."

Robby pulls back just enough so he can see your face fully. He steps off his stool, his eyes roam over your features, searching for any hint of doubt or hesitation. His grip on your hips relaxes a little, but he doesn't let go.

"Are you okay with that?" He asks, his voice gentler, his gaze a bit more vulnerable. "With me taking you out on a date?"

You can hear the slight uncertainty in his voice, and it takes you by surprise. This whole time, he had been so confident, so possessive, almost commanding. Seeing this hint of vulnerability is endearing, and it makes you realize just how much this means to him.

"Yes," you find yourself saying, your voice just above a whisper. "I'm okay with that."

"Good," he breathes, his voice barely steady. "Because I really want to do this right with you." Robby takes a moment to compose himself, his hand slowly sliding down from your hip to your hand. He looks into your eyes, the desire still there, but tempered with a hint of affection.

"Are you free this Tuesday or Wednesday?" he asks softly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand.

"Uh, I think I can do Tuesday," you manage to say, the words coming out a bit breathy.

Robby's smile widens at your answer, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. "Perfect," he says, his voice filled with satisfaction. "I'll pick you up at 7 then."

"7 it is," you agree, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling inside you.

Robby holds your gaze for a few more moments before reluctantly loosening his grip on your hand. "Alright then," he says, his voice tinged with reluctance. “I should probably say goodnight.”

You smile up at him, a playful glint in your eye. "Yeah, you probably should," you reply, a small part of you secretly hoping he won't actually leave.

Robby chuckles at your response, clearly sensing your conflicted emotions. He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smirk. "You're trying to make this hard for me on purpose, aren't you?" he teases.

You look up at Robby, trying to maintain a sense of composure, but a part of you wants to throw caution to the wind. So you ask, "Can I at least have a goodbye kiss before you go?"

Robby's smirk softens into a genuine smile, his dark eyes sparkling with desire. "Of course," he whispers, his hand coming up to cup your chin. He brushes his thumb gently over your bottom lip, the touch sending a jolt of electricity through you.

Slowly, he leans in, his mouth hovering just a few inches from yours. "But I warn you," he murmurs, "this might not be a simple 'goodbye' kiss."

With that, Robby closes the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a hungry, searing kiss. He pulls you flush against him, one hand sliding down to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading through your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. Robby's tongue brushes against your bottom lip, seeking entry. Without hesitation, you part your lips, allowing his tongue to slide against yours. The kiss becomes more intense, more passionate. He dominates the kiss, his grip on your hip growing tighter as he pulls you impossibly close.

After what feels like an eternity, Robby finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough so he can look down at you. His breathing is ragged, and his gaze is still full of desire, but there's now a tender expression in his eyes.

A smile stretches across his lips as he takes in the sight of you, your face flushed and your lips swollen from the intensity of the kiss.

"I really should go now," he whispers, his voice a low, ragged husk. He gently brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch almost reverent, as if he's committing every detail of you to memory.

"I'll see you Tuesday," he says, giving your hip one more squeeze before reluctantly stepping back, his eyes locked on yours, as if he's fighting every instinct to pull you back into his arms.

"Goodnight," you whisper, your voice a little shaky.

Robby gives you one last, lingering look, his gaze filled with a mix of desire and restraint. "Goodnight," he replies softly, his voice gruff. He takes a step back, still looking at you, as if he's warring with himself to turn and leave. But after a moment, he finally forces himself to turn away, taking a deep, steadying breath as he heads for the exit.

You find yourself sitting there for a moment, in a daze, trying to process what just happened. The feeling of Robby's body against yours still lingers, and the taste of his kiss still lingers on your lip. Finally, you manage to gather your thoughts and your things and head back to your apartment. As you walk back, the cool night air helps clear your head, but it does nothing to dampen the fluttering of your heart. When you arrive home, you set up a bath, ready to relax and scream to your friend over the phone about what happened.

You spend hours on the phone with your friend, talking about every single detail of the night. You both marvel at the events of the night, trying to dissect every little look he gave you. You can still feel the excitement coursing through your veins as you recall everything, and your heart flutters again as you remember the way his lips felt against yours.

Finally, you bid your friend goodnight and get ready for bed to rest up for work tomorrow.

MASTERLIST

Chapter 2

#michael robinavitch smut #michael robinavitch #noah wyle #fanfiction #the pitt #the pit hbo #reader insert #Michael Robinavitch x reader #Michael Robby Robinavitch #Michael Robby Robinavitch x Reader #Dr. Robby #Dr. Robby x Reader #Dr. Robby Imagine #Michael Robinavitch Imagine

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monayen · 7 months ago

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ik it’s early to ask this but can I bother you for mistletoe kiss headcanons when the time is right? including the ratmen please :)

Mistletoe Headcannons

➷ Paring - Multi x GN!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - light biting, light sexual references so not really sfw

a/n - 'pologies that this is a little late :-( meant to get it out exactly on christmas but alas life happens. new phone though! i hope everyone has a happy holidays, this will be my crappy late gift to you

Luther

Luther is so excited about kissing under the mistletoe! He's an unironic hallmark movie fan, so he knows all about the “romantic tradition” It’s picturesque in his mind, pine needle scent candles and a lit fireplace on the screen of the TV

Everything is meticulously placed, along with the mistletoe hanging right above the living room doorway

His silhouette faces yours completely, motioning to the green leaves above you two, “Ah, a mistletoe. You do know the tradition, right? ♡”

A large hand gently cups your face, him taking a step closer. He made sure to look extra dashing (get it?) just for you, adoring how you blush

His touch is feather-light, lips brushing against yours gently as he pulls in. It's exactly like a hallmark movie kiss, the only thing missing being a soft piano playing in the background. But he's sure he can have that arranged for next time

Nyen

Never was a big fan of the holidays, thinks it's too bright and gets tired of the same songs playing over and over again

When you point to the green plant hanging above both of your heads, he scoffs, clearly unimpressed, but doesn’t budge from his spot

“It’s just decoration,” he spits, watching as your lips press into a thin line, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. You turn to walk away, but before you can take a step, a firm hand wraps around your arm, stopping you

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is low, almost quiet, as though he’s asking you to stay, but not sure how to say it

He doesn't have to say anything more though — because lips quickly meet yours, deep and rough as he presses closer to you. He can't help but smirk when he bites your lip just enough to make you wince

Nyon

Enjoys Christmas quite a lot! Maybe more so the winter season, as he's always been accustomed to the cold. Finds a strange sense of peace in the chill of the air and the quiet of the snow. Sounds quite poetic

He’s the first to notice the mistletoe hanging above you two, wide eyes flicking up to it. You notice his demeanor immediately, realizing what hangs above

Nyon’s gaze shifts toward you, meeting yours as you gesture. Without a word, he steps a little closer, but allows you to close the distance. The kiss is brief and gentle, like the soft press of his hand on the small of your back

No words follow the tender moment, but neither of you feels the need for them. After a pause, he pulls a baggie from his pocket — “My plug gave me a holiday discount. I can share?”

Randal

Takes full advantage of a mistletoe. It's almost unbelievable how many sprigs seem to appear where you’d least expect them. but lo and behold…

And every time, he’s under it with you — grinning, nudging you closer, and laughing as he pulls you in, his lips colliding with yours in a messy kiss

He’ll give nonsensical reasons to get you to kiss him, ranging from, “Ho-ho, Santa demands a kiss or the elves will perish. That's what he told me.” to “Actually I’m Santa, you should sit on my lap after this!”

Either way, it doesn't matter what he says beforehand. He’ll always push his body against yours, biting at your lips before shoving his tongue deep down your throat. What a perfect gift you are!

Sebastian

Classic fan of Christmas, likes eggnog and snuggling up in a warm, soft blanket. It’s comforting, looking forward to the same songs, movies, and decorations around the holidays. Of course it's different now, but at least Randal lets up with some of the tormenting for the sake of being on the “nice” list

One thing he does look forward to here is the chance to be under the mistletoe with you. It sounds cheesy, but his heart patters at the idea

It’s adorable how he immediately turns beat red once it really does happen. His god awful ugly Christmas sweater suddenly feels suffocating, and even though he's been looking forward to being romantic, he suddenly can't move to place his lips on yours

Thankfully, you're ever so kind to cup his face and lean in before he can nervously back out. His warmth spreads to you, both of you melting into the kiss. His hand laces into yours, quickly sputtering a “Merry Christmas” once it unfortunately has to break

The Ratmen

It's a terrible mistake to bring up the idea of a mistletoe to the ratmen. They are beyond excited for celebrating Christmas in general, but an actual act where they have an excuse to kiss you? You can see them perk up in real time

You might as well be set up in a kissing booth, because each will demand pressing up against you. They won't ever get tired of it — “Can Christmas be everyday?”

Robert is probably the most normal about it, simply holding at your waist as he leans in for a deep kiss. Micheal is too eager, head tilted mid kiss as he holds his light weight against you. He moans in the middle of it. Ratman 3 is quick with his, and part of you thinks he might prefer the innocence of a peck on the cheek rather than a full kiss. Ratman 4 is gentle enough, but his kiss is almost always cut short by Ratman 5 shoving him out the way. Ratman 5 bites, he just can't help getting too excited

#ranfren #ranfren x reader #luther ranfren #randal ranfren #nyon ranfren #nyen ranfren #sebastian de tomato smith chicken legs #ranfren ratmen #present day problem takeuchi robert #kinder surprised michael jr

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dreamykira · 5 months ago

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One Way or Another I IN-HO x reader

˗ˏˋREQUEST ´ˎ˗

╰┈➤ Hi I hope you're doing well! Can I please request In-ho x female reader where she's a player and he becomes obsessed with her during his time as Young-il? During the rebellion, when Dae-ho fails to bring the ammo, she takes on the role and arrives on time to see In-ho's moment of betrayal. And from there, he decides to just remove her from the game and keep her with himself. It would be all the better if it was angsty with a touch of manipulative In-ho. @androgynous-lady

˗ˏˋWARNINGS ´ˎ˗

╰┈➤ Betrayal, mentions of blood and killing, Dae-Ho has a panic attack. SPOILERS!!!! English is not my first language:)

˗ˏˋAUTHOR'S NOTE ´ˎ˗

╰┈➤ hello again:) im kind of in my writers era or smth cos i have no clue how i've managed to post three fics in three days. i hope i can keep the streak going for longer. ALSOOOO this came out longer than i expected and im kind of inspired to write a part two of what happens when in-ho and reader meet again soooooo..... that means that i might turn this into a multi-part series. thats ofc if you guys like it and are interested in it.

word count: 1465

Pt. 2

The tension in the dormitory was suffocating. The players sat in clusters, whispering among themselves, the weight of what was to come pressing down on them like a storm cloud. Soon, the plan would be set in motion.

But for now, there was still time.

And yet, it didn’t feel like enough.

“Are you sure you have to go?” you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric of Young-il’s sleeve.

He paused, gun in hand, eyes flickering toward you. Then, with a quiet sigh, he reached out and cupped your face, his thumb tracing gently over your cheek. The softness of the gesture felt at odds with the world you were trapped in.

“You know I do,” he said, voice low, steady.

You swallowed. “Then let me come with you.”

A small smile ghosted over his lips, but there was something sad about it. “No,” he said simply.

Your grip tightened. “Why not?”

His hands slid down to your shoulders, his touch warm, grounding. “Because I need you here. I need to know you’re safe.”

Safe.

The word felt meaningless in this place.

You searched his eyes, hoping—praying—for something, anything, that would make this easier. But all you saw was quiet determination.

He was going. And there was nothing you could do to stop him.

Your breath hitched as a lump formed in your throat. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost like he was amused by your doubt. “I will.”

“You don’t know that.”

At that, his expression shifted—something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, before you could react, he leaned in, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to your lips.

The world around you faded. Just for a second.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “I will,” he murmured, “one way or another.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. But before you could dwell on it, he was already stepping away. Already slipping through the door.

And you were left standing there, his words echoing in your mind.

One way or another.

✧˚ · .

Gunfire echoed through the maze-like corridors of the facility as the armed players made their move, pushing forward with relentless desperation. It was chaos.

Hyun-Ju ducked behind cover as bullets whizzed past, her pulse roaring in her ears. “We’re running low on ammo!” she shouted.

“We need more!” someone yelled back. “We can’t hold out like this!”

Dae-ho clenched his jaw, gripping his rifle. “I’ll go get some,” he said.

As he ran through the corridors, the gunfire fading behind him, something dark and suffocating wrapped around his chest.

Memories clawed their way to the surface.

Blood. Screaming. The bodies of people he had once called comrades.

His breath hitched.

✧˚ · .

You had been pacing, anxiety gnawing at your stomach, when Dae-ho stumbled inside.

Something was wrong.

Dae-ho stumbled back into the dormitory, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His hands were shaking, but he forced himself to move.

He scanned the room—most of the players were huddled together, whispering anxiously, too afraid to do anything. The bodies of the dead guards still lay where they had fallen, untouched.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself forward.

His hands trembled as he knelt beside one of the guards, searching through his pockets. He grabbed everything he could find, moving quickly to the next body.

The smell of blood made his stomach churn.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend he wasn’t kneeling among corpses, rummaging through their uniforms like a scavenger.

By the time he was done, he had stuffed as much ammo as he could into a spare jacket he’d found. His fingers tightened around the fabric.

He needed to go back.

He needed to bring this to the others.

But the moment he turned toward the door, something inside him snapped.

A memory. A flash of gunfire. Screams.

His breath hitched.

He couldn’t go back out there.

His grip on the jacket loosened as his feet carried him backward, away from the door, away from the fight.

By the time he reached his bed, he collapsed onto it, curling around the stolen ammo like a child clutching a security blanket. His body shook. His mind screamed.

That was how you found him.

Your heart clenched at the sight.

Slowly, carefully, you approached.

“Dae-ho?” you whispered.

He didn’t look up.

You crouched beside him, your voice softer now. “What happened?”

His breaths were uneven. “I—I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t go back out there.”

Your chest ached.

You placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes flickered toward you, glassy with fear.

You gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before shifting your attention to the jacket in his grasp.

“You did good,” you said. “You got the ammo.”

He swallowed hard, nodding weakly.

You hesitated. Then, carefully, you took the jacket from him. He didn’t resist.

“I’ll take it from here.”

And before he could stop you, you turned and ran.

✧˚ · .

The colourful walls blurred around you as you moved as fast as you could, the weight of the ammo pressing down on you.

You found Player 120, Hyun-Ju, first. She was crouched behind cover, struggling to reload.

“Here!” you gasped, shoving the ammo toward her.

Her eyes widened in relief. “Thank you—”

But you were already moving.

You had to find Young-il.

✧˚ · .

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned the last corner. Then, you saw him.

Young-il stood just ahead, his back turned to you, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. At his feet lay the bodies of two players—the same ones who had left with him.

Your heart lurched.

They were dead.

Your gaze snapped back to Young-il. He was gripping a gun.

“Young-il?” Your voice was shaky as you took a hesitant step forward.

He turned at the sound of your voice. His expression hardened for a fraction of a second, as if he was displeased to see you. Then, just as quickly, his face softened.

“Why are you here?” His voice was sharp, but beneath it, there was something else.

Relief.

Anger.

Panic.

You swallowed thickly. “We were running out of ammo… Dae-ho—he couldn’t do it. I took over.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You shouldn’t have come.”

You frowned. Something about his tone unsettled you. You glanced down at the bodies again, dread curling in your stomach. “What happened to them?”

“They didn’t make it,” he said simply.

You looked up at him again, and for the first time, you truly took him in.

There was something off about him.

The way he stood—too still.

The way he held the gun—too natural.

The way he looked at you—too calculating.

Then, his walkie-talkie crackled to life.

“Young-il?” It was Gi-hun’s voice. “What’s going on? I heard gunshots.”

Young-il lifted the device to his lips, his eyes still locked onto yours.

“It’s over,” he said. His voice was steady, but his grip on the gun tightened. “We’ve been caught.”

Your breath hitched.

Lies.

Your hands curled into fists.

Before you could speak, he changed the channel on the walkie-talkie.

“Start wrapping this up.” His voice was different now. Colder.

The words sent ice through your veins.

Your stomach twisted, dread creeping up your spine as the realisation began to sink in.

This wasn’t Young-il.

Not really.

Not the man you had trusted. Not the man you had cared for. Not the man who you fell in love with.

Your throat felt tight. “Who… who are you?”

There was a long pause.

Then, something in him shifted. The careful mask of concern fell away, revealing something darker beneath.

Something possessive.

Something unyielding.

He took a step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I told you I would come back to you,” he murmured.

Your breath came in shallow gasps.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Guards.

You took a step back, shaking your head.

“No,” you whispered.

Young-il—it was clear that it wasn’t his real name—reached out, gently brushing his fingers against your cheek. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he said softly. “I’m keeping you safe.”

You flinched. “This isn’t—this isn’t right.”

His gaze darkened, but he didn’t move away. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

The guards arrived.

In-ho didn’t even have to give the order out loud. One of them grabbed your arm, and panic surged through you.

“No—wait—” You struggled, and for some odd reason hoped that Young-il would save you.

You turned to him, searching for something—some trace of the man you had thought he was.

He only tilted his head.

“Take her upstairs,” he said.

And as the guards pulled you away, your heart shattered.

to the lovely reader who sent me the request: i hope this met you expectations 💗

#in ho x reader #front man x reader #player 001 #frontman #squid game #squid game fanfic #hwang in ho

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pangaeaseas · 5 months ago

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Magic Is Masculinity: Or, Lucius Malfoy and How the Wand Makes the Man

One thing I'm always interested in thinking about in HP fic is how to realistically create a society with different mores from our own. If you take the premise that pureblood especially and overall wizarding culture more broadly is different from 1990s Muggle British society seriously, you must consider where social norms differ from 90s muggle norms. I personally am interested in the idea that pureblood families tend to live in multi-generational households with extended families rather than in a nuclear family, for instance, though I don't think this was JKR's intention (but who cares it's interesting). You could claim that LGBTQ+ people are more or less accepted than 90s Britain, depending on what you want to do with your story--and you could also consider that the wizarding world might have completely different definitions of sexuality (like, for example, the Roman use of penetrator vs non-penetrator as the main sexual binary). And we know that what is defined as masculinity and femininity varies massively across time and place.

So I want to think about how gender roles might differ in the wizarding world. There was a post I saw recently that discussed the idea of Sirius feeling affirmed in exploring femininity by being seen as feminine by Muggles while wearing robes, which I thought was a really interesting idea (and one that could apply to any character exploring gender). Of course the essential premise there is that something Muggles read as feminine--robes--are actually an essential aspect of Wizarding masculinity (see that guy who likes a nice healthy breeze round his privates in GoF).

So what else defines Wizarding masculinity? We can go absolutely wild! But I think there's a lot of canonical basis for the idea that one essential part of being a wizard and a man is having access to and control over one's own wand. This raises interesting questions about how characters who can't control their wands might be seen as emasculated (like Ron in CoS and Neville pre-HBP), and is also significant with regards to Voldemort's search for a wand that will allow him to fight Harry, and the period when Harry's wand is broken. So I'd love if people did additional analysis on this topic. But I'm going to specifically discuss the case of Lucius Malfoy, because I think he's a very clear example of how you need to have a wand to be a man.

"The faces around him displayed nothing but shock; he might have announced that he wanted to borrow one of their arms. “No volunteers?” said Voldemort. “Let’s see . . . Lucius, I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore.” Lucius Malfoy looked up. His skin appeared yellowish and waxy in the firelight, and his eyes were sunken and shadowed. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “My Lord?” “Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.” “I . . .” Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead, quite as pale as he was, her long blonde hair hanging down her back, but beneath the table her slim fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At her touch, Malfoy put his hand into his robes, withdrew a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it closely. “What is it?” “Elm, my Lord,” whispered Malfoy. “And the core?” “Dragon — dragon heartstring.” “Good,” said Voldemort. He drew out his own wand and compared the lengths. Lucius Malfoy made an involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second, it seemed he expected to receive Voldemort’s wand in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously. “Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?” Some of the throng sniggered. “I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late. . . . What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?” “Nothing — nothing, my Lord!” “Such lies, Lucius . . .” (Chapter 1, DH)

Having a wand is compared to having an arm: it's an essential part of a wizard's body. All the Death Eaters are shocked by the request. (Interestingly, we know of only two confirmed female Death Eaters, Bellatrix and Alecto Carrow. Bellatrix says that she would gladly give up any SONS specifically to the Dark Lord's service in HBP. This might imply that the Death Eaters are intended to be a majority male organization (though I personally like to explore the idea of there being more female Death Eaters) and so these are men specifically being affronted).

Before his wand is taken, it is specifically mentioned that Lucius appears ill--pale and waxen and yellow. Control of the body and good health is often seen as a crucial sign of masculinity. Lucius has lost this--he cannot control his own body--and is about to lose an important signal of his masculinity, his wand.

Voldemort is also treating Lucius as a child who's transgressed: there is 'no reason for him to have a wand anymore'--Voldemort doesn't respect Lucius's right to have a wand, like he's a child who isn't in control of his own decisions. A main throughline of Lucius's treatment since OOTP is Voldemort's interest in punishing him. This involves reducing him to a child to be ordered around, who can't be trusted with a wand. He treats Lucius as someone deeply beholden to him: Lucius having a wand and having liberty are dependent on Voldemort, instead of characteristics of an adult man with social authority. Voldemort is the patriarch of the Death Eater family.

Voldemort seems to enjoy humiliating him in front of the other Death Eaters: he could have asked him nicely as an equal in private, but he makes a spectacle of it, asking for volunteers he knows won't be appearing, only to single out Lucius and then mock any pretensions he might have to exchanging wands, then intimidating and terrifying him by questioning his loyalty (and the loyalty of his family, which thus insults Lucius's ability as a patriarch). The wand length comparison also serves no real purpose but to emasculate Lucius.

Immediately after taking the wand, Vodlemort also brings up Tonks's marriage to Remus to insult Lucius, Narcissa, and Bellatrix--another insult to Lucius's abilities as a patriarch as he cannot stop his family members from shaming the family through marriage choices. Again, it is delberate that Voldemort does this so soon after taking Lucius's wand. Now that Lucius is wandless, his masculine authority can be questioned.

Lucius clearly wants later to reclaim this lost authority --and implicitly his sense of his own masculinity.

When the Trio is captured, Lucius is extremely excited. He appears to be motivated by a desire to lessen his punishment (which involved Voldemort taking his wand, and said wand being destroyed by Harry):

"Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited. “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv —” “Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly." (DH)

Greyback says 'Mr. Malfoy' in a menacing way: it seems to be belittling him, reminding him that he doesn't actually have that much power in this scene compared to Greyback, who actually captured them by his own efforts compared to Lucius passively waiting for something to improve his situation. Greyback may be saying 'Mr. Malfoy' to say: all you have is your social position, compared to me--you might have the title of 'mr' but you don't have a wand and you don't have the power to act, so I am more masculine and can threaten you.

It's also really interesting how Narcissa is directing Lucius and Draco in this scene: she greets Greyback and brings him in, she refers to Draco as her son only, she is the first one to instruct Draco to examine them. Malfoy Manor might be Lucius's home, it has his name, but Narcissa appears to act as patriarch in this scene: it's her home, her son, she is greeting visitors and taking command, and she is the one to say 'we need to be sure and shouldn't immediately summon Voldemort' and the one to identify Hermione. This might be the typical Malfoy family dynamic, it might be because Narcissa is the one who still has a wand.

Then Bellatrix comes in, and she orders both Lucius and Narcissa around. She also asks Narcissa what happened, treating her as the leader of the family. Now Bellatrix has always hated Lucius, they certainly didn't seem to get along well during the DoM battle. But here she's just contemptuous of him, and provides key evidence for my wand-equals-masculinity theory.

"“I was about to call him!” said Lucius, and his hand actually closed upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark. “I shall summon him, Bella, Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority —” “Your authority!” she sneered, attempting to wrench her hand from his grasp. “You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!” “This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy —” " (DH)

Lucius lost his authority when he lost his wand. He is no longer the patriarch, the master of the house, specifically because he does not have a wand: Bellatrix then goes on to order Draco around, which Narcissa protests because it's 'her house': a striking contrast to Voldemort calling it Lucius's house in the first chapter, before he took the wand, and to Lucius trying to call it his house. While Lucius has a wand it's his house, but when his is taken it become's Narcissa's (though of course she is talking to her sister about herself, so you don't necessarily have to read that much into it). Interestingly, Bellatrix doesn't give orders to Lucius: maybe because she just doesn't like or trust him but maybe because he doesn't have a wand and is thus useless.

The whole concept of authority in HP--and Lucius, owner of Malfoy Manor, husband and father, has specifically patriarchal authority as Head of his family--is linked to having a wand. Lucius seems to have expected to be able to exercise some control over Bellatrix as a fellow Death Eater and as his sister-in-law who appears to be living with him, but she rejects this possibility by saying he can't control her as a male patriarch might because he doesn't have a wand. Thus he is failing to meet the requirements of being a patriarch in wizarding society. Bellatrix can do whatever she wants in his house, and he has no way of stopping her. She seems to have replaced him as patriarch of the Malfoy family.

The linkage of masculinity with authority with having a wand is made extremely clear through Bellatrix's line. By taking Lucius's wand, Voldemort removed the last semblance of authority and masculinity he had, to humiliate and emasculate him for losing the diary and the prophecy (and I think the broader narrative is doing this to Lucius at least a little as well, he becomes more pathetic and pitiable, because in JKR's view of gender pity is for women).

Later, Lucius's role as a Death Eater has clearly been reduced: Voldemort dismisses his suggestions around the Battle of Hogwarts as only being concerned for his son, and assigns him the menial task of fetching Snape. He has been reduced from advisor to fetch-and-carrier. Lucius's last appearance on page is NOT fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts, appearing only concerned with his son (and JKR often associates concern with a child only over any other concerns with maternity and femininity, but that's another post).

In working on this meta I also had a lot of thoughts about warrior masculinity through martial magic in the Wizarding World, and the idea of a Death Eater specific masculine warrior ideal, but that's another post LMAO. I hope this has been helpful in imagining how magic might affect gender roles!

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julietsf1 · 5 months ago

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Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

----------------------------------------------

The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not.

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed.

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror. “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk.

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

#kenan yıldız #kenan yildiz #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yıldız oneshot #kenan yıldız x reader #kenan yıldız fanfic #kenan yildiz oneshot

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fayes-fics · 2 days ago

Text

Maid For Pleasure: The Agreement

Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Prelude fic. Two gentlemen, one housemaid, and an unusual document mark the beginning of a new adventure...

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI. Reference to sexual situations, explicit acts, pregnancy and periods. Power imbalance (housemaid!reader), period-typical attitudes. No use of "y/n".

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Here we go... This started as an idea for a free-use Kinktober drabble that went waaaay off the rails. It's now planned as a multi-part series; this is the prelude, which sets the scene. Fics will be posted in the order they are written, which will differ from the chronological order of the story. Endless thanks to my amazing, patient beta @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

The paper feels expensive - a crisp, heavy, ivory parchment - as it is passed into your hands.

“I find a confidential agreement to be most prudent for any manner of arrangements,” Viscount Anthony Bridgerton intones. “Mr Patter here is the model of discretion and will witness all of our signatures today.”

He gestures to a genial-looking elderly gentleman sitting in a nearby chair, dressed formally, with a leather folio case resting in his lap; the avuncular air he exudes makes you feel at ease.

“I must say, Miss,” Mr Patter pipes up, addressing you, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, “I have never heard of any gentleman drawing up a document such as this, especially for a staff member. Most use their staff with little to no regard. One should consider oneself extremely fortunate to be in the employ of such a generous, considerate man.”

You nod modestly in response, already sensing how lucky you are.

You entered the employment of the Bridgerton family a mere three weeks ago. A friend of your mother's had been the cook at Aubrey Hall for the best part of thirty years, well-treated and well-paid before her retirement. When you turned twenty without a marriage proposal, she recommended you for the open position there as a housemaid, and you secured it easily with her glowing reference.

It was only on your fourth day at the beautiful estate that you first set eyes on your employer, the Viscount, and his slightly younger brother, as they swept in, both so handsome that you quite lost your breath. You had assumed their portraits, hanging in the hallway, to be flattery by an obsequious artist, but now you think those likenesses may even be somewhat lacking.

Having had relations with local boys you grew up around, lost your innocence behind the wall of the churchyard, in fact, you knew well enough what the tingle between your legs signified—pure physical desire. And indeed, both of the men’s regard for you was instantly heated, laden. A tingle all over your skin with want: to have them both. To experience anything and everything these worldly men might teach you, no doubt well beyond what any of the local boys could ever offer. You suspect there are realms yet undiscovered that these gentlemen could guide you through.

Then, just yesterday, circumstances conspired so that you found yourself alone with the Viscount in the drawing room, his mother and most siblings having returned to Bridgerton House in London that morning, leaving only he and Benedict behind. It was as if he could scent your desire, for he crowded into you, taking a deep, lewd inhale before asking if you would be willing to provide services beyond those of a maid for him and his brother Benedict, services of an intimate nature. You almost tripped over yourself with excitement to consent. His victorious smile had your insides molten. However, you were confused when, instead of touching you or taking you right then and there, he merely nodded and withdrew, declaring that he would make arrangements.

And so here you are. Summoned into Anthony’s study on an early summer’s afternoon, he sat behind his desk with Benedict casually off to his side, shooting you a crooked smile when you had meekly entered.

“You can read, yes?” Anthony checks belatedly as you look down at the papers he handed you.

“I can,” you confirm, suddenly so grateful for your grandmother's insistence that you learn as such, in spite of your lower social standing.

“Then please read. Take your time,” Anthony assures. “If everything is to your satisfaction, we shall all sign. If you have any questions or need help understanding any of the contents, we will be happy to assist. Or if you have any requested changes, we will ensure those are annotated with Mr Patter here as witness.”

You take a deep breath, then begin to peruse the paperwork, which may well be the oddest, perhaps the only, document you will ever sign. The matter-of-fact, business-like arrangement is so at odds with the subject matter at hand, but somehow you are inordinately grateful for such ceremony. Especially when you read specific clauses that secure a future for you, should the perhaps inevitable happen.

Anthony’s elegant, looped handwriting is scrawled large across the page, a flutter behind your ribs as you slowly take on board everything he has written down.

+++++

This agreement is strictly secret and confidential. Its content, existence, and the identity of those involved shall be known only to the parties concerned and the witness to its signing, the latter also being responsible for its safekeeping.

Party A, hereafter known as Doe, willingly and knowingly enters into the following arrangement with Parties B & C, hereafter known as Bucks.

Doe hereby agrees to the following:

Doe will not have sexual contact with any other person for the duration of this agreement.

Doe will be available for sexual activity with and/or penetration by Bucks at any time. This may include both Bucks at the same time.

Doe will not expect or request any preparatory activity or preludes for sexual activity, including (but not limited to) kissing and embracing.

Doe permits full, unfettered use of her entire body by Bucks at any time, including while she is asleep. Doe permits any part of Bucks’ bodies to be inserted into any part of her body. She also permits Bucks to insert inanimate objects into any part of her body.

Doe will follow any and all orders given by Bucks. Doe may experience physical discipline and the infliction of temporary pain. Doe may invoke the word ‘red’ to cease any activities that inflict a level of pain she cannot bear.

Doe will participate in any of the above activities in any environment, including (but not limited to) public settings and in front of other people. Said people will not be permitted to touch Doe.

Doe will not wear any undergarments at any time while Bucks are in residence, or anything else that restricts their prompt and easy access to her nether region.

Doe will sleep naked at all times while Bucks are in residence.

Doe will keep her nether region readied for use at all times, via oils or other such lubricating substances, including when asleep, while Bucks are in residence.

Doe may refuse Bucks only under the following specific circumstances. No other reason for refusal is permitted: Doe is sick or injured. OR Doe is on her courses, evidence of which will be provided. OR Doe is heavy with child (within 3 months of expected delivery).

Bucks hereby agree to the following:

Bucks will abide by Doe’s refusal if her reason is specified in the list above (see clause above). Bucks would like it noted Doe’s courses or her being heavy with child does not preclude their interest in sexual activity, should Doe be amenable to such.

Bucks will not deposit their seed in a manner intended to cause Doe to become with child. However, should this happen unintentionally, Bucks will be bound by the clauses below regarding medical care and provisions for any resulting offspring.

Bucks may discipline and inflict temporary pain upon Doe, but will not undertake activity with the intention of permanent scarring.

Bucks will only insert inanimate objects into Doe that are clean and can fit into where they are being inserted without causing injury or lasting distress.

Bucks will cease all activity they are undertaking if Doe invokes the term ‘red’.

Bucks may choose to inform other household staff of this arrangement, but only to the extent necessary to ensure activities can take place uninterrupted and without knowledge of Bucks' mother, siblings and extended family.

Bucks will provide the best staff bedroom within their household(s) for Doe to be its sole inhabitant. Bucks may enter said bedroom(s) at any time.

Bucks will provide and pay for all clothing suitable for Doe's standing and/or employment.

Bucks will provide all necessary transportation for Doe should they wish to engage her outside of her principal place of residence/employment, that being their country home.

Bucks will provide and pay for all medical attention for Doe, above and beyond that which is provided to the usual household staff, including in any cases of discomfort, distress, anguish, sickness, injury and pregnancy.

Bucks will provide for any offspring born of Doe that are conceived as a result of their actions. This includes (but is not limited to) a suitably sized dwelling in the local area to be kept in ongoing good condition for Doe for the perpetuity of her existence, plus an immediate £1,000 per birthed offspring for all future food, clothing, healthcare and education. Bucks will not publicly acknowledge offspring as their own but retain visitation rights as/if they wish. Offspring will not bear Bucks last name or be eligible to otherwise inherit from their estates.

All parties hereby also agree to the following:

Maintain a suitable level of personal hygiene and grooming, including regular bathing, trimming of nails and body hair, particularly in intimate areas.

Keep this arrangement strictly confidential from Bucks' mother, siblings and extended family.

This agreement becomes instantly null and void should any of the following occur:

One or both Bucks become betrothed. If this occurs, a new arrangement may be negotiated between any interested parties, including the Buck(s) betrothed.

Any other member of Bucks’ family is informed of or becomes aware of this arrangement.

Doe leaves the employment of Bucks’ household.

Doe becomes infected with any pox or incurable disease that could be passed to Bucks.

Any party may request a meeting with all other parties and the witness to this agreement to resolve any disputes that may arise, including any non-compliance with the clauses above.

Any party may terminate this agreement at any time, for any reason, by written notification to the other parties and the witness. All other parties must adhere to the termination of the contract without question or reprisal.

Signed by:

_____________

Party A (Doe)

_____________

Party B (Buck #1)

_____________

Party C (Buck #2)

Witnessed by:

_____________

William Patter Esq, Patter & Sons, Canterbury, Kent, England

On _____________ (date)

+++++

“I understand all of the content. I have no questions or requested changes,” you confess quietly, knowing you are flushed, trying to tamp down your need to squirm, your clit pulsing softly, aroused merely by the words upon the page, let alone what they could signify.

Both men look extraordinarily pleased, their faces lighting up as you take the proffered quill and scratch your signature above the line for Doe, the first thing you have ever signed.

The men then move in and sign; Anthony as Buck #1, and Benedict as Buck #2. All of your signatures are vague enough that no identifying names can be easily determined at first glance.

Anthony hands the paperwork to Mr Patter, who signs as the witness before sealing the document in his folio and, rather quickly, makes his excuses, heading out the door to his awaiting carriage…

… Leaving you all alone with two gorgeous men that you have just promised your body to—belly afire, pussy drenched.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Anthony & Benedict taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282

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cvnntagious · 7 months ago

Note

fb!matt getting flirted with by another girl and he entertains it but then realises he has you

standing beside his brother as he handed out little baggies of white powder to feining college students, matt paid no mind to the party as he scrolled his phone, red solo cup in one hand. the bustling of party-goers and flashing lights surrounding him had faded as he became focused on the mobile game he'd deemed more important.

"excuse me," he suddenly heard from in front of him, causing his eyes to flick up from the multi-colored blocks on his screen, "is your name matthew?" a pretty girl asked, dressed in fishnets with a miniskirt and tight top that barely covered her breasts as she flicked her long black hair over her shoulder.

he nodded, unamused expression unwavering. "matt," he corrected, lifting his hand to gesture a thumb behind him, "chris is the one with the drugs, if that-"

her hand covered his, pushing it down slowly as he shook her head with a smug little smirk splayed across her dark, glossy lips. "i don't want any of those drugs," she stopped him from further wasting his breath, voice a little lower now, "i heard you have one of your own that you're keeping from me though, and- well, i'm lookin' to get my fix."

matt immediately got the hint, a small smirk tugging at his parted lips before he let out an exasperated breath, looking the shorter girl over as he found himself crossing his arms at her. "yeah?" he asked, a chuckle that exuded confidence leaving his mouth, "and where'd y'hear that?"

"a friend—she said what you got won't do anything less than rock my world," she replied instantly, a flirty giggle falling past her pearly whites and eyelashes batting as she looked up at him. "just wanna see if it's true or not..." she then added, stepping in close to him so she could run her sharp, manicured nails up his tattooed arm.

matt's eyes followed her fingers, tongue jutting out to wet his pink lips so he could hold back the leer that threatened to creep onto his face. "mhm." and just as his mouth opened to voice the complacent reply that had popped into his mind, the memory of you having texted him earlier about not being able to make it to chris' party canceled it out, making him realize he'd forgotten to text you back. "shit," he muttered, any sign of interest in the absolutely stunning girl that was so clearly throwing herself at him completely dropping in his body language.

she quickly noticed the change in his demeanor, confusion replacing the flirtatious expression she once had. "what?"

a sigh was all she heard before she watched him roll his eyes at her seemingly out of nowhere. he pulled his arm from her touch, a sudden annoyance, and maybe even disgust apparent on his sharp features. "i got a girl," he then replied bluntly, a brow raising as if to say 'so get to movin'

the scoff of disbelief that left came from the girl in front of him made matt roll his eyes again. "you have a girlfriend?" she questioned, as if there was absolutely no way that could possibly be true.

"she's not my girlfriend, but uh... y'know," he countered, a smooth shrug as a cocky smile creeped on his face at the thought of having you wrapped around his finger, "i got 'er."

"yeah right. and you suddenly remembered you had her after you seemed all interested before?" another scoff, further proving she didn't believe him, "some boyfriend you are."

"where'd you say y'heard about me again?" he then asked, face dropping to one of disinterest as he looked over her again, no longer so impressed by her looks.

"my friend?"

"yeah," he chuckled lowly, finding her persistence the slightest bit amusing, "some friend you are." with that, his eyes fell back to his phone, swiping out of the game on it as he now ignored the girl before him, standing there for a moment in shock.

#cvntagious #love grandma cvnty .ᐟ #✎ ꒰ rory's inbox ᝰ.ᐟ ꒱#↳ anon .ᐟ ‧₊#★ ⋮ fuckboy!matt #★ ⋮ astute!reader #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo au #matthew sturniolo au #matt sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo fanfic

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d1onysusw1n3 · 10 hours ago

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Treasure - Bruce Wayne X Fem!POCReader

[love]

/ləv/

noun

• an intense feeling of deep affection.

Life is unfair. Everyone knows that.

Everyone has felt the sting—the cruel, indifferent ways the universe can snatch the ground right out from under your feet just when you thought you were standing steady.

It doesn’t matter how safe, how secure, how perfectly planned your life seems—chaos always finds a way to seep in.

Right when you think everything is normal, predictable, maybe even finally okay… it all goes to shit.

Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne knows that lesson better than most.

If you asked someone to describe Bruce Wayne, they’d probably toss out the usual headlines: playboy, billionaire, the charming face of Gotham’s elite.

Maybe they’d mention that subtle darkness behind his smile, the kind of allure that feels like a warning.

And if you asked about Batman, the descriptions would change—brooding, relentless, fiercely self-reliant. A man who keeps the world at arm’s length, always one step ahead but never truly present.

For a long time, Bruce kept that dual life in perfect balance. The image of the careless billionaire remained intact, polished and untouchable.

That is… until he met you.

It was trial and error.

Bruce Wayne needed a new assistant.

His last one, well—she couldn’t keep up. The tight, unrelenting schedule, the whirlwind of meetings, the unpredictable demands of both the Wayne Enterprises board and Bruce’s private life—it chewed her up and spit her out.

Burnt out and overwhelmed, she walked out with more stress lines than when she started.

Bruce could at least admit it—he wasn’t exactly easy to work with.

He was stubborn. Demanding. Meticulous to the point of obsession. And, as some would say, just a bit full of himself.

After the last interview that morning, he was ready to give up for the day.

The woman had sat across from him, talking a mile a minute about how she was so perfect for the job, how no one was more qualified, how her time management skills were unmatched—yet she fumbled the second he asked about multi-department coordination.

He was halfway to closing the file when you walked in.

And everything… shifted.

You walked into that office with the kind of calm confidence that couldn’t be faked.

Like you belonged there—like you already knew you had the job before even shaking his hand.

Your silky, smooth loose coils bounced gently as you moved, cascading past your waist and stopping right at the round of your ass, a natural frame for your grace.

Your eyes—deep, dark chocolate—sparkled under the soft light filtering through the window, catching just right as you tilted your head.

And your skin… a flawless shade of rich ebony, kissed with caramel undertones. Warm. Radiant. Ethereal.

It wasn’t just beauty.

You were elegance made tangible.

“Hi, I’m Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne,” you said, stepping forward and extending your hand with perfect formality.

Your voice…

God, your voice.

It was velvet and fire.

Smooth like silk, yet deep, husky, and laced with something ancient—soul.

It rolled from your throat like a blues song whispered at midnight, and for a moment, Bruce forgot what words were.

He took your hand in his, offered a firm but respectful squeeze. The moment his skin touched yours, it hit him like a bolt—an electric current crackling straight down his spine.

He’d shaken hands with CEOs, politicians, and masked vigilantes.

But this—you—was different.

Bruce had been with many women before. Models. Heiresses. Women with headlines for names.

But what stood before him wasn’t just a woman.

You were the woman.

You had presence.

The way you walked, shoulders back, chin lifted slightly.

The way you held his gaze—direct, unwavering, respectful, but unafraid.

It was like your confidence wrapped around you like a second skin. Not boastful. Just… lived-in.

“Please,” he said, lips twitching into a rare, amused smirk. “Call me Bruce.”

He gestured for you to take a seat across from him, voice smoothing into that low timbre of professionalism.

“Let’s go over your schedule, our procedures, and what you see as your key strengths.”

As you began to speak, outlining your qualifications, past experience, your ability to organize chaos into efficiency—Bruce listened. Or, at least, he tried.

The truth? He’d already made up his mind the moment you walked in.

You could’ve said nothing and still had the job.

That pencil skirt hugged your hips just right. The black mesh blouse showed the faintest tease of skin while still looking perfectly professional.

Your glasses—thick, black, square-framed—rested comfortably on your face, making your soft freckles stand out even more.

But it wasn’t just how you looked.

It was how you carried yourself.

Beautiful, yes.

But also grounded.

Confident without arrogance.

Sweet, but not syrupy.

Warmth radiated from you, a kindness you didn’t try to weaponize.

And beneath it all… a fire.

Not loud or flashy.

But steady. Undeniable.

He could see it in your eyes—you had passion. Drive. And something in you told him that when the world tried to burn you out… you’d burn brighter instead.

You were exactly what he needed.

When you finished your pitch, you sat back—calm, poised, waiting.

Bruce said nothing at first, just studied your face with those impossibly intense blue eyes, like he was cataloguing every line, every freckle, every breath you took.

Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted into something warm.

Something real.

A smile that came from deep inside.

“You’re hired,” he declared.

Your heart soared—no, launched—into the sky.

Your breath caught. Your chest lifted.

And then the smile happened.

Unstoppable. Bright.

A breathless kind of joy spread across your face, and those dimples—so rarely seen, so deeply yours—carved into your cheeks like proof that maybe, just maybe, something in your life was finally falling into place.

Bruce had a good feeling about you.

A very good feeling.

And he still remembers the night you found out the truth.

That he was Batman.

You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t panicked.

You didn’t beg him to stop or demand he retire.

You just… worried.

For him.

He still sees you now as you were that night—

The balcony door wide open.

The moonlight spilling across your living room floor.

And Bruce, bleeding and bruised, leaning heavily on your railing like a man with nowhere else to go.

He couldn’t go home.

Not with Alfred hovering, forcing him to rest, to heal.

But he knew you would understand.

You wouldn’t judge.

You wouldn’t ask him to be anything other than what he was.

You didn’t try to fix him.

You just opened your door.

And that… was enough.

It was a rainy night—cold, musky, the kind of Gotham rain that soaked into the bones of the city.

The sky was a slate gray smear, the clouds heavy with melancholy, but somehow the rain made everything feel cleaner.

Like the sky was trying—if only for a moment—to wash the dirt and rot off this bruised, gasping city.

Inside your apartment, it was warm and quiet.

You wore a silk gown that clung to your curves like it missed you when you weren’t wearing it. The dim glow from the kitchen lights shimmered off your skin as you stood barefoot, microwaving a mug of hot cocoa.

Paperwork was spread out across your coffee table in a messy but organized sprawl, a clear sign of someone juggling too much with practiced grace.

You sat on the floor, one leg tucked beneath the other, brows knit in fierce concentration as you chewed absently on the end of your pen.

The soft, nostalgic murmur of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air played in the background—comfort noise from childhood that always made the air feel more like home. The theme song alone could pull a smile from you on even your most tired nights.

You were deep in thought when you heard it.

A knock.

Light, almost too soft to catch.

But it was there—tapping against the glass.

Your heart paused mid-beat.

You stilled.

Fifth floor.

Who the hell would be knocking on a window five stories up?

You told yourself it was nothing—your rational mind offering a dozen explanations.

Wind. A loose shutter. Maybe a bird.

But then you heard it again.

Sharper.

Insistent.

You stood slowly, your silk gown rustling around your legs as you padded barefoot to the window.

You peeled back the curtain—

—and your heart flipped.

There he was.

Bruce.

Bloodied. Drenched. Slouched on your fire escape like a dying shadow.

His cowl was off, tossed somewhere near his feet. His face was pale, smeared with grime and blood, one eye already swelling. His body looked like it could collapse any second.

And yet—your heart fluttered.

Like a teenager sneaking in her forbidden lover through the bedroom window.

God, this man had you twisted.

You didn’t hesitate.

You threw the window open and helped him inside.

Bruce tried to stand on his own, ever the stubborn bastard, but his knees buckled beneath him. Without a word, you threw his heavy arm over your shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him across the room to the kitchen table.

“Sit,” you ordered gently but firmly, guiding him into a chair.

You grabbed your first aid kit—kept stocked because of him—and began patching him up like second nature.

“You’re reckless,” you muttered, threading a needle with precision, “and stupid for not seeing Alfred.”

Bruce didn’t argue. He just grunted.

He winced sharply as the needle pierced skin, and you didn’t flinch—just kept stitching the deep gash along his upper abdomen with practiced care.

Your touch was efficient, but still gentle. He watched the way your brows furrowed when you concentrated, the way your bottom lip tucked between your teeth.

His abs clenched as the needle worked through him, and he bit down hard on a groan.

At one point, he tried to get up, muttering something about needing to go back out, but you pressed your palm flat to his chest and pushed him back into the chair.

“Sit down, you big baby,” you smirked, not even looking up.

“It hurts. And I have to get back out—” he growled, frustrated.

“No.”

Your tone left no room for negotiation.

“Alfred would’ve benched you for the night, and guess what? I’m doing the same. You’re not leaving this apartment until you’ve had a hot meal and at least six hours of sleep. That’s non-negotiable, Mr. Wayne.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, the sound rough and rich like aged whiskey.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He watched you in silence as you cleaned the blood off his knuckles. His eyes followed your movements like they were a lifeline.

“So…” you said finally, not looking up. “Bruce Wayne is Batman. Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“No one ever does,” he murmured, almost amused.

Then came the silence.

That thick, heavy, magnetic silence.

The kind where the air shifts and you know something’s about to happen.

You looked up, your eyes catching his—and froze.

The look on his face made your breath catch.

“What?” you asked softly, blinking.

He was staring at you like you were the only thing holding him to this world.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bruce whispered.

His voice was low—barely audible—but the weight of it hit you like a freight train.

A slow, teasing smile played at your lips.

“Are you trying to flirt with me, Mr. Wayne?”

“If it’s working… then yes.”

His hand reached up, fingers brushing a curl behind your ear. His thumb dragged down your jaw, slow and reverent, until it hovered over your bottom lip.

You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten.

You were standing between his legs as he now sat on the kitchen table, your silk gown brushing his knees.

You weren’t dainty—about 5’7, strong and toned from years of gymnastics and boxing—but next to Bruce’s broad frame, you felt impossibly delicate.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone with aching softness.

Then he leaned in.

And you met him halfway.

Most people describe a kiss like lightning.

But this?

This was like honey.

Warm. Slow. Sweet.

It melted through you, kissed the stress out of your bones, and whispered promises into your skin.

You tasted like chamomile tea and mint.

He tasted like rain and salt and something that felt like home.

When you finally pulled back, Bruce’s eyes were wide—like he’d just realized what he’d done.

His mouth opened, an apology already forming.

But then you leaned in again.

And kissed him.

Harder.

Deeper.

You saw him.

Not the billionaire. Not the vigilante.

You saw the man.

You’d seen him bruised and bleeding.

Exhausted. Enraged.

You’d seen him vulnerable. Human. Real.

And you stayed.

When he bit your lip and deepened the kiss, it felt like sealing something—something unspoken and inevitable.

When he pulled back, he didn’t let go. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours.

Then his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs.

“Jump,” he murmured.

And you did.

He lifted you with ease and carried you to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

—

You expected him to be gone by morning.

You wouldn’t have blamed him.

After a night like that—so raw, so intimate—most people would run. Especially someone like Bruce, who built walls instead of homes.

Your bed was empty when you woke.

But your heart… was full.

You smiled to yourself, stretching lazily as you pulled on a big, oversized T-shirt.

You were about to crawl back under the covers when something hit you.

The smell.

Sweet.

Warm.

Homey.

You padded barefoot down the hallway and paused at the sight in your kitchen.

Bruce.

Wearing your grey joggers—that were slightly too big but perfect in him, sat low on his hips. No shirt.

The man looked like a sin wrapped in domestic bliss.

His back flexed as he poured two mugs of coffee. On the counter were plates of strawberry French toast and scrambled eggs, like he belonged there.

Like he wanted to.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and thick with sleep.

The gravel in his voice curled around your spine like smoke—dangerous, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

“Morning,” you echoed, smiling, eyes soft.

You ate breakfast on the floor, seated in front of your coffee table like two college kids.

And somehow… it wasn’t awkward.

It wasn’t complicated.

It was easy.

Bruce’s dry humor and charming smile, your banter, the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real—it all clicked.

By the time you moved into Wayne Manor, you and Bruce had been together for a solid four or five years.

The move had been smooth—Bruce was insistent on helping you with every box, every suitcase, despite Alfred gently reminding him he had people for that. But Bruce wasn’t letting anyone else handle your things. He wanted this to feel personal, special, like a new chapter for both of you.

The first time you stepped inside the manor as a resident, not just a girlfriend visiting for dinner or to wait up after a late patrol, it hit you like a tidal wave. The grandeur of the place was almost cinematic. Gleaming marble floors stretched across the vast foyer, and a sweeping staircase, draped in red velvet carpeting, spiraled upward like something out of a classic film. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above your head, casting soft golden light across polished surfaces. Despite all its opulence, the manor didn’t feel cold or sterile—it felt lived in, somehow touched by memory and legacy.

And that’s when you met Alfred.

It was almost immediate, the connection. You shared a dry sense of humor, a taste for a specific blend of strong tea, and a fondness for calling Bruce out when he was being just a little too broody. The two of you had conversations that danced between witty and philosophical, and before long, Alfred had started to refer to you—quietly, and with a fond glint in his eye—as his favorite resident.

Bruce’s heart had nearly burst the first time he walked in on the two of you laughing together in the kitchen over something as mundane as improperly folded linens. Seeing two of the most important people in his life getting along so naturally—it grounded him, made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could have a real family again.

Of course, moving in came with adjustments.

Bruce had been used to living alone, to silent halls and a schedule that made no sense to anyone but himself and the Gotham underworld. You, on the other hand, had a natural body clock, a love for uninterrupted beauty sleep, and a very human need for rest. It took time. He’d stumble in at 4 a.m. and accidentally wake you when his suit clattered to the floor. You’d sigh, roll over, and mumble, “You do know people need sleep to function, right?” But you always reached for him anyway, curling around his tired frame.

Then there was the cave.

You had taken one look at it and declared, “This place is creepy and unsanitary. I’m going to catch a bat-borne virus down here.” Bruce had tried (and failed) to hide his smirk. But over time, it grew on you. You began bringing down snacks, organizing things he never bothered to sort, and even installing a Bluetooth speaker so you could play music while he worked. One night, you caught yourself calling it “our cave.”

It wasn’t just that you lived there. You belonged there.

You kept up your boxing—your therapy in motion—and Bruce even taught you advanced hand-to-hand. Not because he wanted you in the field—hell no. You were a nurturer through and through. The idea of hurting someone, even in self-defense, made your stomach twist. But Bruce insisted: “There are dangers in dating Batman.” You needed to be prepared.

Then, a few years later, Bruce came to you with a decision.

“I want to adopt.”

You blinked up at him from the couch, half-eaten popcorn bowl in your lap. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I want to adopt,” he repeated, eyes steady but voice quieter now, almost reverent.

You stared at him, your head slowly tilting. “Woah, Bruce. You feeling alright?” you teased lightly, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. “No fever. Okay. So what’s this about adopting?”

He sighed, folding himself down beside you, resting his forearms on his knees.

“There was a kid,” he said after a pause. “Something went wrong. His parents were caught in the crossfire… and I couldn’t stop it.”

Your playful expression softened into something quieter.

“I’m going to take him in,” Bruce continued. “I want to train him. As a sidekick.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your thoughts churning like storm clouds behind your eyes. You could feel the weight in his voice—guilt, empathy, responsibility. He wasn’t doing this lightly.

“I don’t mind a little one running around the mansion,” you finally said, voice careful. “But Bruce… to put him in danger every day? My heart can barely handle knowing you’re out there.”

Bruce reached for your hand. His thumb rubbed slow circles over your knuckles, grounding himself with the contact.

“I know, princess,” he murmured. “But… he needs this. He lost everything. And I never found the people who killed my parents—it still haunts me. I don’t want that for him. I want to give him something to fight for. Something to believe in.”

It wasn’t an easy yes, but eventually, you gave it.

That’s when you met Dick Grayson.

He was small but wiry, with muscles built from years of acrobatics. His dark black hair fell in his eyes sometimes, and those piercing blue eyes… they reminded you of Bruce, but not in a carbon-copy way. There was something softer behind Dick’s gaze. A cautious optimism. A spark that hadn’t been stamped out yet.

“Y/N, this is Dick Grayson,” Bruce said gently as the boy peeked out from behind Bruce’s legs. He was quiet, wary, sticking close to Bruce like a shadow.

It took time, but he warmed up to you. Slowly, steadily. You learned his favorite meals, how to coax a smile from him with the right joke, and eventually, he began to seek you out—not just Bruce. He became Robin. He solved the mystery behind his parents’ murder. And somewhere along the line, he found joy again.

And you? You adored him.

That fact became carved in stone the first time Dick got hurt on patrol—just a sprained ankle, nothing major. Bruce had insisted on going back out while Dick recovered, but the boy had been crestfallen, confined to the manor. You’d seen the brave face he put on… and the tears he wiped away when he thought no one was looking.

—

That night had been long. Just Riddler and his usual chaos—riddles spray-painted across brownstones, a half-baked attempt to rob a jewelry store, the usual puzzle pieces.

Bruce was sore, bruised, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed next to you. After a hot shower, he pulled on a clean T-shirt and soft pajama pants, expecting to find you curled under the duvet.

But you weren’t there.

He paused, frowning, until soft giggles echoed down the hallway. Following the sound, he padded barefoot to Dick’s room, nudging the door open quietly.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

You and Dick had built a full-blown pillow fort in the corner of the room, complete with twinkling fairy lights and thick blankets draped over chairs. Inside the fort, you had a star projector casting constellations across the ceiling—Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major swirling in soft hues of blue and purple. You sat crisscrossed with Dick tucked into your lap like a sleepy koala, his head resting on your shoulder.

“This one here is called Orion’s Belt,” you whispered, pointing up.

“I like that one. It’s my favorite,” Dick murmured with a sleepy giggle.

A warm, sleepy smile crossed your face just as Bruce ducked into the room.

“Well now,” he said with a playful eyebrow raise, “what do we have here?”

You looked up, grinning. “Hi, love. We’re learning about the stars.”

“I see that,” he chuckled as he crawled into the fort with you both. It was a tight squeeze, but somehow, the moment only got cozier with his addition. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Dick immediately curled into Bruce’s side.

“We saved you a spot,” Dick mumbled as his eyes began to flutter shut.

Bruce rested his cheek against the top of Dick’s head. “Perfect. I needed it.”

In the gentle glow of starlight, with your hand resting on Bruce’s knee and Dick snoring softly between you, Bruce closed his eyes and breathed in the quiet. For once, there were no sirens. No screams. Just the sound of family—soft, safe, and healing.

“Remind me to thank you later,” he whispered against your skin.

You smiled, reaching to thread your fingers through his.

“You already have.”

#bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x y/n #Bruce Wayne X poc reader #batman x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x female!reader #dick grayson x oc #dick Grayson X Batmom #batmom

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muzansfangs · 1 year ago

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Bloodstain.

Starring: Aizen Sosuke x f!reader; mention to past Shuhei Hisagi x f!reader;

Format: multi-chapers story;

Warnings for this chapter: nsfw, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mention to violence and blood, strong language, choking, hair pulling, biting, marking the partner, kind of toxic dynamic, unprotected sex, touch-starved Sosuke, dom!Aizen, sub!reader, degradation kink, drunk sex, unhealthy coping mechanism;

Plot: Waking up in a familiar room, you soon are face to face with your ‘former’ enemy. Your reunion with Sosuke is intense and, in the heat of the moment, you are overwhelmed by your own emotions. Finding comfort in his arms was not something you had planned, just imagine moaning his name at the top of your lungs

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | TO THE NEXT CHAPTER

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𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

"You are not like them".

You propped your chin over your hand, elbows resting on the table. You could almost hear your step-mother scolding you in the back of your head, her soothing voice inviting you not to forget about your usual composed and inflexible sense of respect for the rules of polite society. In other circumstances, you would have probably listened to her. But not now, when you were confronting the devil himself.

"You are right. Something is clearly wrong with me. — you replied, focusing on the way he was leisurely running the pad of his index around the rim of his goblet — After all, I should cut you down right on the spot. I wonder why I am still sitting at your table, listening to you talking absolute nonsense instead" your voice was distant, devoid of any other emotion that was not sheer frustration.

Sosuke seemed unaffected by your dry words. His lips curved into a pale imitation of a genuine smile. But you knew better than deem anything coming from him as genuine, authentic. Treacherously, he had fooled the entire Soul Society and even you, after he had helped you hiding in his barracks, when the entire Gotei was hunting down you along with Ichigo and his friends.

"You haven't touched your food yet. — he noted, changing the topic of your conversation, his fox eyes softening whilst subtly inspecting your dish — You must be famished" he said, bringing his glass of red wine to his lips.

Your gaze followed his gesture, your stomach churning for both the hunger and, actually, the untainted feeling of being attracted to him. Suppressing your desires had never been so unfairly difficult. It was not a merely carnal whim setting your heart ablaze. It was a devious emotion you could not comprehend.

You snorted, averting your eyes from him and focusing on the white marble at your feet instead "How do I know you have not poisoned it?" you bitterly asked him, jaw clenching in indignation. The smell of the delicious, exotic dish he had asked his Arrancars to prepare for you was flinging around you, the unintentional whiffs you had taken had made your mouth salivate like a starving animal.

Damn him and his villainous antics.

The sound of a chair being dragged on the floor made your head whip towards him again, your heartrate increasing while your hand aimlessly searched for the hilt of your zanpakuto supposed to be secured on your hip, obviously forgetting he had asked Ulquiorra to confiscate it.

Your eyes had widened in horror, upon seeing him approaching you. His feet did not even make a sound, his ethereal way of existing and letting his presence overwhelm whomever was in his area was inhebriating. What you felt was not fear, seeping into your heart and paralyzing you. It was far from that. There was curiosity and defiance in your eyes that the observant man in front of you did not fail to notice.

His hand swiftly reached for the fork, abandoned carelessly on the table. You did not even register him sticking the utensil into a piece of caramelized apple that it was already probing delicately at your parted lips. The sugary taste coating your bottom lip made you flick your gaze up to meet his one, unable to resist the temptation of having a small taste. You had no idea of what game he was playing, a mind game of chess, probably, and he was winning once again. Hazardously opening your mouth, tongue sticking out enough to lick the sugar away from your lips and let your tastebuds explode at the contact of the sweet apple, you gasped as he quickly withdrew his hand and shoved it elegantly into his mouth instead.

He chewed on the morsel of the fruit, gaze transfixed on you and the way you were still looking at him flabbergasted by the action. Messing with you was decidedly his strange addiction. Restraining himself, though, was out of discussion. Just when you thought it could not get any worse, his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing it slowly to collect the small remnants the sugar had left behind, before bringing it into his mouth and sucking it clean.

"I guess now you know the food is edible" he chimed, before discarding the fork into your plate and turning his back at you, leaving you alone with your skin on fire and the rational version of you fading into the abyss of shame and repugnance you pictured yourself in for your inability to block him out of your head.

Your fingers twitched, a silky material making contact with the pads of your fingers as you gradually came back to your senses. Was that a blanket? It did not matter. Bittered, all you could think about was that the loathsome fragment of your past had resurfaced again. You thought you were finally over it, but casting away such experiences was something hardly feasible. This was a core memory that had been pestering you for years. Your permanence in Hueco Mundo had, boyond the shadow of a doubt, scarred you more than you liked to admit to yourself, let alone the others. Triggering it back to life had been the inexplicable appearence of the guest star of your ‘nightmare’ right before your eyes.

Lifting your heavy eyelids up, you noticed your vision was still blurry, dotted, and you quickly blinked a couple of times to clear it out. Wooden architraves and a white ceiling welcomed you in your temporary and oddly familiar shelter. Following the dim yellowish light enlightening the room, your eyes took in the sight of a small lamp on a nightstand at your left. Albeit you had been hiding yourself in this place for two days, you could have never forgotten the minimalistic design of this particular room. You knew this place, your assumptions were proved correct. This was Sosuke’s chamber, back when he was still the kind-hearted Captain of the Fifth Division, the gentleman who had not hesitated to let you use his private quarters as a safehouse to escape the eye of the other Captains.

You should have known a swordsman who had betrayed his comrades by helping the enemy meant no good.

Reminiscing about the time when you believed he was a good man was tantamount of feeding yourself a placebo to forget about the real monster he really was. All you had to do now was flee, leaving that place behind you as soon as possible. Lifting yourself up on your elbows, you let out a soft groan of discomfort, your joints protesting for the effort you were forcing them to make, while you attempted to swing your legs towards the edge of the bed. Letting your feet touch the floor was all you could do, though. To stop you from going further was the wave of intense reiatsu knocking the air out of your lungs for a few seconds. How could you forget he was indeed there too? It was terrifying how his spiritual pressure had not decreased at all, intensifying at unbearable levels instead.

“It’s pouring outside and you’re in no condition to leave this room” his baritone voice pierced your ears, your hands cupping your knees as you dipped your head between your arms in defeat.

He was right, as per usual.

“What are you doing here? I thought Captain Kyoraku had given the order to lock you back into Muken” you replied, refusing to turn around and face him. With your gaze trained on the floorboard, you finally realized your shoes had been removed and you sighed in relief upon ascertaining your thin thigh highs were still on. At least, he had not touched you more than it was strictly necessary.

You heard him sigh, the dull and monotone sound of footsteps echoing in the room preannouncing he was getting closer to you. You stiffened, turning your head to the side, but a gloved hand grasping your jaw roughly and forcing you to look its owner in the eye made you scoff. There he was, standing in all his glory before your eyes, his placid expression making you feel like someone had smashed a glass on your forehead. Handsome in that angelic way that jarred with his personality, Sosuke Aizen was staring intently at your face, his dark eyebrow quirking up expectantly.

Swatting his hand away abruptly, you scooted back on the bed to put some adequate distance between you two, all the while keeping your eyes on him in case he tried to yank you back towards him.

“Don’t touch me. Answer my question” you deadpanned, knitting your eyebrows together and shifting into a kneeling position, ready to attack him if things escalated.

Sosuke grinned, eyes scrutinizing your body shamelessly, before letting his gaze drift back to your face “Now, isn’t it ironic? Every single time I touched you, you had always let me do it without budging to protest. — he started, his characteristic soothing tone of voice causing your upper lip to twitch in annoyance — What’s changed?”.

There was not a dim ounce of a lie in his words. You had never pushed him away, terrorized by his way to find excuses to let your fingers meet, or his hands to slither down your body more than it was necessary during a fight. He indulged in the tension he created with his typical casual attitude, not exposing himself too much, but subtly making sure his intentions were clear to you and that your desires were just as impure as his ones. It drove you mad back then and you had almost missed that feeling of wanting to slaughter him and kiss him so violently at the same time, bathing into a pool of your blood, of his own blood.

You decided to ignore his provocation “What are you doing here?” you pressed through gritted teeth, your voice the only audible sound beside the pattering of the rain against the roof and the glass of the window.

“Enjoying my freedom. You could say I’ve been put on probation for having generously contributed in defeating Yhwach”.

Your eyes widened, watching him showing you two mettalic wristbands secured around his wrists. Thinking about your encounter on the battlefield, you were more than sure he was not wearing them. Whatever this device was had surely been slapped around his wrists after the battle ended. Letting your gaze sizing him up inquisitively, you took notice of other details in his attire. Beside from his eye-patch and the gloved hands, he was not wearing that weird robe to contain his reiatsu, but a simple uniform and greyish haori.

Catching your wandering eyes, Sosuke proceeded to elaborate “Those bands are a gift from Kisuke Urahara. — he clarified, glancing at the said objects scornfully — Apparently, I won’t need to wear that ridiculous costume anymore to contain my powers. He claimed those and the eye-patch will suffice. I decided on my own accord to keep the gloves, in case I felt like murdering him, or the new Captain Commander himself” he stated, making you uncomfortably fidgeting with the hem of your skirt.

Honestly, you had no idea how to feel about this. The Central 46 and Shunsui had clearly miscalculated the consequences of setting the special threat free to roam the streets of the Seireitei. With the time he had spent alone in his cell, Sosuke had had enough time to plan another way to demolish the Soul Society and, considering his resentment for your family and friends, the World of the livings too. You were not even sober enough to concentrate. Were the others aware of the freedom granted to him?

“I don’t believe you” you whispered, your hands clutching the fabric of your skirt so tightly your knuckles whitened.

You could already forsee a catastrophy raining down on you and you could not endure more pain and suffering. Not after the recent events, obviously. You were still mentally recovering from the disaster caused by the Sternritters to weild you sword again and point it at Sosuke’s throat again.

“I’m offended. I never lied to you”.

“Yes, you did. When I first met you, Sosuke. You made me believe you were a good man. I have trust issues because of you” you snapped, banging your fist onto the mattress to accentuate your irritation.

“I’m not responsible for what you thought of me, just for what I did for you. I gave you a shelter, but I do not recall telling you I was a good person. — he flatly declared, tilting his head to the side as he scanned your body language — I had no intention to hurt you and I did not. We only clashed swords because you attacked me, after I cut your step-brother open” he punctuated, flash-stepping away just in time to dodge your assault.

You groaned as your blade was now planted onto the wall, right where he was supposed to be a second ago. Your grip on the hilt of your katana tightened, as you heard him humming under his breath. He had hit a nerve and he could not expect you to keep your cool. Rukia’s screams and the sight of your brother slumping onto the ground in a pool of blood had made you see red that day. You aimed to kill, you craved Sosuke’s death.

“I suggest you to cut the crap, because you are not into Muken and no one’s around to stop me from killing you” you coldly said, pulling your sword out of the wall and pointing it back at him. You could tell he was amused by the way he was lifting the angles of his mouth in a lopsided grin you knew way too well.

“I have to correct you. No one would try to stop you anyway. But the real question is: would you be able to kill me?” Sosuke taunted you, a gust of wind whipping your face the only hint you got to realize he was right behind you.

Your breath hitched in your throat, twirling around to swing your sword, but he deftly parred your attack by gripping your blade between his thumb and forefinger. Your movements had been too slow, despite you had gotten much stronger since you two last fought. Clearly, the saké was still in your bloodstream. The moment he tossed your katana away, your back was flattened against the wall, the sound of the blade clattering on the floor making your blood run cold. His hand around your throat, holding you up against the wall, was enough to keep you in place.

His face was dangerously close to yours, his hot breath fanning your lips as your feet kicked the air aimlessly. You thought it was going to be your end, as his half-lidded eye stared deeply into yours. You hated how powerless you felt in his hands, even when you were trying to scratch his arm to convince him to loosen his grip on your neck.

“You are in no shape to fight. Defeating a drunk opponent is against my morals” he cooed, watching you strive to get free.

“Morals? Screw you, since when you have morals?” you fired back, hand flying up to grab a fistful of his soft hair. Not even this was enough to make him desist and ended up spitting on his face out if spite.

Sosuke huffed, his grip on your neck loosening completely as you flopped onto the floor, coughing and panting to steady your breath. Palms planted onto the smooth surface of the floorboards, you squeezed your eyes shut to collect yourself. You were pretty sure his iron grip on your tender flesh would have caused purple bruises to appear on your skin to remind you of how stupid you had been to act solely on your instinct. Wrath, rage, frustration. You had let it all out the moment you had hastily unsheathed your sword with the intent of beheading him.

To interrupt your stream of consciousness was his voice again “I think it’s time to talk about how you ended up swooning on my doorway. Was it Kyoraku’s suggestion to drink your problems away?” he inquired from behind you.

It took you a moment to calm down and push yourself back up, only now assessing how your body was still highly affected by the excessive alcohol consumption. You should have known better than venturing in the Soul Society alone, while out of your mind. You were supposed to be the responsible silbling. The older one, the brilliant one, the selfless one. Yet, there you were: drunk and having a private conversation with your worst enemy.

“Why do you care? Are you interested in pursuing a career as a therapist now? Well, you would suck as a psychologist. — you grumbled, pinching the bridge of your nose, while leaning back against the wall for support — An emotionally constipated man, who spent a couple of years in isolation, does not allure people to open up about their problems” you ranted, as he took a seat on the edge of his bed seemingly determined to listen to you.

Once again, his face did not leave you room for interpretation about his thoughts. Stoic, unbothered, he resembled a Sphinx. He was enigmatic, too secretive to try to have a normal conversation with.

He closed his eye “Then I will start making assumptions until I hit the nail on the head… Which, considering your inability to mask your emotions, will take me less than a minute” he cooed, clicking his tongue, when you glared at him before ambling towards the desk.

You thought that with your back facing him, he would have not been able to read your face, but you underestimated his powers.

“When a woman stoops that low, it’s pretty evident her problem has the name of a man”.

“Zip it”.

“It’s that pathetic excuse of a Lieutenant, isn’t it? Shuhei Hisagi” he hypothesized, making you halt and look at him in utter disbelief.

Did he know about you and Shuhei? How? Had he been spying on you? It was not possible. Still, how had he been so precise as to ask about that Lieutenant?

“How…” you mumbled, curling your hands around the edge of the desk behind you, lips parted in shock. You had almost missed his way of playing with your mind. No one had ever been capable to easily read your thoughts.

Sosuke smirked “You smelt like him”.

His remark made you freeze solid, brows furrowing before he cut you off again, walking up towards you “His reiatsu. It’s lingering on you. Quite the disturbing element, I have to say” he explained, making you rub the back of your neck in flusteredness.

Now that you were sobering up, bringing up Shuhei and the reason why you had bought that bottle of saké was a slap on the face, a cold shower. You had too much pent up anger and anxiety to deal with. The teardrop falling from your lashes came as a surprise to you, your fingers reaching up to quickly wipe it away, hoping he had not paid enough attention to spot it. Even if he had not, it would have made no difference since more tears began to ooze out of your eyes uncontrollably. A silent cry, the lump in your throat growing, as you cussed under your breath for this pathetic display of weakness in front of someone who did not even have a heart in his chest. Embarrassing, to say the least.

You sighed and tried to head to the bathroom, glad you knew your way around his private quarters. Sosuke, on the other hand, had other plans. His hand latched around your wrist yanked you back against him, you nose accidentally bumping onto his chest, as you let out an almost inaudible gasp. You blinked up at him through teary eyes, his free hand gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he pushed the small of your back against the edge of a desk.

“What has he done that I haven’t to bring tears to your eyes?” he wondered and you swallowed forcefully.

You were probably overreacting and the liquor in your system was making you emotional “I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you… I thought drinking would have gotten him out of my head, or maybe helped me to relax. Well, shame on me. Happy now?” you reasoned, shaking your head as he just seemed to push you harder against the desk. The edge was biting onto the small of your back, your already unsteady balance making you unintentionally grip onto his haori not to fall backwards.

Breathing seemed harder now that he was this close. His cologne pierced your nostrils and you mentally cursed yourself for the inappropriate things your body craved. Obnubilated mind, weak mainstay, you watched how he tangled his fingers in your hair and tugged on them, forcing you to crane your neck in a optimal position to look at him straight in the eye. It already felt wrong, the thunders exploding outside reminding you of what you were letting him to do you. Things he had always wanted to do to you, but that he never did.

“There are plenty of other ways to forget about such trivial matters without compromising your liver. — he stated, eye softening as he leaned closer to you, nosing your cheek delicately — Why don’t you let me show you what a man who is starving can really do?” he murmured in your ear, his tone dropping a few octaves and making your knees almost buckle.

“What can a starving man do to someone who cannot stop thinking about another man?” you idly replied with a question, only to shudder as he let out a dry laughter.

“He can fuck him out of your head. Something I will very much do” he rasped out, capturing your lips with his in a fiery kiss.

You did not hesitate to return it, your lips moving in sync, molding together, as his grip on your hair only tightened. Your body reacted to the stimulations, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering as if a gust of wind had awaken them from their slumber, forcing their wings to bat erratically and fly away. Your inhibitions were gone, the feeling of finally being able to taste the forbidden fruit, his sinful lips, granting him the chance to hook his hands underneath your thighs and pick you up to settle you on the top of his desk.

Maybe you were so lost into the realm of bliss, his tongue entering your mouth with a growl coming from the back of his throat, that you could swear he almost trembled. His knee soon forced your legs to spread, his hand unceremoniously ripping your uniform open. The sight of your bra, pushing your breasts up, was the last drop before he lost control. All of this, all of you, the girl he had had his eyes on from the day you first met, was now at his mercy, out of breath. He desired to devour you whole, to own every inch of your skin, but he almost felt inadequate. More than touching you, all he needed was to be touched and he would have rather died than admitting it out loud.

Mouth latching onto your neck, he sank his teeth onto your flesh, his hands tugging your skirt down your hips “Control your reiatsu, it’s unstable” he hissed, your cheeks heating up as you realized he was right.

People could think you were in the middle of a fight, or hurt. The last thing you needed now was for someone to burst into that room and ruin this, whatever it was. Why? Because you were dying to feel him deep inside you, to let Sosuke Aizen, a monster, stain you like a bloodstain that could not be washed away.

You lifted your hips, the skirt falling down your legs, as you kicked it off of your ankle “As if you cared about someone walking in” you breathed out, head lolling back in pleasure as his hand slipped past the waistband of your panties. You shuddered, as his gloved fingers seeked your throbbing clitoris, skilfully drawing circles over it to send jolts of pleasure throughout your body.

Sosuke groaned, before stopping to tug your thin underwear down as well, following the destiny of your skirt. Biting onto the fabric of his glove, he then pulled at it and discarded the item away “It depends on who’s the intruder. — he cockily said, hand buried between your legs again, his fingers beginning to tease your opening — If it’s your brother, or your little loverboy, I might fuck you so hard the desk with crumble to pieces” he teased you, furrowing his brows as you impatiently bucked your hips up to invite him to take action.

Sosuke sneered, plunging his index into you, stretching you out slowly, gradually, testing the waters. Your warmth was to die for. The strained moan leaving your lips, body relaxing under his ministrations, only worked as gasoline on a wildfire. Your tightness, not that of a woman unable to relax, but this a young woman he had missed so much. He clenched his jaw, his other hand unhooking your bra and pushing you down, until your back was flattened on the polished wooden surface. Impatiently, you huffed, hands grasping the bra and tossing it away to join the pile of clothes on the floor. You needed more, you needed him.

“Sosuke” you called him out, careful not to add prayers to your already altered voice. Alas, he knew you more than you liked to admit.

“What is it? Do you need more than this? Is your desire to be ruined by me so strong to forget about the concept of decorum? — he mocked you, before shoving another finger into your fluttering hole, grunting at the way your walls clamped down onto them — I will be frank with you. Begging like a cat in heat suits you” he complimented you, his voice dripping sarcasm as he began to curl his fingers into you at a steady pace.

Your legs quivered, back arching, as a familiar pressure coiled on your lower abdomen. This much pleasure, this intense bliss, you only achieved it during a full penetration. No one had ever been able to push you close to your climax by the mere use of his fingers. Your pussy spasmed around his slender digits, the squelch of your arousal coating his fingers, as he scissored them into you, made him grit his teeth. He decided to be selfish, for once. Your nipples stood uptight, jiggling with the way he relentlessly fingered you. You could not reach your orgasm before he did.

That hole, the sight of your core was literally driving him nuts.

Slamming his fist onto the desk beside your head, he pulled out his fingers. His mouth opened, tongue meticulously lapping at his digits, coated with your juices. Hungry, he was hungry and he was so mad he was not in the condition to control his impulses. He hated you for having always been his obsession, instilling that annoying feeling in his heart that made him want to possess you, to paint you body down with his bitemarks, to claim you.

“Damn it” he hissed, pulling you out from you daze. What had just happened? Why did he stop? Was it your fault?

Mortified, you lifted yourself up with your elbows, eyes locking with his ones, but he did not waste any time in pushing your torso back down, hovering over you. You had to know, you needed to understand what was making him falter, when he had no qualms about anything or anyone in this World.

"What's wrong? Am I—" you inquired, breathless, chest raising and falling erratically while the palm of his hand was splayed over your midriff to keep you in place. His touch almost made your skin sizzle, boiling lava over the tender flesh.

"Shut up. — he rasped out, silencing you effortlessly, jaw clenching at the feeling of your skin underneath his fingers — I feel like I could rip you to shreds, if I let myself go".

"Sosuke, I'm fine. I'm not scared" you tried to reassure him, reaching your hand up to graze his cheekbone with your fingertips. But his free hand stopped you, clasping around your wrist tightly as he pinned you down with a glacial glare.

He was on the verge of losing himself. You had never seen him like that, so humanly fragile.

"You don't seem to understand that, if I fucked you the way I want to do it now, I would tear you apart" he hissed, a knot forming between his eyebrows, as the iron grip on your wrist intensified, making you wince softly.

And God, you found yourself wishing he was going to keep his promise in that very moment. His eye glinted in raw desire, your thighs spread wide in front of him showing your glistening intimacy. His cock twitched at the sight. The need to be inside of you was gnawing at him to the point he made up his mind quickly. He needed to have you, but he needed to feel like you wanted him, as if he was the solution to all of your problems. Your lips on his body, your hands around him and your pussy welcoming him inside.

"Ride me. Ride me now" he commanded through gritted teeth.

You gawked, watching how he took a few steps back to remove his clothes. The haori, the uniform, everything fell at his feet, except for his eye-patch. For some reason he had not even tried to remove it. Running your fingers through your hair, your eyes roamed down his body. His pectorals, the chieseled abs, and you were surprised to see that the purple stone once protruding from his stomach was now fully incoporated into him, no more scarring his perfect body. The infamous Hogyoku. There was something else, though, your eyes landed on. His twitching cock, straight as a ramrod, girthy enough to make you question if it would have fit into you.

Hopping down from the desk, your opened uniform fell from your shoulders, as he sat down on the bed, mirroring his pose from when he used to sit on his throne in Las Noches. You felt almost inexperienced in front of him and you probably were, considering the real age gap between you two. Your cheeks boiled, as you finally stood right between his spread legs and you inhaled sharply, as he gripped your hips tightly to help you to straddle him. Squeezing your arse, you felt his tip brush against your opening and you shyly wrapped your hand around his length to line it up to your aching core. Sosuke groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, teeth sinking onto the flesh as he held you tightly against him. It was in that very moment you realized what was wrong with him. He needed you.

“Sosuke…” you whispered, moaning softly, as his tongue ran flatly over your jugular, feeling your pulse as you began to lower yourself down onto his shaft.

He grunted, arms firmly wrapped around your waist, as you let him stretch you open inch by inch. Breathless, blissfully content, you whined, when you finally had him fully sheathed into you. He needed this, he needed you and he kissed you passionately not to allow a single word to escape your lips. Years of yearning, years of solitude and you were perpetually stuck in his head.

“Are you sure Hisagi fucked you properly? You are so… Shit!” he cut himself off, when you began to rotate your hips to find a pace. His ones did not waste any time in meeting yours, thrusting upwards as he heard you whimper from above him.

You had no strength to talk, all you did was riding him, while his hands, soon settled over your hipbones, guided you to a tempo he liked. Sensual, yet rough. Animalistic like the guttural moans he released in your ear. He was reaching spots into you no one had ever reached. The slight sting of pain the moment his tip brushed your cervix made you cry out, mouth hanging open as your nails scratched down his shoulderblades, his muscles flexing as a response.

“Sosuke…” you whispered, half-lidded eyes peering down at him, when your thighs began to tremble. You had no stamina to ride him anymore, you needed his help. Assistance that you tried to obtain by leaving sloppy kisses over his jawline, earning a growl from him.

Flipping you over, your back met the mattress, his hands making sure your thighs were hooked around his waist “Desperate, aren’t you?” he breathed out, sheathing himself back into you slowly, enjoying how you fit him like a glove, squeezing him up perfectly.

Too far gone to retaliate, you kissed him to silence him, moaning into his mouth when he began to thrust into you again. There was no room between you two anymore. His chest was pressed against yours, his movements soon faltering, getting sloppier, as he neared his climax. The moment you shuddered, his tip hitting your g-spot again, your vision got blurry and came with a loud moan he did not bother suffocating. It was enough.

Twitching into your sensitive core, Sosuke gritted his teeth and milked your insides, puffed up with pride of having stained you, Isshin’s daughter, the first born of his adventure in the world of the living. Maybe his thirst for ruining you, for leaving a part of him deep into you, found its root in his hate for Isshin. Indulging into such thoughts now was useless, as he watched you panting underneath him, heavy eyelids and writhing frame.

Sosuke pulled out of you, lying down next to you “What are you thinking about?” he asked, closing his eye and accomodating himself in a better position.

“Everything, but not him”.

He grinned to himself, reaching his hand out to switch the lights off “That’s what I thought” he said, as the darkness enveloped the room.

You sighed, body aching, as you ran your hand over your stomach absent-mindedly. What had you done? Copulating with the enemy, letting him shoot his load into you, and now even spending the night into his bed. For once, however, self-deprecating was not in your plans. You felt good, happy even. You had tomorrow to deal with your problems and tonight to forget your moral codes. Pulling the blankets over you two, Sosuke kept his distance, unfamaliar with the thought of someone else sleeping next to him.

The silence swallowing you two must have spoken volumes for you to say “If you want, I can leave…”.

But he did not mind, not when you felt his hand finding yours underneath the blankets “Stay”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! I should apologize for the filth you have just read. Instead, I am already planning other devious, despicable things to happen between the reader and Sosuke. Ah, me and my unhealthy obsession. See you in the next chapter and thank you so much for your kudos and hits! Do not be afraid to leave a feedback, I love interacting with my readers! Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

Until next,

X O X O

TAGS: @onyxino @pseudowho @seireiteihellbutterfly

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