#x: Scripted Extension

[colouredbyd]

About You

james potter x reader

synopsis: in a world where soulmates see color only when they meet, james potter has always lived in vivid hues without knowing why. the girl who once lit up his world in childhood vanished, leaving only fragments of memory behind. years later, when she returns, tangled memories and aching hearts reveal a truth he’s longed for — that everything has always been about you.

cw: soulmate au, reader is adopted, childhood friends to lovers, getting hit by a ball, kissing, dual point of view, extensive james pov, james deeply in love, reader adopted by a french family, reader is a transfer student to hogwarts, background wolfstar elements, mild emotional intensity, some angst, slow-burn romance, no major triggers, fluff fluff fluff!

w/c: 5.8k

request: here!

a/n: based on the song About You by The 1975. i’m genuinely so proud of this, and will be rereading it till i get the ick <3

masterlist

James Potter believed he had no soulmate. For many reasons.

The idea that the universe could conjure one singular person who was perfect for him sounded, frankly, implausible. 

Wasn’t a person meant to decide their own fate? The very notion bristled against his nature, too neat, too scripted, too convenient. 

James had never liked being told how things ought to be, how paths were meant to wind, or whom he was meant to love. 

He thought of the way the world spun with infinite variables, endless choices, each step shaping the next in ways no prophecy could predict. 

What if he didn’t like his soulmate? Worse, what if they didn’t like him? 

The thought sat sharp-edged and unwelcome in the quiet corners of his mind. He did not dwell on it, as a rule.

Still, it was difficult to escape the idea entirely. All his life, he had heard the stories, told over dinners, late-night fires, quiet moments between his parents. 

Tales of that first breathless instant when color had bled into the world, so rich it left them dazed. 

His father would speak of the impossible green of his mother’s eyes, the startling red of her lips. His mother would smile, eyes soft with memory, describing the gold in his father’s hair beneath the sun. 

James would listen, curious but strangely distant from it all, as they told him how the world had split wide and new when they met, how they could still remember the exact moment the grey had vanished.

There was something beautiful in it, he supposed. Something that stirred at the edge of longing. But beneath that was a quieter, sharper thing — fear, perhaps.

 A worry that his story would not unfold in such a fairytale manner, that the universe might be cruel, or careless, or simply indifferent.

And yet, for all those tangled doubts and questions, none were his strongest reason for disbelief.

In a world where people are born to see only black and white, where the first meeting of a soulmate floods the eye with color, James had known with mounting certainty that he did not have one. 

Because for as long as he could remember, he had seen the world in color.

He remembered it as a child, dashing barefoot through the echoing halls of Potter Manor, the tapestries a riot of gold and crimson, the gardens spilling green across the summer air. 

He remembered color at the village markets, the bright bustle of stalls, the striped awnings swaying in the wind. 

And most of all, he remembered color from the orphanage, of all places, a rather grey and drafty stone building that somehow still flickered to life whenever he visited.

Euphemia Potter had a heart wide as the sky. Though she came from a pure-blood family, she had never cared for the stuffy ideas that often clung to such lineage. 

She would say, in her usual firm and breezy way, that the world had more than enough coldness in it already. 

And so it had been her habit, even after marriage and motherhood, to visit the local orphanage with baskets of sweets, books, blankets. 

She brought James with her, of course.

“You should make friends everywhere you can,” she would tell him. “That is what magic is for.”

James had not needed convincing. A boy of seven with boundless curiosity and a great deal too much energy, he had thought the visits a grand adventure. 

The halls of the orphanage were a new playground, full of new faces, new games, new scrapes to be had.

And though his memory, even now, was a rather hopeless mess of scattered images and blurred hours — he had been seven, after all, with the attention span of a gnat — there was one thing he remembered clearly. 

One certain girl.

She had bickered with him from the very first moment. It seemed to be her sport, her purpose in life, to contradict everything he said. 

If he claimed the sky was blue, she would argue that it was grey. 

If he ran to the swings, she would beat him there and call him slow. 

If he tried to charm her with sweets from his mother’s basket, she would sniff at them and declare them probably poisoned.

And yet, for all her stubbornness, for all her sharp tongue and quicker wit, something about her had altered James’s world, tilted it on its axis.

He could remember the exact shade of her hair beneath the sun, the color of her laugh (yes, it had seemed to have color, or perhaps that was only how he had felt about it), the bright flash of her eyes when she grinned at him in triumph after a particularly vicious game of tag.

She had been, if he was honest, the closest James had ever come to finding love. 

Not that he had known it at the time. It had been a stupid thing. A childish thing. A crush from when he was seven, foolish and fleeting. 

But sometimes, in quiet moments, the memory would drift back.

And then, as quickly as she had appeared, she had vanished.

One day, she simply was not there.

James had asked his mother, bewildered and frowning. “Where did she go?”

Euphemia had smiled, soft and knowing. “She was adopted, love.”

Adopted. Off into some other life, some other world. Gone.

And so, James had decided, with the certainty only a small boy could possess: he was doomed. Utterly doomed. Never to find love again.

A ridiculous thought, of course. A dramatic one. 

But even now, if one asked James Potter about soulmates, he would shrug and say with a crooked grin that the matter was simple: he had missed his chance at seven years old, and the universe had long since given up on him.

Which was all fine by him, really.

Absolutely fine.

Or so he told himself.

Still, doomed or not, James had other things to think about. Seventh year would not make itself easy. N.E.W.T.s, Quidditch, Prefect duties he mostly ignored. 

The castle was louder this year, more crowded with couples now that so many had found their soulmates. 

Everywhere he looked it seemed someone was falling into place — eyes brighter, hands clasped in the corridors, laughter a little too soft for comfort. 

Even Sirius and Remus had settled, the two of them inseparable these days, perfectly content in their own easy orbit.

James had long since stopped teasing them for it. It was hard to begrudge your best mates something so clearly right. 

No one in their year was surprised when Sirius stopped chasing girls and started sitting closer to Remus by the fire, heads bent together over a book, fingers sometimes laced beneath the table. 

The two of them had found what the rest were still hoping for.

And James — well. He had no use for hoping. The universe had forgotten him, or worse, chosen to leave him out of the story altogether. 

And honestly, it was fine. Absolutely fine. He was not the type to pine for something that would never be.

He did not even think of it again. Not until one crisp October afternoon, when fate  chose to remind him that the universe had its own plans after all.

It had been a long practice. The Gryffindor team had spent hours drilling plays beneath a sky streaked pale with autumn clouds. 

By the time James finally touched down on the pitch, the sun was slanting low behind the towers, painting everything in gold.

James touched down first, broom tucked beneath one arm, hair a windswept mess, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck. 

A few paces behind, Sirius landed with a grin, spinning his broom lazily through one hand. 

They had lingered after the rest of the team had gone in — a habit of James’s, these days. Some hours just did not want to end.

Remus was waiting at the edge of the stands, book tucked beneath one arm, watching them with quiet amusement. 

He was never one for flying — though he had a good eye for plays — and often brought some battered novel to keep himself occupied during long practices.

By now the pitch had mostly emptied. A few stragglers remained at the far end, gathering gear, trailing off toward the castle. 

James caught a worn quaffle from the basket and tossed it from hand to hand as they crossed the grass. 

“Remus says you nearly knocked their new Chaser off her broom earlier,” Sirius said, slinging an arm over James’s shoulder. “Show-off.”

“She wasn’t watching her line,” James replied easily, giving the quaffle another spin. 

“Besides, the only thing I knocked was that shot past you, mate.”

Sirius laughed, but before he could retort, James wound back and sent the quaffle arcing lazily into the air. 

The throw was wide, idle, more habit than thought, the sort of casual motion born from years of play.

“Oi, careful with that,” Sirius called, shielding his eyes from the sun.

But already the quaffle was sailing out across the pitch, farther than James had meant, the angle off. 

It spun in a slow arc toward the edge of the stands — and straight into an unsuspecting figure who had just rounded the corner.

There was a faint cry, a stumble — and then you went down hard, knees hitting the damp earth where the grass was still slick from the rain the night before. 

A sharp splash of mud streaked your skirt, the quaffle rolling uselessly to a stop in the grass beside you.

Brilliant. Your first week at this school and already you were on your knees in the dirt.

And then a shadow fell across you.

“I’m so sorry—” he began, dropping into a crouch, reaching for your hand.

You looked up, ready to snap, and the words caught somewhere between your chest and throat.

The boy standing before you was tall, broad-shouldered beneath the loose fall of his Quidditch robes. 

His skin was tanned deep by long hours beneath the sun, warm against the crisp October light. 

Curls of dark brown hair framed his face, damp from practice, a little tousled at the edges. And his eyes—

You faltered.

His eyes were something else entirely. A colour so fierce and rich it stopped your breath, as though the world had narrowed to that single glance. 

He crouched swiftly, one strong hand reaching out. His fingers curled around yours, firm and steady, as he helped you upright.

The instant his palm touched yours, the air shifted. 

A spark, low and bright, lit beneath your skin. The faintest hum, dizzy and disorienting, curled through your chest. Every inch of you seemed to prickle with heat.

Your breath stilled.

And then you saw it in him. The subtle gasp, the way his mouth parted in some small sound. 

His eyes widened, sharp with something between recognition and alarm. His grip faltered.

He jerked his hand back as though burned, stumbling a half-step away, chest rising fast beneath his robes. 

He stared at you, gaze bright and bewildered, lips parted, no words finding their way out.

Then, without a word, he spun sharply on his heel, boots slipping slightly in the wet grass as he fled across the pitch.

You stood frozen, one hand half-raised where he had left it, heart beating so loud you were certain it would echo through the field. Your skin still hummed faintly, breath caught and uneven.

You blinked after his retreating form, brows drawing together.

“What in Merlin’s—?”

His friend, who was standing far behind him, frowned. “Prongs?”

But the boy was gone, disappearing fast beyond the edge of the stands. After a beat, the two of them exchanged a glance and hurried after him.

You were left sitting in the damp grass, heart racing so loudly you were certain the whole pitch could hear it. 

“What a complete weirdo,” you muttered aloud, though your voice shook faintly. 

You pressed your palms to your knees, trying to catch your breath.

The earth spun quietly beneath you.

“There you are!”

You glanced up. Lily Evans was making her way toward you, copper hair glinting in the sun, Mary Macdonald trailing close behind. Both girls looked concerned.

“We saw what happened,” Lily said, crouching beside you. “Are you alright? That looked like a nasty fall.”

“I’m fine,” you answered, though your heart was still pounding. “It was just—surprising.”

Mary smiled. “That’s one way to start the afternoon.”

Lily offered her hand to help you up. You took it gratefully, brushing damp earth from your knees.

“Honestly,” Lily continued, shaking her head, “some of these Quidditch boys have no aim at all.”

You forced a small laugh. “It seems so.”

Lily gave you a warm look. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside.”

You fell into step with them as they made their way toward the castle, grateful, as always, for their easy company. 

Transferring to Hogwarts for your final year had been an ordeal, a whirlwind decision after your adoptive family’s move from France. 

Beauxbatons had been your home for six years, all grace and polished magic. 

Hogwarts was wild and sprawling by comparison, full of shifting staircases and unruly ghosts and students who had known each other forever.

It was rare to transfer so late. You knew the whispers that followed you through the halls. 

A seventh-year newcomer was no small curiosity.

But Lily had been kind from the first. So had Mary. Their friendship had been a soft, steady thing amidst the strangeness, helping you find your footing in this unfamiliar place.

Still, even now, there were moments when it felt as though you did not quite belong.

“I still feel a bit lost,” you admitted quietly. “All of it is so different here.”

“It’ll settle in,” Lily promised. “Give it time.”

Mary grinned. “Just watch out for stray quaffles.”

You managed a real laugh then, though your thoughts kept circling back. Not to the fall. Not even to the crowd that had stared.

But to him.

The boy with eyes like burnished gold, who had looked at you as though the world itself had cracked open.

And fled. What a coward—who even gets scared from girls?

Lily glanced at you with a gentle smile, her eyes bright despite the chill in the air. “You’ve handled the fall better than most first years.”

Mary nudged your arm playfully.

“Yeah, and that mud really brings out your fille mystérieuse aesthetic.”

You rolled your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

“If fille mystérieuse means ‘walking disaster,’ then sure. I’m nailing it.”

Mary grinned, “I still can’t believe you transferred here this late. Must be quite the change from Beauxbatons.”

You shrugged, folding your arms against the cool air. 

“It’s... different. Beauxbatons is more... polished, orderly. Hogwarts feels like a wild storm — unpredictable and sprawling.”

Lily nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that makes sense. But it’s home, in its own way. You’ll find your place.”

“Do you miss it? France?” Mary asked quietly.

You hesitated, looking down at your boots. “Sometimes. The way things were there. The certainty.”

Lily’s voice softened. “We all feel a bit adrift sometimes. Especially here, where everything is old and layered with so many stories.”

You looked up, catching their eyes. “Thanks. You both have been... a lifeline.”

Mary smiled warmly. “That’s what friends are for.”

The conversation drifted then, from classes to teachers to the upcoming exams. 

The castle buzzed around you with the usual hum of students rushing between lessons, laughter echoing in the high ceilings.

And slowly, your attention began to wander, the words around you blurring into background noise.

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing farther down the corridor now, leaning casually against a stone pillar. 

The sunlight caught in his curls, highlighting the rich brown and the damp sheen from practice. His skin, lightly tanned, seemed to glow faintly in the afternoon light.

But it was his eyes that rooted you in place — steady, unflinching, as if he were watching something rare and fragile.

You blinked, startled by the intensity of his gaze.

“Do you see that?” you murmured, nodding toward him.

Mary’s eyes followed your gesture, a grin tugging at her lips. “He’s staring like you’re some miracle.”

You folded your arms, lips tightening. “What’s up with that idiot bastard? Can’t he find anything better to do than gawking like I’m some kind of freak?”

Lily laughed softly. “You’d think someone from Beauxbatons would handle that sort of attention with a bit more grace.”

You rolled your eyes, a wry smile breaking through. “Grace isn’t exactly what I’m feeling.”

Mary chuckled. “Don’t mind him. That’s James Potter.”

You frowned, the name slipping somewhere into your memory. “James Potter...?”

Lily nodded. “Gryffindor’s Seeker. A bit of a troublemaker, but talented.”

“And his friends,” Mary added, “Sirius Black — his best mate, always at his side — and Remus Lupin, who’s been close to both for years.”

Your mind swirled with those names, distant echoes you’d heard but never quite understood. 

You glanced back at James, still watching you without shame or hesitation.

The conversation with Lily and Mary faded into the background as you watched James, his figure etched against the stone pillar, his eyes still locked on you with that strange intensity.

There was something about him that tugged at the edges of your memory — a distant echo, a faint pulse beneath the surface of thought — but no matter how hard you tried, you could not place it.

It was as if a name was just beyond reach, a face blurred by time and distance. 

You scoured your mind for clues, for fragments of some forgotten chapter, but all you found was a quiet ache of familiarity you couldn’t name.

You swallowed the feeling, telling yourself it was just the oddness of being new here, the disorienting swirl of so many unfamiliar faces and names.

With a sigh, you shifted your weight and turned toward the exit, ready to leave the corridor and the boy who unsettled you so deeply.

Mary and Lily fell into step beside you, their easy chatter picking up once more, but before you could take more than a few steps, a voice called out your name.

“Y/N.”

You stopped in your tracks, heart suddenly pounding as you spun around.

James was running toward you, his expression a mixture of hope and something more vulnerable. 

Closer now, the fading light revealed a faint scar above his right eyebrow—a thin, pale line that caught your eye instantly.

And in that moment, the memories came flooding back with unrelenting clarity.

The muddy courtyard of the orphanage, sun-warmed stones beneath your hands. 

The days when he was just a boy with dark curls, tanned skin, and laughter that rang out loud and clear.

How his mother, Euphemia, would visit the orphanage and bring him along, her wide heart pulling children from shadow into light.

You remembered the afternoons spent teasing and bickering, how stubborn he was, how fiercely alive.

And then the sharp sting of a broken branch — your misjudged swing, the cry of pain, the apology whispered breathlessly as you pressed your hand to his brow.

The scar you had given him was etched deep, a mark of childhood recklessness and unspoken connection.

Your breath caught.

He was the boy from your past — the boy who had shifted your world on its axis before disappearing into the unknown.

“James,” you whispered, the name tasting strange and familiar on your tongue.

He smiled, a little sheepish, but his eyes shone with relief.

“I never thought I’d see you again.”

For a second, the world hung still.

Your name trembled between you, spoken softly, almost reverently. His voice, warm with memory and something far deeper, seemed to echo through your chest.

And then, without thought, without hesitation, you moved.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, the recognition swelling so suddenly within you that it left you breathless.

 “James Potter!”

You crossed the space between you, heart racing, arms rising as though guided by something older than memory.

You embraced him, your arms winding around his neck, pressing close with the full, unguarded joy of seeing someone long lost to time.

James stood frozen for a single, fragile instant. His breath caught in his throat, eyes wide with disbelief, as if the entire universe had shifted beneath his feet. 

He had imagined this moment before, of course. 

Countless times in quiet hours, in stray, half-formed thoughts that never quite dared to hope. But no imagining had prepared him for this. 

For the way you felt in his arms, for the press of your cheek against his shoulder, for the soft scent of lavender and rain-soaked grass clinging to you.

Slowly, his arms rose and wrapped around you, unsure at first, almost hesitant, as though he feared one wrong movement might break the spell. 

But the warmth of you was too real, too vivid, and something in him unfurled in that moment. 

He held you closer, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like if he loosened his grip for even a second, you might vanish again. 

His heart pounded hard enough to hurt, a wild, desperate rhythm that had only ever belonged to you. 

It wasn’t just relief blooming in his chest. It was recognition. It was longing curling inward like a second heartbeat, something older than memory, louder than logic.     

Everything in him was reaching — every thread of muscle and magic and soul stretching toward you, as if his very existence had been stitched together wrong without you in it. 

He didn’t just want you close. He needed it, like air in his lungs, like light in a place that had gone too long without warmth. 

And in that moment, with you wrapped in his arms, the noise of the world faded. It didn’t matter where you had been, how long it had taken, or how much had been lost. 

You were here. You had always been his. And everything inside him knew it.

You pulled back after a long, trembling breath, your cheeks flushed, a bright smile curving your lips.

“Sorry,” you said, voice breathless, eyes shining. “I—”

James found his voice, rough and low, though his heart still beat wildly beneath his ribs. “It is all right,” he managed. 

“It is more than all right.”

Around you, the corridor seemed to dim and still, as if the castle itself had withdrawn, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment. 

Lily and Mary shared a glance behind you, a quiet understanding passing between them. With a soft word and a small smile, they slipped away into the flow of students, leaving behind a silence that was somehow heavier.

James could not look away from you. 

He traced the lines of your face as though seeing them for the first time, though some part of him had carried the memory of them all these years. 

The curve of your mouth, the shape of your eyes, the light that seemed to radiate from within you. 

The years had only deepened what was already beautiful.

His voice was softer when he spoke again, touched with something you could not name. “Where have you been all this time?”

You drew in a breath, eyes flicking away for a moment as you gathered the words, unsure where to begin. 

“I was adopted,” you said quietly. 

“A family from France. It was… very sudden. I remember Euphemia told me the day before it happened. One moment I was there, with you and the others… and then I was gone.”

James’s brow furrowed, something aching flickering in his gaze. “I remember,” he said softly. 

“Mum told me you’d been adopted. I thought—” He hesitated. “I thought you might still be nearby. I kept hoping.”

Your heart gave an odd little lurch at that, though you pressed on. “They moved not long after. To Provence. 1They were kind, truly, but it was all so new, and I suppose… I lost touch with everything from before. I spent the next six years at Beauxbatons.”

A faint smile touched your lips, though it carried a hint of wistfulness. “It was… beautiful there. Graceful, in its own way. Very different. But I always wondered about this place.”

James could only listen, rapt, as though your voice alone could anchor him to this moment.

“And then,” you continued, “this summer, they decided to return. My adoptive father was offered a position here, something in the Ministry. They thought it would be good for me too, to finish school here before… well, before whatever comes next.”

You let out a soft breath, lifting your gaze back to his. “And so, here I am. Quite unexpected.”

James shook his head, a slow, incredulous smile growing at the corners of his mouth. “Not unexpected,” he said, voice low and sure. “Fate, maybe.”

Something about the way he said it sent a ripple through you, warm and unsteady.

He studied you openly, drinking in every change, every new grace in your bearing, every familiar spark that still lived in your eyes.

“You have grown…” His voice caught, but he pressed on. “Beautifully. I nearly did not recognise you at first.”

You tilted your head, a glint of humour dancing beneath your words. 

“So I was not beautiful before?”

Colour flushed his cheeks instantly, his composure slipping. “No— no, that is not— you were— you have always—” He broke off with a helpless little laugh, raking a hand through his damp curls.

You laughed too, the sound light, lilting between you. “I am teasing, James.”

Relief washed across his face, though the warmth in his eyes only deepened.

You let your gaze travel over him for a moment, noting how the years had reshaped him. 

Gone was the boy who used to trail after you in the orphanage courtyard, all gangly limbs and stubborn defiance.

Now he stood taller, broader, with a presence that seemed to fill the corridor. The glasses remained, but behind them his eyes gleamed brighter than you remembered, full of something vivid and unspoken.

“You have grown quite well yourself,” you said softly. “You used to be shorter than me. I remember quite clearly.”

That drew a breathless, boyish laugh from him, the kind that caught in his throat. “Well,” he managed, “I could not let you stay taller forever.”

For a beat, neither of you moved. The moment stretched between you, a quiet, humming thing, as though the air itself was charged with something neither of you fully understood.

And James Potter, who had once been certain he would never know what it felt like to belong to someone, found himself standing before you, heart laid bare, and wondered how he had ever imagined anything else.

After that day, something began to change between you and James Potter, though the nature of that change unfolded with such quiet certainty that it seemed almost inevitable, as though it had been written long before either of you could comprehend it.

He began to appear more often in the spaces between your days — not merely by chance, but with a certain quiet deliberation, as though drawn to your orbit without fully understanding why. 

After lessons, he would be there at the foot of the stairs or by the classroom door, offering a bright smile and some casual remark that seemed to disguise the hope in his eyes.

In the corridors between lectures, he would fall into step beside you, his presence easy and unforced, the conversation flowing in a manner that was both comfortable and new.

Before long, you began to notice him elsewhere. 

In the library, beneath the high arches of the south wing, where he would pass by your table with an idle glance.

On the way to meals, where he would hold a place for you without being asked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. 

In the common room, where his voice would grow softer when he spoke to you, his laughter somehow warmer.

It had been years since you had seen him last, and though your memories of the orphanage remained fragmented — blurred impressions of sunlit courtyards, laughter on wind-stirred afternoons, a stubborn boy with a scar on his brow and a fierce glint in his gaze — there was something about him that stirred an unspoken familiarity. 

He felt, even now, like the sun itself: so warm and so constant that no matter how long you had wandered or how far you had been carried by the tides of life, you would always know the shape of that light. 

It was impossible to outrun the sun, after all. One might seek shadows or turn away, but sooner or later, its warmth would find you again.

And so it was with James Potter.

You also grew closer still to Lily and Mary, their friendship becoming a steady anchor in this new place. 

The three of you would linger over long breakfasts in the Great Hall, take quiet walks beneath the changing leaves, or while away late evenings in the common room .

The Marauders too, in their own way, welcomed you into their fold. 

Remus, with his quiet wisdom and perceptive gaze, would offer thoughtful conversation and a gentle kind of understanding that needed no words. 

Sirius, bright and sharp-edged, carried his loyalty with an intensity that was impossible to miss. 

Aand beneath his teasing smiles there was a depth you came to value more with each passing day. 

It was on one such afternoon that you found yourself with James beneath the willow by the lake.

The great tree swayed above you, its long branches drifting in the breeze like the threads of some ancient tapestry. 

The grass beneath was cool, the earth soft, and from your place beneath the canopy. The castle seemed distant, its towers half-lost in the glow of the descending sun.

Books lay forgotten at your side, your conversation having long since drifted away from studies. 

After some time, James shifted slightly where he sat, drawing one knee beneath him as though bracing himself. 

He glanced toward you, and there was a seriousness in his gaze that stilled the air between you, a question that had long been waiting for the right moment.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual, touched with something softer, more deliberate.

“May I ask you something?”

You turned toward him, curiosity flickering beneath the surface of your calm. “Of course.”

He hesitated only a heartbeat, his amber gaze searching yours with a quiet intensity.

[please, please, please play About You by The 1975, here!! it will change up the entire scene <3]

“Have you,” he asked, his words careful now, as though they carried more weight than he could explain, “have you found your soulmate?”

“No, I haven’t.” You whispered.

Something about the look in his eyes made your breath catch, though you did not quite understand why.

You turned your head slightly toward him, voice quiet, curious.

“Have you found yours?” you asked softly. “Your soulmate.”

His breath seemed caught in his chest, his shoulders taut, as though your question had shifted something vast within him.

And then at last, he spoke, voice low, but the truth of it rang through you all the same.

“I have,” he said.

The words struck harder than they should have, sharp and sudden. 

You flinched inwardly, though you tried to mask it. 

Your heart, for reasons you could not quite understand, seemed to stutter painfully in your chest. 

Of course he had. Of course. By this age, nearly everyone had. It had been foolish of you to even wonder otherwise. 

A tightness rose in your throat. You glanced away, pushing quickly to your feet, fingers trembling faintly at your sides. 

The sudden need to put distance between yourself and him felt overwhelming.

“I… I should go,” you murmured, already beginning to step back, voice unsteady despite your efforts to remain composed. 

“I have— I should not be here.”

But before you could take another step, James surged forward, his hand catching yours.

You tried instinctively to pull away, to keep the ache in your chest from spilling over, but he held fast.

“Wait—” he said, his voice rough with something raw and vulnerable. “You asked if I’d found mine. And I told you yes.”

You froze, your heart thundering.

James swallowed, his gaze pinned to yours, his fingers trembling where they held your wrist.

“I always wondered why I could see colors when I never met my soulmate. Why I felt everything so deeply when no one was meant for me. Why everyone else had to wait to meet their soulmate till they saw color.”

He laughed, but it was hollow.

“I thought maybe the universe made a mistake. That maybe I was broken. I spent years thinking I was born wrong, that I was the only one who got left out of the magic.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles.

“But then you came along. And suddenly everything made sense. All that time I spent aching, waiting, wondering — it was for you”

You stared at him, breath caught.

James took a breath like it was the first one that hadn’t hurt in years.

“It’s always been about you.”

And before the ache in your chest could even become a word, he kissed you.

His mouth found yours with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs, a heat that seemed to burn through every inch of you. 

The contact sent a rush of sensation through your body, sharp and bright, as though the very air had turned electric. 

You gasped softly into the kiss, the shock of it leaving you dizzy, helpless beneath the weight of the moment. 

His lips moved over yours with aching purpose, gentle at first, then deepening, as though something vast and unspoken had broken free in him at last.

Your fingers curled unconsciously into the fabric of his robes, holding on as though the earth itself had shifted beneath you. 

You could feel the heat of him through every layer, the taut strength of his arms braced around you.

And still the kiss went on — searing, consuming — until at last, breathless and trembling, you tore your mouth from his, gasping for air.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. 

James hovered above you, one hand still cradling your head, the other pressed to the earth beside you. 

His gaze was blazing, the amber darkened with something fierce and undeniable.

“You are my soulmate,” he said, voice thick with something unshakable. “You always have been.”

The words wrapped around you like a thread pulled tight, tugging at something buried deep beneath your ribs.

“James,” you breathed, your voice trembled. “I thought you would forget me.”

His eyes didn’t waver. His hand tightened gently around yours.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?” he asked, quiet but fierce, like the very idea was an insult to the stars.

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, one that didn’t quite hide the ache underneath. “I forgot a lot of things,” you said, watching him like he might disappear.

“But do you know what I never forgot?”

His brows furrowed, gaze locked to yours. “What?”

You lifted your hand, slow and hesitant, and reached up to brush your fingers gently across the arch of his brow.

“This scar,” you whispered. “Right here.”

His lips parted in surprise, a breath of laughter slipping out. “You gave me that,” he said, eyes lighting with memory.

“We were playing near the garden wall behind the orphanage. You hit me with a stick and then cried harder than I did.”

“I was dramatic,” you said, smiling now.

“You still are.”

Your smile wavered, softening into something more fragile. “There’s a lot I forgot about you, James. But somehow… there’s something about you that even now, when I can’t remember everything — it’s the same smile, same eyes, and the same damn scar that made my heart surrender.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you’d stitched the air back into his lungs.

Then, with a quiet, aching tenderness, he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to yours, breath warm between you.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ve got the entire time in the world to remember each other.”

You laughed as he pressed another warm kiss into your lips. 

“My mother will lose her mind,” he said with a soft laugh. 

“She will be beside herself when she sees you. I have to write her the moment we leave this tree. She will not forgive me if I wait even an hour.”

That drew a true, another bright laugh from you.

You curled closer, head resting lightly against his shoulder, your heart steady now in a way it had never been.

And for James Potter—who had spent so many years quietly mistrusting the universe, doubting that such fragile, luminous things as soulmates could truly exist beyond storybooks and hopeful hearts — this was the moment everything changed. 

Beneath the ancient sweep of the willow, with you nestled close and your fingers tangled in his, James held you like something sacred. 

Your breath moved gently at his shoulder. The taste of your kiss still lingered on his lips, and all the old fears melted away like mist beneath the morning sun.

Because how could he doubt any longer? 

How could he deny the truth when every thread of his life, every unseen choice and twist of fate, had led him here.

To you, the girl who once lit his world with color before he even knew he’d been living in grey, the only soul whose presence could turn the air to gold and make the light itself feel like it was made just for you.

In this moment, James Potter finally believed in fate, not as some cold hand that ruled from above, but as a force that, against all odds, had placed you in his path again.

Because it had always been you.

Every turn, every heartbeat, and every breath he took without knowing why.

All of it had been about you.

[ssa-dado]

i’m actually convinced that hotch is secretly a huge gossip. what if that’s the thing that gets him and fleabag reader to start talking? maybe it’s about one of the other pool dads ? hotch actually knows him cause his kid goes to school with jack and it’s something real scandalous. idk i just need to have hotch being nosey and spilling tea.

Pinot Grigio

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man mutual pining Summary: It’s a party. You’re the help. He’s the Hotchner. He shows up to the gala in jeans, insults a politician for you, then stands around long enough to overshare a bunch of gossip you didn’t ask for (meaning: casually reveals he’s been tracking your poolside admirers like a repressed Victorian husband.) Warnings: Explicit sexual language! (not graphic, it's all in reader's head and meant as a joke... for herself, apparently), alcohol use, age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, classism, mysogeny, unhealthy coping mechanisms (wine, gossip, Hotchner) Word Count: 4.2k Dado's Corner: This prompt was so juicy and triggered my brain just right, I had to fumble a lot to find the perfect setting to reveal Hotch’s true chatty grandma self hihihihi this was so funnn! (I think I wrote three different versions of it because my brain cells just refused to collaborate… but hopefully this one works.) [I didn’t end up scripting in the part where Hotch knows the dad because of Jack, butttt! trust me, it’s probably for the better.] Thank you so much for the request, marry meeee <3

masterlist(s)

Pinot Grigio.

Just a normal white wine.

Pear on the nose. Citrusy. Crisp. Innocent.

Until yesterday. 7:24 PM.

When Penelope Garcia - who you don’t know, didn’t follow, would absolutely remember if you did (because of the most adorable Lego duck earrings and blonde curls) - posted a single photo from some FBI event on Facebook.

A glass of wine in one hand. Aaron Hotchner’s shoulder in the other.

A bottle of Pinot Grigio right there on the table.

Since then, it’s been panic.

Pool moms liked. Pool moms shared. Some pool moms commented, even.

Penelope is now famous.

She’s gained at least forty new friend requests from women named Debbie (the cool-girl rebrand of Deborah), Beth (Bethany, but pretending), and Lisa (just... Lisa) - all of them hoping for fresh content.

A new Hotchner sighting. A blurry arm. The back of a head. The profile of his nose.

And now you are paying the price.

Because you’re six bottles deep into Pinot Grigio and currently opening your seventh for the Pool Extension Project Announcement Party.

(A name so thrilling it could only have been brainstormed by three men named Greg in a windowless office with beige carpets and no dreams... broken dreams, maybe.)

(Apparently they’re adding a spa? Maybe? You weren’t listening. You were too busy arranging the buffet to look “effortlessly elegant” while silently sobbing into a tray of beet hummus.)

You’re catering it. Sort of.

You were a last-minute call.

You were a desperate substitution. Someone dropped out, and they called you.

Because you are reliable.

Talented. Charming. Funny. Qualified. And – crucially - cheaper.

(Not cheap. Cheaper. Enough of a bargain to be flattering but still slightly degrading.)

And of course, you said yes. Said “I’d love to,” said “What’s the dress code?” while internally shrieking because - what if Aaron is there too? (He might be. He probably is.)

You also told yourself you weren’t dressing for him.

That you just wanted to look professional in your very black, very tailored to your body catering uniform (with a slutty apron) - but your ass looks absolutely divine in these trousers, and if it’s not captured in one of the official photos and framed in the break room, you’re suing.

Mayday. Mayday.

He’s here.

Confirmed visual.

Aaron Hotchner.

In the flesh. In the room.

Looking slightly out of place, which of course only makes him stand out more.

Navy button-up. Jeans.

(Jeans? Him? He owns a pair of jeans??? Who sold them to him? Who authorized this? Who gave this man thighs and then denim?)

(Well… apparently so. And they fit. Criminally well.)

Meanwhile, everyone else is trussed up in three-piece suits, using big grown adult vocabulary like municipal redevelopment-

(Meaning: someone’s cousin is getting paid a suspicious amount of money to plant four trees and call it urban renewal)-

and strategic infrastructure planning-

(Meaning: they’re finally going to pour some lukewarm asphalt over the holes in 45th St NW, right before election season.)

They all shake hands with fake smiles, congratulate each other on breathing, and pretend the room doesn’t still vaguely smell like feet and chlorine, despite the mountain of imported cheeses you spent hours shaping into perfect little geometric offerings to the gods of local politics.

And Aaron-

Aaron just stands there.

Not speaking. Not smiling. Not performing. Just existing.

And yet, somehow, he still looks more elegant than all of them combined.

God, what a man.

…A man you’ve had full conversations with–

in your head.

While brushing your teeth.

While shaving your legs.

While marinating chicken.

You’ve practiced your banter with him more than you’ve prepared for actual job interviews.

The fact that you’ve barely spoken to him in real life is not because you’re shy. Not because you’re afraid of rejection. Not because there’s the occasional whisper that he’s technically old enough to have fathered you if he’d started very, very young.

(Which, most of the time, only makes it more erotically confusing.)

No. (Yes.)

It’s because you lowkey hate him.

You hate him because he walked in holding his pool bag.

…He just showed up here to do his laps.

And you just know - deep in your soul, in your bloodstream, in your ovaries - that inside that bag is a navy speedo. Matching. To. His. Shirt.

A Speedo that will now never fulfill its destiny, heartlessly imprisoned, crushed by a rolled towel and - if you had to guess - a blister pack of ibuprofen (he’s old enough to break his back sneezing and still blame it on “tight hamstrings.”)

Because, clearly, judging by the way he’s confidently flipping the strap back up onto his shoulder…

He has no idea the pool is closed today.

Didn’t know there was a party. He wasn’t briefed. He didn’t glance at the laminated flyer at reception with a dolphin in a bowtie that said “Join us for the Pool Extension Gala!”

Beautiful, beautiful man. But apparently can’t read for shit.

Because he was too busy doing… FBI things.

Whatever that means.

You don’t really know what he does.

In your head it’s just a sweaty, shirt-clinging montage of him saving lives, wrestling evil, or rescuing kittens from burning houses and carrying them out in one arm while the other cradles a bleeding witness.

You just know it’s hotter than whatever the hell you do, because before he can take more than two steps into the room, he’s already being mobbed by politicians.

Actual, elected men - men with power, men with authority, men with at least three types of stress-induced hair loss and thinning temples they pretend aren’t happening.

And they know him. They recognize him.

They even lower their voices when they speak to him, they shake his hand with such reverence, you can smell their intimidation from all the way across the room.

The fear. The respect. The power. The arm veins. The way Aaron has no idea he’s the main event at a party he didn’t even know existed.

Quite ironically, on the other hand - on the small, overworked, kind of underpaid, sexually malnourished hand that is you - you haven’t slept properly in a week because of it.

Because of the stress of the endless prep and logistics and… fine, because of him too.

Sometimes at 4 a.m., you’d find yourself just… staring at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, vibrating with anxiety and something much less noble and your only two options for survival were:

Cooking. Loudly. Desperately. Whipping up reductions and spreads in your tiny kitchen, determined to perfect the fig-and-goat cheese tartlet while trying not to scream when the oven beeped and you realized the sun was already rising.

Or… Well. Let’s just say your neighbors must think you’re really, really into dental hygiene. What kind of electric toothbrush has that many vibration modes? What kind of dental tool sings at such frequency?

Answer: not a toothbrush.

It’s pink. Plastic. Takes two AA batteries and a prayer.

You may or may not bought it during a very dark week with your café tip money at 2 a.m. from the back shelf of a pharmacy, and since then it’s been the most stable relationship of your adult life.

You’ve had to steal batteries from your TV remote more than once just to get through the week.

She’s not fancy, but she gets the job done.

You’d recommend her.

You’d even recommend her to the woman now standing in front of you - if she’d stop looking at Hotchner and trying to hormonally inform him that she is, at this very moment, in the mating phase of her cycle.

It’s not even subtle - the little cleavage tug, the fluttery eyelashes, the way she’s nodding absently while you talk about acidity and finish, eyes locked on the back of his neck rolls.

You get it. You’ve been there. Last week, actually.

And even now - when you are categorically not ovulating, when you are actively trying to be a functioning member of a patriarchal society - he does, objectively, have a beautiful neck.

A neck that has almost certainly never been stressed about fig preserves or the structural integrity of a puff pastry shell.

“I’ll have that one,” she says, stopping you midway through your ramble and pointing at a bottle.

The fucking Pinot.

Of course you will.

You smile.

Because you are a professional.

Because rage doesn’t pair well with brie.

“Sure,” you say, and pour.

You handpicked twelve white wines for this event. Twelve.

Each chosen with a level of passion that should’ve been reserved for, say, human relationships or personal growth.

Some of them had to be pulled from tiny Italian cellars with shipping so disorganized you’re now on a first-name basis with a man named Lorenzo who thinks you’re unstable and possibly in love with him.

(You might be. You’ve sliced figs and cried about tannins. Your grip on reality is… soft.)

You woke up in cold sweats for a whole week wondering if the Soave made it through Zurich because Italians do not believe in emails. Or customs. Only God.

But none of it mattered, because in the end, it’s always the Pinot, for her – and all the other people that came to your stand earlier.

You call it the Aaron Hotchner Effect.

The logic goes like this:

“If in the picture, he was drinking Pinot, and I drink Pinot, then we have something in common. We can laugh. We can clink glasses.

He’d say something dry and low - “You’ve got good taste” - and brush my fingers as he takes the glass. Maybe the hand. Maybe the elbow. Maybe the fucking thigh.

We’d flirt.

And then he’d fuck me.

Some really good rough, sex up against his hardwood bed. He’d keep his tie on. Hold my wrists. Press his mouth to my shoulder to keep from making a sound, because letting go like that, making noise, would be too revealing. Too honest.

He’d fuck me until my knees gave in and my breath stuttered and my voice cracked from begging. He wouldn’t come until I had. At least three times.

And then, of course, He’d marry me.

All because I drank his wine.”

That’s the pipeline. That’s what’s happening behind their eyes.

And you can't even judge them.

You’d be doing the same, if you weren’t currently being reminded by the smell of onion jam soaked into the pocket of your apron that you’re on the job.

You’re the help, the wine girl no one listens to until the glass is already full and the flirting has failed.

But you’d do it. You would.

Just… correctly.

Because while everyone else in that cursed Facebook photo saw the bottle, you saw the glass.

His glass, the one shoved off to the side, barely in frame - because God forbid someone like Aaron Hotchner be photographed holding the fun juice. That would imply he experiences pleasure. Or whimsy. Or serotonin.

Still, you zoomed in. You don't like to admit that. You really don't. But you did.

And thanks to the course that still haunts your bank account - the one led by three men, all named Marco - you can confidently say, with devastating clarity:

That was not Pinot.

It was Verdicchio.

Lean. Salty. A little green around the edges.

The kind of wine that doesn’t care if you like it.

Citrus and sea air and something just a little bit wrong at the end, like it’s judging you.

And maybe it is.

It’s bitter. Quiet. Difficult.

Difficult also because no one knows how to properly pronounce its name - you didn’t. You butchered it every time and got scolded by each of the Marcos at least once.

(Marco One - smoking indoors in his wool turtleneck in July, would hiss, "No, no, Ver-deek-kio, not Ver-dish-ee-oh, do you want to die in shame?")

(Marco Two made you repeat it five times in a row in front of the whole class.)

(Marco Three just muttered “Madonna Santa” and poured himself another glass.)

Verdicchio doesn’t seduce.

It holds its distance, stands in the corner of the room with crossed arms, and waits for you to prove you're worth the conversation.

Half the people who taste it hate it. The other half get addicted.

It lingers. It cuts. It stays in your mouth longer than it should.

A wine with boundaries.

A wine that says: you don’t know me.

You think you do, but you don’t.

Just like Aaron.

And you tried, betraying everything the three Marcos ever taught you about integrity, balance, and correct regional pairings, to guide each of your (unwanted) patient tragically afflicted with Hotchism toward the Verdicchio.

Even when it didn’t pair with what they were eating. Even when it clashed. Even when it made your soul itch with the wrongness of a soft-rind Brie beside all that salinity.

You’re not a bitch. You don’t gatekeep. You offer your knowledge freely. Warmly. Kindly.

But you’d be lying if you said that knowing the truth didn’t make you feel good.

Smug.

A little superior.

And yes, fine, maybe that made you feel close to him.

Closer.

Maybe you are a bitch.

Because you could have said it, could have casually dropped the line - “Oh, by the way, he was drinking Verdicchio. It wasn’t the Pinot.”

You could have been generous. Transparent. Correct.

But it wouldn’t have changed anything.

You’d be out of Verdicchio instead of Pinot.

They’d still fawn.

Still flutter.

Still call him Agent Hotchner with that glazed, pseudo-coy voice like they’re already imagining what his mattress feels like.

(It’s probably very firm. Orthopedic. Recommended by his chiropractor. No softness. No give. Posture is sacred. Comfort is weakness.)

(He probably tucks the sheets so tight you’d have no choice but to scooch closer to him just to have some room to breathe. Which, obviously, is the point.)

Same thirst, different label.

Maybe you’d tell the first one who actually listens to you.

The first one who doesn’t treat you like furniture in an apron. The first one who doesn’t cut you off mid-sentence the moment they clock that the politicians are loosening their grip on him.

Maybe the reason why you have such a crush on him is because he’s everything.

And you’re- well. You’re here.

In shoes that are starting to pinch. With wine on your hands and fig paste in your hair. With bills and back pain and the slow, creeping dread that no one really sees you unless you’re holding something they want.

And even then, just barely.

He’s elegant, unreadable, capital letter Important.

You’re… nice. Warm. Cheap... cheaper.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole appeal.

Maybe that’s why you keep staring at him as he’s basically dragged to your tasting stand by a small parade of men who spend their days warming seats in the Senate and collecting checks for pretending they invented civic duty.

One of the men makes the effort to squint at your name tag.

You can see the gears turning in his head as he uses it - not to address you - but to soften the blow of a condescending joke he thinks is charming, such as “how rare it is to find a young woman with taste… especially one who serves.”

You smile.

Because that’s the job.

You’re the help. The scener-

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, turned slightly toward the man, voice flat.

He looks disgusted.

(Though, in fairness, everything he says sounds vaguely judgmental. That’s just his face.)

“Oh, no… Hotchner, don’t get me wrong. I mean it as a compliment. I admire it. Not everyone’s meant to chase titles or build a résumé, you know? And that’s not a bad thing - society only works because some people are content doing the everyday stuff. The real work.”

You’re two seconds away from breaking the last Pinot bottle over his head.

Kill two birds with one stone: one bottle, one condescending prick, and finally, blissful silence.

“…We need the people who keep the wheels turning. Mechanics. Hairdressers. Cooks…”

He gestures vaguely to you, apparently your existence is now an example. A concept. An idea. Something nice to look at when dressed in black and pouring wine.

“Really,” he adds - just in case you didn’t catch the insult the first three times - “I admire it.”

“Do you always talk to people like this?” Aaron doesn’t raise his voice - just tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on the man with a kind of stillness that, for reasons you’ve yet to comprehend, is louder than yelling.

It’s unsettling.

“What? I’m paying her a compliment.” Senator Asshole tries to laugh it off.

“You’re condescending to her. It’s not the same thing.”

“Come on,” Senator Asshole chuckles, flicking a desperate glance around, “I’m just saying she’s good at what she does.”

“And I’m saying maybe you should stop talking,” Aaron hisses.

The silence is immediate.

Aaron just stares at him – for one, two, three, four??? Seconds.

Senator Asshole, sadly, does not burst into flames. He’s stolen away by Councillor Buttchin, who probably heard everything and tries to mop it up with the limp excuse of needing to discuss “urban renewal”

(Meaning: gentrification. The rich man’s robbery.)

And so Aaron watches him leave, before he turns back to you.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “The asshole didn’t even apologise.”

(He’s very hot when he swears.)

You wave it off. “It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. It’s disgust-”

“It’s not the first time,” you cut him off. Because you don’t want to hear it. The apology. The concern. The male guilt wrapped in decency like it's somehow revolutionary.

Yes, thank you for noticing misogyny exists. Gold star.

You’ve done the bare minimum and you’re very tall so it feels like more. Congratulations on not being a monster.

At least, that’s what the rational part of you is saying. The one with a spine. The one that reads theory and donates when she can.

The other part – the one currently regulating the lubrication levels of a certain region of your body that apparently believes being mildly defended by a man with forearms like that is enough to justify reproduction - has… other thoughts.

Darwin would call it natural selection.

You’d call it bringing feminism back fifty years in one pelvic pulse.

But maybe your body’s oh-so-romantically prepping for insemination because he doesn’t make a speech.

He doesn’t continue to perform, doesn’t launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about respect, social or say something like “I have a lot of female friends, my mom is a woman, for instance.”

He doesn’t explain how decent he is.

He just… nods. Gives you a flicker of a concerned half-smile (because he’s a dad, and concern is hardwired into his frontal cortex, right between disapproval and knows best.)

But it’s quiet. Undramatic.

Like he saw it. Heard it. Filed it.

And now he’s moving on. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.

And not just emotionally, physically. Actually moving-moving.

Shifts halfway down the shorter end of your stand - not technically in your area, but just close enough that if he got any nearer, people might start asking him what cheese pairs with a Chablis.

(Which would be a disaster, because he looks like he’d say “cheddar” and then stare you down until you corrected him.)

Close enough to feel like a choice.

He doesn’t look at you. Scans the room instead, until his gaze lands on something. Someone.

“See that guy?” he says, nodding subtly toward ‘that guy’ across the room.

You follow the gesture.

Ah. That guy.

Mid-thirties.

You don’t know his name.

You just know he’s always suspiciously nearby. Hovering. Lurking. Casually orbiting the table where you sit every week in the pool cafeteria while waiting for your friend to finish her laps.

Objectively hot - if your type is broad shoulders, hollow eyes, and a divorce lawyer in waiting (and it pretty much is, unfortunately.)

He has a kid, you’re pretty sure. And a wedding ring he forgets to forget.

The kind of man who blames his wife’s headaches instead of confronting the fact he thinks the clitoris was a Greek philosopher.

(“Clitoris? He makes an appearance in Plato’s Symposium, doesn’t he?”)

“He’s been battling with himself over asking for your number for about a month,” Aaron says. “Still hasn’t managed it.”

Oooooooooooooookay.

Weird. Unexpected. Also deeply awkward.

(How strange that it’s not you making things weird for once.)

“And…” you trail off, because you’re too distracted by how he looks like he’s regretting it all - what a loser. “You’re saying this because you want me to hand it to him directly?”

“Oh, not at all.” Boy. That was fast. Too fast. “…he’s married.” You knew that already. “…You shouldn’t-”

“I shouldn’t?” You blink.

“Um, you…” He shakes his head, “You should… just… know this.”

…Right.

Aaron’s wife definitely cheated on him. Or maybe he’s just a prude. Or a control freak.

All possible. All extremely inconvenient. Poor him. Or maybe he deserved it, who knows.

“…Thanks,” you say flatly. “You… want something to drink?”

You ask because it’s polite… and also because he’s technically clogging the line forming behind him (all faint whiffs of Pinot settling directly into your nostrils from people pretending they need a refill, when really, they just want to stand near him.)

(Mr. Aaron.)

(Awkward-mr.-Aaron.)

(Socially-repressed-emotionally-terrifying-mr.-Aaron.)

(Mr. very-much-returning-to-the-place-he’s-meant-to-be, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr. leaning-in-to-read-the-wine-list, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr-)

“How did you know about the guy?” slips out of you, as you’re already pouring something into an empty glass just to keep moving… you don’t even look at the bottle.

No pear. So, not Pinot. (Small victories.)

“He always sits on the side of the table facing you, instead of watching his son’s swimming lesson like the rest of the parents.”

Yeah, okay, that guy is a bit way too obvious, but the problem only continues to be him.

Aaron.

“He straightens his posture every time you laugh.”

Aaron, who shouldn’t have time to notice these things. Who stops by every other week, maybe. Maybe less. Always suited. Always in a rush. Always delivering the same three lines.

“Americano, no sugar.”

“Card.”

“Have a nice day.”

He never lingers. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even stir the coffee. Just takes it and goes. Gone before the register beeps. FBI stuff awaiting for him.

“He ordered the same drink as you twice. Didn’t drink it. He doesn’t like cappuccino, he only did that because he thought you’d notice him”

So, how the hell does Aaron know? How does he notice you? Because he must have.

Somewhere in those two-minute drop-ins. In the blur between Card and Have a nice day. In the handful of seconds he’s ever been within ten feet of you.

Unless…

“Puts his phone down when you walk in. Doesn’t check it again until you’re gone.”

Unless he did look. Unless he looked specifically at you. Out of all the people. All the tables. All the parents and staff and regulars.

“His son finishes swimming before your friend. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk to anyone else. Always finds something to do. Phone. Book. Pretending to read the sign about pool shoes.”

He saw you. And he remembered.

Which means…

“Always leaves five minutes after you. Never before. Never with anyone else.”

He’s either been paying attention. Or this big, terrifying federal agent is actually just… a massive gossip.

You freeze, because he picks up the glass you poured.

It wasn’t meant for him. You didn’t even know what it was.

Aaron swirls it once.

Leans in. Smells it.

Then brings it to his lips-

And hums.

A low, pleased little sound that settles right between your legs  lungs, ergo straight to your heart. Because you’re a professional. And you take the sommelier thing very seriously.

You’re just passionate about your craft.

Especially about praise.

You love being praised.

On the job.

For the wine.

“People give a lot of themselves away when they want someone,” he says softly, almost kind.

Then he licks his lips. Just to clean the red off.

But it’s slow. Thoughtless. (Only makes it worse for you, honestly.)

You’re magnetically locked onto that smart mouth, so it’s easy to catch the small smile he gives you before turning and walking away.

Still with that soggy pool bag slung over his shoulder.

Fuck.

The things you wouldn’t do to that man.

“Can I have what he just had?” the next woman in line asks, already stepping up.

Of course you can.

That’s the point of lines, isn’t it? You wait your turn, you get what you want, and you leave. No lingering. No swooning. No involuntary pelvic lurches.

Survival.

Even if the sommelier - oh, that’s you! What a coincidence - would swear to drink Pinot for an entire godforsaken month just for five more seconds with that huge, handsome, back in that goddamn navy shirt… and that mouth too.

You glance at the bottle in your hand.

What did you even pour?

Oh. Of course.

It’s that wine.

The one you only open on nights when you’re either crying or coming.

The one that tasted like a mistake the first time and like a need every time after.

Aglianico.

Black fruit. Smoke. Leather.

Earthy. Dense. A little savage around the edges.

Unapologetic.

Masculine.

Slow to open.

Demands patience.

Tastes better if you wait for it.

Like all the worst things.

And all the best ones.

What a coincidence, really.

Phi's Corner: requests for fleabag!reader x Hotch are (wide) open(ed)!

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[dooberific]

I absolutely love your writing!! Idk if you're open for request, but if you do, can I request doctor!reader with Harumasa? He loves to go to infirmary not only he can pretend to be sick but also just to see them

Double trouble cause I thought it sounded like a fun combination. Does using a 1988 song name as the title make me sound old? 🤔

❝ 𝘉𝘢𝘥 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯' 𝘠𝘰𝘶 ❞

harumasa x afab!doctor!reader

genre: fluff, I projected a little bit into this???

summary: if being in love with your cute doctor wasn’t bad enough, she’s completely clueless when it comes to romance

wc: 1.6k

The end of your pen tapped thoughtfully against your plush lower lip as you skimmed your notes. Once. Twice. Your eyes dart to the opened paper file on the counter beside you.

 Even cracked it was a solid two inches high and crammed full of health histories, specialty consult results and prescription sheets all bound haphazardly with what looked like ties from a bread bag. You really needed to get an actual binder to hold it all, but as of now you had other problems to address.

“Well,” you swiveled your chair around as you clicked your pen, eyes still skimming your intake sheet before you looked up with a smile, “Good news is nothing seems to be wrong. Well, let me rephrase that, wrong when compared to your baseline.” 

It was an important differentiation to make when you were dealing with one of your most tasking patients. In your two years of clinic practice in the city you had never needed to spend a series of days pouring over a patient file, heck, even before you graduated and were staged as a resident in the clinic in the Outer Ring it wasn’t so extensive. 

Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome was a bad actor, and Asaba Harumasa seemed to be its favorite role to haunt. 

He coughed pitifully, a hand splayed over his chest as he shook his head. “Are you sure, Doc? My body’s aching all over and my head feels funny, and I—,” he coughed again, “can’t seem to shake this cough.” 

You frowned, scribbling another note on your papers. “Have you been taking all your medications as indicated?”

“Just as the doctor ordered…actually,” a pensive expression decorated his face as he fisted the fabric of his work shirt, “maybe I have a deficiency in something, I think I ran out of some of my vitamins.” 

You perked up immediately, flipping quickly to his laundry list of medication and supplements. “Which one have you been missing? A? C? K?”

“I think it was vitamin you.”

“Oh.” You pulled your prescription pad off the desk. “I’m going to write you an order for  Vitamin U. Try adding some cruciferous veggies to your diet, leafy greens, broccoli, stuff like that. Call me if it starts giving you stomach problems.”

You tore the slip off your pad as you extended it to him, the paper decorated in your curling and messy script. 

“Do you need a work excuse?”

Should he just quit? This was the question he asked himself every time he stepped out the door of the clinic back onto the street, paper bag of medication in his hand. 

White coat syndrome was a very real affliction, though his heart wasn’t racing and his blood pressure wasn’t spiking because he was anxious. After the fourth visit you just assumed it was his baseline response to see his pulse spike randomly through the exam, after all, his syndrome mainly seemed to impact his heart and lungs. 

What you didn’t know was that wasn’t his baseline, nor was it a mutation of his syndrome not documented by his past physicians. It was simply a biological response to something else you conveniently seemed to not notice: the raging interest he had in you.

Rest assured he was absolutely mortified when he figured it out himself, laying on his back staring at the ceiling in the dark as he realized he was enthralled by the very idea of you. Your intelligence, your nimble hands, the way you tapped your pen against your lips when met was a challenge you hadn’t quite deciphered, your warm smile.

It wasn’t a complete lie when he would tell you he felt feverish, or that his stomach felt sick and his heart was racing, he felt all those things with horrifying clarity tenfold when your hand pressed against his forehead after noting aloud that his skin seemed flush and clammy. 

Was it crossing a line to be flirting with your doctor? Definitely, he was sure he was toeing some doctor-patient professional relationship line, but if he ended up in someone else’s care later then there really wasn’t anything holding him back. 

But he was growing increasingly convinced that if you weren’t intentionally playing dumb that you might be a little thick when it came to the nuanced science of flirtation because he had shifted from casual to nearly outright and you never batted an eye.

How else could you have misinterpreted his texts from last week? He was half-giddy with excitement, sure he had you this time.

I miss you.

Your appointment isn’t until next week, you didn’t miss anything. Have a good night :)

It haunted him nearly as much as the day he forgot his work excuse and asked you to text it to him, how proudly he had flipped the phone screen to show Tsukishiro until she squinted and asked, “Why do you have heart emojis around your doctor’s name?”

A devastating blow to his ego. But so was every failed attempt to catch your eye. 

“Do you have an inhaler? Cause you just took my breath away.”

“Hold on, I’ll grab one from the cart. You’re supposed to carry your own inhaler, Mr Asaba!” You scolded, disappearing for a moment before tossing him an inhaler. 

“You look a little under the weather yourself, Doc. Sure you aren’t deficient in vitamin M E?”

“Ah, I didn’t put as much makeup on today.” You cupped your cheeks with your hands thoughtfully. “I feel fine though, thanks for your concern.” 

“I’m no organ donor, but I’d love to give you my heart.”

“Your medical condition prevents you from joining the organ donation program.” You didn’t even bother to turn around when you acknowledged him.

“I think my heart just skipped a beat when I looked at you.”

“You’re on a medication that regulates heart rhythm, should I write you a cardiology referral?”

He went to text you again as he walked home for the evening. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. You just weren’t getting it, or maybe you were just too kind to tell him you weren’t interested or even that you had a boyfriend already on his numerous visits. Maybe he should just give you some space?

But maybe that would be cruel when you were standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change, mascara smeared down your cheeks as you sniffled. He pocketed his phone.

“Hey Doc, you alright?” 

You tensed, head swiveled in his direction before you quickly turned your face away, hands swiping at your cheeks before wiping them on your dark scrubs hastily.

“Oh, hey Mr. Asaba.” He frowned at your attempt at a cheerful tone, your voice still wavering from your tears before you cleared your throat. “You, uh, don’t have to call me Doc when the clinic is closed.” 

“And you don’t have to call me Mister when I’m not sitting on your exam table.” He retorted, catching the little quirk at the corner of your lips as they quivered in a small smile.

“Want me to walk you home? It’s kinda late.” 

“No, but thank you.” You peered over your shoulder towards the restaurant just behind you. You gripped your bag tighter, inching closer to where he stood beside you on the curb.  “Actually, would you mind..?” 

He didn’t have to ask you what was wrong, within the first five minutes of your walk you had apologized to him multiple times, started crying again, and spilled your heart out.

Six bad dates in the span of a couple weeks came to a head over a plate of chicken parm, your date kicking back as he declared you to be dull, hopeless, slow, and much uglier in person than your dating profile picture (which was your clinic profile photo). 

“He said that I “couldn’t take a hint”, whatever that’s supposed to mean!” You cried indignantly before you turned to him, eyes puffy and wet from your tears. 

“Am I that bad?”

He sucked a breath between his teeth. “Well, not to play the devil’s advocate but I’ve been flirting with you for weeks and you didn’t notice.” 

You stopped dead in your tracks. “What?!”

He held up his hands defensively, but before he could say anything your head had already hung low, shuffling your clinic sneakers on the dirty sidewalk outside your apartment.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was small as your shoulders sank. “I’m not very good at stuff like this.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers grazing his choker. “I noticed, but it’s fine. You just need things to be a little more straightforward.”

He took a deep breath, clasping his hands together as he pointed at you. “I think you’re very pretty and charming in your weird doctor-y kind of way, so I would like to take you out for dinner sometime. Like, romantically.”

He was sure you gave yourself whiplash for how quickly your head snapped up, eyes wide. You brushed your tousled hair back from your face, cheeks flushing brightly enough he could see them burning under the streetlights.

“Oh, okay….when?”

“Tomorrow after you get off? I’m dreaming of beer and fried chicken if you aren’t opposed.”

“Of course not!” 

He was a little taken aback by how aggressively you answered, your hands clasping around one of his as if he was about to dematerialize before your very eyes.

“Great, then I will see you tomorrow. Have a good night, Doc—I mean, (y/n).”

“Good night to you as well.”

He turned to leave. He was practically screaming inside like a teenage girl you just secured a prom date, a new lightness to his step in the wake of his victory.

“Harumasa!”

He paused in his step, head whipping around to face you. You still stood on the stoop, a smile plastered across your face like he hadn’t seen before, one that lit your eyes up and dimpled your cheek.

“Thank you!”

He gripped his chest over his heart as it flipped wildly in his chest. His grin was pained when he looked up at you. 

“Doc, I might actually need emergency care this time--,”

Rey 2024

[mariasont]

Office Sleepover - A.H

a/n: this is honestly kind of shit but whatever

might make this a mini series?

part two here!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which reader gets put on a hit-list and has to stay in the office (kind of based off when penelope got put on a hit-list by the dirty dozen)

warnings: reader kind of flashes hotch, really inconsistent with how the gov works i'm sure, there's also definitely not an oven in the break room but in my world there is <3

wc: 3.8k

Hotch's voice reached you, but the words tangled into an indecipherable code as they hit the air. You nodded, a reflex, but it was as if your brain had short-circuited. You could make out fragments--a hit on you, stay at office, 24/7 protection, you can take the back office. But no matter how many times he said it, it seemed to ricochet through your head, making less sense each time. You were on a hit list? A hit list?

It all felt very made up, like a script ripped straight out of a tv show. Risk was a part of the BAU job description, but a hit list? For a fleeting moment, a chuckle hovered at the brink of your lips, but it was swiftly swallowed by a wave of dread that rose in its place. You blinked a couple times, probably too many in a vain attempt to clear the fog and bring Hotch's face into focus.

"But what about all my stuff? And you want me to camp out here in the office? For how long, Hotch? I mean, I'm all for overtime, but this is... this is a lot, and I--," you babble, your speech racing ahead of your thoughts. "And my baking? That's my biggest stress reliever. Not to mention my DIY projects--I can't just abandon my half-finished throw pillowcases. Plus, how many pairs of shoes is too many for an office closet?"

Your pout formed a delicate bow, and though he said nothing, his eyes softened. Hotch could feel the frown marring his features. He might never say it, but seeing you like this struck a chord, making it a little hard to breathe. 

Circling the desk, he planted himself in front of you, his hand settling on your shoulder. "Hey, take a deep breath," he urges softly. "Let's take it one step at a time. List out what you need, someone will bring it here. Your baking supplies, DIY projects, even your shoes."

True to Hotch's word, as usual, you found every piece of your life carefully compartmentalized into cardboard boxes, lined up carefully in the office that now doubled as your temporary room. There was an odd sense of dislocation in finishing your workday and needing only to count about thirty steps before arriving at your room.

You swung the door closed, the sound sealing the room as a deep sigh wrapped around you and you started sifting through the boxes. The pullout couch serving as your bed was less than appealing, its worn fabric making you grimace internally. Nevertheless, you diverted your attention, busying yourself with the organizing of your extensive collection of things. Spencer would definitely shake his head at the sight of the vast amount of clothes you had brought.

The irony wasn't lost on you; surrounded by the office's ceaseless motion, yet you felt more alone than in the stillness of your own apartment. God, this was pathetic, and you needed a drink, but you had a nagging suspicion the office handbook would have a thing or two to say about that. You spent a solid two hours attempting to infuse the sterile space with a touch of home, it wasn't perfect (at all), but it would have to do.

Rossi knocks on the doorframe, poking his head in with a grin. "I didn't realize we were redecorating the bureau in shades of bubblegum," he teases. "How you doing, kid?"

"Actually, it's blush," you correct with a mock-serious tone, meeting his smile with one of your own. "I'm fine," you insist, but Rossi's knowing look prompts a quick add-on. "I am, really, I mean I've always said I wanted my own office."

"An office with a view of the bullpen, no less. You're living the dream," he says, his eyes scanning the room. "Need any help with anything? Or anything else from your place? Maybe your favorite mug to make feel more like home?"

"Don't worry, I'm already one step ahead of you," you assure him, revealing a drawer brimming with mugs.

Rossi lets out a low appreciative whistle. "Why am I not surprised?" he chuckles with a broad grin. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. Remember, I'm just a call away if you need anything. And Hotch is still here, buried in paperwork as usual."

He left, and you were alone--a cue to try and cling to some normalcy of your routine; you drew the blinds and slipped into the comfort of your pajamas. You hauled yourself off to the office bathroom, reluctantly at that, and proceeded to attend to your skincare, brush your hair, and polish your smile with a thorough teeth brushing.

Eyeing the hallway warily, you made a silent exit from the bathroom, the carpet softening your footfalls. But in your rush to avoid prying eyes, you crashed into a solid wall of a figure, the force sending you tumbling backward. You hit the floor with a muted thud, your ass hitting the ground, legs splayed inelegantly in front of you. Your eyes rose to meet the firm, penetrating look of Hotch. Of fucking course.

There was a pause as Hotch's eyes drank in the sight of your flushed complexion and the wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to capture the light just so. He felt like his heart could stop then and there. And he knew it was wrong, but he certainly liked the sight of you sprawled below him. He blinked, breaking the trance, and offered a concerned, "Are you okay?" His hands were outstretched, ready to pull you back to your feet. 

Your cheeks turned a deeper shade as you held onto Hotch's hand, the feeling unexpectedly comforting, rough in yours but nice. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm all good, sorry about that," you managed to say, the words squeaking out a tad too eagerly. 

You stood up, and his closeness was all-consuming. You were suddenly intensely aware of every breath, every throb of your heart, and your mind went blank; the usual stream of thoughts replaced by a buzzing silence.

His eyes held yours for a fraction longer than necessary before he stepped back, creating a respectful distance. The hallway's warmth seemed to dissipate with the space, leaving you with an unexpected stab of disappointment. 

"Rossi said you'd be here. Anything I can do to help?" 

You rationalized the offer as a gesture of your goodwill, but a small part, well a big part, of you knew just wanted to be close to him, to be alone with him maybe--in the office, after hours, in his office. This was weird, I mean, you'd always admired your Unit Chief, but this was different. You chalked it up to the day's unfortunate series of events--you were tired, and lonely, and you needed desperately to snap out of it before you made a fool out of yourself.

"No, you need to rest. It's been a long day, and you've been through enough." He paused, his gaze assessing you. "How are you holding up?"

"At this rate, I'll need a sign that says 'I'm fine,' to stop the check-ins." Although you silently doubted that would deter him. You gesture to the surroundings. "And this? It's like a sleepover at work. Just hoping this so-called hit man doesn't show up."

Hotch internally recoiled at your words, leaving him with the sensation of a cold grasp tightening around his heart. He cleared his throat, the joke falling flat in the gravity of his concern. "I'll be here for a while longer. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me," he managed a nod before retreating to his office.

A while longer? You knew Hotch was a workaholic, but it now occurred to you that he must never sleep. Quickly, you gathered your scattered belongings, and made your way to your office.

The pull-out couch seemed even less inviting than you remembered, if that was possible. You perched on the edge, the metallic frame cold through the thin mattress. As you lay down, the couch seemed to swallow you in its awkward angles. Perfect. Tossing and turning, you struggled to find a comfortable spot. Eventually, exhaustion won over discomfort, the rhythm of your own breathing lulling you into a fitful sleep.

Your eyes flickered open at some point during the night and the blinds drifted apart, as if by an unseen hand, and through the gap, your eyes fell on a hooded figure, the face not visible in the dim light. Your muscles locked in terror, an icy fear clawing its way up your spine as you tried to move--to reach for your gun, to call out for Hotch, to do anything. But as if imprisoned by an invisible force, you could only watch, confined to the bed, as the figure crept towards the door. 

A scream tore from your throat, a raw and piercing sound that ricocheted off the walls and echoed through your eyes. This was it, you thought. 

Then, in an instant, you were awake and disoriented, your breaths coming in short bursts, and your body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Your fingers clenched the sheets, the fabric twisting in your grasp as you fought to decipher what was reality. Your eyes snapped to the blinds, half-expecting to see the figure from your dream materialize, but the emptiness beyond them slowly calmed your racing heart.

With a throat dry as parchment and your pulse still echoing in your ears, you drifted from your room towards the break room. As you ambled past Hotch's office, you paused. The door, slightly ajar, felt like an invitation. Despite knowing better, a foggy curiosity nudged your feet forward. With a shaky breath, you eased the door open wider and slipped inside. 

His office felt different at night--it was quieter, more personal, and you felt like an intruder on Hotch's private world. You took a moment, absorbing the sight of his meticulously organized desk, the case files that were always present.

It was tempting to try to piece together the man from his workspace, but you held back. As you turned to leave, a familiar scent stopped you--the subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air. It wrapped around you, easing the tension that had sunk into your limbs. Almost without thinking, you found yourself sinking into the couch.

The room, infused with his distinct scent, seemed to have your blinking growing heavier, more intentional. You nestled deeper into the cushions; the fabric familiar beneath your fingers, lulling you into a sense of security. Just five minutes, you thought.

Hotch's steps were slow, his eyelids having a hard time staying open as he made his way through the bullpen. He carried his briefcase, the leather handle worn and conformed to his hand. He contemplated a detour to your office, a silent check-in to ease his mind, but he dismissed the idea--you were probably still asleep, and he'd definitely look like a creep. Reaching his own office, he noticed the door ajar, a sliver of morning light spilling through the gap.

He stepped into the room, and time seemed to stand still as his gaze landed on the couch. There you were, fast asleep on his couch. Your hand lay gently under your cheek, a makeshift pillow softening the hard angles beneath, while your nose gave the faintest twitches. Your lips were parted as if mid-whisper and strands of your hair were splayed in a disarrayed crown around your head. He knew that in no way could that have been comfortable. It hurt his back just looking at you, but still you looked so peaceful.

He moved with quiet steps, heat creeping up his neck as he placed his things on the desk. Turning back to you, he couldn't help but notice the gentle dishevelment of your pajamas, buttons undone in innocent disarray, the fabric parting to reveal the gentle slope of your breasts. He felt an odd mix of emotions--a gentle chiding for finding you in such state, and the guilt of finding the sight so undeniably sweet. 

A quiet cough escaped him, more out of habit than necessity, as he approached a cabinet where blankets were neatly stacked--a nod to many nights spent just as you were. He draped one over you, his movements slow and unhurried, shielding you from potential curious eyes before finding his normal place behind the wooden desk.

He tried to focus--really, he did. I mean, he had a towering pile of paperwork and responsibilities that demanded his attention. But despite his best efforts, his gaze involuntarily drifted to you time and time again. It was as if he needed visual confirmation of your steady breathing to assure himself that you were okay. He thought about you here all night, alone, and he found his knuckles whiten against the grip of his pen. He knew you had security on you at all times, but somehow, he found no comfort in that.

Hotch's eyes flicked to the clock--7:30 am. You still had at least another half an hour before you technically needed to start work, although truth be told he would let you sleep as long as your body allowed. There was no way in hell he was going to disturb you when you looked so content. 

As Hotch worked, the morning light grew stronger, casting a warm glow over his desk. It was nearly 9 am when the sound of shifting fabric eventually roused you. You were waking up, blinking away the remnants of sleep, confusion etched on your face. As your eyes caught sight of the clock and Hotch, mortification set it. 

"Oh my gosh, Hotch. I am so sorry," you blurted out, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "You could've woken me up--I... I should've set an alarm. And I shouldn't even be here, but I can explain, sort of..."

In a flurry of motion, you leapt from the couch, only to feel a sudden tug at your chest as a button from your top snagged on a stray thread. The fabric pulled open, revealing way more than what was appropriate for your boss to see. Your face turned a shade redder as you scrambled to cover up. Hotch, momentarily sidetracked by the sight of the cleavage of your tits once again, quickly refocused and interrupted your flustered explanations.

"It's fine," he assured. "Given everything that's happened, you needed the rest." He nodded towards the couch. "You're always welcome to sleep here if you need to--though I can't promise it'll be any more comfortable next time."

"Oh no, it was super comfortable, really," you insist, despite the awkwardness clinging to your words. Hotch gives you a look that says he's not entirely convinced. "Okay, well, I'm going to uh... go," you mumble, stopping short at the door with a sudden concern.

Hotch understands immediately and offers, "They're all in the briefing room--won't be out for a while."

With a relieved nod, and minimal eye contact, you dash out, hoping to reach your office unnoticed. But because the world just hated you these past days, just as you're rushing by, Morgan's hands come to your shoulders to stop you.

"Easy there, mama," he teases, a smile on his face. But as he gets a good look at your attire, his grin grows wider. "What in the world...?" he starts, laughter in his voice. He glances from you to Hotch's office door, then back again. "Hold up, hold up--you didn't... with Hotch? Are you?"

"What? No, Morgan, absolutely not! Why would you even--oh my god," you gasp, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. God, I mean, the day hasn't even started, and you needed it to end. Realizing your voice has risen in your flustered state, you quickly lower it to a harsh whisper, your eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard. "Why would you even suggest that?"

"Um, maybe because you're making a grand exit from the boss man's office in your PJs? Just a wild guess."

"No, Morgan, it's not what you think," you insist, but your attention snaps to the sound of the team's voices nearing the door. "I don't have time for this," you mutter, darting back to your office. 

In a whirlwind, you shed the pajamas, slip into your work attire, and hastily run a brush through your hair. Good enough. 

You threw yourself into work, the stack of papers becoming a welcome distraction, a rare sense of relief rather than the familiar dread. It was a considerable effort to divert your mind from the distractions--Hotch, the hit man, and Morgan's incessant teasing. Not that anyone would believe that you and Hotch were together; he was the very definition of sophisticated, handsome, and successful, and you were just, well, you.

Not that there was anything wrong with you. You liked yourself just fine; you laughed too loudly at jokes, talked to your houseplants as if they were your old friends, and you had an odd fascination with weather patterns. These things made you wholly you. You just knew you couldn't be more different from Hotch.

With a bit of luck and purposeful avoiding, your day passed smoothly, sparing you any unnecessary run-ins with Hotch. Everyone had gone home for the day which is why you stood in the break room attempting some baking recipe from Pinterest. 

The slippers on your feet padded against the carpet as you hummed around the room. With swift motions, you ushered the coffee cake batter into the oven, then turned to tackle the mess you had created on the countertops. Cleaning as you go wasn't your usual style, but office break room didn't seem like the place for your usual creative sprawl. 

Your phone had buzzed incessantly with Penelope's calls--her offers the keep you company is why you loved her, but you weren't going to subject her to that, no matter how many times she said she didn't mind.

Hotch's office was quiet, save for the soft scratching of his pen against paper as he finally closed his files. He moved into bullpen and as he passed the breakroom, the soft hum of the light and faint sound of movement drew him in. There you were, engrossed in tidying up, with your hair casually gathered above your shoulders and wearing your sweats, Hotch found him instinctively pausing to watch. 

He knew he shouldn't bother you, knew he was likely the last person you'd want to see, yet he found himself rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on you, the warmth in his chest intensifying with each fleeting second.

The moment you turned and saw a figure, a sharp gasp cut through the silence, and the icing in your grasp became a sweet projectile that flew across the room. Relief washed over you as you realized who it was.

"Jeez, Hotch, give me a heart attack why don't you," you said, half-laughing as your heart rate settled. "Especially when there's a hitman who might beat you to the punch."

Hotch parted his lips to speak, but you were quicker, a stream of thoughts tumbling out before you could stop them. "I thought everyone was gone. You weren't at your desk earlier--oh wait, you had that meeting with the DOJ, right? Did they have anything about the people who marked me?" 

In your haste, you closed the gap between you, and only then did you spot the icing on his cheek. "Oh, sorry about that, Hotch," you said with an apologetic grin, reaching out as if to wipe it away. 

As your palm made contact with his skin, a shared realization of the intimacy of the gesture washed over you. Time seemed to slow as your thumb traced a lingering path through the icing, your whisper barely audible, "There."

The word seemed to hang in the air as you froze, the proximity suddenly overwhelming, your breath caught in your throat. Hotch's backward step was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. You cleared your throat awkwardly, cheeks warming with a flush. "Um, did you need something?"

Hotch shook his head slightly, "No, just wanted to check on you before I head out."

You gave a thumbs up, mustering a smile. "Well, consider me checked."

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. "Goodnight," he said, to which you echoed in response as you watched him leave.

Alone now, you slumped against the counter, your hand pressed to your face. Consider me checked? God, someone needed to tape your mouth shut.

[kinkyniragi]

Cillian’s Duchess

Pairing: Cillian Murphy Thomas Shelby x Reader

Word count: 2,6k

Summary: Your husband Cillian has been filming a steamy Peaky Blinders scene with the infamous Russian Duchess. You try to play it cool, but the flicker of jealousy is unmistakable. So you ask a few questions. Dig a little deeper. And before he knows it, Cillian finds himself swept into your version of the script — written just for the two of you…

CN: Roleplay, toys and guns, some more rough stuff. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care.

Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

Friday evening.

You hear the door click shut and the rustle of keys on the console. Before you even turn your head, you call out, “Didn’t expect you back this early.” In fact, you were eagerly looking forward to the weekend with your husband Cillian. Two days off from the exhausting filming of the new Peaky Blinders season—just the two of you.

Cillian’s voice drifts in, warm and low. “Didn’t expect my wife to look this comfortable without me,” he says, grinning as he steps into view, finding you on your familiar curled-up spot on the sofa.

He looks tired but electric, that post-shoot buzz still clinging to him. He shrugs off his jacket, sets it over the back of a chair, and heads straight for the sideboard. You hear the soft clink of glass as he pours two whiskeys—his first real one of the day, no doubt, after hours of sipping colored water on set. He hands you a glass without a word and sinks down beside you on the sofa, his thigh brushing against yours.

Even in sweats and a plain black T-shirt, he carries the aura of Tommy Shelby. No doubt that it’s the hair—sharp and era-perfect, still smelling faintly of the care products they use in the studio—and some tiny details like the way he holds his glass, like it’s a prop, an extension of the role. He’s ditched the tailored suit, of course. He hates being clocked by fans on the street and usually hides the telltale haircut with a beanie. But tonight, in the safe shadow of your living room, he's halfway between man and character and you wonder what use it could be for you that evening after you haven't seen— touched each other for what feels like an eternity.

You take a sip of your drink, ice clinking gently. “Good shoot?” you ask.

Cillian leans back with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. Your attention inevitably remains on this striking part of his role. His role, which you find as hot as it is dreadful.

 “Yeah. Scene with the Russian Duchess today.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “The one who strangles you?”

“Mhm.” He smirks into his glass. “You know, standard foreplay.”

You snort, revealing that the comment lands sharper than you’d like to admit. “Huh. Sounds like you had a great time,” you try to casually distract from it.

His eyes flick to you, amused. “Jealous?”

You scoff. “Of some fictional czarina? Please.”

Still, something stirs in your stomach. The thought of him, hands touching someone else’s body—even in character—makes your gut tighten. You force a breezy tone. “Tell me more.”

He gives you a sly look. “Duchess, not Czarina. You already know the important parts. And I did sign an NDA, remember?”

You stare at him, a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look in your eyes.

Cillian just ignores your expression.

“Gonna shower.” He stands, stretching, and heads for the bathroom.

Then, with a grin, he adds, “If my wife should be curious enough to snoop around in the script in the meantime, that wouldn't be my fault, of course.”

You watch him disappear down the hall, biting back a smile. He knows exactly what he’s doing—throwing out just enough breadcrumbs to get a rise out of you.

You hear the water start, the rhythmic creak of pipes. The bathroom door stays cracked open. An invitation.

But he has to wait. First, you have to fulfill your role as the curious wife. With trembling hands, you flip through the tattered pages of notes. Your ears grow warm — from excitement... and something else. A flicker of jealousy you refused to admit. And it's growing bigger.

Eventually, you slip into the bedroom, peel off your clothes, and tiptoe down the hall. Through the steamed-up glass of the shower, you see him lathering his hair. You step into view.

He doesn’t startle. He simply opens the door and grins, eyes gleaming.

“Good to be back, love,” he murmurs, dragging you into the heat.

He cups your face with sudsy hands and kisses you, slow and deep. His hips press against yours, firm and demanding, and there’s a tightness in his grip that’s just a little too rough, too possessive. Tommy’s still there—just beneath the surface.

After the shower, while he towels off, you pad back into the hall and head straight for his suitcase. Inside, carefully folded, is the Peaky Blinders suit—should’ve stayed at the studio, but he always brings it home.

Method acting.

Obsession.

If he takes his work that seriously, he can damn well walk you through the details of the scene...and beyond.

You toss the suit to him in the living room.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks hypocritically, as if he didn't already know that.

“Put it on,” you reply, already disappearing into the bedroom. “You’ll see.”

As you walk, casually, you throw over your shoulder, “What was the Duchess wearing?”

There’s a pause before his voice follows you. “A long, black dress with provocative lingerie underneath, oh, and suspenders. Over it, an elegant coat.”

You don’t comment—just change quickly into something that might fit the occasion and help yourself to the box of props that he keeps as naturally as he brings things from the set for his rehearsals. Then you return to the living room.

He’s dressed. Fully in character. The charcoal vest, the starched collar, the unmistakable silhouette of a man used to being feared. It’s unnerving how fast Cillian becomes him. You cross your arms, studying him with a growing arousal. He sits down at his desk.

You raise an eyebrow with a smirk. “Just don’t light a cigarette now.” As much as you love Cillian as Tommy, you hate that he's a chain smoker.

He doesn’t laugh.

He’s already too far gone in the character to bother. You can see in his eyes that he loves it.

And that he loves what's coming next.

So, it’s your turn. He looks at you with curious eyes, deadly serious. You clear your throat and turn into the mad Duchess.

You stride past him, stilettos clicking on the floor, a velvet clutch in one hand. From it, you produce a prop pistol — a replica, but it looks real enough under the low light. You purposefully toss it onto  the desk in front of him.

He watches you and doesn't seem impressed in the slightest.

“You’re hard to reach these days, Mr. Shelby.”

He sits there, motionless, hands folded on his lap, watching you. “Didn’t realize I’d made myself available.”

You sit down in front of him. “I’m here for an answer.”

“To what question exactly?”

You lean in closer. “I’ve been told alliances with you are dangerous things. I wonder if that’s true,” you whisper, gently stroking the pistol as if it were a pet.

He turns his head slightly, his ice-blue eyes cool and calculating. “That’s not even a question.”

You pause. Then your smile returns — small, deliberate, unsettling.

“Fine.” Your voice is softer now, but laced with something darker. You are now fully immersed in the role now.

“What if the real danger... is me?”

Before he can answer, you grab the pistol in one smooth motion and aim it at his chest.

He doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t. He knows the script. He is Tommy Shelby.

His eyes drop to the weapon, then back to you.

“Well, at least this is a real question…but tell me one thing, sweetheart, is that supposed to scare me?”

You rise slowly, stepping behind him, keeping the gun trained on him as your other hand moves to your clutch.

He hears the metallic click before he sees the cuffs.

You snap one closed around his wrist. He doesn’t resist.

The second follows.

“Tell me, Duchess,” he murmurs, voice low, “What game are we playing tonight?”

You lean down, your breath warm against his ear.

“One where the rules change... every time you think you’ve learned them.”

You circle back around to face him. His arms are still behind the chair, cuffed, his breath slower now—but steady. Controlled. Like he’s weighing every move he could make, and deciding not to.

You don’t break eye contact as you reach for his belt.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. Just watches with that unreadable glint that’s somewhere between challenge and surrender. You wonder, briefly, if he’s still acting—or if it’s just you he’s reacting to now.

The metallic clink as you unbuckle him echoes in the low light.

You lower yourself between his thighs, your fingers deft and deliberate, and when your mouth finds him—slow, sure, claiming—his entire body draws taut. One sharp inhale. Then stillness.

You must inevitably remember how he said the crew had trouble keeping straight faces.

You don’t. And you start to love your role as Duchess.

So, you take your time, dragging it out, keeping him just at the edge.

And just when you feel the tension beginning to crest—when his breath turns ragged and you know he's seconds from unraveling—you stop.

Pull back.

Rise.

His chest lifts and falls with the effort of restraint, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes are locked on you now, sharp and hungry.

But he says nothing.

You both know the scene ends here in the script. But you’re not done playing.

You wonder if Tommy Shelby would’ve overpowered the Duchess as revenge. You’re curious to find out if Cillian will.

“So…” you say slowly, tilting your head. “How would you have liked the scene to end?”

Cillian lifts his eyes to meet yours — that unmistakable Tommy Shelby stare. “With you begging me to stop,” he says quietly. “And not meaning a single word of it.”

There’s a challenge in his tone, in the way he watches your face for the flicker of a reaction. You don’t disappoint. A slow, teasing smile spreads across your lips — of course you want to keep playing.

Before you can respond, he moves.

With no warning, he twists his wrists, and the handcuffs spring open with a soft click. You blink in surprise.

“Film cuffs,” he murmurs with a smirk. “Little lever. Always good for a dramatic exit.”

You barely have time to register the words before he’s on his feet, reaching for you.

He lifts you effortlessly, arms locked beneath your thighs, and carries you through the house. The pace is slow, deliberate — and filled with tension. Like he’s letting you feel every second of what’s coming. Like he’s making sure you know you don’t get to walk away from him like that.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulse racing, breath shallow.

He stops in the bedroom. Presses you back against the wall, body pinning yours in place. His mouth brushes your ear, voice rough and low: “You wanted the real Tommy. Now you’ll learn how he punishes unfinished business.” With every word, he grinds his hardness unerringly against your stomach, letting you feel just how serious he is about letting you take responsibility.

He kisses you — a tender, hungry mix of Cillian and Tommy — and it melts you from the inside out.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough with meaning, “if the Duchess is the one Tommy can’t trust…” His hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, moving with slow certainty until his fingers find the heat between your thighs. “…then she shouldn’t be surprised,” he finishes, sliding two fingers deep into you, “when he claims what’s hidden in her treasury.”

You feel something hard pushing into you — but in the next moment, it's only the rhythmic motion of his fingers that holds you captive, making your breath hitch.

A soft moan escapes you — helpless, needy — as his tongue finds yours again, this time with a reckless hunger. His fingers move with practiced rhythm, pushing you closer to the edge.

And then suddenly, as quickly as he came into you, he’s gone. He pulls back without warning, leaving you aching, empty, breathless.

Tommy fucking Shelby knows how to get revenge.

He takes a step away, eyes locked on yours, deliberately denying you the touch you crave.

Then he lifts something small and black into the air, slick with your juices.

A sleek, obsidian egg — unmistakably intimate, obviously taken from the toy box both of you use from time to time.

“What…?” you start — but he cuts you off, voice smooth and mocking.

For a second, you catch that wicked little smile. Pure Cillian. What a delicate requisite, you think.

“So you were telling the truth after all. That’s where you Russians hide your jewels.”

He inspects the glistening object like a priceless find. “A beautiful sapphire,” he muses. “Must be several carats at least.”

His eyes flick to yours again, amused and merciless.

“But since it’s standing in the way of me plans…” He casually slips the ‘gemstone’ into his pocket. “…I trust you won’t mind me takin´ it.”

He leans in, his voice low against your neck.

“Can’t really trust anyone these days, eh?”

He stays close as he murmurs instructions — quiet, dirty, commanding. “Get off your dress. Slowly. I want to watch.”

You obey, pulse wild. His eyes don’t leave you, not for a second. He stands still, hands in his pockets, as if weighing what you’re worth now that he’s taken what you tried to hide.

When you’re down to nothing but lace and tension, his mouth curves — not quite a smile. More like satisfaction. Or hunger.

“Beautiful,” he mutters. “Even without the jewels.”

He steps forward at last. No more waiting. No more teasing. His hands are rough and sure as they grip your hips and turn you to the bed. You feel the heat of him against you — demanding, undeniable — as he lowers you down.

You gasp as he enters you without hesitation. There’s nothing gentle in it — only heat, only claiming. Like he's not just taking you, but marking you.

"Seems like that treasury of yours still had more to offer,” he growls into your ear, thrusting deeper, harder. “Locked it up so tight — and still, here I am. Too bad, eh?”

You whimper, arching into him, unable to hold anything back. “Maybe I wanted you to find it.”

His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back so your eyes meet. There’s fire in his — raw, dark, unmistakably Tommy.

“Say what exactly you want,” he demands.

You breathe the words like confession. “Fuck me stupid, Tommy, I need it so badly…”

His lips crash into yours, and then there are no more questions, no more games — only skin against skin, bodies locked, breath stolen. Every movement is a reminder: this is the cost of mistrust. Of temptation. Of daring to play with a man like him.

And you pay it gladly.

Your climax hits like a wave, pulling him over the edge with you — a tangle of breath and heat and release. For a long moment, there’s only silence, except for the shared rhythm of your ragged breathing.

Then his weight eases against you, his chest rising and falling against you. The tension melts from his body, and the last trace of Tommy slips away with it.

You turn your head slightly, still catching your breath.

He’s quiet. Still. Barely holding himself up.

You smile with satisfaction.

“Welcome back, Cill.”

He lets out a soft laugh, burying his face in the curve of your neck. “Bloody hell. If that’s how Tommy handles unfinished business… remind me to never leave a script lying around again.”

You both laugh — the sound warm, shared, real.

And for the first time that night, it's not the game, not the roles, not the lines. Just the two of you. Entwined in something far deeper.

***

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[yandere-sins]

The Octopodes' Tale - Chapter I

First Chapter! I am excited since we are meeting someone for the first time and get to make a new decision :3 Thank you everyone who promptly voted, I think we can do it with the three day polls ♥ Fandom: Original Content   Pairings: Yandere!Octopus Mermen x GN!AFAB!Reader Words: ~3k  Warnings: Yandere, Monsters (Tentacels, Oversized Mention, Mermaids, Monster Appearances), Violence (Thrashing Underwater, Almost Drowning, Panic), Fear of potential harm to human/animal, Long Post

You’ve made the right choice, human. I shall wait for my beloved’s return, so don’t forget your promise to me as you get to know and care for him in my stead until then!

Letting your head fall into your palm, you rubbed the tension points on your temple and forehead. It was hard enough to focus on the small script and the countless pages, so a headache wasn’t exactly helpful for the task. You had to keep reminding yourself to focus as your thoughts trailed off, your mind imagining strange voices speaking to you just so it could escape the exhausting task of reading the contract. You would have just up and left if you knew just how extensive and partly incomprehensible the contract was. With all the jargon embedded in it, who knew what you were really signing off on with it.

The clacking of a fresh glass of water being placed in front of you barely tore you out of the focus you tried desperately to hold on to. You merely mumbled, “Thank you,” and reached for it, taking a swig from the glass. With a sigh, you set it back down on the table, realizing how much you needed it. In fact, your body was already screaming for you to get up and walk a bit, maybe even go to the toilet and grab a snack afterward. By making sure everything was in order on the bureaucracy side, you had managed to neglect yourself completely, and you were now paying the price with your shoulders and neck aching from sitting and hovering over the contract for too long. 

Leaning back, you decided it was time for a much-needed break. With a sudden, energized jolt, you jumped to your feet, stretched towards the ceiling until you could hear your bones and muscles pop back into place, and turned towards the door. Walking over the pool to reach it, you peered into the water below your feet as it swayed calmly. There was no sign of your potential future protégé. Fine with you, after all, octopodes liked to hide. Yet, when your hand reached for the handle of the door leading outside the enclosure, gripping and pushing it down, for some reason, it wouldn’t budge. 

Furrowing your brows, you gave it a shake, and another one for good measure. “What the…” you mumbled, trying to open the door unsuccessfully. Looking up from the handle, you looked around to see any indicator of it being locked, until your eyes fell on a number pad to your left. Its numbers had a green glow all around them, proving they were active, and you realized only now that naturally they’d close off a room with a precious specimen inside. However, locking you in with the specimen seemed somewhat dangerous. 

Trying your luck, you pushed in the most basic codes you knew, like 1111 and 1234. You tried to remember if the Professor said anything about this specimen’s number or maybe the enclosure number that could work as a code, albeit much too easy to guess.

“7945,” you heard someone say behind you, and you promptly pushed it in, the known sound of correctness followed by the door unlocking, filling you with the feeling of accomplishment. You whirled around, starting to say, “Thank you!” again when your eyes met those of half a face peeking out of the water, gleaming with curiosity. 

You gasped loudly, your back hitting the cold wall behind you, and you even bumped your head. The creature made a small squeak, eyes widening before they let go of the pool’s edge they had held onto and slipped back into the water. It all happened so quickly that you wondered if you had just imagined it or hit your head too hard, so it was just an illusion. Your scientific instinct, trained from curiosity, the years of studies, and doing minor field work, prompted you to step up to the pool and look into it, ensuring that whatever lurked inside wasn’t as human as it had looked. But for some reason, your body protested. 

As soon as the door opened, you slipped out, slamming your hand against the number pad to initiate closing again before pressing your body against the wall on the other side, watching as nothing seemed to come after you. Your knees shook as if you had just been on the run, your body sending inexplicable signals of fleeing despite this facility being one of the safest places on earth. However, the mere glimpse of the bright yellow eyes beneath an unnatural shade of red surrounding them had been enough to send you running. Even your brain had trouble processing what it had seen, and you felt the headache throb as you strained yourself. 

Maybe you truly had just imagined it. 

Perhaps you were in dire need of getting some help with your basic necessities. Some fresh air, some food, and water. It felt like you had to walk a small eternity until you bumped into another person who pointed you towards the staffroom. Greeted by snacks and drinks for the employees, you immediately felt better, and some other researchers picked up a conversation with you until your headache was almost forgotten. It was exactly the break you needed, and yet, you felt yourself slowly space out while a possible future colleague of yours monologued about the new aquatic plants they acquired for their research. 

Holding a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in your hand, you watched the color slosh back and forth, images of red and yellow hitting you again and again. So many strange things had already happened since you came here, including the peculiar NDAs, secretiveness, and voices you had heard. Someone brought you water, but you hadn’t even noticed someone coming or going from the room that was apparently locked and deadbolted without the right passcode. 

Your eyes widened.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” you mumbled, leaving the puzzled researchers and your half-full glass of juice behind as you hurried out of the recreation room. That’s right, you thought. Someone did bring you water, and you drank from it. It had definitely been real. And if that was the case, then someone was with you in that room, which meant it was dangerous for either them or the giant octopus living there. If something happened to either, not only would it put your potential new job in danger, but it was also possible that it would be blamed on you. 

Hurrying down the corridors you came from, you tried to stop yourself from thinking about how much it would cost if they sued you for the death of a very delicate specimen. Even more so, the death of a human. Despite still being a rookie, you had the potential skills and knowledge to avoid potential harm, and you doubted anyone could have gotten back as fast to the enclosure as you had if you had to explain what was going on first. 

You almost missed your destination, coming to a fumbling stop when you reached the door. With all the adrenaline rushing through you, you punched the numbers into the number pad, not waiting for the door to open fully until you squeezed through the gap.

“Hello? HELLO!” you yelled into the giant enclosure, hoping to receive some kind of verbal feedback on where the other person could be. “Is someone there?!” 

Panicked, you ran across the walkway and to the other side, checking behind the working surfaces and machinery if someone was taking shelter, perhaps hurt or unconscious. But even after searching every nook and cranny, you found no one, the first rational thoughts returning to your mind as you wondered if you had imagined it after all. Suddenly, you heard the water splash loudly, and immediately raced back to see what was happening. Countless bubbles were going to the surface until suddenly, glaringly red tentacles shot out from them, the color a clear warning sign. Whatever was going on inside the pool, the octopus was either warning or fighting, its arms trying to find something to hold on to as if it wanted to pull itself up. 

To you, it looked like a struggle.

Without a second thought, you shrugged off your jacket and dove off the edge. The water pressure threatened to rob your lungs of all the air in them, but you prevailed. You used to train both your lung capacity and your swimming skills once you determined that marine biology was the job you wanted to pursue. After all, you never know what kind of situation you’d get into when researching. Still, the water stung in your eyes as you tried to keep them open, countless bubbles hitting your face and obscuring the view. 

You had to admit to yourself that it was reckless. Jumping into the habitat of a possibly dangerous creature without telling anyone, but you couldn’t have forgiven yourself if you didn’t try to save either of the two that needed rescuing. Even beneath the surface, you could hear the struggle, the loud whizzing of the arms through the water. You managed to avoid being hit by them for a long time, quickly descending towards the ground where you assumed the creature was. But when you suddenly felt a weight wrap around your ankle, sticking to your wet clothes, you realized your mistake. 

Your lungs tightened as they braced for impact that never came. You expected to be slammed down to the ground, now that the tentacle had latched on to you. From then on, it would be a matter of very few time if you could survive this. If the octopus was nice enough to let you go, you could have potentially breeched the surface when you were about to lose all the air left in you, but if it was panicking, you’d probably get stuck or attacked down there for too long, unable to save anyone after being the one in a predicament. 

Hands clasped over your mouth, you pressed your eyes shut, tensing all your muscles to survive the crash, but instead, the water suddenly calmed. You felt fewer bubbles caress you as the world quieted. Only the tentacle remained where it had first latched on, wrapped tightly around your ankle as you slowly opened your eyes. 

Only to find two bright yellow ones staring back at you. 

Out of surprise, you gasped, water suddenly flooding into your well-protected mouth as if you had forgotten where you were. You immediately shut it again, but the damage was already done as you had inhaled the water, unable to cough it up. Panicked, your body began to struggle. The years of training to stay calm seemed forgotten as you wanted nothing more than to get up and out of the water. You flailed wildly, staring upwards towards the ceiling light shining blurrily down into the water as the last bits of air rushed out of your mouth. 

Two big hands wrapped around your face, keeping your head steady as your heart skipped a beat. The touch was gentle, although you felt the resistance all around you. Was the octopus about to crush your head? Wait, hands?!

Next you knew, lips sealed yours, tightly, the water from your mouth disappearing in exchange for fresh air. Bubbles surrounded you again, but you paid them no mind as you clung to the strange air supply, more and more tentacles wrapping around your body. You almost felt like you were going crazy as you forced your eyes to open again, peering at the shiny yellow ones across from you, half-lidded and so very human and so little octopus, even though the animal still clung to your body. 

A tongue entered your mouth, its tip exploring your teeth until its prodding abruptly made you flinch, the taste of blood filling your senses.

And all of a sudden, your head breached the surface, bouncing out of it with vigor. 

“There, there,” someone mumbled gently, a hand rubbing your back and patting it lightly as you started to cough violently. Being back in the air was hardly enough, as waves kept crashing into you and making you sputter. You oriented yourself briefly before swimming towards the edge, reaching out and clinging to it once you were near enough, the other person following you. Even now, you could still feel the octopus’s suction cups all over you, sometimes popping off and finding different places to wrap around, one tip slipping beneath your t-shirt, steadying you, but also clinging to your exposed back.

“I told you to be nice!” you heard a familiar voice shout from your right, and suddenly, two pairs of arms hooked beneath your shoulders, pulling you out of the water. Most of the tentacles popped off you, although some remained, holding on steady like the one around your ankle, and making it much harder to get you away from the pool. 

There was a clatter as someone dropped to their knees next to you, giving your back a few very hard slaps as you kept sputtering out water. “Are you alright?” someone asked, and you looked up for the first time, glimpsing into the worried eyes of some of the researchers you had met on your break. 

“Take it easy,” the person beside you sighed, and you gave them a quick glance, seeing the Professor’s tense expression. You nodded, slowly stumbling to your feet as everyone seemed to release some of the tension. 

“I’m glad we made it in time.” Holding out towels and medikits, the researchers scrabbled around you, assisting you and pulling up a chair for you to sit in, while the Professor got back on his feet with a groan, picking up his walking stick and shooting you one last worried glance before turning around. 

“Stop holding on to them!” he commanded, slamming his stick into the ground. But what should have sounded like wood clonking on metal made a squishy sound instead, followed by a yelp and the release of the last remaining tentacle around your ankle. “What in the world were you thinking, pulling them beneath the water?!”

Slowly, your strength returned, the adrenaline leaving you, and in its place, only exhaustion remained. But regardless, you looked up to the Professor, only now realizing that two armed guards stood on either side of him, weapons pointed towards the water, and there…

A young man, with uncanny yet recognizable features, cradled one of the red tentacles in his hands. 

He was gigantic, much bigger than all the men in this room. His slicked-back hair fell in fiery red strands around his face, elevating his golden eyes that stared at the Professor sulkily. However, his gaze occasionally went lower. Instead of the Professor, he was looking at you ever so often, his features growing a little less tense, but curious and perhaps a little worried. The tentacle in his hold still had the same angry or wary red tone as before when you thought the octopus was in danger, and it was held by his large hands, the very same palms that you remembered gently cupping your face before… before… he kissed you. 

It wasn’t the time and place to feel ashamed all of a sudden, still the heat rose into your face, and you quickly wiped the towel over it as if to dry your skin. It had been your first kiss, although you expected that to go wildly different. You felt crazy to think about that right now, when you should be more concerned about what was happening around you, and you pinched your thigh to regain your focus. 

“Something was happening, and I was just trying to help, I swear!” the man in the water claimed, his voice restless. “I was just protecting them, I didn’t want to hurt them! Please, you have to believe me, I’ve been so good all this time! I always listen to what you tell me...”

A wave of guilt washed over you as you felt responsible. Surely, it wouldn’t put you in a good light with the facility to tell them you acted on some crazy thoughts of yours and freaked out over apparently nothing. Everything was calm, even the octopus seemed to have settled again while all of you were talking. But with the man still in the water, he was still in danger, especially with guns pointed at him, making it almost impossible to move. 

“Excuse me?” you called out, having to clear your throat as your voice cracked after all the coughing. As you stood up, the worried researchers followed your movements closely, not wanting you to faint or collapse from the strain. There was a real possibility that in a minute, they’d regret being so worried about you after the ruckus you caused. You’d probably never shake off the incident when you started working here. You would always be remembered as that person who almost drowned on their first day. Some would think you were out for attention or simply annoying and unsuited for your position. But it still wasn’t right not to at least admit your part in all of this, right? Even if it felt silly and embarrassing, you had to do something!

Thoughts and reasoning as always, is welcome! ♥

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter four )

18+ 5.2k homelander x plus size f!reader. office romance, stalking, voyeurism, office sex, cunnilingus, cream pie, breast play, flight sex, lite overstim, riding. nebulously takes place post s1. part 4/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander takes what's his, and you get what's yours.

welcome to the final chapter! thanks so much for reading. i really enjoyed the dynamic between these two, and i hope you do, too. 🖤

Homelander doesn’t hold it against you that you take him up on his suggestion to be absent the following day. He leaves a little peace offering in your office to say as much: a mug for your collection that reads simply, You’ve Been Mugged. He adjusts it seven times on your desk before he finally leaves it alone, surveying your office a while before letting himself out.

The thugs he lasered down in the alley don’t garner much attention, but it’s enough to warrant a statement on the truth of what happened. With them dead, the truth becomes whatever he makes of it, and his truth is that two vagabonds were assaulting a cherished Vought employee before he put a stop to it.

It’s precisely the kind of hero story the public loves.

“I acted on instinct,” he tells the newscaster. He relives the moment as he tells it, recalls only to himself how fierce you had been. How determined you were that if you were going to die, you would die fighting. “They were going to hurt her. I like to believe any good citizen in my position would have done the same.”

Madelyn taught him that conviction without contrition would always read as arrogance, so he speaks firmly but with a furrow to his brow, and he closes his eyes when he inclines his head to accept praise. No matter how dead she is, her voice remains an echo in his mind: follow the script, and you’ll be fine.

They use his words to segue into a discussion of gun control, and Homelander’s mind drifts somewhere distant, hearing without listening to the petty squabbles of humans crying about their little toys and laws. He supposes this is how God feels when humans pray to Him over every minor inconvenience. Bored and painfully above it.

While it’s easy enough to keep himself distracted during business hours, Homelander’s life comes to an abrupt halt alongside the end of the working day. Like the equipment that broadcasts him, there’s little use for him once the cast and crew goes home. All around him the employees commiserate at the end of their work day and pass around invitations to the bar. 

He receives none. 

Not that he would accept them if he did.

Seeking both council and companionship, Homelander finds himself in Noir’s apartment, seated in the chair Noir keeps for him. It’s the only one the hero owns, what with his interior design being deeply steeped in westernized ninja nonsense. The place is half dojo, half living quarters.

He laments his situation to Noir, explaining his patience in courting you, the lengths he’s gone to endear himself to you on a personal level, and the bitter sting of your rejection.

“See her,” Noir writes in his sketchpad, sitting on the floor on the other side of the low table. “If glad to see her, good. If not–”

Homelander snorts at the series of knife sketches that follow. He has no doubt Noir would put an end to anyone for any reason Homelander gave. Simplicity has allowed Noir an unwavering loyalty to Vought, and as an extension, Homelander himself. Luckily for you, he has no interest in that happening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Noir,” he muses, clapping his hands on his thighs before he stands up. “You’re right. I’ll go see her. Thanks, buddy.”

Noir offers two thumbs up. A true uproar of approval.

Under the cover of darkness, Homelander returns to your house, the flight path a familiar one now. He lands silently on your roof this time, cocking his head. He’s not confident he’ll be able to resist your siren pull if he approaches now. He folds his hands behind his back and peers through each layer between him and your bedroom, stopping when he can see you.

You’re nestled deep in the splay of your blankets, lips parted around shallow breaths. He bites his own bottom lip, remembering how badly he’d wanted to feel them. Taste them. He’s certain now that if he allowed himself to be close enough, he would. Denial, for as much as it stung in that moment, has only made him hungrier for you. Fuck, the way he’s craved you from the moment you first brushed him aside.

He watches you shift in your sleep and his eyes narrow, honing in on a familiar flash. His stomach flips–it’s his cape, the fabric pinned between your blanket and your body. You really are sleeping with it, the star spangled blue fabric tucked up under your chin. Do you smell him on it? Homelander groans softly. Like your underwear in his bedside drawer, you sleep with a trophy of your own.

“Fuck,” he says, aching. His heart, his mind, his cock–all of it at once a cacophony of vicious yearning and impatience. The urge to peel the roof like a sardine can and carve his way straight to you nearly knocks the wind out of him, has him preemptively reaching for the shingled surface.

Only the lingering wound to his ego gives him pause. He’s been bitten once, leaving him shy to instigate, but this revelation feels like progress. You’re aching for him as much as he is for you. He’s sure of that now. It’s time that he made you feel that ache. Feel his absence. Then you’ll realize the foolishness of your coy game.

Clenching his jaw defiantly, Homelander lifts up into the sky.

He’ll be benevolent when you come to your senses.

The next day, Homelander keeps himself scarce, preoccupied. Ashley is perkier than usual, thrilled–if not suspicious–with his easy participation in whatever inane business she brings to him. It helps distract him from the endless feeling of waiting that he’s enduring.

He sticks stubbornly to his schedule, fantasizing about the torment his avoidance has surely wrought. He’s tempted a time or two to break, but each time he remembers the mortified Oh! you uttered before he kissed you, he refocuses himself.

You’ll come.

Not before lunch, but that is the perfect opportunity for it. He makes himself more available then, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair. 

No sign of you.

He gives you the benefit of the doubt. A meal to embolden you.

Then you’ll come.

He waits.

Lunch long since over.

He waits.

The day is winding down.

He’s fucking tired of waiting.

Where the hell are you? He’s given you the entirety of the day to seek him out, ample opportunity to come thank him for his gift, to address the aching thing ruminating between you. You’d be a fucking liar to say you don’t feel it, too. By midday, he’s seething with impatience and hurt. There’s no chance he’s going to let you stand him up.

It’s precisely the wrong time for Ashley to rear her head back up. “Okay! That’s that, now regarding the amnesty for–”

“Ashley!” He snaps, a harsh and throaty sound. “Would you shut the fuck up?”

She stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed. Of course it was too good to be true.

Homelander all but leaps to his feet, pushing out of his chair so hard that it flips backwards and into the wall in a heavy clatter. She clutches her vPad to her chest and quickly back steps out of his way, watching in frightened bewilderment as he storms from the room, making a beeline towards your office.

He doesn’t bother knocking this time. Still, his restraint is undeniable when he pushes your door open. He barely catches himself from pushing the damn thing clean off the hinges.

Your head snaps up from your computer, eyes wide. He hears your heart jump and he savors the alarm that shoots through you. Payback for the awful misery you forced him to endure in the hours since he last saw you. Still, the sight of you disarms him. For all his seething anger, there is something small in him that retreats it when your eyes are on him.

There’s a heaviness to your gaze that his strength can do nothing to alleviate. No incredible feat of his can wrench away what it is he wants from you. What he needs. It’s something you have to give him willingly, and that alone is enough to temper his rage. The familiar fear that you won’t.

He marches to the front of your desk and levels an accusatory finger on you.

“You like me,” he hisses, bending to brace his opposite hand on your desk.

You blink owlishly, lips parted. That clearly wasn’t what you expected him to say. He’s not sure it’s what he meant to say. “Homelander–”

“No,” he says, voice pitched low, a warning. “No, no. No games, no workarounds. You like me. You do. And I like you. So,” he abandons his point to make a vague encompassing gesture, but he doesn’t know what to say next. He didn’t think this far ahead. All day he had practiced the calm benevolence he would show when you approached him, chastised and yearning. He has nothing to back up this frenzied play for.

You stand. Homelander rises to his full height with you, jutting his chin out. He watches you with all the wariness of a wounded predator as you circle around your desk, your hand gliding along the wood like you would flank a horse so as not to spook it.

He can’t determine the intent behind your gaze. He angles his body towards you, facing you head on. You look like yourself again, in your element and free from the fawn fear of the alley. He can’t entirely decide which way he prefers you. When you were in his arms, he was your hero. In your office, his position feels more precarious.

The silence stretches on for hours–or seconds, it’s impossible to say–before he can no longer stand it. Sucking in a breath, he–

You kiss him.

Homelander goes shock still, hyper aware of your lips pressed feather light to his, your breasts against his chest, your hand on his forearm. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he senses when you begin to pull away. 

In a flash he cups your face in his hands and pulls you in deep, inhaling sharply, like  he’s only just remembered how to breathe. He kisses you, kisses you, kisses you as if he can trap you in the cycle of it. You don’t resist, you don’t tense. Instead, you sigh an angel’s breath against his lips. Only then does he break to look at you.

“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered, flushed.

“I do like you,” you say, eyes glassy.

His brows pinch. “But… That night–”

“Wasn’t right,” you interrupt. “I wanted to kiss you, but not like that. Not then. Not because you saved me, not because I was in shock, not because of…” you rock your head side to side. “Whatever other bullshit… You let me down that night.”

“Let you down?” Homelander echoes, taken aback. “By saving your life?” He asks, his temper a perpetual simmer ready to flare. He’s immediately tempered by your hands taking his wrists, squeezing. You hold his gaze and your expression is gentle, but there is a firmness in your stare that he finds intoxicating. Not an ounce of fear, even when his anger emerges.

Good. You shouldn’t be afraid of him. He saved you.

“I was shaken. Badly. My date was an entitled asshole, those men, they tried to…” You shake your head, holding his hands to your face. “I didn’t need you to be a man. I needed you to be a hero. I wasn’t ready.”

A light in Homelander’s eyes flicks on. You just weren’t ready. He’d been right after all. He fixates on that, choosing to forgive you for that, at least.

“Well, why didn’t… You could have said something,” he says, feeling like a deflated hot air balloon, all slack expansion and heat with no purpose.

“I would have,” you say, your cheeks soft and round in his hands, lips slightly puckered from his hold on your face. “But you ran away.”

“What? I–” He laughs incredulously. “I did not run away.”

“Flew away,” you say, pushing in to kiss him again. He screws his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck. Oh fuck. He’s been dreaming of this, aching for it. To feel you against him, wanting him as much as he wants you. “Pretty fast, too. Looked like you shot straight up to the moon,” you say, breath hot and sweet on his lips.

“I…” He swallows, hands slipping down to either side of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up. “I’m sorry. I wanted you,” he says, trailing his parted lips along your jaw, kissing and breathing you in the way he’s craved to. He can feel your skin growing hot against his lips, hear the uptick of your pulse as your heart begins to race.

“Do you still want me?” You ask, voice lower now. It sends a delicious hot pang all the way through him.

“You have no fucking idea,” he murmurs, nipping at the lobe of your ear, desperate to test the give of you under his teeth, the feel of your soft and yielding flesh branded into his memory the moment his lips touched your skin.

A knock snaps his attention away from you, but it isn’t at the door. He looks down and sees that it’s you knocking on your desk. “So take me,” you say, voice laced with heat. His lips split into a wicked grin. He snatches the edge of your heavy wooden desk and effortlessly tips it backwards until everything slides off of it, clattering to the floor. He lifts you up, relishing your delighted little yelp, and places you down on the cleared surface like a doll, stepping in between your legs. 

He kisses you again. Let me in, demands the press of his tongue. You yield to him, but it’s far from a surrender. Your tongue meets his eagerly, tasting him as much as he does you. Tasting you. That’s what he wants. He wants to map every inch of you with his tongue.

Homelander slips his hand between your legs, pushing your skirt up out of the way. He presses his fingers to the heat between your thighs, rubbing through the thin fabric of your panties. You sigh that same seraphic sound against his lips, slipping your hands up into his hair, already taking a handful of it to tug gently.

He breaks the kiss and takes his fingers from you after the barest tease of pleasure. The impatient sound you make goes straight to his cock, as does your flustered expression. He brings his fingers to his lips and drags his tongue over the leather of them, sliding them past his lips to give a quick suck. It’s not enough, too slight a hint of you. He needs more. You watch him with rapt attention, giving his hair a demanding little tug.

“You can pull as hard as you like,” he tells you with a smile, tilting his head against the grasp you have on his hair. “Tells me I’m doing a good job.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re doing a good job,” you rasp, giving his hair a sharp pull and then a downward push. That sends a shiver down his spine.

Fuck yes.

Homelander sinks down onto his knees, lifting each of your legs up over his shoulders. You give a little gasp when he yanks your ass to the edge of the desk, giddy with the way he manhandles you. He swallows, mouth dry, thirsty for the wet, heady smell of your pussy. He maneuvers his head under your skirt until he’s close enough to drag his tongue up the soft cotton of your panties. Your breath hitches and your grip in his hair tightens while you egg him on with sharp little rolls of your hips.

He closes his eyes, giving a rumbling moan for the taste of you, even through the fabric. He laps until the fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, and he can feel your clit swollen and stiff on his tongue through your panties. He closes his mouth over it, sucking you through your underwear while you writhe above him, keeping yourself quiet.

That won’t do.

He wants to hear you.

He wants the whole fucking Tower to hear you.

Hooking the crotch of your panties with his finger, it only takes one sharp little tug to tear them, exposing you to him.

“Homelander,” you moan. The sound of it lances a spear of heat through him, leaves his cock throbbing needily in the rigid confines of his cup. He groans into you, rocking his hips against the empty air. The only proper answer is to dive in, to close his lips around your clit and finally suck the rich nectar of your cunt without the filter of fabric between you. You taste even better than you smell, like salt and sex and sweet ripe fruit. It overwhelms his senses immediately, his eyelids flickering. 

The more he laps at you, the silkier your pussy becomes. Between circling your clit, he drives his tongue deep into you, drinking you down noisily and messily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. Your thick thighs are tight on either side of his head, your pulse pounding in his ears. He moans low and wicked for the taste and feel of you.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. “F-fuck, your tongue feels-feels fucking unreal,” you moan, grinding down against it. The strength of it, the slight thrum of restrained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina is driving you wild against his mouth. “Fingers, use your fingers,” you tell him. He loves the rawness of your voice, the authority and desperation in your demand.

Removing one of his gloves, he moves his bare hand to the sweltering wetness of you, teasing his finger just below where his tongue is rubbing your clit. His index finger slips easily into the slick mess, and he savors the quiver of your velvet walls around it. He lets you ride his finger, stays all but still while you greedily bounce your hips, both hands fisted in his hair. You use him for your pleasure, and it makes him delirious with want.

Homelander's gaze flickers up. He peers through the layer of your skirt to catch a look at you, to watch you while you cannot watch him. You’re losing track of yourself, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure, shivering with each flick of his tongue and dive of his finger. Euphoria looks good on you. 

Christ, he has been patient. He would chastise himself for waiting so long to touch you, to taste you, to feel you, but he can’t bring himself to. The wait gifted him with this exquisite hunger, and he proved something important; you both yearn for the other. You crave him. He can see it in your hazy eyes, taste it in the spill of your sweet cunt.

You belong to him. He needs only to take you.

One finger becomes two, and then three. Your heels dig into his shoulders and fuck yourself down on them, moaning recklessly now, not caring who hears you. It’s music to his ears.

“Fuck, Homelander, I-I’m coming, I’m-don’t stop, don’t stop,” you beg prettily. You don’t need to, but he enjoys the song anyway. He laps at your clit in quick upward pulls of his tongue, lips creating a seal around it. His brows furrow tightly, his own neglected arousal pounding through his body like a wardrum, but he doesn’t touch himself, too focused on you.

Your whole body locks up tight when you come, breath caught in your lungs, your clit fluttering delicately. He presses his tongue to it, savoring the taste of your euphoria, how it floods your system and changes the flavor of you. Your pleasure grows his hunger into something monstrous, something demanding, but there is satiation at least in bringing you this, in showing you all the things he will be for you.

You’ll never want for anyone–or anything– else ever again.

Homelander doesn’t stop. You begged him not to. He finger-fucks you through the aftershocks, lapping up every drop of your pleasure, stroking you inside and out while your cunt squeezes his fingers. He doesn’t stop until he feels you pushing him away, your sweet songbird moans sounding more like whimpers, oversensitized. He withdraws his fingers, giving one last noisy slurp before emerging from beneath your skirt. His face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown black. He's panting, looking every bit like a beast lifting its bloodied head from the belly of its kill.

Crawling up your body, still predator hungry, he rests his knee on the desk between your legs. He cups either side of your face, fingertips digging possessively into the back of your neck. He meets your eyes, pinning you with the intensity of his gaze, wordlessly drilling into your mind that this moment, this feeling, this tingling warmth in your body is him.

I did this to you, his expression reads. You’re on my lips, he says by pressing them to yours, kissing your own taste into your mouth, his body throbbing, desperate for an ounce of that same relief. You’re mine.

To his amazement, your eyes mirror his own savage hunger. You kiss him hard, shamelessly licking into his mouth, huffing shallow breaths from your nose. “Lie down,” you tell him, voice as sweet and coarse as raw sugar. “I’m going to ride you.”

Homelander doesn’t need to be told twice. Exhilarated, he rolls over, flipping you with him and steadying you above him in a fluid motion. The desk isn’t as long as he is tall, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already half suspended in the air with his own excitement, helping you with overly eager hands that fumble alongside yours with his belt, which falls to the ground with a distinct thud. He gives a little jump at the voracity you rip his zipper down with, grinning.

Together, you shuck his pants down to his thighs. You grip him through his red briefs, a fractured moan falling from his lips.

“Cute underwear,” you coo. His cheeks flush to almost the same shade. You flatten your palm over his cock and he bites back a whimper, teeth sinking into his tongue. You give a light squeeze, fingers curling around his cock through the fabric, and he lets out a rough breath. “You feel close,” you tell him, stroking him in a loose fist, your hand warm, the fabric soft.

He nods fervently, the friction and your voice already teetering him towards the edge. He makes a sound of both anguish and relief when you release him, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. You tug his underwear down, his cock bouncing free, engorged and dripping precome.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, bracing one hand on his chest and sliding forward, your other hand moving between your bodies to steady his cock against the rapturously hot press of your soaked cunt. His hands fly to your hips, fingertips biting into the softness of your body. You allow him that, focused entirely on the act of taking him into you. The fat head of his cock it slips inside, evoking a sweet little gasp from you, and Homelander fights not to slam in the rest of the way.

Both of your hands fall to his chest, your eyes meeting his. He holds your gaze, mouth twitching around silent sharp breaths. He watches you sink slowly down the length of him, engulfing him in such sublime rapture it’s a wonder he doesn’t come right then and there for the feel of you alone. His grip on your hips flexes and he gives a sharp little thrust up, forgetting himself to the divine feel of your pussy.

“I said don’t move,” you remind him breathlessly. God, you’re beautiful like this. The fluorescent light behind your head haloes you, giving you the look of a debauched angel he plucked from the heavens to have and keep as his own. He expects you to move, to bounce yourself on his cock like you did his mouth and his fingers. He wants to watch your tits bounce, see your face clearly when you come on his cock, but the only part of you that moves is your hand.

His gaze drops and quickly darkens, watching intently as you stroke your clit. The initial contact alone makes you jerk, makes your pussy spasm and squeeze him so good he almost chokes on it. Your only response is to sigh, tipping your head back and spreading your legs a little wider, taking him deeper. He wants so badly to fuck you, to slam you down and rail you until your desk cracks in half.

“Mmmm, fuck,” you moan, rubbing yourself in circles, the lewd noise of it loud and irresistible to his ears. “Fuck, fuck–ah, god,” you start to pant, head falling forward, brows tightly pinched. You’re so sensitive after the assault of his mouth, the flavor of you still fresh on his tongue. The faster your fingers move, the closer he feels you get, the clench around his cock steadily tightening. He wants to thrash, but you keep him pinned in place with your look of expectation and pleasure. You’re getting off on him as much as you are your own fingers, on the swell and throb of his cock inside you, on the sheer power you hold over a god.

You’re loud when you come, nails clawing into the chest of his suit. Homelander’s eyes roll back, lips parted on a soundless cry of his own. The spasming heat of your release is too much and he loses himself to it, eyes flaring up with crimson light as he comes with you, every shudder of your climax stroking and milking him of his own, flooding you with his own wet mess.

His restraint breaks with the dam and he sits up abruptly, startling a noise from you, which he swallows with a hard kiss, cupping the back of your head. He holds you still and he fucks you, lifting from the desk entirely so that he alone supports your weight, driving you deeper onto his cock. Your legs tighten on either side of him, shaking. 

Out of his mind with pleasure, he tears your blouse open with his teeth, diving in close to lick, suck and bite at your chest. He buries his face between your breasts, holding you tightly as he fucks you both through your respective orgasms, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing obscenely in your office. 

Hitching your legs properly around his waist, he bounces you on his cock until the pleasure borders on pain and a secondary shock rolls through him like another orgasm, stealing his breath. Only then does he finally slow, mouthing languidly at your chest until he sucks your nipple into his mouth. He moans against you, grinding to an eventual halt. You comb your fingers through his hair and goosebumps erupt across his body, which shivers in the euphoric aftermath.

He loses track of how long he stays suspended like that, lost to the overwhelm of sensation. Your legs go slack while his angles slightly upward, his face pressed to your chest, your head resting atop his. He nuzzles at you, bleary eyed and slack with pleasure. He kisses a trail up to your clavicle, your throat, your jaw, smiling in the loose, easy way that only a good fuck can never make him.

“Wow,” he says after a while, voice thoroughly frayed.

You giggle, groggily lifting your head. He adjusts until you can relax against his chest, fold your forearms across it and settling your chin atop them, admiring him. He touches your face with his ungloved hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb, then the curve of your bottom lip. His smile widens when you kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Wow indeed,” you say, swinging your legs lightly. “Can’t say I’ve ever been fucked mid-air.”

“One of the many benefits of dating me,” he purrs, caressing your cheek with his knuckles. He kisses you again, drifting slowly back down, unhurried.

Your brows lift lazily. “Who says we’re dating?” You ask, but your smile keeps his hackles from rising.

“Me,” he says, eyes crinkled at the corners. He lands gently on the desk, helping you to it. “You and I are officially going steady.”

You give a thoughtful hum, carefully untangling your limbs from his. You slide off of the desk while he puts himself back together, your knees trembling faintly. “Fairly sure asking someone out requires a question mark. You know. The asking part. You didn’t even buy me dinner.” You attempt to button up your shirt, but it’s obviously a lost cause.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pulling you back into his arms. “Well, I certainly ate.”

“God,” you laugh, rolling your eyes, but they don’t stray from him for long. There’s a sparkle to your gaze that he wants to capture in his palm and never set loose.

“Will you go out with me?” He asks, lips brushing yours.

“Mmmmmmmm….” You hum once more, drawing it out, feigning a great deliberation. “There’s something you should know first.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

“My guilty pleasure,” you say, nose bumping his.

Intrigued, he inclines his head to prompt you to continue. Can’t be worse than mine.

“Superheroes,” you say conspiratorially. “Can’t get enough of them. Loved them my whole life. Especially this one in particular…”

He breaks into a frayed, charmed laugh. “Let me guess, name starts with an H?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, lips curved downward in a mock grimace, and nod subtly. “ Total fangirl. Embarrassing, right?”

Homelander shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt guilty about pleasure. Where’s the harm in it?”

The harm inflicted on those thugs couldn’t count. They had it coming.

“Harm to my pride, my ego, my reputation,” you list, tapping his suit to punctuate each one. “I made a pretty big fuss about not liking you. I had myself convinced that my Homelander only existed in my fantasies, and you were just the guy who plays him.”

My Homelander. The words stir an unexpectedly sentimental surge of emotion that wells up from somewhere deep in his chest. He clears his throat lightly. “What’s the verdict now?”

You sweep him with an appraising gaze. “Still deliberating.”

He clicks his tongue, nodding. “I don’t suppose I could arrange a meeting with the jury?”

“They’re available for dinner tomorrow,” you say, the tilt of your lips sly. 

“It’s a date,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. You kiss him, pressing your smile to his. He doubts he’ll ever tire of the softness of your lips, or the easy way you melt against him. He wraps his arms around you, content to let this moment pass only because he knows there will be more to come. He’s determined to make every one of them better than the last.

All of the pleasure, none of the guilt.

[pucksandpower]

Prove Them Wrong

Charles Leclerc x wife!Reader

Summary: when an invitation to your high school reunion arrives, you are ready to throw it in the garbage … but your husband convinces you to go and prove them wrong

Happy Charles Leclerc contract extension day to all who celebrate 🫶

The invitation arrives in the mail on a Tuesday morning. You’ve just finished your coffee and are clearing the breakfast dishes when you see it — that familiar crest imprinted on the thick, creamy stationary. Your five-year high school reunion.

Immediately, your stomach drops. You haven’t thought about high school in years, haven’t had any contact with your classmates in just as long. Those weren’t the easiest years for you. In fact, they were some of the hardest.

You were shy, quiet, a bit awkward. You never quite fit in with the popular crowd, though you longed to. Much of your time was spent alone, lost in books and music, wishing you could break out of your shell. The kids were cruel in their exclusion. You still remember the whispers, the laughter at your expense, the feeling of being an outsider looking in.

After graduation, you left it all behind without a backward glance. You built a new life, one where you finally found your place. You have a successful career, an amazing husband, a beautiful home. You’ve traveled the world, experienced things you could have never imagined as that geeky teen.

Yet holding the invitation in your hands, the old insecurities come flooding back. Could you really face those people again? The ones who looked through you like you were invisible? Who made you feel small?

You’re lost in thought when Charles comes into the kitchen. He kisses your cheek and asks what’s wrong. Wordlessly, you hand him the invitation.

He glances at it and understanding dawns on his face. “Ah, a reunion. I take it you’re not thrilled?”

You shake your head. “I hated high school. The kids were really mean. I don’t know if I can go back there and face them again.”

Charles pulls you into a hug. “I’m sorry you went through that, love. Kids can be terribly cruel.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “You know, this might be a good chance to show them how wrong they were about you.”

You give him a skeptical look and he continues. “Think about it — you’re not that shy girl anymore. You’ve accomplished so much, you have an amazing life. Maybe going back will give you some closure. A chance to prove to yourself and to them how far you’ve come.”

“I don’t know ...” you say uncertainly.

Charles grasps your shoulders, looking into your eyes. “You are an incredible woman. You have nothing to feel insecure about. I know it won’t be easy, but I think this could be good for you. Let them see the strong, successful person you’ve become. And I’ll be right by your side the whole time.”

You take a deep breath, letting his words sink in. Maybe he’s right. This could be an opportunity to flip the script, to rewrite the ending to that difficult chapter of your life.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Let’s do it.”

Charles grins and pulls you in for a real embrace now. “That’s my girl. I’m so proud of you.”

Over the next few weeks, you have moments of confidence mixed with waves of doubt. Charles is a constant source of reassurance. The night before the reunion, your nerves are frayed.

“What if they’re still awful? What if all those old feelings come rushing back the moment I see them?” You fret as you get ready for bed.

Charles takes your hands, his gaze earnest. “I know you’re scared, chérie. But don’t forget — you’re not alone now. I’ll be by your side the whole time. And if anyone says one nasty thing, we’ll walk right out that door, okay?”

You smile gratefully at him. “Okay. Thank you, Charlie. I don’t know if I could do this without you.”

He kisses you softly. “You’ve got this. Get some rest, mon cœur.”

***

In the morning, you take extra care getting ready, donning an elegant dress and styling your hair just so. Looking in the mirror, you remind yourself that you belong in these clothes, in this life.

The reunion is at your old high school, in the gymnasium. As you walk in hand-in-hand with Charles, the smells hit you first — sweat and sneakers, just like you remember. There are balloons and streamers, a table of snacks and drinks. And clustered together, familiar faces you haven’t seen in five years.

Your heart begins to pound. Charles gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve got this,” he murmurs. Then you lift your chin and step forward to greet your past.

As you scan the room, you recognize faces that used to fill the halls of your high school. Some look familiar, unchanged by the passing years. Others you barely recognize at all.

You steel yourself as a group of giggling girls comes into view — the former popular clique. Lindsay, Heather, and Bethany. Once the queens of the school, rulers of all they surveyed.

Lindsay spots you first. Her overly plumped lips curl into a smirk. “Well, look who it is. Little Y/N Y/L/N.”

You squeeze Charles’ hand tighter as that old childhood instinct to shrink kicks in. But you lift your chin and meet Lindsay’s gaze head-on. “Lindsay. Hello.”

Her eyes flick dismissively over you before landing on Charles. They widen, lips parting. Of course she recognizes him — his face is rarely out of the public eye.

“Y/N!” Bethany exclaims with obviously fake delight. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile. “Of course. This is my husband, Charles Leclerc.”

Charles gives them a polite nod. “Pleasure to meet you ladies.”

The mean girls’ jaws drop in unison. You can’t help but feel a swell of pride at the impressed once-overs they give Charles.

Heather recovers first, plastering on a sycophantic grin. “The pleasure’s all ours! What a lovely surprise.” She touches Charles’ arm lightly. “We would love to catch up and hear all about your life, Y/N.”

You catch Charles’ eye. His lips twitch, seeing right through them.

“That’s kind of you to offer,” you say smoothly. “If you’ll please excuse us, I see some other classmates I’d like to greet.”

You steer Charles away, leaving them sputtering. As soon as you’re out of earshot, he chuckles. “Well, they certainly changed their tune quickly.”

“Once they realized they could get something from me now,” you reply wryly.

You make small talk with a few classmates, keeping it surface-level. Charles’ presence by your side is bolstering. With him here, you’re reminded that you have nothing to prove to these people. Your worth isn’t defined by their approval.

After grabbing drinks, you scan the room again. Your stomach sinks as your eyes land on a familiar figure — Brad Collins. Handsome as ever, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers.

Brad was your biggest crush all through high school. You pined for him secretly, knowing he was way out of your league. He never gave you the time of day — too focused on football, parties, and whichever popular girl caught his eye that week.

“Everything okay?” Charles asks, noticing your expression.

You nod tightly. “My old crush is here.”

Charles spots him and understanding crosses his face. He presses a kiss to your temple. “His loss, mon amour.”

At that moment, Brad looks up and notices you. His stare is cold, dismissive. He says something to his friends and they erupt in laughter, eyes cutting your way.

Your cheeks burn. Some things never change.

Charles’ jaw tightens. He takes your hand firmly and starts steering you toward Brad and his posse.

You glance at him in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going over to say hello,” he replies calmly.

“Charles, you don’t have to ...”

He silences you with a look. “Trust me.”

You swallow hard and nod. Brad watches you approach with that familiar cocky smirk.

“Well, look who it is,” he drawls as you come to stand before him. “Never thought I’d see you at one of these things, Y/L/N.”

You stare him down unwaveringly. “Yes, well, people can surprise you.”

Brad’s gaze slides to Charles, brows lifting. You can see him trying to place how he might know this handsome, expensively dressed man by your side.

“Brad, this is my husband, Charles Leclerc,” you say sweetly.

Brad’s smirk disappears. His friends gape between you and Charles.

“Husband, huh?” Brad says after a pause, regaining his bravado. “Well, congratulations. Didn’t know you had it in you to land a guy like this.”

Fury rises in you, but before you can respond, Charles steps forward. His voice is pleasant but his eyes are steel.

“Clearly you don’t know much about my wife at all. But that’s your loss. I’m the lucky one who gets to experience her incredible heart and mind every day.”

Brad flushes under Charles’ stare. An awkward beat passes.

Charles continues calmly, “I couldn’t ask for a better partner. I just hope you realize what an opportunity you missed out on back then. Have a good night, gentlemen.”

He turns, guiding you away and leaving Brad speechless behind you. Your eyes shine as you gaze up at Charles.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

He grins. “Feel free to tell me again. And I meant every word.” He nods over at Brad’s group, now whispering furiously. “Hopefully that wipes the smirk off his face.”

You laugh, leaning up to kiss Charles’ cheek. “This turned out to be good advice after all. Thank you for being here, for reminding me who I am now.”

The rest of the reunion passes uneventfully. You mingle, laugh, and share stories with classmates who weren’t part of the toxic popular crowd. They’re welcoming and kind. For the first time, you feel like you’re reconnecting with peers, not tormentors.

As you and Charles get into the car to drive home, you let out a long, satisfied breath. The demons of your past have been conquered for good. You faced your bullies and they’re the ones who were left lacking.

You squeeze Charles’ hand, your heart full of gratitude. “Let’s go home.”

***

The adrenaline rush from the reunion slowly fades as you and Charles drive to your hotel. You lean your head back against the leather seat, letting out a long exhale.

“How are you feeling?” Charles asks, glancing your way.

You consider the question. “Good,” you realize with some surprise. “Really good actually.”

Charles smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

You shake your head slowly. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t go. Thank you for pushing me to face them. It was so empowering to see their reactions, to realize how little I care about their opinions now.”

“You did all the hard work,” he reminds you. “I just gave you a little nudge. I’m so proud of you, chérie.”

Warmth spreads through you at his words. Not for the first time, you feel a rush of gratitude that this man chose you, sees you, loves you exactly as you are.

Once in your suite, Charles makes you a cup of chamomile tea and you curl up together on the couch. You rest your head on his shoulder, replaying the events of the night in your mind.

“Do you think they’ll actually learn anything from tonight?” You ask after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “All those kids who were so terrible — will seeing me change their perspectives at all?”

Charles considers this, running his fingers idly through your hair. “I’m not sure. Hopefully it gave them something to think about, but some people never grow out of that mindset. The important thing is that you held your head high and didn’t let them make you feel small.”

You nod slowly. “I think if I could go back and tell my teenage self that this night would come, it would have made those years a little more bearable. Knowing I would come through it stronger. That I would have you by my side.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll remind you as often as you need. Though for what it’s worth, I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You’ve always had an inner strength, even if it took time to fully embrace it. Those kids certainly didn’t put it there.”

You smile up at him. “Have I mentioned lately that you always know exactly what to say?”

He chuckles. “Once or twice.”

You talk softly as the evening winds down, the tea warming you from the inside out. Your reunion with the ghosts of high school is finally behind you. It’s time to let go of the last lingering traces they have over you.

Over the next week, life returns to its normal rhythm. You throw yourself back into work, energized by a new sense of confidence and peace. Every day the experience recedes further into the past.

Until the phone call comes.

You’re just sitting down to lunch when your cell lights up with an unfamiliar number. For a moment you simply stare at it, perplexed.

After a brief internal debate, you answer. “Hello?”

“Y/N!” Lindsay chirps in an overly bright voice. “How are you, hon?”

You hold the phone away from your ear, making a face at her faux familiarity. “I’m fine. To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask evenly.

“Well, I was just calling to see if we could get together! You know, have a little reunion of our own. I’d love to catch up outside of that whole silly event.”

You nearly choke on your water. “You would?”

“Of course!” Lindsay laughs airily. “I barely got to talk to you. And I’d love to spend more time with that charming husband of yours ...”

Ah. There it is. You have to stifle an eye roll.

“That’s … kind of you to offer,” you say carefully. “But I’m afraid our schedules are pretty busy at the moment.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could find the time!” She presses. “I would love to take you two to dinner. My treat!”

Tempting as that is, you have zero desire to spend more time with this woman, despite her transparent new interest in you.

“Appreciate the invitation, but I’ll have to pass,” you say, your tone final. “Take care, Lindsay.”

You hang up before she can protest further. Shaking your head, you go back to your salad. Some things never change.

When Charles gets home, you regale him with the bizarre phone call. He looks equally astonished.

“She actually asked you to dinner? Just to get closer to me?” He gives an incredulous laugh.

You grin ruefully. “Yep. I guess you made more of an impression than we realized.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. Then his expression turns thoughtful.

“You know what? I think we should take her up on that offer after all.”

You stare at him. “What? Why?”

His eyes glint mischievously. “Because I’d like to make it very clear what I think of people who treat you so poorly. And a free dinner out sounds lovely.”

You can’t help but laugh at his unexpected scheming side. “Look at you, getting all protective and devious! I have to admit, it would be gratifying to knock her off her pedestal a bit more.”

Charles winks. “That’s what I was thinking.”

And so, despite your better judgment, you call Lindsay back and accept her invitation to dinner that weekend.

You take more care than usual getting ready, playing up your most striking features. Charles looks unfairly handsome in his designer suit, hair perfectly tousled just to annoy Lindsay further.

When you arrive at the trendy upscale restaurant she chose, Lindsay is already there waiting. She air-kisses your cheeks in greeting, fawning over you and Charles effusively.

As the meal begins, she dominates the conversation, barely letting you get a word in. She name-drops shamelessly, trying to impress Charles with all her supposed connections.

“Oh Charles, you simply must come stay at our villa in Positano sometime! I’d be happy to arrange it for you both. Anything for Y/N’s hubby!” She titters, touching his arm.

You and Charles exchange subtle amused looks across the table. When the waiter appears for your order, Charles gives him an easy smile.

“My wife will have the scallops and I’ll take the filet. Oh, and send over your most expensive bottle of champagne, please. My treat tonight.”

Lindsay’s smile freezes. You bite back a grin, catching his eye again. Message received.

As dinner winds down, Charles finally turns the tables on her. “So Lindsay, what have you been up to since high school? Y/N tells me you two were quite close.”

Lindsay flushes, flustered. “Oh … well, you know, this and that!” She forces a laugh. “I’m in between ventures at the moment. But I stay very busy with charity work and running in social circles.”

“How lovely for you,” Charles says neutrally. “And your husband? What does he do?”

“I’m, uh, not married,” she mumbles, clearly off-kilter now.

“I see. Well, I’m sure the right man will come along someday.” He smiles placidly. “Everyone deserves to feel that kind of love, don’t you agree?”

Lindsay just nods, face pinched. You stifle a satisfied smile behind your napkin.

Later in the car, Charles grins over at you. “That was entertaining.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Have I mentioned you’re the best husband ever?”

He laughs. “A few times. But I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

[rosenclaws]

Pride & Prejudice || Leopold Mountbatten x Reader

Summary: You're an actress auditioning for theatre production of Pride & Prejudice and Leopold finds you practicing your lines.

a/n: Okay so, I need more leopold being an actor and cute moments so this was born. Full confession. I have never watched or read Pride & Prejudice so I am very sorry if I messed up anything aksdfhl. Anyways i hope u like it!!!

The fire escape has to be Leopold's favorite place. He sits on the small chair and watches the bustling city below him. Overwhelming is an understatement when it comes to the last couple weeks.

Falling into the future sounds like a work of fiction, yet it was his reality. Adjusting hasn’t been the easiest but he’s lucky to have Kate and Charlie and well, you. 

“Do you think I could have ever considered marrying the man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of my beloved sister?” Leopold perks up at the sound of your voice. 

You’re Kate's neighbor, kind of. You live below her. Leopold has seen you a few times, mostly when you lock yourself out of your apartment and need to climb through Kate's fire escape. He knows you’re an actor like Charlie but in the day time you work at a coffee shop. 

You served him once or twice when he came to visit you. Your knowledge of theater is extensive and Leopold always had an interest in the stage so conversation came easy. You also loved movies, something he was completely unfamiliar with. He remembers your eyes lighting up at the very idea of showing him your favorite films. A soft smile across his face as he recalls your many movie nights. Though he didn’t quite understand every movie, he could care less when you were so passionate about each and every one of them.

“You arrogantly and unjustly maneuvered Mr. Bingley away from Jane. Can you deny it?” The dialogue catches his attention, you must be practicing for a show. He climbs down the fire escape to your apartment. 

“Your manner…Ugh!” You fall back onto your couch as you throw the sides onto the coffee table. 

“I’m never going to get this right.” You groan helplessly. 

“I thought you sounded lovely.” You let out a small scream as you hear another voice. Turning your head you see Leopold sitting on your fire escape. 

“Leo! What have I said about knocking?” 

“My apologies.” He climbs through the window and walks over to you. He looks at the pieces of paper and reaches down to pick it up. 

“Pride and Prejudice, I had no idea they turned this into a play.” He flips through some of the pages. He remembers reading the book and enjoying it quite a bit. 

“Have you gotten the part?” You scrunch your face as you shake your head. 

“No. Auditions are next week. I…” You hesitate to continue but he smiles softly and you cave instantly. 

“I wanted to audition for Elizabeth but a couple friends told me I’d probably be a better Charlotte.” 

Not that you had anything against the character and a part is a part no matter how small, but you wanted to play more than a side character. Leopold's brows furrow as he sets down the script. 

“Nonsense, do not listen to them. I think you would make a perfect Elizabeth.” He compliments sincerely. Of course you would, he thinks. You’d be perfect in any role. 

“Thanks.” Your eyes drift to the sides on the table. Leopold stands with his arms behind his back, even in casual clothing he radiates this aura unlike anything you’ve seen. 

“You know Leo,” You smile as an idea pops into your head. “I think you should audition too.” Picturing him as Mr. Darcy is easy. After he did his butter commercial, you realized he was a natural for acting and with his background, he’d be perfect for period pieces. Not to mention how handsome he is. You’re sure the director would be tripping over himself to get Leopold a role. Leopold seems uncertain at your suggestion. 

“Here,” You pick up the sides and hand him the one for Mr. Darcy. He skims over the lines and frowns. 

“I do not recognize this.” 

“Oh yeah, they’re from the movie. The director wanted to include his big monologue and the kiss.” You explain, making a mental note to show him the movie later. 

“I understand wanting to take creative liberties and all but…” Maybe he’s a stickler for the classics but he isn’t exactly fond of changing such a well written book. 

“Just give it a try.” He sighs and stands a bit taller. 

“You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my Aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I had scarcely allowed myself before.” He looks up from the script and you give him an encouraging smile. 

“If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me forever.” You want to melt under his gaze. It’s not fair how easily the words flow out of his mouth. How naturally charming he is. 

‘“If, however, your feelings have changed…” To your surprise he sets down the paper and walks closer to you, holding out his hand to you. Hesitantly you take his hand, unsure of where he was going with this. He pulls you up, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“I could, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me body and soul,” His hand gently grabs your chin as he steps closer to you. You stand frozen in complete shock. The script is long forgotten, the pages having fallen from his hands. 

“And I love and love and love you. And never wish to be parted from you from this day on.” He finishes his monologue as a whisper. You part your lips but no words come out, wanting to hold onto this moment for longer. 

“I believe you mentioned a kiss,” He mumbles. 

“It’s uh, towards the end…” He hums and without another word he gently kisses you. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His lips are so soft, so gentle yet so passionate. One of his hands snakes to your lower back, guiding you even closer to him. The kiss breaks and you’re left breathing heavily, smiles on both of your faces. 

“You’re really good at this. Maybe you should become an actor.” You say jokingly. He chuckles and brushes his thumb along your cheek. 

“I was not acting,” He admits. 

“You are truly, utterly, bewitching and If you were to accept, I would die a happy man.” Jesus, he knows how to talk. 

“I would be an idiot to say no to you.” You grab his face and crash your lips onto his. He steps back but quickly matches your fervor. 

“Join me for dinner tonight, so I can court you properly.” He says breathlessly, his face slightly flushed. 

“Properly? So you don’t normally kiss a girl before dinner?” You say teasingly. 

“No, But for the sake of theater, perhaps I can make an exception.” That’s as forward as you’ve ever seen from Leopold, an innocent smile on his face but a clear spark in his eyes. Smirking, you glance at the scattered pages on the ground. 

“Good, because I think we need to run the scene again and again.” 

[paradiseismine]

Instant Chemistry (part 1) - Finn Wolfhard x reader

Pairing: Finn Wolfhard x actress!reader

Warnings: none yet, but of course, this fic will be packed with smut in its future chapters.

Summary: reader is an actress and her agent has a surprise for her - a hot scene in an indie film with one of her favorite actors, Finn Wolfhard.

Format: This is NOT a one shot like the ones I usually post, it’ll likely be a 4 part story (maybe longer).

Love note from Nina: I had a dream about Finnie recently and decided to write it down into a fic. Hope you like it 🫰🏻

Everyone in the industry plays an archetype: that was a given. Some actresses were the goody two shoes, some were femme fatales, some were girls next door. And as crazy as that might sound, you were growing into a femme fatale. That meant that showing some skin and partaking in more sensual roles was bound to happen - and it’s not like it bothered you.

Leo, your agent, had gotten you pretty far for a 22 year old with your background: you had gone from model, to extra in some bigger productions, to main star in a few indie films. You had started acting classes a couple years ago, and was trying really hard to become an actual actress, and make a living solely out of your acting.

One day, you made Leo a huge favor by preventing his future husband of figuring out Leo’s proposal before it actually happened, as it was meant to be a surprise. “I owe you one” he had texted you later that evening, “and I’ll make it count when I pay you back”.

Several weeks had gone by and a project you were once dying to get your hands on was finally going strong. You had gotten home after a long week of shooting your new indie film - a complex and delicate story about a young marginalized prostitute whose dream was to have a romantic relationship and live a normal life. It had some intense sex scenes, but lots of dramatic charge that would surely put your name on the spotlight. With your body exhausted but with your heart smiling, you fell asleep in your new apartment in L.A.

“Morning, rising star” you woke up to Leo texting you, your phone buzzing with his messages. “Remember that one I owe you? Just paid it”.

“lol what did you do?” you responded, the tips of your fingers rushing through the keyboard on your phone screen, curious. Leo was always full of surprises, and you loved that about him.

“You’d told me your fav tv show was stranger things, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I think I just got one of the ST kids to be with you on a spicy scene next week hehehe” he texted, and your mouth went completely agape. “You’re welcome in advance, darling” he added, his jokingly cocky tone nearly audible.

“omg who????”

And… he didn’t text you back.

Your head was cooking for the entire weekend, trying to figure out which ST actor Leo had convinced to partake in the movie. He had said “ST KIDS”, so it was one of the core four, for sure. You crossed them out in your head after some extensive online research: Noah Schnapp is gay, so he probably wouldn’t be comfortable with such intense sex scenes with a woman… Ok, he’s not it. Gaten Matarazzo is probably busy with some Broadway play, he always is. Not him as well.

Finn Wolfhard is always juggling twenty different gigs at the same time. You wanted him the most, but it was very unlikely he’d take the role. So, Caleb McLaughlin was your best chance. He was surely a darling to work with, you’d heard, so you were still excited to meet him, of course.

As you entered the set on Monday morning, your mind was hung up on the idea that Caleb was your special guest. You’d rehearsed in your head how you’d introduce yourself to him, the things you’d say, everything.

Your brain turned into complete putty once you spotted FINN WOLFHARD sitting on a foldable chair, holding a stack of paper, eyes roaming through the script. Fuck. It was him.

You’d get to kiss him, to rub your body all over him. Not for a minute. Not for an hour. But for a whole day. Heck, maybe even two days. And you’d still get PAID for it. It seemed nearly illegal that a job would do that.

You approached him slowly, trying to gather words into your mouth to simply greet him. Soon, he raised his eyes from the script and spotted you.

- Hi - he smiled sweetly. - You must be y/n, right? I’m Finn, nice to meet you.

He shook your hand politely, and you tried your best to give him a firm handshake (Leo always says that a good handshake is important in a Hollywood career), preventing your fangirl reaction from shining through.

- Oh, hi - you smiled back at him, still trying to seem normal and unimpressed. - That’s me. Should we get to the chemistry read? I’m so excited for this project, you have no idea.

- Me too! I loved the script so much, this is just great - he flipped through the pages, his teeth showing through a cute shy smile.

- Quite a departure from fighting inter dimensional monsters, isn’t it? - you joked.

- Definitely - he laughed, standing up to follow you towards the chemistry reading table.

Once everyone was sat down and settled, the reading began. Finn would be one of your character’s clients, and was only supposed to be in a scene or two, in a cameo appearance type of thing. But at the end of the reading, that seemed likely to change.

The chemistry between the two of you was electric, the director had said. The whole crew was amazed at how naturally you seemed attracted to each other just through your words, how easily the scenes would develop. From a small role, Finn was now asked to play your character’s main love interest.

He called his agent on the spot and pushed back a few band gigs on his schedule and said yes to being half naked with you for a few more days. I mean, the project itself was an indie film, so it wasn’t even good money. His main reason to take the part must’ve been you.

[court-jobi]

Alexa, Play...

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work OR the mindblowing art of @gsony24~used w permission))

Pairing: Midoriya x reader

Words: 1.6k

Rating: G~

Warnings: Southern US!GNreader, comfort fic, tooth-rotting fluff here y'all, established relationship, language barrier, dancing-in-the-kitchen level self-insert

Summary:

Izuku comes home to spot your grocery list on the fridge written out in your native language- something he sees just as rarely as hearing you speak it. Just when he thinks he couldn't possibly find you more adorable, you strike a match and chuck it into his heart with a touch as simple as a peck on his cheek, a laugh thrown his way... or -like now- when you chat over the phone in an accent he never gets to hear. He wants to hear more so badly, and asks for it so sweetly.

A/N: a short n'sweet one today, folks, bc I was missing writing for this sweet green bean. I have yet to see MHA: You're Next, but have no one to see it with ughhhhh so off to writing fanfic to soothe the pain~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

You're on the phone with your mom when Izuku finds your sticky note for shopping on the fridge. His mindful shut of the door was appreciated by your mouthed apology, but let him know that he'd best occupy himself solo for a bit while you catch up. The time difference between your home country and here leaves your windows to chat limited, so he’s happy when your schedules align like this. 

If you'll be on a while longer, he thinks he can take a quick drive and pick up these few things for you. Inspired by the idea, he plucks the list out from the magnet’s hold.

You've got nice handwriting, a blend between printed letters and a tilted, cursive script. Personality shines especially near the end of a word, when you're rushing to move onto the next thought. 

Painter’s tape

bananas

white vinegar (stupid drain line)

It's so simple, but when it's written in your native language by default, it feels like a secret to be reading even something so simple as a list like this– scribbled out in the way as it appears in your head.

For most formal paperwork, your kana characters are decently executed, though it's always going to be harder when you grew up speaking Japanese rather than filling out lines and lines of bellwork in the kanji style. This isn't to say you've not been trying:

Over the course of your courtship, you've bonded with young Eri as an extension of Izuku's life and have inherited some of her early learning textbooks. You happened on them by accident, when you were helping her paint her room a few months ago. It sounded elementary when you expressed the interest to read and write Japanese better, and the sweet girl was so enthusiastic to help! 

She lent you her books, but of course you weren't becoming an expert overnight. However slow you’d pace yourself, Izuku was plenty proud of you for making the effort. He'd allow you as much grace as he could spare– especially since your notes were still so cute to find here and there~

Across the room, pacing along every other tile on the floor like stepping stones, you look up catching Izuku staring. You’ve been deep in conversation for only about an hour, but give him a wrench of your nose in jest, and begin wrapping up the call explaining that he’s home and you’d like to greet him properly. 

Izuku calls out a quick 'hi’ and ‘bye' to your mom when he motions to go on speaker; you're not one to refuse him, as he well knows. 

You seem pleased on more than one front when he asks to talk to your family, so he continues to do it. For one, you’re touched by how spirited he is to even want to interact with your mother, and his dropping of formalities and reverting to English to speak to her means a lot to you. Neither point is lost on sweet Izuku, based on how your smile brightens when he jogs over to you to be more in speaking range. 

When you hang up, you're quick to pop up and kiss him as a welcome home. Izuku hangs onto you a little longer than usual, thumb rubbing into your cheek as he savors you several times in quick succession. 

Just when he thinks he couldn't possibly find you more adorable, you strike a match and chuck it into his heart with a touch as simple as a peck on his cheek or a laugh thrown his way. 

“‘Zuku, what's that look for, babe?” 

In your sentimental bliss, you're still surprised to get such adoring treatment from him almost a year into a relationship. 

“Nothing,” Izuku chimes back, “I just forget that you're this American sometimes~”

“Whaddya mean, ‘you forget’?!” the concept sounds hilarious to you. 

“I do!” Izuku offers to take your phone to plug it in nearby, “I have to remind myself that Japanese isn't your first language, until I see you on FaceTime with your mom. Out of nowhere, I'll just hear you sound so different, like: ‘byyyye~ talk to y'all later’!”

You snort at his attempt at a southern accent– stiff and stuck on the wrong vowels. Clearly this succeeds in amusing you, because you hop up and down on the balls of your feet like you've discovered a new game:

“Oh my God, ‘Texas Smash Deku’ is the stuff of my fantasies!– oo!! say, ‘I’d like a honey butter chicken biscuit’~”

“WHAT?? N-no!!”

“What YES!! Please??”

Both doubled over in laughter, you're entertained over his thorough embarrassment, but you're both smitten and carefree: holding onto each other despite nearly buckling at the knees.

Izuku tries his best to catch his breathe first, determined to explain himself,

“I can't do it right! It's like- you say things- I don't know how to describe it! It's not just the flat, movie star accent.. It's–"

“What, a-- ‘drawl’? ‘Twang’?”

Izuku snaps at the realization.

“Yes!! That!! The country kind, like that chef you watch!”

You've rolled your eyes, stepping out of his kind hold in favor of checking out what takeout he brought home. 

“-Hey, no, come back!”

“‘Makin’ fun'ah my accent, I outta smack you’.”

You're far from really mad as you tote around the kitchen getting silverware and soy sauce, but Izuku follows you around like a shadow regardless. Eyes full of that puppy love, he does try to block you in from the pantry closet,

“I’m sorry, honey~”

“No you're not.” --but you're grinning out of forgiveness anyway.

Izuku sneaks a hold on you, reeling you in. It’s cozy in your shared kitchen, alight with just the right amount of overhead lighting and enough space for you two to stand and share tasks.

“I do like hearing you talk like that,” he shares contentedly, “It’s nice to listen to that side of you, especially when you have a lot to say.”

“Yeah well,” you turn into his arms, rather than away, “I'm sure you've noticed already, it comes from her side of the family. Guess I can't really ditch the accent whenever I switch back. The more I think about it… I'm gonna be happy if I can keep sounding like her as I get older. Lets me keep something of hers- even if my ‘dashing hero’ of a man over here thinks I'm being cheeky."

“No, I'm not teasing now! I mean it,” Izuku presses into you, “I only meant, you don't hold back or anything when you're chatty with her.”

He wonders if it stems from shyness, your avoidance of using too much English here at home. If you’re jamming out while doing chores -presuming you’re alone- you’ll switch the station once you know you have an audience.

“Not trying to hide it with you! I'm just out of practice here. No one else in our circle really uses English, so it doesn't come up, I guess.”

You make the point with a wistful aire. Occasionally you'll sub English classes as a favor to Izuku’s effervescent coworker at UA, but not often enough to get too much exposure. He's always been impressed with your Japanese diction, and thinks you could very well go into teaching if you ever wanted a career change.

Still, whether its for work or play, it’s a sound that’s intrinsically you, and there’s a magic to it that Izuku finds himself chasing. A secret power of yours, if he could only unlock it.

“--Plus, I don't think a lot of the slang translates over?” you get comfortable in his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck with no intention of leaving as you muse, “You guys have your own here, and that’s hard to figure out anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right.” 

Tenderly, you run your nails through his hair, a thoughtful look up to him, 

“Do you want me to use it more at home? Lay on the sugar for ya?”

A chance to hear you at your core? Watch your handwritten notes come alive?

“If you want-” Izuku softens, “-if you’re comfortable.”

“Can you understand me though?”

“I can hear you. It only gets hard when you get excited, ‘cuz you talk fast.”

You fuss back at him, “Oh, as if you don't.”

Caught under your hypocritical eye, he can only offer an honest chuckle back, “Fair~”

But for all of your feeling put on the spotlight, you seem to hold a soft spot for the way Izuku makes his requests:

“ ‘I guess I can indulge ya, since you asked so nicely.’ ”

–and it’s enough for him to try his hand to give you a linguistic sparring partner right back:

“ ‘Say something else.’ ”

All English flies out the window when he's looking at you like this, as you fall under a fit of nervous laughter, “What am I supposed to say?!” 

“ ‘Sing me a song, my love. Something 'twangy'.”

You giggled, "'Twangy', good Lord…” 

Izuku could write novels on everything from your finest features to even your most pensive insecurities, romanticizing each of them into a beautifully imperfect anthology. He does so in his mind, at least, when you’re barely lucid on the edge of sleep but still trying to engage him in meaningful conversation. He’ll do so in the notes on his phone, when he learns of yet another favorite token of yours, and wants to add it to the list of comfort measures he can refer to when you need it most.

And when you prompt Alexa to play your newly revealed ‘Karaoke hours that will never see the light of day’ playlist -the one that’s chock-full of female power ballads which you begin to sing your own rendition to-  Izuku is certain his mind nor fingers nor heart can catalog how much more he can possibly love you… though he’ll dance in place with you as he listens and soaks it all in.

[mikaylathenerd5]

The Code We Carry + Chapter 1

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Pairing: Isla Sage Navarro x AU Roman Reigns

Summary: What happens when one wild night crashes your carefully coded life?

Meet Isla Navarro, a brilliant Latina AI researcher at Georgia Tech, juggling groundbreaking algorithms, academic pressure, and the weight of being the first in her field. Her life is a high-stakes balancing act—until a steamy night with a stranger flips her world upside down. Enter Roman Reigns, former NFL star turned coach, whose intense eyes and guarded heart are as dangerous as his past.

One night. One secret. One life-changing collision.

When their paths cross again, Isla’s carrying more than her career dreams—she’s pregnant, and Roman’s the father. Now, with viral photos, nosy colleagues, and a high-profile project tying them together, they’re forced to navigate a minefield of attraction, ambition, and secrets. Will they crash and burn, or build something unbreakable?

Content Warning: This chapter contains references to pregnancy, alcohol consumption, sexual content, and workplace pressure/stress. There are also brief mentions of nausea/vomiting and social media scrutiny. Please take care if these topics are sensitive for you.

A/N: Hey loves! 🖤 I’m back with something new, and I’m honestly a little nervous to share it. Meet The Code We Carry, a story that’s been simmering in my heart for a couple of weeks—full of messy decisions, slow-burn heat, and a Latina AI researcher named Isla who’s about to have her world flipped by a guy named Roman. It’s got neon nights, high stakes, and all the feels I love pouring into my writing. If you’re here for fierce POC leads, STEM vibes, or drama that keeps you up past midnight, I hope this hits the spot.

Word Content: 8.6k

Have you ever felt like your life is one bad line of code, waiting to crash the whole system? That was me, Isla Navarro, at twenty-seven, hunched over my laptop in a caffeine-fueled haze, debugging my career and my heart. I should’ve stayed home that night—should’ve ignored Camila’s texts, her promises of neon lights and freedom. But the universe doesn’t care about your to-do list. It’s got a knack for rewriting your script when you’re not looking.

Three weeks ago, I was just a PhD candidate turned Georgia Tech’s youngest faculty hire, my life a tangle of algorithms and deadlines. My inbox was a warzone—grant proposals, seminar notes, emails from undergrads begging for extensions. I hadn’t slept properly in weeks, hadn’t felt alive in longer. But that night, one reckless decision—one collision—changed everything. If I hadn’t gone out, I wouldn’t have met him. If I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t be carrying a secret that could rewrite my future—or break it entirely.

They say chaos is a great teacher. Guess I’m about to get schooled.

The Atlanta skyline glittered beyond the glass walls of Club Eclipse, a constellation of light and shadow that pulsed with the city’s restless energy. Inside, the air was thick with heat and bass, a rhythm that sank into Isla Navarro’s bones, urging her to move, to feel, to forget. She stood at the bar, her fingers tracing the condensation on her mojito glass, the ice melting into a bittersweet pool. At 27, Isla was a force—an Afro-Latina PhD candidate turned faculty, her name whispered in academic circles for her innovative AI and cybersecurity research. But tonight, in this neon-lit chaos, she was just Isla, out of her depth, her emerald dress clinging to her warm brown skin, her curls loose and wild, bouncing with every subtle shift of her weight. The alcohol—her third drink, maybe fourth—softened the edges of her unease, making the world feel less like a puzzle to solve and more like a wave to ride.

Her cousin Camila had orchestrated this night with the precision of a general, her energy as relentless as the Miami sun they’d both grown up under. Hours earlier, in their cramped Atlanta apartment, Camila had tossed the emerald dress at Isla, her grin wide and unyielding. “You’re a genius, prima, but you’re not a machine,” she’d said, hands on her hips, her gold hoop earrings glinting. “We grew up dancing at Tía’s parties, shaking it till the neighbors complained. You’re 27, not 87—let’s bring that Isla back.” Isla had protested, her voice sharp with excuses—her dissertation revisions, her undergrad mentees, the algorithm she was debugging for early injury detection. But Camila, her cousin and fiercest ally, had laughed, tossing her braids. “You’re coming, Isla, or I’m dragging you, like that time we snuck into Abuela’s quinceañera stash.” Isla had sighed, the memory of their teenage mischief softening her resolve. Resistance was futile with Camila, who’d been her shadow since they were kids in Miami, two peas in a Cuban pod.

Now, here she was, surrounded by strangers, the music a siren call she didn’t know how to answer. Camila was on the dance floor, her laughter cutting through the noise like a blade. She spun with a guy whose name Isla hadn’t caught, her red dress a blur of motion, her joy infectious. Isla sipped her mojito, the mint sharp against her tongue, and let her eyes wander. The crowd was a kaleidoscope of bodies, swaying to a Bad Bunny remix that made her smile. This is home, she thought, her hips twitching to the reggaeton beat, even if I’m lost in it. She caught herself, her practical side whispering, Not tonight, Isla. You’re here for Camila, not to lose control. But the rhythm had other plans, pulling at the edges of her restraint.

She leaned against the bar, the cool metal grounding her, and scanned the room. The air was heavy with perfume and sweat, the neon lights painting the crowd in electric hues—pink, blue, green. A group of women laughed nearby, their heels clicking against the floor. A couple swayed too close to the bar, their hands tangled in each other’s clothes. Isla’s gaze drifted, aimless, until it landed on him.

He stood near a VIP booth, a pillar of quiet strength amid the chaos. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his black shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was pulled into a neat bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his presence seemed to bend the room’s gravity, drawing eyes without effort. He was talking to a group of guys, his laugh low and rich, like thunder rolling in the distance. One of them clapped his shoulder, grinning. “Man, you’ve been through worse than a bad season, Roman,” the friend said, his voice carrying over the music, laced with respect. “Dodging linebackers, dodging drama—same thing, right?”

Roman smirked, his eyes crinkling, but there was a shadow in his expression, a guarded edge that flickered and vanished. “Old habits,” he replied, his voice deep and warm, a sound that settled into Isla’s chest like a stone. “Some fights you don’t walk away from clean.” The words were light, but his tone carried weight, a hint of battles fought off the field, scars hidden beneath his easy charm.

Then his gaze flicked up, meeting hers across the sea of bodies. The world tilted. His eyes, dark and piercing, held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. They were the kind of eyes that saw too much, that stripped away pretense without trying. He raised his glass, a subtle nod, his lips curving into a half-smile that promised trouble—delicious, dangerous trouble. Isla’s pulse quickened, a drumbeat she couldn’t silence. She wasn’t the type to flirt with strangers—her life was code, data, control—but the alcohol sang in her veins, loosening the walls she’d built since she was a girl in Miami, carrying her parents’ dreams.

She tilted her head, returning the nod, her own smile tentative but real. Qué locura, she thought, her heart racing. The connection lingered, electric, a wire sparking between them. His friends pulled him back into conversation, but his eyes flicked to her again, a second glance that felt like a question. Isla turned to the bar, her fingers tightening around her glass, her breath uneven. She downed the rest of her mojito, the burn grounding her, and signaled the bartender.

“Another?” he asked, already reaching for the rum.

She hesitated, her practical side screaming to slow down, to leave. But the music, the heat, the memory of his smile—they drowned it out. “Make it quick,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The night unraveled like a dream she couldn’t pin down, each moment vivid but fleeting, like code running too fast to debug. Camila reappeared, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her skin glowing with sweat. “You’re not hiding at the bar all night, prima,” she declared, grabbing Isla’s hand. “Dance with me, like we did at Tía’s block parties!” Isla laughed, the sound foreign to her own ears, and let Camila pull her to the dance floor.

The music swallowed them, a reggaeton beat that had Isla’s hips swaying, her body remembering the rhythms of their childhood—salsa lessons in their abuela’s living room, merengue at Miami block parties. She closed her eyes, letting the bass guide her, her curls bouncing as she moved. Camila spun her, shouting, “There’s my girl!” and Isla grinned, the alcohol and music stripping away her usual restraint. She felt alive, untethered, the weight of her research, her deadlines, her responsibilities dissolving in the heat of the crowd. For once, she wasn’t the prodigy, the mentor, the daughter carrying a legacy. She was just Isla, free.

She opened her eyes, and he was there. Close. His scent—sandalwood and cedar, with a hint of smoke—cut through the haze of perfume and liquor. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching her, his presence a physical weight. The crowd seemed to part for him, his broad frame cutting a path as he approached. “Dance with me,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine, barely audible over the music but clear as a bell in her mind.

She didn’t ask his name, didn’t think. Her body answered before her mind could catch up, a nod that felt like surrender. He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, firm but not possessive, guiding her into the rhythm. She pressed against him, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her palms. His body was solid, warm, a contrast to the chaos around them. Dios mío, she thought, what am I doing? But she didn’t pull away.

“Roman,” he said, leaning in, his breath grazing her ear. The name was a promise, a key unlocking something she hadn’t known was locked.

“Isla,” she replied, her voice soft, almost lost in the music. His lips curved, and she felt it against her skin, a smile that made her heart stutter.

They danced, bodies locked in a conversation words couldn’t touch. His hands traced the curve of her hip, her spine, each touch electric, sparking heat that pooled low in her belly. She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze, and found his eyes dark with want, but also something softer—curiosity, maybe, or recognition. The world shrank to the heat between them, the pulse of the music, the way his fingers tightened slightly when she pressed closer. She wasn’t drunk, not entirely, but she was intoxicated by him, by the freedom of this moment.

“You dance like you mean it,” he said, his voice teasing but his eyes serious, as if he saw more than she wanted him to.

“Only when the music’s right,” she shot back, emboldened, her smile playful. “You’re not bad yourself.”

He laughed, a sound that vibrated through her, and spun her gently, pulling her back against him. “I’ve had practice,” he said, his lips brushing her ear. “Years on the field, reading moves, staying one step ahead. But you—you’re making it easy.”

The hint of his past—on the field—caught her, a glimpse of a life shaped by discipline and pressure. “Sounds like a story,” she said, her voice light but curious, testing the waters.

His smile tightened, just for a moment, a shadow crossing his face. “One I don’t tell on dance floors,” he said, but his tone was warm, deflecting without shutting her out. “Tonight’s about you, Isla.”

The words sent a thrill through her, his focus a spotlight she hadn’t expected. They talked—about the music, the city, the way Atlanta never slept—but it was surface, a veneer over the real conversation happening in their touches, their glances. When he suggested shots, she laughed, reckless, and followed him to the bar, her hand in his, his thumb brushing her knuckles.

At the bar, he ordered tequila, his eyes never leaving hers. “To new beginnings,” he said, raising his shot, his voice low, like he meant more than the night, a man chasing something beyond the moment.

She clinked her glass against his, her heart pounding. “To forgetting tomorrow,” she replied, and they drank, the burn searing her throat, his laugh searing her deeper. “You’re trouble,” he said, his voice teasing, but his gaze said he meant it, his hand brushing hers as he passed her another shot.

“Me?” She arched a brow, the alcohol making her bold. “You’re the one buying shots for strangers.”

“Not a stranger anymore,” he countered, his fingers lingering on hers, the touch a spark that set her alight. “Isla,” he added, her name a caress, and she shivered, caught in the pull of him.

The cab ride was a fever of anticipation, neon lights blurring outside as their hands roamed. Roman’s fingers gripped her thigh, his touch firm and possessive, sending heat coursing through her. Isla’s nails grazed his neck, drawing a low growl from him, his eyes dark with hunger. “You’re playing with fire, Isla,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a warning that thrilled her.

“Good thing I like the burn,” she shot back, her voice husky, her lips grazing his jaw, tasting salt and desire. His hand tightened, pulling her closer, and she laughed, the sound swallowed by the city’s hum. In the backseat, their bodies pressed close, her hand sliding up his chest, feeling the hard lines beneath his shirt, his breath hitching as she teased the edge of his collar. “Careful,” he whispered, his voice rough, his hand catching hers, pinning it against his chest. “You’re testing me.”

“Test passed?” she teased, her lips brushing his earlobe, her boldness fueled by tequila and desire.

“Not yet,” he growled, his free hand sliding to her lower back, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body igniting hers. The cab stopped, and they stumbled out, the night air cool against their flushed skin, their hands still tangled, their laughter breathless.

The hotel was sleek, impersonal, a glass-and-steel tower that promised anonymity. They stumbled through the lobby, her heels clicking against marble, his arm around her waist, steadying her. In the elevator, the air crackled, their reflections in the mirrored walls showing two people teetering on the edge. Roman pressed her against the wall, his hands framing her face, his lips hovering over hers. “Last chance to walk away,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes searching, a man who knew the cost of reckless nights.

“Don’t want to,” she whispered, her hands gripping his shirt, pulling him down. Their kiss was a spark, igniting the space between them, her body arching into his, his groan vibrating through her. His hands slid down, cupping her hips, lifting her slightly so her legs brushed his, the friction electric. She tugged his hair, loosening more strands, her fingers tangling in the dark waves, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing hers, a promise of what was coming. The ding of the elevator broke them apart, their breaths ragged, their eyes locked.

In the hallway, they were a tangle of hands and heat, Roman’s lips on her neck, her nails scraping his back through his shirt. He fumbled with the keycard, cursing softly, and she laughed, stealing it from him, her fingers brushing his as she unlocked the door. “Slow, huh?” she teased, her voice playful, her eyes daring him to prove her wrong.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he growled, his smirk predatory, and he pulled her inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

The hotel room was a cocoon of dim light and city hum, the curtains half-drawn, casting shadows that danced across the walls. The door clicked shut, and the world fell away, leaving only the heat between them, a wildfire ready to consume. Roman’s hands were on her before she could catch her breath, pulling her against him with a hunger that set her alight. His lips crashed into hers, urgent and demanding, tasting of tequila and raw desire, a kiss that devoured her senses, deep and unyielding, like he was claiming every inch of her soul. Isla melted into it, her fingers tangling in his hair, yanking the tie free until dark strands spilled over her hands, soft and heavy, a contrast to the hard planes of his body. He groaned, the sound low and primal, vibrating through her, and lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, the emerald dress riding up her thighs, baring her skin to his touch.

He pressed her against the wall, the cool plaster a shock against her back, his body a furnace pinning her in place, his hips grinding against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her gasp. His lips broke from hers, trailing fire down her jaw, her neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against her skin, leaving a trail of heat that pulsed low in her belly. “You’re driving me fucking crazy, Isla,” he growled, his voice rough, his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging in just enough to make her arch into him, her nails raking his shoulders, urging him closer. Dios mío, let me burn, she thought, drunk on him, on the night, on the freedom of this reckless surrender.

“Keep up, then,” she challenged, her voice husky, her lips curving into a defiant smirk as she tugged at his shirt, buttons straining, her fingers itching for skin. His eyes darkened, a predator’s gleam, and he set her down, only to yank his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing a chest sculpted from years of discipline, scars and tattoos telling stories of battles won and lost. A jagged scar curved along his ribs, a testament to pain survived, and a Samoan tribal tattoo sprawled across his shoulder, its bold lines flowing like a river, drawing her gaze. She traced it with her fingertips, her touch light but deliberate, and he shivered, his breath hitching, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his intensity.

“Old wounds,” he said softly, his voice barely audible, a confession that hung between them, raw and unguarded, a glimpse of a man who’d fought and lost and fought again.

“Beautiful ones,” she replied, her voice steady, her eyes locking on his, and his smile was small, guarded, but real, a crack in his armor that made her heart ache for a man she’d never truly know.

Her dress was next, his hands deft and sure, peeling the emerald fabric from her body until it pooled at her feet, leaving her in black lace that made his eyes flare with hunger. His gaze raked over her, dark and reverent, taking in every curve, every inch of her warm brown skin, the shadows playing across her body like a canvas. “Goddamn, Isla,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, almost a prayer, and she laughed, the sound turning to a moan as he pulled her close, his lips claiming her collarbone, her throat, his teeth grazing just enough to spark heat that pooled between her thighs.

“You’re all talk,” she teased, her voice a dare, her nails grazing his chest, tracing the lines of his tattoo, drawing a hiss from him that made her smirk. He grinned, wicked and wild, and lifted her again, carrying her to the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight as he laid her down, his body hovering over hers, a storm ready to break. But he didn’t rush, his lips finding hers in a slower kiss, teasing, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, coaxing her open, savoring her like she was the only thing that mattered.

She moaned, her hands roaming his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the heat of his skin slick with sweat, her curls brushing his shoulders as she arched into him. He pulled back, his eyes locked on hers, and slid a hand down her thigh, hooking her leg over his hip, his fingers teasing the edge of her lace, maddeningly light, drawing a whimper from her. “You want this?” he murmured, his voice rough, his touch a deliberate torture, a man who knew how to play her body like a game he’d already won.

“Yes,” she breathed, her hips arching, her body begging for more, her hands tugging at his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. “Don’t make me wait, Roman.” Her words were a dare, and his laugh was low, dangerous, as he stripped the lace away, his hands sure and unyielding, tossing it aside like it offended him.

He kissed her again, deep and consuming, his lips trailing down her neck, her chest, pausing to tease her breasts with slow, deliberate licks, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, making her gasp, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his voice a rumble against her skin, his hands cupping her, thumbs circling until she was writhing, her breath hitching. She clutched his hair, pulling him closer, her moans soft and desperate, her body trembling under his touch, the anticipation a sweet ache.

His lips moved lower, kissing a path down her stomach, his stubble scraping as he lingered, his breath hot against her core. “Let’s see how much you can handle,” he teased, his voice a challenge, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, a smirk playing on his lips. She laughed, breathless, her hands fisting the sheets, but the sound turned to a moan as his tongue found her, teasing, exploring, each stroke deliberate, drawing sounds she couldn’t stifle. The room spun, the dim lights casting shadows on their bodies, the city’s hum a faint echo against the creak of the bedframe, the slickness of their sweat, the rhythm of her ragged breaths.

He didn’t rush, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open, his tongue relentless, pushing her closer to the edge with every flick, every swirl. “Roman,” she gasped, his name a plea, her hips bucking, her body trembling, and he groaned, the vibration sending shivers through her, as if her voice alone could undo him. She reached down, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard, and he growled, the sound raw, his pace intensifying until she was teetering, her moans louder, unfiltered, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the fire building inside her.

Just when she thought she’d break, he pulled back, his lips glistening, his eyes wild, and she whimpered, her body aching for release. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough, his smirk infuriating and intoxicating, and he rose, shedding his pants, his body a masterpiece of strength and scars, his arousal evident, making her pulse race. She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around him, stroking slowly, drawing a hiss from him, his head tipping back, his control fraying. “Fuck, Isla,” he muttered, his voice strained, his hands gripping her hips, steadying himself.

“You’re all talk,” she taunted, her voice playful, her eyes daring him, and he laughed, a sound that was half-growl, half-surrender, as he pulled her hand away, pinning both her wrists above her head with one hand, his grip firm but not cruel. “Let’s see you handle this,” he countered, his lips brushing hers, his free hand guiding himself, teasing her entrance, drawing a moan from her that echoed in the quiet room.

He entered her slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of her expression, the stretch and heat overwhelming, her breath catching. She arched, her legs wrapping around him, urging him deeper, her nails digging into his hand, leaving marks he’d feel tomorrow. He moved, powerful and precise, each thrust a rhythm that matched the fire in her veins, the bedframe creaking in protest, the shadows shifting across his tattooed shoulder. “You feel so good,” he growled, his voice rough, his lips brushing her ear, murmuring her name like a mantra, “Isla, fuck, Isla,” the sound sending shivers through her.

She tugged a hand free, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard, drawing a growl from him that made her smirk, the power shifting, their bodies a dance of give and take. “Harder,” she whispered, her voice a challenge, her hips meeting his, and he obliged, his pace quickening, his grip on her hip tightening, his fingers leaving faint bruises she’d trace later. She kissed him, hard and messy, her teeth grazing his lip, tasting salt and desire, her moans swallowed by his, the intensity building, a wildfire neither could control.

He shifted, rolling them so she was on top, his hands gripping her hips, guiding but not controlling, letting her set the pace. She moved, slow at first, then faster, her curls bouncing, her skin slick with sweat, her eyes locked on his, the intensity of his gaze pushing her closer to the edge. “Look at you,” he said, his voice rough, his hands roaming her back, her thighs, one thumb finding her core, circling until she gasped, her rhythm faltering, her body trembling. She leaned down, kissing him hard, her nails scraping his chest, leaving faint red lines, the power hers for a moment, his groans spurring her on.

But Roman wasn’t one to yield for long. He sat up, pulling her flush against him, his hands gripping her ass, guiding her movements, his lips claiming her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin, marking her in ways that felt primal. “You’re something else, Isla,” he murmured, his voice heavy with want, his eyes locking on hers, and for a moment, she felt seen—not the PhD, not the mentor, just her, raw and real, a woman unraveling under his gaze. The vulnerability shook her, a crack in her armor, but she pushed it aside, chasing the heat, the now, the man who’d set her alight.

She pushed him back, straddling him, her hands on his chest, her movements deliberate, drawing moans from him that matched her own, the bed creaking louder, the room a haze of heat and shadows. “You’re not bad yourself,” she teased, her voice breathless, her smirk defiant, and he laughed, the sound turning to a groan as she tightened around him, her body responding to every thrust, every touch.

He flipped them again, pinning her beneath him, his weight grounding her, his hands framing her face, his thrusts deeper, harder, pushing her closer to the edge. “Come for me, Isla,” he whispered, his voice a command and a plea, his thumb circling her core again, relentless, his lips brushing hers, their breaths mingling. She shattered, her moans loud and unfiltered, her body trembling, her nails digging into his back, the world dissolving into heat and light and him. He followed, his groan raw, his grip tightening, his body shuddering against hers, their release a shared wildfire that burned through them both.

When they collapsed, breathless and spent, the air was heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, their bodies tangled, hearts pounding. He pulled her against him, his arm heavy across her waist, his chest rising and falling against her back, his breath warm against her neck. “You’re something else,” he murmured, half-asleep, his voice warm with amusement, but there was a softness there, a hint of a man who didn’t let many people close. She smiled, her heart twisting, savoring his warmth but pulling back mentally. “Just for tonight,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, the fleeting nature of the night settling in, a spark that would burn out by morning. This burns bright, but it’s gone by dawn, she thought, the truth a quiet ache in her chest. She drifted off, the alcohol and exhaustion pulling her under, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that lulled her to sleep.

She woke to sunlight slicing through the curtains, her head pounding, her mouth dry as sandpaper. The bed was empty, the sheets cold, the space beside her a void that echoed in her chest. No note, no trace of him beyond the ache in her muscles, the faint bruises on her hips, and the lingering scent of sandalwood on the pillow. Her dress lay crumpled on the floor, a silent accusation, its emerald fabric stark against the beige carpet. She sat up, her head spinning, and pieced together fragments of the night—his voice, his touch, the way she’d let go. Roman. The name was all she had, a ghost of a man she’d never see again.

Shame crept in, sharp and unwelcome, a blade slicing through her haze. She wasn’t this person, the one who hooked up with strangers and woke up alone. She was Isla Navarro, cybersecurity innovator, mentor to undergrads, the daughter her parents had pinned their dreams on. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, firm and unyielding: “Never let anything derail you, mija. You’re our future.” This night, this mistake, was a glitch, a bug in her carefully coded life. She’d delete it from her memory and move on.

She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the zipper, her reflection in the hotel mirror showing a woman she barely recognized—curls tangled, eyes shadowed, lips still swollen from his kisses. She called an Uber, ignoring the driver’s curious glance, and spent the ride home staring out the window, the Atlanta skyline blurring into streaks of light and steel. Her apartment was a sanctuary, small but hers, filled with books, plants, and the faint scent of the café con leche she brewed every morning. She showered, the hot water washing away the night, and collapsed into her bed, the familiar creak of the mattress grounding her. By the time she woke again, Roman was a ghost, a name she’d never hear again, buried deep where it couldn’t touch her.

Weeks later, Isla stood in her kitchen, the scent of sazón and garlic lingering from the arroz con pollo she’d cooked the night before, a recipe from her abuela that always calmed her. She was trying to focus, her laptop open to a half-finished paper, but her body had other plans. Nausea had plagued her for days, a nagging discomfort she’d blamed on stress—her seminar was looming, her mentees needed her, her tenure track demanded perfection. But this morning, she couldn’t keep breakfast down, the toast and café con leche rebelling in her stomach.

She sat on the bathroom floor, the tile cold against her legs, staring at the pregnancy test in her hand. Two lines. Her breath caught, her vision narrowing to those stark blue marks. No. No puede ser. She’d bought the test on a whim, a precaution, but the reality hit like a tidal wave. She was 27, her career on the cusp of greatness—her AI research was turning heads, her mentorship program lifting underrepresented students. A baby wasn’t in the plan. Neither was a father she barely remembered, a man whose face was a blur of tequila and desire.

She clutched the test, her hands trembling, and leaned her head back against the wall. Dios mío, what have I done? Her parents’ faces flashed in her mind, their pride and sacrifice a weight she’d carried since childhood. Her mother, a nurse who’d worked double shifts, had always said, “You’re our future, Isla. Don’t let anything stop you.” Her father, a mechanic with calloused hands, had saved every penny for her education, his quiet pride a constant pressure. A baby, now, felt like a betrayal of their dreams, of the girl who’d promised to make them proud.

For days, she carried the secret like a stone, her routine a fragile shield. She went to work, coded algorithms, met with mentees, but the test haunted her, hidden in a drawer under papers. One night, alone in her apartment, she sat at her desk, a journal open, her pen hovering. Te siento, pequeño, she wrote in Spanish, pero no estoy lista. I don’t know how to be your mother, not when I’m still building me. The words blurred, her tears smudging the ink, and she closed the journal, her heart heavy with guilt and a strange, growing attachment.

She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over a contact labeled “Unknown,” a number she vaguely remembered Roman giving her at the bar, scribbled on a napkin she’d kept for reasons she couldn’t name. She drafted a message: I need to talk. It’s important. Her finger lingered on send, her mind racing. He deserves to know, she thought, but what if he ruins everything? What if he’s not the man I felt that night? Fear won, and she deleted the message, her breath shaky, her secrecy a painful choice she wasn’t ready to unravel.

She told no one, not even Camila, who’d see through her in a heartbeat. She needed time to think, to debug this variable that didn’t fit. She hid the test deeper, buried under papers, and threw herself into work, her research a lifeline. Her latest project, using AI to detect early player injuries for the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets, was her focus. She coded algorithms that analyzed biomechanics, predicting micro-injuries before they became career-enders. It was groundbreaking, a chance to save athletes and secure her tenure. Her undergrad mentees thrived under her guidance, their enthusiasm a reminder of why she loved this work.

One of them, Maya, a shy freshman with a knack for coding, stopped by her office one afternoon, her eyes bright. “Dr. Navarro, I got into the research program because of you,” she said, clutching a notebook. “You make me believe I can do this, even when I feel out of place.” Isla smiled, her heart twisting. Maya was like her younger self—brown skin, big dreams, the weight of being “the first” in her family. Can I still be that for her? she thought, her hand brushing her stomach, where the secret lay.

Camila, relentless as ever, noticed the change. They met for coffee at a campus café, the air thick with the scent of espresso and cinnamon. Camila leaned across the table, her eyes narrowing, her gold hoop earrings catching the light. “You’re off, prima,” she said, her voice soft but firm, her Miami accent thick with concern. “Pale, quiet, like you’re carrying the world. Tía would kill us both if you burn out like this. What’s up?”

Isla stirred her latte, the foam swirling in patterns she couldn’t read. “Just stress,” she said, avoiding her gaze. “The seminar’s coming up, and the project’s intense.”

“Bullshit,” Camila said, her voice sharp with love, her hand reaching for Isla’s. “You’ve handled worse. Deadlines, grants, teaching—you eat stress for breakfast. This is different. Is it a guy? That night at the club I dragged you to?”

Isla’s heart skipped, the memory of Roman’s hands flashing unbidden. She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “No guy. Just work.”

Camila leaned back, crossing her arms, her red nails tapping the table. “You’re a terrible liar, Isla. I’m your cousin—I know you better than anyone. Something’s eating you, and I’m not letting it go.” She softened, her eyes searching. “You don’t have to do this alone, prima. We’re family.”

Isla squeezed her hand, grateful but guarded. “I’m fine, Camila. Promise.” But her voice cracked, and Camila’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced.

That night, Camila’s texts lit up Isla’s phone: You’re pregnant, aren’t you? I see it in your face, prima. Who’s the guy? Isla stared at the screen, her thumb hovering, then typed, I’m fine. Drop it. But the next day, Camila called, her voice gentle but insistent. “Isla, you can’t code your way out of this. If you’re pregnant, you need to deal with it. You know how our family is—secrets don’t last. Who’s the father?”

Isla sat on her couch, the TV muted, a plate of uneaten tostones on the coffee table. “I don’t know him,” she lied, her voice barely a whisper. “It was a mistake.”

Camila sighed, the sound heavy with love. “A mistake doesn’t mean you’re alone, prima. Tell me when you’re ready, okay? I’m here, always.” Isla nodded, though Camila couldn’t see, and hung up, her secret a weight she carried alone, Roman’s name a locked file she couldn’t open.

The seminar was days away, and Isla threw herself into preparation, her office a chaos of papers, coffee cups, and code. She stood at her desk, staring at a framed photo of her parents, taken at her college graduation. Her mother’s smile was proud, her father’s eyes soft with tears. They gave everything for me, she thought, her hand brushing her stomach, where the life inside her stirred. She hadn’t decided what to do—adoption, motherhood, something else—but the choice felt like a cliff she wasn’t ready to jump from.

She practiced her presentation in front of a mirror, her voice steady but her reflection haunted. Nausea came in waves, and she kept ginger ale and crackers in her bag, a silent concession to her condition. She imagined the seminar, the room packed with faculty, students, and athletic staff, her AI project the star. It was her chance to shine, to prove she was more than a glitch, more than a mistake.

The morning of the seminar, she stood in her apartment, smoothing her navy blazer, her curls pulled into a sleek bun. She looked professional, composed, but her hands trembled as she zipped her bag. You’ve got this, she told herself, but the flutter in her stomach wasn’t just nerves. She drove to campus, the Atlanta skyline a blur, and parked near the lecture hall, her heart pounding as she walked inside.

The room was packed, a sea of faces—faculty in suits, students with laptops, athletic staff in Yellow Jackets gear. Isla stood at the podium, her slides a masterpiece of data and innovation, her laptop humming softly. She began, her voice clear, her passion for her work shining through. She explained how her AI models analyzed player biomechanics, detecting micro-injuries before they became career-enders. The Yellow Jackets were her testing ground, and the athletic department was watching closely, their interest a validation of her vision. She was in her element, the room hanging on her words, her confidence a shield against the nausea that lingered.

She clicked to a slide showing real-time data, her voice steady. “By integrating kinematic analysis with machine learning, we can predict injuries with 92% accuracy, giving trainers a head start on intervention.” The audience murmured, impressed, and she allowed herself a small smile, her nerves easing. She was halfway through, reaching for a sip of water, when she saw him.

In the back row, arms crossed, his broad frame impossible to miss. Dark hair in a bun, dark eyes locked on her. Roman. The name slammed into her, a tidal wave crashing her mental processes. Fragments of that night flooded back—his voice, low and teasing; his hands, warm and sure; the hotel room, a blur of heat and surrender. Her hand shook, the water glass clinking against the podium, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She forced her eyes to her slides, but her pulse was a drumbeat, wild and unyielding, drowning out her carefully coded calm.

What was he doing here? He wasn’t faculty, wasn’t a student. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments. The athletic department. Her project was tied to the football team, and she’d heard whispers of a new defensive coordinator, a former NFL player with a reputation for intensity and innovation. Roman Reigns. It had to be him.

Her stomach twisted, not just from nausea but from the impossible truth. He was the father of her unborn child. A man she’d tried to erase, a one-night stand she’d buried under layers of denial. And now he was here, watching her present her life’s work, oblivious to the secret binding them. His gaze was steady, analytical, but there was something else—a flicker of curiosity, maybe recognition, that made her heart stutter.

She gripped the podium, her knuckles whitening, and continued, her voice steady despite the chaos in her head. “Our next phase involves real-time integration with wearable tech,” she said, clicking to a graph, her words automatic, honed by weeks of practice. The audience nodded, scribbling notes, but she barely saw them. Roman’s presence was a weight, a variable she couldn’t control.

The presentation ended, and the applause was thunderous, a validation of her brilliance that barely registered. She smiled, thanked the audience, and opened the floor for questions, her movements mechanical. A professor asked about data privacy, and she answered sharply, her expertise a lifeline. A student questioned scalability, and she fielded it with ease, her voice calm, her mind screaming. Then Roman raised his hand, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, low and deliberate.

“Dr. Navarro, your model’s impressive,” he said, his tone professional but his eyes searching, lingering on her in a way that felt personal. “I’ve seen injuries end careers—my own included. How would your system adapt to defensive strategies, where reaction times are split-second and physicality’s unpredictable?”

The question was incisive, strategic, a glimpse of the mind behind the man she’d met that night. His words—my own included—hit her, a hint of a past marked by loss, his fist clenching slightly on the armrest, a tell he didn’t mean to show. She gripped the podium, a wave of nausea hitting, and swallowed hard, her ginger ale long gone. A flashback seized her—his lips on hers, his voice whispering her name, the hotel room’s dim light—and she blinked it away, her heart racing. He can’t know, she thought, but what if he finds out?

“We’d integrate real-time kinematic data, adjusting for positional demands,” she said, her voice steady, her eyes meeting his briefly, then darting away. “It’s about predictive precision, not just detection, tailored to each player’s role.” He nodded, a flicker of respect in his gaze, and she hated how it warmed her, how it reminded her of his laugh at the bar.

Another question came, then another, and she answered on autopilot, her brilliance carrying her through. But Roman’s presence was a current, pulling at her focus, his gaze never wavering. When the session ended, she gathered her notes, her hands trembling, avoiding the back of the room. She needed to escape, to process this alone, to rebuild the walls he’d shattered just by being here.

But as she stepped off the stage, he approached, his presence a physical weight, his footsteps steady against the hardwood floor. “Dr. Navarro,” he said, holding out a business card, his voice smooth but edged with something she couldn’t place—curiosity, maybe, or challenge. “I’m Roman Reigns, defensive coordinator. Your work’s going to change the game. We’ll be collaborating.”

His fingers brushed hers as she took the card, and the touch was a spark, triggering a memory of his hands on her skin, his lips against her neck. Her breath caught, her eyes flicking to his, searching for recognition. But his face was professional, his smile polite, though his gaze lingered, studying her like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. He doesn’t remember, she realized, and the relief was laced with a strange ache, a loss she hadn’t expected.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm within, the lie bitter on her tongue. “I look forward to it.”

He studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing the crack in her facade. “I’m here to rebuild,” he said, his voice low, almost confiding. “Not just the team, but myself. Your tech’s a start, but I’m betting you’ve got more to offer.” The words were professional, but the way he said them, the weight of his gaze, felt personal, like he saw more than she wanted him to.

She nodded, clutching the card, its edges sharp against her palm. “We’ll make it work,” she said, forcing a smile, and turned away, her heart pounding as she slipped through the crowd, their murmurs fading behind her. She made it to the hallway, the campus quiet around her, and leaned against the wall, her breath shallow, her mind racing.

Roman Reigns. Defensive coordinator. Former NFL star. A man whose intensity on the field was matched only by the quiet strength she’d felt in his arms that night. And now, the father of her child—a child she hadn’t planned for, a variable she couldn’t control. She pressed a hand to her stomach, the flutter beneath her skin grounding her, a reminder of the truth she carried alone. What do I do now? she thought, her eyes stinging, her resolve fraying.

Days later, the follow-up meeting loomed like a storm cloud, its weight pressing on Isla’s shoulders. She stood in her office, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across her desk. Her laptop was open, her demo ready, but her mind was elsewhere. She stared at a framed photo of her parents, taken at her college graduation, their smiles proud, their eyes soft with hope. They gave everything for me, she thought, her hand brushing her stomach, where the life inside her stirred. She hadn’t decided what to do—adoption, motherhood, something else—but the choice felt like a cliff she wasn’t ready to jump from.

She’d been avoiding Camila, whose texts had grown more insistent: You’re pregnant, aren’t you, prima? I see it in your face. Who’s the guy? You can’t keep this from me forever. Two nights ago, Isla had caved, calling Camila from her couch, the TV muted, a plate of uneaten tostones on the coffee table. “I’m pregnant,” she’d admitted, her voice barely a whisper, the words heavy with shame. “It was a one-night thing. I don’t know him.”

Camila’s silence had been loud, her voice gentle when she finally spoke. “A mistake doesn’t mean you’re alone, Isla. You know how our family is—secrets don’t last, not with Tía and Tío watching us like hawks. You don’t have to know him to figure this out. But you need to tell him, whoever he is. And you need to tell me when you’re ready. I’m here, prima, always.” Isla had nodded, though Camila couldn’t see, and hung up, her secret a weight she carried alone, Roman’s name a locked file she couldn’t open.

The meeting was in a conference room, the air thick with the scent of coffee and ambition. Isla arrived early, setting up her laptop at the head of the table, her demo ready to show how her AI integrated with player scans, her slides polished to perfection. The room filled with athletic staff—trainers, analysts, a team doctor—their notebooks open, their questions already forming. Roman entered last, his presence a physical weight, his black polo stretched across his chest, his hair in that neat bun that haunted her dreams. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on her, and with a subtle nod, he took the seat beside her, his choice deliberate, professional, yet sending her pulse into overdrive.

“Dr. Navarro,” he said, his voice low, his tone warm but formal as he settled in, his arm brushing hers briefly as he adjusted his chair. “Looking forward to seeing this in action.” The faint scent of sandalwood and cedar hit her, a visceral reminder of that night, and her breath caught, her hands tightening on her laptop. He’s too close, she thought, her mind flashing to his hands on her skin, his lips against her neck, the hotel room’s dim light. She forced a smile, nodding, her voice steady despite the storm within. “It’ll deliver,” she said, focusing on her screen, but his proximity was a current, pulling at her focus, his warmth a distraction she couldn’t afford.

The meeting began, and Isla launched into her demo, her slides showcasing real-time data, her voice clear and confident. She explained how her algorithms analyzed biomechanics, predicting micro-injuries with 92% accuracy, tailored to the Yellow Jackets’ needs. The staff leaned forward, their pens scratching, their murmurs approving. Roman sat close, his elbow inches from hers, his notebook open, his pen tapping softly, his questions ready. His presence was a weight, his gaze steady but piercing, studying her as much as her work, and she fought to keep her focus, her nausea simmering, a reminder of the life inside her.

“How scalable is this for real-time game data?” Roman asked, leaning in slightly, his voice a low rumble that echoed their night together, his arm brushing hers again, the contact unintentional but electric. “Defensive players move unpredictably. Can your model keep up? I’m here to protect my players, not just win games.” His words carried weight, a hint of a man driven by past failures, his gaze steady but shadowed, his pen pausing as he waited for her answer.

She swallowed, her throat dry, her mind racing. “It’s built for dynamic environments,” she said, clicking to a slide showing real-time data, her voice steady despite the heat of his proximity. “We use adaptive algorithms to adjust for positional demands, ensuring accuracy even in high-intensity scenarios.” He nodded, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile, and she hated how it stirred her, how it reminded her of his laugh at the bar, his breath against her ear.

Another staff member asked about implementation costs, and she fielded it, her expertise a shield. But her nausea flared, and she reached for her water bottle, her movements careful, her laptop screen glowing beside her. As she sipped, a calendar notification popped up, stark and unmissable: First Trimester Check-Up, 2 PM. Her heart stopped, her finger hovering over the dismiss button, her eyes flicking to Roman, who was glancing at her screen, his expression neutral but his gaze sharpening. No, no, no, she thought, her pulse roaring, her hand trembling as she minimized the calendar, the action too late, the notification burned into the air between them.

She pushed on, clicking to her next slide, her voice steady but her mind screaming. Did he see it? Roman’s demeanor shifted subtly—his pen stilled, his jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to her face, searching, a question forming in their depths. She avoided his gaze, focusing on the trainer’s question about data integration, her answers sharp, her brilliance carrying her through. But his closeness was suffocating, his arm brushing hers as he shifted, the contact sending a jolt through her, her memories of that night—his hands, his voice, their wildfire—threatening to unravel her.

She needed air. “Excuse me,” she murmured, slipping out to the restroom, her laptop left open on the table, its screen dim but glowing with her demo. She splashed water on her face, the cold a shock against her skin, and muttered, “Get it together, Isla.” The mirror showed a woman stretched thin, her brown eyes haunted but determined, her curls escaping their bun. She dried her hands, her movements mechanical, and returned to the room, her heart pounding.

Roman’s gaze was waiting, his jaw tight, his eyes stormy, a mix of curiosity and something heavier—suspicion, maybe, or hurt. She ignored it, wrapping up the demo, her algorithms earning nods from the staff, their praise a hum in the background. But Roman’s silence was louder, a current that pulled at her focus, his proximity a reminder of the notification he’d likely seen, the secret she couldn’t hide. She closed her laptop, the meeting ending, and the others filed out, their voices fading down the hall.

Roman lingered, his frame filling the doorway, his presence inescapable. “Dr. Navarro, a word?” His tone was calm, but his eyes were intense, a storm brewing beneath his control, the weight of what he’d seen hanging between them.

Her heart stopped. She followed him to the hallway, the campus quiet around them, the late afternoon light casting long shadows. He stepped close, his height forcing her to look up, his scent—sandalwood and cedar—stirring memories she’d tried to bury. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked, his voice low, his jaw tight, his eyes boring into hers.

Her breath caught, her mind racing. “What do you mean?” Her voice was a whisper, her pulse a roar, her hands clutching her bag like a lifeline.

His eyes softened, but his voice cracked, a rare break in his control, the notification’s truth heavy in his words. “I saw it, Isla. First trimester check-up. Right there on your screen. Is it… mine?”

The world tilted, her vision narrowing to his face, his expression a mix of vulnerability and resolve, a man who’d faced loss and was bracing for another. Her mind raced, guilt and fear colliding with a spark of hope. He’s not the man I thought, she thought, but can I trust him with this? Her mouth opened, but no words came, her heart pounding, her mind a tangle of fear and resolve. The hallway was silent, the campus holding its breath, and Isla stood frozen, the father of her unborn child waiting for an answer she wasn’t ready to give.

Okay, loves, Chapter One is OUT and I’m still buzzing from that ending! 😅 Isla and Roman are already a mess, and I’m so thankful you’re here for their collision. Writing this story feels like untangling my own heart sometimes, and your reactions make it all worth it. That cliffhanger? Just wait—it’s about to get wilder.

If you’re feeling this, I’d love for you to keep the vibes going—drop a comment, hit like, or reblog to share the love. Here’s some stuff I’m curious about, so let me know what you’re thinking:

How’s Isla holding up after dropping that bombshell on Roman? Is she ready for his response, or is she spiraling?

That viral photo’s stirring up trouble—any theories on who’s behind it or how it’ll bite them?

Camila’s chaos is everything—what’s your favorite moment of hers so far?

If you could sit Roman down right now, what’s the one question you’d ask him?

My ask box is wide open for your thoughts, wild theories, or just to chat about Isla’s world. Got a question about her STEM life, Roman’s past, or where this is headed? Hit me up—I love diving into this with you (no spoilers, though!). Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you in Chapter Two for more drama and feels. 🖤

Next Chapter

[canadianfangirl-95]

We gotta work this out 

Pedro Pascal x f!reader 

Summary: Pedro looks extra delicious in his workout gear and newly toned muscles. You take up the opportunity to torture him a bit and get some much-needed discipline.  

Or; Pedro fucks you in your home gym because he’s trying to work out and you can’t stop teasing him.  

Warnings; Look up back extensions on ab bench and you’ll understand my thought process. Smut, Minors DNI, 18+, age gap relationship, dirty talk, swearing, fingering, PIV, spanking, multiple orgasms, sex on exercise equipment. No thoughts, just that fucking bicep picture. 

Word count 2600

Pedro has only been back from New York for a few weeks and will be leaving to film in London soon enough. This is the first year your non-profit is going through tax season, so you’ve been chained to your desk and unable to travel with him until later in the Spring. When he is home, he’s busy with meetings, script work and working out. Working out. Ugh, that seems to be the biggest pain in your butt. It’s bad enough you barely have time with your husband right now, but he also has to look so damn good as he’s prepping for Avengers.  

Every day that he saunters into the kitchen, grabs his green juice in his t-shirt, gym shorts, socks hiked far too high up his strong calves and running shoes before patting down the steps into the basement home gym, leaves your mouth watering. Your eyes trailing behind him desperate to take a bite into his bulging bicep. With all the extra energy burning he’s doing in the gym; it leaves him too tired for some extracurricular activities in the evening. It’s not his fault, you think, you knew this may happen when marrying an older man.  

A girl gets desperate at times like this though, and you decide to take matters into your own hands. Once you’re dressed in a tight sports bra that accentuates your breasts, light grey  gym spandex shorts and your running shoes, you bounce down the steps with a sly grin on your face.  

Pushing the door open, you’re immediately greeted with the sound of Purple Rain by Prince blasting through the overhead speakers. The erotic groans coming from the far wall draw your attention immediately and you’re just in time to catch him as he pushes a set of weights across the mat. The sleeves on his black t-shirt are rolled up and his biceps glisten with sweat and use. Your eyes dilate as you take in his fit form and you do your best to settle yourself before skipping over.  

Pedro wipes his damp brow with the back of his hand before noticing you striding towards him. His mouth curls slightly at the sight of you in your workout gear, “Hey baby, what’re you doin’ in here?” He asks, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you in with one arm to place a chaste kiss to your temple.  

You place your hands on his sweaty chest as you keen at his embrace. “Oh just, wanted to get a workout in, if you know what I mean.” You say with a wink, drawing a tiny circle on his chest and eyeing him with the sweetest doe eyes you can muster.  

He eyes you for a moment before his eyebrows raise, realizing your proposition. “Baby,” he begins, shaking his head but pulling you closer towards him. “I’m sorry but I gotta finish this session. Jason’s all over about me about making weight before I leave for London.” 

“I know, I know.” You say shyly, “I’m not here to distract you.”  

Pedro looks at you suspiciously, “You’re not?” 

Shaking your head, you bite your bottom lip. “Nope, just here to stretch and get some exercising done. Swear.” You say with a smile, holding your pinky out for him.  

He pulls his mouth into that twisted half smirk that gets you every time, looking down at your pinky dangling in the air. “Good, no reason we can’t share the space.” He raises his hand and interlocks his pinky with yours. “No funny business missy.”  

Raising your hands up in the air in mock surrender, you step back and walk over to the mats on the other side of the room. He watches the way your hips sway as you walk, and he mutters under his breath. “Just here to workout my ass.” Before returning to his weights.  

You sit down on the mat and grab your phone, taking over the overhead speaker and turning on your favourite sexy time playlist. Side to Side by Ariana Grande booms over the speaker and Pedro stills in his spot to glance at you, recognizing the song immediately. You shrug and holler over, “Helps me get my body really fluid, and moving you know.” He shakes his head, and you wink before turning back to your phone.  

He finishes pushing the weights and begins to collect them off the dolly, lifting them effortlessly to place back on the racking system. He spares a glance in your direction; you’re standing with your legs stretched as apart as they can go and leaning forward to stretch. He stares at the way your ass looks in those damn shorts and bites his lip. “Fuck me.” He quickly shakes the obscene thoughts from his head to focus on what he needs to do next so he can quickly finish his session and go for a very cold shower.  

Grabbing his hand weights, he goes to stand in front of one of the walls of mirrors, curling the weights upwards, his biceps bulging with each movement. He takes a deep breath in as he wonders what you’re up to now. He figures a quick glance can’t hurt so he lifts his eyes to spy on you through the mirror. You’re turned facing his back on the mat now. Legs spread open in a butterfly with your eyes closed, deeply breathing and focusing on trying to push your legs further open with your hands. Your chest rises and falls dramatically with each deep breath as you push through the pain.  

The weights in his hands suddenly feel 20 pounds heavier and they dangle as he sucks his teeth. “That girl’s gonna be the death of me.” He says, shaking his head and shifting his weight, picking a random ceiling tile to stare at as he finishes his set and tries to ignore the bulge that is slowly forming in his bright blue shorts.  

Pedro finishes his weightlifting and grabs his green juice before moving to the treadmill to do his run. He gets onto the machine and amps up the speed. Jogging, he hears the undeniable sound of you moaning. He looks over in your direction and sees you at the ab extension bench. You’re leaning over, your legs locked in as you lean over the top of it. Your ass raising higher in the air as your body goes down, an illicit moan escapes your lips as your body comes back up again. His Adams apple bobs as he takes a large gulp, his attention is drawn enough for him to falter and stumble on the treadmill, muttering a curse as he quickly grabs hold of the side rails and stretches his feet onto the landings on either side of the track.  

He takes a deep breath as he stops the machine to give him a moment to settle, before glancing up one more time at your position. You lean forward again and a lump forms in his throat as he spots a damp spot on your shorts, right at the heart of your core. There’s no way you’ve been working out hard enough to develop a sweat with all the teasing you’ve done, so there’s only one thing that could cause a build up of dampness in his favourite spot in the world.  

“Fuck it.” He mutters before jumping off the treadmill and stomping in your direction. He is a man, but not a strong man, not when it comes to you. He’ll take the tongue lashing from Jason if it means he gets a few moments of reprieve with his wife. You’re still in a downwards position when he comes up behind you, you barely catch a glimpse of his lustful look in the mirror as you arch back up before his strong hand finds the middle of your back and pushes you back down. “Ugh, babe!” You let out a huff as you brace yourself facing down on the bench.  

His hand moves smoothly up and down your back as he tsks at you, “Don’t give me any of that. You’ve been teasing me all this time, getting you and myself all worked up. Can’t you feel what you do to me baby.” He says, his voice cool as ice as he presses his growing bulge into your ass. You whimper at the sensation of him being so close to where you want. You peak up at the mirror in front of you and your eyes lock. There’s nothing but darkness in his as he continues to rub up and down your spine.  

“You came down here, wanting me to fuck you isn’t that right.” Pedro hums.  

Taking a deep breath, you nod shakily.  

“Words, admit what you did.” He says, shaking his head.  

“Fuck,” you whisper, ���yes. Fuck, I’ve just missed you so much and I missed your cock and fuck, baby I just need you so bad.” You stammer, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate to feel him on you.  

“Sh, sh.” He begins, his hand travelling further down to cup one of your ass cheeks. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” His hands grab the top of your shorts and he swiftly drags them down to rest halfway down your thighs. He smirks as you moan at the sudden feeling of the hot air against your bare core. “Knew it.” Pedro whispers. Bringing his hand up, his fingers gently trace along your wet lips, and you groan. “I know you’re ready for me baby, always are, but I wanna have a little fun. Just keep your head down for me.”  

Before you can question him, one of his thick fingers breaks through your hole and plunges deep. You jolt forward slightly and bite your lip, your pussy clenching around the digit already. He slowly pumps his finger in and out, rubbing your ass and lower back with his other hand. Just as you adjusted to the curl and depth of his finger, he inserts another.  

His fingers are thicker than any other man you’ve ever been with, and the stretch makes your lip quiver every time. “Fuuuuck.” You groan as you tuck your head down against the cool material of the bench. The contact against your forehead gives you a distraction long enough to let you catch your breath, so you don’t drench his fingers so quickly.  

Pedro clicks his tongue, “Don’t hold out on me, I need this as much as you do. Just, let go.” With that, a third finger fills your tiny hole, and you can’t contain yourself any longer as he pumps you senseless with his fingers. You feel the tightness and blissful feeling wash over you as your walls clench around his fingers and gush around his hand. Your head flies up and you open your eyes just enough to see the way to stares at your pussy as he fucks you through your orgasm. He finally pulls out of you with a flick of his fingers, to send one final squirt out of your tense hole and onto his shorts. You let out a breath of relief as your body settles post-orgasm.  

“That’s my girl.” He whispers, taking the top of his shorts and boxers and shoving down to rest below his heavy balls.  

You wait, knowing what’s about to happen. He lines up with your dripping center and in one fell swoop, buries himself inside you to the base. You both moan at the righteous feeling of being together again as man and wife. His size never ceases to amaze you as even the stretch from his three fingers was barely able to prepare you for his cock. Catching each other’s eyes in the mirror again, you nod and bite your lip. He smirks and begins pulling out and slamming back into you. Your body jolts forward bent over on the bench with each deep and aching thrust. His hands grip your hips as he focuses on fucking you as hard and fast as he can.  

“Fuck, you always take me so well baby.” He says, his hand raises up and strikes your right ass cheek swiftly. You let out a whimper at the pain but your pussy clenches around him. “You like that?” He asks (he knows you do), before smacking it again. He reveals in the way your skin bounces with each contact. “I’m not gonna last much longer baby, haven’t cum in days.” He moans as he feels you begin to tighten on his pulsing member.  

A few more thrusts and he presses his full body weight onto you, releasing inside you. The swell of his cock inside your already sensitive and fucked out core throws you into your second orgasm. Holding your breath as you tense up, you look up at the mirror and nearly drool at the fucked-out expression on his face. His dark eyes find yours again and he quickly grabs your ribs and hauls your body up, holding you up with his sweaty chest against your back, his bicep curling around your throat with his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hands flail up and grab hold of his bulging arm as he continues to shallowly thrust into you. The sensation is so overwhelming you feel the need to scream, so you quickly lean your face forward and bite down gently on his muscle to calm yourself and stop the squail that is sure to erupt from your throat as you finally come down from your intense high.  

Your jaw releases his skin, leaving a red mark. Your tongue tastes of his sweat and your breathing is as laboured as his as he steady’s you as you try to find your footing again. The unmistakable tell of your dirty actions begins to slide down your leg from your aching core. Pedro coughs quietly into his hand, before stepping to the side and grabbing a sweat towel. He kneels down onto his knee as you brace yourself on the bench in front you. He calmly wipes your legs clean, the cloth travels up your thighs and you shudder as it makes contact with your lips to clean them as well. Once satisfied, he grabs your shorts and pulls them up your clammy thighs back into position.  

Turning to face him, you smile. “Well, that was, needed.” You grin deviously. 

Shaking his head, he places his hands on his hips, “You can say that.” He winks and steps back.  

Biting your lip, you say. “I guess you gotta get back to your session.” A touch of disappointment lacing your words.  

Pedro looks at your eyes and then away momentarily, “Nah.” He starts, your head snaps up in attention. “I was actually thinking of taking a shower.” He eyes you lovingly with that damn smirk, before saying, “Was wondering if my wife could join me. Looks like we both worked up quite a sweat.”  

Your eyes glisten as you take his extended hand and follow him up the stairs, leaving only the rhythmic sound of Father Figure by George Michael to fill the space. 

[jyoongim]

ok but what about alastor with a reader like angel dust in the sense trapped and abused by valentino maybe they have a different sort of personality than angel dust but in a similar situation how would he react to seeing his s/o in that sort of a situation maybe they have to interact with valentino infront of him.

thoughts?

warnings: fluff????sexual trauma! mention of SA! Val is a perverted dick! Fem!reader, Alastor not letting shit slide but caring about your wellbeing first!

Think of this as an extension of the Alastor x retired!pornstar reader fic!

You and Angel took a beauty day from all the hustle and bustle of the hotel. The day was filled with spa appointments and shopping.

Angel laughed as you asked his opinion on lingerie that Alastor would like, blushing when he teased about the Overlord having the hots for you. You were having a great time; until Angel’s phone started blowing up.

Valentino.

The perverted bug was calling Angel in for a shoot and on his day off.

You grimaced, but you understood. 

Valentino didn't understand the word ‘No’.

Thats why you stayed away from the industry.

Consent did not matter. At least to Val. 

You shuddered at the unpleasant memories.

Angel apologized,  but you shook you head, looping your arm through his to walk him to the studio. You at least wanted to see him off.

You felt your ears flatten as you entered the studio, your palms getting sweaty as the two attendants opened the double doors to Val’s studio.

”Annnngeelll baby I missed you!” Val exclaimed, taking a puff of his cigarette as he approached the two of you.

His red eyes shifted to you, a purr rumbling through his chest

”ooooh Angel you didnt say you were bringing an absolute gem!” His large hand wrapped around your unwilling hand, bringing it to his lips and instead of kissing it…Val licked up your arm.

You immediately recoiled, giving a nervous smile “pleasure as always Val,  but I fear that I am not here for any…ugh entertaining purposes, just seeing Angel off before heading home”

Home.

That’s right home.

 You considered the hotel home.

Everyone was so nice and no one judged you for your past.

You didnt have to put on a persona for a camera and could just be yourself. You could laugh and cry and be comforted for it.

And you were treated like a person. By an evil Overlord at that.

Val chuckled darkly, looking you up and down “oooh really? Because Angel could use a few pointers, you might dress differently but you can’t fool me cara…” A slight burning sensation had you wince a bit, clutching your belly.

cursed womb mark. Damn you Valentino.

 “You’re nothing but a little cumslut” Val leaned down to whisper in your ear.

You narrowed your eyes, glaring up at him. Angel gave a nervous laugh to ease the tension “Why don’t you stay to watch one shoot eh? I don’t mind being criticized by a true professional” he tugged you under his arm, away from Val and to give you a wink.

You sighed “one shoot. Ill stay to watch one shoot”

Val grinned as he whisked you to sit in a director chair as he handed you the script.

You made a face of disgust as you looked over the script. Rough, demeaning sex and no buildup at all.

You shuddered. You were happy to have left all this behind but you knew everyone wasn’t lucky.

”ACTION SLUTS!” Val shouted to begin the scene.

Your eyes roamed about the scene and you felt sweaty.

Uncomfortable and anxiety. These were emotions you usually had when you were around Val, but they normally ran this rapid when you were in a shoot yourself.

But you weren’t…so why were you so nervous?

”What do you think about that angle?”

”You could have made that work”

”None of them are gonna reach your level!”

”Ugh they can’t even get that right!”

You barely listened to Val’s rambling until your lower belly burned, you clenched your teeth, eyes looking over at the smug pimp.

A smile was on his face, but it didn’t match his words.

”Why don’t you be a doll and show ‘em how its done babygirl” he tilted his head smiling knowingly.

It was like a light switch went off.

A warm feeling spread throughout your body and you found yourself moving towards the scene.

The script was rather raunchy;  ‘victim blindfolded and bound taken advantage of by gang’

”watch and learn” Valentino purred watching as a demon blindfolded you and settled you into a low arch.

You were surrounded. The warmth and heavy scents surrounded you as the demons touched and probed at you.

A whimper escaped your throat as a tongue licked at your cunt, dipping into you to give you some prep.

No No No No No No NO! You were screaming in your head as several cocks entered you.

Your lips parted to scream but a cock was shoved down your throat, a moan erupting from the demon who thrusted into your mouth.

Your body burned as you were worked into an orgasm. You kicked and thrashed to get the demons off of you.

They couldn’t cum in you, they just couldn’t.

Alastor…

Tears streamed down your face as you thought of the red demon.

How would be react when he found you smelling like other demons?

You had given up this lifestyle. You weren’t a whore who needed to flaunt her pussy to the world for a quick buck.

”G-get off-” you tried to say through the haze.

Your blindfold fell as you were pounded into, your eyes frantically meeting Val’s; a smirk was on his lips as he puffed his cigarette 

Go on and cum baby he mouthed

No! Nonononono!

Your body tensed as you cummed around a stranger’s dick.

A sob escaped you as the demon groaned before spilling his cum into you, the others cumming on your body.

Long arms wrapped around you, pulling you off the bed and you sobbed into a fuzzy chest.

”What the hell Val!” Angel hissed, wrapping a robe around you.

The tall demon snapped his finger and your womb mark ceased burning. “I’m sure the public would love to see such a diamond return to the spotlight. After all, she’s my best investment”

He looked over you, clicking his tongue and waving the two of you off as he shouted out commands for the next scene.

”I can’t believe that asshole did that to you. Oh toots don’t worry well get you cleaned up and good as new once we get to the hotel” Angel tried to reassure you.

You immediately ran to your room, getting in the bath and scrubbing at your skin.

Tears ran down your face as you scrubbed. You wanted the scent and feeling of those demons off you.

Your skin was red and you didn’t even realize how hard you were scrubbing until a clawed hand grabbed the sponge.

”Darlin scrub any harder and your skin will be raw” a radio-filtered voice chirped.

You jerked away, eyes wide as you watch Alastor drain the tub.

”now what’s got you so raddled?” He tilted his head in question.

Your lip quivered, head down, unable to meet his eyes.

A hand gently cupped your chin to make you look at him. Alastor had a very stern look on his face, despite the smile on his face.

”I-I-I’m sorry Al!” You bursted into sobs as you wrapped your wet arms around his neck.

He patted your back to soothe you, waiting for you to calm down so you could tell him what disturbed you so much.

”I was out with Angel and he was called to the studio a-and Val h-he h-he…I did something I vowed to never do I’m sorry I’m so sorry” you sobbed.

Alastor stiffened.

He knew what your occupation was before you came to the hotel. You had given that up to better yourself.

He never once thought that you would be dragged back to be a former version of yourself.

He could smell the scents of others on you, no amount of soap and fragrance could hide the fact he knew what had transpired.

”Oh my dear it’s alright” he cooed,pulling you to stand. To assess the damage that had been done.

Claw marks and an intricate mark on your lower belly.

He grimaced.

But he had more important matters to attend to, you.

He cautiously lathered you in lotions, put ointments on your wounds and dressed you for bed.

”Don’t worry your pretty head my dear, I don’t think of you any less. I know you wouldn’t have done something like that on your own free will” he hummed tucking you in, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead.

He waited until you fell asleep to slip away and once your bedroom door closed behind him, his aura darkened.

The hallways lights flickered and the building shook as his shadow angrily ripped at the wallpaper and figurines.

He made his way to his radio tower and smiled wickedly.

He wouldn’t let this offense go unnoticed. Oh no no one dared to lay a hand on his darlin and get away with it.

Oh he was going to make the Vees live a fucking nightmare

[thewinter-eden]

Blood Sugar Virus (12)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Genre: Horror, zombies, strangers to lovers, angst, suspense Pairing: Kang Yeosang x female!reader Warnings: based on the Wanteez Zombie episode, ages are based on current Ateez rather than the time at which the actual episode was filmed, zombies, language.

Story Summary: You (stage name Sugar) are the co-captain of a horror acting group. You and your guys are the ones the companies hire when they want to stage a zombie, ghost, or any vaguely horrific and dystopian episode. So when you get hired by Ateez to develop a zombie program, it's just another routine that you've done a million times. Everything's going exactly according to script--until suddenly it isn't, and it starts getting a little too real.

🏆 Esteemed Moot: @ramadiiiisme

⭐️ Reader Spotlight: @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone

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It’s Namjoon. By some stroke of mercy, it’s Namjoon holding your arms. He pulls you away from the room that you could all but taste your own death in and drags you around the corner, crushing you to his chest in the hardest hug anyone’s ever given you. “Dammit, Sugar, don’t do that.” He breathes in your ear and then holds you at arm’s length. “Are you okay?”

The moment you nod, he grips your biceps so hard it pinches. “Don’t fucking do stupid shit like that. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking our clients were gonna get eaten if someone didn’t create a diversion.” You try to wrestle out of his grip, almost wanting to laugh at the horror in his expression. He loosens his hold but doesn’t let go.

“Yeah, a heroic action that Seonghwa could have taken for his own group. Not you.”

You roll your eyes and bite back a petulant smile. “They’re our clients, Joon, we’re responsible for them.”

“Not anymore they’re not. They’re grown ass men.” Namjoon hisses. “They can take care of themselves. No more dumbass stunts, okay?”

You finally manage to shake him off. “We’re all in this, Joon. I have no interest in us being sole survivors here. We have to watch each other’s backs.”

“My interest is getting my team out.” Namjoon tells you fiercely. “You, Jimin, Rosé. I don’t want you getting yourself killed for them. You’re my responsibility, dammit.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, we are co-captains.” You argue just as strongly. “You and I have equal agency and if I choose to help the clients that we brought here, then I’m gonna do that.”

“They hired us.” He seethes. “They booked us for their entertainment and they picked the schedule. We are here because they requested our services and signed a contract. We are not beholden to—”

His next words are drowned out by the sudden clamoring of the class bells all over the school. The next Fever Time that you had completely forgotten about in the middle of Namjoon’s ill-timed confrontation.

Just like that, the entire building explodes with noise. Ringing alarms and stampeding bodies all around you, on the floors above, and from the classroom you just left behind.

Deciding to save the rest of his anger for another time, Namjoon grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you towards the entryway where the rest of your slowly growing group had gone to wait for you.

Rasping growls and stumbling footsteps sound behind you as the hoard is spurred into action, blindly giving chase and grasping for a hold of anything they can reach.

You can feel hands like claws scrape your back, catching your shirt, ripping through your hair as you run. The back of your shirt tears. Your scalp stings and brings tears to your eyes even when you manage to rip your hair out of someone’s grip.

Ahead of you, your group has found an empty office to hide in. You see Jongho and Jimin in the doorway, keeping low as another swarm of zombies rushes past. When Jimin spots you, he beckons wildly and holds his hand out to catch Namjoon’s palm.

The two men yank Namjoon, and by extension you, into the office and slam the door, moving aside so Seonghwa and Mingi can shove the heavy desk to jam it.

“Oh thank god.” Rosé gasps at the sight of you. She jumps up from the corner she’s been hiding in and scoops both you and Namjoon into a hug that squeezes the breath from your lungs. She smells like stale deodorant and sweat, but it’s so much better than the stench of blood that follows the zombies that you sink into her hold.

“We can’t keep fucking doing this.” Jongho mutters. “We can’t keep getting caught in the Fever Times. If we do, it’s just a matter of time before they pick us off one by one.”

“Or all at once.” Mingi adds. “Wandering through the school and hoping we live through the next stampede is a good way to get us all killed.”

“In the next silence we should be out of here. The entrance is just on the other side of this foyer.” Namjoon says, pulling away from Rosé and lowering himself into a chair.

“Yeah, except we tried that.” Jongho retorts. “After Sugar left, we made it downstairs before Jungkook got out.” He paces the small office. “Some of us got separated, but most of us made it to the doors.”

The moment Rosé lets you go, your legs seem to turn to jelly. All burnt out from adrenaline, you stumble towards the small sofa against one wall and fall onto a cushion, curling into yourself as your body crumbles into a series of shivers.

Jimin crosses the room to sit next to you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders.

“I’ve got the key.” Namjoon says. “I can get the chain unlocked.”

“What do you mean you have the key?” Seonghwa demands tensely. “You locked us in here?”

“It was part of the program.” Namjoon snaps. “Our director and your managers decided that the episode would have better production value if we added an obstacle that Sugar didn’t know about. The chain was our doing, but the hell that followed certainly was not.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jongho grumbles, but he’s obviously pissed that your first attempt at escape had been sabotaged by your own companies. “When we got to the doors, there was no chain.”

That’s new information.

“No, but the door was chained when Yeosang, Wooyoung and I first noticed that something was going on.” You argue. “It was locked. Wooyoung couldn’t get out.”

“It was unlocked because someone cut the chain.” Mingi says quietly. “We got to the foyer just as all the lights came on. The doors were wide open, and that hoard—our companies were rampaging through them.”

“Someone cut the chain, turned on all the lights, and let in thirty already affected zombies?” You repeat blankly. It doesn’t make any sense.

The way they describe it sounds intentional, like someone released a zombie plague into the school on purpose.

But that’s not possible.

That’s not rational.

Who would do that?

Who even could do that?

“We hid. There were too many of them to move around, so we hid. And when they cleared out of the foyer, we tried to get to the entrance again.” Jongho sits on the desk that’s jamming the door. “The military was there. A bunch of guys in uniforms. They’d closed the doors, and they were boarding them up from the outside. The doors, all the windows, every access point on the first floor. It’s all boarded up.”

It explains the construction zone noises you’d heard earlier.

“The fuck?” Namjoon exclaims. “The military boarded us inside with a hoard of zombies? Did they know we were still inside?”

“Oh they fucking know.” Mingi spits. “I made eye contact with one of the fuckers. Jongho and I were all but beating the glass down, yelling for them to unlock the doors. There’s no way they didn’t hear or see us. They knew.”

“So we’re trapped.” You mutter.

Jimin’s hand squeezes your shoulder softly. You want to lean into him, but you’re a bundle of raw nerves and there’s no comfort to be had right now.

“Right. So back to this Fever Time issue.” Jongho avoids your gaze and looks to Seonghwa. “It’s preprogrammed to kick on every fifteen minutes, but there’s gotta be a way we can deactivate it from the control room. That’s gotta be our first step or we’re gonna be sitting ducks until something eats us.”

“That’s where we programmed it in the first place.” You speak up, ignoring the glare that Namjoon shoots your way. “It’s upstairs on the south side of the building where all the teachers offices are.” The next words that reflexively come to your mind but don’t reach your tongue are an offer to go up and turn off the alarms, something you should have done on your way up to your three remaining friends.

You don’t say them. Guilt roils in your gut at the fear that keeps you from volunteering. Namjoon is right; not that you should abandon Ateez to their own devices, but that you’ve already thrown yourself into so much danger. You’d let your zombified friends chase you to save Hongjoong. You’d been pushed out by the group you only wanted to help, and ran off into zombie land by yourself to ‘save’ your friends (though in hindsight you think they might have been safer on 3 where they didn’t even know an actual apocalyptic plague had broken out). You’d run into a room with a zombie to rescue Seonghwa, and attracted an entire mob of zombies to save Jongho and Mingi.

You don’t want to play the hero anymore. You’ve already been bitten and tackled and rammed and had some of your hair pulled out. You’ve done your part, haven’t you? Can’t you stay on this comfortable couch with your best friend and wait for everybody else to take a turn saving the day?

You’re just as scared as everyone else. Why should you be the one to run into danger again? Selfless sacrifice is a virtue you hadn’t known you could possess more than once, but at some point it’s only natural for a sense of self preservation to kick in.

“Right. So someone can head upstairs and turn off the alarms, and I’ll go check out the exits.” Namjoon decides.

“I just told you there are no exits.” Jongho snaps. “You think I’m lying? You think I want to stay in this fucking school? We can’t leave. They boarded us in.”

“And if I told you that we’re trapped with no escape, you would just believe me? You wouldn’t want to see it for your own eyes? Do you realize how absurd it is to expect me to just trust that you watched the military lock us into a building with a bunch of lunatics?” Namjoon fires back. “Excuse me for trying to do everything I possibly can to get my friends out of here safely.”

“Look, if you want to waste your time on a redundancy and get yourself killed for no reason, that’s on you. We’re going to focus on the next constructive task.” Seonghwa puts in calmly. He puts a hand on Jongho’s arm to silence his next string of indignant arguments. “Tell us how to turn off the alarms and I’ll go do it.”

You’re both impressed by his bravery and further guilty for your own lack thereof.

Let him go back upstairs. He can take a turn being heroic and courageous while you take your turn to be terrified and unhelpful. You’re all victims here, it’s only your right as one of them.

“I know how to do it.” Jimin offers. “I’ll go with you. We’re safer in pairs, at least.” He can feel your disapproving frown, but ignores it.

Seonghwa nods appreciatively. “Good. We’ll handle the alarms, you do whatever you have to do to satisfy your doubt.” He says the last part bitterly towards Namjoon, and then turns to regroup with Jongho and Mingi.

Well, shit, that’s not what you wanted. If you’d thought Jimin was going to be the next one to throw himself into peril, you never would have stayed quiet. What if he gets hurt while you’re down here being cozy on a plush couch? What if he gets bitten, or killed, or turned into the monster that the rest of your family turned into?

Your sense of self preservation promptly hangs itself without a second thought. “No, I know how to do it too. I’ll go with him.”

It’s not that you think Jimin can’t handle himself. He’s young, he’s strong, he’s got almost two decades of martial arts training under his various black belts, and he’s one of the fastest members of your acting group. If anyone can survive a zombie apocalypse or (god forbid) stand up to Jungkook’s strength, it’s Jimin.

But he’s your best friend. He’s the colleague you’ve known the longest. You’d done your acting training together, you’d spent holidays with each other’s families, and even briefly had been roommates when one of your miserable breakups left you temporarily homeless.

You can’t just give into your fear and let him go out there instead.

But Jimin shakes his head at you firmly, dropping his arm from your shoulders so he can grip your hand. “I’ve got it. Stay here with Rosé. Seonghwa and I can handle this.”

You have a dozen arguments on your tongue, but none of them would ever be objective enough to convince him, so you switch tactics. “I’ve been up close to the zombies. I’ve figured out their weaknesses. I know how to get around them.”

He smirks at you. “It’s not like I’m gonna run out there screaming my head off and offering up my throat for a bite. I think I’ve got good enough instincts to tread carefully, Sugar.” Before you can answer, he rolls his eyes. “Just say you can’t stand the thought of losing me, please, it’s not like subtlety is one of your strengths.”

With the Ateez part of your group huddled in their own corner, Namjoon gets up and joins you, Jimin, and Rosé. “You don’t need to go, Sugar. You’ve done enough. Just stay here, okay? Where we know you’re safe.”

You appreciate the sentiment, because it’s literally what you want them to do. Your own natural desire to survive be damned, you’d lead an army against the zombies if it meant your friends were safe. Arguing with people who feel exactly the same way that you do is a nearly impossible task. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I’ll go crazy wondering if you guys are dead or one of them. I’d rather have a job.”

Somehow you manage to get the half lie out without any of the tells that you think you have. Sure, you’d rather die than let them get hurt, but dammit if you don’t want to sit here and do nothing.

Jimin and Namjoon both shake their heads at you. “You’re out of your mind if you think either of us would just let you go out there and do something we’re all capable of doing.” Jimin says, nudging you with his elbow.

“And the reason I feel justified in asking you to stay is that I’ve already seen you take risks for us, and it’s been less than ten minutes since I’ve been with you.” Namjoon adds. “Take a break. Take a breath. You can recover for a second. Don’t tell me your nervous system isn’t on fire right now.”

He’s absolutely right; you feel like you’re going to vibrate yourself off the couch if you tremble any harder, and your heart hasn’t not felt like a rock in your chest since Jin tackled you to the ground at the beginning of all this. You know your brain is lagging, you know your sympathetic nervous system is in overdrive, you know you’re going to experience a crash as soon as the adrenaline depletes the rest of your energy.

You can just see yourself experiencing a full body shut down and blacking out at the feet of the hoard.

But all of them are feeling what you’re feeling. All of you are run ragged, stressed and tense beyond belief, and all of you are going to face burnout at some point.

You don’t have any more excuse than the rest of them do. “Fine.” You relent angrily. “I’ll go with you, then.” If you can’t convince Jimin to stay in the office, you can at least go out there with him and watch his back.

Namjoon sighs. “No, Sugar—”

“Tie me down or shut up, Joon.” You mutter. “I’m going.”

He’s thinking, jaw working with frustration, and you know he’s seriously considering actually locking you in a closet to keep you safe. Again, you don’t blame him. You’ve been thinking about making a run for it and locking the office from the outside with all of them still in it. “You watch each other.” He says finally. “Make safe, calculated decisions. No more reckless self sacrifice; no using yourself as bait or diversions.” He’s talking to both of you but his eyes keep flicking significantly in your direction.

Shrugging innocently, you avoid his eyes. “Yeah, fine, obviously.” As though you don’t have multiple self-sacrifices to your name already.

Jimin nudges you again and also gives Namjoon his word. “We’ll be careful.”

“Obviously.” Namjoon repeats with a complete lack of confidence.

After what feels like an eternity, the bells fall silent. “Give it about two minutes,” you say just loudly enough that Ateez can hear you. “The mob should fall dormant by then.” Two minutes is generous based on last time, and it’s two precious minutes that you’re subtracting from the time you have to go up a flight of stairs and weave the back hallways, but you’d rather be sure that nobody’s running out into a swarm.

You pull yourself up from the couch and stretch your stiff, shaking limbs. As you do, you notice Rosé watching you. “Do you…do you need me to do anything?” She’s terrified, timid, loathe to offer her services but too kind to just send her friends off to their possible deaths.

“Stay here,” you tell her. “If anybody sane comes by, bring them into the office. The next thing we do after disabling the alarms is to figure out an exit strategy. If we can maintain this as a safety zone, then at least we have a rendezvous point.”

“I’ll come back here as soon as I check out the exits.” Namjoon promises. “It won’t take me long.”

As he turns to give you another useless command to not get yourself killed, he’s interrupted by Jongho’s surly approach. “Mingi will stay with Rosé, and I’ll go with you.”

Displeased with this arrangement, Namjoon’s face screws up in a scowl. “What happened to you hating this idea?”

“I still hate it.” He’s quick to grumble. “But I get it. I’d probably do the same. And like Jimin said, we’re safer in pairs. I’m sorry I bit your head off, it’s just—”

Namjoon waves off his apology. “I get it.” His tone softens. “We’ll be quick. I’m hoping that the boarding was put up fast enough to be done poorly. Maybe we can find a weakness where we can kick the nails out of the walls and crawl out a window or something.”

At the admission to a possibility of his story being true, Jongho relaxes. “Sounds good. I’m ready when you are.”

Namjoon gives you and Jimin one last look. “Come back. Don’t try to save the guys we’ve already lost. There’s time for that later.”

The order sits in your gut with horrible weight, but you swallow thickly and nod. “Okay.”

Jimin slips his hand into yours and leads you to where Seonghwa is standing at the door. “Time to go.”

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[leonw4nter]

hi! so i was wondering if you could do hcs for re2r leon who is dating a nurse? also i wanted to say that i love your writing!! it’s literally some of my favorite on this app 💗 thank you!

RE2R!Leon Headcanons on dating a nurse…

RE2R!Leon x GN!reader

You two had met when officer Rayman had to send him to the ER for stitches on his side after a physical encounter with a car thief on crack. You had been at the ER just passing time, occasionally attending to other patients if they needed any help.

You had already thought that the young officer was already attractive, but you didn’t pay his face much attention and rushed to help him with the cut on his side, as blood seeped through his white inner shirt and into his navy blue uniform. He was already used to being shirtless with a bunch of other officers in the locker rooms of the RPD but somehow, he felt flustered being topless in front of you.

“Gosh, your body is just goals,” you comment as you finish up the last of his stitches. Warmth floods his head, sending his brain swimming in all sorts of happiness-eliciting chemicals. “It’s so good, actually. What’s your workout routine?”

“Oh it’s– um…–” he stammered. Pistol squats, weighted squats, glute extensions, weighted calf raises, thirty-second sprints, leg swings, cat camel, crab reaches, and some kicking. It would’ve been easy for him to share his gym regimen and tell you its intervals but with you looking up at him with doe eyes, all words melted into goo before they could leave his throat. “Oh– it’s just, you know– squats, calf raises, some running. That stuff… I think– I mean, yeah! Just these um… exercises, yeah. Right.”

He wanted to kick himself and never come back to that ER again but you didn’t seem to notice his awkward stammering (or did really well that it looked like you didn’t notice it).

You gave your number to him in case he had any questions or needed help with tending to the stitches just below his ribs and since Marvin had given him 2 days off to recuperate, he took the time to call you and asked if he could send you some donuts during one of your lunch breaks soon.

“I was wondering if– if you’ll be okay with me dropping some donuts off at your work during your break. It’s just my small token of thanks,” he said. He wished that he prepared a script ahead and practiced a handful more times, unconfident with the trembling in his voice and the small voice crack he hoped the phone didn’t pick up.

“Oh! Of course! That’d be great! Leave it at the front desk, to a certain Nurse Joyce and I’ll pick it up,” you gleefully say.

“That’d be awesome. So uh… see you soon, I guess?”

“See me soon? Are you implying that there’s going to be more than one occasion where we’re going to see each other–”

“Goodnight, nurse!”

He didn’t mean to sound rude or come off as a sourpuss but your words coming back to him when he thought it would stay only in the form of thoughts in his mind scared him, he just had to hang up.

After several dates and 5 months spent together as friends, Leon bashfully asked if you would want him as a boyfriend because he felt ready to be your boyfriend if you were ready for the commitment. His poor hands were gripping the bouquet too tightly, wrinkling the plastic wrapping around his large hands. His eyes looked comically round and almost puppy-like, especially with his dilated pupils. You nodded and said yes to him, gently taking the flowers and giving him a big hug. Before you went inside your door when he sent you home, you pressed a kiss to his cheek and blew him a kiss before going inside. Poor Leon stood frozen in front of your steps, pleasantly shocked as a wide grin made its way into his baby face. You stayed behind the door for a bit, listening to him. You swear you heard a giddy laugh and a silent “Yes!” from the other side.

Watching medical shows became a regular thing between you two. You pointed out some of the medical inaccuracies and explained what should actually be happening as Leon looked at you with hearts in his eyes. It was also vice versa: you watching a cop show with him and him breaking down the mechanics of how investigations are done while you nod and hum in agreement while silently swooning over the increasing animation of his hands as he went over the laws and breaches in ethics.

“Whew, that was so smart of you.” You say as you scooch closer to him and lean against his shoulder. This confused Leon at first.

“Huh? Why– what’d I do?” He anxiously asked, worried he did something wrong even though that didn’t seem to be the case.

“You really got into the nitty gritty of it and went into hypothetical scenarios with different outcomes of the situation. You know, I heard that you graduated at the top of your police academy.”

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“Uh, yeah… I did but it’s nothing, really. You’re really smart too, you know.”

Before you, Leon used to simply wash his cuts with water and anti-bacterial soap and not place a bandage over it. Now, he’s immediately asking you for band-aids whenever he has one. Sometimes, the band-aids look ridiculous: bright yellow band-aids with rubber ducks, Disney princesses, cartoons, or cute animal doodles but he doesn’t mind, it’s like a small piece of you that he carries into work, a small reminder of you keeping his wound guarded.

Leon’s now a regular at the hospital, you a regular at the police station. At the hospital, the older nurses and doctors like to grill him about you and how he’s treating you. Back at the police station, the officers like to share stories about all the times Leon embarrassed himself by accident or when he started out as a rookie. They loved to bring up how fast Leon managed to solve the puzzles they set up for him when he had his first day on the job, recommending challenging puzzle kits as a gift for him. What both your coworkers had in common was scrunching their nose and feigning dislike for your mild displays of affection like hugging and kisses to the cheek.

If Leon needed to request for a leave due to medical reasons, he considered himself lucky that you were qualified to be able to write up a medical certificate to present once he got back.

“Officer, I don’t think I can accept this.”

“Why not? It’s written by a medical professional, a licensed one too.”

“We don’t accept certificates coming from–”

“Someone we’re legally associated with? Yes. That includes parents, siblings, and spouses but they’re not my spouse. Well, not yet at least, so I think I’m free to go. Nothing in the handbook indicates that I can’t have my unmarried partner make my certificate.”

“... consider yourself lucky, officer. Fine, I’ll take it.”

He does consider himself lucky– more than lucky, in fact.

One time, he got curious and decided to ask to see the needles you use on patients. On a particularly silly mood that day, you decided to exaggerate a little bit. You took the needle meant for an epidural, a needle around 6 inches, and explained that this went into the spine. He had gone pale, the rosiness and pinkish tint of his face vanishing as you demonstrated how it would be used. You showed him the needles used for intramuscular injections and he adjusts the collar of his clothes, a little queasy at the thought of these scary devices being used on a near-daily basis.

There are some days where you’d come home completely silent and drained, feeling blue from the events that had gone down in the hospital. If Leon got home first, he’d be welcoming you with a beaming grin and open arms but once he spots the puffiness of your face indicative of crying, he pulls you in for a hug and immediately asks what’s wrong before listening to you and offering words of comfort or the solace of his presence with you.

Back then, he simply relied on fruits and the occasional vegetable for his vitamins but after dating you, you decided to slip some vitamins after meals into his diet. He particularly likes the gummy vitamins though you remember to remind him to take them out of the car so they won’t melt and turn into one cluster.

NOTE - Thank you so so much to the anon who sent this, I hope you liked it <3 I've been having writer's block for a bit so it took a long time to complete a request like this but I'm glad that I managed to get this done for you :) I didn't format this post like how I usually format it (w the dividers and text gradients) bc there's a major weather disturbance from where I live and it's affecting the signal and connection speed of the internet so I'll probably make this look pretty once the storm passes us. School starts again in like... a week so requests getting done will prolly take some time so I'll do my best to post everything before everything goes tits up in terms of academics. Anyway, that's it and thank you for reading my fics!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I <33333 UUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!