#THREAD. at the snap of a string

[akkivee]

au where ichiro's always been able to see the red string of fate and was kinda in denial about being connected to kuukou, except the glitch in fate occurs and it adds another layer to ichiro's heartbreak lol

[sparklyseblos]

rina moodboard - made aug 2023

[crossbackpoke-check]

Fixed point (mathematics) // The History of Perspective // "Point of Disappearance", Dennis Held // How the Hughes hockey family stays grounded // Fixed Point Photography-- // "Portrait of A.", Tung-Hui Hu // Mic'd Up | Hughes NHL 25 cover shoot // "Burnt Norton", T.S. Eliot // "Circuitry", Janine Joseph // Bruce Bennett // Nick Wass // from obedience [maybe one day, during a point in time], kari edwards // Bill Rapai // "Errand Upon Which We Came", Stephanie Strickland // Benchmark (surveying)

art kid luke hughes

[kissandtellus]

‘Schlick, Schlick, Hooray!’ : LADS Omegaverse, Heat Version

Synopsis: The ‘Heat’ version of ‘Into the Slick of It’! Your Heat has begun and without the help of Suppressants, only your Alpha can soothe this fire.

Warnings: Omegaverse, Knotting, Oral (m&f), Talks of Pups/Eggs, use of ‘Gege’, Caleb likes seeing you cry, Scenting, Marking, it’s another dirty one.

⋆˚🐾˖° Xavier

Xavier tried his best to keep you at an arms length as he tried to nurse you through your Heat. He had came knocking the moment the alarm on his phone went off, signaling your impending Heat.

The Hunters Association had cut back on Suppressants for Omegas, something for ‘budget cuts’.

The state he found you in could only be described as a fucking wreck. The sweat had already kicked in. You were wearing one of his t-shirts with nothing underneath.

When you opened the door, his eyes immediately went to the slick staining your inner thighs.

“Shit-“

“Help me.” Your whimper broke him. Forgotten, was the fruit basket in his hands. He backed you into your own apartment.

Your hands were immediately trying to tear at his sweatshirt. The feeling of his abs under your fingertips made you want to be under the flesh in more ways than one.

Clothing was torn left and right. The race to the bedroom was filled with you clinging to Xavier, one of his hands cupping your ass to lift you up. Your legs immediately wrapped around his waist.

“Xavier, need you inside. Need you filling me up. My Prince-My Love-“ You dry humped against the tent in his pants. His normally stoic facade cracked at the seams.

Your back hits the comforter and you can’t get your hands on him fast enough. His fingers thread to your hair.

“Starshine, you don’t need to-“

“Shut up.” It was the only thing you say before you pulls down his pants and underwear, stuffing the head of his cock snugly in your mouth. You ignore the burn in your throat as you take him inch by inch.

“S-Shit-“ he stumbled over his words. You look up at him through damp lashes when your lips finally meet the base. Your drooling, moaning around his delicious length like it was the last thing you’d ever taste. Your wandering hands cant sit still for long. “Dirty girl, are you touching yourself?”

Xavier knew the answer. Even before the scent of your arousal hit his nose, or the sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds reached his ears. His hips snap in a rolling motion, cooing down at you as you make a mess of yourself.

“Such a filthy Omega. What would you do without me, hm? Waste that perfectly good slick on your own fingers?” His voice was always so sweet. But when those filthy words fell from his mouth, you can only moan around his length.

His pretty cockhead bullied the back of your throat over and over again. Your tongue flattened to the underside, a mixture of gags and wet noises filling the bedroom. Xavier used your hair as leverage as he chased his own release.

“Yeah? Yeah, my Pretty Girl. Gonna choke on my cum, hm?” His own sense were overwhelmed by your pheromones. His Alpha instincts screamed at him to take you, to dominate you, to make you his all over again.

He barely pulled his throbbing length out just in time for his thick, hot ropes of seed to coat your face. “Aht! Mouth open-that’s it. Good Girl.”

The final few strings coated your eager tongue. His long fingers pressed on your tongue to smear his cum around your tastebuds.

“We’re not done yet. Ass up.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Rafayel

You didn’t mean to walk so far in the midst of your Heat. It had hit you right after your final mission against a tough Wanderer. You thought you could make it to Rafayel’s before it sat in fully.

But when you showed up to his Studio, reeking of your Heat, he was already waiting with the door wide open. He met you at the doorway and pulled you in before you could even explain yourself.

Without a second thought, Rafayel moves swiftly across the studio, his long legs eating up the distance between you. He wraps his strong arms around your waist and lifts you up, carrying you to the makeshift nest he’s created for you without breaking eye contact. His hands tremble with need as he begins to undress you.

His heart aches at the sight of you, so deep in Heat that you're already apologizing. He gently lays you down on the bed, his hands caressing your face tenderly. “Shh, it's not your fault, my love. You didn't do anything wrong."

Rafayel quickly removes his own clothes, his eyes never leaving yours. He can smell your need, thick and heavy in the air. He climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs. His hands roam over your body, soothing and comforting as he tries to calm your racing heart.

You are rubbing your face in the crook of his neck, marking him with your own scent. “Missed you. Need you so much.”

His breath catches at your words, one hand tangling in your hair while the other trails down your side. "Missed you more than anything, Cutie. Gods, that scent..." He nuzzles against your neck, marking you back with his own smell. “How long has this been building?"

Before you can even answer him, his nimble fingers push between your legs to feel just how soaked in Slick you are. That cocky smile of his returns

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your lips before trailing down your neck. “Looks like someone's been a very good girl, all hot and bothered for her Alpha." His fingers circle your entrance, teasing you with gentle pressure. “Soaked and ready, just for me."

"Your poor little body, aching like this..." He adds another finger, starting a slow rhythm as he speaks. “Did you try to take care of yourself before coming here?" He already knows the answer - the raw need in your scent tells him everything. “You didn't, did you?"

“Came straight from work. I-I couldn’t. You know I can’t do it myself.” Your nails dig into his shoulders, a needy whine tearing from your throat.

His eyes flash with primal desire at your words and the way you cling to him. “That's my girl..." He removes his fingers, replacing them with the tip of his cock. He teases your entrance slowly, letting you feel every inch. "Only I can give you what you need."

"Please..." You beg, your hips bucking up to try and force him inside. Your face is flushed, hair a mess from your frantic markings. “Need you inside me, need your knot!“ You sob the last part, the desperation clear in your voice.

Rafayel chuckles at your need. He reaches over to the bedside table where a messy paint pallet rests. He grabs the clean paintbrush right as he starts to fill you with his cock. “You stretch so beautifully around me.”

He praises. He lowers the paintbrush to tease around your nipples, watching them pebble under his administration. You cry out and try to jerk away your chest but he silenced you with a punishing thrust. “Ohhh, easy Cutie. Feels so nice when you gush around me like this.”

You nearly lost your fucking mind when the bristles touched your clit.

⋆˚🐾˖° Zayne

Zayne had thrown out your Suppressants. He’d personal ensure the physician who prescribed them to you at such a young age would never practice in medicine again.

You had stumbled into his office. He wasn’t even sure how you had made it here in one piece by the way you smelled alone. You barely had both feet in the door before he rushed to lock the door to his office.

His fingers were peeling open your eye, shining the pen-light into your pupil. You were pleading as he examined your Heat-stricken symptoms. “Z-Zayne I need them. Just one. Please!” Your pleads fall on deaf ears.

“Absolutely not. Those placebos only mask the issues, they do not solve it.” Zayne removes his glasses just as you launch yourself at the Doctor.

“Need your cock, Dr Zayne. No, need your knot.” You plead on a broken whimper. Zayne tries to just talk to you as a physician, and not an Alpha. But how could he ignore those pretty pleas. You were practically humping his dress pants, clinging to his lab coat.

“This is what you needed right?” His voice is almost mocking when he has you laid out on the examination table, knuckles deep in your squelching cunt. The latex from his gloves are too slick, not enough pressure. You try to squirm under his touch, you need more.

“No Darling,��� he pins you down with a strong hand on your stomach, pinning you back. “Preparation is key. I’d like to avoid tearing you.” His fingers move faster, clipping that spot inside that makes those white stars flash behind your eyelids.

“Or maybe-“ he purrs, rubbing your stomach as though he’s petting an affectionate cat. “Being torn apart is what you need.”

Those words have you spasming under his touch, soaking the thin paper sheet on the examination bed. You Heat is blossoming in your belly and as soon as one orgasm leaves you, you crave to be filled yet again. You grasp at the edge of his lab coat sleeve which is now wearing evidence of your Slick.

“Inside-oh Please!”

“Patience.” His fingers quickly pull his throbbing length from it confines, pants barely shimmied down his hips. His cock is furious, the tip nearly purple with need, leaking already. It’s teasing your dripping folds and you gasp, afraid you might come undone right then and there.

When the bulbous head presses forward you tear at the thin bed cover, back arching. Zayne hushes your cries, hand over your mouth. His knee lifts to the edge of the bed for the right angle and-

You cry out loud behind his hand as he enters you in a single thrust. The burn is so delicious, so welcome, but your breath leaves your lungs at the pure size of him. “Shh, shhh…just take it. I took all that time stretching you. Open up for me. Good girl.”

The rickety bed is on its last legs as Zayne is letting you anywhere but go. His glasses have slipped down his nose while he growls and slobbers against your scent gland.

“You are making a mess all over my office.” His chuckle is nearly a put when he pulls your hair away from the crook of your neck. “If I ever catch you taking those suppressants again, I’ll keep you locked away and force you to ride out your Heat on your own. Understand?”

Oh you understood alright.

Understood enough to cream on his cock again.

⋆˚🐾˖° Caleb

If you thought Caleb was going to leave you alone through your Heat, you were sorely mistaken.

He made a makeshift nest for you right in his apartment. He even took a few days off work to ensure his Pretty Omega was taken care of.

He dropped off everything you needed at the door.

The first two days were fine, besides the sweet smell of your pheromones leaking through the door. But on the third day, it was like fighting off a caged tiger.

“No Pipsqueak, c’mon let’s get you back in bed.” He had tried to pry you off of him. You promised him you only need to come out to use the bathroom.

But here you were stripped down to nothing, arms wrapped around him while your Slick coated the living room carpet.

“If you make me go back in there I’ll die.” You sobbed out, big crocodile tears spilling over your flushed cheeks. “You can take care of me like you used to when we lived at Gran’s. I’ll even be quiet like I used to be. Won’t make a noise when I take your-“

“Enough.” That voice was something he used for his soldiers, not his darling Pips. So when he snapped and those tears started to spill faster, his strength dissolved. “Hey no, none of that.”

He hated seeing you cry.

Well.

Except in this current moment.

Your knees were pressed to your chest, it had been so long since he’d been inside of you. Each time felt like you were back in your Senior year of high school when he took your virginity.

You were crying.

You weren’t sure if they were tears of pain from the stretch, or from finally getting a knot to stuff your hole.

“I’ll be good, so good! Feel so good inside! F-Fuck Caleb-“

“Pretty Omega’s don’t cuss at their Alpha’s Pipsqueak.” His dog tags bump your chin as he begins stuffing you full of his cock.

He leans down and laps at your tears, letting the salty taste linger for a moment.

His strong hands push the back of your legs up until you are nearly bent in half. He watches his cock slide in and out of your sopping hole like it has him mesmerized.

“You wanted to cry so bad Pips. Cry for Gege, cry for your Alpha.”

His thrust is so punishing it feels like he may be a ‘Gege’ shaped hole in your guts by the time he’s done. But it’s exactly what you need. You need him to drill every thought out of your pretty head.

“That’s right Princess, oh I know, I’m so mean,” he fakes a pout as another one of his thrust send you spiraling “Tell me how mean Gege is.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Sylus

Contrary to belief, Sylus is far from a forgetful Alpha. He has the days of your Heat marked down on every calendar available. He has you in the best nest money could buy. No price is too high for his little Omega.

He’s sprawled out in his desk chair as he types away at his laptop. He can smell you before he sees you. You are clutching one of his shirts to your chest so tightly it might mold with your skin.

“Kitten, you should be in bed.”

“It started.”

“I know, Sweetie.” He pushes his chair back from the desk and opens his arms. He knew your Heat can be a frightful experience. Especially after taking Suppressants for so long. But he’d convinced you to stop taking them, that they were damaging to your body.

You crawl into his lap and he purrs, his own scent calming you just a little. “Where does it hurt Sweetie?”

He knows exactly where it aches. But he wants your permission of course. You grab his hand, guiding it down the expanse of your stomach and into the soaked panties you were wearing. “H-here.”

“Oh Kitten,” his finger squelch through your Slick and you squeak and cling to his arm. “Shh, it’s alright. Your Alpha will take care of you. Just relax.”

The nest he had spent so much time maintaining was in disarray. His tongue and fingers draw out a third orgasm and you feel like you might explode. “S-Sy! No more, no more, I need your knot!”

Sylus pulls his lips from your throbbing clit as he licks his lips. Your juices coat everywhere from his nose to his lips. He chuckles as he withdraws his fingers and slick gushes onto the sheets. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”

You let out a whine that says ‘if you don’t fuck me, I’ll lose my mind’

The first thrust is the hardest. His cock almost bends as he tries to fit it inside of your sopping hole. “Relax Kitten.”

“I-I can’t!”

“You can, yes you can. Oh, there we go. Good girl, I’m inside. Can you feel it?”

Oh God you can feel it.

You can feel how he’s taking up every piece of your guts, belly, fuck it’s almost like you can feel it in your chest.

“Oh, easy now Sweetie. You don’t want to inflate my ego. My Knot is doing enough inflating for the both of us.”

Sylus lathers your face and throat with his tongue and fangs. He wants to be like this forever, he never wants to let you go again. Your souls and bodies are intertwined in a dance that is millions of years old.

“I’m never letting you go again. So take this fuckin’ Knot and be mine again.”

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[lotuswish]

𑁍ࠬܓ how they react when they see you hurt (housewardens & jamil)

synopsis: pain is not something he ever wanted to associate with you. but seeing you injured—knowing someone dared to harm you—shatters his composure. for some, it’s rage; for others, panic. and for a few, it’s cold, terrifying control—until he knows you’re safe. but one thing is certain: someone will pay for this.

featured character(s): riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, azul ashengrotto, kalim al-asim, jamil viper, vil schoenheit, idia shroud, malleus draconia.

content warning(s): angst, mentions of violence and implied revenge, mild injury descriptions (ex. bruises, wounds, pain etc.), spoilers for book 6 in idia’s part.

a/n: they’re just being silly, guys. <3

link(s): (masterlist)

riddle rosehearts

riddle prides himself on maintaining control.

his entire life has been shaped by discipline, by structure, by the belief that emotions must be ruled by logic. he does not allow himself to be reckless, does not allow himself to be overcome. everything he does is precise, calculated, deliberate.

but the moment he sees you hurt—

everything unravels.

his breath catches in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs, his mind instantly abandoning all reason. his entire world sharpens to a singular point—you—and all at once, every ounce of restraint he’s spent years perfecting is hanging by a fragile, fraying thread.

“who did this?”

his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, trembling with something raw, something dangerously close to rage.

he’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees without hesitation, his hands hovering—not touching, not yet, because what if he makes it worse? what if he hurts you somehow? his fingers tremble, itching to reach out, to make sure—

“tell me where it hurts,” he says, but his voice wavers. “tell me what happened.”

his hands are gentle but firm as he checks you over, his usually practiced movements clumsy with the weight of panic. he doesn’t even realize his breathing is uneven, doesn’t even notice the way his shoulders are shaking as he looks you over, as he takes in every bruise, every wound, every sign that something happened—

something he didn’t prevent.

“you should have been more careful,” he scolds, but the words come out thin, forced, like he’s trying to hold something else back.

you try to tell him you’re fine, try to brush it off, but he doesn’t believe you. his eyes flicker with frustration, his jaw tightening, his grip on your wrist just a fraction too tense.

“don’t be ridiculous—you’re hurt,” he snaps, and then immediately exhales, forcing himself to breathe. “just… stay still. let me handle this.”

he refuses to let you wave it away. refuses to leave it alone. you are not fine, and he will not let you convince him otherwise.

but even as he focuses on making sure you’re okay, something else burns at the edges of his mind, pressing against his temples like an unbearable weight—

who did this to you?

his hands clench into fists. his breathing evens out, but his posture remains rigid, coiled tight like a string about to snap.

because once you’re safe—once he’s certain that you’re okay, that you’ll recover, that he didn’t fail you—

then, and only then, will he deal with the one responsible.

his mother may have taught him restraint, but some things are unforgivable.

and hurting you is one of them.

leona kingscholar

danger.

his body registers it before his mind does, his instincts kicking in the moment his eyes land on you—hurt, vulnerable, not okay.

his vision tunnels, his pulse spikes, and suddenly, the world around him doesn’t matter anymore.

“what the hell happened?”

his voice is a low, guttural growl, thick with something dark, something uncontrollable. his hands clench at his sides, every muscle coiled, his body ready—ready to fight, ready to destroy, ready to eliminate whatever put you in this state.

but then he sees it—sees the way you’re holding yourself, the way your breath hitches, the way you flinch just slightly—and suddenly, the anger has to be forced down, swallowed like bile in the back of his throat.

because right now, you come first.

so he moves, closing the distance in a single step, his hands reaching for you before he can stop himself. his hands are gentle from the start, unusually so. these hands of his are capable of devastation, of turning flesh to dust, of summoning ruin with a mere touch. but against you, they are careful, restrained. the second he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the tension in his hold eases, his hands softening, steadying you instead of breaking you.

“who did this?”

his voice is still dangerous, still thick with that barely restrained fury, but now there’s something else underneath it.

concern.

fear.

he hates how it makes his chest tighten. hates the way it lingers at the edges of his thoughts, nagging at him, clawing at something buried deep beneath his usual indifference.

he kneels in front of you, his sharp, emerald eyes scanning every inch of you with terrifying intensity. his fingers ghost over your injuries, his jaw clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grind together.

“tell me.” his voice is dangerous now.

and then—when you hesitate, when you try to brush it off, when you lie—

his patience snaps.

“don’t give me that.” his grip tightens just slightly, his expression darkening. “you’re hurt. don’t act like it’s nothing.”

there’s no room for argument in his tone. no patience for your stubbornness, no willingness to accept anything less than the truth.

if you try to keep it from him, if you refuse to say who’s responsible, then fine—he’ll find out himself.

because someone did this.

and once you’re safe—once he’s sure you’re okay, once he’s made damn sure you’ll recover—

then he’s hunting.

“stay here,” he mutters, standing to his full height, his tail flicking behind him in barely restrained aggression. “i’ll take care of it.”

and if you try to stop him?

his gaze flickers down to you, something sharp, something scorching, like the unrelenting heat of the desert sun at its peak—blistering, unforgiving, merciless.

“no one lays a damn hand on you and gets away with it.”

and then he’s gone, a storm of unbridled wrath, a lion on the hunt.

azul ashengrotto

azul is a man of careful calculations.

every word, every action, every decision he makes is deliberate. he has spent years crafting a persona of charm, wit, and effortless composure—one that allows him to stay in control, no matter the circumstances. he does not flinch, does not waver, does not lose to uncertainty.

but then he sees you hurt.

and suddenly, all of that control is gone.

his breath catches, his body locks up, and for one horrifying moment, his mind is utterly blank.

“you—what happened?”

his voice doesn’t sound like his own. it’s too sharp, too raw, lacking the usual smoothness he prides himself on.

he rushes to you without thinking, but the second he’s close enough to touch, he hesitates. his fingers hover inches above your skin, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint. his mind is screaming at him to act, to do something, but a terrible thought wedges itself into his panic—

what if i make it worse?

he doesn’t trust his own hands, doesn’t trust his own judgment, not when the sight of you like this is unraveling him from the inside out.

“tell me what hurts,” he demands, his words tumbling out in a way that’s almost frantic. “is it serious? how bad is it?”

his thoughts spiral immediately, jumping to the worst possible conclusions. is it critical? should he be calling for medical attention? what if you’re downplaying it? what if he’s not fast enough?

and then you try to brush it off.

“nothing?” he echoes, breath hitching. his voice almost cracks—and he hates that. “how can you say that when you’re—when you—”

his hands clench into fists, shaking slightly as he forces himself to breathe.

“just—just stay still,” he mutters, voice tight with strain. “i’ll take care of it.”

because if there is one thing he knows, one thing he can control, it’s fixing things. making deals. offering solutions.

“i’ll call a healer. i’ll get whatever you need—whatever you want.”

his words come too fast, his mind still racing, but through it all, his hands never leave yours.

his grip is too tight, fingers wrapped around yours like a lifeline, like letting go isn’t an option he’s willing to consider.

because if he lets go—if he loses you—

he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it.

and when it’s over—when he knows you’ll be okay—he still doesn’t let you out of his sight.

“you scared me,” he murmurs, quieter than before.

his voice is steadier now, but you can still hear the remnants of his fear, lingering in the way his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles, in the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

and for the first time since you’ve met him—since he built the persona of azul ashengrotto, the untouchable businessman, the man always one step ahead—

he lets you see just how fragile he becomes when it comes to you.

kalim al-asim

kalim is always smiling.

he is a beacon of joy, a burst of light in every room he enters. when things go wrong, he looks for the silver lining. when people are hurting, he lifts them up with his boundless energy. sadness is something he refuses to dwell on, something he fights against with warmth and laughter.

but when he sees you hurt?

his entire world stops.

“oh no, oh no—”

the words leave him before he can think, his breath catching as his heart lurches in his chest. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to process what he’s seeing—his body moves, fast and instinctive, rushing to your side.

his hands cradle your face, warm and steady despite the frantic tremor in his touch.

“are you okay? what happened? does it hurt? how bad is it?”

his voice is shaking. he’s shaking.

and when he finally really looks at you, when he takes in the way you wince, the way you hold yourself like you’re trying to hide the pain—his chest tightens, his stomach twisting into something awful.

“why didn’t anyone stop it? why didn’t i stop it?”

guilt. overwhelming, suffocating guilt floods him like a tidal wave.

“i should’ve been there! i should’ve protected you!”

his grip on you tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he’s here. he isn’t letting go. he won’t let go.

and then, before you can stop him—before you can tell him it’s not a big deal—his eyes start to glisten.

“kalim, are you—”

“i’m not crying!” he absolutely is. “i just—you scared me!”

his voice wobbles, and suddenly, he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you too tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“don’t move, okay? just stay right here! i’ll get someone to help—i’ll fix this, i promise!”

if it’s something small—just a minor scrape, a bruise—he still treats it like it’s life-threatening. he refuses to let you walk it off, refuses to let you act like it’s fine.

if it’s something worse? if you are seriously hurt?

he panics, but his movements are certain. without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms, holding you to his chest like you’re something precious, like you belong nowhere else but safe in his hands.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “i won’t let anything happen to you.”

and when he finally gets you to safety, when he finally knows you’re okay—

he still won’t stop fussing.

“you need to rest! do you want pillows? i’ll get you pillows! or tea! do you want tea? i’m sure jamil will—jamil! we need tea!”

“kalim, i’m fine—”

“no, you’re not fine! i was so scared!”

his fingers squeeze yours.

and later, when you’re patched up, when the worst of the moment has passed—

he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.

“don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is softer now, the usual excitement dimmed into something deeply sincere.

“i don’t ever wanna see you hurt again.”

jamil viper

jamil was raised to handle crises.

he has spent his entire life being the one who steps in when things go wrong, the one who fixes things while everyone else panics. no matter the situation, no matter the chaos, no matter the pressure—he is always in control.

so when he sees you hurt, when he registers the way you’re holding yourself, the way your face twists with pain—

his stomach drops.

but his body moves on instinct.

“where?”

his voice is steady. too steady. his mind is screaming, but his tone doesn’t waver, his movements are calculated, precise. he crouches in front of you immediately, eyes scanning you with sharp, assessing precision.

“how bad is it? let me see.”

he doesn’t waste time. doesn’t ask what happened—not yet. because right now, the only thing that matters is making sure you’re okay.

his hands are warm but firm, brushing over you carefully as he checks for injuries. his fingers ghost over your wrist, your arm, the side of your face—everywhere that might be hurt—his touch gentle but filled with purpose.

“it’s not broken,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself, half to reassure you. “no major swelling… does this hurt?”

and then—when you flinch, when you let out the softest hiss of pain—

something inside him snaps.

his jaw clenches. his breathing slows.

“who.”

his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for the first time, there is something dangerous in his gaze.

“who did this?”

if there is a culprit—if someone is responsible for this—then they are not leaving unscathed.

but even as fury thrums through his veins, even as his mind races with ways to handle the situation, he forces himself to prioritize you first.

“can you walk?” his voice is softer now, his tone slipping back into something controlled, something measured.

if you say yes, he doesn’t let you prove it. he supports you immediately, one arm around your waist, guiding you effortlessly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

if you say no, he lifts you without hesitation. no warning, no asking—just picking you up, his hold secure, unshakable.

“don’t argue,” he mutters, barely sparing you a glance. “just let me take care of it.”

because he will.

and once he gets you somewhere safe, once he’s made sure you’re being treated properly, once he knows with certainty that you are okay—

then, and only then, does he allow himself to breathe.

“you’re reckless,” he mutters, his voice a mix of exasperation and something far too raw. “i don’t have time to deal with this every time you get yourself hurt, you know.”

but his fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against your arm, betraying the truth behind his words.

because if something had happened—if things had been worse—

he doesn’t even want to think about what he would have done.

vil schoenheit

perfection is vil’s standard.

not just in beauty, not just in his work, but in everything—his composure, his discipline, the way he carries himself. he does not allow himself to be reckless. he does not make careless mistakes. he does not let emotions rule him.

but then he sees you hurt.

and something inside him fractures.

his lips press together, his expression unreadable, his body rigid—the only betrayal of the storm brewing beneath his flawless exterior is the way his fingers tighten just slightly at his sides, the way his breath is a fraction too controlled.

“where are you hurt?”

his voice is steady. cold. clinical. but his eyes—his eyes—

they burn.

he crosses the distance between you in two strides, his gloved fingers already reaching for you. his touch is firm but delicate, brushing over your skin with the kind of precision only someone like him could possess.

“sit down.” it’s not a request. “don’t move until i’ve assessed the damage.”

you try to downplay it, try to insist that it’s nothing, but his sharp gaze cuts through you instantly.

“do not insult me by pretending this is fine,” he snaps, his voice sharp as glass. “you are hurt. i can see it. so let me handle it.”

his fingers ghost over your injuries, his touch meticulous, searching. he catalogues everything—the severity, the placement, the way you react when he presses too close.

he is silent as he works, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

“this never should have happened.” the words slip out low, almost a whisper, but the weight behind them is undeniable. “i should have—”

but he cuts himself off before he finishes the thought.

vil schoenheit does not dwell in should haves.

he fixes things. he prevents disasters before they happen.

but right now, all he can do is make sure you are okay.

“i’ll handle this,” he says smoothly, already preparing to tend to your wounds himself. “stay still.”

his movements are precise, every action perfectly executed—cleaning, bandaging, ensuring no imperfections remain. but his touch lingers just slightly longer than necessary, his fingers brushing over your wrist, your palm, the curve of your shoulder with a tenderness that is almost imperceptible.

and when it’s over—when you are properly cared for, when the worst of the moment has passed—he finally exhales.

“you worried me,” he murmurs, and it is softer now, less controlled, less rehearsed.

and then—just for a second—his fingers ghost against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

“i won’t let this happen again. not ever.”

his voice is gentle. his eyes are not.

because if anyone had a hand in this—if someone is responsible for this pain—

then they will regret ever daring to touch you.

idia shroud

idia doesn’t do well under pressure.

he was not built for high-stakes situations, for stress, for emotions so raw they leave no room for second chances. he hates unpredictability, hates chaos, hates not knowing what to do.

so when he sees you hurt—

his mind shuts down.

for a full second, he just stares, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers twitching but unable to move.

no, no, no, no, no—

his brain latches onto the worst possibilities immediately. how bad is it? is it fatal? what if you’re bleeding out? what if it’s internal? what if he doesn’t react fast enough?

what if he loses you?

his stomach twists violently, a familiar, awful panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

because this—this exact fear—is something he’s lived through before.

he remembers the first time. the real first time.

losing ortho was something he never saw coming. something he never thought could happen. and even though he’s built him again, recreated him, brought back a version of his little brother—

he still remembers.

remembers what it felt like to be too late. to fail someone he loved. to stand there, frozen in horror, helpless to stop it.

and now—

now it’s you.

you, the only person who matters to him besides ortho. you, the person who understands him, who stays, who chooses him despite all the reasons not to. you, who has somehow become his entire world without him even realizing it.

“oh seven—okay, okay—don’t freak out—no, wait, i’m the one freaking out—”

he rushes toward you but stops short, his hands hovering inches away, shaking.

“w-wait, should i touch you? would that make it worse?? oh seven, what if i make it worse—”

his mind is short-circuiting. too many variables. too many possible failures.

“idia,” you start, but he whirls on you, wide-eyed and frantic.

“y-you have to tell me exactly how bad it is, okay? give me a numerical rating—no, no, wait, i don’t trust the pain scale, um—can you move?? do you need a doctor??”

his breathing is erratic, his fingers clutching at the edge of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

but then—just like before—you try to reassure him.

“i’m okay.”

he stops.

his whole body locks up, his mind struggling to catch up.

”…are you sure?”

his voice is so small. so uncertain.

because he’s already lost someone before.

and if he lost you too—if this was his fault, if he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough—

he doesn’t know what he would do.

even when he’s finally convinced that you’re not dying, he still refuses to leave your side. he hovers awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, clearly itching to do something to make himself useful.

so he does what he knows best—

“d-do you wanna lay down? i, uh, set up a recovery station in my room. blankets. snacks. medkits—y’know, just in case. w-we can watch something comforting, i won’t even complain about the genre. promise.”

his voice is still wobbly, still slightly frayed at the edges, but the tension in his shoulders finally eases when you nod.

and later—when you’re safe, resting, and no longer in pain—

his fingers brush against yours, hesitant, unsure, before finally intertwining them properly.

“never scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is quiet. but this time, it doesn’t shake.

because he won’t lose you too.

he can’t.

malleus draconia

malleus has lived longer than most.

a century and more has passed since his birth. he has seen generations rise and fall, watched mortals grow old in the blink of an eye. nothing unsettles him. nothing disturbs his calm.

but then he sees you hurt.

and the entire world stands still.

his breath halts, and the air around him shifts—the very atmosphere bending beneath the weight of something primordial, something as vast and unrelenting as the storm-laden skies over the land of briar.

his first instinct is not panic.

it is rage.

“who did this?”

his voice is low, steady, but beneath the surface, something dangerous lurks.

his emerald eyes gleam, faintly glowing in the dim light. the shadows stretch taller, the wind outside stills, the very earth itself seems to pause, as if the land itself knows what kind of wrath is building within him.

his hands twitch at his sides, claws curling, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips—not for you, never for you, but for whoever was foolish enough to harm you.

but he stops himself. forces himself to breathe.

because you come first.

he is in front of you in an instant, his movements as fluid as shadow, his expression unreadable. his hands—hands that could command storms, reduce castles to rubble, shatter the very sky—reach for you with an almost unnatural gentleness.

“let me see,” he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over your injury, tracing the bruises, the cuts, the places where pain lingers.

his touch is featherlight, his movements precise, but beneath it all, his body is rigid with barely restrained fury.

“who did this?” he repeats, quieter now, but infinitely more terrifying.

if you don’t answer, if you try to downplay it, if you lie—

his gaze darkens, something thunderous in his silence.

“do not shield them from me.”

he is not so easily deceived. he sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you waver, the way you avoid his gaze. if you refuse to tell him, it does not matter—he will find out on his own.

but first—

“hold still,” he murmurs, raising his hand.

a pulse of magic hums through the air, a whisper of ancient power curling around your form like a protective shroud. the ache dulls, the wounds begin to close, the pain fades.

“better?” he asks, softer now, something tender hidden beneath the weight of his fury.

but even as he tends to you, even as he ensures you are safe—

his mind is already elsewhere.

because someone hurt you.

and for that, there will be consequences.

malleus does not act rashly. he does not lash out blindly.

but the guilty party will know fear.

“stay here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek for just a fraction of a second, his touch lingering. “rest. recover.”

and then, as he turns, the air thickens, the weight of his presence pressing down like the hush before a storm, like the crackling stillness before lightning splits the sky.

because someone has made a grave mistake.

and if the gods are watching, they would be wise to offer their mercy—because malleus draconia will not.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | two string bathing suit

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : your f1!boyfriend reacting to you showing him two strings as a bathing suit (tiktok trend - click for reference)

୨ৎ : genre : romance comedy ୨ৎ : tws : slightly suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 2073

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a rare wednesday post that isn't a solo story !! also i will be putting a pause on request bc my inbox is flooded, but once i have released a majority of the stories (within the next few weeks everyday there will be a new post in honor of 10k) they will open up again ty guys so much for the support <3

ʚ・max verstappen

“max,” you called from the bathroom, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “don’t freak out.”

he barely looked up from his phone. “that’s the worst way to start a sentence.”

you stepped out, deadpan. wearing… if you could even call it that… a “swimsuit” made of two threads, three knots, and maybe half a square inch of material. total. it looked like it was crocheted by a sleep-deprived spider. you posed with a straight face.

max blinked. then blinked again, slower.

“no,” he said, setting his phone down with almost religious care. “absolutely not.”

“what do you mean?” you said, fighting to keep a straight face. “it’s trendy. minimalist.”

“that’s not minimalist. that’s missing.”

you twirled, the strings shifting dangerously. “it’s high fashion.”

max stood up like he was about to perform an exorcism. “that’s not fashion. that’s barely science. you could sneeze and the whole thing would combust.”

“i think it’s cute.”

“i think it’s… illegal.”

you walked over slowly. he didn’t move, just looked absolutely offended by the garment clinging to your body with the hope and optimism of dental floss. “so… i can’t wear it on the yacht?”

he stared at you, stunned. “if you wear that on the yacht, i’m jumping into the ocean and letting nature take me.”

you burst out laughing, and he immediately buried his face in his hands. “who sold you that? who allowed this to exist?”

“i made it myself.”

his head snapped up in horror. “what.”

“yarn. patience. emotional damage.”

max grabbed the nearest towel and threw it around your shoulders like he was shielding your soul. “you need help. professional help.”

you leaned in, still grinning. “so that’s a no?”

he groaned. “i love you. but you’re grounded.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you stepped out slowly. wearing… well, calling it a swimsuit would be legally questionable. two strings of yarn tied together with the optimism of a third-grader’s friendship bracelet. honestly, it looked like you raided a kindergarten art bin and called it couture.

lewis lowered his sunglasses.

paused.

stared.

“be honest,” he said, slowly standing up. “did you lose a bet? or is this, like, a charity stunt i don’t know about?”

you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s my new swimsuit. do you like it?”

“do i like it?” he walked in a slow circle around you, studying it like a museum exhibit. “you look like someone gave a hamster a crochet hook and no supervision.”

“be serious.”

“oh, i am.” he waved a hand at the barely-there strings. “you’re out here dressed like a cursed macramé project.”

you pouted. “it’s artistic.”

“it’s traumatic.”

you posed dramatically. “but imagine this on the beach… champagne… sun setting…”

“yeah, and a full-blown scandal.” he crossed his arms. “you’re gonna flash everyone.”

you smirked. “so you’re saying it’s a little much?”

“i’m saying it’s one wardrobe malfunction away from me throwing my entire body over yours like a security guard.”

you grinned, stepping closer. “but you’d still let me wear it?”

he paused.

then? “yes. but only indoors. with the curtains closed. and a blanket.”

you laughed as he wrapped you up in the nearest hoodie and muttered, “i need a drink. and therapy. and maybe a glue gun.”

ʚ・george russell

you walked into the living room with the fakest innocent smile on your face and the largest box you could find on amazon. george was sitting on the couch, laptop open, looking like a ceo of something important.

“i got something for the trip,” you said sweetly.

he looked up. “that box is huge. did you order a tent?”

you beamed. “bikini.”

he blinked. “that’s not a bikini-sized box. that’s an appliance-sized box.”

you set it down and started dramatically peeling off the layers — tissue paper, unnecessary foam, even a fake ribbon — while george just watched in mild horror.

“is this an unboxing video?” he asked, deadpan. “should i film this for content? are we reviewing the manufacturer’s efficiency?”

you reached the final layer.

and pulled out the swimsuit.

or… the two lonely strings of yarn and a prayer that you were calling a swimsuit.

george stared.

and stared.

“…where’s the rest of it?” he finally asked, voice cracking ever so slightly.

“that’s it!”

he shut his laptop slowly. “that’s not it. that’s… that’s not a garment. that’s yarn.”

“it’s cute!”

“it’s nonexistent.”

you turned it around, holding it by the strings like it was a spider you weren’t sure was dead. “you don’t think it’s cute?”

he stood up like he needed to physically confront the reality of the situation. “how did you even find this? who sold it to you? did you blackmail someone? did it come with a warning label?”

“i packaged it myself.”

he blinked. “you what.”

“it’s a prank, babe.”

silence.

then, he slowly sank back onto the couch, covered his face, and mumbled, “you’re the reason i have stress dreams.”

you dropped the string bikini on his chest and smiled. “but you love me anyway.”

“i do,” he sighed. “i just… wish you loved fabric.”

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling his phone while you rifled through your suitcase.

“i got a new swimsuit for the trip,” you said casually, pulling out a folded towel to fake wrap the "swimsuit" in.

he hummed. “another one?”

you smirked. “this one’s special.”

he turned his head just in time to see you dramatically unwrap what could only be described as two strings of yarn connected by stubbornness and delusion.

carlos sat up.

paused.

blinked.

“…dios mío.”

you fought to keep a straight face. “it’s cute, right?”

he stood up slowly, like his body was moving while his brain was buffering. “that’s not a swimsuit. that’s—that’s a trap. you wear that, and i’m fighting everyone.”

you held it up by the strings. “it’s kind of artistic.”

“it’s kind of criminal.”

you twirled it once. “it’s technically wearable.”

“it’s technically two pieces of string and a death wish.”

you laughed, tossing it onto the bed. “so you’re saying you don’t want me wearing it at the hotel pool?”

“hotel pool?” he gave you an incredulous look. “you can’t even wear that in our apartment without risking emotional damage.”

“too much?”

“i’ve seen paper towels with more coverage.”

you walked over and looped your arms around his neck, grinning. “jealous?”

he rested his forehead against yours, sighing dramatically. “no. i’m concerned. for your safety. and my blood pressure.”

you leaned in close. “you’re just mad because you know i’d steal the show.”

he kissed your cheek. “i’m mad because i know i’d get arrested for public indecency by association.”

you laughed into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you like a man who had just stared into the abyss.

“i’m hiding that,” he muttered. “i don’t even trust you to prank me with it again.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

“charles?” you called sweetly, stepping into the hotel room with a mischievous grin and a suspicious little shopping bag.

he glanced up from the bed, where he was sitting with his ipad and airpods, one brow raised. “yes, amour?”

“i got a swimsuit for this weekend. want to see it?”

he smiled, setting the ipad aside. “of course.”

you pulled it from the bag slowly, two strings. only strings. it might have once been a swimsuit, but now? it was a scandal waiting to happen.

charles stared.

then blinked once.

then smiled. slowly.

“mon dieu…” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “is that legal?”

“technically,” you shrugged, holding it up. “there’s a front. and a back. i kind of wish it was thinner.”

he tilted his head, eyes trailing the string in your hands with the fascination of a man watching his entire moral compass short-circuit. “and you plan to wear this in public…it's already thin enough?”

“maybe. why?”

he stood, crossing the room in three slow, measured steps. “because, chérie… if you wear that outside, i will never survive it.”

you smirked. “you hate it?”

he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “no,” he whispered. “i want you to wear it. but only where i can see you.”

you blinked.

“put it on,” he said, voice low, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “let me see everything.”

you burst out laughing, hitting his chest lightly. “charles!”

he laughed too, pulling you in by the waist. “you’re evil,” he said against your neck, voice playful. “you come in here with two strings and expect me to be normal?”

“you seemed pretty into it.”

“i am,” he said shamelessly. “but mon amour… if you wear that out, i’ll have to start swinging. and i don’t want to go to jail in monaco.”

ʚ・lando norris

you stood in front of the mirror, struggling to keep a straight face as you unwrapped the tiny bag you’d stuffed the “swimsuit” into. two strings. one knot. less coverage than a shoelace.

“baaaabe,” you called sweetly. “i got a new swimsuit. wanna see?”

“yeah, sure!” lando shouted from the other room. “wait—should i come in there or—?”

you opened the door slowly, string bikini dangling from one finger like it was a precious artifact. “no need. just look.”

he turned.

froze.

squinted.

then: “what is that?!”

you fought a grin. “it’s my new bikini.”

“that’s not a bikini,” he said, already walking toward you like he needed to inspect it up close for safety reasons. “that’s—that’s a joke, right?”

you turned it around like a qvc host. “front and back. simple.”

he gaped at you. “it’s a crime scene.”

“very fashion-forward.”

“it’s barely forward! it’s not even forward-adjacent!”

you were shaking with laughter now as he waved his arms in genuine disbelief. “where did you even buy that? why did you buy that? how did they ship it? in a matchbox?!”

“i thought it’d be cute on the beach.”

he took the swimsuit carefully, like it might bite him, and held it up with two fingers. “there is more fabric in a tea bag.”

“i think you’re being dramatic.”

“i think you’re being dangerous.”

you stepped in close, resting your hands on his chest. “so you don’t want me to wear it?”

lando looked at you. then at the strings. then back at you.

“i want you to burn it.”

you grinned. “too late. i packed it.”

“i’m not letting you leave the hotel room.”

“promise?”

his jaw dropped. “you’re the worst.”

you winked. “and yet.”

he groaned into your shoulder, muttering, “i need therapy. and a one-piece. for you.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

you didn’t warn him.

you just walked into the hotel room, holding what looked like a piece of yarn with a dream. no dramatic intro, no buildup — just straight chaos.

“new swimsuit,” you said casually, tossing it onto the bed like it wasn’t about to destroy him.

oscar turned from his laptop, expression as flat and unreadable as always… until he saw it.

he stared.

blink.

longer stare.

“…that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

he sat back in the chair slowly, arms crossed. “that’s not a swimsuit.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t like it?”

he took a very long pause. processing. buffering. internally screaming.

“i… don’t disapprove,” he said finally, choosing his words like they were part of a hostage negotiation. “but… i’m trying to understand where the rest of it went.”

you held it up by a single string. “it’s trendy. daring. very… cute.”

“it’s barely thread.”

you grinned. “so you do disapprove.”

he didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head, looking you up and down like he was trying to calculate structural integrity. “…if it makes you happy to wear that, then it’s fine.”

you squinted. “but you’re dying inside.”

he blinked. “a little.”

you walked closer, draping the swimsuit over his shoulder like a sash. “you don’t think i’d look hot?”

“that’s not the issue,” he said immediately, not even blinking. “the issue is physics.”

you burst out laughing, and that finally cracked a smile from him — soft, a little resigned, but full of affection.

“i trust you,” he added, voice quiet but firm. “i just… don’t trust gravity. or wind. or humanity.”

you kissed his cheek. “so private pool only?”

he nodded. “preferably with no windows.”

you leaned back, watching him eye the bikini like it was a cursed relic. “you’re kind of obsessed with me.”

he smiled again, this time without hesitation. “obviously.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[hearts4hughes]

hiii can do an bsf!rafe where y/n posts to insta in a teeny bikini knowing it'll piss rafe off and topper and kelce screenshot it and make comments ab it to rafe in a kook boys group chat and he's alr pissed ab it bc y/n is on vacation for the weekend and he secretly misses her and is grumpy in general and this post and topper and kelce's comments, plus whatever creepy kooks comment on y/n's post are not making his day better and she is in for it when she gets home?? no worries if not-🪩💗

you wore that on purpose. you knew exactly what you were doing. because he’s not there and you left for some girls’ trip to sullivan’s island with a tan canvas duffel and a smug little “don’t miss me too much,��� tossed over your shoulder like he doesn’t already feel weirdly itchy when you’re out of his sight too long.

he’s been pretending like he doesn’t miss you. like your absences doesn’t create a y/n shaped hole in his heart. he texts you every morning, calls every night, and refreshes your socials every hour just to make sure he’s not missing anything. he keeps tabs on your location from the tracker he told you to put on before you left.

it was all going just swell. that was until topper sent the screenshot. rafe picked up his phone to check the notification just like he usually does. but when the photo finally loaded and it was of you—in two strings that you call a bikini—his ears were ringing.

cocaine cowboys gc

top: ur girl is lookin nice cameron😛

kelce: damnnnnn

kelce: you approve this before she posted bud?

rafe: shut the fuck up before i skin you both alive

top: trouble in paradise huh?

oh, he wants to laugh. he wants to brush it off. but he’s too busy gripping his phone so hard his thumb cracks the edge of his case. it’s not even that you’re doing anything, really. it’s the knowing look in your eyes. the stupidly tiny triangle of your bikini top. the little caption, kissed by the sun, not by you☀️. and the string of heart eye emojis from random kooks in the comments.

(he blocks two of them. he doesn’t care. one of them went to tannyhill once and looked at you too long. rafe remembers everything.)

he shuts off his phone and places it down to fight the urge to throw it against the nearest wall. his entire body runs warm. his breathing grows shallow and steam rolls out of his ears. he doesn’t call or text you for the rest of the trip.

~

you roll up to your driveway with a fresh tan, rosy cheeks, and a best friend ready to kill. you barely get the chance to park before he’s ripping the door of your mercedes open and sliding into the passenger’s seat.

you take one look at his red cheeks and dark eyes and you hold back a grin: “jesus—rafe, hi?” you barely get the word out before his palm finds your thigh, warm and possessive. like it’s just sitting there. like it belongs there.

“don’t hi me,” he mutters. jaw sharp, teeth clenched. his hat is pulled low and backwards, but you can still see how wild his eyes are.

you try to play innocent. “missed you too, honey.” his fingers dig into the skin of your plush thigh. his cheeks match the pink interior of your car.

“you think that’s funny?” he growls, lips pressed into a tight line like it physically hurts to stand there. his chest heaves with something mean.

your stomach flips. but you’re still playing the game. “think what’s funny?” you bat your freshly laminated lashes and pout your lipglossed lips, feigning complete innocence. he swallows harshly.

“posting your ass all over the internet like you don’t know what that does to me,” he snaps. “like you weren’t counting the seconds till topper texted me.”

you blink up at him. “topper texted you?”

he laughs. dark. bitter. “everyone texted me. kelce, jj, fucking some guy named wyatt in your comments. who the fuck is wyatt, y/n?”

“just a friend,” you hum, and that’s the last thread he’s got.

“you think this shit’s cute?” he grits. his hand slides further up your leg, under the hem of your shorts now. “you do this again, baby, and i’ll remind you real fast who you belong to.”

your breath hitches. your heart does that annoying flutter ache thing in your chest. but still, you give him that look—lashes low, mouth curved.

“you jealous, rafe?” your words drip with honey and everything sweet. he held back a moan at how delectable you sounded when you said his name. he was a pathetic man at your complete will.

he doesn’t answer. just stares at you for a beat, unreadable, before dragging you across the console into his lap. “i missed you,” he says finally, all rough and low against your ear. like it’s the first time he’s admitted it out loud. “but you make it really hard not to lose my fucking mind.”

your voice is breathy. “you already did.”

“yeah,” he mutters, brushing his nose along your jaw, “and you’re gonna pay for it.”

and all you do is grin like a girl who got exactly what she wanted.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

EMPEROR'S DANCER SIMON

sfw + nsfw. gender neutral reader. sex pollen. mentions of rape and murder. angst.

you hadn’t known it was tradition. you’d just assumed the old men who had ruled before you had strange, indulgent ways of unwinding after a long day. you had braced yourself for extravagance, sure— but nothing could have prepared you for this.

after your first month, you’d planned to slip away to the hot springs, stretch out the stiff muscles you've spent hunched over the mountains of unfinished paperwork your predecessor had so graciously abandoned. steam, solitude, and silence— just a few stolen hours to reclaim your sanity before the cycle of governance began anew.

but barely had you sunk into the warmth before your adviser burst in, eyes averted, pressing fresh robes into your hands with an urgency that immediately soured your mood.

“your majesty, it’s time for your evening engagement.”

you slumped further into the water, dragging a wet hand down your face. “i don’t recall scheduling one.”

“ah, well… it’s tradition.”

tradition, apparently, was reclining on silk cushions while a half-naked man in a skull mask danced for you.

the music started as a murmur of stringed instruments, the deep thrum of a drum marking time like a heartbeat. a flute threaded through it all, almost mournful, spreading through the chamber like incense.

the dancer moved with it, body an instrument of its own. the shift of his hips sent the coins at his waist swaying, the light catching on gold and the smooth stretch of muscle. his hands carved shapes in the air, fingers fluid, wrists loose. he twisted, ribs shifting in isolation from the rest of his frame, a display of mastery that you were sure took years to perfect.

the drumbeat quickened, and his movements followed. sharper now, his chest popping forward, hips snapping to the rhythm with ease. he turned in a slow circle, the fabric around his waist flaring, feet silent against the ornate rug.

it was hypnotic— the way he moved, the way the music seemed to live in him, the way every motion felt deliberate, like a secret being spoken just for you.

and you, despite yourself, sat frozen.

you realized only when the music stopped that your grip on the goblet had gone tense, your knuckles white against the dark metal. the heat at the back of your neck crept higher, burning at the tips of your ears, and you swallowed, willing your voice to stay even.

“thank you,” you said, inclining your head slightly. “that was-” you cleared your throat, feeling as though it might crack. “that was beautiful.”

his mask tilted, just a fraction.

you were the first emperor simon had danced for— after all, each ruler had their own dancer, their own traditions— but he had seen the last one up close, felt his gaze crawl over his skin like something wet and grasping. The man had leered, had indulged in his power like a glutton at a feast.

but you— you only sat there, hands tucked in your lap, face warm, struggling to meet his eyes even through the mask.

he watched as your adviser murmur something about retiring for the night after the musicians’ own exit, barely audible over the pounding in your ears, before disappearing through the heavy doors.

the moment the latch clicked shut, simon reached for the folds of his drapery.

you were only just beginning to let out a breath when you caught movement in your periphery— fabric slipping, a belt loosening, fingers curling at his waist.

wait, what?

you shot to your feet so fast your goblet nearly toppled, a hand flying up instinctively as if you could halt whatever was about to happen.

“a-ah- what are you doing?” your voice cracked slightly, caught between command and incredulity. “i- isn’t it a crime to be inappropriate in front of the emperor? ah- don’t people fear anything these days?”

simon stilled, half-out of his outer robe, blinking at you like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your reaction. slowly, he tilted his head. “...it’s tradition.”

“tradition?” you echoed, voice climbing an octave. “tradition?” you gestured vaguely at his hands, which were once again working at the knots of his attire. “i- what- no- keep your clothes on-”

his fingers paused. you could almost hear his brow raise beneath the mask.

“the emperor takes the dancer afterwards.” his voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining something as routine as a change in the weather.

your face crumpled, heat flaring at the tips of your ears, and you pressed your palms against your temples. gods help you.

“your emperor,” you said, exasperated at the situation, “demands you keep your clothes on.” you inhaled sharply, trying to steady your nerves. “and- and eat grapes with me.”

a long pause.

simon said nothing. then, after a moment, he slowly let go of the fabric, letting it rest against his hips once more. he blinked at you, unreadable behind the bone mask, before settling into a relaxed stance, his hands resting loosely at his sides.

he had prepared for many things. entitlement. greed. that familiar, hungry gaze. but this flustered little emperor, looking anywhere but at him, cheeks hot, gripping at their robes like they were the one being compromised— this was new.

then, as if finding the situation mildly amusing, he nodded.

“as you wish.”

( … )

the moment simon stepped back into the dimly lit corridors of the dancers’ quarters, the air shifted. conversations dipped into hushed murmurs, eyes flickered toward him, and the sharp sound of johnny’s bare feet crossing the stone floor filled the space before he even had the chance to remove his mask.

“christ, mate- what happened?” johnny’s voice was low, urgent. his hands were on him before simon could brush him off, fingers prodding at his arms, his shoulders, searching for something. a wince. a bruise. some telltale mark that this night had ended like all the others.

“they weren’t too rough, were they?” another's voice cut through the quiet. someone else shifted closer, brows furrowed. “did they leave bruises?”

simon rolled his shoulders, shaking Johnny’s grip. no bruises. no lingering hands. no unwanted touches. the feeling of silk-wrapped fingers never came. only the memory of a soft voice, a question so out of place it had nearly thrown him.

‘have you eaten?’

he had stood there, still, thrown not by the words themselves, but by the fact that they had been asked at all. that you had noticed.

and you had not only noticed— you had acted.

food had arrived in elegant dishes, but it had not been the delicate, indulgent fare he had come to expect from imperial chambers. no dainty confections, no cloying sweetmeats. no food meant to be fed from gilded fingertips between whispered, filthy promises.

instead, it was real food that settled warm in the stomach. that filled, rather than teased. the kind of food meant to sustain.

and you had simply watched, hands tucked into your sleeves, gaze lowered— not out of avoidance, nor out of shame, but out of respect.

‘eat,’ your posture had said. ‘you are not a meal tonight. you are not meant to be devoured.’

even after the last bite, you had not reached for him, had not let the moment stretch into something uncomfortable or unfinished. you had simply stood, offered the first bow of the night, and said, “thank you for the performance. it was… mesmerizing.”

a pause. a quick breath. a flustered clearing of the throat. “i wish you a good night.”

and that had been it.

johnny snapped his fingers in front of simon’s face. “oi. you good?”

simon blinked. the room came back into focus. bruised knuckles. nervous eyes. a group of men who had learned to expect pain after every dance.

he exhaled, shaking his head, and stepped past johnny.

“yeah,” he said, voice steady.

he thought of you again— how you had looked away when his robes had started to slip.

‘they were flustered.’ his lips curled slightly beneath the mask.

“they were… kind.”

( … )

the purge began in the dead of night.

the palace, usually a place of quiet indulgence in the hours before dawn, was restless. servants huddled together in the alcoves, their whispered prayers swallowed by the heavy footfalls of armored soldiers. the halls that had once been filled with laughter and idle gossip, now echoed with the sharp ring of steel.

in the noble estates, men were dragged from their beds.

the empire’s most powerful officials, men who had grown fat on stolen gold and spent decades tightening their grip on power, woke to the sound of doors splintering under booted feet.

there were no warnings. no trials.

the emperor had decreed judgment, and judgment had come.

by sunrise, half the imperial council was gone.

the first whisper of it reached simon before breakfast.

he had barely sat up when johnny burst through the door, panting like he had sprinted across the entire compound. his eyes were wide with something between excitement and disbelief.

“did you hear?” he blurted.

simon scrubbed a hand over his face. he was still half-asleep, the world a sluggish blur. he hadn't heard anything.

“what?” he muttered.

“they’re gone,” johnny said, voice hushed, as if the walls had ears.

“who?”

“the council.”

simon blinked. he must have misheard.

the imperial council, the real power behind the throne, the untouchable elite who had bled the empire dry for decades, was gone?

johnny must have seen the doubt on his face because he leaned in, voice dropping even lower. “the emperor had them dragged from their estates last night,” the words spilled from his lips in a rush. “the whole lot of them. some executed on the spot, some thrown in chains. the prisons are full.”

a strange silence settled over simon.

the emperor did it. the same emperor who had blushed and stammered at the sight of his skin. the one who had refused to touch him, who had pulled his robes tighter when he moved to undress.

the one who had offered him food instead of flesh, who had thanked him for his dance in a voice that had trembled, not with hunger, not even power, but with something almost innocent.

that emperor had just cleansed the empire in a single night?

but the details were undeniable.

the council had been a cesspit of corruption. that much was known to everyone— servants, soldiers, even the common folk in the streets.

the previous emperor had been a weak, decadent fool, more interested in his own pleasures than ruling an empire.

but the true rot had always been his council. a den of power-hungry parasites.

sons of nobles who had never worked a day in their lives. brothers of wealthy merchants who controlled entire trade routes like personal kingdoms. advisors who spoke in silk-tongued lies while emptying the empire’s coffers. generals who had turned soldiers into mercenaries, selling their blades to the highest bidder while the borders crumbled.

they had taken everything– land, coin, lives— and given back nothing but suffering.

they had thought themselves untouchable. even after the old emperor’s death, they had been certain of their place. the new emperor was young, soft, naïve. nothing would change.

but something had.

the executions began swiftly.

the minor officials were the first to go. the tax collectors who had lined their pockets with gold stolen from starving villages, the magistrates who had sold verdicts to the highest bidder.

then came the generals who had betrayed their oaths, the merchants who had hoarded wealth while the people went hungry.

then, the council itself.

the most powerful men in the empire, who had sat in the emperor’s halls and made decrees like gods among mortals.

some tried to flee. some tried to bargain. some even screamed of injustice as they were dragged through the streets they had once ruled.

the emperor had let the people see them.

no quiet assassinations. no discreet poisonings.

their crimes were read aloud in the public square, their fates decided under the watchful eyes of the very people they had tormented.

the empire had not wept for them.

simon listened.

he listened as the guards swapped stories over their meals, as the servants whispered in the halls, as the lower officials murmured of shifting alliances and uncertain futures.

and in the middle of it all, the emperor stood untouched.

no trembling hands. no stammering voice. no soft, hesitant smiles. the shy little thing who had offered him grapes had wiped an entire generation of corruption from the palace without hesitation.

simon sat on the edge of his cot, johnny’s voice still rattling in his ears.

he thought of you, of your wide, flustered eyes and the uncharacteristic kindness you carried, and found himself wondering—

had you ever been afraid at all?

( … )

simon doesn't get summoned for a month. and he understood why.

the empire was unraveling and reweaving itself under the emperor’s hand. the council was gone, yes, but their absence had left a vacuum.

new ministers had to be chosen. laws had to be rewritten. sentences had to be passed down, beheadings signed into order. there were trials, public executions, and long nights where the emperor’s lantern burned until dawn.

the entire court was shifting. a world built on corruption and decadence was being dragged— kicking, screaming— into something new.

and so, simon had not been called. he had heard whispers, of course.

the emperor barely left their chambers. meals were left untouched. audiences grew shorter. even the palace servants had begun speaking in hushed tones.

overworked, someone murmured. drowning, another whispered.

and then, after a full month— a summons.

a messenger arrived at his door, impassively handing him an order written in the emperor’s own hand.

simon stared at it for a long time. he wasn’t scared. not exactly. but something in his stomach twisted.

the last time he had danced for the emperor, they had been a flustered thing beneath the weight of his gaze.

and now?

now, they were someone who had ordered an empire to kneel.

he had seen men like that before. had seen the way power changed them— hardened them, twisted them beyond recognition.

and so, when the doors opened, simon glanced up and braced himself.

not for a cruel emperor. but for a tired one.

you stood in the doorway, shoulders heavier than before, your silk robes hanging looser against your frame.

your face was drawn, shadows carved beneath your eyes, lips pressed together in quiet exhaustion. still, you didn’t look at him with hunger.

you barely looked at him at all.

when you spoke, your voice was quiet. “you may begin.”

simon danced.

and when the music faded, he remained still, letting the silence settle over. the lanterns flickered against the dark, their glow casting long shadows over the planes of his body, catching on the sweat at his collarbone, gilding the ridges of his arms, the curve of his chest. his fingers flexed, breath slow, waiting.

the dance was finished.

he hesitated undressing.

the first time he had danced for you, he had gone to remove his robes and been stopped, by command, by your hands catching at his wrists, voice stumbling over itself as you demanded he keep his clothes on.

but that had been a different time. that had been before.

before the trials, the sentences. before the streets had run slick with the blood of the old regime.

the first time he had danced, you had been unsure. nervous. stiff at the shoulders, eyes darting away, fingers twitching over the silk of your robes.

but now, you had sentenced men to die. you had held the weight of absolute power in your hands and wielded it without hesitation.

surely, you were different now. surely, you would not stop him this time.

simon’s fingers found the clasp at his belt.

“what-” your voice wavered, and your hands twitched, gripping at the fabric pooled in your lap. “what are you doing?”

simon paused. he looked up.

your gaze darted from him to the table and back, never quite settling. you adjusted the rings on your fingers, thumb smoothing absently over a polished stone, then your hands dropped to your lap, fingers curling into the fabric there, gripping and releasing as if trying to find something solid.

you weren’t looking at him. not really.

you were still nervous.

maybe not in the same way— not like before, when you had scrambled back, robes clutched so tightly they threatened to wrinkle. but still, there was tension in your shoulders, your fingers twisting against your sleeves.

you cleared your throat, shifting, before lifting a hand and, almost hesitantly, patting the space beside you.

“sit,” you murmured, still not quite meeting his gaze. “we should eat.”

simon stared.

for all his years of training, all his discipline, all his ability to hold himself perfectly still under scrutiny, something in him faltered.

he had expected demand. he had expected command. he had expected the same cold cruelty that emperors before you had wielded with ease

it becomes a ritual from then on.

every week, without fail, simon danced for you. and every week, without fail, you shared a meal afterward.

at first, it had been nothing more than an act of politeness, a courtesy you extended to someone who had expected something very different from you.

but then it became habit.

you learned the little things. that he ate without sound, exact in his movements even at rest, that he listened more than he spoke, the occasional tilt of his head the only indication that he was considering your words. how he never quite let himself relax, always poised, always ready.

and, in turn, he learned you. learned that you liked your tea slightly cooled before drinking, that you tapped your fingers against the lacquered table when deep in thought. learned that your power did not mean cruelty, that you did not demand fealty through fear most of the time, and that you had never asked for this throne but now that you had it, you would not sit idly upon it.

itt was— not companionship. not quite. but something close. something like familiarity.

so when you left the week’s meetings feeling drained, the echoes of politics still ringing through your head, it was simon you found yourself thinking of.

the courtyard was filled with the spoils of diplomacy— chests of silk, intricately painted ceramics, gilded weapons with delicate inlays of gold and ivory. and, most notably, horses.

tall, well-muscled things, bred for battle or ceremony, shifting their weight with practiced ease as handlers checked their bridles.

all of them were pristine. except for—

you stopped. blinked. tilted your head.

the animal stared back.

it was smaller than the horses, its fur coarse, dark with streaks of gold along its face. its ears were too large, flopping slightly as it tilted its head in perfect mimicry of your own movement.

“what,” you said, voice slow, “is that?”

the attendant beside you perked up. “ah! that’s a dog, your majesty.”

a dog.

you had never seen one before, not up close. the palace had been filled with birds, sleek white cranes that perched along the stone bridges, brilliant goldfinches flitting through the gardens. but not— this.

“does it serve a purpose?” you asked, watching as the creature stepped forward, its nose twitching at the hem of your robes.

the attendant nodded. “they’re loyal. protective. they’ll guard whoever they bond with.”

loyal. protective.

you hummed, considering. it was, objectively, perfect. a perfect gift for simon.

you try to suppress the glee curling in your chest as the dog follows at your heels, its padded steps near soundless against the stone.

it had taken little more than a glance and a soft call for it to follow, the creature trotting after you with an easy, natural obedience. as if it had belonged to you from the start.

but it wasn’t for you.

the warmth in your chest is unfamiliar. strange. it is not the satisfaction of a well-brokered deal, not the quiet triumph of an opponent bested, not even the sharp, addictive rush of power that comes with watching the world bend to your will.

no, this is different.

you’ve heard the stories, of course. of emperors keeping their dancers closer than their concubines. of favor turning to obsession. of gifts upon gifts heaped at the feet of those who spun and twisted for their ruler’s amusement. you have read of love.

but you do not know if that is what this is.

you only know that there is— warmth. a quiet want. a desire to please. not in the way that your court expects, not in the way that your officials demand. not out of duty or necessity or strategy.

but for him.

because watching him dance brings you pleasure. and you.. well, you want to return it.

so you press forward, your fingers twitching slightly against your sleeves, as the dog follows you into simon’s quarters, unaware of the meaning behind its presence.

you step into simon’s quarters, the dog padding beside you, its claws clicking against the polished floor. it’s a good dog. attentive. loyal. it watches you, ears twitching at every little sound, steps in sync with yours as if it had been at your side forever.

you’re not sure why your stomach is twisting like this, why your palms feel warm, why your heartbeat has picked up just slightly. you’ve given gifts before— lavish ones, jewels and gold and artifacts that could buy whole cities— but you’ve never given something like this. never given something that feels personal.

and you want to know what he will do with it.

simon looks up as you enter, standing near the low table where you always share meals, his mask in place, his posture as steady as ever. he’s still in his dance silks, his shoulders bare beneath the soft glow of candlelight, but for once, he doesn’t seem to take note of your presence.

because the moment his eyes land on the dog, something happens.

his whole body locks. his breath halts. his hands, already at his sides, clench just slightly. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink.

it’s not the reaction you expected. you thought he might tilt his head, ask what it was for, perhaps hesitate before reaching out

“i brought you something,” you say belatedly, though the words feel thinner than they should.

the dog shifts at your side, tail giving a slow, easy wag. it must sense something, because it takes a step forward, ears pricking up, eyes locked onto simon’s unmoving form.

and then— simon falls to his knees.

he doesn’t lower himself like a man intending to kneel. he doesn’t bow, nor does he fold himself neatly. he drops. a sharp, heavy motion, as if his body has been pulled downward by a force greater than himself. his hands shoot out, grasping, clinging, desperate— and it is not like a man petting a dog. it is not a man greeting a new companion.

the dog whines, shifting under simon’s grip, its tail thudding softly against the floor. simon doesn’t let go.

“where did you find him?” his voice is not like you’ve ever heard it before. it is rough, frayed at the edges, as though he is forcing the words through something raw and hurting in his throat.

you hesitate.

“he was traveling with the diplomats,” you say slowly, watching his fingers tighten in thick fur, his head bowing lower. “i asked for him.” a pause. “you two are... acquainted?”

simon’s hands shake. just slightly.

“he’s my childhood dog,” he says. and there it is. the weight behind it, the tightness in his voice, the way his fingers curl like they’re terrified to let go. “riley.”

something thick lodges itself in your throat. you don’t know what you thought this was. a simple gift. a kind gesture. a way to show simon that he is more than the role he plays, that he has worth beyond his performances. but you had not expected to dig up something this deep.

you take a step back. give him space. say nothing as he presses his face against the dog’s fur, holding it with a desperation that feels too sacred for you to intrude upon.

you did not mean to return something that had been lost. but you had.

and watching him now, watching the way his shoulders shake, just a little, you think, for the first time, that you’ve never been more glad to give something away.

( … )

the room is dim, the scent of burning incense curling in the air. outside, the night hums with distant music, the palace still alive despite the late hour. but here, in the quiet of your chambers, there is only the low crackle of a lantern and the soft, steady sound of simon’s fingers running through riley’s fur.

you watch him, gaze drifting over the scars littering his arms, his back. old wounds, long since healed but still telling of a life that did not belong to a dancer.

“why?” you ask. “why a dancer?”

he doesn’t look at you immediately. he doesn’t stiffen or flinch, doesn’t recoil from the question, only lets out a slow breath and keeps petting riley, his fingers moving in slow, absentminded motions.

“i have a debt,” he says. blank. matter-of-fact.

you tilt your head.

“i got injured,” he continues, voice detached. “took a while for me to heal. guess while i was at the healers, some-” his lips press together for a moment, eyes darkening slightly before he says it, “-higher-up took a liking to me. saved me from getting sent back to the front lines with the state of my body.” his fingers curl briefly into riley’s fur before smoothing out again. “dancing… it's how I pay off my medical fees.”

you watch him for a long moment. the way he speaks of it— detached, impassive, as if it’s something that happened to someone else. he does not sound grateful. he does not sound resentful either. just— removed. like the words are a story told from a distance, belonging to another man entirely.

and you understand why. in a superficial level, you understand.

he had said it himself: dancers are taken after every performance.

you can only imagine. your fingers tap against the table, gaze lingering on the muscles in his forearms, the scars that cut along his skin like old battle lines. tou think about the man who had taken him from the battlefield. the one who had decided simon was better suited for silk than steel.

"would you like to kill them?" you ask.

simon stills. his hand stops, resting against riley’s back. slowly, he lifts his head, looking at you.

"the person who took a liking to you," you clarify, tilting your head slightly. “would you like to kill them?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes search yours, as if trying to find some kind of trap, some hidden meaning behind the words. as if waiting for you to laugh and take it back, to chide him for even considering it.

but you don’t.

simon blinks. a little stunned. he almost forgot who he was speaking to. nearly forgot that this was the same emperor who had emptied council seats, who had cleaned house with blood and blade.

his throat bobs slightly. “... you’d let me?” he asks.

you only smile, the curve of your lips unwavering.

“the only thing i wouldn’t allow,” you say, “is for you to harm yourself, simon.”

( … )

the door creaks open, and simon steps out into the cold air, his breath slow, measured, as if testing whether his lungs still work. the blood on his knuckles is drying now, crusting along the ridges of his skin, but the warmth of it lingers, soaked deep into the fine lines of his palm. his cheek is streaked with red, a single splatter tracing the sharp plane of his jaw like a brand.

he doesn't wipe it away. he feels no need to.

the body inside does not matter. the official is nothing now but another stain on the floorboards, another whisper of corruption excised from the empire. he had not begged, not pleaded. only stared at Simon with something dull in his eyes, as if he had already accepted that this day would come.

the killing had been quiet. private. just as simon had asked.

he breathes in, lets the air sting his lungs, and then he notices you.

you are waiting for him.

the lanterns burn low in the courtyard, their soft glow casting elongated shadows across the stones. the light catches on the edge of the spear in your hands, polished steel gleaming beneath the night sky. it is not ceremonial, not for show.

simon stops.

your gaze meets his. there is no revulsion in your expression, no horror at the blood spattered across his skin. you take him in, the remnants of his violence, the weight of what he has done, what he has become, and you do not flinch.

“you still have a debt,” you say and it is not a revelation but a simple truth.

simon holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “yes.”

you watch him, considering. and then, in a slow motion, you extend the spear toward him.

the wood is solid beneath your grip, the weight of it resting easily in your hands. it has been used before. it will be used again.

“pay it off,” you say.

the words are an invitation and a command all at once.

simon stares at the weapon, at your fingers curled around its length. he does not hesitate. he reaches out, takes the spear from your hands, and holds it as he remembers how.

after that, he trains.

every day, from dawn until the lanterns are lit at dusk, he hones the strength he once had. the fluidity of movement that had been stripped from him, molded into something delicate, enticing. he reverses it now— makes his body a weapon again, rather than a display.

but the soldiers watch. they are not kind about it.

there are whispers that follow him in the barracks, murmurs exchanged between men who have never known what it is to be bought and sold, who have only ever seen battle as something glorious and not the brutal, ugly thing it truly is.

‘he was a dancer.’

‘he belonged to the emperor’s court, to their bed.’

‘what’s he doing here, playing soldier?’

they don’t say it to his face. at first.

but men like these— men full of piss and pride, men who believe that strength is something that can only be tested through humiliation— they are not patient.

and so they corner him.

not with their blades, no— that would be too obvious, too easy to reprimand.

they do it in ways they think are clever. they shove too hard during training spars, make jabs that teeter just at the edge of acceptable. one even dares to grab him by the arm, fingers tightening like a vice, lips curling into something amused.

“show us, then,” the man had drawled. “dance for us. you must be good at handling a sword in more ways than one, yeah?”

it had been a mistake. simon had let the man live with three broken ribs. the others had needed more convincing.

when word reaches commander price, it is not simon who delivers it.

but it doesn’t matter.

price finds them. the beating is public. price makes sure of it.

he doesn't call them out to the courtyard. no, that would be too generous. too structured. he finds them where they sit, where they drink, where they feel safe— and he rips that feeling away with his bare hands.

the first one doesn’t even see it coming. one second, he’s laughing, throwing back a drink, boasting about how he’d finally shut that smug dancer up, how he’d gotten his hands on him, how he was about to really put him in his place, and then price is there.

his fist caves the man’s nose in before he can even flinch.

the crack is loud. the laughter stops.

the soldier hits the floor, blood pouring from his face, hands scrambling against the stone as he tries to right himself— but he doesn’t get the chance.

price grabs him by the collar and slams his head into the table so hard the wood splits.

“you like getting your hands on people who can’t fight back?” price’s voice is sharp, like the edge of a blade sliding beneath the ribs.

“c-commander-!” someone chokes.

but it’s too late.

price turns his head slightly, catches the others, the whole rotten lot of them, and moves. he reaches the next one in two strides. he punches the bastard straight in the throat.

the man stumbles, gagging, choking, hands flying to his neck— but price isn’t done. he grabs him by the hair, drags him up onto unsteady feet— then drives his knee into his gut so hard he crumples.

one. two. three times.

someone rushes him from behind. price dodges without even looking, turns sharply, elbows the man so hard in the temple he goes down twitching.

the others start backing up.

price is only just getting started.

he throws one into the stone pillar, leaves him gasping, wheezing. he stomps on another's hand until he hears fingers snap— and when the last one tries to run?

price catches him, grabs him by the hair, and slams his head against the nearest wall. the body slides to the floor, leaving a bloody smear in its wake.

and then, silence.

the rest of the room watches in horror. no one dares to move.

except simon. he stands with arms crossed, watching without reaction. price breathes out through his nose, shakes blood off his knuckles, then turns to him.

“is that allowed?” simon asks, voice as neutral as ever.

price shrugs, wipes his hands on his tunic. “the emperor wouldn’t mind the few deaths of pieces of shits.” he pauses, tilts his head. “you’re a very good fighter, simon,” he says. “if anyone tries that again, you have my express permission to fuck their assholes open with your spear.”

simon blinks. then, with a slow nod, he replies, “...yes, sir.”

after that, no one bothers him. no one calls him a dancer anymore. not unless they want their jaw wired shut.

and when simon finally feels ready, he doesn’t hesitate. he requests an audience with the emperor.

the guards let him in without question. they know his face by now— the dancer-turned-soldier. the emperor’s oddity.

when he steps inside, he finds the you at your desk, ink staining your fingers, a candle flickering beside you.

you do not look like an emperor in that moment. you look… tired. human.

and yet, when you see him, you smile.

“simon,” you greet, voice warm despite the late hour. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

he kneels, lowering his head. “i request to be part of your personal guard.”

the candle flickers. and then, a quiet chuckle.

“you would see more action fighting on the front lines,” you say, setting your brush down, rubbing the ink from your fingers. “you would see more glory.”

“i don’t need glory.”

you tilt your head, studying him. “then what do you need?”

he hesitates, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze. “it’s you i have a debt to. not the empire.”

you hum. “wouldn’t you argue that the emperor is the empire?”

simon exhales. “no. the emperor is the emperor. i fight for you.”

you search his face for something you don’t say aloud. after a moment, you stand. your robes shift around you like dark silk as you cross the room, stopping just before him.

you place a hand on his shoulder. “then fight for me, simon.” your fingers squeeze “welcome to my guard.”

( … )

simon’s entrance into the emperor’s personal guard is… smooth. smoother than he expected, at least.

the other guards do not question him. there are no murmurs behind his back, no sidelong glances filled with doubt or scorn. he had anticipated resistance, had braced himself for it, but instead, he finds himself seamlessly folded into their ranks, as if he has always been there.

they do not sneer at him. they do not ask if he can still move his hips as well as he moves a blade. they do not whisper of the silks he once wore, the way he once swayed beneath golden light.

instead, they watch him. assess him.

the personal guard of the emperor is not composed of fools. they are neither weak, nor complacent. each one of them chosen, forged by war or circumstance into something lethal.

and while simon is not tested, he is measured.

they watch him move when training, how his muscles coil and shift as he maneuvers his spear. they watch how he strikes— if he does it blindly, wildly. he does neither.

they watch his stance, his footwork, how he adapts mid-fight, shifting strategies in a blink, never fully predictable. he does not fight like a soldier, like a man shaped by war. simon fights like someone who has been cornered before. like someone who has survived things he has no name for.

and they notice other things, too.

the sharpness in his gaze, the tension on his shoulders coiled like a spring. how his body moves before his mind can catch up— an instinctive step between the emperor and the rest of the world.

his fingers flexing near the hilt of his sword whenever a voice in the throne room rises too confidently, when someone speaks to the emperor with something close to familiarity.

and they seem… pleased.

"you’re good," kyle garrick says one afternoon, after training. he rolls his shoulders, stretching out his arms as he leans against the stone railing that overlooks the training grounds. his tunic is damp with sweat, a towel draped lazily over one shoulder.

simon does not respond immediately. rather, he shifts his grip on his spear, rolling his wrist, testing the weight.

kyle watches him for a moment, then smirks. "so," he says, voice teasing. "you got a crush on the emperor or something?"

simon stills. it is barely noticeable. a brief pause, a fraction of a second, but kyle is observant— he wouldn’t have survived this long if he weren’t.

"you do," kyle says, grinning now, tipping his head back with a laugh.

simon exhales through his nose. "i don’t."

"you so do."

"i am here to protect them," simon says, evenly, like it’s something obvious, something that should not need saying.

kyle raises a brow, amused. "yeah, yeah, i know. we all are." he waves a hand, as if brushing away the thought, then grins. "just saying, you’re a bit more intense about it than the rest of us."

and he is.

he knows that he walks too closely at their side. he knows that his pulse betrays him whenever they speak his name, soft in a way he did not think emperors could be.

it is not duty that tightens his chest. it is something else. something warm and dangerous.

( … )

the weekends belong to him. not by decree. not by law. not by any spoken agreement.

and yet, they are his all the same.

when simon left behind being a dancer, when he was given his freedom— truly given it, not just the illusion of it— he expected this arrangement to end. the time set aside for him in your presence had always been part of his role, an expectation tied to his station. it was never his to keep.

but you never withdrew it. and simon never refused.

today, however, he hesitates.

he does not know why it is so hard to speak. he is not a man of many words to begin with, but today, it feels different. it is not just silence, it is weight. something thick, cloying, clinging to his ribs and pressing against his throat, strangling the words before they can form.

you notice. you always do.

but instead of asking, instead of prying into what he is not yet ready to give, you simply turn back to riley.

the dog sprawls across the floor, rolling onto his back with a contented huff, stretching long and lazy, paws curled slightly in the air. he is comfortable here. safe.

you hum softly, your fingers combing through his thick fur. slow, careful strokes. your nails scratch lightly at his chest, pressing into the muscle there.

riley’s tail thumps against the floor. once. twice.

when you pause, pulling your hand away, his large paws swipe blindly at your wrist, tugging at the edge of your sleeve with something almost insistent and spoiled.

you laugh. it is a rare sound.

not the laugh you give in court, polite and laced with formality. not the restrained amusement of a ruler who must always be poised, who cannot afford to be anything less than composed.

instead it's something else. something real.

it crinkles the corners of your eyes, softens the sharp edges of you, curves at your lips in a way that makes you look utterly, devastatingly human.

and simon watches. your fingers move through the dog’s fur, rubbing gentle circles into his chest. he watches your eyes soften when riley nuzzles into your touch. your lips part just slightly, exhaling, for once seeming unburdened.

and something in his chest twists. he wants to say something. the words press against his ribs but they do not come.

he breathes in, trying to loosen the knot in his throat, and when he exhales— he tries.

“your majesty.”

you turn to him immediately, hands stilling in riley’s fur.

i love you.

i love you.

i love you.

it sits heavy on his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth, but they do not leave. instead, he grips his knee, fingers flexing against the fabric, and says, "thank you."

your head tilts slightly. “what for?”

for not using me.

for letting me eat.

for giving me back riley.

for freeing me.

for giving me purpose again.

for being kind.

his throat tightens. his fingers curl against his knee. “for..." He hesitates, breath shallow. "... giving me a chance."

you do not answer right away. and then, softly— "i’m sorry as well."

simon frowns. “for what?”

“for the suffering you endured under the rule of the empire."

the frown deepens. he shakes his head. “that wasn’t your fault-”

“i am emperor.” your voice cuts through his protest. “you are my subject. the sins of all emperors before me become my own. i cannot deny you your suffering simply because it was not done under my rule."

slowly, you rise to your feet, dusting off your robes.

then you kneel.

a ruler should never kneel before their subject.

yet, there you are.

you lower yourself onto your knees before him, hands resting lightly on your thighs. your head bows. “the empire might not apologize to you, simon," you say. "but I will. by my will, i am sorry."

no emperor has ever apologized. no emperor has ever cared to. no emperor has even cared to know his name.

his pulse thrums loud in his ears. “no-”

“i am sorry.”

“your majesty-!”

“i am sorry.”

his throat burns.

you mean it.

these are not empty words. they are not the platitudes of a ruler seeking favor or the hollow reassurances of someone who does not understand what they are asking forgiveness for.

you mean it.

and simon cannot stand it.

he cannot stand the sincerity in your voice, the weight of it, the way you look at him like he is something worth kneeling for, something worth mourning.

no one has ever mourned for him before. no one has ever grieved the life he lost, the suffering he endured, the things he was forced to do just to survive. no one has ever looked at him with something so close to sorrow— not for what he could do, not for what he was capable of, but for what had been done to him.

he does not know what to do with it.

he feels unmoored. untethered. like something inside him is breaking open, spilling out into the quiet space between you.

he has spent his entire life enduring, surviving, weathering the blows as they came. he has been beaten, broken, used, discarded, rebuilt only to be used again.

he has never been seen. he has never been given back to himself.

not until you. not until now.

it is too much.

he cannot hold it. he cannot bear it.

before he can think. before he can stop himself— simon reaches forward, fingers trembling, hesitating at your jaw.

you do not move. you do not pull away.

and it is that, that, which finally undoes him. his breath shudders out of him. his fingers tighten, tilting your chin just slightly, just enough.

and then he kisses you. it is not gentle, not careful. it is desperate, raw, frantic, clumsy.

he does not know how to kiss like a lover. he only knows how to take, how to crave, how to need.

his lips part against yours, rough and unpracticed, like he is searching for something in the press of your mouth, something he cannot name, something he does not know how to ask for.

his fingers curl at the base of your skull, tangled in your hair, gripping tight like he is afraid you might vanish between one breath and the next.

his body trembles, breath shuddering.

he does not know how to be held. but gods, he wants it.

you inhale sharply against his mouth. but you do not stop him. you do not pull away. you let him take. you let him fall apart. you let him grieve.

and for the first time in a long, long time— simon does.

( … )

the festival is a night of fire and revelry.

it is the last night before the season shifts, before the long, unforgiving winter settles its weight upon the empire. the people celebrate while they can. they light the streets with lanterns, hang silks from balconies, lose themselves in the illusion of warmth.

it is beautiful. it is loud. it is also dangerous.

because festivals make for easy hunting grounds.

nobles walk without their usual escorts, growing bold in the comfort of the crowd. wealthy merchants drink too much and wander into unfamiliar alleys, where shadows wait with knives. the scent of sweat and perfume thickens the air, masking other, deadlier things: poison. smoke. blood.

assassins thrive on nights like these.

that is why you must be seen. that is why you must be present. the empire is a beast with a thousand eyes, and all of them must see that you still live.

simon watches you dress.

it is an intimate thing, though it should not be. he stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, but his eyes never leave you.

your attendants work in practiced silence, moving with the precision of ritual. they drape silk over your shoulders, smoothing it down with deft hands, tucking folds. the fabric catches the light of the lanterns, the embroidery shimmering as they fasten the clasps. gold and crimson, the colors of the empire, settle against your frame, woven into the very skin of your station.

you do not fidget beneath their touch. you do not squirm, nor sigh in impatience. you were born for this. you have done this your entire life, moved through these motions since you were old enough to stand. you have worn heavier things.

the weight of the robes is nothing compared to the weight of the empire. you carry both without complaint, standing still as jeweled pins are twisted into your hair, as golden chains are draped around your throat. the attendants murmur their approval, stepping back to admire their work, yet you do not glance at them.

you are watching him.

the mirror catches the flicker of your gaze— amusement, mischief, something softer beneath it all. it holds for just a second, a fleeting moment, but simon catches it nevertheless. he always does.

"what do you think, love?"

his breath stirs in his chest.

he has seen you in battle, streaked with dirt and blood, sword gleaming in the dying light. he has seen you slip out of your armor and into silk, the quiet transition from ruler to something softer. he has watched you sleep, head tipped against his shoulder during long rides back to the capital, the tension momentarily stripped from your features. he has seen you at war. he has seen you at peace.

and yet— nothing prepares him for this.

he swallows, throat dry. "you look beautiful, sweetheart."

the words fall easily, instinctive, pulled from some deep part of him that does not know how to lie to you.

your lips curve. "you think so?"

you step closer, erasing the space between you.

simon exhales. he should move. should put distance between you, should remember what you are, what he is. but his hands betray him, twitching at his sides, aching to hold despite the audience.

"anyone who says otherwise is a liar." his voice is rough, the edges frayed.

the gold at your throat glints as you tip your chin, as you step into his shadow.

he could touch you. he could reach forward, brush his fingers over the silk, let them linger at your wrist, trace the curve of your jaw. you would let him. that is the dangerous thing.

but you are the emperor. even if you are his lover in private, you are still the emperor.

and so he forces himself to step back. to clear his throat. to drag his gaze away, though it costs him. "we should go," he murmurs.

your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. then, you nod.

duty calls.

( … )

the balcony stretches wide, a throne above the city, a vantage point to watch an empire bask in the last of the season.

below, the streets churn with life, a restless sea of bodies swaying to the erratic rhythm of drums and drunken laughter. lanterns flicker in the warm dusk, their light reflecting in uneven pools along the slick stone roads, catching the movement of dancers, merchants, thieves— all swept up in the fever of celebration. the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and burning tallow clings to the humid air.

it should feel victorious.

the banners ripple against the night in proud, royal hues. nobles recline in their velvet seats, wine-stained lips curved in indulgent smirks, watching the revelry below with the satisfaction of those who believe themselves untouchable. safe.

simon knows better.

he stands close behind you, his presence like iron at your back. the worn edges of his armor bite into the leather of his gloves as his fingers flex, restless, his weight shifting just slightly, always prepared to move. his head tilts, gaze flicking across the expanse of celebration below, scanning the rooftop lines, the alley mouths, the high windows where a blade could glint, where an arrow could be notched in silence.

kyle is perched higher, a shadow against the marble pillars, his posture loose but his hand firm around his sword hilt. johnny is closer to the emperor’s council, half-drunk on purpose, draped against a column with a lazy, lopsided grin that does nothing to soften the narrow of his eyes.

the empire breathes.

a scream splits the air.

it is not the shriek of drunken joy, nor the playful yelp of a lover chased through the streets.

the celebration stutters, shudders, the music dying in an awkward, broken note. heads turn. bodies press together, shifting, unsure. the ripple of confusion swells, twisting through the crowd like a current.

then— the arrow.

it cuts through the dark, slicing a perfect arc from the rooftops. too perfect. not a warning shot.

"down!"

simon moves, his arm locking around your waist, his hand pressing firm between your shoulder blades as he wrenches you back, turning his body to shield yours. he feels the air shudder past his cheek as the arrow narrowly misses its mark.

it shatters against stone— and then the air explodes.

the hiss is instant, a sharp burst of pressurized gas erupting in a thick, curling vapor. it blooms.

the scent is overwhelming, sticky-sweet and invasive, creeping into fabric, sinking into breath.

he recognizes it immediately. sex pollen. of course.

simon doesn’t stop moving. his palm slams over your mouth and nose, cutting off your inhale before the drug can take root. he grits his teeth against the stench, doing his damndest to keep his inhales to a minimum.

"scatter!" his voice cuts through the chaos.

"what the fuck is that?!" kyle’s voice, sharp with alarm.

"incoming-! rooftops on the east side buildings!" johnny snarls, sprinting to join kyle's position. "they’re fucking everywhere!"

and then the arrows rain down.

the city breaks open.

simon barely has time to pivot, barely has time to shove you behind him before another shot whizzes past, embedding deep into the wooden railing with a dull thunk.

the gas thickens, curling around ankles, clinging to skin. the first victims drop— moaning, writhing.

the other guards hesitate, recoiling as the realization dawns.

"hold your fucking breath!" simon snarls, dragging you back, his grip vise-tight. he looks at kyle, who has his cloak yanked over his face, his sword unsheathed. "can you hold?"

kyle’s grin is nigh feral. “who the fuck do you think i am?”

simon doesn’t ask any more questions.

you sway, your breath hitches. your body shudders, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against his fingers.

"shit."

you go limp.

simon barely catches you before your legs fold, weight crumpling against his chest.

"go!" kyle barks, already shifting to cover. "get them out!"

simon runs.

"ambush!” simon’s voice is seething growl as he storms into your chambers.

the heavy doors slam against the walls, the sound splitting the air like a crack of thunder. a gust of wind rushes through the room from the force of it, stirring the candle flames, making them flicker and stretch like spectral fingers along the gilded walls. the impact rattles the delicate glassware set on the ornate side tables, sends a tremor through the room, an echo of the storm brewing in his chest.

the guards flinch. one jerks a hand toward his sword, another straightens so quickly that his armor clanks. their confusion fractures as they register the weight in simon’s arms.

you.

unconscious. burning up.

"the emperor-"

"-is not dead." the word snap through the air like steel meeting stone. his grip shifts, an unconscious adjustment, his arms instinctively tightening, bracing against your limp weight, feeling the unnatural heat pulsing off your skin. "seal the area- five-meter perimeter. now."

"the healers-"

"out!" johnny’s voice whips through the chamber. "everyone out- now!"

there is a fraction of a second where the guards hesitate, their training at war with the urge to question, to make sense of this. a heartbeat of stunned silence— then a scramble.

a flurry of movement, boots scraping, armor clanking as the soldiers turn on their heels and spill out into the corridor, their earlier confusion hardening into purpose. the doors groan as they swing shut behind them.

blissful silence. only johnny remains.

he stands still, his gaze searching, moving over every inch of simon’s frame, noticing his jaw is clenched too tight, his fingers curled too hard around the fabric of your robes.

then his eyes flick to the air between them.

the scent.

the ghost of it still lingers, clinging to simon’s armor, the walls, the silk of your clothes. it’s a thick, cloying thing, a sickly-sweet undertone curling at the edges of every breath. faint. diluted. but still, unmistakable.

johnny knows.

“are you-” he stops. adjusts. when he speaks again, his voice is more steady. "will you be okay?"

simon doesn’t answer. he doesn’t want to answer. he has spent years forcing himself to be okay.

the muscles in his shoulders lock, his mind an iron grip around the pulse hammering at his throat. he controls his breathing, controls the way he doesn’t react to the way your body presses against him, the way your fevered skin burns through his armor.

"i'm fine." the words scrape past his teeth, flat and sharp, an order as much as a statement.

johnny exhales. his lips press into something almost like understanding.

almost.

but he doesn’t push.

“right,” he mutters, tipping his head toward the door. “i’ll give you space.”

simon lays you down gently when he reaches your bed. his hands do not tremble, but his pulse is hammering. he watches as your body sinks into the silk sheets, the fever in your skin burning bright even against the cool fabric. your breath is shallow, uneven. the fine tremors wracking your frame are small, delicate, but he sees them— feels them— like aftershocks rippling through his bones.

his fingers brush over your wrist, just long enough to feel the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath too-hot skin.

too fast. too weak.

fuck. he should have been faster.

his jaw locks as he adjusts you, shifting your limbs, trying to ease the unconscious tension wound tight in your muscles. he does not let himself feel the heat radiating from you, does not let himself dwell on the fact that your robes have loosened— because of him, because of the struggle, because of how he carried you.

but the sight is there, in the corner of his vision.

your robes, slipping. your breath, shaking. your body, pliant beneath his hands.

he swallows, hard. inhales. exhales. the scent is still there, thick enough to choke on.

it clings to your skin, curls in the air between you, winds its way into his lungs, refuses to let him take a single breath of clean air. he hates it.

his fingers curl into his palm, blunt nails pressing deep into the skin. tight enough to hurt. tight enough to remind himself that he is still here, still in control, still—

you whimper.

simon stops breathing. his gaze snaps to you and he sees you shifting against the sheets, damp with sweat, slipping further from your shoulder, revealing more. offering more. your thighs press together in a slow, restless motion, and the sight of it sets his veins on fire, makes him want to—

no. not now. not like this.

he tears his eyes away, turns sharply, moves toward the washbasin, his steps too forced. the pitcher clatters against the bowl, the sound too loud.

he grips the cloth too hard. wrings it out too forcefully. watches as water spatters onto the floor, the droplets lost in the ragged sound of your breath behind him.

"simon-" his name falls from your lips, small, raw with something he cannot name.

his.

you.

his.

he turns. he shouldn’t but he does and his hands are on you before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself from giving you what you’re asking for. before he can stop himself from holding you the way you need to be held.

his fingers brush over your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw, the heat beneath your skin burning into him, sinking deep. you shudder at the touch, a quiet, desperate noise slipping past your lips, your body arching ever so slightly into his palm.

you have always been beautiful. but like this— like this, caught in the golden glow of the lantern light, lashes fluttering, lips parted, your breath shallow and uneven— you are devastating.

and it is killing him.

your hands find him, weak and uncoordinated as they are, desperate in their seeking. you clutch at his robes, clinging to him like a lifeline. like he is the only thing anchoring you to the world, the only thing keeping you from slipping into the fever that is devouring you whole.

"simon- everything hurts-"

and he knows. he knows.

his arms tighten around you, his body a wall between you and the suffering threatening to consume you. his lips brush against your temple. "i’ve got you."

and he does.

because he is your guard.

because you are his emperor.

because he has loved you for years, has worshipped at your feet, has devoted himself to you in ways that go beyond duty, beyond reason, beyond anything he has ever known.

because he has no choice. because he would burn the world to the ground before he lets you suffer.

because there is no one else.

the fever is a living thing, burrowing deep, wrapping around your spine, clawing through your veins. you can’t think past it, can’t breathe past it, can’t do anything but tremble beneath the weight of it— beneath him.

simon is blistering against you. sweat beads at his hairline, slicks his chest, makes the muscles in his arms gleam under the dim light. he smells like salt, like heat, like skin rubbed raw. his pulse thrums in his throat, in the thick lines of his forearms where veins stand taut beneath flushed skin, in the solid weight of him pressing against you, pinning you down, keeping you from slipping away into the haze.

your fingers twitch where they claw at his biceps, barely able to grip. you’re shaking, muscles locked tight, spine arched, your thighs trembling where they spread open beneath him.

he notices. of course, he notices.

his hand drags up your side, slow, deliberate, feeling every inch of you. when he reaches your chest, he presses his palm there, right over your sternum, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of your heart.

he groans.

"fuck," he mutters, breath shuddering out of him.

his forehead knocks against yours, damp skin on damp skin, his nose brushing yours, mouth parted against your cheek. you can feel his breath, feel the ragged shake of it, the way it stutters when his cock twitches against you.

he wants.

so do you.

you choke out something wrecked, something that isn’t even a word, just a sound— high and thin and pleading.

his jaw goes tight. his fingers flex against your chest, the other hand anchoring itself to your hip, gripping firm, holding you steady.

"breathe," he rasps.

you try. you fail.

his cock drags against your hole, the head catching, nudging, pressing— but not sinking in. not yet.

you whine, twitching beneath him, muscles jerking, nails digging into his arms.

simon’s breath stutters.

"shit," he mutters, voice frayed, breaking apart. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, his whole body coiled.

you reach for him— sliding trembling hands up, over the broad slope of his shoulders, the thick column of his neck. your fingers curl there, feeling his throat works, swallowing hard, pulse pounding against your fingertips.

he’s barely hanging on.

you can break him.

"please," you whisper, soft.

his restraint shatters.

his hips surge forward. his cock sinks in, thick and hot, stretching you wide.

you cry out.

his hand clamps over your mouth. "quiet," he hisses, his own voice barely above a rasp. his breath shakes, his whole body trembles.

his cock throbs deep inside you. you can feel every inch of him, every pulse, every twitch. he holds still, his hand pressed tight to your mouth, his forehead still resting against yours, panting.

"fuckin’ hell.”

his rhythm crumbles. thrusts turn wild, erratic, slamming too hard, dragging too slow. he groans, forehead pressed against yours, breath pouring over your lips, damp and shaking.

"fuck," he grits out, voice breaking. his jaw clenches, his whole body shuddering. "you're-"

he doesn't finish. just moves, just takes.

his hands clutch at your hips, fingers bruising, digging in like he needs to feel every inch of you, like he needs to own it, like he’s terrified you’ll slip away if he lets up even for a second. but you don’t slip away. you pull him in.

"si," you gasp, voice shredded. "more-"

he hisses through his teeth, hips snapping forward, cock sinking deep. a shudder rolls through him, his whole body locking up for a second.

his thumb strokes over your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing the wet heat of your tongue. he watches, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the color.

"fuckin’ love this mouth," he mutters, slurred. "love how you-"

you cut him off, dragging his thumb in deeper, sucking. his breath stutters.

"christ," he groans.

his hips stutter too, cock pulsing inside you. he drags his thumb free, watches the wet shine of it, then slides it down, presses against where you're stretched around him, feels the way your body grips him tight.

"you feel that?" he grinds in, slow and cruel, lets you feel every inch of him. "feel how fuckin’ deep i am?"

your head kicks back, breath breaking apart.

"yeah," he rasps, voice dropping. "fuckin'- yeah, you do."

his hand snakes up, finds your throat, fingers curling around it, not squeezing, just holding. just feeling your pulse jackhammers against his touch.

"si," you gasp, hands scrambling over his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.

"yeah," he mutters. "know, baby, know."

he drives in deep, grinds his hips, feels your whole body trembles around him. your muscles lock up, your back bows, a sound rips from your throat— wrecked, helpless.

he groans, hips moving faster, harder, cock dragging in and out, every stroke hitting deep, every thrust pushing you higher.

"gonna come?" his grip tightens, hand on your throat, holding you still.

"please," you gasp.

his body shudders. a sharp breath leaves him, like the sound alone is too much, like hearing you beg is about to ruin him.

"then fuckin’-" his voice catches, breaks. his hips snap forward, slamming in, grinding. "-fuckin’ do it."

and you do.

it doesn’t creep up on you. doesn’t build slow. it crashes.

the pressure snaps like a wire pulled too tight, heat igniting in your spine, exploding outward, everything pulling tight, then breaking apart, shattering you from the inside out. the world vanishes. sound cuts out. your body locks up so hard you can’t even breathe.

your muscles spasm around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. your thighs tremble. your fingers claw at his back, at his arms, at anything you can reach. your lips part on a cry but nothing comes out— just raw pleasure, a wrecked thing too big to hold in.

his breath shudders, chest caving in against yours, every muscle in his body strung tight.

"fuck, fuck," he chokes, almost a whimper.

his hips snap forward, frantic, a few more sloppy thrusts before he breaks. his whole body seizes up, cock throbbing deep inside you, heat spilling hot and thick, filling you up. he groans against your skin, hips jerking, grinding through it, holding you open for him, pushing in as deep as he can go.

he trembles. his forehead presses into your shoulder, his hands shake where they clutch at your body, holding you there, grounding himself in the feel of you.

his breath is ragged.

his chest heaves.

his arms stay locked around you, keeping you pressed close, keeping you his.

and he still doesn’t pull out.

[lady-lauren]

❥ ENJI TODOROKI X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 1.7k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: stuckage (aka you get stuck and fucked), major dub-con, some ass play, spitting (on your ass), degradation, creampie, Enji is dirty and mean and he's really not sorry for it

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

The sink of spandex between your thighs reminds him of why you are such a vexation. Fabric stretches across the mound of your cunt as you struggle, a perfect contour of what lies just out of reach.

“Finally found something you can’t escape, hm?” 

Enji hears your scoff echo across the panes of the air duct, elbows pinging the metal as you try to shift your weight. 

You won’t slip away. Not this time. 

“Pull me out,” your hips arch and shake with your demand. 

The hero claws inside his chest, your plea reaching his sensibilities. But the curve of your thick, open legs strokes a more sinister flame in the pit of his stomach.

“Where’s the fun in that? I’ve chased you for long enough.” He deserves a reward.

For a cat burglar, he expected you to be more clever. Yet here you are, stuck at the waist in the old factory’s ventilation, in a hole your thighs were never going to breach no matter how much you struggled.

Now he gets to be the judge and jury of your punishment. 

“Almost like you wanted to be caught,” he muses to himself as he finally gives in to the itch to sink his fingers into the fat of your ass. 

Your gasp sounds like the hiss of air down the duct, shrill and quick. You’re not a naive villain—you know what’s coming. 

Blunt nails scrape against your costume, black threads splitting with just a fraction of the force he can give. 

Your skin spreads into view like a ripe fruit being peeled. Sweet flesh is already dripping as he snaps away the spandex over your cunt, a thrill sparking in his cock at the sight of your pussy lips opening as you wiggle yourself in his hold.

“Oh you fucking pervert! Let me go!”

He could. He should. He won’t.

Intentions are made clear when his massive hand cups your cunt, thumb rubbing over your asshole as he grips your body, shoving you tighter into your trap.

You grunt and groan, shoulders thumping against metal. You seem to be testing your flexibility in a guise to rub yourself back against the palm of his hand. Your wetness smears against his skin, labia spreading against callouses. 

He presses his hand until he finds the swell of your clit. A muffled moan makes him rub hard, hard enough to have a muscle in your thigh clenching and shaking. 

Grinning, he spits a string of saliva to drip down onto your ass, moving his thumb just enough to catch the lubrication and smother it against your puckered hole. He dips his thick digit into your ass and delights at how you buck back against him.

“You’re a better whore than a thief.” 

There’s no denial, just short moans against metal at each thrust of his thumb into your ass. He twists the digit in your tight cavern, moving his fingers away from your cunt so he can watch your pussy clench in anticipation of more. 

You’re a prettier sight than he imagined, already messy, body begging for his touch. He’s had many frustrated nights fisting his dick to dreams of catching you.

Enji toys with you just long enough to get his cock fully hard and aching.

You whine as he pulls away, hips pushing back like you’re searching for him, desperate and needy. 

He keeps quiet as he unbuckles his suit, wrapping his cock in his hand and pumping, squeezing his fingers around the base of his cockhead. 

Taking advantage of you shouldn’t turn him on so much, yet his balls feel heavy as he watches you panic, unable to see the world behind you.

Your head clinks against the air duct, your trapped hands slapping against the bottom.

“En…Endeavor? Please. Please don’t leave me like this.”

He hates that he won’t be able to see the look in your eyes when he fucks you, but it’s too much of a risk to let you free. You’ll slip away like every time before.

You purr with comfort when he grips your ass, pulling at the fat until your pussy is spread to hungry, flaming eyes. 

He bursts your relief by prodding his cock into your wetness. Your cunt clenches at the feel of him and he can practically smell your fear. 

“I’m not going anywhere, little whore.”

It takes a few purposeful thrusts to get his thick cock to push inside you, your cunt stretching and burning at his intrusion. He doesn’t care to hurt you, mean hands wrapping around your thighs and using your weight to pull your pussy down his cock.

He doesn’t want you ready, he wants to feel your struggle, feel the tightness of your pussy as he punishes you. 

Whimpering as he finally gets his length inside you, you grind back against him. He can’t tell if you’re trying to push him out or pull him in. 

It doesn’t matter what you want; what matters is what you can give him. 

Your pussy starts to gush as he begins his pace—quick, deep, balls slapping against your clit. 

Enji’s fascinated by the sight of your wet flesh dragging along his length, sucking so securely it’s like you’re afraid he’s going to leave again. 

“I’ve got you,” he sneers in some twisted sense of heroism.

Your reply moan is bubbly, as if you’ve resigned yourself to take whatever you can get.

He pulls your hips up, squishing your body to the top of the air duct as he gets into the heat of his stride. He’s blinded by the pleasure of your warm, went cunt, lost to the primal urge to take, to use. 

It’s too easy to abuse you. So small, so exposed. You’re putty in his hands as he spreads you apart even wider, shreds of fabric shuddering against the bounce of your ass.

You sound like an animal trapped in the wall, yelping and cooing all the same as his fat cockhead bullies into your depths.

“You like being a cocksleeve,” he grunts, “your cunt’s so fucking wet.” 

Cream is building at his base, smearing into red curls. Your stomach flutters at his words and he realizes he can feel himself in your core. 

He could break you if he isn’t careful. 

Yet he doesn’t slow down, barely breaking a sweat as he pushes harder, faster, jaw clenching as he chases his high. 

He drops one of your thighs, pulling the other higher around his waist as he pounds a fist into the brick wall. The new leverage has your body slipping farther down the chute, trapping you more snugly.

“P-please,” you pant, nails scraping against the metal prison, “I c-can’t take it…”

“Don’t fucking care. You’re cunt’s mine.” 

Your ass ripples as his muscular thighs slap against yours, slick dripping into the rips of your costume.

“Such a stupid little girl. This is what happens when you, ah, run from me.” 

He can’t hear any response over the wet slap of skin against skin, the slurp of your greedy cunt.

Putting his hips flush to yours, he grinds into your cunt, so deep he knows it hurts. 

His hand scrapes up your thigh, big fingers searching for your clit. When his index finger swirls against your swollen bud, you scream, the sound reverberating like a confession in your trap. 

Enji presses his forehead to the wall, eyes closing as he feels hot pleasure starting to build in his balls, twitching in his cock. 

“Go on,” he pinches your clit between his fat fingers, “cum, cum little whore.”

Your body starts to shake as you whimper, thighs quivering as you lose control. He rubs two fingers against your clit as he pushes harder into you, motions getting sloppy.

Enji grunts, “I said cum, fucking cum.”

He slams into you so roughly that he hears the air duct creak from his pressure. He puts his focus into filling you, stretching you, letting you feel his cockhead spear against the abused, gummy spots inside your cunt. 

Your orgasm is rough, sputtering, slick gushing against where he invades the tight suck of your pussy. You thrash against his hold and whine like a bitch in heat, rolls and smashes of pleasure fissuring down every nerve, making your legs kick.

Against every lingering heroic instinct, Endeavor lets himself fill your guts with his cum. 

He feels like a volcanic eruption, spewing flames from his skin and molten cum from his balls. You keep him sucked tight as he unloads, cum spilling from the tight squeeze and down your thighs. 

His chest heaves with deep breaths, blue eyes opening to stare down at the havoc he’s wrecked. 

Your poor body is limp, lodged around his impaling cock. Sweat, cum, and slick drip down your thighs, his fingerprints bruised into your skin. Your costume has come apart even more, peeling down your legs like he’s ripped you apart. 

He wonders for a moment if you’ve suffocated; if he’s fucked you to death. 

After a few moments, you stir, one weak hand knocking against the air duct.

“For the love of god…” you choke. 

Heating the metal just enough to make it malleable, he bends the air duct away from your sweaty, shaking body. Then he tugs you without care, letting you fall onto the floor before his feet.

“Suck me clean.” 

A dumb girl would’ve run on shaky, messy legs. But like the smart girl you are, you get on your knees and pop his heavy cock between your lips. 

He smirks at the mess of makeup on your face as you look up at him, tongue flat as you lick his cum from underneath his shaft. 

Enji grips the hair on the back of your head, shoving your face down to his balls for you to suck the mess you’ve made. 

“Not gonna run again, are you?” 

“I might,” your moan vibrates against oversensitive skin, “if it means I get your cock again.”

[vanillarosekiss]

rough sex with simon

♡ p!link ♡

warnings: smut, lack of foreplay (smh simon), breeding kink, simon being a little rough and relentless but super sweet to you throughout! (Is this really gross i cannot tell??)

word count: 0.6k

There were times where Simon and you would make love to each other - sweet and soft and oh so heavenly, it was almost ethereal. And there were times where you fucked with so much anger or passionate frustration that you felt dirty, but it was sort of exhilarating when you did.

This time, Simon had come home from a long day of shouting orders at incompetent subordinates and dealing with unruly new recruits, and he wasn't in any good mood. You could tell because of how tense he'd been all evening, even when you curled up next to him on the sofa after you'd both eaten. That was new for him, he would usually be all over you, showering you with kisses or sweet compliments, asking how your day had been.

Knowing how he was, you decided to try cheering him up by going to your bedroom and putting on a cute lingerie set, his favourite. All lacy and pink and delicate - the complete opposite of what he was. He liked how different you were, it separated his work from his home. But he was undeniably frustrated that particular evening, not saying so much as a "s'pretty" before ripping it off you, thread snapping and lace breaking apart in strings of blush.

"Simon! I really liked that set." you said, pouting your lips as he gently pushed you flat on your back onto the bed.

"I'll buy you another one, baby." he reassured you, undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers. You laid back, watching him as he did this, not scared but cautious of how rough he'd be if he was frustrated from work.

He didn't bother prepping you at all like he usually did, just making you squirm by rubbing his tip against your core and up to your clit until you were soaked enough to let him in. Without any hesitation, he pushed into you, all the way, making you arch your back and moan in a mix of pain and pleasure. His thrusts were uncomfortable at first; you tried to readjust your position but he held you down so you couldn't move around at all. He eased off a little when the tears started to roll down your cheeks, more out of ecstasy than pain now, as he drilled into you.

The sounds you were making were borderline pornographic, and so were the repetitive sounds of his hips meeting the plush of your ass. He pushed your thighs down towards your chest to angle better into your hole, hitting a spot deep in you that made you whine and close your eyes.

"Pretty little angel. Look how good you are at taking me yeah?" He cooed to you as he grabbed your hair and lifted your head up, forcing you to watch as his cock slid in and out of you with ease. You moaned at the erotic sight, being fucked too dumb for words.

"So tight for me baby." He grunted a little, changing up his pace and keeping your head held up.

"Gonna fill you up until you're a gorgeous leaking mess." Simon could feel you tightening around him as he said this, going deeper into you with each thrust now. You were a whining, whimpering mess by the time he had finished in you, breathless and hot. He made you watch as he pulled out, his cum erupting from inside you and dripping down onto the tip of his cock, before he pushed it back into you.

"M'sorry if I was too hard on you sweets." He apologised and kissed you lovingly on your forehead.

"Just too pretty and soft f'me. Need to keep you nice and fucked out all the time hmm?"

Tag list 𖠋: @punkkture @slut-lmao @sebastianstans-slut @ilikeoldmen @g1rlfa1lure0 @queenoflaflames @tmartin0918 @kkloubee @goldie-221 @patricksoulmate @writingandsins @mxnee777 @caro-line19  @decaffeinateddelusionbread @lovidovii @xoxoxoaspen @i-ship-stony-and-superfamily @simonrileysdarling @siphon07 @figthoughts

[lamb-teaa]

` Little Miracles!

` pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

` tags: fluff! fluff! fluff! late-Christmas fluff! short ficlet. marriage life, your honor. soft husband Sylus.

` teaa's note: laaate but heck at least i finally got this outta my brainrot! mewrry late-Christmas everyone!

You were up to something.

Sylus could immediately sense the moment he arrived home from his usual dealings. The twinkle in your eyes, the beaming giddy smile gracing your lips and the way you were practically bouncing on your feet when you pulled him towards the living room couch.

He raised a brow when he noticed you were hiding something behind your back, an amused smile twitched at the corner of his lips. "Hmm? What is it, sweetie?"

You eagerly placed a small gift box in front of him, your heart racing in anticipation and excitement as you gave his hand a light squeeze. “Christmas present for you.”

Sylus eyes the small sized red box tied with a string of blue ribbon, smiling softly, “Didn’t we agree not to give presents for Christmas? You’re already the best present I have in my life.”

A lovely blush adorned on your cheeks as you playfully booped him on the nose. "Ah my darling, a charmer as always, buuut this gift is something I can't not give you."

"Is that so." Sylus chuckled in amusement, now curious about the content inside the box. But then he noticed something perched upon a tall stand by the wide living room TV.

“..Why is the camera there?”

“It's for a memento.”

“Sweetie, if this is some kind of a prank I’ll-“

“Just open it!”

Sylus shot you an deadpan stare, torn between demanding a direct answer from you or indulge in your little fun. But there was something in your gaze that made him pause, the mixture of hope and worry shone in your eyes before Sylus finally decided to give in as he drifted his attention to the small gift box on his lap.

Slowly and carefully, Sylus pulled off the ribbon. Shaking the box slightly when he realized how light it felt and making sure you didn't put some kind of, well, something inside to spook him or anything - the cautious sight of him earned a slight annoyed eye roll from you despite the smile still present on your lips.

Opening the lid, he found himself looking at a small piece of black and white photo. Confusion etched on his expression when he examined it closer but then froze when he realized what it was.

A sonogram.

With a small handwritten note scribbled beneath the image.

‘You’re going to be a daddy!’

Sylus's head snapped towards you in an instant, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your still flat stomach, his hand slightly trembling as he held the sonogram.

“Are you sure?” His voice came out shaky, his eyes locked into yours as his heart raced with pure elation and hope.

You felt your cheeks hurt from smiling too much. Your husband’s reaction was too adorable and you were glad you had the camera set up early to capture this joyful moment. You chuckled and nodded cheerfully, cradling his cheeks into your hands, “Yes Sy, I took three tests this morning before confirming it through checkup with a doctor."

Sylus abruptly stood up, eyes still wide as saucers, “Are you really really sure?”

“I’m positive!”

Your squealed echoed throughout the living room when he picked you up and began spinning you around in his arms, his face buried against your neck, his voice came out in an awed whispered. "You're pregnant.."

Sylus carefully set you back on your two feet, surprising you when he suddenly kneeled down in front of you, his calloused hands holding your waist gently as he nuzzled his face against your stomach, his voice loving and tender as he whispered. "You're pregnant.. With my baby.. Our baby.."

Your heart warmth from the gesture, your fingers threading through his hair as you gently lifted his face up to look at you. An excited and amused giggle escaping your lips as you decided to correct him on something. "Babies actually, darling."

Sylus blinked, puzzled. "Huh?"

You let out another gleeful giggle, before tugging him once more to sit on the couch. Holding the sonogram up close to him as you began pointing to the three small gestational sac on the grainy picture.

"Look closer. There's baby A, baby B-"

Sylus nearly toppled over at your words. "Wait, what?"

"-And baby C!" You finished with a beaming smile, enjoying the shocked and flabbergasted expression on Sylus's face.

It's not often you get to see the big bad leader of Onychinus get caught off guard like this so you were thrilled to witness it yourself by announcing your first pregnancy.

Mission success~!

Sylus was rendered speechless, his mouth slightly agape as he observed the sonogram much longer, now finally noticing the three little bundle and realization hit him in an instant. "You're carrying three...?"

"Triplets, my loveable darling. Yes." You grinned, ruffling his hair to snap him out of his stunned stupor. "Our three little miracles on Christmas day."

Three little miracles.

Three bundle of joy.

Three times the love.

Placing the sonogram aside, he summoned his Evol, the black red mist wrapping around your figure as it very gently levitated you slightly in the air, causing you to let out a small squeak of surprise, before placing you to sit on his lap. His strong arms immediately circled around your waist, his face resting on top of your chest as he let out a soft happy chuckle.

"Thank you." His deep voice whispered in earnest, his hold around you tightened at the thought of you carrying his children, his eyes fluttering close to suppress the tears threatened to spill out. “Thank you for this wonderful gift."

Sylus embraced you tightly, lifting his face to gaze into yours, his eyes full of affection and warmth before capturing your lips in a sweet tender kiss that had you melting in his arms. "I love you, sweetie.”

You smiled against his lips, your arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him closer, deepening the kiss as both your hearts raced in sync from the overwhelming emotions. “Love you more, Sy.”

Lost in their love and warmth, the camera continued rolling, capturing the heartfelt moments between the two soon-to-be parents on the wonderful winter night.

[mariasont]

i loved lipgloss!!! i was wondering if i could pls request smth where spencer walks in the BAU unaware of the lipgloss on his lips from kissing bimbo!receptionist or on his cheeks from being kissed then everyone's like "👀☝️🤨" (english isnt my first language im sorry😭)

STICKY SITUATIONS - S.R

a/n: back with the lipstick trope yeehaw, can't tell you all how much i appreicate u all and how patient u guys are with me when i ghost for like 5 months at a time. thank you so much for the request sug <3

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader

warnings: spencer daydreaming about inappropriate things! PDA!

wc: 1.1k

Spencer woke up feeling untouchable, like nothing in the world could shake him. The kind of invincible where even the sky didn't seem like a limit. You had stayed the night, as you often did, and yet every time he woke up with you beside him, it felt like walking on air. Today was no exception.

You made sure he was late today — both of you were. He blamed you entirely, though he didn't mind. You pinned him down with a thousand little kisses, laughing as you insisted that it's essential for a day filled with good luck, and how else was he going to catch all the bad guys without a little charm from you?

Spencer's body vibrated like it was attuned to some invisible, higher frequency, one you alone could set. The smile threatening to break free felt inevitable, like a law of nature, as his mind drifted to thoughts of you — so unavoidable it was as if trying to pinpoint an electron's exact position and momentum in time. 

He had half a mind to swing by the reception desk just to see you. Just for a second. He'd convince himself it was enough, even though it never really was. Today, however, there was no chance he'd make it to his meeting. Not when you were wearing that skirt — his favorite. The one that fit you like it had been hand-stitched by hand for you alone, showing off your thighs in a way that made him picture them around his —

“Reid, you're —,” Hotch's voice snapped him back into reality, his brows down turning as he regarded Spencer with a curious frown before shaking his head. “Late. C'mon.”

Spencer followed Hotch into the conference room, their entrance as routine as ever, or so he assumed. But the moment they stepped inside, something shifted. The room crackled with stifled laughter, a ripple of poorly contained snickers breaking out across the team.

He froze mid-step, confusion knitting his brow as he scanned the room. His gaze flitted from face to face, trying to uncover the source of their amusement. The laughter, he realized with growing bewilderment, was somehow aimed squarely at him.

His pulse quickened as self-awareness kicked in, and his eyes darted downward, trying to detect the anomaly that had captured everyone's damn attention. A loose thread? A stain? Panic bloomed in his chest as he mentally ticked through a list of possibilities. His sweater seemed intact, no wayward strings. His pants were fine, no errant coffee stains or wrinkles. And his hair — well, his hair always had a mind of its own, but it wasn't that unruly today. Right?

Bastards.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, what did I miss?”

Emily tried, and failed, to smother her laughter behind a closed hand, shaking her head. “I think you might need to go to look in the mirror, lover boy.”

Spencer didn't bother questioning her. No explanation would be offered, at least not freely. He knew he'd get no real answers from this group, and honestly, he wasn't even sure he wanted them at this point. Instead, he slipped out of the conference room and headed down the hall, his mind a muddled tangle of confusion.

He was so distracted, so consumed with trying to figure out what he'd missed, that he nearly missed the sound of quick, approaching footsteps. It was only at the last second that he looked up, just in time for you to collide with him.

His hands moved instinctively, catching your waist as you stumbled forward, stopping you from toppling over.

Spencer's breath caught. Gods know if you'd fallen in those heels, you'd be lucky to escape with just a sprained ankle. But you didn't fall. Instead, you let out a startled giggle as you looked up at him wide-eyed.

“Whoopsie,” you said with a smile. “Hi there, handsome.”

The instant the words left your lips, you clamped a hand over your mouth, fighting back a high-pitched squeal of laughter.

Spencer, even more bewildered, furrowed his brows in confusion. “Okay, what?”

“Hold still,” you instructed, though your voice wavered between stifled giggles. You reached up for him, your fingertips hovering near his face.

He followed your hand with his eyes, still clueless, until you gently cupped his cheek. Whatever it was on his skin drew another wave of laughter from you, and in response, he prodded at your sides, each poke sending you into another fit of delighted squeals.

“Hey, that's not holding still, Dr.!” you gasped, halfheartedly swatting at his hands while you finished wiping away the last bit of whatever had clung to his face.

“Whoopsie daisy,” you said again, still brushing invisible flecks from his cheek, your voice reminding him of what he envisioned sunshine poured into a teacup would manifest as. “Aw, Spence, looks like I kinda-sorta-maybe left a tiny little lipstick stain behind.”

Your tone was drenched in honeyed innocence, as if this kind of thing just happened and you had no earthly clue how.

Spencer's eyes narrowed. “Is that why I've been subjected to my team's thinly veiled harassment?”

Your eyes went wide, and you gasped as if you'd just witnessed a high crime. “They were giving you trouble? Oh my gosh!”You pressed your fingertips to your lips. “Do I need to have a word with them?”

The determination in your voice sounded all too serious, and he was a little scared that you were actually prepared to march back to that conference room in your pretty heels and give the entire BAU a piece of your mind.

Spencer nearly chocked on a laugh. Of all possible reactions, yours was the sweetest, most fiercely protective, and downright hilarious. He held up a hand in a placating gesture, lips curving into a boyish grin. 

“Hmm, I appreciate the offer,” he murmured, gently tapping his chin with a finger as if considering it. “However, I think you might need to have a word with the real culprit who decided my face should double as her personal canvas this morning.”

“Me?” You pressed a hand dramatically to your heart. “I would never! I mean, sure, I might've given you a million good-luck kisses before you left, and maybe one or two... or three of my lip gloss stains decided to stick around, but that's hardly my fault!”

You shifted your weight to the balls of your feet and wiggled your fingers in a helpless sort of gesture. “That's just how good my gloss is, y'know?”

“Right,” he replied, voice quieter now, eyes warm as they traced your face. “Clearly the lip gloss is at fault. We'll have to issue it a stern warning later.”

“Exactly! Don't blame poor, innocent me.”You paused, lowering your voice conspiratorially, leaning close enough that he caught the faint scent of your perfume. “And if any of the team give you grief again, you know where to find me!”

Spencer hummed, placing a light hand on the small of your back, steering you gently away from the corridor.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he murmured, smiling as if the world had just aligned perfectly in that very hallway. “But for now, maybe we should try to make sure I get back to my meeting... gloss-free.”

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @r-3dlips @m-indkiller @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @reiderrambles @averyhotchner @hbwrelic @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @doigettokeepyou @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @c-losur3 @theylovemelody @alahnizamolo @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @spiderladyleah @estragos @khxna @spencerssoup @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72

join my taglist here!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which people assume what they don’t know

The sun clung to the edges of the day, dripping gold down the walls of the Malibu rental like it was trying to stay just a little longer. The pool glistened, untouched for now, calm and glassy. Paige had already posted the photo by the time you emerged from the kitchen with a coconut clutched in one hand, its pink straw slightly tilted, a wedge of lime sliding slowly toward the rim. You hadn’t known she’d taken it—not really. She’d been sprawled out on the lounger in her oversized Wings tee and basketball shorts, halfway between sunbathing and napping. But apparently, sometime in the last hour, she’d raised her phone just high enough to snap a picture with you in the background, just enough distance between you and the camera to look untouchable.

You were leaning against the pool ledge in that shot, sunglasses on, mouth parted, face tilted toward the light. Hair slightly damp. Black bikini top tied at the shoulders. There was nothing overt about it. No posing, no filter, no carefully arched spine or coy glance over the shoulder. You were just… there. Radiant in a way that didn’t ask for attention but collected it anyway.

Paige posted it like it was nothing. Just another off-day in California. Just her and her girlfriend doing what they always did between travel and games and press, soaking in a moment, clinging to ordinary. It wasn’t ordinary to them.

The comments came fast, and then they came cruel.

“She def got an OF link in bio ” “LMAO who’s the pornstar Paige is dating?” “No hate but she kinda looks like she sells fit teas and takes thirst traps for rent.” “Tell her to turn around next time.” “I’ve definitely seen her before… ” “She’s TOO hot to be just a random. Link please??”

You hadn’t even noticed until later that night. Paige had fallen asleep early, curled into your side, the soft ache of an afternoon swim having tugged her eyelids closed while you were reading. Her breathing was slow. Her hand, always searching for contact even in sleep, had found the hem of your shirt and slipped beneath it. A grounding kind of possessiveness.

Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A third time. A string of notifications from apps you never really used. Mentions. DMs. Tagged stories. Twitter threads. Reddit screenshots. Someone had slowed down your laugh in a video from Paige’s story and compared it to a clip from a cam site. You weren’t on the site. But the internet didn’t seem to care. They weren’t really looking for truth. They were looking for confirmation of their assumptions.

You scrolled in silence for a long time. Paige stirred once, shifted, buried her face in your neck. She didn’t wake up.

You could’ve posted something right then. A denial. A correction. A humble brag, even. You could’ve flexed your Ivy League diploma, dropped your patents, posted that photo with the Vice President from the clean energy summit last spring. But what would’ve been the point? The people guessing didn’t care if it was true. They didn’t want your story. They wanted a fantasy they could poke holes in.

And some part of you—a small, sharp part that you’d buried under silk and discipline—liked that they didn’t know. Liked that they couldn’t imagine you as anything other than beautiful and blank. Let them misunderstand you. Let them spin circles around a silhouette they’d never catch up to. You’d always lived behind the curtain anyway. It was better this way. Quieter.

You turned your phone over and slid it off the bed.

Across your chest, Paige exhaled and whispered something unintelligible in her sleep. Her body folded into yours like a promise.

You’d tell her in the morning. Or maybe not. Maybe you’d wait until it got worse. You knew it would. Everything did once the world decided it wanted to know you.

It hadn’t always been this way. There was a time when people saw you for who you were. Or at least tried to.

You met Paige two years ago, and she hadn’t recognized you.

It was a Nike-sponsored thing in New York. Athletes, influencers, vague celebrities all crammed into a downtown loft with too much light and not enough air. You’d almost backed out. You were in town for a conference and had been dragged there by a friend who swore the food would be worth it. It wasn’t.

Paige was in a corner by the exposed brick wall, picking at a piece of flatbread and looking vaguely traumatized by the DJ’s remix of an already overplayed song. You hadn’t watched much college basketball. You were barely on social media. You just saw a girl who looked like she needed a rescue.

You handed her a glass of sparkling water, mostly because it gave you something to do with your hands. She blinked at you, surprised. “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was lower than you expected. Steady.

You nodded and almost left. But then she tilted her head, gave you that soft, unreadable look she does—the one like she’s trying to memorize something without letting anyone else know—and said, “Are you famous?”

You’d laughed. “No. Just rich.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she grinned. “Fair.”

It was the first time in three years someone had asked without already knowing. 

And maybe that’s why you stayed.

Maybe that’s why, even now, with your name face and your body dissected by people who’d never spell your last name right, you still hadn’t said a word. You weren’t hiding. You were waiting.

Waiting to see if Paige would stand still in the storm.

Or if she’d hold your hand through it.

It didn’t take long for the narrative to spiral. By the end of the week, there were entire TikTok accounts dedicated to you—slideshows of blurry screenshots, slowed-down clips from Wings games where someone thought they spotted you in the background, Discord servers full of internet detectives trying to piece together your identity. They mapped the stitching on your handbag. Claimed to trace your earrings to a custom jeweler in Paris. One video, with over three million views, confidently declared, “This girl is either the daughter of a Saudi billionaire or has an OnlyFans that pulls six figures a month.”

There was something both absurd and tragic about it. They needed you to fit into a box. And when they couldn’t, they just made one up.

You’d never been a mystery in your own life. Your name—on paper—was public record. Your companies were incorporated. Your board seats were listed. But you didn’t give interviews. You never posed for features. The only time your face had made the news was in a blurred corner of a shareholder event, and even then, they’d cropped you out. You’d built your world on silence and clean lines. And now, the messiness of fame was seeping in through cracks you didn’t even know you’d left open.

Paige didn’t say much. At first, she joked about it—sent you TikToks with increasingly deranged theories and typed out her laughter in all caps with too many crying emojis. “You’re trending,” she texted once during practice, attaching a screenshot of someone calling you “a glorified sugar baby.” You responded with a meme. It was easier that way.

But beneath the jokes, there was a tightness around her eyes. You caught it when she thought you weren’t looking. You heard it in the edge of her voice when she read the word “gold digger” out loud in an article that speculated whether you were funding your lifestyle through her rookie contract.

The internet didn’t care that you lived in the penthouse. They didn’t care that the Cartier watch on your wrist had been a graduation gift from a board you chaired. They just saw her—soft spoken, loved, powerful—and you, sharp and stunning in a way that felt too curated to be accidental.

Too good to be normal. Too good to be real.

The team found it hilarious.

In the Wings locker room, Arike passed around a meme of you with the caption, “This Paige’s girlfriend. She could be at brunch. But she stealing yo fans instead.” DiJonai snorted so hard she almost choked on a protein bar. Azzi, visiting from Connecticut, just said, “Honestly? It tracks.”

Paige laughed too, but not all the way. She glanced at her phone, at the muted home screen photo of the two of you standing barefoot in your kitchen, tangled in flour and sunlight, and said, “They really don’t get her at all.”

None of them did. Not really. They knew you as “that girl Paige is always texting.” A couple of them had met you once or twice. But they didn’t know how still you got in the mornings, how you drank your coffee half cold because you got distracted reading policy reports. They didn’t know about your lists—handwritten, always—where you tracked every dollar donated to rural solar initiatives. They didn’t know about the callouses on your hands from old tools you refused to stop using, or the way you cried silently when a start up you mentored went under.

They didn’t know you the way Paige did.

And Paige didn’t need you to prove anything. Not to them. Not to the internet.

But still, one night, after a game, after another flood of tweets dissecting the slope of your back in a paparazzi shot, she sat across from you on the couch and said, “You know you don’t have to let them say that shit.”

You looked up from your laptop. “It’s just noise.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Until it’s not.”

Her eyes were tired. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She looked like she wanted to fight someone. It made your chest ache.

You closed the screen. “I don’t want to feed it.”

Paige leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice low. “Babe… I can take it. I’m used to it. But you? This isn’t your world.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s not about what I can take. It’s about what I want to give.” You paused. “I didn’t get here by explaining myself to people who doubted me. I won’t start now.”

Her grip tightened. She nodded. But the worry didn’t leave her face.

You could feel the shift coming, though. It was in the air, in the way people started poking around your past with more urgency. They were looking for the gotcha moment. The damning evidence. The link that didn’t exist. But all they found were more questions. Why weren’t you tagged in anything? Why was your name redacted in a legal filing about corporate IP? Why did no one in Paige’s circle ever post about you?

You’d built your life like a fortress.

And they hated you for it.

Because you were beautiful. Because you were private. Because you were Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend and still somehow out of reach.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t play the game—they started turning.

From curiosity to contempt. From fantasy to fury. You could feel it building. The silence before a storm. The moment before the curtain falls. It wasn’t fear that held you back from speaking. It was restraint. You weren’t hiding. You were waiting.

It started with a phone call you didn’t take.

Your assistant left three voicemails before 8:00 a.m. She knew you didn’t do mornings—your mind didn’t settle into full clarity until after a shower and a single espresso in the glass mug Paige had accidentally chipped last fall and that you still refused to replace. The fourth time your phone buzzed, Paige groaned against your shoulder and reached blindly across the comforter.

“Do you want me to throw it out the window,” she muttered, voice hoarse.

You cracked one eye open. “Is that… my phone or yours?”

“Most likely your assistant.”

You chuckled and pulled her closer, breath catching in the familiar groove between her neck and shoulder. “Just five more minutes.”

Paige huffed but didn't argue. She liked mornings like this—slow, folded into you, safe.

She liked pretending the world outside your penthouse didn’t exist.

It did.

It existed in screaming headlines. In news channels across climate startups and clean tech newsletters and the inboxes of business analysts who woke to the same notification… Forbes has dropped its latest cover story.

The image hit the internet at 8:15 a.m. EST.

“Meet the Youngest Female Billionaire in Renewable Energy. How Y/N Built a Global Empire by 23.”

It didn’t feel real at first.

The cover photo had been taken two months earlier, in the garden of a rewilded property you helped convert in Santa Barbara. You were seated in a low white chair, legs crossed, wearing a structured navy suit and no jewelry. No expression, either—just a small, knowing half-smile. Like you were letting the world peek into something it wouldn’t fully understand.

Your phone rang again.

This time, Paige grabbed it. Still bleary-eyed, she flipped it over, squinting at the name. “It’s Cassie. Again.”

You groaned and sat up, rubbing your face. “Tell her I’m not dead.”

“She says you’re trending.”

You paused. “From the bikini photo?”

“No,” she said, her tone shifting.

When she turned the screen toward you, everything inside you stilled.

It was you.

Front and center. In serif font, bold and breathless. The Youngest Female Billionaire in Renewable Energy.

Paige’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t tell me it was this big.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“A thing?” she repeated, staring at the article. “This is everything. This is… you’re a billionaire! This is empire shit.”

You didn’t speak. The air felt too heavy. She scrolled down, scanning.

“They’re saying you developed some framework that’s being adopted in six countries.” Her voice lifted. “That you hold thirteen patents. That you were on the White House task force for clean grid expansion.” She looked up. “You’ve been to the White House?”

You gave a weak shrug. “Not since the oompa loompa moved in.”

Paige didn’t laugh. Not yet. She blinked down at the screen like it might vanish. “You’re a genius.”

You reached for her hand. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel small next to it.”

She jerked her gaze toward you, wounded. “You think I’d feel small? Babe. You could build a fucking satellite and I’d still be the proudest person in the room.” You swallowed hard. She looked down again, quiet for a beat. “You didn’t hide this because of me. You hid it for me, didn’t you?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t want them to twist it. I didn’t want to make you the ‘arm candy’ of someone they didn’t understand.”

Paige exhaled. “Too late.”

A notification buzzed at the top of the screen. @/PaigeBueckers has been tagged in 4,137 new tweets.

She unlocked her phone and opened Twitter. She stared for a few seconds. Then, slowly, she typed.

Y’all thought.

She attached the Forbes cover. Hit send. And the internet erupted. It was seismic. Humbling. Violent in its speed.

People who had once speculated that you “sold feet pics for rent” were now frantically deleting tweets. Threads unspooled where former critics tried to backpedal. Comments flooded in beneath Paige’s post.

“I called a literal billionaire a clout-chaser. I need to lie down.” “She was quiet because she didn’t need the spotlight. I’m sick.” “We bullied the love of Paige Bueckers’ life for being beautiful and mysterious. And she was running global infrastructure reform.” “Imagine having THAT face, THAT body, and ALSO solving the energy crisis???”

It didn’t stop there.

Old clips surfaced—grainy videos from years ago, now reframed through a new lens. A low-quality YouTube video from a 2021 TEDx talk in Cambridge. A photograph of you shaking hands with a prime minister. A blurry shot of you walking behind the Secretary of Energy. Suddenly, all the pieces snapped into place. You weren’t hiding. You were just busy. Quiet. Precise. Impossible to pin down because you’d always been moving.

The article confirmed everything.

You had founded tech company at 19. Closed a $70 million deal before turning 21. Your algorithm was already being implemented in low income neighborhoods across the nation. You’d been offered a buyout for $300 million and declined. You lived modestly for someone of your wealth, the article said. You were photographed in vintage boots and off the rack cashmere. You drove a ten year old electric car. You once donated an entire bonus to funding indigenous land repatriation.

And yet—you were the same girl who slept with one leg flung over Paige’s hip. Who burnt toast more often than not. Who still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet.

You were you. The world was just catching up.

The day you finally spoke, it wasn’t planned.

You hadn’t scheduled an interview. You hadn’t approved a press release. You hadn’t dressed for it, or set your lighting, or even thought about what to say. The camera on your laptop was still tilted slightly upward from a late-night strategy call the night before. You didn’t fix it.

You made a TikTok account, stared at your own reflection for five long seconds, and hit “Go Live.” You didn’t announce it. And yet, the view count ticked into the thousands in seconds.

At first, you said nothing.

Just sat there, hoodie pulled over your head, hair messy, eyes dark with exhaustion. You looked nothing like the girl from the Forbes cover. No makeup, no smirk, no steel in your spine.

Just you. A deep breath. Then, slowly, you spoke.

“Hi.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t plan to say anything. I thought the article would be enough. But maybe it wasn’t.”

You blinked down, mouth tightening. “I know what people said about me. I read it. I read all of it, even when I said I didn’t. And I get it. I do.”

You looked up, gaze steady.

“I don’t look how you expect a billionaire to look. Or a founder. Or a policy advisor. I look like someone who posts thirst traps and takes private jets to brunch. I look like the girl you only date for the photos. I get that.”

Your voice didn’t waver. But it got quieter.

“And I know why people said what they said about Paige. About us. Because for most of my life, I’ve been taught that I have to earn the right to be loved. That my worth had to be written in numbers, in accolades. And Paige…”

You exhaled slowly, lips trembling just for a second.

“She never asked for any of it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“She didn’t fall in love with my résumé. She didn’t care about the articles, the patents, the board seats. She just… loved that I loved her. That I didn’t flinch when she was quiet. That I was the same with her whether we were in a stadium or on the couch.”

A long silence.

“I didn’t post her. Not because I was hiding her. Because I was protecting her. I’ve watched what fame does to people. To love. People twist it. Makes it transactional. And I didn’t want that for us.”

Your mouth twitched into something like a smile.

“I didn’t correct the rumors because—truthfully—I didn’t care what strangers thought of me. I built my life in rooms you don’t get into by chasing validation. I let people misunderstand me for a living.”

You leaned closer, voice almost a whisper now.

“But Paige? She saw me. Before all this. Before the noise. And she’s the first person who didn’t need a spreadsheet to believe I was worth something.”

Your eyes glassed over.

“So if you think I’m just hot, or just lucky, or just riding someone else’s fame—fine. But don’t call her naïve for loving me. Don’t make her defend something that’s never needed proof.”

You sat there for a moment longer.

Still. Bare.

“I owed her my silence. But I owe myself this voice.”

And with that, you ended the live.

You closed your laptop. You sat on the floor, curled knees to chest, breathing like something inside you had cracked open. Not broken—just unlatched. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in years.

You didn’t hear the front door open. Didn’t hear Paige set down her keys. What you did feel—almost immediately—was the weight of her presence, the shift in air as she stepped into the room and dropped to her knees in front of you.

“I saw it,” she said, voice thick. “All of it.”

You didn’t look at her right away. Couldn’t. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she cut in. Her hand found yours, held it tightly. “You told the truth.”

You nodded. Swallowed. “I didn’t want you to have to carry any of it.”

She smiled then. Shaky, but real.

“I’d carry all of it. Twice over. For you.”

You let out a breath that felt like it’d been stuck in your lungs for months. Then, finally, you met her eyes.

“I love you,” you said. Not like a confession. Like a fact.

She nodded, eyes glossy.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

And then she kissed you—not for the camera, not for a crowd, not for the world that had spent so long trying to define you.

Just for you. For the girl who brought her water when she didn’t ask. For the girl who built the world in silence. For the girl who chose love over legacy—and found both anyway.

The night of the gala, the air smelled like fresh roses and new money.

You weren’t supposed to go. Not really. The invite had come weeks ago—courtesy of a foundation you’d quietly helped fund—and you’d tucked it under a book on your nightstand, meaning to decline. You didn’t do galas. You didn’t do red carpets. You didn’t wear name tags or step into press walls where your face would be frozen in someone else’s narrative.

But Paige found the envelope. She lifted it up one evening while folding laundry and asked, “Are we going to this?”

You blinked. “You want to?”

“I want to stand next to you,” she said simply.

So you let her pick your outfit.

The gown was black. Simple but devastating. Silk. Clean lines. No jewelry but a thin silver ring Paige had slipped onto your finger one morning while you were brushing your teeth. You’d looked up in the mirror and caught her watching you. “Don’t make it a thing,” she said then. “It’s not that kind of ring.”

But you both knew it was.

She wore a tailored navy tux. No tie. Her curls were loose, her eyes steady, her smile a quiet weapon. She held your hand the moment you stepped out of the car. Not for show. Not for cameras. Just because she could.

Flashbulbs didn’t change the way her fingers laced with yours.

Inside, the gala shimmered with polished names and strategic conversations. CEOs made the rounds. Senators smiled too wide. Champagne sparkled in flutes held by people who didn’t care about clean energy unless there was a tax incentive.

You didn’t smile much. You didn’t need to.

Paige did enough of it for both of you.

She kept you anchored, tethered to something real while everyone else spun around each other like planets in search of gravity.

You weren’t nervous about your speech.

But when the foundation director introduced you, you caught Paige’s eye from across the ballroom—and the rest of the room blurred.

You didn’t talk about the Forbes list. Or the money. Or the attention. You talked about power grids in rural communities. About the cost of energy poverty. About the little girl in Nebraska who wrote you a letter last year thanking you for the solar heater your company installed in her school.

You talked about infrastructure.

But you meant love.

And when your voice cracked at the end, it wasn’t nerves. It was her.

Later, when the room had thinned and the cameras had stopped clicking, Paige pressed her forehead to yours under a string of overhead lights and said, “I’ve never been so proud of someone in my life.”

You blinked against her shoulder. “I just want to go home.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

In the car, she reached for your hand again. Turned it over. Studied the line of your palm like she was still learning it, still memorizing something she never wanted to forget.

“You think they’ll leave you alone now?” she asked.

You leaned your head against the window. “I don’t care.”

She nodded. “Good.” Another beat. Then she added, “You know, you kind of do look like someone with an OnlyFans.”

You turned to glare at her. “Are you serious.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “The people weren’t wrong, babe. Just... misinformed.”

You shoved her shoulder. “I should’ve let them keep thinking I was a trust fund bimbo.”

She shrugged. “Nah. Let them Google.”

You got home late.

She pulled you out of the car, her arms winding around your waist the moment the front door closed. Shoes kicked off. Jacket slipped from her shoulders. She kissed you like the world didn’t deserve you—because it didn’t.

In the bedroom, her fingers traced the outline of the ring she gave you. Her voice was soft against your mouth.

“You’re mine, you know.”

You nodded, kissing her again.

“So are you.”

The next morning, a photo made the rounds.

You, on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, as you look out onto the city. Paige behind you, arms around your waist, pressing a kiss into your shoulder. A quiet moment. Unstaged. Someone at the gala had caught it by accident, framed in the open doorway as you slipped away from the ballroom.

It went viral.

But this time, there were no conspiracy theories. No bitterness. Just awe.

The caption was simple.

She never needed to be seen. But now that she is, we can’t look away.

[tender-rosiey]

Broooo i need more of sukuna and his shy daughter. PLEASE🙏

quiet strings — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

your daughter sits in the corner, her small figure nearly swallowed by the shadows as she stares at the koto placed on its low stand in the middle of the room.

the delicate strings, taut and gleaming, shimmer in the fading light, waiting for the timid touch of her fingers.

sukuna leans against the doorframe, his imposing figure filling the space as he observes her with a sharp, unreadable gaze.

the contrast between his crimson eyes and the softness of the room’s light is almost startling.

he tilts his head slightly, breaking the silence with a muttered, “how long is she going to sit there staring at it?”

you turn to him, shooting him a look that carries years of unspoken understanding.

“she’s just nervous,” you say softly, the familiar warmth in your voice tempering the sharpness of his. “give her a moment.”

“nervous?” sukuna snorts, his lips curling into a smirk that reveals a glint of his sharp teeth. “over a bunch of strings? she’s my daughter, isn’t she? she should be tearing that thing apart by now.”

at his words, your daughter flinches ever so slightly, her small shoulders hunching as she curls inward, her fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve.

you sigh, brushing past sukuna as you cross the room to kneel beside her. the subtle rustle of your robes is the only sound as you reach out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“sweetheart?” you call, your voice as gentle as the breeze filtering through the open window.

her wide eyes, so much like her father’s but lacking his imposing intensity, flick up to meet yours.

“yes, mama?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the cicadas.

you smile, radiating a quiet reassurance that you know she needs. “you’ve been looking at the koto for a while,” you say. “do you want to try playing it?���

her small hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve as her cheeks flush a soft pink. she shakes her head quickly. “no… I can’t. I won’t be good at it.”

from the doorframe, sukuna lets out a low grunt, but you silence him with a quick glare over your shoulder.

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. you turn back to your daughter, cupping her cheek in your palm, your thumb brushing lightly over her soft skin.

“you don’t know that,” you say with quiet conviction. “why don’t you try just one string? I’ll stay with you.”

her gaze darts to sukuna, who stands silently watching. his expression is as inscrutable as ever, but the weight of his attention seems to unnerve her.

still, she gives you a small nod, and you smile, helping her to her feet.

as you guide her to the koto, sukuna pushes off the doorframe and strolls lazily into the room, his presence looming as he stops a few steps away, arms crossed.

“you’re coddling her,” he mutters under his breath.

“she’s learning,” you counter without missing a beat, glancing at him over your shoulder. “not everyone leaps straight into things like you.”

his smirk deepens, but he says nothing more.

your daughter kneels beside the koto, her tiny hands hovering uncertainly above the strings. “just one,” you encourage gently, sitting beside her to offer your steady presence.

her small fingers tremble as they pluck a single string. the note rings out, soft and clear, hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

she freezes, her wide eyes staring at the koto in awe as the sound resonates and fades.

“see?” you say, smiling warmly. “you can do it.”

she glances up at you, her lips parting in a tiny, hopeful smile. encouraged, she plucks another string, then another. a tentative melody begins to form, its simplicity endearing.

from his spot a few paces away, sukuna raises an eyebrow. “is that supposed to be music?” he drawls, his tone sharp and teasing.

your daughter’s hands falter immediately, her shoulders tensing as she shrinks back.

“sukuna,” you snap, your voice low but firm. it’s the same tone you use when reining him in—something none other than you would dare.

he shrugs, completely unrepentant. “what? if she’s going to play, she might as well do it properly.”

your daughter begins to pull her hands away from the koto, her confidence shaken, but you place your hands gently over hers. “don’t listen to him,” you say softly, giving her an encouraging squeeze. “you’re doing wonderfully.”

she hesitates, her gaze flicking between you and sukuna before nodding timidly. “really?”

“really,” you say firmly, shooting sukuna a pointed look. “and I think you should keep going.”

her small hands return to the strings, and this time her melody grows steadier, her confidence building with each note.

sukuna lets out a low grunt of approval. “not terrible,” he admits begrudgingly.

your daughter’s face lights up, a shy but bright smile breaking through as she turns to him. “papa?”

he steps closer, crouching down to her level. his crimson gaze bores into hers, but his gruff tone softens slightly. “you’re still not that good,” he says, resting an arm on his knee, “but at least you’re trying.”

her eyes sparkle, her voice earnest as she promises, “I’ll practice more, papa!”

“good,” he replies, standing to his full height again.

you are silently encouraging d/n to play more, before you’re whisked up in your husband’s arms.

you look back at your daughter—who did not notice your absence—and then at your husband before frowning, “hey, what gives?!”

“I want another one.”

“what.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @dindjarins1ut @candy-s72 @lulumi1u

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize

check out my buy me a coffee!

[fanged-fanfics]

Hi!! I'd like to request! <3

How would dad Truthless recluse react to seeing his child being used as a puppet by smc?

Ty if you write this :3

☆ A Tight Thread Snaps — Truthless Recluse & Child!Reader ☆

Genre: Angst, Familial || they/them pronouns for reader || Warning for canon-accurate super cruel and manipulative Shadow Milk

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

Truthless Recluse had been trying to find you, looking around the base. It was just after a mission, and Shadow Milk had very pushily insisted that he could leave you in his care. Though something within him knew it was a bad idea, his newfound unwavering loyalty won out. He'd given you a firm hug before he'd gone, but now his chest ached with worry at not seeing you anywhere. "Blue bird? Where are you?" He called, anxiety gripping the edge of his voice "Please don't hide, little one, papa needs to find you"

His head perked up at the sound of distant laughter. Not the soft and joyful kind he was used to hearing from you. Something loud, nearly manic. His jam ran cold as he recognized it as Shadow Milk's sadistic cackle. He rushed to look around the bend, and he froze when his eyes took in the sight. Shadow Milk held a wooden cross above your head, faint blue strings making you move around to his rhythm. Your dough had gone pale, eyes dull and tinged with blue and black. The Recluse clenched his jaw, hot rage filling him as he stormed towards his commander.

"Ohh, Vanilly!" Shadow Milk greeted, snickering behind his hand "How good of you to join us! We're making a play just for you, and the star here-"

Shadow Milk was cut off by getting elbowed under his jaw, the force of it strong enough to knock him back. He made an undignified noise of alarm, rubbing the now bruised area. "Shadow Milk Cookie!!" Candy Apple cried from nearby, practically flinging herself to his side. Shadow Milk growled, glaring as he looked to his disobedient pawn.

Recluse's expression was full of worry, and he knocked the wood far away, pulling back the strings. They thankfully gave way, and you blinked in stunned confusion. Your color was back, your eyes having returned to their natural hue. "Papa?" You asked, disoriented and dizzy. Before you knew it, you were wrapped up in his arms, being held close to his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" the Recluse whispered, nuzzling you close "My baby, I'm so sorry, I didn't know-.."

He took in a deep breath, feeling you try to wipe some of the tears from his cheeks "Don't cry, papa, please?". "I'm alright, dearest one, I promise" he whispered. Shadow Milk was still frowning, standing back up as Candy Apple fixed Truthless Recluse with a venomous scowl of her own. 'So, this squishy brat still brings out that old Pure Vanilla... how annoying' Shadow Milk thought, his glare deepening. The Recluse could feel the anger within him, and his grief combined with his earlier rage tenfold.

"You." He began, turning to face his leader "Don't you ever come near them again". "Awwh, come on, it was just an act!" Shadow Milk said, his fake cheeriness masking his disappointment "We're all part of my show here, Vanilly, I thought you knew that by now!". He lazily floated onto his back, a hand propping up his chin "But gee, you're not being a very good henchman right now... you won't even let me play with the pawn you brought along! What's the point of bringing a toy if you won't share it? Pretty selfish"

"They're not a 'toy'" Recluse shot back. He had you cradled securely to his side "This is my kid. Not a pawn, a part of your play, or anything like that. You will not be watching them again". "Pfft, awwh, so sad" Shadow Milk exclaimed with a dramatically sarcastic tone "Fine, have it your way! Sheesh, you're so emotional". Recluse was still giving him a heated look of anger, but it melted when he turned back to you. You were hiding behind his robes a little, and he reached a hand down to pet your cheek "Shh, shh, it's alright"

"I'm cold, papa" you admitted. Recluse frowned, scooping you up and wrapping you in the long sleeves of his robe "I've got you". He began leading you away from the other shadow workers, giving a cold look over his shoulder before he continued cooing at you. Shadow Milk landed on the ground, and Candy Apple immediately hugged him tight "That rotten Cookie! How dare he talk to you like that?! Do you want me to take care of him?". "No, no, I've got it all under control" Shadow Milk said, patting the top of Candy Apple's head "I'll find a way to fix that weakness of his.."

Deep down, Shadow Milk felt a small twinge of fear. He was never used to seeing the pacifistic Pure Vanilla snap in such a way, and it scared him for a moment to have that anger directly strike him. He rubbed his injury again, unusually silent. This meant much more than trouble