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overangel · 1 month ago

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αƒтєя мι∂ηιgнт

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected reader story.

act 1, act 2, act 3

You take the first steps towards your new life and prepare for the battlefield that is Wayne manor. Alfred chooses you. He will always choose you, and Jason Todd starts to move. Fuck the legacy. MDNI 18+, TW: suicide (past life), parental death, depression & anxiety, pseudo-incest

You were going to need as much codeine as Nurse Patrice could carry. Sprinkle in a little oxy too. Would it look like you had a problem if you asked for a morphine drip?

Willing to risk the suspicion, you tried to raise your left pointer finger towards the nurse call button, but your strength failed you. A strangled growl vibrated around the ET tube.

‘I’d even take a tylenol at this point!’

Another night’s sleep in the hospital was another week fighting the dummy in the pocket dimension. That made it two weeks of training and that meant two weeks of pushing your body farther than it had ever gone before.

You sniffled, 'I knew I wasn't weak.' You had been called that word so many times that you took it as an immutable fact, but that false truth was starting to crack.

That dummy was like the real thing—his moves, his ferocity, the viciousness with trained precision in his youth that tempered with maturity and became a lethal force for good as he aged—it was all so familiar.

You swallowed a nervous lump around the ET tube.

You had felt enough pain over the last couple of days and finally accepted your predicament for what it was.

This really wasn’t a dream, afterall.

The beatings you took in the pocket dimension felt like what you got in the real world but on steroids. When you felt your ribs being broken, you actually felt them snap and puncture a lung when you failed to evade him, and then could feel the bone mending itself so you could continue the fight. The internal bleeding ceased and the puncture wound closed.

You were getting real time consequences of the fight, but healing simultaneously so you could keep going. It was disorienting as you watched your shattered shin bone rip through your skin and felt the white hot pain that brought tears and stars to your eyes, only for it to mend itself and disappear without a trace in seconds.

It’s like something wouldn’t let you give up even if you wanted to, but retreating was the furthest thing from your mind now. If you quit here, you’d never get to where you wanted to be, and all you wanted was to be able to protect yourself.

To not be a victim.

To not let anyone make you feel the way you did before. There was no point in getting this second chance at life if you didn’t make it count.

Besides fighting, your goals also included your education.

This was one of your greatest shames. You closed your eyes, the soft morning sunbeams suddenly too much.

Your mom and family had been so proud of you. She and nana, and all of your aunts, uncles, and cousins swore you could be whatever you wanted to be, and If there was one thing in your life you were sure of, it was that they believed in you completely with all they had.

Then, you were taken in by Bruce Wayne and the ghouls and wraiths that haunted both the manor and the man set upon you and stole your soul.

You weren’t a stranger to anxiety and depression before the Waynes, but there was just something about that man and about the ghosts—that were far from just metaphorical—that latched on to you and made you the sacrifice.

That word.

Ｓａｃｒｉｆｉｃｅ.

Were all the lives lost that day a sacrifice? Four hundred and thirty-two dead, and for what?

Performative outrage that was smoothed over when a handsome man trotted out his beautiful kids and showed how compassionate he was?

Was it forgiven and forgotten when the lost princess was whisked away to the castle on the hill by the king?

They all bought what Bruce Wayne sold.

You were starting to hear the waves crashing again and turned your mind back on topic.

Education.

You’re sure it broke your nana’s heart that you barely graduated high school. She was long gone but you could feel the guilt weighing you down in this life as well. This isn’t the way she left you. The woman you became under that roof wasn’t who you were meant to be.

You thought of your worst subject and scowled.

‘I need to get a head start before I go back to school...’

In the past, you begged to go to a regular public school and you barely graduated then with the lax coursework.

It was hard. there was a target on your back before your first day. So many lunch breaks were spent having panic attacks in the bathroom, but at least lower income to upper middle class was the crowd you understood over the elite.

Sadly, you couldn’t go back to public school this time. You only had two years to secure a good enough transcript and some accolades for admission to a decent college.

You were going to fulfill your Nana’s dream of being college educated.

And if you had to be a Wayne to do it? You were going to milk that legacy for all it’s worth.

Just think of getting every penny of the child support your mother never filed for with interest. What’s wrong with collecting your and your mother’s due?

Not a damn thing.

You shut your eyes for a moment and found yourself standing in the pocket dimension. The dirt wasn’t as dry as it had once been, and the grass was starting to sprout green.

The Damian dummy was gone since you wouldn’t need him, but there was a new addition to your space. Sat at the base of the lonely tree, was a short table with several books and notebooks on top of it. Walking closer, they were textbooks in the subjects you were the worst at. You sat on the pillow behind the table and picked up a pencil, not knowing where to start.

You read the cover of the first textbook, and turned to the front page. ‘You shouldn’t be able to read in dreams.’ But you could read it as clearly as if you were awake.

‘Well, I wanted to improve…’ You grumbled, thinking you’d rather take a physical beatdown over a mental one.

You awake after a short nap, blinking the shapes and letters from your vision. The textbook pages were still fresh in your mind and you found that you were still holding the pencil you were using. You brought it to the real world and stared at it in disbelief.

A polite knock resounded through the room, and a familiar face peered in through the gap. “Hello, Young Mistress Y/n.”

You jumped and almost poked yourself with the pencil but it disappeared from sight when you gave it a surprised squeeze.

The soreness immediately left your muscles when you saw who it was. You perked up and twisted about and Alfred Pennyworth crossed the room in graceful strides to stand beside you.

“Did you sleep well?” Despite your smile being hidden behind the ventilator’s mask, he could tell you were beaming since your eyes crinkled and softened when you gazed up at him.

“I’ve come bearing gifts.” He took a seat in the armchair at your bedside and put a bag in your lap. Both of your hands were still heavily bandaged and your right arm was in a sling, so he gingerly opened the bag for you and produced a cell phone box.

“Young people these days and their gadgets.” He chided sarcastically as he powered on the phone and you both watched the animation.

It was a pleasant silence, a young person and an older person marveling at a smartphone, when he said “It has your old phone number.”

The air went still, and the only sound you could hear was the blood in your ears and your panicked thoughts.

How did he know?

Why did he think about you?

He was always the one thinking about your feelings. Why did he care? Why didn't he just follow everyone else's lead when they decided you weren't worth the effort? Why didn't he follow his master when it came to you?

He pulled down the navigation menu and you saw that your main email was already listed and you were signed into the carrier with your old account.

Your phone had been the last thing on your mind, but months later it would hit you that it was gone. Years worth of texts and memories would be gone without a trace. It was like Alfred was making sure you stayed where he could reach you.

You tried to wipe the tears that clouded your vision and were race hot tracks down your cheeks, as Alfred took the phone and typed something before showing it to you again.

“And now you have my number, Young Mistress.”

The name 'Alfred Pennyworth' was saved there proudly at the top of your contacts as a favorite, right beside your mother's, Nana’s, and closest friends. You laid back in your pillows and cried. Everyone you loved was right there.

It's just that most of them would never pick up again.

Alfred made quick work and pulled up the text-to-speech app he was most excited for and tapped your arm. “Young Mistress,” you pulled yourself together and wiped your blurry eyes. The bandages were itchy against your skin.

“Would you mind typing something for me?” He presented the smartphone to you and you recognized that it was the latest model when you were 16. It was a flex if someone had this, and the cases for it were the cutest.

You remember admiring your classmates’ phones. Your mom could never afford a high end model for you, but you were more sad instead of envious.

Now, Alfred presented it to you in pristine condition and you knew that it was his doing.

He went to the outlet and picked it up himself.

He probably had someone like Tim retrieve your passwords, but he logged into your emails and configured it so it’d be easily accessible to you, so you wouldn't be kicking yourself for not being able to remember a simple login after your entire life had been ripped from you.

You took the phone at a loss for words. What could you say to him? There was too much to say and so much that hadn't even happened yet that he wouldn't understand. You stared at the text window as the cursor blinked.

You could never let him know how much he meant to you, not now at least, you'd look insane. However, in time, you would definitely make him proud too.

You laid the device in your lap and gently entered your message, deleting and correcting several times because your fingers twitched.

After rereading the message you took a shuddering breath and hit “Enter.”

“𝐼'𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒.”

You held your breath and Alfred was stunned for a moment before a grin broke across his face. “I'm glad to be here, Young Mistress.”

You beamed, “𝑀𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒴/𝓃.”

“I'm aware, Young Mistress Y/n. Hm," He mused, “Ms. Y/n L/n. It has a lovely ring to it.”

“𝐼𝓉'𝓈 𝒶 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝑀𝓇. 𝒫𝑒𝓃𝓃𝓎𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “And please, there's no need for titles with me. Alfred is perfect.”

“𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 '𝒴/𝓃.'”

The smile that rose to his eyes betrayed the professionalism, “No problem at all, Young Mistress Y/n.”

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃.”

“I'm afraid that I don't.”

“𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 '𝒴/𝓃' 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉.”

“I agree, she is.”

You lifted and raised your legs in a mock tantrum. You would've pressed your lips together if you could and your cheeks burned.

“𝒩𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈, 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒!”

“I can't do that, Young Mistress. There is etiquette that I must follow as head butler of the Wayne family.”

“𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝐼'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃𝑒.”

His heart clenched, he incorrectly assumed you already felt like you didn't belong. Little did he know, you didn't want to.

“You are. You are by blood and will soon be in name, and that is something no one can take from you.” He took your hand in his and looked into your eyes in the same reassuring way he would when he told you your panic attacks didn't make you weak.

“𝐵𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒?”

“Yes, you will soon be Y/n Wayne. We thought it would be appropriate to wait until you woke up and had time to settle in.”

‘’We’ meaning you, right?’ You thought.

You let him think you believed that.

You hated the name 'Wayne'. You carried it with you like an idiot in the past. A Wayne in name with none of the perks, but since you’ve resolved to use that name to your advantage—you were talking transcripts, college admissions, and scholarships here—you were going to take it again but with some stipulations.

You were going to change it after you accomplished what you wanted to do and didn't need it as a fallback, and you weren't giving up your identity to try to fit in again.

“𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔?” The AI voice sounded particularly pitiful which worked in your favor.

“Anything.”

“𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝑒 𝐿/𝓃-𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃𝑒? 𝐼 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓂𝓎 𝓂𝒶𝓂𝒶 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒.”

And make the Waynes an afterthought.

“Oh.” You are always surprising him, “I don't see why not.” He rubbed his chin as he pondered. “Young Mistress Y/n L/n-Wayne.” Trying on each syllable for size.

You squinted at him to show the dissatisfaction with the long and frilly title while his eyes held a hint of mischief.

You switched gears, “𝒟𝑜 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈?”

This was a subject that Alfred was more than prepared for. He had wished for you to get adjusted and start bonding with you new siblings as soon as possible, and although they didn’t visit, he dropped seeds of interest about you whenever he could, and now it was time to plant those same seeds for your siblings with you.

“Where should I begin?” He exhaled and thought back to the beginning when Dick was brought home. “I was willing to accept the manor being child-free forever with Master Bruce’s bachelor lifestyle, so you can imagine my surprise when he brought home this young boy just out of the blue—”

You rested comfortably and gazed at him. You didn’t take in a word because these people were your least favorite topic, but you enjoyed whenever Alfred explained something. He could make the most mundane feel worth knowing.

“I was more prepared when he brought Master Jason home.”

You made a show of perking up at the name, he caught your renewed interest and continued with gusto.

“He was much smaller than other boys his age, but his heart was far larger than most.” You hugged a pillow as Alfred spoke of Jason like he was his own grandson.

He explained how Jason possessed an inner strength rarely found in grown (it broke his heart someone had to grow up so fast. It hurt every time I see it.), and was an avid reader who enjoyed finding first additions together and studying the craftsmanship.

“I’m still so proud of him.” and Alfred stopped before getting to the Second Robin’s final chapter, when Robin ended and the Red Hood began.

You knew about it all, but kept quiet. To the rest of the world, Bruce Wayne’s second adopted son died by a tragic accident only for it to be revealed to the public to be a misunderstanding.

The public had a way of rolling with whatever it was fed, but you knew that Jason had been a “child soldier” and that was something you would never forgive Bruce for.

“𝒟𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔?”

Alfred smiled, “Once a bookworm, always a bookworm.”

You peppered him with questions about Jason, coming across as really looking forward to having a big brother to protect you and he was more than happy to indulge.

You were so good at the game, discussing books and themes, circling back to Jason in some way or other, that Alfred didn’t have a chance to talk up Tim and the others or your only actual blood-related sibling.

“𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊.”

Alfred felt like he was splashed by a scalding pot of Earl Grey. “Perish the thought. Speaking with you brightened this old man’s day.” He checked his pocket watch, visibly dimming at the time.

“𝐼’𝓂 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝑒𝓍𝒸𝒾𝓉𝑒𝒹. 𝐼’𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶 𝒷𝒾𝑔 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓂𝑒.” You looked down shyly and fiddled with the blanket self consciously.

“𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝐼’𝓂 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓉!”

Alfred’s heart swelled. “I’m sure he feels the same way, dear girl.”

He would make sure of it.

You bid Alfred a good evening, and he walked the halls with his heart soaring. He would share everything he learned about you with Jason, and was going to move heaven and Earth to make sure you were loved as you deserved.

You snuggled under the blankets after Alfred left. If all went according to plan you would make a second ally before even reaching Wayne manor.

A phone that only accepted one phone number vibrated, and ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴅᴅ dropped from the pullup bar knowing exactly who was on the other end.

“'Sup?”

“Master Jason, I’m so glad you answered.” The accented voice came through smoothly.

“Of course, Alfred. What’s up?”

“Must something be up, Master Jason?”

Jason raised a brow that Alfred somehow detected.

“I wanted to share good news.”

“Oh? Are you finally taking that Elder singles cruise?”

“Haha,” Alfred said flatly, “and miss out on our chats in favor of cocktails in Tahiti? Never.” Jason grinned, the sarcasm in Alfred’s voice wasn’t heavy and burdened. He sounded light, actually. Like something caught him from falling.

“I spent my afternoon with someone and we discussed books and cinema. I almost doubted the literacy of the younger generation, but she restored my faith in humanity.”

“Now, she sounds like an incredible person.”

“She is, and that’s why I’d like you to meet her.”

The record scratched.

“Look, Alfred, I don’t need to be set up—”

“It’s Young Mistress Y/n.”

Alfred didn’t break the silence and let Jason’s mind lead the way.

ʏ/ɴ.

The girl he had only seen on the news. There wasn’t a channel that hadn’t shown that million dollar picture, or a Gothamite who hadn’t seen the bloodied face of Bruce Wayne’s daughter.

Jason didn’t know how to feel about you. You were discovered because of tragedy and being reunited with your billionaire father should’ve been the sign that things were looking up for you.

This should’ve been your golden ticket, so why did he feel like things would only get worse for you in Bruce Wayne’s care?

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire…” He whispered to himself. Nothing could ever equal the suffering you were already experiencing, but you would face a new dilemma when you officially became a Wayne.

First of all, you were a civilian. An extremely vulnerable civilian that Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be equipped to care for in the ways you needed: emotionally.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s not like she hasn’t survived one before.”

Jason twitched, he didn’t mean to let that thought slip. “Alfred, seriously. You don’t think this is a good idea, right?”

“It’s a great idea.”

“She needs to be around normal people, Alfred.”

“She needs to be around people who will understand her.”

“Exactly!”

“And who better than someone who’s been to hell and back.”

Jason went silent. Damn you, Alfred Pennyworth.

“She had many hot takes.” The butler offered.

Jason snorted, and shifted the phone to his other ear, settling in for what may be a long chat. “Okay, Alfred, let’s hear ‘em.”

They talked late into the night like how they did so many years before when Jason’s biggest problems were math homework and if Bruce would let him patrol that night. There was laughter, and for a moment they both forgot how cruel the world could be.

These were the moments worth fighting for.

After the call ended, Jason got a text from Alfred with your phone number.

His thumb hovered over the screen, so close to swiping it away, but then he saved it.

It wouldn’t hurt. Just in case.

The ET tube was removed ahead of schedule and Alfred could finally see your pretty face. The bandage beside your left eye was still there and it hurt to smile too wide, but you were so expressive and he loved it. It was as if he could hear your voice speaking instead of the AI from your phone.

He was looking forward to your laugh. He could tell by the rapport you two had built in only a few days, that your laughter would come easily.

You two watched telenovelas and he guided you through tactile exercises to strengthen your hands and maintain dexterity. Sometimes a tear would spring from your eyes, but your eyes were relentless as they had been in that photo that shocked the world.

He knew you would thrive at the manor.

You quickly noticed that Alfred wasn’t your only guest.

After Alfred leaves and the dusk stains the sky in pinks and purples, the creatures of the night begin to stir. A presence cloaked in black, born in the shadows, watches you attentively.

The first night, he watched from the roof of a medical building far across the campus. He was able to spy you from his scope when Alfred left the blinds opened at just the right angle.

You read and he enjoyed watching your emotions play across your face. He could watch you for hours, following the story alongside you. He stood in position for so long that his legs were on pins and needles. That’s when he realized he had watched you for hours.

The following night, he was closer, just on the roof above the medical pavilion facing your room. He had a knack for avoiding light, natural or artificial, he found the darkness and made it home.

Tonight, he watched you from your window and frowned as you kept rereading the same sentence, unable to concentrate. A frown twisted your lips and you huffed, finally closing the book and setting it aside.

Anticipation prevented you from focusing no matter how engaging the story was. You officially started PT tomorrow which would be the most physical work you've done in the real world since the flood.

It would hurt just as much as your training with the dummy if not more and you hoped you could shoot through it all and finish on target.

You remembered the frustrated tears. The trembling, the falls, the hopelessness that came with the creeping fear that you would never have what you once had. ‘What if I had taken it all for granted?’

Jason watched, his brows furrowed as he could sense that you were going to do something you shouldn’t. You sat up and threw the blanket from your legs. You hadn’t taken a step in weeks and you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see if you could.

You turned to the side and dragged your numb legs to the edge of the bed.

“She isn’t…” Jason was pulling out his phone and swiping to Alfred’s contact without taking his eyes from you. Alfred didn’t make him wait, “We’ve got a runner!”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s going to—ah, damn it!”

Jason shoved his phone in his topic and started sprinting across the roof, eyes focused as you dropped your legs over the side of the bed.

He pulled a grapple gun from his belt, shot and secured a good grasp on the roof of your building’s roof, and swung forward with a running leap. He was at your windows in seconds and didn’t have the grace to stop himself with it being such a short distance.

He hit the window with a gloved hand and knee guard and the bang almost startled you off the bed.

You froze before you could set a single toe on the floor.

You two stared at each other. His red lenses and mask didn’t reveal his feelings, but you could imagine the embarrassed look on his face.

You grinned and silently chuckled. He’s like a bird that crashed into the really shiny window from those cleaning commercials.

You put your weight against the bed and was about to lean forward to take a step before you heard two deliberate taps at your window.

Looking up, you saw the Red Hood shaking his head. Your smile grew more as you locked eyes with his goggles and gingerly lifted a foot to take a step.

He stopped nodding and stared.

You pulled your legs back from the edge. No sound came out, and it hurt too much to speak, but he could see you shake with laughter.

He watched this all, astonished. Why weren’t you afraid?

He knew you weren’t from Gotham, so it'd make sense why you wouldn’t recognize an infamous vigilante from Gotham and The Hill, but why weren't you scrambling for help from a masked weirdo at your 13th floor window?

‘She must be on a lot of meds.’ Jason thinks to himself.

You look at him, with your grin shrinking into a normal half-smile. He wasn’t expecting the attention tonight, Actually, he wasn’t expecting any attention at all.

Giving away his presence wasn’t the plan, but he just had to play the good guy and not let an injured girl fall to the floor in front of him.

He wasn’t a monster.

You chewed the inside of your cheek in thought. He was hyper aware of every move you made.

He would see your smile and your sparkling eyes when he closed his eyes for weeks.

You'd drawn him out, and fought the triumphant grin from spreading across your face.

In your past life, Jason ignored you, but never really ridiculed you. He looked at you from the corner of his eyes, his lips curled in dissatisfaction when you were sad—when you were weak. You always had the feeling that you disgusted him with your vulnerability. And why wouldn't he? He was the type to not break under adversity, but apparently you were the type who did.

Maybe it was hard for him to watch.

You would never know that he avoided you because he thought you were too precious for him to touch.

Your softness, your humanity, your compassion even when the world and your family did everything it could to beat it out of you. The spot of darkness that you sometimes fed and sometimes starved, he knew it all.

He wanted it all.

But he ruined everything he touched.

He convinced himself that getting close to you was a delusion, and that self-sabotage caused him to miss out.

Before he could even act on it, you had sealed yourself in that damned room. He put up a guard between you two, but you locked the padlock and threw away the key.

When your life ended, he realized that he deluded himself into thinking that staying away for you was for your safety, when he was truly just trying to protect himself.

He was the weak one.

You dragged yourself back against your pillows and tossed the blanket back over your legs. Jason hadn’t thought to pull himself from the window while you weren’t looking since his brain was short-circuiting. Damn you, Alfred Pennyworth.

You looked back at him and smiled dreamily. You waved and closed your eyes.

He hoped the spell you cast on him would wear off soon, and he waited but his legs wouldn’t move on their own. “Oh, fuck this.” He forced his legs beneath him and propelled from the roof and swung across the medical campus and away to clear his head.

He wasn't expecting that.

He wasn’t expecting you, and your big clear eyes that seemed to see all of him beneath that mask and show no fear. He wasn’t expecting the cheeky grins and easy laughter, and he wasn’t expecting to want to see you again so soon.

“Come on, Young Mistress. You can do this.” Alfred encouraged as he watched you on the parallel bars.

You shook violently and carried all of your weight in your trembling arms because you just knew that if you put even a pound of pressure on one foot you would drop.

Sweat beaded at your brow and you exhaled sharply from your nose. You placed half your weight in one foot and your hips immediately fell. Alfred waited anxiously on the side as the physical therapist helped you.

His jaw was set tightly, it was so hard to hold himself back but he needed you to improve by your own efforts so you could be healthy when he brought you to the manor. He repeated this to himself, trying to fight back the desire to catch you every time.

You huffed and carefully placed one foot in front of the other. Your sweaty palms almost lost their grip on the parallel bars and you shook them with your trembling.

Your ankle twisted and your arms gave out like you knew it would. You fell to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Alfred gazed at you with admiration as you pulled yourself back up and started again. That determination was definitely a Wayne trait and he was sure your mother must’ve possessed the same as she worked hard to raise you well as a single mother.

He had never met her personally, but he meeting you told him that she must’ve been an amazing mother and woman to bring up someone like you.

So your days went on like that. Physical therapy, and cleaning your wounds, never allowed to push harder than your therapists said or you’d be sent 3 steps back in recovery.

In the pocket dimension, you studied tirelessly and trained with the dummy. The thing scowled at you and lashed out with killing intent, but it was an effective teacher. No words were spoken between you two, the dummy didn’t have the ability to speak, and you were glad for it.

You found out you could’ve liked Damian if he didn’t talk. Who knew?

Working hard was always a good thing, and you were making strides in the time in the hospital. You tried to calm your mind. You weren’t expecting a transformation overnight, but you were changing for the better and getting stronger by the day.

Besides reading, you practiced the arts. You were sure that Gotham Academy had excellent extra curricular programs including an art department so it wouldn't hurt to use it and put together a portfolio.

In your past life, you had given up what made your soul sing. Your hands felt unworthy to touch a pencil, your joints locked up in panic when you tried to press pen to paper. Hands hovered over keyboards at a loss for words and instruments lay silent as the grave.

One afternoon after therapy, you took a pencil and sheet of paper and sketched for the first time in years.

Alfred caught himself wondering where he had gone wrong when raising Bruce. He was proud, don’t get him wrong, but Alfred knew that he was guilty of enabling the man until he grew up and was able to disregard the butler’s concerns and advice entirely.

Alfred could only lament as he stitched shut a knife wound on Bruce’s shoulder with expert position. The Dark Knight droned on about protocols that would need to be updated, and chastised Damian for rushing ahead.

It was the same story, different day, and it only frustrated Alfred even more that they chose this monotony when there was a vibrant new life they should be welcoming with open arms.

Not only that, he hadn’t been able to visit you in 3 days! That first day, he was needed for air support. The second day, he was watching the comms while Batman, Red Robin, and Robin went on a manhunt. You didn’t add to the old man’s stress, though. You were patient and sent him updates on your PT progress, and hoped you weren’t bothering him.

The texts you managed to share throughout the day eased his nerves.

‘Nurse Patrice said ‘Hi!’ :D’

‘Did you see the new episode?’

Damian once watched the way Alfred’s eyes lit up at his phone before he could contain himself and sent the butler a quizzical frown. That was a close one.

At least Jason was having a good time. He watched you from afar from the moment the last rays of sunlight retreated from the sky. He was outside your window now, far closer than previous nights, emboldened by your cheerful reception nights ago.

He still remained one with the night and was undetectable by the naked eye, but he was so close now that it felt little he was there with you.

He watched every gesture; admired every facial expression. He scanned the covers of the books you held carefully in your bandaged hands and watched you as you watched TV.

He watched you as you slept.

You looked so fragile in the hospital bed amongst the tubing and monitors. The ET tube and neck brace had come off a few days prior, and now what remained was a splint and bandaging.

It was a quiet moment like this when there was nothing to watch that he finally acknowledged the feeling in his chest.

You were tucked away in a private hospital, only accessible to an elite class, and no one but Bruce Wayne's family members could get to you. You were safe, so why was he watching? Why did he stand guard like a knight outside of his lady's chambers? He wasn't in the bodyguard business.

But he wasn't as emotionally constipated as his adoptive father and could see this for what it was.

Something took root before he knew it, and he felt like he had fallen into a beautiful trap. In a matter of days, he developed an affection for and desire to protect a girl who he originally wasn't going to accept as his adopted sister weeks earlier.

All it took was a smile for you to completely disarm him.

He had always wanted to protect others, to be what stood between the innocent and the dangerous, but he failed every time he tried. He even accepted that he wasn't meant to be one of the ‘good guys.’

Maybe the kid of a junkie and dealer from Gotham's roughest streets wasn’t meant to be a hero, and he was just the last one to realize.

You stirred in bed and whimpered.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he leaned forward against the glass. You were having a nightmare, tears squeezed through your tightly shut lids as you gripped your blankets like a lifeline.

Your mouth popped open but no sound came out. He read your lips, felt your silent cries in his blood, 'Mama!' Your face twisted in anguish and he almost bashed in the window.

'I can't do this alone…' you broke down into silent sobs and struggled to breathe. He couldn't take it any longer and started loudly knocking on the window until you woke up.

Your eyes opened wide. You gasped for air painfully before looking to the source of the noise as the nightmare was being pulled away from you by invisible hands.

You looked to the window and saw red lenses on black goggles and a red half mask. Jason watched you and your pouty, trembling lips, and your startled eyes.

He wanted to reach through the window.

You smiled a soft, teary smile and waved again and mouthed a 'Thank you.' That almost made him slip from the window ledge.

You fixed your ventilator to your face and took steady breaths before you started hyperventilating. He watched as you settled into bed and even more after you closed your eyes.

Jason Todd had someone he wanted to protect.

You were being discharged soon after a few weeks of treatment and therapy. Alfred couldn't visit as much as he had wanted but bringing you home was a planned event and he made sure everyone knew he would be busy and that they should free up their schedules as well.

Damian was disgruntled and combative. He wasn't going to arrange his schedule for some “vagrant” and why should he stand on ceremony?

Alfred wondered if his patience was thinning with age, because at times like these venom coated his tongue ready to retort and thoroughly dress down his opponents, but he kept it under lock and behind his teeth.

Damian was a child, he reminded himself, he was merely taking his cues from his role model and father.

Bruce Wayne was the problem. Alfred hid away correspondence and froze all appointments and reminders on today's calendar. Bruce wouldn't need any distractions.

It wasn't lost on the butler that Jason had been poking around at the manor. He lazed about at the library or home theatre, but he wasn't invested in whatever he was doing. He just wanted to be near, waiting for Alfred to get the call that you were ready to be discharged.

Alfred, in his benevolence, decided not to tease him. He was going to eventually, of course, but now wasn't the time.

Jason slipped away for something when Alfred got the call he had been waiting weeks for. He flew as if he had stolen Hermes's winged sandals, jumping in the town car and beating traffic like he was Dom Toretto.

The gentleman was upstairs and at your door before his “visitor” sticker was fully stuck to his jacket, when you were being settled into your wheelchair.

“Ready, Young Mistress?”

You smiled the soft smile that made the space around you glow with sunlight.

Your hair was groomed and styled by Nurse Patrice and the casual outfit that Alfred had brought for you fit well. You felt good, and it was a strange sensation but you looked forward to getting to know the woman you would become.

“As ever.”

Alfred took the handles and wheeled you down the halls, you thanked the staff as you passed, truly grateful for their care and gave Nurse Patrice the longest hug. She and Alfred both laughed as you tried to drag her with you when Alfred tried to wheel you forward.

It was past the front desk, just before you crossed the entrance into the outside world and felt the sun against your skin, when you saw her.

Peeping from behind a corner was a little girl who was a mix of pale blue and mossy green and soaking wet.

Her hair and oversized T-shirt dripped water on the floor around her tiny, dirtied feet and your shoulders tensed more with every heavy “drip, drop, drip, drop.”

Matted hair was plastered to her face, but her large, sunken eyes penetrated the veil and stabbed into your spirit.

A victim of the flood.

You were a survivor and your father was at fault. Why did his child get to survive? Were the other children not special enough?

It was unfair that you got off and they were just another section on Bruce Wayne's wiki page when the media circus died. You knew the lives lost would be added with all the other ones Batman let slip through the cracks.

You wouldn’t carry his burden for him.

You stared at the girl, your eyes locked with her bottomless pools as you began to hear the waves crashing and feel the wind blow your hair, and a silent understanding was formed between you.

You reached back and gingerly touched Alfred’s hand as he wheeled you into the parking lot.

ʜɪꜱ ʟᴇɢᴀᴄʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴀʀ.

To be continued.

Thanks sm for wanting to be tagged, and please let me know how I did and stop by to chat <3

@c4xcocoa @rythespy @chaoticmoontimetravel @sydneyyyya @linasrosetown @yuezodiaco @pearlyribbons @nirvanaxx1942 @alishii @galaxypurplerose @mourart7 @shycreatorreview @crispybelieverworld @simpingpandas @teabutnerdy @holderoflostmemories @cherrydaisymanic @victoria1676 @lilithskywalker @aelxr @kore-of-the-underworld @magdalenacarmila @therealme13posts @oxt3n

#yandere batfam #yandere dc comics #yandere imagines #yandere jason todd #yandere batfam x neglected reader #ty.writes

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iniquitousyearning · 1 year ago

Text

tom riddle. | this is your punishment

PAIRING: tom riddle x fem!reader

SUMMARY: prefect tom riddle catches you breaking the rules again, and this time decides to provide a different type of punishment he’s certain you won’t soon forget.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, dubcon (entirely consensual), dom!tom, brat!reader, BDSM (light), intense humiliation kink, sexual punishment/ forced orgasm, inappropriate use of magic/spells, clit-stim orgasm, begging.

You had thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes to dance with disaster. Thirty minutes to dodge destruction. Thirty minutes to descend into the depths of the library, infiltrate the restricted section, slip the book on occlumency you clandestinely borrowed back into its rightful place, and ascend back to your dormitory before the harbinger of your nightmares—Head Prefect Tom Riddle—emerges from the prefects' bathroom and winds his way back down to the dungeons.

Thirty minutes felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. The weight of impending doom pressing down on your chest as you crept through the darkened corridors, each shadow a lurking menace, each creak of the ancient floorboards a deafening scream that could betray your presence.

And though the stakes were disastrously high, you weren't entirely worried; you knew Tom Riddle's schedule as intimately as the lines on your palm, and he was nothing if not a creature of habit. But of course, there was always the chance. The slim, terrifying possibility that he might deviate from his usual routine. And being caught by him was the absolute last thing you needed right now.

Every second felt like a blade poised above your head, ready to drop at the slightest misstep. It was no secret that Tom Riddle had it out for you. By now, it was practically etched into the very stones of Hogwarts, a fact as immutable as gravity. Everywhere you went, every step you took, he was always there—watching, waiting, eager to catch you in some transgression.

The relentless scrutiny was exhausting. The number of detentions you'd served was staggering, the punishments you'd endured endless. Not to mention the droning, entirely condescending lectures and disappointed yet gleeful stares he always made sure to give you as he personally hauled you to Dumbledores office.

It was all bullshit, and certainly had nothing to do with your frequent rule-breaking or constant sneaking around. No, of course not. You most definitely never toed the line. You were as innocent as they come. As pure as the driven snow. In your mind it all boiled down to the fact that Tom Riddle had it out for you, plain and fucking simple. A personal vendetta written into the fabrication of his identity.

Because even if he did. Even if he did somehow manage to track you and uncover your clandestine activities by just being the perceptive cunning bastard that he is, there are certain things that simply defy logic. Some occurrences that just don't add up.

There are just some instances that can't be explained, save for the simplest conclusion: Tom Riddle has been inside your mind for months.

And that was precisely why you sought out the book on Occlumency—you needed it. Needed to learn how to block Tom out because if he wanted to play mind games, you were determined to play better. You were determined to keep up.

You knew Tom took pleasure in continually getting one step ahead of you, and as much as it utterly ticked you off—perhaps a twisted part of you enjoyed being caught by him—savoured the banter you shared including his threats that next time he'd take matters into his own hands, since even Dumbledore was growing tired of your antics. Perhaps you revelled in provoking him, in defying him like no other student dared, relishing the thrill of the chase.

Perhaps you simply loved to hate him. Because he was always so goddamn good at everything, always in control. It was maddening, intoxicating, and you couldn't deny the rush it gave you. His perfection was a thorn in your side, and yet, you craved it, sought it out like a moth to a flame, even if you'd never admit it.

Not to yourself, and most definitely not to him.

As the night droned on, you managed to make it to the library unscathed, slipping into the restricted section unseen. Everything was going according to plan, not a soul around to forsake you. And yet, just as you slipped the book back onto its origin shelf, you heard a distant yet distinct voice, accompanied by the determined clacking of perfectly polished dress shoes.

"—ah, yes. I believe I informed him that I would have an answer by tomorrow evening."

That voice. You could never fucking mistake it.

"—well, yes, Mr.Riddle—but he said—"

"No matter." The footsteps ceased. "You'll both await my determination until tomorrow's eve. Continue pressing and I will see to make you wait two more."

The bile rose in your throat, threatening to spill over onto the floor beneath you. His arrogance had always been a towering monument, casting shadows that seemed to suffocate all reason. Sure, he was the brightest star in the firmament, undeniably brilliant with features rivaling the gods themselves—chiseled jawline, captivating dark eyes—practically born to bask in his own glory.

Yet, for all his outward perfection, his self-assurance bordered on the verge of the grotesque.

"—yes, o-of course, Mr. Riddle..." you stifled a distasteful scoff. You weren't sure how that individual was even standing with such lack of spine. "—t-thank you, sir."

You didn't stick around to hear a response or the lack thereof. The voices were far enough to keep you breathing but close enough to damn near make you faint because you knew he was most likely just outside the iron gates. You couldn't afford to ponder the improbability of his presence or the surrealness of your predicament. You had to move—deeper, further out of sight.

Which was going perfectly well until you rounded a corner with a little too much intensity and collided directly into a small round table. The sharp screech of wood against wood cutting through the thick silence like a blade, echoing ominously in the vast, dim library. Panic seized you, every nerve electrified, as if the table's cry had been your own.

And it was roughly ten devastating seconds after this that you heard the creak of the iron gates opening behind you, and those same polished footsteps drawing forward with haste.

Fucking hell.

You'd spent enough time in the Forbidden Forest to know how to keep your calm, to know how to effectively avoid being noticed—how to silence your footsteps and slip around obstacles without leaving a trace, how to mask your scent with earth and leaves, how to blend into the shadows to avoid becoming prey to the creatures that lurk in the depths. Yet, the only predator you'd never been able to successfully evade was the one you were currently running from.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A shadow that clung to you, a hunter whose senses were always sharper, whose instincts were always keener. No matter how well you hid, he always seemed to find you, as if he could sense the very beat of your heart.

Tonight—to your naive surprise, was no different.

"Think you can hide from me, do you?" Tom's voice slithered through the narrow gap between the shelves, smooth and dark as midnight. "Not quite stealthy enough, I'm afraid."

You pressed your back against the cold wood, trying to steady your breathing, but his words seemed to wrap around your throat, squeezing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with something dizzying.

"Why don't you come out, little snake?" He purred, his footsteps drawing closer, each one a death knell. "We both know how this game ends."

Little snake. Two words that rooted you to the spot. It was impossible, inconceivable that he could know it was you. Yet the nickname, the venomous familiarity of it, left no room for doubt.

You slipped around the corner, the two of you making calculated moves like chess pieces. Your board was one of evasion, his one of domination. The gates were in clear view now as you paused to determine his position, silently mapping the space between here and there, certain that if you ran fast enough you could make it—if you moved quietly enough he wouldn't know which direction you were heading.

"You're only making this worse for yourself, darling." Arrogance so thick you weren't sure how he wasn't choking on it. And as much as you detested it, something about it sparked heat between your thighs. "You know I always win."

With the desperation of a cornered, wounded animal, you decided you were done playing and began making a silent yet brisk path toward the gates. You knew you could get about three shelves deep before you needed to take cover again. The silence was deafening, urging you to move faster.

And just as you were about to reach your next hiding spot, just about to duck back in between the shelves, a sudden sensation of pressure coiled around your ankle, cementing you to the spot.

"What the f-"

It was as if the very air had turned to iron, suffocating you with its weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared down, disbelief flooding your senses. The once innocuous carpet beneath your feet now glowed with enchantment, its fibres twisting and contorting, snaking around your ankles and climbing steadily up your calves.

"There she is." It was an echo from behind you, deep vocal inflection choking you with its pride. "Always so deliciously predictable.”

The fibres wound tightly around your upper calves, constricting tighter against your leggings as you squirmed, struggling to free yourself. Tom appeared beside you with a leisurely saunter, his smirk so smug it seemed almost tangible.

Your frustration bubbled over into a groan of disbelief. "You charmed the fucking carpet?"

"Of course," Tom replied. "Why do things the hard way when magic can do it for you?" He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over you, drinking in your entirety, running the tip of his wand up your arm. "You should know, little snake, I always find a way to catch my prey."

You watched as two dark eyes dipped low, lingering over the thickness of your thighs, fighting against the tendrils of the enchanted carpet that had now crawled tightly around them. You certainly felt like captured prey, tangled in a web of his making, awaiting his next move—and he certainly didn't miss how tantalizingly prepared for him you were, like a gift waiting to be unravelled.

"Impressive, Riddle—you've really outdone yourself this time," you spat the words through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to smack his wand away, battling the unwanted heat pooling in your core. It was the way he was looking at you. The way you wanted him to keep doing it. "Guess you can add 'carpet tamer' to your long list of accolades now, huh?"

Tom huffed, a glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he forced them up to meet yours. The corners of his lips curled upward in a smirk, every pore radiating control. He looked at you as though you were a puzzle he had already solved, a game he had already won.

"Now now, darling, no need to be so dramatic." His free hand reached up and grasped your jaw, kinking your neck back as he stepped closer to you. "Though, I think 'little fucking brat tamer' might be the more notable achievement to add to the list."

Your stomach leapt, your teeth sinking into your tongue for a moment as you fought to gather your sanity. Your defiance was draining like sand in an hourglass.

"Hm." You huffed, the grip on your jaw firm as steel. "Quite the mouthful."

"So I've been told," he shot back, his eyes glinting like shards of glass under the dim light. "You'd know all about mouthfuls, wouldn't you?"

"You fucking wish." You hoped he did.

His smirk deepened, his fingers digging into your skin like iron claws. You could tell he was amused by you, as though you'd just delivered the punchline of the century, as though you were the world's most revered stand-up comedian. It was maddeningly infuriating and dangerously captivating all at once.

"Still wielding that weapon of a tongue, even when you've so clearly lost." He remarked with a click of his own tongue, releasing his grip on your jaw. Stepping back, his eyes devoured the sight of his spell tangled around your thighs. You caught the tension in his jaw before his eyes snapped back to yours. "Tell me, little snake, do you know why I admire this spell so much?"

Your gaze remained fixed on him, anticipation crawling over your skin like a colony of ants as he scrutinized you. You offer him a shake of your head, a scowl etched deep on your features. "Can't read your mind, Riddle. Not everyone is a skilled Legilimens like yourself."

Tom's chuckle rang out, swallowed by the thick tension in the air, suffusing the oxygen you desperately tried to gulp down. He moved to circle you, and you felt his presence looming behind you, his body brushing against yours like a whisper in the wind. One hand found your hip, however softly, as though he was reluctant to touch you.

"It's a very versatile spell, darling," he dismissed your sass, his voice stripped of all emotion as his lips hovered closer to your ear. "The best part being...I know exactly how to manipulate it to get you to listen."

Words withered on your tongue, attitude wilting in your lungs, and oxygen fleeing from your veins—never to return. Tom's looming presence behind you was enough to make your chest constrict, but his words—his words were a different beast altogether. In the countless times he's caught you, never once did you imagine yourself here, like this, with him.

And never once did you imagine yourself enjoying it this fucking much.

"One might describe it as remarkably adaptable, catering to a multitude of desires..." his hand floated away from your hip, his fingers subtly dancing—the coils responding to his ministrations and slithering higher up your thighs. "And you, little brat, have a plethora of desires at this moment, do you not?"

Your jaw nearly smacked the floor as you watched him command the spell without the aid of his wand. You felt your stomach twist into an iron knot, something heating your blood to flame. Perhaps you underestimated him, perhaps you-

"F-fuck-" you gasped as the charmed fibres slithered between your thighs, coiling higher and higher, wrapping around your waist and ensnaring your arms at your sides. The pressure on your cunt sent your head reeling, your entire body quivering. "Tom...what..."

You know Tom is just beaming with satisfaction, the tremor in your voice eliciting a low growl from deep within him as his hold on your hip resumes, his lips teasing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"Speak up, little doll, articulate your thoughts," he murmured, his words dripping with cunning like poison. "I know you possess an abundance of them."

You suppress a groan, squirming in a futile attempt to free your wrists, to move against the relentless hold. The heat of Tom's presence behind you has your senses in a frenzy. Your head spinning, your body silently yearning for more. You despise how much you're enjoying this, whatever this even is.

You whimper, lids fluttering. "This...this isn't fair..."

"Neither is disobeying the rules every fucking chance you get—but here we are," his hand brushed against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing, his voice drifting further from your ear. "You should understand, this is all your own doing...the charm merely responds to your desires, adapting to fulfill them.”

That insufferable bastard. The list of descriptors you'd use to paint his portrait would stretch longer than the very library you're standing in, and then some. Every time you think you've unraveled his mysteries, he unveils another layer that exposes just how brilliantly twisted he truly is. How charming. How intoxicating.

You loathe him, relish in despising every fiber of his being. Yet you can't deny the fact that he outmaneuvered you, in the most tantalizing manner imaginable.

But still, you attempt to deny it. "That's...that's not..."

He muses. "Isn't it?"

Tom withdraws his hand from your thigh, and almost immediately, you ache for its return, the absence of his touch leaving you yearning. Caught off guard by the tendrils of the charm exerting pressure against your core, teasing over your clit, you squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip to stifle any sounds.

"It appears you have a penchant for challenging me..." his voice is a certain murmur. "It seems the charm knows precisely why.”

All the smugness of a deity himself, a walking, talking colossus among mere mortals. As inevitable as the sunrise each morning. It made you want to bare your teeth at him, but instead, all you could manage was a groan, struggling against the pleasure his charm inflicted upon you.

"I'm not quite certain what you would deem a fitting punishment..." he continues, voice as deep as the depths of your desire. As dark as an all encompassing black hole. "—given the countless ones you've endured in the past months, which have clearly taught you nothing."

You groan again, your head bowing as you gaze down at the tendrils of the enchantment, ensnaring you in the clutches of a man with teeth of diamonds, fingers like razor-sharp claws. It'd been a relentless dance of dominance between you for years, a battle of wills that always seems to end in his favor.

You despise how he effortlessly wields his power over you. How he has so easily read between the lines of your story—knowing precisely the effect he has on your body, knowing exactly what you crave.

You fight back a moan. "Mmmff—fuck..you..."

Tom maneuvers his mouth to your ear, his presence pressing against you from behind, the ghost of his breath caresses your skin as he whispers;

"You wish you could."

Beautiful, insufferable bastard.

"Fuck," you huff through gritted teeth, sweat gathering behind your neck, fingernails biting into your palms as you clench your fists, still battling against the overwhelming pleasure. "Get out of my head.."

You feel a low chuckle resonate against your back, its vibrations stirring something primal within you, his fingers grazing against your side.

"Do you truly believe this is mere manipulation, little snake?" Tom's touch begins to ascend, feather-light and elusive, barely registering against your clothes as he presses closer behind you. "I am intimately acquainted with your desires, darling. I've been privy to them for months." You can almost taste the smugness in his voice. "The truth is fairly simple—you crave me, and you despise yourself for it."

Tom takes a deliberate step back, circling around to stand before you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form. Your breath comes in rapid gasps, your skin flushed with desire, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from him. You yearn for more of him, yet you resist acknowledging it, even to yourself.

It's as though he can see your thoughts, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in. "You'd go to any lengths to avoid admitting it, wouldn't you?"

"Gods—" he's right, and you hate him for it. “Mmmf.”

Tom hums softly, his lips barely suppressing a smirk as he steps closer to you. He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he tilts your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.

"How about we try a simple question?" His dark eyes bore into yours, their depths ablaze with a devilish glint. "Do you wish it to stop?"

You're rendered speechless. The egotistic side of you wants you to say yes—while the other, larger part is consumed with an insatiable hunger for more, for him. The charm swirls over your clit, applying increased pressure against your leggings, causing you to bite down on your bottom lip again to stifle a desperate moan. You couldn't answer him if you tried.

Tom's eyes roam over your face, not willing to miss a thing. "Use your words...tell me what you need..."

The sensation against your clit intensifies further, as if dancing to the rhythm of his words. You can feel his gaze boring into you as the heat between your thighs surges, and you realize you're on the brink of climax. And Tom knows it.

"Fuck..." your hips twitch involuntarily—torn between craving more friction and fleeing from it—your mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. Tom brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, his gaze fixed on his own movements, and you feel yourself unraveling, succumbing to the scorching intensity of his eyes—two dark pools of permanent ink. "Tom...please..."

His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. "Say it."

Shame courses through your veins, searing your skin like molten lava, the prickling sensation drowning you. You're on the verge of climaxing from an enchanted carpet, a manifestation of his spell, and the humiliation threatens to consume you.

"I need you-" you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips in a pitiful plea, desperation sinking its claws into your soul. So close...too close. "Please—please, I—I don't want to cum from this—I..."

Oh, but you do. You most certainly fucking do though the mere thought of admitting it feels like a dagger twisting in your gut. Tom's eyes glint with amusement, his head cocked slightly as he regards you with a faux expression of pity, as artificial as the plastic plants in the common room.

"I've truly made a mess of you, haven't I?" His hand glides down from your face, tracing a path along your neck, lightly grazing over your collarbone. "Tell me what you want from me."

Gods, you ache to strike him—yet crave to kiss him and cry out his name with equal fervour. Your defiance lies shattered, a broken relic at your feet.

You peer up at him, pleading. "Please, Tom, please touch me—I need you..."

A smirk toys at his lips, his fingers slipping under your jaw once more to hold you steady as he leans in closer.

"Touch you?" His voice is like a loaded gun, his fingers the bullets—intent cocked and ready to annihilate, but instead he taunts you, keeps you on edge, pressing the barrel against your temple just to see the look in your eyes. "You want me, the man you so madly fucking detest, to touch you."

You lack the strength to command him to go to hell, but oh, how you wish you did. Just to witness his reaction, to see what he’d do next. Despite his appalling self-assurance, you can see behind the mask—see how he is genuinely taken aback by your submission, as though he never expected you to surrender, to confess your desire for him.

"Tom, please..." you beg, trembling with anticipation, your impending climax a rapidly swelling tide. "I want you...I want you to make me cum—you-you win."

Tom pulls back from your ear to regard you, his gaze fully focused this time. He takes in the sight of you—trembling, panting, wide-eyed before him—his expression conveying complete contentment in simply observing you as you struggle to persuade him to touch you.

That familiar taunting grin lingers upon his lips, uncontainable, and you know he's relishing this moment far too much.

"I know," he says softly, his thumb tracing your jawline as his hand falls to your neck. "I always do, don't I, little doll..."

His voice drifts over you like smoke, thick and intoxicating, wrapping around you in a dizzying embrace. The intensity of the charm wavers slightly, granting you a momentary reprieve to catch your breath as Tom leans in, so close that you can feel his exhales caressing your lips. Your head spins, every sense overwhelmed by his presence.

"But you deserve this—" he continues, his voice a rumble like thunder through your veins. "—you deserve to be humiliated like this, to break for me without my hands ever touching you." His mouth hovers just millimeters from yours, taunting you with its nearness. "This is your punishment, little doll...and you're going to take it."

The pleasure between your thighs swells once more as the charm resumes its sinuous movements and you can't suppress the moan that escapes your lips, mingling with the groan of utter frustration. All you can do is stare at him.

Tom hums, amused. "Because you revel in it, don't you? Being a little disobedient brat..."

Your eyes glaze over, your pulse soaring as Tom's breath once again brushes against your parted lips. The ache for him is almost unbearable, as if he's injected something into your veins, rendering you unable to function without him. It's maddening, in the most exquisite way imaginable.

"You're-ohh-fuck.." your voice comes out as a moan, low and breathy, the words trailing off as the charm adds pressure to your clit, stars dancing at the edges of your vision. "Gods..."

"There we go, just as I like you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your jaw. "Unable to unleash that pretty little mouth. Perfectly shattered for me."

You clench around nothing, yearning to scoff. "Mmmf—never..."

Tom chuckles at your feeble attempt at defiance, though the sound carries a hollow, half-hearted quality. You both know you've passed the point of return. His fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, until his palm cradles your face, his thumb brushing gently across your lips.

"Is that so?" He murmurs softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "Well then, go ahead...let that pretty mouth run wild...prove that your defiance is more than just an act..."

The way he wields his power has you teetering on the brink of madness, and you despise the fact that you've revelled in every torturous moment of it. You long to snap back, to wield your tongue, to curse him—anything to grasp onto even a shred of control. But every fucking word is a struggle, every moment not focused on your breathing is an achievement.

You squeeze your eyes shut, channeling all the energy you have left. "You...you're such an...arrogant—mmf—I...I hate you..."

"Mhm. You hate me." He cooes. "And yet, here you are..." his voice is as soft as feathers, as warm as the morning sun, the unmistakable taunt laced within. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping between your teeth. "...falling apart for a mere spell, begging for me, for my touch..."

You feel Tom's thumb pressing against your tongue as you whimper. You attempt to speak, to convey something, but instead, you find yourself instinctively sucking lightly against his thumb in response.

"Mm." Tom's brow lifts slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He seems pleased with your reaction. "A much better use for that mouth."

You're beyond caring about the way he's taunting you, how he's systematically humiliated and debased you, stripping away every ounce of defiance without ever even touching your skin. Tremors wrack your body from the overwhelming sensations, rendering coherent thought nearly impossible.

Your head lolls to the side, constrained by his hand, as waves of pleasure crash over you, your climax approaching rapidly and dangerously.

"Fuck-I'm..." you manage to squeak, his thumb still nestled in your mouth. "Mmmf-"

Tom's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches you unravel, his thumb pressing deeper into your mouth, a silent command for you to keep sucking. The enchantment continues its relentless assault—tightening around you, swirling over your clit and amplifying the pleasure until it's almost unbearable.

"Go on," he murmurs, his voice a blend of silk and steel. "Let go for me. Show me just how much you need this."

Your body trembles violently, your muscles tensing as the climax rips through you. You can't hold back the moan that escapes around his thumb, your entire being consumed by the intensity of the release that you've desperately fought off for so long. Tom's grip on your jaw tightens, keeping you in place, ensuring you can't escape the exquisite torment he's orchestrated.

"There it is," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Perfectly broken, just for me."

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it's almost painful, his thumb buried in your mouth muffling any sounds of pleasure that threaten to escape. The evidence of your desire pools between your thighs, your embarrassment stripping you raw as you slowly begin to return to reality, the spell gradually losing its grip around you.

You struggle to find your breath, your thoughts, your sanity, but Tom doesn't grant you much reprieve before he's tugging your head back towards his, forcing you to focus on him.

"You should see yourself." He withdraws his thumb from your mouth, trailing the remnants of saliva over your cheek as he assesses you. "You're a vision."

You try to summon the strength to argue, to reclaim some semblance of defiance, but the attempt dies in your throat, unable to comprehend the fact that those words sounded like a fucking compliment. Your body is trembling with the aftershocks of your climax, and you can only manage a soft whimper. He looks at you as if you are his masterpiece, perfectly crafted and beautifully ruined.

"Remember this, little snake," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Remember how easily I can break you. How much you crave it."

You exhale slowly as you feel the charm dissipate, the carpet settling back into its rightful place at your feet. Tom's hand falls away from your face, but the tension between you remains palpable, neither of you daring to make a move.

"And as for the book," he adds, his eyes flashing to the bookshelf behind you, the one home to the Occlumency text you borrowed. "You may want to keep it. You're not nearly as skilled as you think you are."

And with that, he smooths out his uniform and strides past you without a second glance.

thank you to my babies @doremimosasol and @pizzaapeteer for proofreading this. means the world to me🖤

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aeralux · 7 months ago

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"Shadow of Your Past" - Aegon Targaryen

Summary: Long ago, your heart belonged to your past betrothed, Cregan Stark. Those times are long gone, as you now reside in King's Landing with your newborn babe and doting husband, Aegon. However seeing your wolf after all these years makes feelings come up in unexpected ways, making Aegon question your love for him.

Warnings: slight angst; Cregan is the other man (I'm so sorry, Cregan girlies); slight love triangle; jealous and sad Aegon; happy ending; he took you from your home tho; Helaena is dead (gets mentioned once); slight Cregan x Reader

Words: 2.9k

Notes: This was based on an anonymous ask. I changed it a tad bit but kept the original idea. First time ever written something adjacent to angst or fluff.

In the frigid lands of Winterfell, your destiny had long been sealed - to become a Lady of the North, wed to a formidable Lord from the North. Raised within Winterfell, you had been groomed from birth for this inevitable union. This future seemed as immutable as the unyielding winters that gripped the region.

Yet fate, it seemed, had other plans. When Cregan's beloved wife tragically passed, leaving him a widower with their young son Rickon, you found yourself pulled into their lives like the warm embrace of a dwelling fire. A fast friendship blossomed between yourself and Cregan, gradually kindled into the smouldering embers of new love. The whole of Winterfell looked on fondly as the once-bereaved Cregan's heart defrosted in the radiant presence of his new intended bride.

However, the fragile promise of this love was soon overshadowed by the towering curiosity of King Aegon II Targaryen. Whispers of the Northern beauty's unparalleled loveliness and grace had spread like wildfire through the realm. Bewitched by the tales, Aegon stated that this virtuous woman would be his, consequences be damned.

With a heavy heart, you bid farewell to the only home you had ever known and the love you had so fleetingly tasted, bound for the regal prisons of the Red Keep.

Within the crimson towers of King's Landing, a surprise awaited - Aegon's children were nothing like the spoiled, bratty offspring you had envisioned. Instead, they were kind, generous souls, undoubtedly a legacy of their late, beloved mother Helaena. Though resigned to your fate as a mere royal broodmare, you found yourself powerless against the innocent charms of the young princes and princesses, who swiftly embraced you as their "mummy."

Unprepared for the tenderness that blossomed between this makeshift family, King Aegon too found his calloused heart unexpectedly stirred. What had begun as a selfish pursuit of beauty transformed into a spirited courtship of genuine affection. Though still haunted by the ghost of your lost love in the North, over time you developed strong feelings for Aegon, especially after welcoming your first son, Prince Rhaevar. As you embraced your role as mother to Aegon's children and grew into your position as Queen of Westeros, you could not deny the sincerity of Aegon's keenness.

To commemorate the beginning of this new chapter in your life, Aegon declared that a grand tournament would be held in your honour on your name day. The air was thick with excitement, and the vibrant colours of the banners fluttered against a clear blue sky. Laughter and music filled the atmosphere as noblemen and commoners gathered to celebrate.

Yet, even amidst the revelry, shadows of the past loomed large. Your heart quickened as you caught sight of him—Cregan Stark, surrounded by his loyal men, his presence commanding and undeniable. The moment your eyes met, time seemed to stand still. Memories of stolen glances and whispered promises flooded your mind, overwhelming you with emotions long since buried.

In a surge of reckless abandon, you broke through the crowd, propelled by an all-consuming longing. The world around you faded away as you ran into his arms, feeling the warmth of his embrace envelop you like a familiar, cherished blanket. His scent—the wild, crisp scent of the North—stirred something profound within you.

As he pulled you closer, old feelings resurfaced with a ferocity that took your breath away. The way he held you felt both achingly familiar and electrifyingly new. You could hear your heart thundering in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the festival, as you melted into the safety of his arms. In that moment, surrounded by laughter and celebration, it felt as if you had returned to a lost piece of yourself, igniting a fire that you thought had long cooled.

"Cregan," you whispered into the thick furs of his coat, your breath mingling with the cold air that surrounded you. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this moment. Looking up at him, your heart raced as you were met with those familiar, loving grey eyes. The same eyes that had haunted your dreams for years apart.

He seemed taken aback by your sudden rush towards him, a mixture of surprise and warmth flooding his expression. You could see the shadows of longing and concern etched on his face as he stepped back slightly as if he were afraid that if he embraced you too tightly, he would shatter the fragile connection that still tethered your hearts together.

"I missed you," Cregan managed to say, his voice barely more than a whisper. A soft smile crept onto his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made your heart flutter. "You've changed," he continued, his gaze roaming over you with awe and affection. "You've become a woman."

A blush crept to your cheeks as you recalled the innocence of your past, the days spent dreaming of knightly heroes and fairy-tale endings. "And you," you replied, tinged with affection and sadness, "you've become even more captivating."

His eyes darkened for a moment, and the smile faltered. “Yet here we are, in a world that insists we belong to different stories,” he said, his voice heavy with unvoiced thoughts. “I should never have allowed myself to come here."

You stepped closer, drawn to him irresistibly, the warmth radiating from his body beckoning you like a moth to flame. “You really think so?” Your voice firm yet laced with sorrow.

Cregan shook his head slowly, the weight of reality settling between you like a thick fog. “You know I don't. But we are not in the North anymore.” His voice was a gentle storm, swirling with complex emotions. “You have a life, a kingdom. And I… I am but a shadow of your past.”

Tears welled in your eyes at the bittersweet truth of his words. “A shadow who holds my heart,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of longing. “I thought of you every day, every night.”

He looked down, his fingers running through the thick fur of his coat as if seeking comfort. “Then let me be the one to give you the freedom you deserve. I won’t hold you back. I won't hold you back from loving your husband, your kids.”

You reached out, your hand brushing against his, a soft spark igniting between your fingertips. “But it is you I dreamed of for so long,” you insisted fiercely, pressing your body against his. “You are the one I dreamed of, Cregan. You are my heartbeat.”

His head snapped up, catching your gaze with an intensity that made the air crackle around you. “And yet, we are bound by what we cannot change. If only the fates were kinder…”

You both stood there, worlds apart yet painfully close, the silence wrapping around you like a delicate embrace. Finally, Cregan stepped back, his heart heavy but resolute. “Go back to your life, my queen. But remember this moment. Remember us… even if we cannot be together.”

With that, he turned away, every step echoing with unfulfilled promises and lingering affection, leaving you standing in the cold, the weight of your love a bittersweet reminder that some stories, despite their depth, are never meant to unfold.

It felt like a shard of glass had been driven into your heart for the second time, twisting painfully with every thought of Cregan. The memories flooded back, uninvited and relentless, like a storm you couldn’t escape. You stood there, grappling with the truth he had laid bare before you. It wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was the realization that he was right. You had built a new life, filled with the laughter of children and the warmth of a husband who loved you deeply. Yet, no matter how hard you tried to bury those feelings, your first love left a mark that time could not erase.

You remembered the way Cregan had looked at you, that spark in his eyes igniting something profound within you — a connection that felt electric and raw. The ache of what once was gnawed at your insides, threatening to unravel the carefully woven fabric of your current life. You wanted to forget, to silence the inner turmoil that his memory stirred, but how could you, when a piece of your heart belonged forever to him? The struggle was suffocating, a cruel reminder that some loves cling to your soul no matter how far you run.

The icy reality of Aegon's presence loomed heavily over King's Landing as he stood on the balcony, his piercing gaze fixed upon the tournament and the people. The vibrant colours of the celebration below only intensified his resentful fury, each laugh and cheer from the crowd grating against his simmering emotions. How dare that barbarian come so close to his sweet wife, daring to touch her with such intimacy? The very thought ignited a wildfire of jealousy that blazed in his chest.

He knew he had snatched you away from Cregan, that steadfast Stark who had cherished you. But Aegon was the King, a crown heavy with authority resting upon his brow. He convinced himself that he could do as he pleased, but the sight of you laughing, your eyes sparkling with delight as you spoke to another man, felt like salt in an open wound.

Aegon raised the ornate golden goblet to his lips, the richness of the deep crimson wine swirling within—a stark contrast to the bitterness seeping into his soul. The velvety liquid flowed smoothly down his throat, but it did little to quell the storm raging inside him. Rage coursed through his veins like a volatile poison, making him feel as if his heart might burst against the confines of his chest.

From the intensity of his stare, one could almost feel the air crackle with tension; any Stark worth their salt should have sensed it, and should have begun preparing for the inevitable conflict that was brewing. He envisioned himself unleashing the full fury of his wrath, flames licking at every corner of the city, consuming anything and anyone that dared to come between him and his queen. The jealousy, sharp and relentless, gnawed at him, and with each passing moment, it became more apparent that he would not let this slight stand unchallenged.

Aegon stalked across the polished wooden floor, his long strides echoing in the grand hall as he approached your still figure in the stands. The sound of his boots clinking sharply against the wood pierced the air, drawing attention from those nearby. You turned around swiftly, the remnants of tears shimmering in your eyes like morning dew. With a quick motion, you wiped your cheeks, summoning every ounce of strength to mask your vulnerability. A shaky smile broke through, holding onto the semblance of normalcy.

“Aegon, my love,” you called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, quivering with emotion.

His eyes narrowed, a storm brewing beneath the surface. “Do not play games with me,” he snarled, the low growl of his voice sending a chill down your spine. “What did he say to you? I demand to know, right this instant!” The intensity of his accusation was palpable, rage and jealousy intertwining as he loomed closer.

You took a small step back, startled by the ferocity of his words. “It was nothing, truly. He only greeted me, husband,” you stammered, your heart racing as his gaze bore into you, searching for the truth amidst the tension of the crowd’s watchful eyes.

“Nothing?” Aegon scoffed, throwing his arms wide in a dramatic display of disbelief. “You think I would believe such an absurd claim? What man merely greets a lady of the court without ulterior motives? You know better!” His voice was a fervent mix of jealousy and protectiveness, each syllable dripping with accusation.

“I assure you, Aegon, it was merely a courteous exchange,” you replied, striving for calm amidst the chaos swirling within. “You know how these formalities are.”

“Formalities?” he echoed, his tone laced with sarcasm. “You may call it that, but I see a man with intentions far from noble. Do not underestimate my concern for you, for your well-being—my beloved wife.”

You watched as the tension washed over him, the play of emotions battling within those stormy eyes. “Please, my king, I ask you to trust me,” you implored, reaching out to touch his arm gently, hoping to quell the tempest within him. “There is nothing more between us than mere civility.”

His gaze softened slightly at your touch, but the underlying fury simmered beneath the surface. “Civility, they call it, yet it feels like a betrayal,” he murmured, clenching his jaw. “I would not let any man tarnish what belongs to me.”

“Aegon,” you said, your voice steadier now, “I belong to you, and only you. Let us not allow jealousy to poison what we hold sacred.”

The tension hung thick in the air, a palpable force that seemed to wrap around you both, suffocating yet electric with unspoken words. Aegon stood before you, his posture rigid, an imposing figure clad in regal attire that glinted with the weight of his title. His expression morphed swiftly from blazing rage to sharp realization, as if the realization itself cut deeper than any dagger.

"You still harbour feelings for him, don't you?" His voice was cold, each word deliberate, imbued with a bitterness that struck at your very core. His eyes, usually filled with warmth, now gleamed with a piercing scrutiny that threatened to unravel the very fabric of your devotion.

Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat of panic and despair. "No! No, of course not!" You exclaimed, an edge of desperation creeping into your tone. "I only love you and our children. You must believe me!" The plea dripped from your lips, each word a frantic attempt to bridge the chasm of doubt that had formed between you. You nearly sank to your knees, the guilt eating you alive.

Aegon’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, a devilish glint in his sapphire eyes. "Do you even love me? Or has this all been a grand farce?" His voice, while playful in tone, carried an undercurrent of pain that clutched at your heart with icy fingers. The regal confidence he usually commanded wavered, revealing the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface.

Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, began to stream down your cheeks, trailing down to your chin. You could feel the weight of your emotions, raw and unfiltered. "Of course, I love you, Aegon!" you cried, your voice cracking under the strain of your sincerity. "You must know that. Every part of my soul is bound to you!" The desperation washed over you, carrying with it the echoes of your commitment, louder than any accusation.

Aegon’s gaze softened for a fleeting moment, the familiar warmth flickering beneath the icy facade, before insecurity took hold once more. “Then why does he haunt the corners of your heart?” he challenged, crossing his arms, the royal crown upon his brow seeming heavier than ever.

You took a shaky breath, the air thick with tension and longing. "He is a shadow from the past. But you, Aegon," you implored, your eyes locking onto his, "you are my present and my future. Please, don’t let envy poison what we have built together. Can you not see how much I need you?" The words tumbled out, a cascade of heartache and fervour, hoping to illuminate the depths of your true feelings.

Aegon’s expression faltered for a brief heartbeat, the storm in his eyes giving way to a vulnerability that he rarely let show. “You swear it?” he whispered, his voice softer now, laced with hope and disbelief.

“I swear it,” you replied fervently, your heart laid bare before him, an offering of unwavering love despite the tempest that had arisen between you. “You are my king, my love, and the father of my children. I would never betray you.”

At that moment, the air shimmered with unspoken oaths, and you both stood on the ridge, caught between jealousy and the desperate hope for reprieve.

Aegon's face softened, the storm in his eyes receding like clouds parting after a storm. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks. The tenderness of his touch sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the love that had grown between you over the years.

"My queen," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "Forgive me. I should believe you over anyone." He pulled you close, enveloping you in his strong arms. The familiar scent of him - smoke and spice - filled your senses, grounding you in the present.

You melted into his embrace, feeling the rapid beating of his heart against your cheek. "There's nothing to forgive," you whispered, your fingers curling into the rich fabric of his tunic. "We've weathered storms before."

"But I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Not to him, not to anyone," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Gently, you placed your hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palm. "You won't lose me, Aegon. I am yours, now and always."

His eyes closed at your touch, leaning into your hand as if it were a lifeline. When he opened them again, they shimmered with unshed tears. "I love you," he breathed, the words carrying the weight.

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odileeclipse · 17 days ago

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In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 30

<<<Previous Next>>>

You leaned over the table with an intensity that rivaled pre-exam week, ink smudged on your fingertips and the edge of your sleeve. Parchment covered in hasty scrawl sat in front of you, each paragraph dripping with formal logic, magical ethics, a dash of heartfelt plea, and a surprising amount of literary flourish.

You slid the page toward Chai Latte Cookie first. “Alright. I need you to… Chai-ify it. Make it poetic or profound or something.”

Chai, practically vibrating with glee, took the parchment in both hands. “Oh, yes. Let me just elevate this rhetoric.”

She pulled a quill from behind her ear like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “I’m going to add a line about the transformation of truth through form. And maybe a metaphor about moonlight as mutable identity.”

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at her. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Chai said, flourishing her quill. “But it sounds so convincing.”

You chuckled as she scribbled. “Make sure it still sounds like me though. I don’t want him to think I was possessed mid-sentence.”

Chai looked up with a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it your voice. Just slightly more dramatic.”

After she was satisfied, you passed the updated version across the table to Earl Grey Cookie.

He scanned it with surgical precision, eyes flicking left to right, pausing only to make corrections with his fountain pen that seemed designed to make every edit sting with dignity.

“Your thesis is strong,” he murmured. “But tighten the second paragraph. You’re leaning too much into emotional leverage. Balance it with academic precedent.”

“You say that like he isn’t already emotionally compromised,” you muttered.

Earl didn’t look up. “All the more reason to prove you’re serious.”

He handed it off with a final flick. “The final paragraph is surprisingly elegant. That must’ve been Chai.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, twirling a strand of her hair.

Then it was Hazelnut’s turn.

You slid the parchment over, watching as he read through it at a pace both cautious and skeptical. He frowned at a few spots but said nothing until the end.

Finally, he leaned back and scratched his chin. “Alright… it’s convincing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Hazelnut shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but if someone handed me a scroll like this, I’d be too impressed to say no. It’s half spell theory, half love letter to magical curiosity.”

“That’s the vibe I was going for,” you said, relieved.

Earl nodded. “Then I’d say it’s ready.”

You looked down at the page revised, refined, and full of lines like

Let this transformation not be a spectacle, but a symbol that even truth, immutable and enduring, has the capacity for grace in change.

…Yeah. You were definitely not getting out of this without compromising some dignity.

Chai grinned. “So… when are you giving it to him?”

You swallowed.

“Tomorrow.”

Your friends exchanged glances.

“Stars help him,” Hazelnut said dryly.

“Stars help you,” Chai added, practically glowing. “Because if he says yes… I need to be there.”

You covered your face with both hands, already regretting everything.

But also?

Kind of excited.

You peeked through your fingers, face still buried in your hands, and muttered, “I think he’d be a lot less convinced if there were an audience.”

Chai immediately gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “You’re not going to let me witness history?”

“Do you want him to say yes or turn into mist and vanish?” you deadpanned, lifting your head.

Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled. “They have a point.”

“Exactly!” You gestured toward him. “If I walk in there with all three of you breathing down his neck from the doorway, he’s going to think it’s a prank or some kind of social experiment.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea calmly. “It is a social experiment. But your hypothesis requires solitude.”

Chai groaned dramatically. “Fine. But if he does it if you have to tell me everything.”

“I will write a report. With citations.”

Chai brightened instantly. “Deal.”

Hazelnut smirked. “Just don’t die from embarrassment when you hand it to him.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a line. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take… for science.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “And unhinged curiosity.”

“And possibly love,” Chai added with a wink.

You groaned. “I hate it here.”

They all laughed, and Chai nudged your arm affectionately, you couldn’t help but smile again, nervous, yes, but genuinely excited.

Because the scroll in your bag might just be your most ambitious experiment yet. You twirled your spoon slowly in your cup, watching the last of the honey swirl into your tea before lifting your gaze, more hesitant than before.

The parchment containing your “essay” sat folded neatly in your bag, safe and final. But the laughter had settled, and the buzz of the dining hall had faded into the quiet hum of content students and clinking cutlery. For a moment, your thoughts shifted somewhere else somewhere more uncertain.

“…Hey,” you said softly, glancing around the table. “Can I ask something kind of serious?”

Chai leaned forward immediately. “Of course.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up mid-sip, nodding once.

But your eyes turned to Earl Grey Cookie.

“Do you think this is… love?” you asked carefully. “And I don’t mean that in a sad way I’m not trying to self-deprecate. I just… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

Earl Grey froze mid-reach for his napkin, caught completely off guard for what might’ve been the first time ever.

You continued before he could speak. “I mean, how do you know if it’s too soon? Like, maybe it’s just care. Or affection. Or something like love but not really it.”

He stared at you, brows furrowing slightly not in judgment, but in rare, genuine contemplation.

You gestured vaguely in the air, trying to explain. “I’m not unhappy. We’re… partners now, I think. He hasn’t said anything overly poetic since, which is weirdly comforting. It’s not grand gestures or dramatic confessions, just… quiet. Natural. Like we’re two close friends who occasionally kiss and study theory together. And that feels normal. But should it?”

The table was silent now your friends watching, not with pity, but with care. No one laughed or brushed it off.

“I just… don’t know if it’s supposed to feel like more. Or maybe it’s supposed to feel like this. Like something calm. Familiar. Comfortable. And I don’t know if that’s love or something else.”

You turned back to Earl Grey, eyes steady. “You always give me the most concise answers. So. Do you know what love feels like?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he set his napkin aside.

“I think,” he said, voice softer than usual, “that love doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it grows in quiet hours and shared routines. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s gentle. But in all its forms, it’s not about how much it feels like something.”

He looked at you directly.

“It’s about whether it makes you more yourself. Whether you feel safer, more curious, more seen. Not just when it’s easy, but also when it’s hard. When you're not at your best. If someone still chooses to understand you in those moments, even when it would be easier not to… that might be love.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

Earl leaned back again, adjusting his sleeve. “But even then, love is not static. It changes. Grows. What it feels like now may not be what it feels like in a year.”

Chai exhaled, leaning her chin on her palm. “That was… beautiful.”

Hazelnut frowned a little. “I mean, yeah. I guess I agree.”

You sat there, letting his words settle in the space between your ribs.

Not an answer. But maybe something better.

A starting point. You stared at Earl Grey Cookie, the words he had just spoken echoing in your chest like a soft chime struck in the heart of a quiet cathedral. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“Earl…” you murmured, eyes wide, “how did you word that so beautifully?”

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, he stared off slightly to the side, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, a distant look creeping into his normally unreadable expression. The tea in his cup had long since cooled, but his fingers remained wrapped around it like a tether to the present.

“…I thought once I felt it,” he said, his voice low not quite guarded, but measured.

Not for your sake.

For his.

You felt your heart still, your own breath quieter now as his words unraveled something more vulnerable than you had expected.

“Of course love changes,” he continued, almost to himself. “That’s what makes it so impossible to define. It grows, recedes, reshapes… But I know what it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

Chai, for once, didn’t fill the space with teasing. She just watched him with the same awe-struck softness you felt creeping into your own chest.

Hazelnut Biscotti lowered his gaze slightly, respectful.

You didn’t ask who it had been. You didn’t have to. Somewhere between the distance in his voice and the strength in his words… you knew the answer wasn’t meant to be named.

It just was.

And that was enough.

You smiled gently at him, not pressing further.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded once, composed again, the moment sealed away behind his usual mask but not gone.

Not forgotten.

And somehow… it made the question in your heart feel a little less impossible. The conversation had drifted, as all good ones did softly, like mist curling away from morning tea.

No dramatic shifts. No clean cuts between topics or time. Just shared laughter, the slow stacking of empty plates, the warmth of familiarity, and the comfort of being surrounded by those who knew when to speak and when to simply be.

Somewhere between Earl Grey’s quiet reflection and Hazelnut’s reluctant second dessert, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the dining hall’s stone archways. The air had taken on that dimmer, cooler quality that meant class hours had long passed, and free time had become scarce once more.

The anticipation of tomorrow left a sour taste in your mouth. You didn’t think anything bad would come out of it but who knows. The next day was like any other and the hours seemed to slip away from you. Even during lunch, you were absent, caught up in your thoughts that seemed endless. Of course, that didn’t go unnoticed by your friends, which is why Chai insisted they drop you off with the sage himself. Something about ‘Knights can’t go without their steeds”.

And now, here you were.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quiet again, washed in lantern light and the faint rustling of ancient banners. You stood before the carved door you knew too well, parchment scroll clutched in both hands like it was sacred, dangerous, or perhaps… deeply personal.

Chai Latte Cookie bounced on her heels beside you, practically glowing. “Okay, so remember shoulders back, voice steady, don’t crumple the scroll in panic”

“I won’t,” you muttered, eyes locked on the door. “Probably.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised an eyebrow. “If he doesn’t agree, I’ll eat the dining hall’s jelly meatloaf for a week.”

Earl Grey Cookie offered a dignified nod. “You’ve edited it thoroughly. It’s a compelling argument.”

Chai smiled softly, squeezing your arm. “And it’s very you. If he says no… it’s not because it’s not good. It just means he’s being cryptic and annoying. You’ve got this.”

You took a slow breath, nodding. “Right.”

This wasn’t just an essay.

It was your most current fascination with him. One that started with curiosity, twisted into wonder, and now shimmered somewhere on the horizon between truth and vulnerability.

You weren’t sure what he’d say.

But you were ready to find out.

You turned toward the door.

Looked towards your friends for courage.

And knocked three times.

You heard his voice from the other side of the door smooth, composed, as always.

“Come in.”

You stepped through the threshold before your nerves had the chance to revolt, before your heart could second-guess the weight of the scroll in your hands or the practiced way you had folded it three times to make it feel more formal than it was. You moved past the threshold, into the warm glow of parchment and starlight that always seemed to fill his office.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked up from his notes, one hand still curled around a quill, the other resting near an open book. His gaze lifted to you, curious but not unkind his expression expectant.

But before he could say anything, you moved.

With every ounce of the determination your friends had just poured into you, you strode forward and held out the scroll between both hands.

He blinked.

Your expression was steady. Unflinching.

Like you were handing him something that could very well decide the future of magic itself.

He set his quill down with slow precision and took the scroll from your hands. The parchment barely made a sound between your fingers, but in your chest, your heart thudded like it echoed across stone halls.

Then, without a word, you turned on your heel.

And marched to the chair across from his desk.

But instead of sitting, you bent down and grabbed the legs of the chair with both hands.

You began to drag.

The wood groaned in protest as you struggled to maneuver it around the polished corner of the desk and just as you were halfway through gritting your teeth and about to commit to dragging it all the way-

It moved.

Soundlessly. Cleanly. As though the stone beneath it had turned to air.

You blinked. Your hands hovered in the air for a moment before you looked up.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood beside his desk now, parchment scroll in one hand, a long-suffering sigh escaping through his nose.

He didn’t say a word.

You offered a grin and settled into the chair now neatly aligned beside his, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Thank you. You're getting faster at that.”

“I was trying to save the floor.”

“I was trying to make a point,” you replied, folding your hands with faux dignity. “That this is a co-investigator level interaction.”

He arched a brow, gaze lowering to the scroll.

You nudged him slightly with your elbow. “Now read it carefully. Every word. Analyze it like it’s critical spell theory. This is very important.”

He looked at you again, eyes narrowing slightly with a glimmer of suspicion. “For science, I assume?”

“Exactly,” you said solemnly. “For science.”

He exhaled softly.

Then, without another word, he began to unroll the scroll.

You sat beside him, doing your best to appear calm, collected, and completely unaware of the fact that you were sitting next to the most unreadable person in the entire Academy with a ticking time bomb of magical curiosity in his hands.

This was fine.

You were fine.

You just… might pass out a little.

But for science? Worth it. You folded your hands in your lap to stop yourself from fidgeting, but it didn’t help much. Your knee still bounced the smallest bit, your shoulders tense despite your best efforts.

There was something deeply embarrassing about having someone read your work always had been. Even when it wasn’t personal.

Even when it was just a simple analysis on mana circuits or historical transmutations, there was always that flicker of vulnerability. That tiny voice whispering, What if it’s not good enough? What if they think it’s silly?

But this?

This wasn’t just coursework.

This was you asking the Sage of Truth to shapeshift.

This was every spiraling thought and late-night curiosity packed neatly into metaphors, magic theory, and if you were being honest at least two and a half emotionally compromised flourishes courtesy of Chai Latte Cookie.

And he was reading it.

Right next to you.

His eyes moved slowly down the page, calm and steady. His posture unchanged, expression unreadable. Not a twitch of an eyebrow. Not a quirk of his lips. Just the soft rustle of parchment as he unrolled a bit more, and the occasional pause that made your heart leap into your throat.

You tried to steal a glance at his face just a peek.

But there was nothing.

Not disapproval. Not amusement. Just… silence.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud your own thoughts were. Every second felt like it stretched too long, too wide.

Still, you waited.

Because despite the silence, despite the burn of embarrassment crawling up your neck… you wanted him to see it.

Because this wasn’t just for science.

This was yours.

And right now, that had to be enough. You waited.

Not the impatient kind of waiting, the fidgeting, time-checking, foot-tapping sort but the quiet, breath-held kind. The kind of stillness that only happened when something delicate was unfolding, and you didn’t want to move in case it shattered.

You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat as he reached the end of the scroll. His eyes lingered on the final line Chai’s idea, something about “truth reshaping itself not to deceive, but to reveal what curiosity dares to ask.” It felt too dramatic when you wrote it. It still did now.

And then he looked at you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just regarded you with that steady, deep gaze mismatched eyes so calm they made the silence feel like part of the conversation.

You braced yourself.

“This is…” He paused, folding the parchment carefully with deliberate hands. “Remarkably structured.”

You blinked. “Wait structured?” You knew it was but to hear it from him was another thing.

“A logical progression. Efficient use of magical precedent. Clear intent.” He placed the scroll down on the desk with reverence, as though it were a thesis submitted to a higher council.

You stared at him, unblinking. “That’s all you got from it?”

He turned to you fully now, his expression softening just slightly.

“And charming,” he added.

Your heart skipped.

“I did read every word. Including the parts where you tried to convince me this was purely academic,” he said, lips curling just faintly.

You opened your mouth to object but he held up a hand.

“No need to deny it. I appreciate the effort. And the… scholarly fervor.” He leaned back a little in his chair, gaze thoughtful. “You’ve always been curious. But this kind of curiosity is… different. More personal.”

You looked down, fingers twitching in your lap. “Well, yeah. I guess… I just wanted to see. To know. It’s not like I’d publish a paper on it or anything.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I am not dismissing the request.”

Your head snapped up. “Wait, really?”

His smile was small. But it was real.

“I’m merely considering my terms.”

You gawked. “Terms?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Surely, you didn’t expect something like this to be without cost.”

You blinked. “Are you saying I have to pay you to shapeshift?”

“Not in gold,” he mused. “But perhaps in kind. One trade of curiosity for another.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You huffed, slouching in your seat. “I can’t believe you’re making this into a negotiation.”

He raised a brow. “It’s what scholars do.”

You exhaled sharply… but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite yourself.

“Fine,” you said. “But I want it noted that this began with you withholding cosmic-level shapeshifting powers and me just wanting to observe.”

“And now,” he said softly, “we’re here. At the edge of something new.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet beat.

And, just beneath your breath, you said, “I can live with that.”

You leaned in a little, eyes narrowing not with suspicion, but with the kind of sharpened curiosity that always surfaced when he dangled something just out of reach. It was like he’d placed a rare tome on the top shelf and was waiting to see if you’d dare climb for it.

“…Alright,” you said, voice low but certain. “What are your terms?”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked almost too pleased. Not smug. Not condescending. Just… quietly, profoundly satisfied, like he’d known you would ask from the moment you handed him the scroll.

He folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression measured but still touched with that unreadable warmth that always seemed to creep in when he thought you weren’t looking.

“My terms,” he repeated slowly, “are quite simple.”

You raised a brow. “Simple for you or for me?”

He inclined his head, ignoring the jab entirely.

“One; You must allow me to ask a question of equal weight.”

You blinked. “That’s… vague.”

“Precisely,” he said, tone maddeningly light. “You may not know when I’ll ask. Or what it will be.”

“So you’re setting a trap.”

“I’m offering balance.”

You gave him a long look. “Fine. One mysterious, possibly ominous question to be determined later. What else?”

“Two…” He reached for a quill, idly spinning it between his fingers. “You must promise not to run.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I run?”

He glanced at you not with teasing, not with challenge. Just… something steadier. Something deeper.

“Because,” he said softly, “when truth is given form, it often changes the one who sought it.”

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest tightened just a little.

Still, you nodded. “Okay. I won’t run.”

He considered you, as if weighing whether to believe you.

Then, slowly, he nodded once in return.

“That’s it?” you asked, your voice quiet now. “Just those two things?”

“Is that not enough?”

You hesitated then exhaled.

“…No. It’s fair.”

He said nothing for a moment.

Then leaned in just slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then the terms are accepted.”

And somewhere, beneath all the words exchanged between you, a quiet agreement settled. Not signed in ink or blood but in trust.

And maybe something a little closer to wonder. You stared at him, your curiosity prickling again, even sharper now that you’d agreed to his cryptic little bargain.

“…What is it you wish to know?” you asked, voice steady but soft. “If I’m agreeing to answer one question of equal weight… then what is it you’re so eager to ask?”

You expected him to deflect. Maybe lean back in his chair, say something evasive like in time or you’ll know when it matters. Maybe arch a brow and smirk like he so often did when you wandered too close to truths he wasn’t ready to name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you.

And then

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

That stopped you.

You blinked. “You… don’t know?”

He shook his head, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I will.”

You tilted your head, wary. “That’s a little unnerving.”

“I could lie,” he offered, lips curling slightly.

“Please don’t. You’re the last person I need lying to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You sat back, the weight of that truth settling into your chest like something warm and strangely grounding. There was no game here. No dramatic setup. Just honesty clear, rare, and a little too vulnerable if you thought about it for too long.

You looked down at your hands, thumbs brushing over each other.

“And when you do figure out the question?”

“I’ll ask it.”

“And I’ll have to answer.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

You met his gaze again, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I hope it’s something good.”

“It will be,” he said, and somehow it felt like a promise not of comfort or safety, but of knowing. Of being seen in a way that went past observation and into belief.

You nodded once.

And sat there beside him, heart full of stars and questions. You rested your elbow on the desk, cheek in your hand, still watching him carefully half wary, half fascinated. The scroll between you was no longer just a scroll. It was a pact. One sealed with curiosity and trust, and maybe a little too much emotional investment for your comfort.

“…So,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “does that mean I’ll only get to see you shapeshift after you ask your mysterious life-altering question?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took his time of course he did fingers trailing lightly along the edge of the parchment, as if rereading your words in silence.

You waited, trying not to fidget.

Eventually, he spoke, voice calm. “That depends.”

“On?”

His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“On whether I think you’re ready to see me like that.”

Your breath hitched.

“…Like what?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “As something unfamiliar. As something outside the image you’ve grown used to.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in his tone.

“I don’t want to unsettle you,” he added, more gently now. “That’s not the point of this. You asked out of curiosity. But if I do this, if I show you a version of myself that’s entirely unlike what you’ve known… I want you to understand it’s still me. That the truth doesn’t vanish just because the form changes.”

You swallowed, your voice barely audible. “I would still know you.”

He watched you a moment longer, as if searching for the depth of your certainty.

Then, finally, he nodded. “Then no. You will not have to wait until I ask the question.”

Your heart fluttered.

“But,” he added, with a glint of amusement now dancing at the edges of his lips, “I reserve the right to make you wait just long enough to drive you mildly mad.”

You groaned, slumping forward with your forehead on the desk. “I knew there was a catch.”

His chuckle rippled through the air like warm silk.

And somehow, the idea of waiting didn’t seem so terrible after all. You lifted your head off the desk just enough to glare at him, squinting like you were trying to set his robes on fire with sheer willpower.

“You’re being unfair,” you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I put together a well-researched, carefully-worded, academically sound paper with citations, by the way and you’re going to tease me? After all that?”

Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow, lips threatening the faintest smirk. “You also included a metaphor about truth wearing earrings.”

“Poetic license!” you snapped. “Chai said it was evocative.”

“It was certainly something.”

You groaned, slumping dramatically back into your seat with your arms folded. “I deserve better.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You believe scholarly diligence should be rewarded with spectacle.”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “I believe me being very nice, very respectful, and putting my soul into that scroll means I should absolutely get to see you shapeshift, like, today. Or now. Or, better yet yesterday.”

He watched you silently for a moment, a trace of that fond, unreadable amusement still hovering in his eyes.

“You truly are relentless when you want something,” he said finally.

“I’m a scholar,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s my job to question the universe. And also… you.”

“Then you’ve succeeded.” He set the scroll aside, folding his hands. “The universe is duly questioned.”

“And?”

“And I never said no,” he murmured, voice low and deliberately maddening.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You let out another sigh and leaned back against the chair, arms still crossed. “I’m going to file an academic grievance.”

“I’ll be sure to grade it personally.”

You shot him a look, but you were already smiling again, despite yourself.

Because as much as he was teasing you he hadn’t said no.

And that, more than anything, meant it was only a matter of time. You glanced sideways at him, still slouched in your chair, your arms crossed in a dramatic show of indignation. But after a beat after the laughter had softened and his smirk still lingered you let the question slip.

“…What if we run out of time?”

You said it lightly, jokingly, like it was just another thing to throw into the endless back-and-forth between you. Like you were still riding the high of teasing him. Like it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

The silence that followed was subtle, but immediate.

He turned his head toward you fully now, the low golden lamplight casting a soft shadow across the edge of his face. His expression wasn’t unreadable not this time. It was something else.

Still.

Quiet.

Serious.

“Then I will regret,” he said slowly, “not showing you sooner.”

Your breath caught, the shift in atmosphere pulling the words right out of your chest. The weight of his voice was different now, not sharp, not heavy, but true. Like something ancient being spoken for the first time in a very long time.

“I may live longer,” he went on, his gaze unwavering, “but that doesn’t mean I am exempt from time. Or from what it takes.”

You sat up straighter.

“…Takes?”

He nodded once. “Patience. Intention. Restraint. All things I wield because I have to because I must maintain control. Because if I give in to every impulse, then I become no different than the truths I’ve warned others about: overwhelming. Dangerous. Absolute.”

You swallowed.

He looked down briefly, folding his hands together again. “But if I ever did run out of time… I would rather be remembered by you as known, than as a mystery you never had the chance to understand.”

The quiet between you stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was reverent.

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.

“…You’re not a mystery,” you said softly.

He looked at you.

“Not to me,” you added, quieter now. “Not anymore.” This of course was a lie but it felt right to say.

He exhaled slowly, gaze warm and distant at once. “Then perhaps time is not the thing we should fear.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, unsure of what to say. What could be said, really?

So instead, you whispered “Then don’t wait too long.” The weight of the moment lingered in the air between you soft, thick, impossible to ignore.

His words still echoed in your chest. “Then I will regret not showing you sooner.” And the way he said it not with drama, but with sincerity lodged somewhere too close to your heart for comfort.

Which was exactly why you did what you always did.

You reached over, grabbed the scroll you’d painstakingly written and edited with your friends’ help, and waved it in the air dramatically.

“Well,” you said, voice suddenly bright, “if you do run out of time, I’m keeping this and publishing it under ‘Unfulfilled Magical Requests and the Tragedy of Teasing Professors.’ Subtitle; Why Saying ‘Maybe’ Is Emotional Warfare.”

He blinked, visibly caught off guard for a second not at the words, but at the sharp shift.

And then, as expected, he exhaled a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. Barely there. But real.

Your tone only got more theatrical. “I’ll submit it to the Academy archive. It’ll become required reading in Magical Ethics courses. You’ll go down in history as the Sage of Selective Silence.”

He arched a brow, amused again, watching you with that knowing gaze of his the one that always saw a little too much.

“You always do this,” he murmured, not unkindly.

You froze mid-rant. “Do what?”

“When emotions get too close.” He tilted his head, gently, like he was observing you the way one observes the stars curious, fascinated, never quite needing to name what they are.

“You run. Not with your feet. But with your words.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “I… I don’t run. I sidestep. Gracefully.”

He gave you that faint, insufferable smile. “You deflect.”

You threw your arms up. “Okay, fine, I deflect. But I do it charmingly.”

“And with purpose,” he said softly. “I’m not blaming you.”

That shut you up again.

Just for a second.

You looked away, hands lowering to your lap.

“I just…” you mumbled, “I’m not always sure how to hold things like that. The big stuff. It doesn’t sit right in my chest. It… gets too quiet. Too real. So if I make it lighter, I can breathe again.”

There was no judgment in his silence.

Only understanding.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, “before I show you.”

You looked up.

“Before I shift,” he clarified. “So that you’re not caught by something too heavy.”

You smiled, soft and crooked. “See? That’s why you’re the best mentor-slash-possibly-more-than-that-but-we’re-still-not-labelling-it.”

He chuckled under his breath.

And just like that, the weight in the room eased dissolved into something warmer, lighter.

Exactly how you liked it. He let the quiet linger a moment longer, eyes still on you not dissecting, not calculating, just… aware. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back slightly and tapped a nearby stack of parchment with the edge of his finger, drawing the moment to a gentle close.

“But,” he said, voice smoothing back into his usual scholar’s tone cool, calm, gently chiding, “as much as I enjoy doing nothing with you…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks. So romantic.”

He ignored the comment entirely. “...Your academics come first.”

You groaned, already slumping in your seat. “Nooooo.”

“Yes,” he said with a little more firmness now. “Your finals are approaching. You will need to revise elemental stabilization matrices, temporal layering, and the ethics of magical application Professor Almond Custard’s section in particular will be weighed heavily.”

You tried to groan louder, but he continued smoothly.

“You should also be prepared to interpret dream-sequence transcriptions and disprove flawed magical constructs. There will be case studies. And likely, one open-ended essay.”

“Can’t I just write about how emotionally repressed you are and pass with extra credit?” you muttered under your breath.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you can do so with proper citations.”

You let your head thunk against the back of the chair dramatically. “I miss when this was about shapeshifting.”

He smirked. “This is about preparing you for the world beyond me.”

You blinked, then squinted at him. “That… sounded way more ominous than you meant it to.”

He gave a small, amused nod. “Possibly.”

Still half-draped across the chair, you sighed loudly but turned your head to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Fine. Academics first.”

His voice softened just slightly again, enough to make it linger. “Always.”

You looked away, smiling faintly.

Always… but maybe not forever. And just like that, the mood shifted not in the jarring way, but with the smooth precision of turning a page in a very familiar book.

He began going over the foundational elements again: temporal layering and how unstable weaves behave when disrupted by external magical sources, the difference between intention-led spellcraft and reflexive casting, how to analyze illusory magic without being misled by form.

You sat up straighter, less slouch and more scholar now, drawn into the rhythm of it. It wasn’t like lecture. It was quieter. Closer. The kind of exchange where your thoughts could unravel safely where you could be wrong, get messy, ask without embarrassment.

He would correct you, sure, but never harshly.

You got through the key points on stabilizing enchantments, and you were halfway through the philosophy behind magical ethics debating the fine line between intention and consequence when something in your brain clicked into place.

“Oh! Wait!” you straightened suddenly, eyes brightening. “That reminds me of something Almond Custard said last week during lecture, about layered intention in temporal folds! I thought it was going to be boring, but it wasn’t it was actually kind of brilliant”

He paused mid-note, already familiar with your tone. “Go on.”

“Okay, so,” you said, already talking with your hands, “he was going on about the theory that when you perform a time-anchored spell, the intent you embed in it doesn't just affect the spell in that moment, it actually reverberates backward into the framework of the spell. It influences how the spell began forming even before you consciously made it! Isn’t that wild? Like, magic reaching backwards through your own process of thought!”

You barely registered that he’d stopped writing and was now watching you just listening.

“So technically, that means spells are always a little bit alive, right? Not just in how they act, but in how they echo. Which also made me think, what about spells that go wrong because the caster’s intent wasn’t stable to begin with? Not because they didn’t mean to do it right, but because their emotions were split? Can you even fix that if it’s embedded into the foundation of the magic before you even consciously realize it?”

You leaned forward, completely lost in your own spiraling fascination now. “And then I wondered does that mean if someone has really conflicting emotions, they’re always casting unstable magic? And what if the magic responds by changing in ways we don’t even detect because the system we use to measure it doesn’t account for the emotional resonance inp”

“You memorized all of this?” he asked, quietly.

You blinked mid-ramble, realizing you hadn’t taken a breath in quite some time. “Uh. Yeah? Sort of. Not intentionally. I just thought it was really cool, and I kept thinking about it, and then suddenly I was writing notes in the margin of my spellbook and-”

He nodded slowly.

You hesitated, glancing at him.

He was smiling.

Not his usual, teasing sort of smile. Not even the fond one he sometimes wore when you said something accidentally poetic.

This was softer. Subtler.

So you took a breath. Sat back.

And kept going. You didn’t mean to keep going.

You really didn’t.

But once the words started, once the thought had begun to spill forward, there was no stopping it. The idea kept unraveling, tugging at every half-formed theory you’d scribbled in the margins of your notebook, every late-night thought you hadn’t been able to let go of. And he just sat there, quietly, without so much as a breath of interruption.

“-and I mean, if magical intention does retroactively shape a spell’s formation, then that would explain why some spells collapse even when the mechanics are perfect, right? Because the caster isn’t emotionally consistent. So the spell reflects that instability, and maybe that’s why certain enchantments degrade faster in emotionally charged environments especially in collaborative spellcasting! Because two people means two layers of intent, and if they’re not aligned, then the foundation is compromised before it even stabilizes-"

You paused only to breathe, your hands gesturing in sweeping arcs as your brain tumbled faster than your words could follow.

"and what if that’s why ancient spells needed entire rituals to stabilize emotional intent? Like, not just precision of word or motion, but the actual state of the person casting. They knew it, right? That the heart informs the spell just as much as the incantation? What if that’s what we’re missing in modern instruction-”

You stopped.

Not because you’d run out of thoughts, stars, you had so many more but because you finally noticed the silence again. The kind that meant you were being watched, and not just watched, but heard.

You turned.

He hadn’t moved.

Shadow Milk Cookie sat beside you, one arm resting on the desk, the other relaxed in his lap. His expression wasn’t the usual calm, unreadable veil you’d grown used to.

He looked…

Content.

Not the fleeting contentment that came from a good book or a solved problem. No, it was something deeper. Something that settled quietly into the space between you. As if he had been waiting not for you to stop talking, but simply to be there while you did.

Not once had he tried to redirect you. Not once had he told you to focus or stay on topic.

He had let you speak. Let you spill, without judgment, without impatience. Just listened, as though every spiraling tangent was worthy of his time.

And when your voice finally trailed off, breathless and wide-eyed, he simply said “You’ve thought about this deeply.”

You flushed, suddenly self-conscious now that the adrenaline had burned off. “yeah. Sorry. I know I talk too much sometimes. When something gets stuck in my head, it stays there until I-”

“I know.”

You blinked.

He looked at you again, gaze unwavering.

“And I’m glad you shared it with me.”

The words hit soft, but true like all his truths did. Not loud. Not showy.

But deep enough to echo.

And for a moment, you forgot the embarrassment entirely.

Because being heard like that?

That felt like magic too. You shifted in your seat, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the desk as your thoughts, still fired up from your last tangent, began to circle back to something else you hadn’t planned on bringing up. You hesitated but only for a second.

“So… um.” You glanced at him. “Not that I was looking for your papers specifically, but I-sort of ran into a few. On purpose.”

His brow lifted slightly. “On purpose?”

“Not in a weird way!” you said quickly. “I just… yours were the most detailed. They cited things no one else did, and you reference primary sources everyone else avoids because they’re obscure or out of translation. So I kind of... leaned toward them. That’s all.”

He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth tugged in the faintest way that suggested he was either amused, flattered, or both.

You cleared your throat and pushed forward. “One of them the one on emotionally synchronized casting you mentioned that intention and magical efficiency increase when the spellcaster’s emotional state aligns with the elemental resonance of the spell being cast. I wanted to ask what you meant in the part where you talked about ‘harmonic temperance as a conduit of magical fidelity’ because I kind of get it, but also kind of didn’t. I think you were saying the more regulated the emotion, the stronger the anchor, but…”

You trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. “That’s a fair interpretation. But it’s less about regulation and more about clarity. If you’re angry and know you’re angry, and the spell is born of that emotion, it’s clearer than if you’re conflicted and trying to hide that anger while casting.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “Right. That makes sense. And I actually tried it.”

He blinked. “You what?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I tried using the same spell basic levitation but in different moods. I kept everything else consistent. Stance, intent, recitation speed. But one time I did it while I was really upset. Another time when I was focused. Another time when I was… not thrilled but not miserable. Just a little sad.”

He stared at you now, expression unreadable again but in the way that meant he was definitely reading everything.

“And I know I probably shouldn’t have,” you added quickly, panic creeping into your tone as you waved your hands. “I mean, I know it’s unstable casting while upset is basically asking for backlash. I didn’t do anything dangerous, I swear! But I just… wanted to see. I kept it small. Nothing got flung across the room! Just… you know. Some unexpected hover-jitters.”

You winced. “I forgot I didn’t want to tell you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean, I know you’re going to say it was reckless and dumb and you’d be right but-”

“I’m not angry.”

You froze mid-babble.

“…You’re not?”

He shook his head, voice calm. “Curious. And mildly exasperated.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh. That’s fine.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I’ve lived with exasperation before. I can handle that.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk as he studied you.

“You shouldn’t test unstable casting conditions without supervision,” he said, “but your observation was not without merit. And your control, evidently, was sufficient.”

“…So you’re not going to scold me?”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” His voice was sharp, but his expression softened again. “But later. For now…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Tell me what else you found.”

And just like that, you forgot you were supposed to be nervous.

Because there was something about the way he said it quiet, steady, and open that reminded you this wasn’t just your curiosity anymore.

It was shared.

So you did.

You told him everything. Of course, it didn’t last.

The moment the last of your excited words trailed off, the Sage of Truth went perfectly still. Too still.

You knew that stillness. You recognized it.

It was the calm before the storm, not the shouting kind, but the quieter, more dangerous kind. The kind that came with controlled words and an expression that said, You’re lucky I like you, because otherwise this would be a formal disciplinary hearing.

He closed the parchment he had been idly referencing, set it aside, and laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him.

“I want to be very clear,” he began, his voice calm too calm. “You’re telling me you willingly cast spells while emotionally compromised. Alone. Repeatedly. Without consulting anyone. Without recording your safeguards. Without a controlled environment. And without protective wards.”

You blinked. “...Okay when you say it like that-”

“Because that is exactly how I’m going to say it,” he interrupted, expression firm. “Do you know how many recorded magical accidents come from spells cast in a state of emotional instability?”

You slumped slightly. “Yes.”

“Do you know how often those spells backfire in ways that don’t harm the caster, but others around them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“I had wards!” you insisted. “Not strong ones, but I was careful! I picked a classroom no one was using! I triple-checked the threshold sigils!”

He gave you that look again the one that felt like he was peeling back every layer of your argument in silence.

And you did what you always did when confronted by well-earned disappointment.

You tuned him out.

Not fully. Not rudely. You just… let your focus drift. You knew the consequences. You knew it had been risky. You weren’t proud of it. You didn’t regret it either, but you knew it wasn’t something he could condone.

Still, as he went on listing magical theory, emotional resonance thresholds, the dangers of internal misalignment you found yourself staring at the edge of his desk, at the way his fingers moved when he spoke, the way his voice dipped not with anger, but worry.

That’s what stung most.

The fact that beneath the precise scolding and the well-structured warnings, what you heard clearest was: you could have been hurt.

“…And if anything had gone wrong,” he said, at last finishing, “do you think I would have forgiven myself?”

Your head lifted at that, a little startled.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But the weight behind those words that got your attention.

You blinked slowly.

“…No,” you said, a little quieter. “I guess not.”

His shoulders eased slightly, just enough to suggest he hadn’t even realized they’d tensed.

He looked at you. And now his tone was soft. Controlled. But not cold.

“Next time,” he said, “you don’t do it alone.”

You nodded, subdued now, guilt settling in with a quiet sort of ache. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like you’d aged him a century.

You offered a tentative smile. “You done?”

“For now.”

You smirked faintly. “You sure?”

“I could assign a research essay on magical misfires.”

You gasped. “Cruelty.”

He didn’t smile.

But his eyes did. You had barely begun to relax sinking ever so slightly into your chair with that tentative sense of okay, he’s done, I survived when you heard him shift.

Not a dramatic shift.

Just a quiet repositioning of his posture, the slight realignment of his spine, the way he folded his hands again with renewed purpose.

Oh no.

You straightened instantly. “Wait there’s more?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

You groaned. “But you just said-”

“I said I was done for now. That ‘now’ has passed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already on a roll.

“You treat magic like it’s something pliable,” he said calmly. “Something that will always bend around your curiosity. But it doesn’t bend. Not without cost. The difference between exploration and recklessness lies in preparation. You know better.”

You winced slightly, eyes darting away. “It was just levitation-”

“It could have been anything.”

You sighed and leaned your cheek on your hand, muttering under your breath, “Truth doesn’t punish the seeker for being curious. It simply demands they be prepared.”

He paused.

A long pause.

You slowly looked up at him.

His expression was flat. Deadpan.

“…Did you just quote me at me?” he asked.

You tried very hard not to smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

You gave him your best innocent blink. “You’re the one who said it.”

“And you’re using it to dodge accountability.”

“I’m using it to highlight that I was seeking knowledge with intention and poetic integrity.”

He stared at you.

You gave him a small, helpless shrug. “For science?”

“...You are infuriating,” he said, and somehow despite the words his voice was so fond it made your stomach flip.

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“I keep hoping it won’t be,” he muttered.

And then, because you were shameless: “You said hope was an enduring trait of scholars.”

He gave a slow exhale, leaned back in his chair, and covered his face with one hand.

“…Stars preserve me.” You watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers pressed lightly to his temple like you were the cause of every headache he’d ever had past, present, and hypothetical future. The silence stretched long enough that you dared to hope.

“...So,” you said, lifting your chin, daring to test the waters, “are you done lecturing me now?”

His hand dropped.

He gave you a look. The kind that should’ve turned you to stone if magical eye-rolling were a real curse. “No,” he said flatly.

You groaned. “Come on-”

But he was already on his feet, pacing behind his desk now not dramatically, not angrily. Just with that purposeful stride he got when his thoughts were lining up like dominoes ready to fall.

“You cast unsupervised magic while emotionally compromised,” he began, holding up one finger. “In an unsecured setting,” another finger “without proper safeguards or documentation-”

“I had thresholds-”

“without proper safeguards,” he repeated, louder this time, “and you withheld that information from me until it accidentally slipped during a completely unrelated tangent.”

You huffed. “I wasn’t trying to hide it! I just… didn’t want to hear the lecture!”

“Then why would you remind me to keep going?” he demanded, clearly bewildered by your logic.

“Because I thought we reached the natural conclusion!”

“There is no natural conclusion when you treat magic like an emotional experiment and use yourself as the test subject!”

“I was safe!”

“You were lucky!” His voice was sharper now, not loud but edged. It cut more because it wasn’t fury. It was something closer to fear, pressed down into composure. “Luck is not a framework. It is not a shield. It is not something I want you relying on. You-”

He stopped.

Just for a moment.

Then, much quieter, under his breath but loud enough for you to hear:

“Stars, I could’ve lost you.”

You froze.

But he didn’t let the weight linger this time.

He turned back toward you, more composed now, drawing in a breath that steadied him like it had steadied you so many times before.

“I’m lecturing you,” he said, “because I care.”

He crossed his arms, the motion calm, firm. “Because you’re not just a scholar. You’re my scholar. And if anything happened to you because of something preventable because you pushed too far, too fast, without thinking I wouldn’t just be furious. I would be devastated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because he wasn’t being dramatic. Or manipulative. Or even theatrical.

He was being honest.

And that somehow hurt more than any scolding could have.

“…Okay,” you said softly, after a beat.

And you meant it this time.

He watched you for a moment longer, his jaw tight but slowly, his shoulders eased.

Still, he wasn’t quite done.

“You’ll come to me next time,” he said, voice even. “If you want to experiment. If something upsets you. If you need supervision. Or help. Or… anything.”

You nodded again, smaller. “I will.”

He exhaled.

Then sat back down beside you.

“…Good.”

And for a few seconds, neither of you said a word.

You just sat there. Both a little overwhelmed. Both still holding onto the edges of something fragile. The rest of the tutoring session passed with a kind of soft, deliberate quiet.

You returned to the notes event manipulation, cross-channel mana resonance, comparative theory between willed enchantments and reflexive charmcraft. Nothing too complicated. Nothing too simple. Just enough to fill the space between you, to let things settle without pressing too hard on what had just been said.

He explained things clearly, as he always did. You asked your questions, less playful now, but no less curious. He corrected your diagrams with gentle precision, sometimes conjuring a flicker of light to demonstrate, other times just guiding your hand across the page.

It all felt normal.

Mostly.

But not entirely.

The echoes of his words from earlier still clung to the edges of your awareness. Not in a sharp or stinging way but like the faint warmth of a fire that had already burned through its most dangerous heat. That lingering feeling of something having mattered.

And you knew he felt it too.

Because even though he returned to his composed rhythm, he didn’t move quite the same. He sat a little closer than usual. Watched you a little longer between your thoughts. And when your brow furrowed at one particularly dense passage, his hand came to rest gently on the edge of your parchment steadying, grounding without comment.

By the time you reached the end of the session, you’d covered more than you expected to. You’d understood more than you thought you would.

And yet, underneath it all, that earlier moment still pulsed.

As if some invisible line between you had been redrawn.

Not a boundary crossed.

But something acknowledged.

As you gathered your notes and slid them back into your bag, he said nothing but you could feel his gaze on you again.

You glanced up at him, offering a small, tired smile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said quietly.

He inclined his head. “And I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and looked toward the door. Then back to him.

“I guess we’re even.”

He didn’t smile, not really.

But the look he gave you then the soft glint in his eyes, the way his head tilted just so, like he was considering something precious was more than enough.

“Until next time,” he murmured.

You nodded once.

And left with more than just your notes. By the time you made it to dinner, the smell of baked cheese rolls and grilled rosemary vegetables hit you like a sigh of relief.

The hall was already buzzing with familiar chatter, forks clinking, laughter echoing between rows of stone pillars and there, in your usual corner, sat your friends. Chai Latte Cookie was already waving frantically the moment she spotted you, nearly knocking over her cup of tea in the process.

“You’re late,” she said the moment you dropped into the seat beside her. “We were this close to staging a recovery mission. Again.”

Earl Grey Cookie looked up from his notes, though his expression betrayed only mild concern. “You missed the raspberry lemonade. It went fast.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, across from you, handed you a roll before you even asked. “Rough tutoring session?” You sighed, resting your arms on the table. “You have no idea.”

A/N So apparently this didn't get posted I clicked post now yesterday night but I checked my page and it's not there... So late upload MY BAD GUYS

also I just want to note there is no reason why mc would run my thinking for why I did that is just because he's making sure to cover all his bases because quite honestly the reasoning he provides isn't great if I'm being honest.

Also just completed my first work week woohoo!!!

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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juricel · 3 months ago

Note

requesting precorrupt smc x reader x corrupt smc... 🙏🙏 do whatever!!

a/n: I apologize for the late reply! I have finally gotten artistic inspiration, but in exchange for my writing inspiration. there's not much content warning in this post aside from the slight canon divergence, because obviously, two versions of shadow milk cookie won't exist in a single universe, that would be, simply put, a destiny much horrifying than hell itself.

— corrupt! shadow milk cookie x reader x pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie

𖦁 pre! corrupt shadow milk cookie, in all his decadent rot, would not hesitate to part with a morsel, for after all, it isn’t cheating, is it? since it is still him, however, in an alternate universe. ah, but the latter on the other hand... corrupt! shadow milk cookie harbors a less benign disposition. even if it is an echo, a mere specter of his own self, the act of sharing you provokes discontent, nor was it in his in his written script; for you, in your ineffable singularity, are /his/. and his alone. It matters not if the proposed rascal being woven through your relationship was an alternate version of himself; the principle remains immutable — you are HIS. and no, you don't get to a say on this, who even are you to set such boundaries?

𖦁 It wasn't possessiveness, no, not at all! such word was not in his dictionary; it was simply put an unvarnished statement of what was blatantly true, and if pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie couldn’t handle such a reality, then let him return to where he came from and rot into ashes of flour, forgotten. he had no intention of sharing you with anyone—anyone—not even with a version of himself. If pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie desired you so intensely, why not settle for an alternate version of you, hmm? let him make do with that. and if he didn’t like it... well! that, my dear, was certainly not his problem, was it? let him stew in his discontent. the truth had been laid bare before him, as it was meant to be, and if it stung—well, that’s the nature of truths, isn’t it? not something to be coddled or softened for his fragile sensibilities. his discomfort was of no concern to you, nor to him. however, much to his displeasure, it was not as if pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie would simply leave. no, for after all, you were first his, and abandoning you to the clutches of greedy and possessive hands was not part of his modus operandi—not at all. he was not the sort to let go so easily, nor was he inclined to stand by while others claimed what was rightfully his.

𖦁 the two are like little rascals, always caught in some petty exchange, either passively-aggressively bickering or downright squabbling—yet, curiously, never once resorting to anything physical in spite of their frequent squabbles.

𖦁 neither of them intend to leave, so brace yourself for frequent invasions of privacy. pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie is the more polite of the two—if only slightly—but still finds amusement in your predicament, indulging in it much to your displeasure... corrupt! shadow milk cookie, on the other hand, has abandoned even the pretense of respect, constantly attempting to pry you away from pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie's "grubby" hands. very frankly, this arrangement could have worked—if corrupt! shadow milk cookie was the type to tolerate such things. but alas, sharing has never been his strong suit, and the very idea grates against him like an insult. a lingering glance, a presence too close—unforgivable, the mere thought of sharing isn’t just unwelcome—it’s absurd. for in the first place, there was never anyone else to begin with until now.

𖦁 pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie tries, truly, he does... but his efforts are mostly futile. no matter the approach, the reasoning, or the circumstance, it’s simply a concept that refuses to take root in corrupt! shadow milk cookie’s mind. sharing is not something he does—not naturally. however, on the rarest of occasions, in moments few and far between, he does allow it. but make no mistake—such generosity is fleeting, and it is never without cost.

a/n: i genuinely forgot i had tumblr... anyway, the new cookie is so adorbs and she's so good in living abyss too!! i fear pumpkin pie cookie's place in my top 3 is getting taken...

#cookie run kingdom x reader #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #shadow milk x reader #cookie run kingdom x you #i feel like this is too short but i do NOT gaf

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almostfoxglove · 10 months ago

Text

HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is.

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun.

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation.

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight?

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below.

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands.

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs.

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze.

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring.

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin.

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word.

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take.

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe.

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on.

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york #dave york smut #pedro pascal #dave york x you #the equalizer 2 #dave york fanfic #au august #shortieswritingchallenge #punkshort #myfics #almostfoxglove #smut #one shot #fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #fic: holdstill #do not perceive me for 3-6 business days

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