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cleo-fox · 8 months

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Overtime

Summary: Sometimes, working overtime isn’t all that bad.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ minors DNI, sex, cunnilingus, teasing, light bondage, office romance.

Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel).

A/N: This was largely written prior to season 2 and posted right before episode 4, so it’s not entirely canon compliant and the parts that are may be compliant by accident.

Also, @give-me-a-moose and I were on a similar wavelength about Loki angrily reading romance novels and I would strongly recommend checking out her fic The Imagine Nation if you too are enthralled by this idea.

You don’t think that Mobius intended to keep Loki’s desk behind yours.

“It’s temporary,” he tells you apologetically. “He just needs somewhere to go for now, until I figure out what to do with him.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s a stray cat that you found,” you say.

“You won’t even know he’s there, I promise.”

“You’re still doing it.”

Mobius sighs and puts on his most sincere, earnest expression—the one that he always uses when he’s about to ask you for a stupidly massive favor.

And it’s only because you almost never, ever see this look from him that you back down.

“Okay, fine,” you say. “But he’d better be on his best behavior.”

Mobius puts his palms together and tips them toward you. “Thank you. You will not regret this, I promise.”

You sigh and shake your head. “Just remember this next time you’re budgeting for raises.”

But then—in a move that you certainly don’t expect—Loki ends up sticking around. And, in the subtle way that the stray you’ve been feeding slowly turns into your cat, Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. And strangely enough, Mobius’ assurances turn out to be more correct than not: Loki does a lot of fieldwork and is often away; when he is at his desk, it tends to be because he is working on more complicated missions, the ones that require poring over mountains of files looking for patterns and trying to untangle the slippery mess of time itself.

Your work is decidedly less glamorous than Loki’s—almost no fieldwork, lots of files. Endless files. Some days you feel as though you must have seen every file in the TVA’s extensive library and then you’re immediately proven wrong by another wing of filing cabinets that you swear wasn’t even there before.

Although he is generally well-behaved as your desk neighbor, Loki’s presence has a way of distracting you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, your gaze would still naturally drift his way, lingering on those regal cheekbones, that ink black hair, that cunning smirk. The way that the fabric of his dress pants clings to his thighs certainly doesn’t help, to say nothing of how his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He can make your heart start to race with no more than a casual glance in your direction and god help you if he gives you one of those devastating smiles. Luckily, you don’t think he takes that much notice of you. You have the sort of pleasantly dull exchanges of coworkers who don’t really know each other and he is almost painfully polite to you. It’s a strong departure from the way he interacts with others—with others, he is bold, charming, sarcastic, talkative, a far cry from the more subdued, almost courtly tone he strikes with you. It’s a difference that is so stark that you can’t help but attribute it to some sort of negative feeling on his end.

“How’s it going with Loki?” Mobius asks you during a one-on-one meeting a couple of months after Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. “He’s behaving himself, right?”

“It’s been fine,” you say, “though truthfully, I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

“What? Of course he likes you,” Mobius says. “Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re lovely.”

You shrug. “I dunno, he’s just different with me than he is with everyone else. Like…overly polite. It’s like he thinks I’m going to send him to the principal’s office or something.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Mobius. “First you were worried that he wouldn’t behave himself and now you’re worried that he’s too well-behaved?”

Privately, you realize he has a point. Outwardly, though, you’re not going to admit it. The sardonic tilt of Mobius’ mouth suggests that he knows this.

“No, I just…I don’t think he likes me all that much,” you say. “And he’s entitled to that. People don’t like each other all the time, it’s not a big deal.”

This is also a little bit of a lie—you do wish he liked you. Loki is so magnetic it’s hard not to want his attention. And with the matter of your silly little crush, well…that doesn’t help either.

Mobius sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. He likes you, sometimes it just takes him a little time to warm up. He’s a bit of a prickly guy.”

You bite down the urge to point out that you’ve seen him warm to other people almost immediately. This conversation has already gone on longer than you want and you are edging dangerously close to having to admit that you care so much because you have a big stupid crush on him, which is obviously unacceptable.

“Well, the point is that it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to project an aura of cool confidence. “I don’t have any complaints, he seems like he’s settling in, so let’s move on. Did you have any feedback on my recent report?”

The furrow between Mobius’ eyebrows deepens just slightly, the only indication that he doesn’t fully believe you. But for whatever reason, he decides to let it go and follows your change in topic without further comment.

This is one of the reasons you like Mobius as much as you do: he always seems to know the right moment to push and the right moment to bend.

You’re not sure if your relationship with Loki would have changed had it not been for the problem of Charles Berlitz.

The joke around the office is that after Mobius convinced Loki to work for the TVA, he needed something new to obsess over and Charles Berlitz was the next best option. It’s hard to say exactly who Berlitz is, as he has a tendency of showing up, well…everywhere. He is quite literally in every timeline, at least as far as anyone can tell. Sometimes he is an author, penning serious, scholarly essays on outlandish theories like the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment. He seems to have a fondness for all manner of schemes—he was responsible for introducing both homeopathy and multi-level marketing to no fewer than sixty different timelines. His ability to peddle bullshit naturally led him to politics—pick any rebellion, coup, or campaign on any given timeline and there’s a good chance you’ll also find Charles Berlitz.

Scammers and con artists are not atypical in your line of work, but what makes Charles Berlitz an enduring mystery is that he has never been found. You can have reputable documentary evidence that Berlitz was present at a certain time and location, but if you show up to investigate, he is never there. There have been some glimpses over the years—a shadowy face in the back of a crowd, the hem of a cloak disappearing behind a corner—but nothing concrete or substantive.

“Our ghost in the timeline,” Mobius had said in one of his more poetic moments at an all staff meeting, his voice overly hushed and dramatic. You had seen Loki roll his eyes and you had to fake a coughing fit to hide your laugh.

Time moves differently at the TVA, so it’s hard to say how long Mobius has been working on this case when he makes a breakthrough, but it’s not terribly long after your conversation about Loki. A campaign button had been found in an apartment that Berlitz rented for two years in the French Quarter. That particular campaign button could only have existed in one specific timeline and its distribution was limited. You aren’t entirely clear on all of the details, but Mobius seems to have a plan.

And unfortunately, that plan involves you giving up most of your weekend to work.

It’s near quitting time on what passes for a Friday at the TVA. Loki has been in today and you can hear him starting to pack up. Technically, he’s got twenty minutes of work left, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You doodle absently on your notepad. Technically, you’ve also got twenty minutes of work left, but realistically: nothing is happening.

“Oh, great, you’re both still here.”

In general, this phrase has never meant good news for you and when you look up, you see Mobius with a sizable armful of files.

Also not a great sign.

Mobius plunks the stack of files directly on your desk. “There’s been a development with Berlitz. I need you both to review these now.”

“It’s Friday,” says Loki, affronted. “Surely it can wait until Monday.”

“No can do. I need this done by Sunday at the latest,” says Mobius. “This is an all hands on deck situation.”

Loki glances pointedly at the office around you, which has already started emptying out for the weekend.

“All hands on deck, but most hands are already in the field,” Mobius concedes. “Which is why I need the two of you—” He points to you. “You because you’re good—” He gestures to Loki. “And you because you’ve got desk duty.”

“I beg your pardon—” begins Loki.

“He’s grounded,” Mobius says to you in an exaggerated stage whisper.

This is not surprising to you: you had heard a rumor last week about an incident that had occurred on a mission to the inauguration of Richard Nixon and you suspect that these two events are likely connected.

You look at the pile of paperwork on your desk. You could probably get through it on your own in a couple of hours, but if Loki’s helping, maybe you still have a shot at having Saturday to yourself. You bite back a sigh. “What do you need me to find?”

“Anything that mentions anyone from the Lucchese crime family or Nero Variant N2815,” says Mobius. “I’ll go get the rest.”

Your heart sinks. Farewell, Saturday. “There’s more?” you say.

“It’ll be triple overtime, I already got it approved!” he calls over his shoulder

You sigh and glance at Loki who is scowling at the pile of files as though they’d wronged him personally.

There’s a long moment of silence before you speak. “Is there any truth to the rumor I’ve been hearing about the Nixon inauguration?” you ask.

“If it involved a hot air balloon, then yes,” he says rather tonelessly.

“Well.” You pause as you stare at the pile of papers. “At least it was worth it.”

That at least earns you a hint of a smile.

Several hours later, your stomach is growling and you’ve developed a rather impressive crick in your neck.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your neck to the side and rubbing the knot that is pulsing in your upper trapezius. Office work has done nothing positive for your posture in general, but tonight’s work has you hunched over more than usual and your neck is aching.

You and Loki have made good progress, but your pile of finished and sorted files is scarcely comparable to the full cart that Mobius had brought in. Back when the evening was new and you weren’t quite so tired, you’d been optimistic about possibly having half a Saturday free from work; that hope has slipped away the longer the evening has dragged on. Now you’re hoping that you’ll still have a bit of Sunday to yourself and even that feels unlikely.

Your stomach growls again. You should probably eat something—you’d worked through your regular dinner hour in a fit of misplaced optimism. The cafeteria is closed this time of night, but there’s a vending machine not far from your office that has shitty coffee and mostly edible sandwiches.

You stand and stretch, stifling a yawn as you turn around. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and some dinner,” you say. “Do you want anything?”

Loki looks up at you from the file in front of him, blinking somewhat dazedly and running a hand through his messy curls. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit, if you don’t mind the company.”

You honestly didn’t expect him to want to join you. It’s a pleasant surprise, certainly, but also a little nerve wracking in the way that interacting with Loki always is. He’s so handsome and aloof and you’re not quite sure how to talk to him without acting like a total fool.

But you’re also not about to say no, either.

“Of course,” you say, “I don’t mind at all.”

The TVA is unusually quiet at this time of night—the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of distant voices is all that accompanies the tap of your shoes on the linoleum. It only heightens the jittery, nervous feeling you get from Loki—like your stomach is filled with drunk, lightning struck butterflies.

“Are you finding much?” asks Loki as you enter the hallway together.

You shrug. “A bit. Mostly on the Nero variant. I’m not having as much luck with the Luccheses.”

“I’ve got all of their property transfers, I think,” he says. “Renato Lucchese never met a vineyard he didn’t like.”

“Or racehorses, from what I understand,” you say. “I think that’s how he lost most of his money.”

You arrive at the vending machines. Loki looks at the vending machines and then back at you, a somewhat puzzled and troubled expression on his face.

“This is what you meant when you said you were going to get coffee and dinner?” he says.

You shrug. “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

He points at the coffee machine. “Mobius calls that machine Satan’s coffeemaker, does he not?”

“Yes, but I know how to trick it into giving me something that’s almost palatable,” you say.

Loki gives you a rather dry look. “Something that’s almost palatable?”

“I mean, I’m just trying to manage your expectations. It’s still pretty shitty coffee, it just tastes less burned.”

He looks at you for a long moment before tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s your turn to look skeptical. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going out for dinner.”

He takes you to a twenty-four hour diner called Frank’s that’s maybe a five minute walk from the TVA. It’s one of those places with yellowing Formica tables and big booths covered in red faux leather patched with the occasional square of duct tape. It smells like coffee and grease with a faint odor of cigarette smoke despite the prominent no smoking signs.

“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of place was your style,” you say as you sit down in a booth next to the window.

“I’ve expanded my horizons,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you.

An older woman with greying blonde hair approaches your booth. She wears a nametag reading “Connie” in big capital letters, a sticker of a pink cat stuck on the space next to her name.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” she says as she hands you each a laminated menu. She looks at Loki. “You want your usual?”

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She turns to you. “How ‘bout you, hon, can I get ya started with something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

You raise your eyebrows at Loki as she walks away. “You eat at diners and you have a usual order. My expectations are being completely upended.”

He returns your pleasantly amused expression. “And you have vending machine coffee for dinner. It’s a revealing night.”

“I mean, I don’t actively seek it out,” you say. “It’s a convenient option that I exercise only when I have no other choice.”

“No other choice?” A sly smile curls at his lips. “Do you not have the entire array of space and time at your fingertips?”

“Well, first of all, we aren’t supposed to use TemPads for personal errands without a supervisor’s approval.”

“Technically.”

“No, actually. It’s in the personnel manual. Like verbatim.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You would put yourself through the egregious physical suffering of vending machine coffee simply to appease the capricious whims of our cruel overseer Miss Minutes?”

You bite back a laugh. “You know she’s not actually our boss, right?”

“I can’t discount that possibility. She wields a concerning amount of power within the organization.”

Connie is back with your drinks—coffee for you and tea for Loki. “Sunday Special?” she asks Loki as she sets a metal teapot and empty mug in front of him.

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She looks at you. “Didya get a chance to look at the menu or do you need a minute?”

You’re feeling a little daring. “I’ll try the Sunday Special as well.”

“All right, two Sunday Specials comin’ right up,” she says, collecting your menus.

“So, what’s in a Sunday Special?” you ask Loki as you take a sip of your coffee.

“Boiled fish eggs, mainly,” he says, pouring the hot water into his tea mug.

“Liar,” you say promptly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at the menu, how could you know?”

“Places like this don’t serve fish eggs,” you say. “Way too unusual and definitely the wrong price point.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to see,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. The easy charm that you’ve seen him use with the others is on full display and it’s enough to make you giddy. Maybe he doesn’t dislike you after all.

“Well, if it’s fish eggs, you’re picking up the bill,” you say, “and I’ll be getting something else instead.”

“You’d really hold me responsible for your impulsive dinner selections?”

“Yep. And I don’t even feel bad about it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you could be so unforgiving.”

“Well, you don’t know me all that well.”

“To be fair, you keep to yourself quite a bit.”

“A little bit,” you say. “But also to be fair, you haven’t really asked.”

“On work time?” he says, widening his eyes in mock horror. “That would mean write ups for both of us, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“I think I know enough about you to know that getting in trouble is not one of your primary concerns.”

He gives you a sly smile, like you’ve caught him out and he likes it. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” He takes a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and tears it open before pouring it into his mug. “Well, we’re on break now, so you can safely tell me something about yourself.”

You drum your fingers on your coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, this can’t be the only part of your life. Who are you outside the TVA? What did you do before this?”

That giddy feeling comes to a screeching halt and you take in a long, slow breath. It’s a simple question, one that most people can answer to some degree. For you, though, it’s a bit more complicated.

“Well,” you say. You take a sip of your coffee, mostly to give your hands something to do. “I don’t actually know—I chose not to remember when they gave me the option.”

You’re surprised by how gentle his eyes are when you look up. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” you say and you really do mean it. “You couldn’t have known.”

Usually, you say something like this and then gently redirect the conversation, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to continue. Like maybe he understands difficult things and doesn’t mind hearing about something that others would shy away from.

“When they told us everything and said they could fix our memories…” You clear your throat and focus your gaze just above his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to know…that something really bad had happened. So I asked Mobius to check for me, just to be sure…” You swallow, blinking hard.

You remember how sad Mobius’ eyes were, how he’d gently placed a hand on your shoulder and said, “I think you’re making the right call, kid.”

“It’s not really okay, is it?” Loki says softly.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s…it is what it is.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“It’s not a lie—”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and you remember that he is, in fact, the god of lies.

“It’s more like…I can’t really miss what I don’t know, but at the same time, the reality of that absence hurts a little. So maybe not exactly okay, but not exactly not okay, either.”

There’s a lot of kindness in his gaze and you have to look away because it makes your head spin and your breath catch in your throat. “I’m not really sure if that makes sense,” you say.

“It does.”

There’s a silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Do you…do you think you’d want to forget if you had that option?” You’re not entirely sure what prompts the question and you regret it almost as soon as it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too personal.”

He shakes his head and there’s a warmth in his eyes that you don’t expect. “I rather think I owe you one.” He pauses, running a finger around the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I do,” he says finally. “It can be quite painful remembering.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “But I’m not sure who I would be without the knowledge of my past, either.” His gaze flicks back to you. “What’s it like for you? Do you feel like you know who you are without those memories?”

It’s a good question—one you’ve never been asked. “I mean, it’s hard to say for sure. I think I do,” you say. “Sometimes I wonder if I was different in my timeline. Maybe I was kinder because I had different experiences that made me more empathetic. Maybe I wasn’t—maybe I was worse. Maybe I had a villain arc.”

He chuckles. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“I dunno, maybe it explains the vending machine coffee and my fish egg related threats,” you say and you feel almost giddy when he returns your smile. “Or maybe I’m the same and all those experiences that shaped me are just scars I can’t see.” You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “At the end of the day, though, that timeline is gone. I’m all that’s left. It’s sad, but it’s also freeing, in a way.”

He nods. “Mobius has said much the same.”

You smile slightly. “Our philosophies are similar, I suppose, though I think there are probably more bits of his past self in his present self than he realizes.”

Loki grins. “It’s the jet skis, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I just don’t think most normal people spend that much time expounding on the reliability of the Yamaha engine versus the pure, raw power of the Kawasaki.”

Loki holds up a finger. “But have you gotten the lecture about Yamaha’s braking system?”

“I think I have that memorized at this point.”

“‘The perfect choice for families.’”

“‘You just tap the brakes. Just tap them. Perfectly smooth stop every time.’”

“‘Reliability meets affordability.’”

“‘You can’t say no to that.’”

You think you probably could have riffed on this for a bit, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of Connie with your dinner.

The Sunday Special turns out to be a fairly traditional breakfast—eggs, hash browns, two fluffy pancakes, sausage, toast, a little bowl of strawberries.

“Definitely lots of fish eggs in this meal,” you say to Loki after Connie leaves.

His smile is small, but genuine. “You haven’t looked under the pancakes yet.”

You feel it then, but you don’t fully understand until later that this dinner has unlocked something important between the two of you. After months of awkward, stilted conversation, it’s like you finally understand how to talk to each other. And you’re surprised to find that even outside of your big stupid crush, you actually like Loki. You like his sly smiles and his dry humor and how easily the two of you fall into a routine of playful banter. You click in a way that surprises you, in a way that makes you mourn the lost potential of all those awkward, stilted months and feel giddy about the possibilities ahead.

Dinner is over too soon and you walk back to the TVA feeling revived from the coffee and the conversation.

Disaster awaits you back at the office, though: you’d left a stack of the Nero variant files on your desk and evidently the construction was too precarious, as the entire pile had tipped off your desk and spilled to the floor, contents scattered everywhere.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh, cry, or scream. Possibly, it’s all three.

“Here.” Loki is bending down on the floor to gather the files. You studiously try to not ogle his ass or thighs. Or at least not obviously. “Clear off some space on your desk—I’ll help.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve set up an entirely new system—Loki has dragged his chair over to your desk and the cart of unsorted files sits between you, like a surly metallic chaperone. And even later when you’ve sorted out all of the files from the floor, he remains parked at the end of your desk, a stack of new, unsorted files in front of him. Admittedly, it’s a lot more efficient for you to work like this: privately, though, it gives you a warm glow that has nothing to do with workplace efficiency.

“I’ve invented a new game,” he says some time later.

“What’s that?”

“Every time either one of us finds documentation showing Renato Lucchese losing money on a racehorse he was told was not a good investment, I get to have a drink.”

You look up at him. “Look, I know you’re a god and everything, but I am pretty sure that will kill you.”

He sighs and tosses the file into the Lucchese pile. “I think it would add a little excitement to the evening, don’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows and look back at the file in front of you. “You mean this isn’t your idea of a fun Friday night?”

“My idea of a fun Friday night includes far fewer files and a lot more debauchery,” he says, taking a new file from the cart.

You glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven. I don’t usually start body shots until after midnight.”

“What are body shots?”

For one horrifying moment, you think that you’re going to actually have to explain this to him, but then you get a good look at his expression.

He’s teasing you.

“You’re an ass,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder with the file you’re holding.

He wags a finger at you. “That’s workplace violence. I’m going to have to report that.”

You lean back in your chair and return to your file. “I’m pretty confident that you’ll be put off by the amount of paperwork that process requires.”

He shakes his head as he returns to his own file. “Uncontrolled bureaucracy is how bad actors escape accountability.” There’s a brief pause. “And…there’s another racehorse.”

You continue on like this for the rest of the evening, occasionally chatting and Loki proving definitively that the Renato Lucchese racehorse drinking game could not be played without resulting in a fatality. It’s nice, though. Yes, it’s sorting files and yes, it’s not the most intellectually riveting task you’ve ever done, but spending time with Loki is nice. It’s because of this that you find yourself trying to stay awake, pushing past your looming exhaustion.

But around two, you can’t quite fight the heaviness of your eyelids any longer and you doze off in the middle of a report on the sinking of the Lusitania.

“Hey.” Loki is gently shaking your shoulder. The way he says your name in that deliciously deep voice makes you want to swoon and you’re glad that you have the ready made excuse of sleepiness to explain any embarrassing behavior on your end.

“I think you’d better call it a night,” he says gently. “Get some sleep and come back with fresh eyes.”

“What about you?” you say. “Are you going to do the same, or are you just all talk?”

He smiles at you and it warms you to the very tips of your toes. You could bask in that smile like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I’m starting to fade a bit myself,” he says

“Very convenient,” you say and he grins at you.

“Come on, I’ll see you back home.”

Part of you wants to protest—there’s really no need for him to walk you home—but a larger, louder part of you wants to let it be, prolong the magic of tonight for just a little longer.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you walk out of the office together.

“What time do you think you’re going to come in tomorrow?” he asks as you approach the residential wing. “It’s probably sensible to coordinate our efforts a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” you say. “I was thinking nine, but that will be dependent on how much coffee I have.”

“Yes, about that,” he says. “I cannot stand idly by and watch you torture yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Well, the cafeteria will be open, so I was going to torture myself with cafeteria coffee, which is at least thirty percent less over brewed.”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”

“To be fair, it’s quite late and I’ve been staring at files for hours.”

“All the more reason to get decent coffee,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, we are?”

“Consider it an intervention,” he says. “I’ll come collect you at eight.”

You’re not quite sure if this is just his natural confidence and swagger coming through or if he’s flirting with you and this counts as a date.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place.”

The place in question turns out to be a food cart in Central Park in 1998.

“Should I even bother asking if you have supervisor approval for this?” you say, looking skeptically at the time door glimmering before you.

Loki scoffs. “I don’t have a supervisor.”

“You do. It’s Mobius.”

“That can’t be right, we’re peers.”

“You’re absolutely not. Did you read any of the onboarding materials?”

He ignores your question. “I don’t see why I’d even need a supervisor, honestly.”

You snort. “Need I remind you of what happened at the Nixon inauguration?”

He spreads his hands in front of him. “It’s not my fault that I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

“I’m not entirely sure that was the problem,” you say. “Gerald Ford is never going to be the same, from what I understand.”

Loki waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine, the tail isn’t permanent. Now, are you coming or not?”

You roll your eyes at him and make a halfhearted complaint about proper protocol, but you know that you’re walking through that time door and not looking back. You knew that before he even posed the question.

The food cart is owned by a man named Samir who has a wide smile and booming laugh. He talks to Loki like he’s a friend and he tells you that you have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. You are fairly certain he’s exaggerating, but you stuff a few extra bills into the tip jar anyway.

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” says Loki as you walk away, each carrying a coffee and a brown paper bag with a breakfast sandwich.

“Fell for what?” you say, batting your eyes at him. “I do have beautiful eyes.”

“I’ve heard him say that on at least thirty separate occasions.”

“Yeah, but this time he really meant it. I could tell.”

He rolls his eyes and leads you to a park bench overlooking a wide, grassy field. The leaves are just starting to change and the air has a little bit of a bite to it.

You sit down on the bench and take a sip of your coffee.

“It is good coffee, I’ll give you that,” you say.

“See,” says Loki, “you can’t go back to that vending machine sludge after this.”

“I mean, if it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on a deadline, I can.”

“Darling. You have a TemPad.”

“Loki. Read the personnel manual.”

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not really my genre.”

You roll your eyes and take out your breakfast sandwich. “What is your genre?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”

“Of course it is,” you say. “I love talking about books.”

He gives you a slight smile and takes a sip of his coffee. “A little bit of everything, honestly,” he says. “Philosophy. Magical theory. History. Politics. Anything from Asgard, really, though it can be a bit more challenging getting some of those titles.”

“I’ve had pretty good luck with the Library of the Sacred Timeline—have you checked there yet?”

He frowns. “I’m not familiar.”

“Oh, you’d like it—it’s on the eighteenth floor. It’s intended to be a collection of the greatest works of literature from as many branches of the timeline as possible,” you say. “It started as a research project, but people liked it and it just kind of evolved into this huge collection. They’ve actually got a pretty sizeable collection of books from Asgard.”

It’s like you’ve told him that his personal paradise had been located on the eighteenth floor this entire time. “Will you show me?”

He is practically vibrating with the sort of anticipatory, manic energy that you typically would associate with Christmas morning right before you tear into presents. It’s sweetly endearing.

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, you’re leading him through the winding hallways on the eighteenth floor. You’re not surprised he hasn’t heard about the library—it’s a bit out of the way and the eighteenth floor is so poorly designed that it’s not terribly easy to find.

The design of the library is a sharp departure from the rest of the TVA. The shelves and floors are made of the kind of dark mahogany that you typically see in the kind of estates that look like something directly out of a Jane Austen novel. Worn oriental rugs muffle your footsteps on the creaky wood floors and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.

There’s a subtle change in Loki when you walk through the doors—almost like a muscle in his shoulders finally relaxes and he seems truly at home for the first time since he arrived.

You touch his hand. “This way.”

You lead him into the stacks, back to the far corner, right after the books from Alfheim.

“You can borrow whichever ones you like,” you say softly. “There’s a sign out sheet at the front desk.”

He nods, though you don’t think he really hears you—he only has eyes for the shelves, his gaze sweeping across the spines like they’re old friends. You’re about to excuse yourself to give him a little privacy when his brow furrows and he exhales sharply. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“What is it?”

They have the entirety of the finest Asgardian literature at their disposal. Untold centuries of the writings of our greatest minds—” he plucks a book off the shelf, “—and they choose to include this?”

The title looks fairly innocuous—a red, leather bound book with the title The Cloistered Heart embossed in gold script on the front. You take the book from him and open it. “What’s the problem with this?”

“It’s inconsequential fluff, literary pablum of the highest order.”

This is the Loki that you’re more familiar with and a smile curls at your lips. Almost on cue, you flip the book open to a chapter titled “The Wedding and Bedding of Aloisa.”

You bite back a laugh and look up at him. “It’s a romance novel.”

“Precisely my point,” he says. “To think that this is on the same shelf as Nielsen and Auber.”

“That’s kind of how libraries work,” you say, flipping further into the book. The phrases “throbbing length” and “eager moans” draw your eye and you have to tamp down another laugh. “Oh, and it’s a sexy romance novel.”

“It appeals to the lowest common denominator, yes.”

“What, so you’re too good for a bodice ripper?”

He scoffs. “I prefer to do the bodice ripping myself, not read some overwrought description of it.”

You are glad you’re looking at the book because you’re pretty sure you’d disintegrate if you had to make eye contact with him while he delivered that line. “Oh spare me,” you say lightly, snapping the book shut and drawing it to your chest. “I’m gonna read this.”

He blows out a puff of air. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“I’ve got lots of time, I can afford to waste it,” you say cheekily. “Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of book turns the god of mischief into a pearl clutching prude.”

Loki sputters. “Prude? Darling, let me assure you, I’m no prude—”

“I’ll leave you to browse,” you say with a grin as you turn away from him. “Come find me at the front when you’re ready to go.”

You’re a few chapters into the book when Loki rejoins you at the front of the library, a small stack of books tucked under his arm.

You close your book with a snap. “This book is a delight. I think your real issue is just that you’re no fun.”

He scoffs. “I’m very fun.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You bicker playfully back and forth as you check out your books and leave the library. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you spent much more time there than you’d planned. You can’t quite bring yourself to worry about that, though, not with the memory of Loki’s wonderstruck expression burning so bright in your mind.

There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation as you wait for the elevator.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For showing me that.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you didn’t know about it sooner.”

He looks at you, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something. His tongue swipes briefly over his bottom lip and you would swear that his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second.

For just a second—one heady, slightly irrational second—you think he might be about to kiss you.

The ding of the elevator arriving breaks the spell, startling you just a little. You run a hand through your hair, trying to give off the impression of composure even as your heart beats wildly in your chest.

Loki gestures to the elevator doors. “After you.”

There is a group of analysts in the elevator already, chatting animatedly and completely obliterating any chance you may have had at recapturing that moment.

You try not to dwell too much in contemplating what ifs or timeline branches—often, it feels too much like work, something Mobius might assign you.

But you know that the possibility of that moment—what if the elevator had been a hair slower, what if those analysts had taken a different route, what if you were braver—you know that’s something that’s going to haunt you for a while.

You wouldn’t give up that time in the library for anything—it’s one of those moments that feels formative, something that you’ll return to again and again for one reason or another.

But it’s also true that it’s time that you probably could have used for sorting files and as Saturday ticks on, you can’t help but wish you had a way to pull another hour out of somewhere.

“We’re not going to be able to make this deadline, are we?” you say with a sigh.

It’s getting late into the evening and the cart of files still to be sorted still remains depressingly full, despite the fact that you’d brought both lunch and dinner back to your desk so you could continue working.

Loki eyes the remaining files. “I think we might. We made good progress today.”

You rub your eyes. “My brain feels like it’s about to leak out my ears.”

Loki takes the file you are working on and sets it back in the stack of unsorted files. “I think that might be a sign it’s time to turn in,” he says.

“There’s still so much left.”

“There’s still tomorrow.”

You reach for the file. “Well, let me just—”

He pulls your hand away from the pile. “You can come back to it in the morning. Besides, if you’re this tired, you’re not going to do good work anyway.”

He squeezes your hand and drops it. It’s brief enough to still be friendly, but unusual enough to make you wonder and send your mind racing back to that moment by the elevator.

You shake the thought away. It’s late and you’re tired.

You heave a world weary sigh and slump back in your chair. “I hate it when you’re right.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Once again, there’s no reason for him to do this, but once again, you’re inclined to let him.

You pack up for the evening and walk out of the office side by side. You’re trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is likely the last night that you’ll do this, that tomorrow the assignment will be over.

As you near the residential wing, you start to hear distant shouts. If you inhale deeply, you catch a very faint whiff of explosives—you’re not sure what kind.

“I think someone brought work home,” you say with a sigh.

This happens from time to time—things get out of hand in the field or something happens when retrieving an asset or a target and all hell breaks loose at the TVA. Mobius had once referred to it as “bringing work home” and the name had stuck.

“Wasn’t there an incident in this wing not long ago?” asks Loki.

“Yes.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I had to call off the next day—I got no sleep that night.” You listen carefully, trying to determine the source of the noise and the status of the problem. “But maybe it’s almost over,” you say with an optimism you don’t fully feel. “Sometimes these things are resolved really quick.”

Your heart continues to sink the closer you come to your home. The acrid burn of explosives only increases and you think you catch the low, dull roar of something not quite human.

And indeed, when you turn the final corner, you are immediately stopped by an electric blue barrier being monitored by a hunter. G-21–you’ve worked with her on a couple of missions before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“There’s an ongoing incident in this area,” says G-21 and you almost want to laugh because no shit.

“How long do you think it’s gonna be closed off?” you ask.

She shrugs. “We’re at a code 54 right now, but it’s probably gonna escalate.”

With pitch perfect timing and before you can even try to remember what a code 54 means, there’s an almighty crash and a low bellow.

“Go!” she yells before running toward the commotion amid frantic calls for backup.

Loki is grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a run.

Your standard issue work shoes are comfortable enough on a day to day basis, but you certainly want to have words with whoever decided that leather soled shoes with absolutely no grips were a good choice for a building floored almost entirely in linoleum. In a low stakes situation, it’s meant occasionally you wipe out in the cafeteria and hurt nothing but your pride. In this situation, it means that Loki’s firm grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you upright.

But there’s a small mercy in that while you can still hear distant crashes and shrieks, whatever is happening down that hallway doesn’t seem to be following you and eventually, you both slow to a brisk walk and Loki drops your hand.

You haven’t even had a chance to consider where you are going to sleep tonight. You could probably curl up on that terrible couch in the office and just plan on getting up early enough to run back to your place for a quick shower and a change of clothes…assuming the incident resolves by then—

“You can stay with me,” says Loki, as though he can hear you trying to sort this out.

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just—”

“If you say you’re going to sleep on that terrible couch in the office, I will personally take you to the most boring governmental proceeding I can find and leave you there until you come to your senses.”

“Sounds like a great place to fall asleep,” you say.

His eyes glint, but his tone brooks no arguments. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

You sigh, but you can’t think of a counterpoint. “When did you get so bossy?”

“Darling, I’m a prince,” he says with a bit of a wry smirk. “It’s my birthright.”

Loki lives on the opposite end of the residential wing and his place looks quite a bit like yours—he’s got an extra window in the kitchen but the floor plan is otherwise the same. A lot of his furniture is standard issue, but there are little details that make it seem more personal: an area rug with a bit of fraying on the edges, a painting of what you think is an Asgardian landscape, a vase filled with dried flowers so delicate they look like they might disintegrate if you were to touch them. And books—so many books. Books on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, tucked into the little rack that you know is meant to hold magazines. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, dog-eared, well-worn and brand new. It’s no wonder he was so excited about the library.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll get some things for you.”

You sit down and he disappears down the hall. You idly examine the books stacked on the end table next to you. Many are quite clearly from Asgard and it sparks a pang of sympathy—it’s like his homesickness is on full display in his living room and there’s something sweet and sad about seeing that vulnerability laid so bare.

He returns a few minutes later with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a hand towel.

“Here,” he says, handing you the pile. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll make up a bed for you.”

“Thanks.”

In the bathroom, you realize that the pajamas he’s given you aren’t the standard set you can order from the TVA. These are made of a dark emerald silk that ripples over your skin like water, and somehow, that makes it feel a thousand times more personal than if he’d loaned you a standard set. They don’t fit quite right on you, but they’ll work well enough for tonight.

You brush your teeth and attempt to get through as much of your evening routine as you can before collecting your clothes and exiting the bathroom.

When you return to the living room, you expect to find that he’s made up a bed for you on the couch. These living units only have one bedroom—it would be quite reasonable to have you sleep on the couch.

You do not expect to find a pajama clad Loki stretched out reading on the couch, a blanket over his lap and his head propped up on a pillow like he intends to sleep there.

You exhale slowly. “Please tell me you are not giving up your bed.”

“Don’t be absurd, of course I am,” he says without even looking up from his book. “The point of this was to prevent you from sleeping on a couch, not simply put you on a couch in a different location.”

You wish you had something to throw at him. “You don’t even fit on that couch.”

“Luckily, my knees bend. Besides, you’re a guest,” he says, as though that settles it.

You roll your eyes and plunk yourself down in the armchair across from the couch, setting your pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m not moving until you give up the couch.”

He finally looks up from his book. “You’re really going to do this?”

You examine your fingernails, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. I’m simply meeting you at your level.”

“If you think that I’m being unreasonable and you’re also saying you’re meeting me at my level, does that not mean you are admitting that you are being unreasonable?”

“It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. I’m not arguing semantics with you.”

“Fine.” His eyes glimmer as he sets his book down and slowly rises to his feet. “But you’re still not sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh, you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize how wrong you are,” you say. You think you see your opening and you try to play it cool.

He’s walking toward you, leaving your path to the couch wide open. In your head, you can see exactly how this works: you’ll spring from your chair and dart around the coffee table before diving onto the couch like a baseball player sliding into home plate, soundly defeating Loki. Easy peasy.

Instead, what happens is that you spring to your feet and Loki moves with inhuman speed, grabbing you around your waist and pinning you to the front of his chest, stopping you in your tracks almost immediately.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” he says. Your back is facing him, but you can almost hear the dry, sardonic look he’s giving you.

“Probably,” you say. “God of mischief and all.” You struggle fruitlessly against his iron grip. “You can let me go now.”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t. It was clearly a mistake to trust you. I won’t be making that error again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying again to squirm away from him. “Let me go.”

“The interesting thing about all of this is that you’ve made a rather substantial tactical error,” he says, continuing as though he can’t hear you.

“You’re bluffing,” you say with more confidence than you feel.

“Fascinating theory,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

With that same ridiculous speed, he’s suddenly spinning you around and lifting you, tossing you easily over his shoulder.

“Hey!” you shout in protest.

“I warned you,” he says, his voice full of mirth as he carries you toward the bedroom.

This is not exactly how you’ve imagined being carried off to bed by Loki.

Though, admittedly, you do have a nice view of his ass.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“You brought this upon yourself.” He’s walking into the bedroom and a moment later, he’s lifting you from his shoulder and tossing you unceremoniously onto his bed.

You scramble to your feet and try to lunge toward the door, but he’s clearly expecting that. Before your feet even hit the floor, he catches you around the waist and hauls you back to the bed. Your back hits the mattress and you try to leverage the momentum to propel yourself back onto your feet.

He catches you immediately and you find yourself back on the bed again.

“I don’t mean to be patronizing,” he says, failing to bite back a laugh, “but it’s adorable that you think you can outmaneuver me.”

That is deeply offensive and the only way you can earn my forgiveness is by letting me take my rightful place on the couch.” You can’t quite keep the laugh from your voice.

He grins. “Not a chance.”

You attempt to dive off the opposite side of the bed, only to have him grab you by the ankles and pull you back. You manage to dislodge him and lunge in the opposite direction, only to be immediately thwarted.

It becomes increasingly hilarious the longer it goes on and soon your sides are aching from laughter. Loki is laughing too, but it doesn’t seem to affect his strength or speed at all.

Eventually, he wrestles you back down onto the bed and you are fairly certain there’s no way out of this one—he’s got your wrists pinned above your head and his legs locked around yours. You’re both a little out of breath.

“Yield,” he says.

You shake your head. “Never.”

His gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes. “Yield.”

“No.”

Something has changed. There’s an electricity and intensity that crackles in the air between you, possibilities blooming in both of your gazes. It feels a little like that moment by the elevator, but you’re afraid to hope, afraid to even wish because the idea of him wanting you still feels as impossible as capturing smoke with a net.

But the way he’s looking at you, the way his gaze keeps drifting between your eyes and your lips…that’s not nothing.

“Yield.”

You lick your lips, your heart beating wildly. “No.”

Is it just your imagination, or did his breath hitch when you licked your lips?

“Yield.”

God, he’s so close and you want him so badly.

“No.”

He looks again at your lips and this time, he closes the distance between you.

They call him Silvertongue—you’ve heard the jokes, you’ve rolled your eyes at all of them. But as he kisses you, you realize that there’s an element of truth there because only seconds in and you’re ready to sign away your soul to live under the power of Loki’s tongue. The slow, warm slide of it against yours, the way he guides your mouth against his, the way he lets out a soft sigh as he tastes you—you would give up everything if it meant you could stay like this.

“Yield,” he breathes against your lips.

“No,” you say.

He deepens the kiss, catching your lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging until you whimper and arch against him.

He still has your hands pinned against the bed, his grip unyielding when you try to wrestle them away.

“Let me touch you,” you say when he draws back. You want to touch him everywhere—run your hands along every muscle you’ve admired from afar.

“Then yield,” he says with a grin, his eyes flashing with devilish intent.

You consider this for a moment. You could give in—there aren’t really any stakes at this point and you’re pretty sure you’re both going to end up sleeping in his bed tonight anyway. But that glint of mischief in his eyes also promises some intriguing possibilities if you stand firm.

“No,” you say.

“Such a pity,” says Loki, though his expression is one of hungry delight.

His hands slip free of your wrists then, but they stay pinned to the bed by some invisible force.

“Cheater,” you say.

“I think this is only fair,” he says, his hands sliding to your hips. “I’m clearly the victor, am I not entitled to my prize?”

You shiver. “Your prize?”

“Yes.” He kisses down the column of your throat. “My lovely, lovely prize.”

“How can I be your prize if I’m also your competitor?”

“You think too much,” he mumbles against your neck.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Generally, it’s not.” He sits back on his heels between your legs, looking you over with satisfaction. “But in this case, it’s distracting you from more pressing matters.” His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, stroking the small of your back, thumbs tracing teasingly along the waistband of your pajama pants.

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy seeing you in my clothes?” he asks. There’s a husky depth to his voice and a hunger in his eyes that sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“You have not,” you say.

“A casualty of too much thinking,” he says solemnly, his thumbs gently grazing the skin at your hipbones. “You look utterly delectable. I almost want to leave them on.” His eyes glitter with mischief. “Almost.” His hand strays to the bottom button on your pajama top. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He slips the button free and slowly makes his way up until your shirt is open. He carefully pushes the fabric aside, baring your breasts to his sight and touch.

You’ve never felt more beautiful seeing Loki stare at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hungry. He trails one hand up your stomach and rib cage and slowly brushes a thumb over your nipple. You gasp and the sensitive skin puckers and stiffens as he palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he lowers his mouth to your breast, his tongue and lips taking up the role of his hand, while his other hand moves to cup your other breast. You whimper, wishing you could run your hands through his hair. “That’s it,” he purrs, “I want to hear all the sounds you can make, my love.”

You rock your hips forward and arch your back as he lavishes attention on your breasts. It’s the most delicious kind of torture, having him so close, but not being able to touch him.

He’s taking his time, which you both love and hate. He feels so good, but you need him to touch you, you need to touch him, you need him inside of you. You wait until you can’t take it any more and breathe his name like it’s a prayer.

You wonder if this is what he was waiting for because with little more than a brief smirk and a wicked look, he starts kissing his way back up your chest and neck. You whimper when his lips meet yours and you can feel him grin as he kisses you. He fits his hips against yours, angling himself so that his cock rubs up against your clit just right and you moan into his mouth. You can tell that he’s big and part of you wants to savor the anticipation even though you feel like you might go mad if he doesn’t fuck you now. You rock your hips against him, trying to feel that friction.

His large hands frame your face, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head so he can draw you deeper, the other trailing from your cheek to your throat.

Both hands soon stroke down your sides, lingering teasingly at the waistband of your pajama pants. He hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband and you lift your hips. He slides your pants down maybe an inch and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. You lift your hips again and your waistband creeps down another inch.

“Loki.” His name falls from your lips with a sigh.

“What is it, my love?”

“Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”

You lift your hips again and this time, he pulls the fabric fully down and off your legs. He guides your legs apart and stares appreciatively at your bare cunt, his teasing expression replaced by a rapt awe.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

You believe him.

His hands stroke your thighs, seemingly in no hurry, despite your pleading whimpers and the way you arch against the mattress. He draws his thumb gently along your slit, barely grazing your clit.

“Do you know what an utter distraction it’s been sitting behind you?” he asks, tracing your clit in the slowest, lightest circle.

You arch upward, hands still bound by his magic. “Tell me,” you breathe, your hips rising to chase his hand.

“Every time you stood up, I could only think about bending you over the desk.”

You manage a sly smirk. “And here I thought you didn’t like me much at all.”

His thumb presses a little more against your clit and you moan.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he says, rolling his thumb in a slow circle. “I kept you at arm’s length partly as a matter of protection.”

For who?”

“You,” he says. “I’m not fully redeemed in some eyes and you being involved with a dangerous variant—”

“You’re not,” you say.

“Some would disagree.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” you say. “You’re not a dangerous variant. You’re Loki Laufeyson and I want you just as you are.”

There’s something unreadable in his expression and it makes you wonder how many people have told him that he can just be himself.

“You should be careful saying such lovely things to me, you know,” he says solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because it makes me want to do very wicked things to you.”

You’re surprised you’re not shaking, you want him so badly. “What kinds of wicked things?”

“Oh, all manner of wicked things.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue swiping briefly against your skin. “Things with my mouth...” His thumb rolls over your clit again, his index finger teasing your entrance before retreating. “…my hands…” He drags his gaze over your naked form before locking eyes with you. “My cock.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. “So if I talk about how I think you’re really clever and funny and I find it unbelievably sexy, what sort of wicked thing would that merit?”

The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver again. He crouches down and presses another kiss against the inside of your knee, slowly moving upward. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to let you leave my bed for days.”

“You know that’s not a disincentive, right?” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as he nips at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Loki.”

“I’ll make it weeks if you’re not careful.”

“Again, not a disincentive.” You gently tug at your bound wrists and find that they’re still firmly secured. It’s exhilarating, even though you really wish you could run your hands through his hair, especially if he ends up where you think he’s going.

“What else should I tell you?” you muse as he continues his agonizingly slow path along your thigh. “You know, half the reason I kept to myself was that I wanted you so much I was certain that I’d make a fool of myself.”

That earns you a few circles of your clit with his thumb, but his progress up your thigh remains slow. You have a theory about what might move the needle, though.

“I know you like to act like you’re this sort of barely reformed villain, but I think there’s more good in you than you’d like people to believe.”

This time, he moves up to the crease where your thigh joins your hip, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting along your labia. His tongue traces a line along your skin and you briefly wonder if you’ll be able to hold it together enough to deliver the last part.

“And,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “yesterday and today made me want you even more because I feel like I finally saw who you really are and you’re even more wond—”

Your words abruptly give way to a breathy moan because his perfect, skilled tongue has finally found its way to your clit.

You had a plan from here, but whatever it was has dissolved into nothing under the skilled caress of Loki’s tongue. You suspected he would be good at this from the way that he’d kissed you earlier, but you could not have imagined that it would feel like this.

“Oh my god, Loki.” Your thighs are already quaking. You tug again at the invisible bonds on your wrists, but they hold fast. Something about the way the bonds are keeping you gently stretched along the bed combined with how his large hands have your thighs spread open seems to heighten every sensation. There’s no wiggling away from him or adjusting yourself so that you feel more or less of the onslaught of his tongue on your cunt. You are completely at his mercy and you’re not entirely surprised that you fucking love it.

He slides a finger into your aching channel and your cunt shudders around the thick intrusion. The warm, roiling center of your orgasm starts builds in your hips with every stroke of his tongue, spinning faster and faster, like ocean winds whipping up into a hurricane. Your back arches and his tongue presses flat against your clit, and suddenly you know that this is going to be what takes you over the edge.

Loki seems to know it too, at least from the way that he presses his tongue more firmly against you, one arm slung across your hips to hold you in place. His other hand slides two fingers inside you, rocking and curling against that aching, tender spot.

You whimper, your hips bucking wildly. It’s so good and so much and you are almost there.

You look down at him then, his hair wild, hollowed cheeks flushed pink as his tongue works you over, his eyes closed like he couldn’t imagine anything more blissful than being in between your legs while you come undone.

This is ultimately what tips you over the edge. The storm that has been forming inside you is finally let loose and you arch your back and cry out in a wordless scream as your climax crashes into you.

Only then do the bonds around your wrists release and your hands fly down to grab his hair as your body shakes with pleasure.

It takes a moment for you to get your breath back and reacquaint yourself with the concept of speech, but when you do, you find Loki looking up at you, his expression pure mischief.

“And to think you wanted to sleep on the couch.”

“It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep on the couch, it’s that—” Your voice cuts off as his tongue starts stroking your clit again.

“It’s what?” he asks in between strokes, his smirk obvious in his voice. The lingering ripples of your orgasm are coalescing around the path of his tongue, tightening that coil in your belly again.

“Fuck—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just—” You lose your sentence to a low moan that rises up from your chest. “You can’t just—fuck, yes—you can’t…oh god, yes, just like that.”

His laughter rumbles against you as your hips start rocking against his mouth. How are you already so close?

“You can’t just—fuck—win an argument by—”

You’re trying to say that he can’t expect to win an argument by making you come and you think he might understand this based on how determined he seems to be to prove you wrong. His fingers curl again until he finds that soft, tender spot that is so often the key to your unraveling.

You have stopped trying to complete that sentence—you moan, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the swell of your climax rushes up, inevitable as a tidal wave looming over a seaside village.

You cry out as it crests and breaks, falling down over you in a rush of tingling pleasure that feels like champagne and fireworks all at once.

“Now, what was it you were saying, my love?” he asks as he releases your clit a moment later. “Something about how I can’t just win an argument by making you come? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you coming completely undone on my tongue.”

“Oh, you think you’re so smart,” you say, giving him a stern look as he crawls up your body.

“You know what I think?” he says, settling himself on his side next to you. “I think you liked submitting to me.”

You shiver before you can even think about hiding it and his smile turns decidedly vulpine.

“You did, didn’t you? You liked having your hands bound and being completely at my mercy while I licked your pretty cunt until you came undone in my mouth.”

“You are enjoying this far too much,” you say.

“I am enjoying it the correct amount.”

You realize your hands are now free to explore his body and you tug at his pajama shirt. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes,” you say.

He gives you a wicked grin as he lets you pull his shirt over his head. “Yes, perhaps it’s time we even things up.”

You pull the shirt away and rake your eyes over him greedily, your hands following the path of your gaze. He is as perfect as you imagined, unfairly beautiful in the dim light of the bedroom.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants and lower them an inch, a cheeky parallel of how he teased you earlier. His lips curl into a sharp smile when he realizes what you’re doing.

“Interesting strategy.” There’s a bit of a growl in his voice, a rough desperation that makes your cunt clench. “But I think you forgot that I have the upper hand here.”

He raises his hand and with a twist of his wrist, his remaining clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and he is bare before you.

Your breath catches in your throat. His cock commands your immediate attention, nudging up against your thigh—he’s big, as you suspected, but completely bare and rock hard, he somehow seems longer and thicker than he had when he was grinding against you.

He pulls you into a slow kiss as you reach for his cock. You wrap your hand around him, delighting in the silky hardness of him, the way he throbs in your hand and the low groan he makes as your hand moves from base to tip and back, the way his hips thrust along with you. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

After a moment, though, he places his hand over yours, slowing your movements.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He rolls on top of you and you’re not sure that you’ve ever felt anything quite as wonderful as the heat of his bare skin and yours pressed together. This feeling means intimacy, a closeness that you’d longed for but never expected even in your wildest daydreams.

He pulls you into a kiss, slow, soft, and languid, like you have all the time in the world and he intends to take it. It’s decadent and dreamy and perfect.

But the heavy weight of his bare cock resting against your stomach combined with the ache between your legs—an ache that would be so perfectly soothed by the hard column of flesh currently throbbing against you—proves to be a force too powerful to resist for very long.

You cant your hips against him, snaking one leg around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He does.

He braces himself on one hand, the other sliding between your bodies to rub his cock along your slick folds. He positions himself at your entrance, waiting for your breathy plea to begin to ease himself slowly into you.

He fills and stretches you in the most wonderful way, but even more than that, he feels like home. The thought strikes you quite suddenly and you’re not entirely sure about everything it means, but you know it’s good and right.

He pauses for just a moment, seeming to savor the feeling.

“You feel better than I ever imagined,” he says.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You imagined?”

He gives you a hungry smile as he leans in to kiss you. “Like I said: it has been an utter distraction sitting behind you.”

His rhythm is slow and easy, like he wants to take his time learning every inch of you and memorizing how you react to his touch. His mouth moves over yours in a slow kiss that’s somehow both languid and demanding, his tongue gliding in and out of your mouth in the same rhythm of his hips rocking into you. His cock bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you that his fingers had teased earlier, each stroke inching you closer to bliss.

He shifts the angle of his hips so that his pubic bone grinds against your clit and it feels so good you almost see stars. You can feel your orgasm building, your cunt growing slicker and tensing around his thrusting cock.

He draws back to look at you, eyes hazy with a loose, dreamy kind of pleasure.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he breathes.

You are shaking. “Loki, I’m gonna come.”

“I know you are,” he purrs. “Let go for me, let me feel you, my love.”

With two more thrusts of his hips, you unravel.

He groans as you tremble around him, but mostly, he watches your face, rapt by the way you throw your head back against the bed and gasp his name like it’s the only thing that will save you.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes. “Absolutely stunning.”

He waits until you catch your breath before he kisses you again, slow and sensual. His hips are still rocking in that beautifully slow rhythm and you don’t know how it can still feel so good.

He keeps moving against you, his touch and his low murmurs of praise invoking a symphony of sensations. He presses deeper and your body sings with every thrust, your muscles tensing and tightening around him like you never want him to leave. Your climax swells again and you come with a whimper, your whole body shaking as he fucks you through it.

You want him to come, want to hear the sounds he makes and feel his sweet, hot release burning inside of you.

“I want you to come for me,” you breathe.

He grins at you. “Oh, I will, but not yet. You’re not done yet.”

You whimper. “Loki—”

“Two more, my love, two more and then I’ll come for you.”

Somehow, you give him three. By the second one, he’s panting and his words have become rough, his voice a growl as he utters some of the filthiest praise you’ve ever heard. The third builds quickly after that and you know instinctively that you’re going to take him over the edge with you this time.

You fight to keep your eyes open against the tidal wave of pleasure blooming again in your hips. You need to see him come undone.

As in everything else he does, he’s unfairly beautiful—he throws his head back, letting out a low groan that you can feel all the way to the tips of your toes. His cheeks are flushed, a few ink dark curls plastered to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel him emptying himself inside you, his release hot and hard won.

It seems to last a long time and it’s another minute before his hips slow to a halt. He kisses you, so soft and sweet it would almost seem chaste were it not for the fact that his cock is still throbbing inside of you.

After a moment, he slowly eases out of you, rolling over onto his back, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to him like he can’t bear to be parted from you even for a moment.

You curl up against his side, your legs tangling with his. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before resting your clasped hands on his heart.

You could fall in love like this, you think sleepily to yourself.

You don’t know it then, but you’re right.

Time moves differently at the TVA, but a couple years later, there’s a ring in a box on your desk.

Loki likes a spectacle and you’d daydreamed about a traditional wedding, but when you talk it over, you both agree that you want to do something different, something quiet, something just for the two of you.

“I do think we should tell Mobius beforehand,” you say to Loki.

“Isn’t the point of eloping that no one knows until after it’s done?” says Loki.

“Yes, but I feel like we could make one exception,” you say. “If we’d done a full wedding, I would have asked him to give me away.”

Loki’s gaze softens a bit then and he pulls you close. “All right. But we only tell him right before we leave. The man can’t keep a secret.”

But Mobius doesn’t seem terribly surprised when you tell him—in fact, he seems far more concerned about your wedding gift.

“I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet,” he says. He’s retrieved a large picture frame that had been propped against his desk, though he keeps it turned away from you. “So…this also requires a bit of an overdue confession for context.”

You raise your eyebrows. “A confession?”

“A confession,” says Mobius.

“Will I be angry about this?” asks Loki at the same time you say, “Is this like a go to jail confession or a misdemeanor confession?”

Mobius gives a good natured chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, the two of you. Always so dramatic. No wonder you ended up together.” He takes what feels like an unnecessarily long drink from the coffee mug on his desk. “It’s not bad, I promise.” Another sip of coffee.

Loki sighs. “He always does this,” he says to you. “Have you noticed? Whenever he has something that you want to know, he stalls and drags it out just to torment you.”

“Okay,” you say, “but you jumping in to bicker with him probably doesn’t help.”

“I’m not bickering,” says Loki. “I’m simply pointing out that he’s stalling—”

“What was it you were saying, Mobius?” you say brightly, nudging Loki with your elbow.

Mobius’ eyes twinkle. “See,” he says to Loki, “I always liked her. It’s a good match.”

You don’t have to look at Loki to know he’s rolling his eyes, though he also makes a point of surreptitiously pinching your ass, a detail you hope Mobius doesn’t notice.

“Anyway,” says Mobius, taking a deep breath, “it was pretty clear to me from the start that you liked each other. And you also seemed absolutely determined to get in your own way.” He points to Loki. “Especially you with your whole stilted Asgardian prince thing.”

Loki frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Mobius sighs. “Anytime you like someone, it’s like your brain gets a factory reset and you get all overly polite and courtly.”

Loki scoffs. “I don’t do that at all.”

“You do. It’s deeply weird. You’re like a mannerly robot.”

Loki turns to you. “Darling, tell him he’s being absurd.”

You reach over and squeeze his hand. “You did call me ‘my lady’ a couple of times in the early days.”

Loki sighs and looks back at Mobius. “What was your point in mentioning this?”

“Well,” says Mobius, “you seemed pretty determined to get in your own way, so nothing was happening. And eventually I got sick of all of the pining, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“What do you mean?”

Mobius pauses, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “There wasn’t a breakthrough with Berlitz that weekend. What there was was a surplus in the overtime budget and a high priority indexing project for Archives.”

Your lips part as your brain slowly puts the pieces together. Mobius’ eyes twinkle.

“Wait,” you say, “you lied to us?”

“I did not lie,” says Mobius, his demeanor suddenly becoming very serious. “That would have been wrong.” He nods at Loki. “Also, it would’ve tipped him off and that would have ruined the whole thing. I simply failed to mention that the cart of files that I gave you needed to be sorted for indexing for the Archives department and I peppered in a couple of unrelated things about Berlitz.”

“But the office was empty that weekend,” says Loki.

Mobius snaps his fingers. “Right. I did make some adjustments to the schedule that weekend.”

“And the disturbance that prevented her from returning home on Saturday night?”

Mobius spreads his hands wide and grins. “All me, buddy. Paid G-21 five hundred bucks for that one.”

Loki pauses for a moment and then looks at you. “I don’t think I can be mad about this. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“I mean, I can’t argue with the results, but Jesus, Mobius, you could’ve just set us up on a blind date,” you say.

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” Mobius says. “Plus, it wouldn’t have made for as good a wedding gift.” He turns the frame around and hands it to you both.

It’s both your timecards from that pay period, neatly framed side by side. Your eyes well with tears and Mobius smiles.

“Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a jet ski,” says Loki.

“He's deflecting,” you say to Mobius in an exaggerated whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back.

But you can’t help but notice that Loki’s eyes are brighter than normal.

“Okay, now get out of here,” says Mobius. “You’ve got a wedding to get to.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re wearing a simple white dress and standing with Loki in front of a time door, your hand clasped in his.

“Technically, we don’t have a supervisor’s approval for this,” you say with a wry smile.

He looks at you, eyes dancing with mirth. “I had Mobius sign off on the paperwork while you were getting ready.”

Your heart swells and your smile is so wide that you feel like your face might split in two. “Then hurry up and marry me, Laufeyson.”

He grins and tugs you through the time door.

-------

But wait! There's more: I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel.

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki x female reader smut #loki x female reader #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tva loki x reader

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peachysunrize · 1 month

Text

Labyrinth ⥃ Aemond Targaryen

Summary: falling in love is easy for most people, but not for Aemond Targaryen. How can a broken cold-hearted man be able to love the most gentle human Westeros has ever seen?

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, very very gentle, angst angst angst angst!!!, humiliation, reader is Daemon & Laena’s oldest daughter, no description for reader (besides white hair) you can imagine her however you like, Aemond is a vulnerable & insecure baby girl, like he is really really insecure, mentions of murder, fluff, nightmares, chronic pain, mentions of Aemond’s injury, anxiety attack, babes are in looooove, English isn’t my first language<3 it’s very heavily plotted and the smut is at the end of the story.

Word count: 11.5k (she's so long but worth it)

a/n: I’ve always wanted to write something with this kind of trope, especially when it’s from the man’s pov, and there’re so little fics that get into the depths of Aemond’s pain and suffering so I needed to try and write something that says his part of the story as well! Please please tell me your opinions and favorite lines of this piece! I’ve worked sooo hard for this fic and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Reblogs and comments are appreciated<3🩷

A very special thank you to my babies, @namelesslosers & @neptuneiris for beta-ing and supporting my ideas😭🫂✨

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?”

Aemond watches the scene unfold in front of him; his mother seeking justice for him, slashing Rhaenyra’s forearm with the dagger in her hand, spilling her blood in fury.

He looks around the room, finding you scared behind your grandfather, looking at him with wide teary eyes. He scowls when he sees how you look at him with pity, thinking he is a deformed monster in your eyes, to his best friend’s eyes.

You leave the hall in a rush, and he scoffs at how unbearable he must look for you to go in such haste, allowing this injustice to wreck his world and him to cope with the aftermath alone. How could you leave him like that? What happened to all the hours he helped you build that stupid sandcastle next to where Vhagar lays? Did you forget every moment, every laughter you had together?

He stands up and walks to his mother, telling her that Vhagar is worth it. But is it true? It might be worth gaining the largest dragon alive, but in the back of his mind, he thinks about how he has lost you.

No, you left him, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He is the one with his eye in a tray, he is the one who needs tending to for the first time, and you left him while he and his mother were humiliated by Rhaenyra and her bastards.

The morning comes sooner than expected, the milk of the poppy knocked him out immediately last night. He walks down the stairs where his family is gathering to leave, his mother holding Helaena’s hand while god knows where his father is, probably saying his goodbyes to his daughter and Princess Rhaenys.

Aemond moves toward the hill that Vhagar is sleeping on, catching the sight of you waiting for him next to the sandcastles he helped you build yesterday after your mother’s funeral.

“What do you want?” he asks, standing in front of you, trying not to frown too much to loosen his stitches.

“I-I wanted to ask how you were doing…”

“After leaving me all alone? You were my friend! I needed you and you left me! And you ask how I am after I got my eye cut out?” He shouts at you, waking up Vhagar from her drowsy nap.

“I-I don’t have any excuses, but Aemond, please—” “No, I hate you! I hate your stupid hair, your eyes, your laugh, even-even your sandcastles! They are so childish and-and ugly!” “I know you are upset with me, and I’m so sorry for what happened to you, but please let me—” “No!” he yells at you again, marching toward the castle next to your feet before he stomps all over it, screaming and crying while he ruins the perfect sculpture he himself has made for you.

“Aemond…” the sob that wrecks through you makes him stop, but you are not looking at his feet, you are looking at his face, crying for him. He doesn’t spare a glance at you when he walks to climb Vhagar’s saddle, but guilt overwhelms his emotions and dread fills him.

You just wanted to talk, and he treated you so poorly even if his anger was justified.

Oblivious to him, as soon as he and his family were gone, you ran to your grandmother, crying in her arms and begging her to allow you to study with Maesters, in hopes that someday you may help your childhood friend with the pain he will carry for the rest of his life.

•••••••••••

Jacaerys’ name day, another pathetic excuse to have his sister and her pups in the capital under the same roof, drinking and wasting the crown’s money. He can’t blame them though, they’re desperate to get on the lords’ good sides by showing off their heritage, going with songs and praises for the heir after his mother.

Unnecessary, stupid…

Aemond groans, running his hand over his face as he wakes up with the sounds of banging in the hallway. He knows that they’re arriving today, and he’s aware that the royal chambers should be ready when his sister makes a face, but to wake him up at such an early hour after the rough night he had should have severe consequences.

With another deep groan, he sits up on his bed, looking at the sea from between the sheer curtains of his room, watching the sunlight shine bright on the surface of the water, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already taking turns in the sky over the city.

He stands up, looking down at the soaked undershirt he had on during sleep, exhaling deeply as he pulls the fabric off, slamming it down on the couch as he walks to the balcony to get some fresh air. The morning breeze hits his sweat-covered chest, stinging the empty socket of his eye.

He knows he should go back inside, to cover his scar and avoid pain from the cold wind, but the contrast of the coldness of it on his heated skin is soothing his mind, calming his beating heart. He will regret it during the day, but for now, after experiencing yet another nightmare, he needs to feel alive again.

As soon as the sharp pain starts from the depths of his skull, he moves back, shutting the door and pulling the curtains closed. He stands straight, his nails digging inside his palms as he controls, or tries to control his breathing.

It always starts like this; a sting, then another one but sharper, then a minimal pain that surrounds his scar, and finally, the stabbing pain all over his face followed by the worst headache someone can ever endure.

He reaches for the nearest surface he can lean on, knuckles turning white as he keeps his weight up, trying not to fall on his knees just yet.

He can do it, he has done it countless times.

Aemond steadies himself on his feet before he sighs shakily, walking towards the clothes his mother’s servants laid down for him yesterday. It is a simple outfit; a leather tunic with black pants and a fresh beige undershirt. Nothing too fancy, and nothing less regal that a prince should wear.

He takes his time while getting ready, allowing the phantom pain of his eye to fade away slowly. Before he can button up his tunic, his chamber servants come running in, putting a bowl of water with a warm towel on the side desk while they prepare his breakfast. He covers the left side of his face with his hand so as to not scare them with the unbearable sight of the empty space in his face.

He watches them with a sleepy gaze as they clear the room, slamming the door behind them. Aemond sits in front of his mirror, taking the brush in his hand to untangle his unruly hair.

There are no thoughts in his head as he stares blankly at his reflection; he hates his scar with a passion that could set the realm on fire. There is no gentleness in his features, everything is sharp, angular, and rough. There is no trace left of the boy he was before his nephew took out his eye.

Doomed before he could even try to become someone worthy.

He ties his hair, revealing more of the healed wound and the dark empty socket on his face. Sometimes he gets stuck inside the labyrinth of his head, running and running until he reaches the middle, but it’s never enough. At the end of the maze, someone drops dead; whether he kills them or they kill him. There is no escape from these dreams, from these self-destructive thoughts that haunt him day and night.

He reaches for a box on the vanity, pulling out the sapphire gem before reaching for an ointment Maester has given him to help the gem fill his eye socket without pain.

He looks at himself again; he looks less like a brute, the gem adds to his beauty but in his mind, it’s not enough, it’ll never be. He sees his brothers, healthy and handsome, being subjected to women’s attention all the time, and sometimes he wishes desperately to be in their place, to be able to talk to a lady without frightening her. But he has learned that a maimed man is less worthy than a whore in Streets of Silk, so he exercises and trains daily to become worthy again, to live up to his Targaryen name. There are deep yet little scars adorning all over the skin of his hands and arms — a reminder of how he has become the man he is.

He eats his breakfast in silence, tension rising in his shoulders as the smoke of the candles on his desk reaches his eye. He drops his spoon on the table, blowing the candles out before he reaches for his eyepatch.

He has told everyone that there shouldn’t be any scented candles in his rooms, but as it seems no one ever pays attention to what he has to say, not even to help with the pain of his eye.

He stands up, knocking a few plates on the table to the floor, smearing fresh fruits on his carpet. A deep groan rumbles through his chest, but he can’t care less about anything other than the fact that he needs to join his family in the throne room — and he does after he grabs his dagger and secures it in his belt.

“Ser,” Aemond nods at his appointed guard, earning a ‘good morning, my prince’ from him. Aemond walks down the stairs with his head held high, scoffing at the servants who make a path for him hurriedly, trying to avoid being seen by him or see him.

The bustling of the castle is irritating; everyone is running from one corner to another and decorating the keep for their princess’ arrival. He is not annoyed that he has to reunite with his sister and nephews, but because he has to endure their presence for longer than necessary, to look them in the eye and act civil as if the pain he copes with already isn’t enough torment from them.

He nods at Ser Cole, who follows him into the crowded hall, eying everyone who is waiting for the Realm’s delight. Aegon and Helaena are standing side by side, his sister is clutching Aegon’s arm tightly as the crowd makes her feel small under its gaze. His mother looks at the throne silently, and he can see the hesitation in her eyes — how are they going to go through these weeks of celebration, they have no idea.

“Good morrow, Mother,” he whispers as he stands behind her, his eye softening at the small smile she gives him, “you look radiant this morning.”

“Hush you, sweet talker,” she chuckles lowly, rubbing his arms lovingly, “have you heard about the Velaryons’ arrival?”

“Lord Corlys is coming as well?” he asks, shifting on his feet nervously, his fingers tightening slightly on Alicent’s elbows, “I did not know…” “Neither did I, darling. They shall arrive at the same time as Rhaenyra, at least I know Daemon’s eldest will.”

“Driving on dragonback, obviously,” he mutters, sighing shakily.

Alicent notices his hesitancy, she gently cups his cheek, forcing him to look her in the eyes, “Do not project your anger on her, she was but a child.”

“Yet she kept silent that night. She was supposed to be my friend,” he says, looking away from his mother, lowering his head in shame, beating himself for letting his emotions take hold of him.

“Give your courtesy and leave if you wish not to talk to her,” Alicent smiles sadly at Aemond, patting his cheek before they both look at the doors of the hall.

Something in his guts drops when he sees Rhaenyra entering, her family walking towards them, all smiling and laughing as if they aren’t going to experience the most dreadful weeks of their lives.

“Your grace,” Rhaenyra says, trying to break the visible tension between the families. The crowd goes silent, and the only thing they can hear is the soft exhales of the people close to them, everyone waiting with bated breath to see what happens in a few seconds.

“Princess,” Alicent smiles, “welcome back to your home,” she replies politely, giving Daemon a half courtesy before she congratulates Jacaerys for his eight-and-ten name day.

“Aegon…”

Aemond looks away from his sister as she acknowledges them all, instead his eye finds Daemon’s who is staring back at him with a smirk on his face. Aemond’s gaze doesn’t waver, and Daemon chuckles at that, giving him a challenging look.

He looks back at Rhaenyra who says his name, giving him a forced smile before she turns around quickly and asks for the King.

“He is quite unwell, he shall join us in the evening,” Alicent explains, telling the maids to make haste and set the garden ready to start the celebrations; nothing too fancy for the noon, a tea gathering in the garden to reunite everyone, or at least to make sure the court has something to gossip about.

Aemond follows them slowly, taking time to observe each and every one of them. He can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles in his chest as his eye finds Lucerys Velaryon, laughing and looping his arm with Rhaena. He looks away immediately, lips forming into a sneer as he walks with his hands behind him, grinding his teeth while he thinks about how he was robbed of everything good because of that bastard, because of the hideous scar he gave him.

The garden is filled with new bushes; roses, lilacs, daisies, and surprisingly winter roses. The sight would have been quite beautiful if all this fuss wasn’t for his nephew. He walks away from the crowd, making his way toward his siblings who are trying to appeal content with the events. Helaena is in her own world, lifting a worm from the ground as she counts its feet. Aegon is gulping down his wine while he listens to Daeron telling him about whatever book he has read these past few days, or at least he seems like he is paying attention.

Aemond sighs, grabbing a goblet of wine himself to nurse on it as he tries to distract himself from the chilly wind that hits his face. Luckily the eyepatch covers his eye socket fully and doesn’t let the cold breeze hit his scar, but the tension in his bones has remained from the morning rush of pain he experienced earlier. It’d be best if he left this pointless gathering earlier anyway.

“How are you faring this beautiful morning, brother?” Aegon asks him, grinning sarcastically. Daeron groans in response, even though the question wasn’t meant for him. Everyone can tell he is fed up with Aegon’s constant teasing of Rhaenyra’s family coming back to Red Keep.

“Well enough to know I will be leaving in a few minutes,” Aemond replies, sipping on his wine as he catches Luke stealing glances at him. Pathetic, he is too scared to even look at him properly, he is glad though, it gives him a sense of comfort to know the mark he has left on his face scares him enough to keep him away from him.

“Can’t do that! It’d be rude if you left without saying hi to our favorite Velaryons.” Aegon smirks, tipping his head back as he laughs at Aemond’s sneer.

“As much as I hate to say this, but the idiot is right; you can’t give them more reasons to resent us,” Daeron says, looking at his older brother with kind eyes, “besides, they are here anyway.” he points at the passageway leading to the garden, catching the sight of Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys walking side by side toward the crowd.

Aemond’s heart stops for a second when his good eye lays upon you, following your grandparents with a gentle smile grazing your lips. You are a sight to behold; silver hair falling around your shoulders like curtains of moonlight that shine bright like a diamond beneath the morning rays of sunshine. Your gown the bluest of blue that shows your devotion to your mother’s house, and your lips painted pink in the most alluring way…

Aemond’s eye sees a sight his mind can not comprehend, too unreal and beautiful that makes him doubt if he is seeing you with his sapphire eye through the patch.

His face is blank, but his heart is beating so fast he can hear his pulse in his ears. His eye follows you, watching you bow before his mother and sister, looking away immediately to find your sisters already giddy to hug you. Rhaena is the first to run to you, wrapping her arms around you while Baela approaches you slowly, letting her twin have her moment with you.

He doesn’t move from his spot, he can’t move even if he wants to; he’s struck between shock and something he can’t pinpoint; he can only say for sure that he hopes it’s a rush of adrenaline of not seeing you for so long.

The only time he looks away from you is when Daeron pats his back and encourages him to join everyone to say hello and welcome your family to the Keep. He doesn’t need to say a word, just a nod at both Corlys and Rhaenys is enough, but when you turn around to greet him and his siblings, his breath gets stuck in his lungs.

You look at him from beneath your lashes, beaming so radiantly at him that he almost forgets the pain in his eye or the pain he has caused you the last time he saw you. The world around him fades away, the noises become distance as his sky-blue eye finds yours easily, and he has to swallow sharply while he desperately tries to keep his face stoic and serious and not show you how he is panicking from inside, palms sweaty and lips drying while he gazes at you, his childhood friend who… suddenly the bubble around you breaks and he remembers how you abandoned him that night at Driftmark.

“My lady,” he says in a hushed tone, watching your reaction closely.

“My prince, it’s so good to see you again,” you grin at him, “I hope you are doing well.”

“As well as a half-blinded man can do,” averting his eye from you, he regrets the words he said immediately, flushing a bit in embarrassment, but when he looks back at you, your smile hasn’t left your face, if anything you look at him with empathy and much kindness that he has a hard time believing you are real; it’s been too long since anyone has looked at him with such sincerity.

“Darling,” Daemon steps closer to them, ruining the moment for Aemond to say something, anything to take back what he said earlier.

He watches your smile wavering a little when you look at your father, hands fidgeting with the skirt of your dress. He notices how you try to ignore your father and Rhaenyra as they approach you, a tense smile on his sister’s lips while she tightens her grip on her husband’s arm.

“We have missed you, the girls, and I,” Daemon says, reaching to caress your hair as gently as the Rogue prince can, “you did not visit us at Dragonstone.” “I don’t like it there, the castle unnerves me,” You reply softly, “I rather enjoy the silence of grandsire’s castle.” “You are a Targaryen, you should visit your ancestor’s sit,” Rhaenyra tries her best to persuade you to think about coming back with them, leaving your lovely grandparents alone.

“I’m a Velaryon just as much as I’m a Targaryen, but ‘tis not a matter we should discuss at such a joyous day, don’t you think, princess?” you say, and Aemond sees it in your eyes how desperately you wish for the conversation to end. Aemond watches his sister’s words falter, her confidence crumbling with each word that you utter. Your statement is not rude, not even filled with malicious intent, but the mention of your Mother’s side of the family makes the Targaryen couple uncomfortable.

“I would have loved to stay and talk with you, Father, but I’m afraid the journey on dragonback has left me starving. Please, excuse me,” you nod at them before walking past them to the corner where Aemond and his siblings were sitting minutes ago, reaching for a glass of wine to gulp down.

Aemond doesn’t spare a glance at the couple, following you closely so he can sit in silence and out of the sun, truly not wishing for another fit of agony that consumes his skull.

“You have grown, Aemond,” you sit beside him, turning your head to look at his side profile, “no longer the child who used to build sandcastles with me when I would visit the Keep.”

“Yes, no longer a child with friends. Spending years apart without any contact, surely you are not that surprised how I have turned out to be,” he scoffs at your words, frowning when he turns around and finds you chuckling gently, “Did I jest about something I’m not aware of?”

“No, no, I just remembered how we promised to never let anyone break us apart, but you were the first who did so; you stomped your feet on my sandcastles the morning after my Mother’s funeral. You are right though, no ravens were exchanged, but I do hope you’re still the sweet prince who helped me study.” your lips twist into a small smile.

You are not angry with him, how can you not be angry with him? You had spent hours after they freed your Mother’s soul into the sea to find the perfect place to build your sandcastles and he ruined them the morning he was about to leave.

Your teary eyes have haunted him from that moment to this day.

“I apologize, I did not wish to remind you of that night,”

“I’m reminded every time I look into a mirror, do not concern yourself.” his reply is curt as he gazes at you, your eyes full of sadness and sympathy for a man you no longer know. Or maybe you know him too much, he thinks.

“I look forward to spending time with you, my prince. I hope we can catch up on each other's lives.” “Perhaps we can,” he sounds unsure of himself, Getting to know you again while you have turned into a woman grown — the most beautiful woman he has ever seen at that — is going to be a challenge he does not know he welcomes or fears greatly.

•••••••••••

He leaves sooner than he should, hiding in his room with a warm towel on his face as he soothes the pain of his eye, the headache he had since morning finally fading away. There are so many thoughts lingering in his head, and ironically, they are all filled by you; your gown, bright smile, and gentle personality.

He groans, so frustrated that he has met you a few hours prior yet you have consumed his every thought. If he focuses hard enough, he can see the labyrinth of his nightmares, the hedges are covered in ivy, suffocating as they reach for air — he thinks of him as the hedge, and how easily he has let you wrap yourself around his thoughts this quickly.

Weak, he thinks to himself, he’s weak.

He sits up, dropping the towel in the bowl on his nightstand, breathing deeply as he looks around his dark room, spotting a lit candle on his desk in the corner.

Sometimes it baffles him how his room represents his inner self so openly; it’s not messy, no, but if you squint you can see the abandoned book in the foot of his chair, ink dripping from his pot on the carpet, the candle illuminating the trail of black paint on his desk. It seems as if his room is showing the ugly part of itself to his eye, and for a second he thinks about how he sees himself — an ugly monster with an unsightly scar.

Aemond leaves his room a few minutes after fixing his eyepatch and hair, walking to the king’s solar to join his family for dinner. He walks with his hands clasped together behind him, looking straight to avoid eye contact with anyone who sees him on his way up the stairs. He doesn't expect to see you of all people, heading out of your room to take the same path as him.

“Aemond!” You say his name with such enthusiasm that has his heart racing again, beaming at him as if you are excited to see him. How could you be this giddy to meet him? No one has expressed to be happy to spend time with him, let alone smile at him the way you do. Is this an act of modesty? It has to be, he thinks, or else it does not make sense at all.

“My lady,” he bows his head politely, “How come you are late for such an interesting gathering?”

You giggle a little, walking side by side with him, “I was spending some time with Helaena’s children. Oh, they are such sweet babes!”

“Indeed they are,” he replies quietly, watching you curiously as you round him to stand on his good side, “what are you doing, My Lady?”

“I did not realize I was on your blind side, Aemond, forgive me,” “There is nothing to forgive,” he sucks in a harsh breath, pondering over your response for the rest of the way til King’s solar. The silence is oddly comfortable even though he gets a bit nervous when you keep glancing at him.

There’s an unusual warmth spreading through his chest, he can’t understand it — it can be his heart since it’s beating too hard and fast, or perhaps even his lungs! He can’t even breathe properly, but at the same time, he feels… right, much better than before. He blames you for the conflicted emotions, it’s all your doings, he is sure. Because whenever he looks at you, he feels as if his clothes are suffocating him, his ears ring while the world fades around him, and the center of his world becomes you.

Weak, worthless, he has just met you, yet all these years apart seem blurry to him, as if he has known you since the age of the Firstmen; so familiar and comforting, even though you left him alone the night he needed you the most.

The guards open the door to the solar, and Aemond follows you inside, his eye wandering all over the room, taking his surroundings in. His mother and Rhaenyra are sitting at the table, his nephews are standing on their mother’s side while Aegon is trying to listen to whatever lecture Otto is giving him.

He watches you walk to your sisters, wrapping your arms around Baela and Rhaena as they both start talking to you about the things they have done during the past years you’ve been Lord Corlys’ ward in Driftmark.

“You’re staring,” Daeron says out of nowhere, pulling Aemond out of his thoughts but he doesn’t look away, he keeps his eye trailing on you until you turn around and catch his eye as well, smiling broadly at him.

“I am merely observing,” he replies, but knows his brother is right. It’s only the first dinner but he can already feel his eye itching to be on you again.

“Whatever makes you happy,” Daeron shrugs, leading him to Aegon and Helaena to sit down.

He finds an empty seat next to him, thinking Daeron is the one who’d sit beside him, but when he sees it’s you who reaches for the chair, his heart leaps to his throat before he composes himself quickly, pulling it out like the prince he is.

You give a smile that is worth countless gold dragons, and for the second time today, he questions if the sapphire is a magical eye, because the world turns a bit brighter and less dull when he looks at you. He sits next to you, his eyebrows twisting into a deep frown when he sees Lucerys at the other side of the table engaged in a deep conversation with Rhaena, playing the role of the happy family quite well.

Everyone stands up when the guards bring in the King, everyone except for Helaena but neither she nor Aemond pays any attention to others. One is busy playing with her hairpin, and he is busy admiring your ethereal face as you kiss the king, your uncle’s cheek, thanking him for having you and your grandparents in his home after so many years. As soon as Viserys sits behind the table, you take your place next to him again, giving him a small smile before you turn your head to listen to what his father has to say.

He knows what his father is about to say; first, he thanks them all for coming, paying special attention to his grandsons and Rhaenyra while he lies over and over again about how much he loves them all, how they should never let the House of the Dragon fall into ruins, oblivious to the fact that not Rhaenyra nor Alicent were the ones who broke the family into different agendas, but it was him who started the flame.

Tonight, Aemond doesn’t look at his sister to attend to her. His eye is solely on you, taking in the shape of your lashes kissing your cheekbones, carving the silhouette of your nose and lips in his memories. He looks at the way your lips curve into a grin, cheeks forming into the most beautiful shape he has ever witnessed.

You turn your head a little to glance at him, catching him red-handed while he tries to play it cool, but he finds that he is not powerful enough to look away from your blown-out pupils and the orange hue that’s cast on your irises softly.

He breaks the eye contact, a scowl forming on his face as he reaches for his goblet of wine, nearly throwing the goblet across the table when he hears Lucerys laughing at the two of you.

You beat him to it before he could open his mouth, “Is there something funny, Prince Lucerys?” your voice is so soft and slow, almost humiliatingly sweet, and funnily, it terrifies Luke.

Aemond smirks as he watches his nephew stuttering over his words while everyone around the table sits in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the young prince to say something, anything.

“I was surprised by how fast Uncle Aemond took a liking to you, given his looks and all,” he explains, sarcasm dripping like honey from each of his words.

Fucking bastard, Aemond thinks to himself as an ugly sneer sits on his face. As much as he wants to leap toward him and cut off his tongue, he can’t — not when you put your hand on his over the hilt of his dagger.

Your skin is so smooth atop his calloused one. The way your fingers wrap around his wrist sets his body on fire, burning the skin in a way unknown to any man, but this is no ordinary burn; there’s no trace of fire, no long-forgotten ashes of his bones are visible, instead his fingers twitch for more, begging for more skin to skin contact, but he pulls his hand away from you without looking away from Luke’s blushing face.

“Your words are mean for no reason, Lucerys, given how it’s been your doing that has caused Aemond his scar,” you say, “I find him quite handsome actually. He was my beloved friend when we were younger. There are, of course, many feelings between us. Nothing has happened out of the blue for you to mock him for.”

“I-I apologize, good sister, I wasn’t…”

“It is not me who you should apologize to, it’s Aemond. I have taken no offense on my behalf but I do believe you owe him an apology.” You explain, sipping from your glass slowly while keeping your eyes on Lucerys.

No one, not even the King has the strength to intrude into the situation, maybe in doubt of saying something to hurt you, or perhaps you’re just speaking the truth, and for once, everyone fears your gentle mannerisms.

“I apologize, uncle,”

Aemond’s stare is blank as he looks at Luke who’s chewing the inside of his cheek in embarrassment. He nods, not bothering to reply to him; he will never forgive nor forget what he has done to him, crushing his hopes and ruining his worth for a lifetime.

“Let us put our differences aside, and become a family again,” the king says, coughing before he reaches to drink from his cup.

The dinner goes smoothly from there and to Aemond’s surprise, he engages in more conversations with you. He does not talk too much, he’d rather listen to your giggles and stories rather than talk about his boring and miserable life.

His eye always lingers on you for far longer than it should, not in an inappropriate way, but more in a sense of intrigue and curiosity, trying to understand you from his perspective. He simply can’t though; you are worlds apart. He is a cold-hearted, broken, and worthless man when it comes to your bright and beautiful personality. Even if he gets to know you again after so many years, he would never think himself worthy enough to be in your presence.

“Aemond…?” you call his name oh so sweetly, making him feel as if he is on top of Vhagar, flying atop the city while the wind blows in his hair; it makes him feel alive.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Are you alright? You look quite flushed,” You smile sweetly, reaching to put the back of your hand on his cheek, flustering him even more than he already is.

“Yes, yes, I might have had too much wine,” he doesn’t know who he is trying to convince; you or him? By the sound of it, it’s him who needs to be convinced that it’s the wine in his blood and not the same unknown feeling he gets when you look at him. No, it is definitely the wine. It has to be.

“Oh, well then, I wish to spend more time with you if you are not against it,”

“Why would I be?” he asks almost too quickly, making you chuckle at his… enthusiasm. If he can even call it that.

“Then I’d be overjoyed if we could rebound what we had as children.”

•••••••••••

After the dinner, something between you and Aemond shifted; he spent more time outside his room, he was calmer and less serious, and the pain in his skull was almost gone. You joined him in the library a few times in the next few days, meeting each other at your door to attend the meals side by side, and almost everyone could feel how he was changing the longer he had you close, almost turning into the little boy he once was.

Both of you forget your last interactions as an act of mercy for the other.

With your insistence, he agreed to miss the tourney being held for Jace’s nameday to sneak out of the castle and take you to the beach. He did not need much convincing, but when you gave him those doe eyes with a little pout on your lips, he felt weaker than he ever did and gave in immediately.

Aemond helps you down the rocks near the shoreline with your small hands in his, taking cautious steps down to not trip over and hurt yourself. He keeps his eye on your feet instead of his, worrying more about you than himself even though he is stepping down with his good eye on you, not looking where he is going.

That seems to be a bad decision, because the next second, not only does his foot miss a small rock, but yours slips on one too, tumbling into his arms as the two of you fall on the soft sand, Aemond’s arms wrapping tightly around your back to keep you steady.

He looks at you, panting as his eye widens at the closeness; your faces are inches away from each other, and he can feel your soft rushed exhales on his lips. You look like a goddess atop him, the sun illuminating your silver hair, reminding him of the last sennight when you arrived and your hair made your face shine even brighter.

He has never seen such a beauty before, sure he has seen the ladies of the court, but your Valyrian beauty combined with sunlight and the blue hue of the sky has him mesmerized, not realizing how his hands are gripping your waist while he stares at you.

You giggle at first, then break into a fit of laughter while you lean more into him, dropping your forehead on his shoulder as you laugh wholeheartedly.

He chuckles lowly at first, then matches your laughter and throws his head back, holding you on him by one arm while the other comes to run over his face.

“I have never heard you laugh so freely before,” you say after you have calmed down, putting your palms on either side of his face while you hover over him.

“I don’t remember having a reason to do so,” he replies, smiling up at you.

“I’m glad that I’m able to bring joy to your life, you deserve it.” leaning down, you press a gentle kiss on his cheek before standing up, smoothing down your skirt.

He is at loss of words, speechless to his core. He deserves it, he thinks, do you truly think a monster like him deserves any chance of happiness? How are you not disgusted by him, his scar, his sour and mean tongue? How can you ever leave a butterfly kiss on someone as unworthy as him?

He looks at you from where he is staying lying on the sand, watching as you extend your hand to him, rocking on your heels in anticipation so you can go and wander on the beach and reunite with the sea.

He grabs your hand, standing up on his feet as well. There is sand in both of your clothes, but you have just begun your venture and won’t stop until you are satisfied.

You don’t let go of his hand when you start jogging, pulling him with you as you giggle in delight. And he observes you as he always does; wind in your hair, waves crashing against the shore while your laughter fills the air around him. He doesn’t realize his smile has widened and he is following you just as excited, letting the sand and the sea separate you from the outer world.

“You promised you would make a sandcastle for me!” you say, pulling him behind you to the spot where you would sneak away as children, sitting down to get to work.

“I did not,” he replies, unbuttoning his tunic so he can stay under the sun without being bothered by the heat.

“Fine, you did not. But you ruined the one we built together at Driftmark so you owe me one!”

He chuckles at you, his dimples on display as he shakes his head, “Alright, I will make one for you.”

It took you a good few hours to finish the sandcastle; it could have finished much sooner if you hadn’t thrown wet sand at him, cleaning your dirty hands with his white cotton undershirt just to annoy him — and it worked. In a second, he was chasing you around the beach with hands full of wet sand curved into balls, throwing them at you.

And here you are now, fingers laced together, shoes in one hand as you both walk on the shoreline, letting the waves cool your feet. You point at the sunset, leaning on his side when you come to a stop to watch the sky change color as the sun goes down.

Aemond on the other hand, looks at your calm face that is glowing under the pink and orange sunlight. How did he get so lucky to be blessed by such a beauty to lay his eye upon? Maybe he truly deserves this unknown feeling that spreads through him like fire and makes his fingers tingle and his heart beat in happiness. Maybe he deserves to be loved by you and love you unconditionally in return.

You turn around, dropping your shoes before you reach up to cup his cheeks. He closes his eye and basks in the attention you give him; so unique and pure. He drops his boots as well, arms circling your waist to pull you closer.

Aemond doesn’t dare to open his eye, fearing that he might ruin this perfect moment as you trace the lines of his lips, his cheekbones, and his jaw. You are so gentle with him, something he is not quite used to. It has always been him, alone in a cold room, but now and here with you, he feels as if he can breathe again, and forget every pain he has endured to reach this moment of his life.

“Open your eye, My Prince,” you whisper before you peck the corner of his lips, pulling him in so you can rest your forehead on his.

He obligates, sighing shakily when he finds you already looking at him. Your gaze is so genuine that somehow scares him, a rush of destructive thoughts comes into his head, but you seem to notice it from how his hands shake on your waist.

“Don’t think about anything, just… just focus on me.”

He does as you say, his brain shutting those annoying voices at the back of his head down as soon as your nose brushes against his, your soft lips brushing over his so endearingly. He is hesitant at first but when you peck him again, he moves forward as well, meeting you halfway until his lips are locked with yours.

You taste as sweet as the strawberry cakes you had this morning, if not sweeter. The way your lips move together makes his head hazy. You are kissing his breath away, leaving him begging for more. His chest moves up and down quickly when you break the kiss, and you caress his thin swollen lips, bruised by your kisses and lack of air, while he admires you from head to toe.

The sun has set, but the glimmer of love has risen inside of Aemond’s broken heart.

•••••••••••

A kiss here and there, more sneaking around the castle and to the beach until the main event for Jace’s birthday arrives. He is in his mother’s solar, listening to her talk about how lovely you are and how much of a wonderful couple you would make with him if only you weren’t Daemon’s daughter.

“Mother—”

“You should dance with her tonight, my darling!” Alicent says, running her hands over his arms when he stands up and approaches her, “I have heard Daemon has plans of betrothing her. Obviously, he has yet to find someone suitable, but he is thinking about it.”

Aemond’s heart drops when Alicent says your father is looking for a suiter, fortunately, Alicent sees his surprise, shock, and fear. She reaches to cup his cheek, forcing him to maintain eye contact while she talks, “Don’t let her go if you truly wish to have her. I know that she would stand strong against her father and Rhaenyra, but she would need your support and love as well to feel brave enough to turn down a good match.”

“They would make her happier than I can ever do, Mother,” he replies, his voice breaking slightly. Losing you terrifies him, and he is aware that his mother can read him like an open book, shushing him while he inhales sharply.

“I have never seen her happier than I have with you, and I have never seen you this happy and lively, darling. Be selfish for once, choose your happiness this time.”

“How can I choose my happiness over her life?!” he asks harshly, frowning at his mother.

A knock interrupts Alicent before she can respond, and the guards open the door for you to step inside the queen’s room.

“Oh, I apologize, it was not my intention to interrupt you.”

Aemond seems to be struck by your beauty; your body is wrapped in a teal-colored gown with a low neckline that leaves your shoulders and collarbones on display. Your silver hair is braided with some parts of it pinned up, some strands framing your bare neck.

“You look so beautiful, my darling,” Alicent says, nudging Aemond a bit forward when she sees how he is looking at you.

“Thank you, my queen. You look very beautiful as well,” you look away from the queen, smiling when he approaches you slowly, “you said you were going to wear something close to this color and I decided it would look quite good to match. How do I look?”

“Enchanting,” he breathes out, reaching to hold your hand, pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, “You look breathtaking, My Lady.”

“So do you, My Prince.”

“Shall we then?” he offers you his arm and you accept without hesitation, looking back to see if the queen will come with you and she assures you she will come with the King.

“You said you were going to retrieve me from my chambers for the party,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder as the two of you walk toward the great hall.

“I am deeply sorry. Mother wanted to have a word with me,” he explains, dropping a quick kiss on the crown of your head.

“Is everything alright, Aemond?” you ask him, and he chuckles at how adorably your brows twist into a frown in worry. “Yes, darling, she merely wished to remind me to make sure you have a great time tonight. You are our special guest.”

“Does that mean you will dance with me?” you ask, holding his hands in yours before you reach the hall.

“We shall see,” he brings your hands to his lips again, leading you toward the hall, bowing and nodding at the ladies and lords who take it upon themselves to greet you.

You come to a stop in front of the table, Rhaena coming to hug you and twirl you around, gasping at the sight of your beautiful gown, gasping even louder when she sees how your dress matches Aemond’s tunic.

A ghost of a smile finds its way on Aemond’s face as he watches you get flustered at your sister’s attention to details, but soon, his eye hardens when he finds his uncle glaring at the two of you. Tonight will change the course of so many lives.

He watches you laugh with your sisters, pointing at the empty chair next to you so he would sit close by all night. With one last glare at his uncle, he walks to his seat and pours wine into his cup, blushing a bit when he hears you laughing again. You are not even laughing at something he has said and he is the one who gets flushed.

He is knee-deep inside these new feelings but he welcomes the challenge with open arms. Or at least he tries to do so without Daemon being an obstacle to his plans.

He looks at you when Rhanea and Helaena pull you to the dancefloor for the new song, pairing up with different lords to dance with, but what catches his eye, isn’t who you are dancing with, but more than who Daemon is talking to. He recognizes the lord to be from the south, probably a Tyrell, and when his uncle and the lord look in your direction, he knows something is not right, an uneasy feeling settling deep in his stomach.

He watches the lord closely as he makes his way through the crowd to get to you, bowing and introducing himself before taking your hand to dance with you. He can see how uncomfortable he is making you, probably discussing his sick desire to have a wife and kids while he dances with a Targaryen-Valeryon goddess.

“Stop glaring and do something!” Baela slides into the seat next to him, hissing the words at him while she keeps her eyes fixed on you as well, “I don’t like you, I will never like you, but you make her happy. Do something before our father ruins her life because of Rhaenyra.” “I thought you liked your stepmother,” Aemond chooses to ignore most of the things she said.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s schemes, please, Aemond, my sister deserves to feel appreciated. I have never seen any lord take an interest in her the way you have. You are the only thing she could talk about in the last few days. I will beg you if I have to.” Aemond turns his head toward Baela, letting her words calm down the hesitancy he has toward courting you. There are far more handsome men than him in the court, yet, he is the one who is blessed to hold you and kiss you, to gaze into your eyes and see forever in them.

He hisses when he feels a sting in his skull, not now, no. The pain can’t start now. He gulps his wine before he nods at Bela and stands up to walk to the crowd in the middle of the hall, catching your eyes for a second before he has to bow and start the dance with a lady he does not care to engage in a conversation with.

He thinks about how much he has changed in a few days; there will always be a part of him who thinks he’s not worthy of your affection, that you can do better than him, but also the thought of you in another man’s arms sets his skin ablaze. He is torn between keeping you all to himself or letting you have a wonderful future with another guy who can stand by your side and make you proud, who is not maimed and scarred like him.

Luckily, everyone needs to change their partner and he reaches with his hand to grab yours and pull you to his side, grinning when he hears your delighted shriek. “My Prince Aemond,” you say, squeezing his hand while the two of you twirl around the room.

He doesn’t wish to say, but the tempo is too high for me, and it worries him that somehow he might make a fool of himself or you if he trips over someone’s shoe on his blindside.

“Lady Targaryen, you look like a Valyrian Goddess, my beloved.”

“Why thank you, my good prince. I have to say that this color truly brings out your beautiful eye,” you reply coyly, tipping your chin up while you bite your lip.

“You are playing with fire, darling.” he leans down to whisper in your ear, pressing a feather-like kiss on your earlobe without anyone noticing.

“I’m a Targaryen, Prince Aemond, fire is in my blood,”

“Is that so? Well, I must say—”

He doesn’t know what happens, or how it happens, but in a second he can’t see you when he twirls you around him, and suddenly, the weight of your waist isn’t in his hand anymore.

“Aemond!” you fall down by his feet, and he sees that his boots have caught the edge of your heels, making you twist your ankle in the wrong way and causing your fall.

What have I done?

I dropped her.

I did this.

What happened?

His eye has widened in fear, and he is frozen in place, hands shaking slightly as he feels the crowd around you look in your direction, staring and gaping at him before the hushed whispers start to fill the room.

“Aemond, look—”

He can’t look at you. He will never be able to live with himself for humiliating you in the way he did tonight.

Stupid, weak, useless good for nothing, Aemond. If another lord was dancing with her, he wouldn’t have dropped her. A prince but less worthy than a common whore.

With trembling lips, and a pain blooming in his eyesocket, he dashes out of the room, leaving you on the floor.

His vision is blurry, the pain is getting worse and the air is stuck in his lungs. He can’t breathe, no, he doesn’t deserve to breathe. How can he when all he wanted to do was to dance with you but ended up hurting you? How could he hurt you like this?

He skips the steps, running to his room while he groans in pain, the stinging is getting stronger, the agony in his nerves is spreading through his skull and it only gets worse when he opens the door to his chambers to find not only scented candles but the windows and the balcony door is open as well.

“You are dismissed!” he shouts at the guard before he slams the door shut, “Ah!” He tumbles down, gripping the nearest chair to keep himself on his feet at least before he falls on his knees, clawing at the eyepatch to pull it off as if it’s burning his skin.

The pain is like a dagger, stabbing him over and over again until even his knees don’t have the strength to keep him up. He falls on the floor, curling into a ball while the pain spreads through his face, and he finally breaks down, bursting into tears from agony and humiliation. If only he wasn’t in pain… if only his eye wasn’t cut out…

Aemond doesn’t hear when the door opens, nor he can see who the person is. Tears have flooded his vision, but as soon as he feels your soft hand on his arms, trying to help him sit up, he flinches, backing away from you while he gasps for air, feeling his tunic clinging to his sweaty body.

“Aemond, please let me—” “No, no, no, no…” he stands up hurriedly, walking to the balcony on unsteady legs to get some air in his lungs, only to be met by a freezing wind that makes the chronic pain in his eye even worse. He drops to his knees again, this time the sounds of his gasps and painful yelps are louder than before.

You rush to his side, kneeling in front of him to cup his cheeks, kissing his clammy forehead before you wipe his tears away gently. He lets you touch him this time, too exhausted to utter a word, to push you away even if he has to.

“It’s going to be okay, Aemond, let me help you,” You help him on his feet, making sure to have your arms wrapped tightly around him while he leans his weight on you, trusting you to take care of him, even though the voice in the back of his head is telling him to push you out of his room.

“Gently, my love, gently,” you help him lay down on the bed, pecking his cheek again, rising to get the smoke out of the room but his hands shot up and grabs your forearm tightly.

“Stay, please,” he whimpers, his beautiful eye tearing in pain.

“I will, my dearest, I just need to blow out the candles and close the windows, and I’ll be back in bed with you.” You reach and bring his hand to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss upon his knuckles before he lets you go.

He can’t see you clearly, but your shadow moves from side to side frantically, blowing the candles on the balcony so the smoke won’t get inside again, shutting the windows quickly so the cold wind doesn’t bother him anymore before you come to bed again.

You unlace your gown, taking it off so you can tend to him more easily, pulling at the few pins inside your head to let the strands fall freely around your shoulders. You climb onto the bed, a jar of his salve and ointment in hand with clean rags in your other as you sit comfortably next to him, helping him take off his tunic and pants.

Aemond lies on the pillow on your lap, sniffing as you look at his face; bare and raw of emotions with his sapphire glinting in the low lights of the room.

“My love, you need to help me pull the gem out,” you whisper, almost sound scared of him, or scared of what you might see.

“No, it is an unbecoming sight—”

“Nothing about you is unbecoming. You are the most beautiful man I have ever laid my eyes on, and for you and your suffering, I begged my grandma to allow me to study about your condition with the Maesters,” you lean to kiss the bridge of his nose, “the skin around your eyesocket is swollen, if we do not pull it out now, it shall make it more unbearable for you.”

He hesitates for a moment. While he would love to ask you about why you studied something so gruesome because of him, he can’t help but feel so wanted. The pain is getting worse, sure, he has to pull the gem out anyway but to hear you say how you have begged Rhaenys to let you partake in those classes, to maybe someday help him with his pain… that truly makes him feel fuzzy all over.

“Alright…” he whispers, gritting his teeth in pain as he reaches out with his fingers to grab the side of the gem, pulling it out slowly while he groans and the pain nearly knocks him out. “Shouldn’t we use something more—” “Take it out, take it out—I don’t care how!”

You nod, tears falling from your eyes as you watch him writhe in pain more as the two of you pull his sapphire out, leaving a heavily swollen and empty eyesocket on display. His hand falls limp on the bed while you drop the gem into a clean bowl before pouring some of the ointment on a rag, gently holding his face in one hand while the other daps slowly over the scar and his ripped eyelids, pressing a few kisses here and there to soothe his whimpering.

He clings to your arms and waist tightly, letting his tears fall freely while you soothe his pain away, falling into slumber easily beneath your gentle touch.

•••••••••••

He is running.

Where is he? Why is he running?

He looks around him, finding himself in the labyrinth he always sees in his dreams.

The hedges are covered in ivy, the walls have gotten taller and the paths are thinner.

What’s this smell?

He steps closer to the source of it, taking different routes until the smell gets worse and stronger. He knows where the center of the maze is, he has been here countless times.

He turns around, finding the space of the labyrinth of his dream, but he doesn’t expect to see you there, not while standing with your nightshift covered in maroon, hands dripping with thick droplets of blood as you look at him horrifyingly.

“Darling, are you alright?”

“Don’t- don’t come closer,” you say, taking a step away from him.

“I don’t understand, why—” “You did this to me!” screaming at him, your hands cover your heart, and he finally sees how your chest has been ripped open and blood gushes out of the wound.

“I was not here—”

“You did this to me! You hurt me, Aemond!”

“Aemond!”

“Aemond!”...

He jolts up, gasping for air, hands clutching the bedsheets as he experiences another nightmare. He looks at you, finding you awake and alarmed while you rub his back, eyes filled with worry and pain for him.

“You should leave,” his voice is barely above whispering, his nails digging into the palms of his hand while he blinks his tears away.

“Aemond—” “I will only hurt you, why don’t you understand?!” he asks, raising his voice a little.

He is torn between needing you to wishing you were gone; he can’t cope if he ever hurts you again.

“You have not hurt me, you won’t hurt me.” “I killed you in my dream! You fell in front of everyone and twisted your ankle because of me, I humiliated you! How can you say I won’t fucking hurt you? I have already done it.” He explains, but instead of pushing you away, he welcomes you when you pull him down into your embrace, holding his head tightly in your neck as he sobs uncontrollably.

“It’s not your fault, I should have been more careful. I won’t let you ruin yourself for something that was a mistake on my behalf.” you kiss the side of his face, rocking him from side to side while he calms down eventually.

“Don’t push me away, I love you, Aemond. Let me be here and help you carry this heavy pain with you.”

He doesn’t reply, but his arms tighten around you.

He looks at how you lay back on the pillows, gently pulling him in your arms until he is lying in your chest while you play with his hair.

“Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

•••••••••••

He opens his eye slowly when he feels someone caressing his hair, pressing butterfly kisses all over his face. Smiling a little, he finds you admiring him in his sleep, taking notes of every line and deep of his skin.

“It’s very rude to stare,” he says, his voice thick and raspy from all the crying he did last night.

“Not when he is my lover,” you whisper back, nuzzling your nose against his, “you look like a fairy when you sleep.”

“No one has ever told me that. How do you come up with such unique ways to describe me?” He leans over, pressing a kiss on your shoulder while he waits for you to answer.

“You are a wonderful muse for poetry, I shall start writing about your hair and eye!”

He keeps his lips sealed to your skin, sucking and nibbling until he is satisfied with the marks he has left. His pupil is blown out with a newfound lust; how can he not desire you when you are lying in his arms with your wild white hair plastered over his pillows?

“You are staring,” he chuckles at how breathless you sound. He hasn’t even begun to do anything and he already has you melting under his touch.

“Can you blame me? I have the most exquisite lady of the realm in my bed.”

“What happened to the insecure boy I held last night?” You ask while leaning up towards him, pushing him down on his back so you can straddle his narrow hips.

“It’s still here with us in this room, but he has begun to heal. You have helped him when he had no one,” his palms rest on your thighs.

“I need you,” it comes more as a plea, but Aemond obliges and flips the two of you over, hiding his face in your neck to prep it with kisses while he whispers that he needs you too.

“I love you, darling,” he whispers, craning his neck to catch your lips in a kiss, moving them together with a rhythm that encourages him to take the next step.

His hand inches downward, pushing past the fabric of your underwear to find you already wet for him.

“I-I have already lost my maidenhand…”

“I don’t care, I have you now,”

He silences your whine with another deep kiss, his fingers circling your clit until you are squirming and bucking your hips into his palm, your arms pulling him in by the shoulders.

He breaks the kiss, watching you take a deep breath when he pushes one digit inside while he tugs at the front of your shift, pulling it down until your tits are on display. He covers your chest with marks and bruises the same time another finger enters you, making you gasp loudly in pleasure.

He stretches you on his fingers, thrusting them in and out slowly at first, but soon he is speeding up, his patience running thin as he scissors you open not roughly to make it hurt, but to make sure you are ready to take him.

“A-Aemond, please, need you closer,”

He nods because he too can feel the need to become one with you, to take you as his, or more so you take him as yours.

His breeches are thrown on the floor, followed by his undershirt immediately as he takes home between your spread legs, one hand holding him up while the other guides his throbbing cock to your entrance. You both gasp in union when his tip nudges past your muscles, pushing in slowly and gently until he is sheathed inside you completely.

You throw your head back, wrapping your legs around his waist while your nails dig into his naked chest as he lets you get adjusted to his size.

“Can I move?” He asks, leaning down over you as he cages you beneath him, both of his forearms holding himself up against the pillow under your head.

You nod, looking at him with pleading eyes, and he finally caves in and moves slowly; pulling his hips back a little before driving in.

The next minutes pass by him gently making love to you, circling his hips and kissing you, bringing you closer and closer to your highest point. You know you both are close when his groans and moans grow louder, and your voice matches his tone as he quickenes his pace, the loud sounds of skin slapping against each other echoing in the chambers of the prince.

You both finish together; you with a gasp of his name, and him with a loud groan of yours as he fills you and you gush around him. He trembles above you, whether it is for the climax he experiences or the overwhelming love he holds for you.

He watches your face twist in pleasure — the pleasure he is giving you — and he memorizes every sound, counting each lash that he can while he himself rides his high with you.

He drops face down on the bed next to you, both of you trying to catch your breath as you look at each other with a satisfied expression on your faces.

“They would ask about our whereabouts if we are late for breakfast.” You say, giggling when he groans in absolute disgust — he is not ready to leave this room and face the world again when he knows he can stay and take you again, thrive in your attention and love for all day.

“Must you ruin this moment for us? Now I can only think about how to face your father after what we did.”

“You should look him in the eye and ask for my hand,” you sit up, throwing the cover off of you before getting off the bed “and you shall do it with the braids I do for you,”

“You are impossible,” he says, but he knows that behind his words, there is no hidden intent, nothing but adoration and playfulness.

“Come, sit!” You pull him off the bed as well, leading him to his vanity before pushing him down on the chair, both of you stark naked as you brush his hair slowly.

He looks at himself in the mirror, and for the first time in years, his reflection doesn’t disgust him, it doesn’t scare him or make him self-conscious. He feels… beautiful, he feels worthy again of having this life, having you as his.

“Do you wish to know what I see when I look at you?” You ask him, letting his soft hair fall around his shoulders before you lean down, wrapping your arms around him, resting your chin on his shoulder.

He nods, hands coming to cover yours where they caress the skin above his heart.

“I see a broken man who needed to be saved. I see a boy, fierce and strong as he claims the largest dragon alive. I see my friend who danced with me in different gatherings, my beloved friend who built sandcastles with me and helped me with my Valyrian studies. I see my Aemond, finally freed from the labyrinth of his mind.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fluff #prince aemond #aemond x reader #rue:smut #rue:angst #rue:fluff

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pucksandpower · 29 days

Text

Black Magic

Charles Leclerc x witch!Reader

Summary: famously non-superstitious Charles takes drastic measures to break the Monaco curse

Charles rubs his temples as he stares at the phone, mentally rehearsing how he’s going to convince you to meet with him. He knows it’s a long shot — from what his mother told him, you’re not exactly eager to use your … abilities, as she called them. But he’s desperate at this point after years of the Monaco curse haunting him.

He takes a deep breath and taps the call button. It rings once, twice, three times before you finally pick up with a cautious “Hello?”

“Y/N? Hi, this is Charles Leclerc. I was given your number by my mother ...” His voice trails off as an awkward silence stretches between you.

Finally you respond, sounding confused. “Pascale? But why would she ...”

Charles rushes to explain. “She said you might be able to help me with … well, with breaking a curse of sorts. One that’s been plaguing me for years at the Monaco Grand Prix.” He pauses, cringing a little at how ridiculous he sounds saying it out loud.

There’s another long pause before you let out a soft sigh. “I should’ve known this would happen eventually. Listen, I only do that kind of thing for family emergencies these days. Curses and spellwork … it’s not something I take lightly.”

“I understand,” Charles says quickly. “But you have to know what the Monaco Grand Prix means to me. It’s my home race, the most meaningful one on the calendar for me. And yet, every single year something goes wrong — mechanical failures, crashes, bad strategy calls, communication issues. It’s like I’m cursed to never win it.”

You’re silent for a moment, seeming to consider his words. “I’m aware of the … situation,” you say finally. “But even if I did agree to look into it, breaking an actual curse isn’t something that happens overnight. It would take time and effort.”

“I’ll give you anything you need — time, money, whatever it takes,” Charles insists. “Just … please. I’m desperate here. My heart can’t keep taking these kinds of blows.”

Another pause, then a resigned sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to promise to take this seriously and listen to what I say. No skepticism, no brushing it off as some kind of joke. This is real to me.”

Relief floods through Charles. “Yes, absolutely, I promise. When can you come by? I’m staying in Monaco until the race next weekend.”

“I’ll need a little while to prepare,” you say slowly. “But … I can try to come by Tuesday? We’ll need to talk more about this in person.”

“Tuesday is perfect,” Charles agrees eagerly. “Truly, thank you for this. I’ll make sure you’re well compensated for your time.”

You let out a small huff of laughter. “You keep your championship hopes, I’ll keep my soul. We’ll call it even.”

A bemused smile crosses Charles’ face at that. “Whatever you say. I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“Yes. I’ll be there Tuesday.” You hang up abruptly, leaving Charles staring at the phone with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into … but he’s willing to try anything at this point.

Two days later, you show up at Charles’ apartment looking rather apprehensive. He ushers you inside, eyes raking over you with obvious curiosity. You’re younger than he expected, maybe mid-twenties, with a casual air and slight frame that doesn’t exactly scream “all-powerful witch“.

Still, he tries to withhold any skepticism as promised. “Thanks for coming. Can I get you anything? Some wine, or ...”

You shake your head. “I’m fine, thanks. I’d rather just get down to business if that’s okay.”

Charles nods and you both settle onto the couch, an anticipatory silence stretching out. Finally you clear your throat. “So. Tell me more about this … curse.”

And so he does, relaying in exhaustive detail the string of unlikely disasters that have befallen him at nearly every Monaco Grand Prix since he started in Formula 2. Crashes, mechanical failures, pit stops gone wrong, you name it … it’s like the racing gods have it out for him every year on his home streets.

You listen patiently, nodding along, your expression unreadable. When he finishes, you’re quiet for a long moment before speaking. “You know curses and superstitions have existed in motorsports for decades, right? It’s a high-adrenaline, high-risk environment … prime territory for that kind of thing to take root.”

Charles frowns. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“I’m not saying that.” You shake your head. “I’m just … managing expectations here. Breaking an entrenched curse, if that’s even what this is, isn’t easy. It’ll take much more than a couple of days of spellwork.”

He lets out a frustrated breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “So you’re telling me you can’t help.”

“I didn’t say that.” You eye him levelly. “I’m saying this is going to require time, patience, and an open mind from you. If you’re willing to put in that kind of commitment, then I’ll do what I can. But you have to go into this knowing it might not work.”

Charles is silent for a long moment, weighing his options. Finally he nods. “Okay. You’re right, I’ll stop being skeptical and doubting this. I’m ready to fully commit, whatever that takes.”

A small smile flits across your face and you nod. “Alright then. I’ll need to gather some supplies first, do you have anything personal I can use? Something meaningful, something that represents your driving?”

Charles scrambles up to rummage through his drawers, finally emerging with a battered red fireproof racing glove, handing it over to you. “Will this work? My godfather gave it to me when he first started teaching me to kart.”

You take it with a nod, turning it over in your hands. “It’s perfect. I’ll need to attune it and prepare a few … components.” You glance up at him. “This may take me a day or two. But after that, I can try to get a sense of what we’re dealing with.”

He nods, feeling that flicker of hope rekindle in his chest. “Sounds good. Let me know if you need anything else.”

You rise, slipping the glove into your bag. “I will. And Charles?” You hesitate, looking almost nervous for the first time since you arrived. “I know we’ve only just met, but … I want you to understand how serious I’m taking this. Messing with forces like curses … it’s not something I do lightly. If I can’t help in the end, it’s not for lack of trying, okay?”

Something about your sincere tone puts Charles at ease and he nods. “I know. Thank you for this … really.”

A shy smile ghosts across your lips before you slip out, leaving Charles alone with his doubts and hopes alike. Over the next couple of days, he tries to distract himself with race prep and strategy meetings, but his mind keeps drifting back to you and your mysterious preparations. He’s not sure whether to feel hopeful or just plain foolish for entertaining all of this curse nonsense.

Finally, Thursday afternoon rolls around and you arrive once more at his door, looking oddly serene. You accept his offered glass of wine this time as you settle on the couch, clutching the battered racing glove and a few other strange items.

“Okay,” you say, taking a fortifying breath. “I’ve done what I can to attune myself to your energy and prepare. I should be able to at least get a sense now of what we’re dealing with.”

Charles nods, feeling an anxious flutter in his chest as you close your eyes, seeming to slip into some kind of trance-like state. The seconds tick by, tension building in the air around you. Just when he’s about to break the silence, your eyes fly open with a gasp.

“Wow,” you breathe out, looking utterly stunned. “This is … wow.”

“What?” Charles prods urgently. “What did you see?”

You shake your head, almost looking scared now. “I’ve never encountered anything like this. The sheer scale, the power … Charles, this isn’t just some simple bad luck curse. This is dark, powerful magic rooted over years and years. Maybe even generations.”

A leaden feeling sinks into the pit of Charles’ stomach at your ominous words. “So you’re saying you can’t break it?”

“I didn’t say that.” You draw in a steadying breath. “But it’s not going to be easy. Or quick. This is going to take serious ritual work over an extended period of time. I’ll need more supplies, maybe some help from others. It’s … a huge undertaking.”

You look up at Charles, expression grave. “But I think I can do it. If you’re willing to fully commit and see this through, no matter how long it takes or what I need from you, then I’ll put everything I have into breaking this curse.”

Charles stares at you for a long moment, feeling the weight of what you’re saying. This is so much bigger than he ever imagined. Part of him wants to run from the sheer enormity of it all.

But then he pictures it — finally winning his home race after all these years, the crowd roaring as he drinks in the euphoric feeling. No more bad luck, no more disasters clouding his joy. Just pure triumph.

His jaw sets in determination as he meets your eyes. “Whatever it takes. I’m in.”

A slow smile spreads across your face and you nod. “Okay then. We’ll get started right away. This may get … intense at times. But I’ll be right here with you every step of the way.”

“Thank you,” Charles says fervently. “Truly, thank you for taking this on.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you reply, something sparking in your eyes. “We’ve got work to do.”

And just like that, you dive into preparation mode — making lists, sending messages, gathering spell ingredients and components that have Charles raising his eyebrows more than once. He tries to follow along as best he can, but it’s like a foreign language to him.

After a while, he can’t help but ask. “So … did you always know you could do this kind of thing? The witchcraft, I mean?”

You pause, considering his question. “It’s a family tradition, passed down. My grandmother started teaching me from a very young age. But I’ll be honest … I never fully embraced it until recently.”

Charles feels himself grow curious. “What changed your mind?”

A strange look crosses your face and you’re quiet for a moment before replying. “My grandmother was ill. The doctors had … given up, more or less. So in desperation, I tried to help the only way I knew how. And it … worked, somehow. After that, it was hard to keep denying what I could do.”

“Wow,” Charles says softly. “That’s amazing. I can’t even imagine ...”

You shrug, suddenly looking almost shy. “It’s a lot, I know. Probably hard to wrap your head around. Which is why I appreciate you being so open-minded about this.”

Charles gives you a crooked smile. “Well, I’m relying on you here. I figure I should at least return the favor and be open-minded.”

A surprising laugh escapes you and you shake your head in amusement. “You’ve got a point there.”

A surprisingly comfortable silence lapses between you, broken only when you glance at your watch. “Alright, enough waiting around. We should get back to work if we want to be ready before race day.”

Charles feels nervous anticipation flutter in his chest again. “You really think we can pull this off that quickly?”

“We have to try,” you reply, already focused and in work mode once more. “Just be prepared … this isn’t going to be easy for either of us.”

Charles swallows hard and nods. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

Over the next several days, Charles is swept up in a whirlwind of strange rituals and practices — chanting, incantations, symbolic offerings, things he never could’ve imagined before this week. You lead him through it all with a calm patience, guiding him every step of the way.

It’s completely draining, leaving him wrung out and exhausted every night … but he can’t deny the noticeable shift he feels with each passing day too. It’s almost like a weight, a cloud of dread he’s carried for years, is slowly dissipating. He tries not to get his hopes up, but it’s hard … especially with the way your face glows with quiet pride whenever your eyes meet his.

Finally, the night before the race arrives. You’ve worked practically around the clock except for when Charles had to leave for free practice and qualifying, both of you barely sleeping or eating as you poured everything into breaking the curse.

As the sun sets over Monaco’s famed harbors and hills, you finally seem to pause, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I think … I think that’s everything we can do for now.”

Charles stares at you with a mixture of hope and trepidation. “You mean … it’s done? The curse is broken?”

You exhale slowly, looking suddenly drained but at peace. “As much as it can be, at least. The groundwork is laid, the ritual completed. But actually severing that kind of ancient tie ...” You shake your head. “We’ll have to see what happens tomorrow. I’ve done everything I can.”

Relief and gratitude wash over Charles as he reaches out to grasp your hand impulsively. “Thank you,” he says fervently. “For all of this … I can’t even begin to express how much it means.”

You seem surprised by his emotional outburst for a moment before squeezing his hand back gently. “You’re very welcome, Charles. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure I had it in me at first. But you put so much faith in me. That meant everything.”

He holds your gaze, feeling an unexpected sense of connection pass between you. So much has happened in such a short span of time — he came to you a skeptic, but now he feels like he’s been through a transformative experience. And you … you’ve put your entire being into helping him, far beyond any reasonable expectation.

The air almost seems to crackle with tension as you both search each other’s eyes. Then, as if drawn by an unseen force, you start leaning towards each other infinitesimally. Charles’ heart kicks up a staccato rhythm as your faces inch closer together ...

Until finally, your lips meet in a soft, almost hesitant kiss. It’s achingly gentle and sweet, at odds with the intensity thrumming underneath. When you finally part, Charles feels almost dazed, his heart pounding.

“Wow,” he breathes out, unable to tear his eyes away from yours. “That was ...”

“Yeah,” you murmur back, looking equally affected. “It was.”

A silence stretches out as you simply gaze at each other. So much has passed between you in these short days — an entire lifetime’s worth of intimacy and connection. It’s overwhelming and exciting all at once.

Finally, Charles seems to shake himself out of the dazed reverie. Clearing his throat, he says gruffly, “Anyway, um … thank you again. I should probably try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

“Right, of course,” you respond quickly, flushing slightly. “The race. Yes, that’s … probably a good idea.”

An awkward pause hangs in the air before Charles blurts out, “You’ll be there though, right? At the race, I mean? As my guest?”

A slow smile spreads across your face and you nod. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He returns your smile, feeling lighter than he has in years. “Okay, good. That’s really good.”

With that, and one last lingering look, you gather your things and slip out, leaving Charles alone with his whirling thoughts and cautiously rising hope. He has no idea what tomorrow will bring — triumph or despair. But for the first time in his life, he feels like he’s not facing it alone.

As he climbs into bed that night, his mind keeps drifting back to that unexpected, electric kiss and the connection you seemed to share, if only for a moment. He can’t stop replaying it, the softness of your lips, the warmth of your skin ...

With a groan, Charles rolls over, trying in vain to shut off his thoughts. He needs to rest. Tomorrow is everything he’s been working towards for years — his best hope at finally ending the Monaco curse. And you’ll be there, your faith and magic bound to his dream.

Finally, Charles manages to drift into a restless sleep, his unconscious mind swirling with visions of chequered flags and your smiling face in the crowd. Whatever happens, he knows nothing will ever be the same after tomorrow.

***

The next morning dawns bright and clear, a perfect Monaco day. As Charles gets ready to head to the circuit, he can’t shake the anxious flutter in his chest.

This is it. His moment of truth.

Just before he’s about to leave, a soft knock comes at the door. When he opens it, you’re standing there looking almost as nervous as he feels.

“Hey,” you say with a small smile. “Thought I’d come wish you luck in person. And … give you one last thing for the race.”

You hold out a small silk pouch which Charles takes curiously. Opening it up, he pulls out the same battered racing glove he’d given you days ago, now embroidered with strange runic symbols.

“I imbued it with every protection ritual and good luck charm I could think of,” you explain. “As an extra boost on top of the work we’ve already done. Maybe it’ll help settle those pre-race jitters too.”

Charles feels a wave of affection crest over him as he looks at the glove, then back up at you. “You’re incredible, you know that?” He says softly. “Truly, I don’t know how to thank you enough for everything.”

You duck your head shyly, but he can see the pleased flush on your cheeks. “You don’t need to thank me. Just go out there and get that win you’ve been waiting for, okay?”

“I will,” Charles promises fervently. He pauses, then seems to make a split-second decision, stepping forward to cup your face in his hands. “And when I do … I’m taking you out for the biggest celebration Monaco has ever seen.”

Your eyes widen slightly, but you give a breathless little nod. “It’s a date then.”

The corner of Charles’ mouth quirks up. “It’s a date,” he echoes, letting his thumb brush over your cheekbone lingeringly before forcing himself to step back. “I should get going. But I’ll see you out there later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you confirm, looking almost as flustered as he suddenly feels. “Good luck, Charles.”

He shoots you one last, blazing look before tearing himself away, hurrying out to his waiting car. The entire drive to the circuit, his heart is pounding wildly in his chest. He can’t decide if it’s just pre-race adrenaline or something more … something sparked by you and that searing, promising look you gave him.

By the time he arrives, gets into his race suit and fireproofs, and settles into the cramped cockpit of his Ferrari, Charles is wound up like a tightly-coiled spring. His eyes keep drifting over to the embroidered glove still clutched in his hand, feeling the weight of everything it represents — your devotion, your magic, and the hope of finally breaking free from years of heartbreak.

As the cars are wheeled out onto the grid and the pre-race festivities begin, Charles scans the garage until his eyes finally land on you. You’re standing with a perfect viewpoint, eyes already locked on him, and when you catch his gaze you mouth “Good luck“ with an encouraging smile.

A determination like he’s never felt before surges through Charles’ veins. He’s going to win this race, not just for himself but for you too after everything you’ve sacrificed. Giving a firm nod, he slips the glove beneath his suit and grips the steering wheel tightly, watching the lights flick from red.

And as they finally go green and the cars roar away, Charles leans into the first turn in pure focus and exhilaration. For once, his mind is clear of any doubt or dread about the Monaco curse. He can only think about racing, about achieving his dream ...

And afterwards, celebrating that dream coming true with you.

***

As the deliriously happy celebrations continue around him at Monza, Charles can barely catch his breath. The euphoria of a hard-fought victory is still pulsing through his veins, that cherished feeling never getting old no matter how many times he experiences it.

He’s in the middle of accepting congratulations from his mechanics when he sees a Sky Sports reporter, making a beeline for him with her microphone in hand. Trying to tamp down his giddy smile slightly, he turns to face her.

“Charles! Huge congratulations on another amazing win today,” the reporter gushes as soon as she reaches him. “You’re really hitting your stride this season, what a comeback from the early struggles.”

“Thank you. Yes, the team has been doing incredible work to get me a car capable of winning,” Charles replies graciously. “I’m just thrilled to be able to deliver for them.”

“And for the fans too, who have been utterly captivated watching this gripping title battle unfold,” she continues. “Speaking of which, I have to ask — the viewers have been flooding us with one question in particular recently. What’s the story behind those little symbols that keep popping up on your race suit collar? Some kind of good luck charms maybe?”

At the mention of the embroidered symbols, Charles feels his lips quirking up into a small, unconscious smile. He should have known someone would eventually ask about them — the fans on social media have certainly been speculating endlessly.

“Ah, you spotted those?” He says lightly. “Well, it’s um … it’s actually something my girlfriend does for me before every race weekend.”

The reporter’s eyes widen with obvious interest, scenting a prime bit of gossip. “Your girlfriend? We had no idea you were dating someone, Charles! Do tell us more.”

Charles lets out a slightly self-conscious chuckle, feeling the tips of his ears going pink. He’s intensely private about his personal life, preferring to keep you out of the spotlight as much as possible. But the story behind the symbols is too meaningful to brush off entirely.

“Yes, well my girlfriend prefers to stay out of the public eye,” he explains carefully. “Let’s just say she comes from a rather … unique background and heritage. She has certain talents and practices that are very important to her.”

The reporter blinks at him in obvious confusion. “Wait, is she some kind of … psychic or something?”

“Not exactly,” Charles demurs, fighting back an amused grin at the mental image. “More like … well, I suppose you could call her a witch, of sorts.”

A shocked silence falls over the surrounding reporters who have tuned into their exchange. For a long beat, no one seems to know how to react to such an unexpected revelation. Charles doesn’t think he’s ever seen the media look so bemused before.

Finally, the reporter seems to find her voice again. “A … witch?” She repeats slowly. “As in, like, cauldrons and broomsticks and the whole bit?”

Charles lets out a full laugh at that. “Well, not quite like that, no. But she does practice certain … rituals and magics, let’s say. Most of which, I’ll admit, still seems completely mad to me.”

The reporter’s expression is one of fascination now as she leans in closer with her microphone. “And she does these rituals and … magics ... for you? Before races?”

“Exactly,” Charles confirms with a nod. “She adds protective symbols and charms onto things like my race suit, my helmet, sometimes other items depending on the ritual. It’s her way of looking out for me, of sending some extra luck and security my way on race weekends.”

He pauses, his smile softening unconsciously as he thinks about you. “I’ll be honest, I was pretty skeptical of it all at first. The whole concept of witchcraft and curses seemed ... well, rather far-fetched, you know? But she’s been so devoted to her practices, so sincere in her beliefs about the positive energies she wants to send my way … how could I not start to believe in it too?”

The media seems to be hanging on his every word now, caught up in this bizarre but undeniably romantic tale. The reporter lets out a wistful sigh. “Well, it’s clearly been working like a charm so far this season! Maybe the rest of the grid had better start looking into getting their own race day witches on board.”

A ripple of laughter spreads through the group at that as Charles shakes his head in amusement. “Yes, I can see that becoming very popular around the paddock.”

“So does she come to all the races then, your witch girlfriend?” Another reporter pipes up curiously. “Is she wandering around doing spellwork in the backrooms?”

“Oh, no no, nothing like that,” Charles chuckles. “She prefers to keep things … subtle, let’s say. Just the little symbols and charms. Though she is here today actually.”

The reporter’s eyes light up like she’s just struck journalistic gold. “She is? And does she get to celebrate with you after wins like this?”

A soft, almost shy smile plays across Charles’ lips as he nods. “Yes, whenever her schedule allows she tries to come to the races. And we’ll definitely be celebrating together tonight, just us.”

He gets a slightly far-off look in his eyes, seeming to get lost in the thought for a moment. The reporters watching on collectively hold their breaths, waiting for him to divulge more juicy details about this mysterious girlfriend.

Finally, Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat. “But anyway, I should really get back to the team to share this incredible day with them properly.”

The reporter makes one last attempt. “Oh, go on, just give us her name at least? Enquiring minds want to know about this charming race day witch of yours!”

Charles throws her an apologetic look. “You know I have to protect her privacy. All I can say is … she’s pretty remarkable. And she’ll probably hex me if I start giving out too many details about her!”

Laughs and groans of disappointment rise up from the reporters at being denied the full scoop. But they know better than to push Charles too far. With some final shouted congratulations, they gradually disperse, no doubt rushing off to publish their articles about the shocking revelation of Charles Leclerc’s witchy girlfriend.

As the small crowd clears out, Charles feels a light touch on his elbow and turns to find you standing there, eyes sparkling with amusement and fondness.

“Well, you’ve certainly given the paddock something to gossip about now,” you tease lightly. “A charming race day witch, am I?”

Charles makes a show of rolling his eyes, even as his cheeks flush a bit at your teasing. “What was I supposed to tell them? You know how much I hate discussing our personal lives with the media.”

“I know, I know.” You rise on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’m just giving you a hard time. I thought it was … sweet, actually. How you talked about my practices.”

Charles’ expression softens as he gazes down at you. Ever since that electric evening in Monaco when you first worked your magic on the infamous curse (and him), your relationship has deepened into something truly beautiful. At first, he admits he was still somewhat skeptical of the mystical rituals and protective charms you claimed to do for him.

But race after race, as the victories kept mounting with no traces of bad luck or mishaps, he’s become nearly as devoted a believer as you. And it goes far beyond just race day superstitions now. Seeing the depth of your spirituality, your connection to unseen mystical forces, has opened his eyes in so many ways.

He pulls you flush against him, cupping your face tenderly as he murmurs, “I meant every word. What you do … it means everything to me, you know that right? Whether the magic is real or not, your rituals give me a sense of peace and security I’ve never felt before.”

You gaze up at him with those captivating eyes that never fail to make his heart stutter. “I know. And that’s why I’ll never stop doing them for you. You make me feel … connected. Vital. Like my gifts can actually make a positive impact, instead of being some weird family quirk.”

Charles lets his thumb gently trace the delicate line of your cheekbone, drinking in every detail of your beloved face. “They do make an impact, mon cœur. Probably more than either of us can comprehend.”

He draws you into a lingering kiss, one that sends delicious sparks of heat ricocheting through his body. When you finally break apart, you’re both smiling and slightly flushed.

“Mmm, I should really start charging the team for services rendered, if that’s the payment plan,” you joke breathlessly.

Charles arches one eyebrow at you. “Trust me, they would go broke in a week trying to keep up.”

You let out a full laugh at that, the musical sound making his heart swell. He loves this — the moments of playful intimacy and banter, feeling so incredibly grounded and content with you. Before you came into his life, such tender domesticity always seemed like an impossible dream given his lifestyle.

Pulling you close once more, he nuzzles into the soft skin of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent. “Let’s go home,” he murmurs huskily. “I have a victory to properly celebrate … and I require your particular skills again tonight.”

You shiver slightly in his arms, drawing back just enough to fix him with a heated look. “My skills are always at your service. Shall we summon a portal or ...”

He huffs out a laugh at your playful tone, secretly loving when you tease him about the more fanciful aspects of witchcraft. “Why don’t we just take the car for now? No need to alarm the locals by apparating in the middle of the paddock.”

Chuckling, you lean up to steal one more lingering kiss before murmuring, “Deal. Now let’s get out of here before that reporter comes sniffing around for more gossip.”

Taking his hand, you start leading him away from the crowded pit lane and back toward the nearby motorhomes. With every step, Charles can feel the thrum of excitement building in his veins, fueled by much more than just the adrenaline of his race win.

There’s a steady warmth pulsing deep within him now, a sense of gratitude and contentment that suffuses his very soul. Ever since that fateful day in Monaco when he let you into his life, everything has shifted into vibrant new focus.

He’s never been superstitious, not really — he prides himself on being practical, logical, leaving little room for spiritual or religious beliefs. And yet … with you, a whole unseen mystical world has opened up to him in the most extraordinary way. Even if he still doesn’t fully understand the intricacies of your rituals and practices, he knows with certainty how they make him feel.

Protected. Centered. Empowered.

Loved, more deeply than he’s ever experienced.

As you make your way hand-in-hand through the chaos of post-race celebrations, trading giddy grins and teasing jokes, Charles feels it all shining outward from his very core — past the fame, the accomplishments, the never-ending pressures of being an elite athlete. With you by his side, he’s found a serenity and sense of self far beyond what any championship could provide.

So tonight, as you cuddle together and let your energies flow over him in that uniquely intimate way, he’ll pour every ounce of devotion and love he feels right back into you. Because in the end, that’s the most powerful force of all — one that transcends even the wildest of your spells and charms.

As long as you two are bound together on this path, no force in the universe could ever curse him again.

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eddiesghxst · 4 months

Note

A one shot of Mechanic!Eddie x F!reader

Established relationship, Eddie loosing his mind and relentlessly fucking you NASTY into your shared bed all because of how turned on he was by seeing you bent over moving laundry to the dryer in a pair of jeans that hug your ass so nicely🙈💗

stink…. don’t do this to me

18+ — MINORS DNI

————

Those devious, cheeky little shorts of yours will be the death of Eddie, honestly.

Everytime you wear them he ends up balls deep, mumbling promises to knock you up and start a family. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of the few pregnancy scares you’ve had were a product of those fucking shorts.

He’s just getting home from work so he’s tired, but the second he sees you bent over the washer with your ass practically hanging out of your shorts, he’s pumped like a goddamn energizer bunny, so god knows how many rounds he’s fixing to pull out of you tonight (you both lost count at 5).

He’s stepping up behind you with a hum as you toss the clothes in the dryer and shut the lid, pressing his body to yours and nuzzling his face into your neck. His hands coast over your hips and stomach, greedy fingers searching to palm at your tits over the flimsy tank top you have on.

“What’d I tell you about these goddamn shorts, hm?” He nips at your ear, squeezing at your skin when you lean away from him with a grin and a roll of your eyes.

“I didn’t have any clean clothes left, okay?“

Eddie hums, pressing a kiss to your neck as he pushes your hips back against his growing bulge, “Mm, and these just so happened to be the only clean pants?”

“…Maybe.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, giving your ass a quick tap and causing you to yelp, “Maybe.” He mocks.

You roll your eyes, somehow slipping out from between him and the dryer and Eddie groans as you pick up the laundry basket, “I’m busy, Eddie. The laundry isn’t gonna fold itself.”

As if Eddie believes you’re really that eager to fold laundry.

He’s on you as soon as you dump the clothes onto your shared bed, pressing himself to you once again and ignoring the whine you give him. “I’ll be quick, come on. You can’t wear these and expect me to not hump you like a dog, are you serious?”

“Self control, Eddie. It’s a thing.”

“Fuck off.”

You’re giggling as he reaches forward and pushes the clean laundry out of the way before pressing you face first into the bed.

“Ass up, come on.” He pats your hip, “You wanted to wear these cute little shorts, now put them on display for me.”

Eddie watches as you arch your back out for him, softly swaying your hips in a taunting manner as he palms himself. It’s like Eddie looses his mind, honestly.

He nearly ripped these same shorts one time, but he realized if he did then he wouldn’t get the privilege of seeing you in them again and god is Eddie so glad he thought that through.

His palm comes down on your ass quick and hot, cock stirring in his jeans at the moan that slips from you. He gives your other cheek a slap, squeezing and pulling at the fat skin before he decides he can’t wait any longer and he has to fuck you.

The shorts are off in record time, and Eddie thanks whatever shitty manufacturing company made those as he flings them to the ground. He makes even quicker work of unbuttoning his jeans, growling when you sway your hips and wriggle a hand down to your pussy, teasing yourself in preparation for what’s to come.

Eddie doesn’t even bother taking his jeans completely off, he lets them rest at his thighs as he wraps an adrenaline-shaking hand around his throbbing cock and shuffles forward. “Move your hand.” He sharply orders, placing a hand on your bare hip as he aligns his tip with your entrance. You oblige without question, hands sinking into the sheets to hold as Eddie sinks into you.

You’re so fucking warm and hot and wet, and the moan you let out is sinful enough to make Eddie want to do the unthinkable.

“Oh my god,” You gasp as Eddie presses in to the hilt. You’re mumbling and babbling about how big Eddie is, your pretty cunt squeezing and fluttering around him as he settles. “Yeah? This what you wanted, huh?” Eddie teases as he slowly drags his cock out before pressing in again, balls pressing snug to your clit as you squirm.

You pant, whimpering and failing to answer Eddie, so he leans forward, hips working up a toe curling pace as he talks into your ear, “Baby just wanted a good dicking down, huh?” He hotly whispers.

You whimper loudly, clenching around his cock as you desperately nod into the sheets. “Yes, yes please.” You beg.

Eddie peppers kisses across your neck and shoulder, dragging his teeth across your soft skin as his hips relentlessly pound into you. “You know you just had to ask, baby. Instead you wanna slut yourself out—“ “F-fuck off.” You gasp, drunkenly grinning when you hear Eddie chuckle.

Eddie presses himself back up, calloused hands pressing into your hips to pin you to the mattress before he begins drilling into like it’s the last chance he’ll ever fucking get.

Wet sloshing, skin slapping and needy moans fill out the air and Eddie’s practically bouncing you onto his cock with the help of the bouncy bed and you’re just speechless— grappling back at Eddie with shaky hands as Eddie fucks you into oblivion.

“Gonna cum?” Eddie huffs. You answer with a loud moan and your warm walls clenching around Eddie, and he hums, “Give it to me, baby, come on. Want you on top after so I can see your pretty tits bounce in that lousy excuse of a shirt you’ve got on.”

He strikes a hand down on your ass, watching as the skin ripples beneath his force— and suddenly, you’re cumming and tensing around Eddie so hard that Eddie almost struggles to fuck himself into you.

And Eddie didn’t plan on cumming yet, he wanted to hold off for a while longer, but you feel so fucking good Eddie can’t even think of holding back.

He cums with a loud groan, pressing his weight onto you as he spills himself deep inside of your pulsing cut— and there’s so much that it spills and drips down onto the laundry that Eddie failed to move out of the way.

“Jesus— fuck,” Eddie moans as he pulls out, still cumming in lazy spurts as he fists himself, painting your pretty folds. You’re shaking beneath him, back and thighs quivering with pleasure, and Eddie curses at the sight. He barely lets you come down before palming your ass, cock twitching when you let out a drawn-out moan as he speaks, “Flip over, baby. We’re not leaving this room for a while,” He drawls, “Gotta knock you up, remember?”

#mary i love u #he would soooo lose his mind when you wear any form of slutty tiny clothes #rachie’s moots 🫧#eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie smut #mechanic!eddie #mechanic!eddie x reader

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scuderiahoney · 4 months

Text

Lando Norris x Reader x Oscar Piastri, roommates!au

Masterlist

Summary: You, Lando, and Oscar are roommates. The three of you promise to take care of each other. It takes you all far too long to admit just how much you mean it. featuring dj!Lando for cece :) based on a blurb I wrote for my 1k celebration so if the first bit feels familiar that’s why! 7.4k words

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of vomiting (non graphic), illness, a breakup, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)

Lando’s not expecting the phone call he gets from you. It’s late, too late, really, for him to even be awake, let alone for you to be calling. Oscar’s sitting on the couch next to him, gaming controller in hand, and when Lando swipes to answer the call, he mouths the words who is it? Lando mouths your name in reply, and Oscar’s half asleep flat expression turns into a look of concern. The three of you are roommates, but you’re gone for the night. Lando didn’t ask where you were going when you left.

“Hello?” He asks, waiting for your response.

There’s a sniffle, then a hiccupy gasp for air that has Lando sitting up straight in his seat. “Lan. Could you- fuck, m’sorry, just- d’you think you could pick me up?”

Lando stares widely at Oscar for a moment, heart clenching in his chest. You sound upset- more than upset, really. He stands up, already searching frantically for his keys.

“Yeah, love, of course,” he says as Oscar follows suit and stands up. “Should I bring Oscar?”

You sniffle again. “Yeah, please, just…”

“It’s okay. Send me your location, yeah? Take a deep breath, we’ll be there soon.”

You mumble something, and then you hang up on him. Lando shoves his phone in his pocket and looks up at Oscar, who’s holding the keys to his car. That works. Oscar heads for the door, while Lando makes a pit stop in the kitchen. When he meets his friend in the entryway, Oscar’s staring at him with confusion.

“She’s crying,” Lando says in explanation, holding a paper bag close to his chest.

They make it across town in record time. Oscar groans when they pull into the apartment complex you’d sent the location of.

“Isn’t this her boyfriend’s place?” He asks, brows furrowed.

Lando doesn’t get a chance to answer, because you step out of the front door, and they’re both distracted. Oscar swears under his breath, and Lando follows suit at the sight of you- you’re in a t-shirt and shorts. There’s snow on the ground. Oscar pulls his hoodie over his head just before you make it to the car door.

You climb into the backseat and collapse in on yourself. Both Lando and Oscar are turned towards you, and Lando’s sure their facial expressions are matching looks of concern. They both hand over their items without a word- Oscar’s hoodie, and Lando’s carton of ice cream and a spoon. You pull the hoodie over your head and open the ice cream.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Oscar says, voice low.

Lando nods. “Yeah. We can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else.”

You nod and chew on your lower lip, and the light from the street lamp outside catches on the tear tracks on your cheeks. “He dumped me. Can we just go home?”

Lando reaches his hand back to squeeze yours. Your fingers are ice cold. “Of course,” he says softly.

As Oscar pulls away, he and Lando exchange a look of worry and anger. They’ve never liked your boyfriend, but they hate to see you hurting, too.

“Thanks,” you add, voice small in the backseat. You hold onto Lando’s hand tightly. “I knew I could count on you guys.”

Lando squeezes your hand again. You’re quiet most of the way back, and he lets it go. Oscar’s right to not push you to talk about it. That’ll come in its own time.

Oscar drives back to your shared apartment, pulling into a parking space in the garage. He gets out before Lando and slips around to the backseat, opening the door for you. The Aussie wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side.

When you all get upstairs, you collapse onto the couch. Lando follows suit, not wanting to leave your side. Oscar isn’t far behind. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, something quiet that Lando doesn’t pay attention to. He just watches you for signs of distress. You stare at the tv blankly and chip away at the ice cream with your spoon, leaning on Oscar as Lando leans on you. Slowly, the three of you melt into the couch, none of you wanting to break the silence and suggest going to bed.

…..

Oscar wakes up on the couch at 3 in the morning, and when he looks around, this awful feeling hits him. It’s like someone’s reached into his chest and clawed his heart out. You’re laying there, your head on his stomach, one of your arms over his thigh. Lando’s laying nearly on top of you- together, the three of you are like a stack of toppled dominoes. There are blankets strewn over all of you. Oscar can vaguely remember Lando’s attempt to cover all three of you up as you all began to drift off.

You’re fast asleep, and when Oscar peers down at you he can still see the tear tracks on your cheeks. He’s never liked your boyfriend- ex boyfriend, now, thank god- but breakups are awful no matter what. He’s got half a mind to go over and confront the guy, because who leaves their girlfriend- ex girlfriend- to walk out of their apartment in the dead of winter in a t-shirt and shorts? Even if you had broken up, he seemingly hadn’t given you the chance to put on sweatpants and a hoodie. Or maybe you hadn’t wanted to stay long enough.

Lando shifts in his sleep, pressing closer to you. It’s only now that Oscar notices Lando’s hand linked with yours, fingers knitted together on your stomach. A pang of something flares up in him at the sight, at how right it feels to have you both right here like this. He does his best to tamp it down. He brushes his fingers against your cheek tentatively, relaxing just a bit at the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips.

You nudge into the touch, eyelids just barely fluttering. Oscar wonders to himself how anyone could ever let you go. The sight of you in the backseat, teary eyed in his hoodie, is burned into the back of his brain. He’d do anything to keep you from ever crying again.

When he wakes up again, it’s much later in the morning. You and Lando are both gone, and something about that makes his heart clench. But he hears noise in the kitchen- Lando, talking to someone, the sound of food sizzling on the stove. He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes before trudging his way over there.

Lando’s at the stove, cooking something that smells awfully delicious and makes Oscar’s stomach growl. You’re sitting on the counter nearby the way you always do, still in Oscar’s hoodie, hands folded in your lap. You’re the first one to spot him- you smile, but it’s subdued. There’s a tinge of sadness to it. Something aching behind your eyes.

“Morning,” he finally says.

Lando turns over his shoulder with a smile. “I was just about to send her to wake you,” he says. “I made breakfast.”

Oscar nods. “Thanks. Smells really good.”

He takes his normal spot on a stool at the kitchen island. He passes by both of you on the way there, and you reach out to squeeze his upper arm. He brushes a hand over your knee and smiles at you.

You’re quiet. Usually, you’d be chatting their ears off. But Lando plates up the food and distributes it without a word from you, and it has Oscar feeling sick to his stomach. You stay sitting on the counter, and you push the food around on your plate with one hand. Lando sits next to Oscar and exchanges a look with him.

Both boys clear their plates without a word from you. You’ve only taken a few bites. Oscar clears his throat as he clears his and Lando’s plates. Your eyes flicker up to meet his.

“I stand by what I said last night. We don’t have to talk,” he says. “But if you want to talk, we’re here.”

You shift and smile just a little. “Not much to talk about, really. The breakup has been coming for a long time, I think. So. It’s fine, really. Just weird, you know? We’d been dating for a year- that’s a year of my life… not wasted, but. Weird to lose someone like that so quickly.”

Both Oscar and Lando nod in understanding. You nod back. That’s that. If you don’t want to talk about it more, they won’t force you. It’s enough to know you’re safe at home, really.

…..

When Lando has his first DJ set after your break up, he begs you to come and watch. Much to his and Oscar’s surprise, you agree eagerly. They’d both thought it would be a harder fight. Lando’s been getting bigger and bigger DJ gigs- not enough to quit his day job yet, but enough to get excited about. You haven’t been to them recently, which had been a bit of a sore spot for Lando, though he’d tried not to let it on to you. So. If you want to go, he’s not going to question you on it.

On the way there, you size him up in the back of the Uber. You tug at the collar of his shirt.

“You’re too buttoned up,” you say, nose wrinkled.

Oscar laughs and nods. “Yeah, lose a button,” he adds.

He reaches over and undoes the top button of Lando’s shirt with nimble fingers, and great, now Lando’s sweating.

“Or two,” you chime in.

When you reach up and undo another button, Lando thinks the blush must be obvious on his cheeks now. It’s probably running down his neck, washing over his chest, just like the soft touch of your fingers against his skin.

“Why not three?” Oscar says, smirking.

Before he can undo the third one, Lando bats Oscar’s hand away and glares at him. Oscar’s had a shot before they left the apartment, pregaming because he hates crowds and loud places and social environments. He’s definitely a little tipsy, and because of that, he’s a bit more daring. It’s going to be the death of Lando.

By the time he’s halfway through the set, Lando’s gone and lost both of you in the crowd. He won’t lie, it makes him a bit nervous. He knows you were there one second, and then the next time he looked, you were both gone. He knows in his head Oscar won’t have let you out of his sight, but it doesn’t stop his heart from clenching. He thinks of his phone, down under the stage, itches to have it in his hand so he can text or call or find you, somehow.

When he finally climbs down and grabs his phone, it’s lit up with a bunch of notifications. He swipes past the ones from Max asking how late his set goes, past the ones from friends who stopped by, telling him how good he did. In the middle, there’s a text from Oscar.

Call when you’re done.

He calls. When Oscar answers, he gives him directions to meet the two of you in a bathroom and then promptly hangs up. Lando would be more concerned with the two of you apparently hiding out together in a bathroom if Oscar hadn’t told him about it. He doesn’t have the energy to let himself get jealous. He just heads towards the two of you. He knocks on the single bathroom door, calls out to Oscar, and it swings open.

“She had a little too much,” Oscar says.

Behind him, you’re kneeling next to the toilet, Oscar’s jacket underneath your knees. It’s such a sweet touch that it makes Lando’s heart ache- there’s just something about seeing Oscar taking care of you. But he does his best to focus and steps into the bathroom. Your hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Your skin is pale, and when you turn to look at Lando, your eyes are bloodshot. He hisses and turns to Oscar.

“I know, I know, I said I’d watch her-“ Oscar says, raising his hands defensively. “She’s good at pretending to be sober. Until she’s way too far gone, and then…”

“Lan!” you call out, high pitched and wobbly. “I love you.”

Lando widens his eyes at Oscar, who nods.

“There’s been a lot of that. About both of us. She was not happy when I pulled her out of sight of you.” Oscar sighs. “I can’t figure out if it’s just- you know, she loves her friends, or-“

Oscar trails off. Lando furrows his brows.

“Lan,” you repeat again, and he turns over his shoulder to look at you, then tries not to visibly wince. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, love,” he says, softly. “You done throwing up, you okay to move?”

You shrug, then nod. Great. Not super convincing. When he turns to Oscar, he winces. Lando drags a hand down his own face. Interrogating Oscar will have to wait- the first priority is to get the three of you out of there, hopefully without you throwing up on them. He sighs heavily and makes a plan in his head.

Lando’s not sure what god he pleased, what good karma he’s earned, but the three of you make it outside without you throwing up again. He breathes a sigh of relief. Then he and Oscar spend 5 minutes debating on whether walking or getting a ride would be better- you’re drunk and wobbly, but at least if you threw up, it’d be on the sidewalk. Oscar hates that idea, is worried about you tripping and falling on the way, about how they’ll manage to get you all the way back. You stand there and watch them argue, Oscar’s hand on your shoulder to keep you from falling over.

“Boys, stop fighting,” you say hazily. “You’re both so pretty.”

Lando’s eyes go wide at that. He stares at Oscar, who seems to make a face that says I know. Lando turns to you. You’re smiling widely up at him, blinking glassy eyes and tilting your head. You reach out and tap your fingertip against his nose, then laugh. Lando swallows tightly.

Oscar uses his distraction to flag down a cab. Lando can’t find the energy to argue anymore. They’d normally put you in the middle, but this time they sit you next to the door, just in case you do need to throw up. You spend the entire ride with your head on Lando’s shoulder, and he can tell you’re starting to get drowsy just from the way you sag against him. When they climb out of the car, Oscar puts one of your arms over his shoulder, and Lando does the same on the other side.

By the time they get you up to the apartment and into the bathroom, you’re half asleep, leaning heavily on both of them. When your hand slips against the bare skin of his chest, he swallows tightly. Oscar puts toothpaste on the toothbrush for you, and Lando helps you brush your teeth, his hand wrapped around yours gently.

Then they head for your bedroom. Lando grabs you a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from your dresser. He sets them on the bed and gets ready to leave the room so you can change, and then slaps his hand over his eyes when you start to take off your dress before he even gets the chance. He hears Oscar’s hand hit his own face, too.

“We live together,” you say, and Lando can practically hear your eye roll. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Lando sighs. “It is, and you’re drunk, so.”

You laugh. “I guess. I’m dressed now.”

Lando groans when he uncovers his eyes and spots the pair of shorts still on the bed. He puts one hand over Oscar’s eyes, one back over his own, and says, “Shorts. Now.”

You grumble something about taking them off later anyways, which has Lando melting into a puddle over the thought. He hears you shuffling around, and then you grab both of his wrists and tug them away from his and Oscar’s faces. You’re fully dressed this time, and you collapse backwards onto the bed.

“Will you guys stay till I fall asleep?” you ask, softly.

Both of them nod and sit down on the edge of the bed. You curl up in the middle, each of them on either side. Oscar lays a tentative hand on your shoulder, while Lando brushes hair from your face. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, melting into the bed.

When you do, Lando nods silently towards the door. Oscar nods in agreement, and they both slip out of the bedroom. Lando looks back to check on you as he shuts the door. You look peaceful, finally.

Oscar heads for the kitchen, and Lando follows. He reaches into the fridge and comes back with two cans of sparkling water, which Lando accepts eagerly. He’d been unaware of just how thirsty he was until that moment. He drinks half the can in one go and then looks at Oscar expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Oscar prefaces. “I’m not sure about anything. But. She couldn’t stop staring at you up on the stage, and she told me about ten times how pretty you were. And then she said it about me, too. To my face. And like, right after that she threw up, but.”

“But,” Lando repeats. “You saw something. Different than her just being a drunk mess.”

“It felt different,” Oscar says, softly. “Just. I can’t explain it.”

Lando nods. He presses his lips into a thin line. Oscar follows suit, rubbing his hand against the smooth surface of the countertop.

“What do we do?” Lando asks quietly. He feels wildly out of his depth here. “I mean. D’you think she has feelings for…”

Me? You? Lando’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be either. Suddenly, he feels sick to his stomach. In an ideal world, he knows what he’d like to happen here, but that’s a pipe dream. Unrealistic.

“She’s really vulnerable,” he says, before Oscar can even answer. “And like. That would really make a good roommate situation weird, right?”

Oscar laughs, but it sounds forced. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Lando says. “Okay. So. We just let it go.”

Oscar nods. There’s something in the look on his face that makes Lando think maybe there’s more to this. That they shouldn’t brush it off so easily. But it’s late, and he’s exhausted, and this topic feels so, so difficult to broach right now. So he claps Oscar on the shoulder with an open palm, and then disappears into his bedroom.

Lando’s avoidance of the subject doesn’t last long, because the next morning, before you wake up, Oscar corners him in the kitchen.

��We need to talk,” Oscar says, which is never a good sentence to hear at any hour, let alone before the sun has even risen.

Realistically, he should’ve known this was coming, because Oscar never willingly wakes up this early on a weekend. It’s still dark outside. Lando can barely make out Oscar’s facial expressions in the dim light. He flicks a light switch and watches the other man wince.

“Rude,” Oscar grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what you get for starting off my morning with that sentence,” Lando defends. When Oscar frowns, he softens. “What’s up?”

As if he hadn’t expected to actually get to this point, Oscar shrinks in on himself. Lando leans against the counter and tilts his head. Oscar’s younger, but he’s usually the more mature one. It’s odd to see him so lost for what to say.

“Last night,” Oscar starts, chewing on his lip when he pauses. “She- I- I can’t stop thinking about…”

Lando’s gut wobbles. “About her. You like her. And you think she feels the same.”

There’s this weird jealousy in his chest. He’s jealous of both of you, he realizes, and he grips the counter behind him with his hand. He wants to be the one you like, and he wants to be the one Oscar’s into, too. He’s known it for a while, really, but this is the first time he’s had to confront it head on. And it’s - it’s a problem, probably. His best friends and his roommates. He can’t have both. Can’t have it all.

Oscar frowns and shakes his head. “No. Well. Yeah, but- it’s more than that. It’s.”

Lando tamps down the ache in his chest, plasters on a smile. “Oscar. It’s okay.”

“No,” Oscar says, dragging out the sound. “You don’t- you don’t get it.”

“You guys would make a cute couple,” Lando says quietly. “Like. Really, Osc, you’d be good together-“

“I don’t just want her,” Oscar interrupts, and Lando's heart skips a beat. “I don’t- fuck, it sounds crazy, but. I woke up that morning, after we picked her up, and you were both on the couch with me, and I just thought, yeah, this is how I want to wake up every day. And if that’s crazy then- forget I said anything, but-“

Lando clears his throat. “It’s not crazy.”

Oscar freezes, one hand halfway through his hair. “It’s not?”

Lando shakes his head and bites his lip. “No. I think I’ve been feeling the same. Just… I felt crazy, you know?”

Oscar nods. Lando can’t stop staring at him, at the red flush on his cheeks, the wide eyes. He reaches his foot out and nudges it against Oscar’s shin.

“I meant what I said last night, about her being vulnerable,” he says, and Oscar sighs heavily. “She needs friends right now. And she doesn’t need friends who are caught up in figuring out their feelings for each other and maybe her, too.”

Oscar huffs. “So we just…”

“Wait and see?” Lando asks sheepishly. “Feels shitty, I know, but our first priority is making sure she’s okay.”

Oscar nods. Lando nods back. And that’s that, for a while. And maybe for a while, it’s enough to know that Oscar feels it, too. To know he’s not alone.

…..

You know Lando well enough to know he’s not one to admit when he’s sick. You’d think he’d be the exact opposite, but he tends to try and tough it out until the very last minute. He hides it well, except when it comes to you and Oscar.

He’s getting ready for a DJ set nearly a month after the one where you’d gotten far too drunk. There’s loud music playing through the apartment as he eats dinner, dancing along to the beat. You sit on the kitchen counter in your usual spot, and Oscar stands next to you. You’re both watching Lando bounce around the room. He’s trying to convince you he’s fine without actually saying it. It’s not working.

He leaves the room for a moment, looking for his phone. Oscar looks up at you.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?” He asks.

You nod and worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Definitely.”

But Lando says nothing about not feeling well, so you do your hair and makeup and get into an Uber with him and Oscar to head for a club. You and Oscar exchange a glance when Lando presses his forehead to the window of the car. He’s mumbling along to the song that’s playing over the speakers. There’s sweat on his temple. You’re starting to worry.

He tumbles out of the car and into the club with you and Oscar in tow. Once the bright lights and loud music hit him, he perks up a bit. If you know him, you know it won’t last. He’s going to wear himself out during his set and then fall apart right after. He sends the two of you to the bar, tells you to put it on his tab. Oscar loops his hand in your arm to keep you close- you’re not complaining. Without saying anything to each other, you each order plain Cokes. Lando won’t question if there’s alcohol in it. You order him his go to drink- a gin & tonic, but ask the bartender to go light on the gin. You hand it off to him before he heads up for his set, and when he hesitates to kiss your cheek like he normally would, you eye him carefully.

“I’m fine,” he says, which tells you more than anything that he’s definitely not fine.

Next to you, Oscar scoffs. You press the back of your hand to Lando’s forehead and sigh. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. He’s burning up.

“It’s a short set,” he says, slurred but loud enough to be heard over the thud of the bass. “I’ll be fine.”

You watch as he walks away. Oscar takes your arm in his hand again, pulls you away to a nearby booth. Normally, you love watching Lando’s sets, love listening to the music he’s chosen, and watching his face light up at the crowd’s reaction. But now, as he takes his place, you just feel worried. You can tell Oscar’s worried too, just from the way he drums his fingers against the table in an unsteady pattern. Normally the two of you would find yourselves out on the dance floor, especially when Lando plays the songs he knows you both love, but you can’t find it in you tonight.

When he stumbles off stage from his set, he’s grinning ear to ear, but his eyes are half closed and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin that you know isn’t from the dj-ing. You and Oscar stand to meet him, and you brush damp curls from his forehead to check his temperature again. He feels even worse. Oscar winces as Lando sways in front of the two of you.

“Let's get you home,” you suggest, and he just nods.

When you get back to the apartment, you deposit Lando on the couch. Oscar stays with him, pulling a blanket over Lando and propping him up with pillows. You head for the bathroom first and open the medicine cabinet.

“Lan, what’s wrong?” You call out.

You hear his disoriented grumbling. Oscar translates. “He says he’s fine.”

You lean out into the living room and fix Lando with a glare. “Shut up. You need medicine. What’s wrong?”

He sighs and sinks into the couch. “Sore throat. Headache. Little bit of a cough.”

You nod and return to the surprisingly well stocked medicine cabinet. You grab the cold medicine that describes his symptoms the best and head back to the living room. Lando has the blanket wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon, and he has his head resting on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar’s running his hand up and down Lando’s upper arm, a look of concern on his face.

You hand Oscar the medicine. “Here. Give him a dose, will you? I’m gonna heat up some soup or something.”

“M’not a baby,” Lando mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Oscar teases gently.

Though the medicine cabinet was well stocked, the kitchen is less so. None of you like grocery shopping. You manage to find a can of chicken soup in the back of a cupboard, and it’s not expired, so you heat it up quickly. You return to the living room with the soup and a large glass of water.

Lando is fully tucked into Oscar’s side now, draped messily across the other boy. You sigh at the sight, at the way Oscar runs his hand through Lando’s hair, at the content little smile on Lando’s lips. Even when he’s sick, this is enough to bring him comfort. You wonder, then, if you could be enough, too. The memories pass through your brain- the way they’ve both taken care of you after your break up. Now it’s your chance to return the favor.

You sit down on the couch on Lando’s other side. Oscar takes the bowl of soup from you carefully, and then you hold the glass of water up to Lando’s lips. He sips carefully, then pulls away with a soft sigh. His cheeks are rosy red, and he shivers. You and Oscar both wince in sympathy.

“You should’ve told us,” Oscar says, quietly. “Should’ve canceled the set.”

Lando shrugs and elbows him lightly. “Got through it, didn’t I? Can’t go around canceling sets if I’m gonna make it big, can I?”

You roll your eyes and nudge the Brit slightly. “Your health is more important than you making it big,” you chide.

He turns to look at you, gaze hazy but still amused. “Mm. You won’t be saying that when I’ve got enough money to take care of the two of you for the rest of your lives.”

“Is that your plan?” Oscar asks, a teasing tone in his voice.

Lando closes his eyes and nods. “You two can be my sugar babies,” he asserts. “Never work another day in your life.”

“Okay, Norris,” you say, biting back a laugh. “Eat your soup.”

He does as he’s told, melting back into the couch as he holds the bowl and spoon in shaky hands. Oscar keeps his hands on the bowl, too, just to be safe. To show your support, you lean against Lando’s shoulder to help prop him up. As much as you hate to see him not feeling well, you think that maybe you could get used to this.

You tuck him into his bed later that night. Oscar’s next to you, having carried him into the bedroom from the living room. Lando was pretty much dead weight, high on cold medicine and his fever and so, so out of it. You pull the covers up to his chin and smooth sweaty hair from his forehead. You cringe at the clammy feeling, and Oscar laughs.

Lando blinks up at both of you with heavy eyes. “Meant it, you know.”

“Meant what?” You ask.

He lets his eyelids fall closed. “Gonna take care of you two. The same way you take care of me. I think abou’ it all the time.”

He yawns, turns his head, and falls asleep nearly immediately after that, lips barely parted, chest rising and falling smoothly. You feel frozen for a moment. He looks so peaceful. He wants to take care of you. Your heart is pounding.

Oscar wraps his hand around your elbow and squeezes softly. “He’ll be okay.”

He thinks you’re worried. You don’t know how to tell him that Lando being sick isn’t the problem. The what’s got you all mixed up inside is the way Lando says it so easily. Never work another day in your life. I think about it all the time.

You swallow and back away from the bed, because you have the strongest urge to crawl right in next to him and drag Oscar right with you, until you’re all curled up in a pile together. You can’t do that. Oscar leads you out to the living room. You think he knows something’s up, because he doesn’t let go of you the whole time, but he doesn’t say anything either. You need to shake this feeling. You can’t think about them like this. It won’t end well.

“I’ll make us some popcorn, yeah?” Oscar suggests. “We can watch Bake Off.”

You nod as you make your way over to the couch. You try to tell yourself you should keep your distance, should sit far away from him. But when he sits down and pulls you into his chest, you can’t help but sigh happily.

“When we inevitably catch whatever he has,” you say, “we’re gonna need more chicken noodle soup.”

…..

Oscar comes home from work one day a few weeks later, and finds the two of you in the living room- a pretty normal occurrence lately. You’re laid out on the couch, your ankles in Lando’s lap. You smile up at him happily, and he laughs. He’s glad to see you, honestly, both of you. He’s had a rough day. This is exactly what he needed to come home to.

“Comfy?” He asks.

You nod eagerly. “We saved some pizza for you. It’s in the kitchen.”

He snorts. “Gee. Thanks. Couldn’t wait till I got home?”

You pout up at him. “I was hungry.”

Lando nods in agreement. “She was being whiny, Osc, had to feed her.”

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, leaning over to ruffle your hair. You press into the touch, like a cat. “And then I’ll have dinner.”

“Ooh, take a shower beer,” you suggest.

Lando laughs. “I was gonna say the exact same thing.”

Without even thinking, Oscar leans over the couch and kisses both of your foreheads. “Geniuses, the both of you.”

Neither you or Lando seem to question it, or the blush on his cheeks, so he doesn’t even try to explain.

By the time he finishes showering, and finishes his shower beer, a bit of the stress has melted away. He sighs heavily when he steps out, towel dries his hair, and pulls on a pair of shorts and a hoodie. He eats a slice of pizza, cold, in the kitchen.

When he makes it back to the living room, you’re curled up in Lando’s arms, halfway in his lap. He grumbles, not even realizing he’s making the noise until you look up at him. You throw one arm out wide, beckoning him close. Lando looks up with a happy, soft smile and pats the open space on his chest. And really, Oscar’s had a shit day, and the spot between Lando’s jaw and chest looks quite cozy, and if he’s being invited, then-

He collapses into the two of you, slips his arm around you and presses the side of his face to Lando’s chest. Oscar takes a deep breath, smells Lando’s cologne and your perfume, the intoxicating mix of both of you, and closes his eyes. He feels someone’s finger drag down the slope of his nose, and another hand brushes his hair from his forehead.

“Bad day?” You ask.

He’s exhausted, and everything is a bit hazy feeling. Syrupy and slow. He could fall asleep like this, probably. You sound a million miles away, and also like you’re tucked away in his chest, like he’d like for you to always be. Close and protected.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Really bad day.”

A thumb brushes over his cheek. There’s a hand in his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He lets out a fluttering sigh.

“Poor baby,” you say. He thinks the hand on his face is yours, the hand in his hair, Lando’s. “We just gotta wait for Lan to make it big, yeah? ‘nd then me and you can be his sugar babies, let him pay for everything. Just like he promised.”

Oscar laughs and rubs his cheek against Lando’s chest in some sort of nod. He can feel Lando laughing, too, high pitched and breathless. His hand squeezes at your hip, where it landed when he sat down.

“I’d take such good care of the two of you,” Lando says, quietly.

Oscar knows how much truth the words hold, and suddenly his stomach aches with want. Because Lando already takes care of both of you and him any way he can, and Oscar does it for you and Lando, too, and they both wish they could do it even more so. Could kiss away your tears, could hold your hand when you cross the street. He wants it. So does Lando.

“You already do,” you say, even quieter.

Oscar feels Lando’s breath hitch in his chest. He opens one eye and finds your eyes closed, your hand pressed to his cheek. Lando’s hand, banded around Oscar’s back, squeezes softly. Oscar holds his breath.

You shrug, like you know they’re watching without even opening your eyes.

“You both do,” you add. “Picked me up when I called, checked on me ever since…” you sigh and bury your face deeper into Lando’s chest. Oscar reaches up and cups your cheek in his hand tentatively. “Couldn’t ask for more.”

Even on the worst of days, Oscar thinks that maybe you’re right. He couldn’t ask for more. He’s got everything right here.

…..

A few nights later, Lando wakes up to the creak of the door, and his eyes fly open. He turns to look and finds you standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Love?” Lando asks, quietly. It’s the dead of night. “You alright?”

You shrug and sigh. “Can we cuddle?”

He blinks and nods, wonder fleetingly if he should go and get Oscar, because this feels unfair, but- then you step backwards, walking away. You must want to go to your bed, must feel more comfortable there. Lando slips out of his bed, takes his phone with him, and follows after you. His confusion grows when you don’t stop at the door to your bedroom. You walk right past and head for Oscar’s room. You open the door, and Lando looks past you to the warm glow of the lamp Oscar always forgets to turn off, to his sleeping form.

“You’re easier to wake up,” you say, softly.

Lando blinks wildly as you trudge your way over to the bed. “Love?”

“Want cuddles,” you state as you climb into the bed next to Oscar, who’s snoring softly. “From both of you. Come on.”

And, well. You should probably all talk about this, really. But you’re already tucking yourself under the blankets, and Oscar looks cute, and Lando’s so, so tired, and he wants cuddles, too, so. He sighs and makes his way over to the bed. You grin and roll towards Oscar, who finally shifts awake at the motion.

“Hi?” He says, confused, sleep coating his voice.

You don’t bother to explain, just slip an arm around him and curl close. Lando sits down on the edge of the bed and makes eye contact with Oscar, who seems frozen between confusion and happiness.

“She wanted cuddles,” Lando explains. “From both of us. I’m easier to wake up, apparently.”

Oscar shrugs and nods. He rolls towards you and throws his arm over your middle. His fingers motion towards Lando, who breathes a sigh of relief. Sure, they’ve talked, but there was always a chance Oscar changed his mind, or that this would be weird. But, if he’s offering…

Lando crawls into bed next to you. You let out a soft sigh when he lays down next to you, and he can’t fight the smile that crosses his lips. He slips his arm around you, his skin brushing against Oscar’s, too. Oscar presses a kiss to your forehead. Lando bites back a flare of jealousy, and he’s not even sure which one of you he’s jealous of. Then Oscar brushes his fingertips against his bicep, a soft, gentle touch that reminds him he’s part of this, too. Lando kisses the back of your neck and closes his eyes, already sleepy again.

…..

When Oscar wakes up the next morning, you and Lando are still in his bed. He breathes a sigh of relief at that, having been worried one of you would wake up and panic and leave. He watches the two of you for a few moments before he lets his eyes slip closed again. The weight of your head on his chest is comforting, and the soft rise and fall of Lando’s ribs under his hand is even more so. It’s rare that he’s awake before either of you unless he has to be up early.

He opens one eye again, just to look, just to take it in. Lando’s head is pressed against your shoulder, the top of his forehead and his mass of curly hair just visible to Oscar. He could get used to this. He’d like to wake up like this all the time, the three of you all wrapped up together. And maybe that’s wishful thinking, but for at least one morning, he gets to have it.

If he wasn’t so worried he’d wake you up and spoil the moment, he’d trace the lines of your face with his fingertips and draw patterns on your shoulders. He’d do it to Lando, too- shove his tank top up until he could touch the bare skin of his ribs, run his fingers over the bumps. But he wants this to last as long as possible, so he just lays there and stares.

Eventually, you start to stir, and with you, so does Lando. It’s strange, the way it makes Oscar’s heart clench in his chest. He wants so badly for both of you to just stay right here, with him. If he could hold you both in his arms like this forever he would.

When you open your eyes, you smile softly at him. Lando shifts behind you and opens one eye, and the same soft smile slips across his lips. You press yourself farther into Oscar, and reach a hand behind you to pull Lando close.

“My boys,” you say, quietly. “My favorite boys.”

And. That’s when it hits Oscar, like a punch to the chest. There’s something in the way you say it, something about the look on your face. He just knows. He knows because he sees it in himself, in Lando. He doesn’t need to talk about it right this second, doesn’t need to ask. He just knows you feel it too. So he leans up and over, hears the way Lando’s holding his breath. He moves his hand and presses his lips to your cheek, to your warm, soft skin. Then he does the same to Lando. You smile even wider. Lando, not one to be left out, does the same to you, then Oscar, leaving his skin burning. You follow suit, and your lips are warm against Oscar’s jaw. He thinks maybe he’s in heaven.

The three of you fall back asleep in a tighter pile, wrapped up in each other’s limbs. There’ll be time to talk later. For now, it’s enough to just know.

…..

A month later, you’re in the front of the crowd at Lando’s DJ set, watching with wide, bright eyes. He has three buttons undone, the work of you and Oscar during the car ride over to the club. He’s grinning down at you as someone hands him a shot, and then he tosses it back with a grimace. You wonder if he sees the stars in your eyes as you look up at him.

Oscar’s behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist. He has a drink in his other hand- your drink, taken from your own grip when you started moving your hands to the music. His nose is pressed behind your ear, and when he speaks, his breath tickles against your skin and makes you shiver.

“Y’know, he said he’d take care of us,” Oscar says, loud enough to be heard over the music, but just barely. “But all I can think of right now are all the ways I wanna take care of him.”

You laugh, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “It’s the unbuttoned shirt,” you tell him, gesturing at your other boyfriend. “S’like kryptonite.”

Never mind the fact that the shirt’s only unbuttoned because of the two of you. Oscar laughs and squeezes his arm around your middle. Lando tilts his head at the two of you, like he knows exactly what you’re up to.

“Yeah,” Oscar agrees. “But that’s less buttons for us to deal with later.”

You nod in agreement. “Good point.”

When Lando’s shirt is laying on the floor later, next to Oscar’s shirt and your dress, and you’re all slumped together on the bed in a pile, you remember what Oscar said earlier and laugh. Neither of them bother to ask what you’re laughing about. They just kiss your cheeks and join in with laughter of their own.

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smileysuh · 2 days

Text

truth serum

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. When you’d taken this job as a handler, it hadn’t been a babysitting gig. You’d signed on to work with Seungcheol because he was supposed to be one of the best agents… supposed to be. There’d been a time, three months ago, when he’d completed a job with flying colors. The two of you had celebrated at a hotel in Paris after the success, and after two bottles of champagne, you’d actually thought you were starting to get to know the guy. But whatever inklings of a gentleman you’d seen that night had disappeared soon after, and things have been up in the air ever since. His man whoring ways are at an all-time high, and his judgment has been questionable, to say the least. Now he’s gone and gotten himself captured, and you can’t help but fear the worst.

tw/cw. Seungcheol gets truth-serumed and a little beat up, unprotected sex, dirty talk, dominant Seungcheol, power dynamics, praise, one hint of degradation that’s quickly squashed, breast/nipple play, fingering, oral, foreplay in the kitchen, bdsm subthemes, spanking as a punishment, pain kink, multiple reader orgasms, creampie/fullness kink, etc… I pet names: (hers) honey. (his) angel eyes.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.6k

🍭 aus. Secret agent au, handler reader, coworker au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. Thank you for being patient with me this month on my svt posting for June! My birthday is on the 25th and your smiley has been busy- so grateful I could get this out, even without a teaser post :) I don't know anything about actual secret agents, but this was a fun fanfic idea I had and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did :)

“I’m just going to go talk to her.”

You hate how nonchalant Seungcheol sounds, hate how easily he can be swayed by pretty women, even while out on jobs. It’s your responsibility to keep him in check, the little angel on his shoulder, and in his ear. “Don’t do it,” you warn him.

“Her husband’s the target, from what I’ve seen, she’s harmless,” the agent counters.

“How easily swayed you are by pretty women, and need I remind you this isn’t the first time you’ve let a person of interest’s wife become your focus.”

“Careful, Honey, for a moment there it sounded like you were jealous.”

You’re watching Seungcheol through the casino’s live footage, a stream you’d easily hacked for the operation at hand. He’s leaning against the bar, all suave in dress pants and a white button-up that he’s left open just enough to show his prominent chest-

“That’s your third drink,” you note, changing the topic, “don’t let it cloud your judgment, Angel Eyes.”

“We both know I can hold my liquor,” Seungcheol insists, raising his glass and sending a wink toward the camera before he downs the Old Fashioned. “I’m just going to go talk to her, she could give good intel.”

You let out a deep sigh. Sometimes, being Seungcheol’s handler can be a pain in the ass. Does he ever listen to you? Not usually. Does he get the job done, though? Most of the time.

“Trust me,” Seungcheol says, voice lowering. “I’m not going to do what you think I’m going to do.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair while you scan the screens in front of you. “Seduce her James Bond style and compromise this entire thing?”

“Maybe only half of that.”

God, he’s such a womanizer, but with a face like his, and the perks that come with his job, he can afford to be.

“If this goes sideways, don’t expect me to bail you out of it.” you warn him.

“Honey, bailing me out is your job.”

You hate it when Seungcheol goes out of your visuals, and entering a hotel room with a target’s wife was not on the itinerary tonight. For the first ten minutes, you’d sat anxiously, listening in on his smooth-talking, when the woman had suggested they take things to the bedroom, part of you had wondered if you should call this whole thing off and let Seungcheol do what he always does: fuck the hot wife and sort things out later.

But when you hear a male voice, and a startled, “Who is this?” from Seungcheol, you’re glad you’d stayed anxiously glued to your computer.

A faint, “Friend of my husband,” said in a nonchalant female tone, sets you off immediately, and you’re grabbing your phone to get backup support before you can even think.

You try to take deep breaths while you listen to what sounds like a fight taking place on Seungcheol’s end, and suddenly, the wire goes dead. Now, there are no sounds, only the racing of your own heart and the blood rushing through you.

“What’s going on?” Your supervisor's voice makes you jump, and you turn to see Jeonghan standing there with Hansol, another handler.

“Cheol made a move on his target’s wife, went back to her room, but the wife brought friends. The wire is dead.”

“Fuck,” Jeonghan groans, “This is the third time this has happened to him.”

“I tried reminding him of that,” you say, your voice raising with anxiety.

Hansol offers you a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. He takes care of an agent named Seungkwan, and while Seungkwan gets into his own messes, he’s not the type to go after married women in the middle of a job.

Jeonghan’s leaning over your computer now, and he brings up the map tracker you have on Seungcheol. “I’m sending this location to another agent we have in the area,” he tells you, quickly taking the reigns of the fuck up that’s just happened.

“It’s Wonwoo, isn’t it?” you sigh. “It’s always Wonwoo cleaning up Seungcheol’s messes.”

“Yes, it’s Wonwoo,” Jeonghan admits. “We made sure he’d be in the wings tonight in case something like this happened.”

“God, this isn’t good-” you groan.

“No,” Jeonghan responds, “It’s not. After tonight I’ll have to have a serious talk with Seungcheol, and a serious talk with you about reassignment if we decide Seungcheol is a liability.”

Your heart lurches in your chest.

When you’d taken this job as a handler, it hadn’t been a babysitting gig. You’d signed on to work with Seungcheol because he was supposed to be one of the best agents… supposed to be. There’d been a time, three months ago, when he’d completed a job with flying colors. The two of you had celebrated at a hotel in Paris after the success, and after two bottles of champagne, you’d actually thought you were starting to get to know the guy. But whatever inklings of a gentleman you’d seen that night had disappeared soon after, and things have been up in the air ever since. His man whoring ways are at an all-time high, and his judgment has been questionable, to say the least. Now he’s gone and gotten himself captured, and you can’t help but fear the worst.

After a harrowing two hours, you find yourself in the med section of the agency compound. Wonwoo is stationed outside of Seungcheol’s room, and he stands straighter as you approach. “Hey, Honey,” he says, using your codename even though there’s really no reason for it right now.

“Wonwoo- how is he?” You anxiously look toward the door Wonwoo is guarding with his body.

Although you’d been connected to the whole ‘rescue Seungcheol operation,’ you’re still buzzing with anxiety. It’s unexplainable, and definitely bordering on unacceptable given the line of work you’re in, but damn it, you can’t help but care for the man you handle every day.

“Jeonghan’s with him right now,” Wonwoo responds smoothly.

Your heart thunders even louder in your ribcage. Jeonghan had mentioned Seungcheol being a liability- is he getting fired right now?

Part of you aches to be with him, to defend his stupid behaviour- but you know it’s not your place, besides, what would you even say? You’d told Seungcheol not to go after the target’s wife, and he’d done it anyway, which shows a lack of regard for handler instructions.

Seungcheol has become a liability, and you hate that things have come to this.

“What do you think is going to happen?” you ask.

Wonwoo shrugs. “That’s above my paygrade.”

He’s awfully stoic, even for a spy, and while it can be intriguing at times, right now, his deflections only frustrate you more.

You let out a sigh. “What if I asked you to guess what’s going to happen?”

Wonwoo looks at you for a moment. “I’d guess Seungcheol will be put on a break.”

“A break,” you repeat. “Like… a permanent one?”

The spy can only shrug again, a nonchalant motion that’s way too disinterested for your liking.

Jeonghan’s been trying to talk you into working as Wonwoo’s handler for a while now, and although you know Wonwoo would be much less of a hassle than Seungcheol, you can’t bare to tear yourself away from the spy whose messes you’ve been helping clean up for over a year.

Despite Seungcheol’s massive ego, and his magnetic attraction toward trouble, there’s something about him that makes you want to care for him. Sure, he never listens, especially when you give him advice about women, but Seungcheol has a certain something about him- something that you won’t give up easily.

Before you can talk further with Wonwoo, the med room door opens and Jeonghan steps out. He lets out a deep sigh, crossing his arms over his chest.

You hold your breath, waiting for your boss to give you instructions.

“This is a shit show,” Jeonghan says finally.

Neither you nor Wonwoo verbally agree with him, but brief eyecontact between the two of you makes it known what you’re both thinking.

Jeonghan addresses you next. “I’m guessing you want to go in there and talk to him.”

You can only nod.

“Look, it might not be the best idea, but fuck it.” Jeonghan uncrosses his arms, looking at you with a steady expression. “They gave Seungcheol some kind of truth serum. I don’t know how long it will be in effect, but I do know he’s vulnerable right now. I probably shouldn’t let you in there- but… I’m just going to walk down the hall to get a coffee, and if you happen to slip through the door then so be it. I didn’t see anything, and since Wonwoo is coming with me, he didn’t either.”

You stare in shock for a moment, unsure what to say. There’s nothing to be said, and when Jeonghan dispurses, Wonwoo is quick to follow.

You turn to the door, and after a deep breath, you slip inside the med room.

Seungcheol is lying in a hospital bed. His lip is battered and there’s a blossoming purple bruise around his left brow, but other than that, he looks remarkably well.

“Honey?” He sits up when you enter, eyes widening in shock.

“Cheol-” Your voice cracks as you take the seat next to the bed, and while part of you wants to reach for his hand, you hold yourself back.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, and those are two words you’ve never heard from him before. “You were right… about the wife.”

“That’s not important right now,” you sigh.

“It is. You’re my handler, and I didn’t listen to you, and that was wrong. If I had listened, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.”

You study him. You know he’s vulnerable, Jeonghan said as much, and with a truth serum impeding his ability to lie or evade questions, you want to be careful- but you also want answers, answers that you can only truly get right now.

“Why’d you do it?” you ask finally. “This time, and all the other times. You always go after the women, and I thought it was because you found it easy- seduction is what you’re good at, but- I don’t understand how you don’t see how dangerous it is.”

“Honey-”

“They’re thinking about reassigning me to Wonwoo, and before that happens, I just need to know why, Cheol. When you have the potential to be the best agent in this company, why are you always so ready to jump ship and fuck any rich married woman even though you know it will fuck everything up?”

“They can’t reassign you to Wonwoo!” Seungcheol sits up abruptly, and the heart rate monitor next to him beeps a sign of warning at his increasing pulse.

“They can do whatever they want, you should be worried about your own job. You don’t even listen to me as your handler half the time, maybe you should be with someone you actually respect.”

“I respect you,” Seungcheol blurts out.

“It doesn’t feel like you do.”

“I do,” he insists. “I-” Seungcheol’s voice cracks. “I get with women to distract myself.”

“Distractions in this line of work can be fatal.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snaps, making you go silent. “Maybe I have a death wish.”

“Cheol-”

“Stop calling me Cheol.”

“Stop calling me Honey.”

“No.”

You glare at him, anger bubbling and inspiring you to dive deeper into your questioning, despite the fact that you know this isn’t a morally good idea. “Why do you need a distraction?”

“Because you’re a distraction. Your voice in my ear- it distracts me.”

“Maybe reassignment is a good idea.”

“You’re not being reassigned.” Seungcheol’s voice is practically a growl, and you’ve never seen this side of him.

“Why not?”

His expression breaks. “Because I need you.”

“You clearly don’t.”

“I do,” he insists. “I know I’m not good at showing it- but I do, I need you.”

“Cheol-”

“Honey.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because-” Seungcheol lets out a sigh, and he punches at the hospital bed. “Look, I’m scared, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Scared of what?”

“Of falling for you.”

“Huh?” Now you’re confused. You’re staring at this lady killer agent, the sexiest man you’ve ever met, and you can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “But- all the women you go after-”

“Distractions from you, from the voice in my head.” Seungcheol swallows thickly. “That night in Paris…”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you hold your breath for the next words about to leave him.

“That night- fuck, I’ve never met someone like you before. I’ve never felt-” he bites at his lip, and you wince, knowing it must hurt to put pressure on the wound there. “I got with those other women to try to convince myself that I didn’t need you. I didn’t need your guidance, I didn’t need your care, I didn’t need you- but… I do need you.” Seungcheol meets your gaze. “I’ve needed you more than I’ve ever needed anyone, and it scares me.”

Aside from the heart rate monitor beeping through the room, you swear you could hear a pin drop as you stare at Seungcheol, trying to register everything he’s just said.

“I-”

“It’s my turn to ask a question now,” Seungcheol says. “How do you feel about me?”

“I think…” You swallow thickly. “I never understood why I stayed working with you after everything, but… maybe I understand now. Maybe I need you too.”

“Maybe?” Seungcheol flashes you a sexy smirk, and it makes you look away, hating how he makes you feel, hating how inappropriate this whole thing is.

“I’m definitely going to have to be reassigned now,” you tell him.

“What? Why?”

“You know why. This,” you point between the two of you, “this has been the liability the whole time. We’re the liability, Cheol.”

He sits and thinks about it for a moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” You let out a laugh.

“Just… don’t work with Wonwoo, okay?”

“Why not?” You can’t help but laugh at the request.

“Because I think he’s into you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first,” you tease, standing up so you can sit on the bed, wanting to be closer to Seungcheol. “Besides,” you pinch at his chin, inspecting the wounds on his face, “Wonwoo might actually listen to me.”

“Honey,” Seungcheol slaps your hand away, instead grabbing at the back of your neck to bring your lips dangerously close to his, “don’t test me right now.”

“Or what?”

He lets out a shaky breath, his gaze dipping down to your lips. “Jeonghan’s putting me on a two-week mental health break or some shit, this isn’t even a question of ‘or what’ anymore. While I’m on leave, I’m going to fuck you stupid. I’m going to make it so you can’t even leave the fucking bed. I’m going to show you that I’m not the kind of man who receives instructions, I give them. Think you can handle it?”

God, your core is throbbing from his words alone, and you can’t muster up any for yourself. You can only nod, staring at the beautiful, bruised, stubborn man in front of you.

“You should get out of here before I bend you over this fucking bed and get us both fired.” Seungcheol releases you, leaning back to put distance between your lips.

“Do you think you’ll be released tonight?” you ask, voice quiet.

“Are you that eager to see what I’m made of, honey?” Seungcheol lets out a laugh.

“Maybe.”

“Yes, I think I’ll be out of here soon, after this stupid serum wears off. You know, this whole interrogating me while I’m vulnerable thing isn’t going to go unpunished.”

“I hope you do your worst,” you challenge him.

The agent scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

“Hypocrite,” you grin, standing and heading to the door. “Call me when you’re out, then you can take me home.”

You’re waiting by Seungcheol’s car in the parking garage when he comes out of the elevator. He’s dressed in black dress pants and the same white button-up he’d been wearing hours earlier. The collar is speckled with blood, the buttons undone to reveal his broad chest- his suit jacket is held in a fist, and he’s never looked sexier.

He doesn’t say anything as he approaches, closing the distance between the two of you. His hand finds your cheek, and his eyes stare into your own, your lips only inches apart. Then, he’s kissing you for the first time, a desperate, needy kiss that sets your entire body on fire.

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pressing your chest flush to his own. Your mouth opens instinctively, accepting the tongue that strokes by your teeth.

Seungcheol’s hand moves down to your ass, and he squeezes you roughly, pushing you back against the black jeep wrangler he’s been driving recently. The motion has you moaning against his lips, and Seungcheol breaks the kiss with a grin. His forehead rests against your own, and you both struggle to catch your breath.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he tells you.

“Me too,” you admit, swallowing thickly. “So… your place?”

“My place,” he confirms, reaching behind you to open the door to his car. He grabs your hand to help you up into the tanked-out jeep, then gently shuts the door behind you.

Your heart is racing. You can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

A couple of hours ago, you’d feared the worst, and now, you desperately need good, dirty, wet sex with Seungcheol to take your mind off the anxiety that’s still coursing through you.

“So,” you clear your throat as he pulls out of the parking garage, “did you talk to Jeonghan?”

Seungcheol laughs, reaching to hold your hand while he drives. “Yes, I talked to Jeonghan.”

“Did you mention me?”

“I mentioned you a lot. Mentioned you the first time he came in to talk. He asked the same kinds of questions you did, turns out you’re the only one who was completely oblivious to the way I felt about you.”

“Well… I mean… you’re the agent, not me. Figuring out secrets is your job, I just do handler stuff.” Your skin heats at the idea that others saw his affection for you, but you’d been so blind.

“He agrees that this thing between us, whatever it is, it’s the liability, not either of us alone. He’s putting me on rest, like I said, and when you’re up for it, he’d like to reassign you to some new hire, this wizz kid named Dino or something.”

Although you know reassignment is the best thing in this situation, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Can you really trust someone else to be Seungcheol’s handler? God, you’re feeling downright territorial of this man already-

“Yeah, I’m not too happy about it either,” Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his thumb along your hand. “Some new kid getting you in his ear- he better not fall in love with you.”

“Did you fall in love with me?” you ask.

“Truth serum has worn off, honey,” Seungcheol grins, grinning and bringing your hand to his lips. “But yes, as cliche and stupid as it sounds, I did. And don’t worry, you don’t have to say it back, I know you were all hot and bothered by me too.”

You scoff loudly.

“What was it you said earlier? I ‘find seduction easy’? Don’t pretend we’re not in the same boat here, honey.”

“God, I hate you.” You try to tear your hand away from him but he’s unrelenting.

“Liar. You love me. Love me so much you’re going to let me rearrange your guts.”

“Don’t be so vulgar,” you chastise him.

Seungcheol casts you a sideways glance. “You’re not my handler anymore, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Your pussy throbs at his words. The dynamic between the two of you has always been a push-pull. You were supposed to be the one giving orders, but it never felt… correct. You’d bet your life that soon, when Seungcheol has you pressed to his bed, whispering all sorts of dirty commands in your ear- well, you have no doubts that will feel more natural.

“As dominant as you like to pretend you are as a handler, I think we both know you’d rather be the submissive,” Seungcheol points out. “I can’t wait to see how good you’ll be for me.”

“Cheol-”

“Look at you, honey, a little dirty talk and you’re already a blabbering mess. Can’t find the words, can you?”

“Fuck.”

“You’re adorable,” he grins, shaking his head a little. “You’ll be good for me, I know you will be.”

You’re kissing Cheol the moment you get into his penthouse- or… is he kissing you? It’s hard to tell who moved first, all you know is that one thing leads to another and suddenly he’s hoisting you onto a kitchen counter, his hands already unbuttoning your pants.

You break your heated kiss to take a breath, looking up at the ceiling while he quickly attaches his lips to your neck. “Cheol- this is going a bit fast.”

“Is it?” He tugs your pants down, grinning against your throat. “Do you want me to slow down?”

His thumb finds your clit through your panties and you let out a whimper, clinging onto his strong shoulders.

You can’t even think right now, especially not when he begins to draw small circles against your sensitive bud, pulling away from you so he can watch your face. You open your eyes to look at him, loving the intensity in his expression.

“Tell me to slow down,” he says.

You take a breath, trying to process his words. They’d sounded like a command, so, begrudgingly, you whisper, “Slow down.”

“Too bad, I don’t listen to what you tell me to do, remember?”

He’s such a shit-

A shit that gets onto his knees to immediately burry his face between your thighs, tugging your panties to the side roughly so his tongue can make direct contact with your already throbbing pussy.

“Fuck, Cheol-” you whimper loudly, threading your fingers through his silky dark hair, your legs already shaking around his head.

“Been thinking about what you’d taste like,” Seungcheol muses, pressing a sloppy kiss to your inner thigh. “Knew your pussy would be perfect for me.”

God, his words are getting to you, your mind completely blank of a comeback as Seungcheol dives back into his task, his lips wrapping harshly around your clit.

All you can do is gasp and whine for him, writhing on his kitchen counter while he works you closer and closer to an orgasm with his tongue alone.

When he pulls away to drag two fingers up your slit, your body tenses in anticipation.

“Relax,” Seungcheol chuckles, looking up at you with that handsome grin of his, “It’s only me, honey. You’re comfortable with me…” he pushes his digits into your core, cocking a brow, “right?”

“Yes, fuck-”

“Yes, what?” He crooks his fingers, hitting your gspot and making you cry out.

“Yes, I’m comfortable with you!” you belt out, falling back onto the table so you don’t have to hold yourself up anymore. You want to feel everything he’s giving you- want him to have your full focus.

“Good girl. I think you deserve a reward for admitting that, don’t you?”

You can feel Seungcheol’s breath on your clit while he pumps his fingers, abusing the sweet spot that already has you close to the edge.

“Yeah, yes- I deserve a reward-”

Seungcheol pulls away abruptly, landing a slap to your pussy that has you squealing, your thighs closing around his hand. Your eyes snap open and you stare at him in shock.

“That sounded like a command, honey,” Seungcheol says, prying your legs apart. “Thought we agreed I’d be in charge tonight, and you know I hate being told what to do.”

“I-” you swallow thickly. “Please? Please let me cum?”

“Let you cum?” he taunts, thumb finding your clit but not applying nearly enough pressure.

“Please… make me cum?” you suggest, wanting - more than anything - to say the right thing for him.

“Because you asked so nicely.” Seungcheol flashes you a wink, and then his fingers are slipping into your wet core again, picking up where he left off. His lips return to your clit, which is practically buzzing from the slap, and before you even know it, he has you at the edge.

“Please make me cum,” you whimper desperately. “Fuck, I’m so close- please make me cum, I’ve tried to be a good girl for you- please-”

He hums a sound of confirmation, and the buzzing vibration on your clit is enough to get you there. Your pussy clamps down hard on his fingers, your back arching as waves of pleasure surge through you. Your toes curl against his broad shoulders, sounds leaving you uncensored as you fill his apartment with cries of relief.

You’re throbbing, your pussy practically dripping at this point, but Seungcheol doesn’t let up. Even when you tug on his hair to try to pull him away, he refuses to move. He finger fucks you and sucks on your clit, ignoring the way your thighs close around him, working you through your high all the way until the end.

Seungcheol finally relents when your pussy stops contracting around him, and you let out a massive sigh when he pulls away. You can feel his eyes on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him yet, not when you’re still feeling the aftershocks of such an intense orgasm.

You feel him begin to unbutton your shirt and his lips find the swell of your breasts as soon as it’s open. He’s soft in his kisses, gentle, tender even. “Have you come back down to earth yet, honey?” he asks, nuzzling up to your throat.

“Yeah- that was just, really good,” you let out a small laugh, threading your fingers through his hair to keep him tucked to your chest.

“That was just the appetizer, you still haven’t had the main course.”

“God, you’re so-”

“So what?” he teases. “Handsome? Charming? Lovable?”

“Sure of yourself,” you breathe.

“Let me show you something,” he prompts, reaching for your hand. He pulls away from your chest to stand up straight again, guiding your fingers to the front of his pants. His cock is straining against the fabric, and you open your eyes to see Seungcheol grinning when you gasp at how large he is. “When a man has a cock like mine, he can afford to be sure of himself.”

You shiver at his words, and it makes Seungcheol laugh. “Come on, let me take you to bed.”

He hauls you up before throwing you over his shoulder, landing a gentle spank on your ass.

“Remember when I told you I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t even be able to leave the bed?” Seungcheol prompts as he tosses you onto the mattress. “You better get comfy, honey.”

“I think…” you feel your daring side beginning to surface, eyes dipping to watch Seungcheol’s skilled fingers unbuttoning his dress shirt, “I think I also remember something about you telling me my truth serum interrogation wouldn’t go unpunished.”

The agent pauses, a huge grin spreading across his face. “You’re cute, honey.”

“Yeah?” You reach behind your body, undoing the clasp of your bra and letting it slip to the wayside. “How so?”

Seungcheol’s pupils dilate, his eyes becoming dark, lustful pools.

He doesn’t bother to answer your question, shrugging his shirt off before leaning over you, his hands pressing into the bed to box you in while his lips find yours. It’s a needy kiss, his tongue gliding out to meet your own, but you don’t mind at all.

You cup his face, moaning against him, fingers teasing over his strong shoulders.

Seungcheol is built, even for an agent. Certain men who work with you have leaner physiques, and Seungcheol is not one of them. He’s all big and broad, with lines of muscle that you could trace for hours if given the chance.

His lips begin to trail down to your throat, and you let out a whimper of anticipation when his breath fans across your pebbled nipples.

However, when he gets to your breasts, Seungcheol avoids sucking on the most sensitive spots. He looks up at you, grinning. “I think it’s time for that punishment now.”

“Yeah?” You can’t help the excitement that bubbles through you.

“I want you on your knees, ass up, and take off your panties while you’re at it.”

You know what’s coming when you follow through with the command. The cool air in the room feels nice on your newly exposed, hot core, and you make a show of everything, arching your back.

You can hear Seungcheol let out a deep breath, his hands ghosting over your ass.

“If this hurts too much, let me know.”

“Do your worst,” you counter, wiggling your hips and resting your face against the bed sheets, exhaling deeply in preparation.

You expect a harsh smack, but instead, Seungcheol presses a soft kiss to your right cheek. “I’m punishing you because you took advantage, you know that, right?”

“Uh huh, part of me knew I was being bad interrogating you while you were truth-serumed, but part of me needed to know what your answers would be.”

“Between us, I’m glad you asked the questions you did, or you might not be in my bed right now.”

“I’m glad too,” you confess. “Now, come on Angel Eyes, punish me.”

“I love a woman who takes what she deserves with grace.”

“After this, I deserve your cock.”

“Do you now?” Seungcheol lets out an amused chuckle, grabbing your ass with both hands and squeezing.

“Maybe you deserve my pussy,” you muse thoughtfully.

“Now that’s something I can definitely get behind,” he agrees. “Count these out for me, honey, I’ll give you ten.”

The first smack makes you recoil in surprise, the sound flooding your senses before the sharp pain that blossoms across your skin.

“One,” you announce, balling your hands into the bed sheets.

“How did that feel?” he asks, gently smoothing his palm across the still-burning flesh.

“Good.”

The next hit is a little harder and it makes you whimper, but you do your best to stay steady, unmoving, ready to take what you deserve. “Two.”

Three and four come on your other cheek, and you’re thankful for the reprieve, but smack number five returns to the first side he’d battered, and it stings even more now. However, it’s a pleasantly hot sensation, and your core throbs knowing you’re halfway through your punishment, all the more close to your reward.

“You look like you’re enjoying this too much,” Seungcheol muses, groping your ass again, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“Maybe I am,” you tell him, looking over your shoulder at the agent.

He grins down at you, lifting a hand- your body flinches involuntarily, and Seungcheol’s smile widens. “Getting sensitive already, huh?”

“Yes,” you admit.

The next slap lands on your pussy, something you hadn’t been expecting, and a squeal of delight erupts out of you at the sensation on your clit.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Seungcheol asks.

“Uh huh,” you nod, clenching the bed sheets even tighter.

“How's your clit feeling after one orgasm?” he prompts, thumb finding the sensitive bud and rubbing it in small circles.

“Feels so good,” you whimper.

“You’re practically dripping, honey, didn’t take you for a pain slut.”

“Be nice,” you chastise him.

“Oh?”

Another smack lands on your ass and you dutifully call out “Six.”

“You don’t like being called a little pain slut?” he asks.

“No,” you shake your head. “Please call me nice things.”

“Okay, honey, I can do that,” he concedes, and the next spank isn’t as hard as the last. “You’re being so good for me. We’re almost done.”

“Can’t wait for you to fuck me, I’ve been waiting so long-”

“We’ll get there,” Seungcheol promises, leaning down to press a kiss to your lower back. When he pulls away, number “Eight” comes quickly thereafter.

Your skin is buzzing with anticipation now, and you’re nearly writhing against the bed, but you do your best to be as still as possible while Seungcheol completes this punishment focused foreplay.

After smack number nine, you hear Seungcheol undo his belt, and it takes everything inside of you not to turn around and get a good look at his cock.

He smacks his length gently against your ass, and you let out a small, “Ten?”

He laughs. “No, honey, this is ten.”

The sound of the slap echoes through his room, the hardest of them all so far, and you release a strangled cry, your ass on fire from where he’d hit you.

“That was the pain, now here’s the pleasure.” He rubs his cock through your wet folds, and slips the tip inside, stretching you out wonderfully. The sensation distracts from your sore bum, and your whimper becomes a moan as he drives deeper and deeper into you. “Tell me you like it.”

“I love it,” you blurt, already pushing back toward him in an effort to feel everything.

You’re not sure how big he is, only that he’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever been with, but after the tension of your punishment, and the orgasm before that, your pussy greedily swallows up everything he has to give until he’s flush to your still stinging ass.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol cusses, gently grabbing at your hips. “How’s that feel?”

“I feel so full,” you tell him, pussy fluttering around his cock.

“I’ll make you feel fuller,” he promises.

“Yeah?”

“You’re on birth control?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then I’ll definitely fill you up, mark this pussy as all mine, are you okay with that?”

“More than okay with it,” you moan.

“That’s my good girl,” Seungcheol praises you, beginning to thrust.

“Fuck-” you whimper, loving the feeling of his cock dragging along your inner walls.

Your eyes are closed, your focus entirely on Seungcheol as he starts to fuck you, rougher and rougher until his balls are slapping against your clit with each motion.

“Your pussy feels so good,” he tells you, grip tightening on your hips. “It’s like you were made for me, honey.”

The idea causes a visceral reaction, your entire body thrumming with pleasure. You can only moan in response, beginning to move back so you can meet each one of his thrusts.

“And this ass-” One of Seungcheol’s hands moves to cup your sensitive flesh, making you groan even louder. “Fucking perfect. Rub your clit for me, want you to cum again.”

Your hand is shaky as you bring it between your legs, finding your sensitive clit. Your core clenches desperately around Seungcheol and he lets out a deep moan of appreciation.

“That’s my good girl, being so good for me. So good at taking orders.”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh. It’s as if things were always meant to be this way, you were meant to let him be in control, not the other way around. This feels so much more natural than you telling him what to do ever did.

“Don’t laugh,” Seungcheol chastises you, fucking you even harder. “I’m trying to be nice to you, like you wanted.”

“I just-” you groan when his cock slams into your gspot. “It was never supposed to be me telling you what to do.”

“I’m glad we agree on something,” Seungcheol muses, his motions slowing ever so slightly. “Fuck this, I want to see you.”

He pulls out of your pussy, flipping you onto your back. The contact of the bed against your ass makes you groan, but the sight of Seungcheol’s perfect body looming over you has you distracted less than a moment later.

His cock is big… cut, curving slightly to the left, with a prominent vein that you want to trace with your tongue-

He presses the head of his length to your pussy, easing himself into you while he positions you in missionary. When he’s fully inside of you again, he meets your gaze, then he looks down at your lips.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers before pressing his mouth to yours.

You grab at his strong shoulders, getting lost in the kiss as he begins to fuck you again, the whole bed shaking with the power of his thrusts.

You’ve never made sounds like this in bed before. You’re moaning like a whore, but Seungcheol eats up every whimper, his tongue gliding against your own.

Your fingers thread through his hair, keeping him close as he fucks you closer and closer to the edge.

The agent pulls away, breathing heavily. “I can feel you clenching, honey, gonna cum again?”

“Gonna cum on your big cock,” you tell him.

“Yeah?”

One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers applying pressure to your clit.

You whimper loudly, back arching off the bed. Seungcheol takes the opportunity to finally draw your nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing over the sensitive bud.

You gasp, body on fire from all the wonderful sensations. “I’m so close-” you tell him.

“Then cum for me,” he murmurs, rubbing your clit even harder. “Cum on my cock.”

It only takes a few more seconds for you to follow through with his command, the cord snapping in your stomach as your release takes over. Your pussy clamps down on Seungcheol, and when he lets out a groan, you know your body is milking him for every drop of cum that he has.

His thrusts have become sloppier, more erratic, deeper- and each one has him kissing your cervix, which is a delightful feeling.

You hold him to your breast through your high, and he diligently sucks on your nipple, fucking you until he can’t fuck you anymore.

Finally, Seungcheol slumps down against you, applying some of his weight over you like a weighted blanket.

He’s panting hard against your breasts, cheek pressed to the center of your chest.

“Your heart is going wild, honey,” he muses after a moment.

All you can do is laugh, unable to find the words just yet after the power of your release.

Instead, you stroke his hair, and Seungcheol lets out a murmured moan, nuzzling closer to you. “I do love you, you know.”

“I know.”

He chuckles. “You aren’t going to say it back?”

“Take me on a date first,” you tease.

“Tomorrow, if you can still walk, I’ll take you out.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” He presses a kiss to your sternum. “If you can’t walk, I’ll bring the date to you.”

“How romantic,” you say sarcastically.

“Don’t start with me, honey,” he warns.

“I’m not starting anything,” you defend yourself with a giggle.

He looks up at you, eyes sparkling. “Sure you’re not.”

You lean down to kiss him gently, loving how domestic this whole thing has turned. But of course, ever the sex fiend, Seungcheol quickly ruins it. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll fuck you again.”

You can’t help but shake your head. “You promise?”

“If you’re going to talk back like this, make it five.”

He’s such a fuck, but you kind of love him.

☀️ mlist + an. Thank you so much for reading! I know recently I've been doing a lot of short and sweet fics, hoping for a longer one next month :)

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🔮 preview. “We tried letting you be in control,” he responds, pushing your legs together as he straddles you from behind. “It wasn’t as fun as me being in control though."

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, dom/sub themes, powerplays, Seungcheol tries to be a little submissive, he’s not great at following directions, dirty talk, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, blow job, mention of deep throating, nipple play/nipple pinching, creamipie, cumming together, etc… I petnames. (hers) honey

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.2k I teaser wc. 175

🌙 starring. Seungcheol x afab!Reader

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“Hey, big guy,” you grin as you enter the apartment, eyes finding Seungcheol sitting on the living room couch. “How was your day?”

He pauses his show to look at you, flashing a tired smile. “It was okay.”

“Yikes,” you immediately go to join him on the couch, cuddling up to his side. “The new handler still being a bit of a dick?”

“Joshua was hand-picked by Jeonghan, it’s not like I can do anything about it,” Seungcheol sighs. “How about you, still enjoying the wizz kid?”

“Dino’s a good one,” you insist. “He follows instruction very well.”

Seungcheol scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“You still jealous that I’m in his ear and not yours?” you tease, poking your boyfriend’s chest.

“Don’t go there, honey,” he warns.

“Come on- it could be fun. I think having someone who listens well has built my confidence… you know, we could try it out a little, if you want.”

“You want me to be submissive?” Seungcheol’s brows raise in a sort of shocked amusement. “Not a chance in hell.”

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luveline · 4 months

Note

could i request spencer x bombshell!reader where maybe spencer and the team meet reader’s ex boyfriend / a guy she used to be interested in and he’s sooo different from spencer so he assumes her flirting is a joke but really she never had a type until she met spencer n now she’s only into nerdy, sweater-vest wearing sweethearts <3

love ur work sm i only read spencer fics but i read all your characters bc the writing is so intoxicating !!

thank you for your request angel! <3 1k, fem

Spencer looks adorable today. You’re not sure if he knows, but that can be easily rectified.

“Spencer Reid,” you say sternly.

He’s immediately wide-eyed and sorry. “What?” he asks, pouting.

“You have some explaining to do.” You glare, taking your compact from your pocket. You open it, check your appearance, fighting a huge smile as you flick the mirror on him accusingly. “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I don’t get it.” His eyes jump between the mirror and you. “Sorry?”

“You should be sorry. Do you see how nice you look today?” He rolls his eyes. “Hey, don’t act like you don’t know what I mean.”

You and Spencer have known each other for years now, and you love him. You’d die for him easily in the field, and out of it too, but you’re not together and he’s bad at accepting compliments, so he shrugs you off like you’re only teasing him.

“My handsome partner,” you say. Even if he isn’t your boyfriend, that’s your loophole. You and Spencer get paired for everything these days, because you’re best friends and Hotch has given up on separating you (though professionally there’s no need). “I could eat you.”

“Still mildly threatening, then,” a voice says.

You spin in your chair, shocked and a little horrified to find the last person you wanted to see here in Connecticut. “Cory!” you say, knowing he’ll believe you’re enthusiasm if nobody else.

“Hi, beautiful. You weren’t gonna call me?”

Your lips pop as you reply, “I was definitely going to, just as soon as we weren’t on the clock. How are you?” you ask, standing to receive the hug you know he’s going to give.

Cory is… well, he’s gorgeous, though that hadn’t been why you had fun with him when you were here last. He’d seemed nice enough and plainly interested in you at the time, and you’d been sort of lonely, so really he was a necessity of the soul rather than a want. Plus, he was very rich.

Gorgeous he may be, but Spencer Reid he is not. You don’t deny it to yourself —the genius behind you has completely changed your type, the kind of man you vy after, and if you’re honest, he’s the one for you. So hugging Cory and pretending you’re going to call him for drinks after the case is over isn’t easy. You lie rather than reject him.

“He seemed nice,” Spencer says in the awkward silence Cory leaves behind.

“Sure!” you say, blowing out a hot breath. “Was I embarrassing myself? I didn’t expect to see him.”

“You were the same as usual.”

You tilt your head back as the door opens again, worried it’ll be Cory back for a last word. Emily smiles at you knowingly, a bag of takeout in hand. “God, did you see that?” she asks, eyebrows rising. “He was perfect.”

“If you like the Greek god motif,” you joke.

Spencer’s frowning at his files when you turn back to him. “Spence, what’s wrong?” you ask.

“Mm? Nothing.”

“You sure?” you ask.

He maintains that he’s okay as the rest of the team flood in for lunch. You pretend to believe him, not sure what you’ve done to upset him but willing to figure it out. You unwrap his food for him and place his plastic cutlery on a napkin as you know he prefers, sorting through the cup drinks to find his diet lemonade. “Here, handsome,” you say, touching his shoulder gently as you sit down next to him.

He bristles.

“Spencer?” you ask.

He looks around the table. Hotch and Rossi are talking about something with shared smiles, while JJ and Morgan debate the case. Emily’s on her phone with a straw between her lips. They aren’t listening, and so he says, “It’s not a fitting nickname.”

“What, handsome? That’s not a nickname, it’s a pet name, and it’s true. You’re one of the most handsome guys I’ve ever seen,” —you laugh and grab his elbow when he shakes his head— “are you kidding? Spencer, you could be a model. I’ve told you this a hundred times. You have amazing cheekbones, just dreamy, and your lips–”

“Oh, god, please don’t start,” he says, covering his face with both hands. He sounds like he’s smiling. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Hotch shoots you a don’t tease look. You send him a vehement I’m not back, waiting for him to look away before you prod Spencer again. “You’re so cute, Spencer, you don’t get it.”

“I don’t wanna be cute, cute isn’t your type–”

Your eyes flare. “What would you know about my type, Spencer? Is this– is this about Cory?”

“Of course it is,” he says, face pink as he drops his hands.

“Spencer, he is not my type.”

“But you dated.”

“One date. And that was before I realised I liked dorks in sweater vests,” you say. You’re both acting like this is half a joke, a skit, in case you’re overheard, but you’re also both well aware that it’s serious and vulnerable and flustering to confess certain things right here and now. Too bad it has to be done. “I miss your glasses, babe, they really added to your charm.”

Spencer shakes his head, picking up his styrofoam boxed lunch to ignore you.

You sidle close to him, your pinky finger rubbing the slightest hint of his bare wrist. “Wanna get drinks with me tonight? I need a cover story in case Grecian Cory tracks me down. And, you know you get that really cute blush when you drink. What do you say?”

“No,” he says with a smile, which means yes in this instance.

You kiss his cheek, giggling at the lipgloss left behind. “You’re my type, handsome.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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champagnefountains · 5 months

Note

Oh my goodness your Lucifer fic is SO cute! You write him very well! (Exited for possible pt 2) I was wondering since your requests are open if you'd be willing to write something for either Lucifer or Alastor (or possibly both) with a short shy/anxious reader? Super fluffy plz if possible and you're interested!

Hi Anon! Thanks so much for your submission. I hope you'll enjoy what I came up with! I had fun with this one (it got me giggling and kicking my feet or something...)

Word count: 1.2k words. Kinda got carried away, my bad. Genre: (Tooth-rotting) Fluff. Established relationship. Warning: None.

LUCIFER MAGNE with a shy and short S/O:

Lucifer is quite short himself in comparison to a few demons. But, you? Being shorter than him? God, he’ll think you’re the cutest thing ever (plus, it was a massive ego boost on his part). And your timid nature only adds onto it.

Expect him to be very touchy with you. There isn’t a second moment where he isn’t clinging onto or hugging you. Out in the public or even at the hotel, his arm would somehow always find its way wrapped around your shoulders or waist. He just wants to keep you close to him as much as possible, since you just seem to fit so snug and well in his arms.

Lucifer loves it so much when you get all shy and flustered around him. His pride just flourishes whenever your face bursts into flames, especially knowing that it was because of him that you’re acting this way. He’ll tease you about it, but not too much because he cares for your poor heart.

He also knows his million-dollar smile does wonders, so he’ll use it to his advantage. He’ll strike a smile or smirk at you out of nowhere when you would meet eyes, and he’ll revel in the way you’d melt so easily under his gaze. Though, it would be the same for him – his heart would burst with that warm-fuzzy feeling whenever you would send one of your precious smiles his way. This man is smitten and will worship you and the floor you walk on.

Is also super, super supportive of you whenever you get anxious – will do anything in his will to help distract you or alleviate any of your worries, whether it be just holding your hand, talking some nonsense to fill in the silence, or even flying you around to get some fresh air. He'll probably even have a duck-shaped stress ball for you to use whenever you get a bit fidgety.

Additional things I think Lucifer would do: he would give you a lot of forehead/head kisses; HE WOULD TOTALLY SET YOU DOWN ON A COUNTERTOP OR HIS DESK AND KISS YOU FR, OR HE'LL DO SO WHILST CARRY YOU WITH YOUR LEGS STRADDLING HIS WAIST I need self-control; he will shamelessly rant about how adorable you are in front of the others, even if they're all sick of it, 'cause he's just so proud to be your partner!

Lucifer found himself silently admiring you while you were all snuggled up against his chest. After another successful hard day's work, you spent the remainder of the night watching a couple movies together at the hotel’s lounge area.

Noticing a pair of eyes on your figure, you crane your neck up and with a small tilt of your head, you stare back at him in question.

The King suddenly felt his chest swell with so much love and affection for you. You didn’t even know how adorable you looked in his arms right now. Without warning, Lucifer dipped down and pressed his lips against yours, swallowing the surprised yelp that escaped your lips.

As you parted ways, Lucifer grinned widely as your cheeks noticeably began to redden. “W-What was that for?” You pouted.

“Sorry angel, but I just couldn't help it! You looked too cute – I couldn’t not kiss you then.” He stated matter-of-factly. He then leaned once again to press multiple pecks across your face – one on your forehead, on both your cheeks and another lingering one on your lips.

The out-of-the-blue affection had you swiftly burying your face into his chest, a poor attempt made to hide your embarrassment. You could only grumble in defeat as you felt the way his chest shook as he chuckled aloud, evidently amused by your flustered state.

ALASTOR with a short and shy S/O:

Not gonna lie, this man will be so annoying but in an endearing way.

Alastor would tease you endlessly about your height, since the difference would be quite significant – it usually consists of him resting an elbow or his arms on the crown of your head, leaning onto you like you were some sort of personal arm-rest. He personally finds it quite amusing, like a joke that never gets tired.

Since he isn’t really a huge fan of PDA, he would often give you head-pats. It’s a small, simple gesture but it’s his way of showing affection out in public. He would also often have your arms looped around one of his own whenever you two would walk together, side by side.

Behind closed doors, I can see him as the type to pull you between his legs, your back pressed against his chest whilst he reads the newspaper or a book in bed. He would then use your head or shoulders to rest his chin on, to peer over you. Sometimes he would even play with your hair, looping them around his fingers whilst he absent-mindedly hums a sweet, little tune. Again, a simple gesture but also very intimate. I'm literally melting just thinking about it. I feel like he would do something similar like this whenever you get anxious – if it helps, he would also make you some tea on the side, and even let you play with his hands/fingers.

Being the huge tease he is, Alastor just loves how shy you get around him. He's the type to say things like: "Dear, do you have a fever? You look a little flushed," or "My, my, your face may be redder than my suit!" just to see you get riled up even more. But if another demon were to talk smack about how shy you were, you will not see them live another day. That's a guarantee.

Additional things I think Alastor would do: he and/or his shadows would help you grab things from high places or would lift you up by the waist for you to grab them; out of pure instinct, he will for sure become extra protective of you; would be the big-spoon in most cases; would tease you by retracting himself using his height whenever you would lean in for a kiss.

Alastor was quick to pick up on a small habit of yours very early on – how you would always hide your smile behind your hands. When he brought it up one day, you sheepishly told him that you were insecure about your smile, which perplexed the deer-demon.

Just like now, Alastor couldn’t help but raise a brow as you hid your grin behind your palm whilst you chuckled at one of his corny jokes. “Now, now, this won’t do, my dear!” He clicks his tongue, waving a disapproving finger at you, “why must you always hide that gorgeous smile of yours?”

A blush suddenly breaks out across your cheeks. You unconsciously found yourself looking down, embarrassed by the flattering remark, only for his finger to guide you back up by your chin. He then leans in but stops only centimetres away, his face dangerously close to yours.

Alastor’s grin only grew wider, seeing how helpless and small you looked – eyes widened like a deer in headlights, and yet filled with anticipation. You looked so, so nervous. And yet, it was so endearing that he wanted nothing more than to scoop you up in his arms.

“Now, does the ground look much more entertaining than I, dear? I don’t think it can make you smile the way I do.” He teases, his voice intentionally dropping an octave deeper. God, he was going to be the death of you.

#lucifer magne x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar #alastor #hazbin hotel

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onlyswan · 5 months

Text

summary: in which you sacrifice your strawberries and eyelash wishes for the boy knocking at your door.

idol!jungkook x reader, strangers to friends (?) to lovers / fluff and a pinch of angst / word count: 5.5k

content/warnings: allusions to death and grief / jungkook is a cutie patootie and a blushing hopeless romantic mess / he wants to kiss oc so bad (me too bro) / oc is a sunshine <3 / they do chores and watch movies together :((( / in one scene he was worried oc would think of him as a perv lmao / they’re dorks and i love them / seokjin cameo hehehe

> in which masterlist!

note: to make up for the pain i may have caused and will cause <3 LOL. i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing :D as always reblogs and feedback are appreciated! come chat w me. ily 🌼

—

“it’s so cold,” you mutter through chattering teeth.

the grocery bags sit on the hardwood table with a thud— the careless bringer too hasty. you shove your icy hands in the deep pockets of your jacket, breathing in and out with a sense of relief.

you are not granted the mundane euphoria for much longer, however. the doorbell rings and you are padding across the floor against your will. the cold air hits your face before it enters your apartment.

however, the happy smile that greets you blankets your heart with a type of warmth that is difficult to describe.

if you had to guess who was behind the door, you wouldn’t say the boy you’ve been fiercely pining over for the past month, but it is certainly who you’d be hoping for regardless.

“good morning!”

“oh! wait there for a moment!”

jungkook stands motionless by your open front door as you disappear into your apartment. confusion accompanied by curiosity, he tries poking his head inside, but then decides that he shouldn’t.

upon your return, his face lights up again.

“here you go!”

he accepts the jar of honey faster than he could think.

“w-why are you-?”

you tilt your head, lips forming a small pout. “isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“uh, actually-” he awkwardly pauses, hand that carries the heavy paper bag behind him suddenly feeling weak. “i came here to give you something.”

your eyes animatedly expand in surprise of the size of it, not at all expecting to receive a gift from him today. you do know that he’s fresh from japan, as you converse on the phone almost everyday… why would he come here almost immediately? and didn’t he say they weren’t given the chance to roam the city because of their work schedule?

“i just grabbed things i thought you might like. i hope i got most of them right?” he explains with a nervous chuckle as you take a look inside.

a diverse array of snacks; a beautiful journal painted with cherry blossoms; a hello kitty plushie; stickers, muji pens…

“oh my god, jungkook… these are too much. you didn’t have to.”

oh, curse the hopeless fluttering of your heart.

“wow, gifting your merch- that’s real idol behavior for you.” you tease him, referring to the hooded jacket that has their group logo on its plastic packaging. “thank you!”

“no but it seriously warms you up! i have one too!”

“jungkook, why are you so cute?!”

“ah, shut up! i’m getting embarrassed!” he whines, blushing. “just look at them later after i leave, how about that?”

“let go! it’s mine!” you glare at him, hugging the paper bag to your chest to deny his advances on snatching it away. “are you not leaving? don’t you have work?”

“i told you— it’s my rest day.”

“you did?”

“while we were texting last night.”

“oh,” you blink. “i don’t remember reading that.”

“you? what are you doing today?”

you bite back the smile threatening to give away the thoughts running in your mind a thousand miles per hour. why does he want to know?

“nothing special. just chores the entire day.”

jungkook puts his hand inside the pocket of his coat, an attempt to appear casual as he offers you his valiant effort. “do you want some help? i’m good at doing chores.”

you stare at him, perplexed, as if he just said the most ridiculous sentence you’ve ever heard in your entire life.

“it’s your rest day and you want to do chores?”

“sure,” he grins playfully, not at all seeing how that could be wrong. “why not?”

“you know…” you pause— observing his expression, considering shutting your mouth, but that plan rarely ever works out. “you can just say that you want to spend time with me, right?”

your bluntness sends his heart racing. you’re a danger to his health.

he sinks his perfect teeth on his bottom lip, bringing his dimples into view. to be honest, you didn’t always have a thing about dimples. you didn’t consider them all that special. but why do they make him look cute and sexy at the same time?

his cheeks become tinted with a pale scarlet. you’re wearing that friendly beam again; he doesn’t know how to act. he never knows whether you are joking or not.

“well, now i know.”

—

jungkook sets down the jar of honey on the table as he settles in the living room, fascinated doe eyes darting around every inch of your place. it’s not his first time here, but somehow, it looks different each time. the two frames hanging above the sofa captures his attention all over again, colorful drawings against the plain white wall. gifted to you by your siblings, you said.

a tall castle with a happy family. a little boy slaying a dragon to protect a princess from its savage fire.

he is blissfully unaware of the knowledge that the drawings are the lone survivors of a school bus and a tragedy. you want it to stay that way. you want people to feel the opposite of the sadness you feel when you look at them. that is how you seek your peace.

“are you wearing toe socks?”

“huh?” he makes a sound of confusion, only processing your question upon seeing your gaze trained to his feet. “ah- toe socks- yes.”

“i’m only noticing them now. they look funny.” you scrunch your nose, chuckling.

“don’t laugh! they’re so comfortable!”

“really?” your eyes widen with genuine interest. “i should try them then.”

“yeah, you should!”

he whips his head around as he jokingly voices out an observation.

“but ____, your house kind of looks different today… it’s almost like it’s cleaner than the last time i was here.”

you bury your face in your hands with a high-pitched wine, hiding from him in humiliation. you did not plan on inviting someone over that night, and he had to watch you run around organizing and picking up things— the scattered books all over the table and the floor; the jackets that have created a big heap on the small couch; the jewelry box that ended up on the dining table for some reason.

he laughs in endearment, unable to take his eyes from you. even the way your hair bounces as you furiously shake your head is pretty. wait, does that sound weird?

“that’s right, it should look different! the first thing i did when winter break started was clean up my mess.”

“what’s the first chore on the list then?” he catches the grocery bags in the kitchen from his peripheral. “were you putting away your groceries?”

“you really want to do chores? you don’t want to watch a movie or something?”

“aigoo, it’s fine!” he waves off your reluctance. “stop worrying! i already said i’d help you.”

“but it’s embarrassing…”

it’s either jungkook is denying your advances or he is simply dense. but the fact that he showed up at your door unannounced on his day-off despite complaining about his exhaustion from their hectic work schedule, you want to lean towards the latter and believe that he is… as good at chores like he claims to be.

“you must like fruits a lot.” jungkook comments as he is squatted infront of your fridge, sheltering the freshly bought perishables one by one.

kimchi, lettuce, strawberries, tangerines, shine muscat, apples…

this is an entirely different world through your lens.

it feels strange to watch another person restock your fridge for you.

“they’re easy to eat and i’m lazy to cook.”

he chuckles as he looks back at you, who is sat on the dining table, airy and carefree as you snack on a bag of assorted chocolates from the paper bag he brought. almost all of the white chocolates are gone, he notes.

“not because they’re nutritious?”

“that’s the bonus!”

“what is this?”

“cranberry juice.”

“and this?”

“oyster sauce.”

you energetically hop off the table, an idea lighting up the bulb in your mind.

“i have another recipe for you. french toast with strawberries, then drizzle some of the honey. should i make it for you?”

“ah!” he gasps as if he is in pain, but the truth is his mouth is watering. he hasn’t eaten breakfast, and he wanted to eat more for dinner last night but sleep proved to be much more enticing than food. “that sounds so good! i’m starving!”

“stand up!” you begin pulling at the back of his sweater, forcing him to remove himself from the floor. “i’ll make it! just go relax in the living room, okay?”

“but you just said you’re lazy to cook.” he tilts back his head, meeting your gaze. “i’ll help you.”

“i’m not lazy when it becomes to being a host.”

you bend down with a sweet smile, merely inches away from him, and jungkook swears the earth has stopped spinning on its axis. your face is natural and bare, except for the sheen of lip balm across your lips— and dear heavens, having you this close, you are so breathtakingly beautiful.

“they’re playing christmas movies on channel 36.” you announce, giving him the bag of chocolates. “and the remote is… somewhere on the sofa… or maybe the floor.”

and as he gets practically kicked out of the kitchen, your hands roughly pushing his back, he daydreams of kissing you and tasting sugar on your lips.

—

the sweet, addicting smell of the french toast— strong hints of butter and cinnamon— invades every corner of your apartment. consequently, it also compels jungkook to break your rules and insert himself in the kitchen again.

“you never give up, do you?”

“i don’t,” he agrees, nodding eagerly. he has successfully stolen the task of washing the strawberries, and then slicing them after. he endures the freezing water rendering his hands numb. “it’s a known fact.”

“are you saying i should study harder?” you cross your arms, expression painted with faux vexation.

“yes! exactly!” he humors you, grinning of amusement. “what’s my favorite color?”

you sigh, looking at him from head to toe.

“anyone can guess that from a mile away, jungkook.”

“fuck, okay. that’s fair!”

the sound of his laughter reminds of you reasons to stay through the cycle of the seasons. you don’t understand why, but for some reason, it has finally begun to feel like christmas. the only comfort that comes along with the cruel winter that nips at your skin; the blanket over your heart that provides a type of warmth one can travel to seek but will never be able to find alone.

“what’s my height then?”

“aren’t you six feet?”

the silence that follows is an answer enough for you. the noise of the television emerges now that none of you is talking. he pretends to be too busy to speak, transferring the strawberries over to the chopping board.

“yes, you’re ri-”

“liar!” you point an accusatory finger at him.

and he winces, guilty as charged.

“you hesitated!”

“tsk, i should’ve said yes faster! i wanted to experience what it’s like to be tall!” he regretfully purses his lips, eyebrows knitted as if he just lost the lottery. “but haven’t you read it online? even my shoe size and weight are there.”

“what? why do people even need to know that…?” you exclaim, flabbergasted. “i mean- of course i’ve searched up your name, but it feels like cheating on a test. does that sound silly…? it’s just more fun learning about you from you.”

you briefly walk away to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and jungkook is left at the counter with fondness blossoming in his chest, bleeding into the chopped strawberries staining his hands red.

he calls out your name.

“mhmm?” you hum in question, muffled by the water in your mouth.

“want to hear a fact about me?”

you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, eyes expanding with fueled interest. “what?”

“i’m actually very good in the kitchen.” he boasts his skills with the kitchen knife, quick and precise, the blade against the wood creating the satisfying click you usually only hear from cooking shows. “are you seeing this? huh…? what do you think?”

“so i’ve noticed. i want something new!”

at that, his shoulder sags in disappointment. to his demise, there goes another failed attempt at making you acknowledge that he is boyfriend material.

“what do you want to know? ask me questions.”

“what’s your ideal type?”

being in your presence for the past hour has gotten jungkook re-adjusted to your personality— straight-forward, bold, smart— so vivacious that it’s dizzying. you make him nervous and comfortable at the same time, and he doesn’t quite know how to explain it either. but you’re a breath of fresh air, the change that he has been anticipating to disrupt his routine.

“why do you want to know that?”

you shrug coyly, smiling like the troublesome vixen that you are. you rather enjoy the tension that has hung in the air. if you’ve learned something from the past: men are easy to get, not easy to keep. because they relish in the chase, getting strung along like this. so, shouldn’t you have your fun too? but even if jungkook’s intentions were pure, you can only imagine that seeing someone whose life revolves around their career is… the perfect recipe for disaster.

“i think who you like also says a lot about who you are as a person.”

“i like someone who is kind and funny…” he hums in thought, unconsciously slotting a piece of strawberry in between his lips. “and passionate about the things they love… mhmm, someone who can be honest with me.”

his words form a constellation named after you, unbeknownst to you, and he wants to say more but anticipating what comes next after you connect the dots makes his stomach twist. he doesn’t feel like an adult yet. he’s still just a young boy with a gorgeous crush and high ambitions that coalesce in his dreams.

“i like someone who has a really pretty smile, too.”

and he should probably stop staring, erase the dumb lovesick smile on his face. for fuck’s sake, it would be easier for him if you would just do the same. behind the sparkles of your eyes, there is something he’s been dying to decipher.

“okay, why are you looking at me like that?”

because you are so pretty, especially when you smile.

“nothing,” he replies innocently. “you? what’s your ideal type? who do you like?”

“i don’t know… no one has captured my heart yet. they’re not trying hard enough!”

every romance you’ve had so far has been a letdown.

“but i’m still looking. i’m young, and hot, and the universe is vast.”

“mhm, i see… that’s true, but maybe… you don’t want to be looking too far.” jungkook suggests.

you smirk. “so you agree that i’m hot?”

“you know. you don’t need me to say it.” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“but i want to hear you say it.”

“you’re very beautiful, ____.”

“but that’s not-”

“the food is ready! let’s eat it before it gets cold!”

he runs to the living room without waiting for you, and you seize the opportunity to squeal without a sound, punching the counter without actually punching— releasing the giddiness threatening to spill from the seams of your heart.

you don’t know if this is heading somewhere, nor do you expect it to, but where you are right now is a good place to be.

—

the movie playing on the screen has become more of a white noise to you, a family comedy far less fascinating compared to jungkook drizzling honey over strawberries and bread from a spoon. you wonder if he is aware how often he creates sound effects while he is doing something.

beside you, his body quakes with cackles during the scenes that an editor would definitely insert the classic sound of an audience’s collective laughter and holler. you stumble upon the understanding that his happiness lies in a myriad of things, and you would envy him for it if not for the fact that he is currently sharing that happiness with you. you laugh when he laughs, and being becomes a little less heavier at that moment.

another commercial break rudely interrupts and jungkook turns towards you. the two of you sit cross-legged, knees knocking against each other as you occupy nearly the entire sofa.

“hi!”

“hi.”

“what are your plans for the holidays?”

“my best friend’s family invited me to stay with them for christmas until the new year. it’s kind of been a tradition since…”

the end of your sentence hangs suspended in the air. you still can’t say it out loud.

jungkook knows they’re gone and you’re alone: only the plain and brutal truths.

the reminder that this is the third christmas you will not spend with your family; the thought that this would be the third christmas they would spend without you if the afterlife was real— they bring tears to your eyes at once, but you forcibly blink them away, shoving enthusiasm down your throat.

“how about you?” you take a bite from your toast, attempting to divert your thoughts to… anything else. “are you coming home?”

you hide so well behind a smile. it doesn’t occur to jungkook that his question rubbed salt on an open wound.

“i miss my mom but i can’t go home yet.” he pouts. “i have work on christmas day as usual. we’ve been preparing hard for it.”

“oh, that’s right! gayo daejeon?!”

he nods in confirmation.

the music festival has been an annual event for his group since they debuted, and he never feels the need to complain because not everyone is given this kind of opportunity. what’s extraordinary for most has become his ordinary, and what was once his ordinary like everybody else’s has simply become a thing of the past. nevertheless, he does not have regrets. he is living a good life, one that he believes is his fate. as long as he has a voice and it is being heard, then his existence has meaning.

“your family will surely watch you, so they’re still celebrating it with you in a way. making them proud is the best christmas gift you can give!”

and right now, in his life, you are the cherry on top. you were so cheerful and supportive about the final shows of their tour as well, raving about how amazing it is to perform three nights in a row at gocheok skydome.

“i’ll watch you too!”

he can’t help it— you’re driving him to be better at what he does. childishly, he wants show off and be the one to capture your heart.

“ah!” he groans. “that means i should work harder at practice tomorrow! i can’t mess up infront of you and my family!”

“why not me? you want to make me proud too?” you interrogate him jokingly.

“of course, it’s my job. it’s what i do best. i’ll make you see!”

“use me as motivation then. you can’t mess up, okay? you have to do well, jungkook! you better not make a mistake! my eyes will be focused on you only!”

his face is reminiscent of a deer caught in the headlights— the headlights being your wide, threatening eyes.

he releases a shaky sigh in dramatic fashion. “i don’t feel motivated, though? i’m getting pressured?”

you wheeze; the plate over your lap tilts along with its contents.

“this is tough love!”

jungkook nearly staggers to his feet. “…love?”

you roll your eyes, small corners of your lips still cheekily lifted. “was the french toast good?”

jungkook is interrupted before he can form a response.

“but if it tastes like shit, just lie to me!”

“what are you talking about?!”

oh my god, you’re too fucking good at making him laugh.

“you’re eating it too! you know it’s delicious!”

“maybe you got a bad batch!”

—

“i’m going to the laundry shop across the street. i’ll just be a minute.” you announce, hauling a laundry basket to the living room.

your strained grunts prompt jungkook to look up from his phone, and eventually to stand up with urgency and relieve you of your heavy, heavy burden.

“shit, how heavy is this?”

you’re not given a chance to protest as the basket is immediately stolen from your grasp; your lips part open but no words come out.

“i’ll come with you!”

“well, hopefully not more than twelve kilos.”

it’s definitely heavier than usual; mainly comprised of the thick and layered clothes you’ve been wearing to shield yourself from the unforgiving cold.

“let’s go.”

jungkook wraps his hand around your wrist, gently tugging. the butterflies in your stomach wakes up earlier than spring’s arrival.

“this thing is bigger than you.”

an extremely obvious exaggeration.

“i’ll be the one to carry it.“

—

jungkook wears a cap and a face mask underneath his hoodie, eyes barely even visible in his all-black getup for the public to see; and somehow you also find yourself with a scarf around your neck, pulled up over the bridge of your nose.

when the year 2017 rolled in, you predicted that more crazy, life-altering stuff would happen. it has been an on-going theme, a relentless domino effect that has brought you to your knees time and time again. but you never would’ve fucking imagined that this is how you would be wrapping it up. how the hell did you cross paths with a famous idol, and why is he carrying your laundry basket right now?

“wait here for a bit.” you bring both hands to the basket’s handles, coaxing him to let go. “i’ll just bring it inside.”

“are you only dropping it off? that’s expensive!”

“what?” you stare at him in bewilderment, not expecting him to utter such statement at all. “you’re talking like you’re not rich!”

“i’m not! and still,” jungkook becomes flustered underneath his disguise. “it’s good to be practical. anyway, we have a lot of time.”

“you sound more like a mom than my mom did.”

“shhh!” he shushes you, putting a finger over his face mask. “let’s just do your laundry ourselves.”

“why would you do laundry right now? you’re supposed to be resting in the first place!”

a tug of war ensues infront of the laundry shop. strangers doesn’t know better. you look like a married couple bickering over who should take responsibility of the chore.

“____, just let me, mhm? i’m a pro at doing laundry too! we’ll be done before you know it!”

“how are you good at everything? honestly, it sounds like a scam!”

“how dare you doubt me?” he gasps in offense. “i do my own laundry!”

“seriously?” you quirk an eyebrow.

“i’m serious!”

“i don’t think i believe you, though…”

“if you search online, you-” your voice echoes in his mind, and subsequently, jungkook cuts himself off.

‘it feels like cheating on a test. it’s more fun learning about you from you.’

“oh, nevermind. let’s go inside already. i’m freezing!”

“jungkook!” you whine, stomping your feet on the ground as you refuse to let go of the basket despite jungkook beginning to head inside.

“why?” he copies the childishness of your tone, and although you can’t see his face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell you enough.

“we can’t…”

the adorable sight of you appearing to be so shy is foreign to him. he can’t help but to chuckle. “why not?”

your lips form a pout.

“my panties…”

you bring a finger to point at the basket.

“they’re in there too… i was only going to drop them off today because you came with me…”

“ah…” jungkook awkwardly freezes, unblinking. “wait, you’re right?”

why didn’t he think of that? he’s a fucking idiot. of fucking course. what if you take things the wrong way and you’re creeped out by him now?!

“fuck, sorry. i’m sorry. i wasn’t- um, i swear i wasn’t trying to…”

his tongue becomes tied, struggling to search for the words that won’t make him sound like a damn pervert.

yeah, way to go, jungkook. you’re not the fucking boyfriend yet and you’re ruining your chances.

“did i make you uncomfortable? i’m sorry. it probably looked li-”

“hey, breathe, calm down. it’s alright, jungkook.”

you giggle in amusement, placing a hand over his chest— his heart. it’s meant to ease him, but the knowledge that you’re feeling his racing heartbeat only causes it to further intensify. he swallows the lump in his throat, dumbfounded by the turn of events. he wants the ground to swallow him whole, but he also wants to stay in this moment a little while longer.

“it’s alright. i’ll go bring this inside then i’ll treat you to lunch at the restaurant over there! don’t run away from me, okay?”

—

“the yukgaejang looks good.” you utter absentmindedly, admiring the spicy beef soup with plentiful vegetables from afar. “i’m jealous of you.”

the other tables are already having a feast while you and jungkook are waiting for your take-out to be prepared.

“then you should’ve ordered it too.” jungkook scolds you lightheartedly. “should i go?”

“no! i’m not good with spicy food. spice makes me cry.”

he smiles softly. once again, you complete the picture from his eyes. “what is there to frown so sadly about?”

“i feel like i’m missing out.” you complain, the pout on your face almost permanent. “spicy food is like one of the trademarks of korea, you know? but i can’t handle it!”

“so cute…” jungkook has decided to give in to his impulses, it seems— the evidence is him pinching your cheek for the very first time, and with the discovery of its delightsome softness, it will definitely not be the last.

“oh, oh, oh! an eyelash!”

his doe eyes glisten with pure wonder and excitement, and the air in your lungs becomes suspended when his hand moves to tenderly cup the side of your face. as he is absorbed in capturing the tiny eyelash that has fallen and glued itself on your cheek, your mind reels with the size of his hand, the sensation of his innocent touch against your neck.

“aaand-” jungkook takes your hand, passing on the eyelash to your index finger. “there you go. make a wish!”

your eyes flicker down, and none of you speaks for a moment or two.

a wish…?

what does one wish for when they have given up on wishing for miracles?

“did you do it?”

you peek at jungkook, nodding. at last, you blow the eyelash away, outside the window, where it becomes one with the snowflakes that came from the same sky where wishes are supposedly granted.

“what did you wish for?”

“i’ll tell you when it comes true.”

—

jungkook eats so well— you feel full just by watching him eat. so when he asked you, eyebrows knitted and legs bouncing, if he could have more rice, you were left with no choice but to plug in the rice cooker for the second time today. you cooked only enough for two meals today: brunch and dinner for one. you’re more than happy to have given him the dinner portion. you like that your apartment is providing warmth for another soul, despite the old times that it housed ones that ended up haunting you.

“are there any more chores to do? while we wait for the rice?”

you gaze switches from him to the living room.

the boy who was knocking at your door is now vacuuming your floors.

you sit on the couch with your legs hugged to your chest, chin propped on your knees. an unexplainable feeling swims in your chest, but your heart calls to welcome it. not to be delusional, but technically, isn’t this a marriage proposal?

it falls on dear ears— the infuriating sound of the cheap vacuum cleaner your landlord lended you and never came back for. underneath it is jungkook’s mellifluous voice, humming and singing, and it’s all you can hear.

the only use you knew of honey is the magic it does with tea for a sore throat. when you learned about his demanding occupation, he is all you can think of in relation to the elixir. since then, you’ve been taking the god awful amount of honey your pesky neighbor provides without any complaints.

this is nice… this is good. you are glad that you opened the door.

—

after a hearty and satisfying meal, you and jungkook retired to your previous spots infront of the television screen. more of the snacks he bought for you ended up being shared. near your stacks of books are colorful food wrappers and half-empty glasses of water. two mediocre yet entertaining movies later, you tell jungkook that you should pick up your laundry before the shop closes in an hour. however, after he has excused himself to the bathroom, he is greeted by the sight of you peacefully asleep on the sofa.

once more, a new side of you is laid bare, and his affection grows. he doesn’t know when he can admire your face this close again without melting from your stare.

heedful of disturbing your much deserved rest, he carefully places a pillow beneath your head, and he pulls down the blanket you’re wrapped in to cover your cold feet.

with one last stolen glimpse, he grabs your key and receipt from the bowl and leaves.

—

“is it time for you to leave?” you delicately rub at your eyes that are still half-closed; voice quiet, barely there.

you were awoken by the front door opening and closing, but nothing has quite registered to your fuzzy brain yet, except for the coat that you neatly kept and is already re-worn by its owner.

and he knows you’re most probably just sleepy, but the way you’re gazing at him as if you’re sad to see him go makes his heart clench.

“no, i picked up your laundry.” he enlightens you, consciously speaking with refined tenderness, as to preserve the serenity that has enveloped the atmosphere. “i can stay until eight. is that okay?”

you release a weary sigh, nodding. “of course… and you’re such a nice friend, thank you.”

he plops down on the sofa, filling the jungkook-shaped space beside you.

tired… you’re so tired… despite the given privilege to finally sleep to your heart’s content, you’re still so tired. your forehead lands softly on his shoulder, and unbeknownst to you due to your stupor, jungkook’s breath hitches— the polar opposite of the steady rise and fall of your chest. you make him swoon. he deliberately ignores the fact that you just called him a friend.

you peer down at the floor, past the curtain of your disheveled hair, slowly blinking. those ridiculous toe socks… you giggle in secret.

“jungkook?”

“yes?”

“are you cold?”

“freezing.”

you lift your head and he knows— you have to be playing games with his heart, bringing the temptation to kiss you so painfully close. “do you want some tea?”

—

the performance has commenced but the passionate screams of the audience still rings in jungkook’s ears as he runs backstage, chased by the staff attempting to wipe the sweat he is practically bathing in. he squeezes one eye shut as beads of sweat threaten to enter it. his chest heaves with exhaustion and his heart pumps with overwhelming adrenaline. most of the time, this job doesn’t feel real. he feels high. this is the textbook definition of a dream.

“where’s my phone? please? does anyone have it?” he yells in the midst of the chaos and clamor as he completely strips off his in-ears.

a hand reaches towards him with the device, and his expression of gratitude gets lost somewhere among the repetitive reminders of the remaining time before they should have returned to their designated seats.

he allows the hair and make-up stylists to do their jobs, him as their doll in need of a retouch. on the other hand, he impatiently waits for his phone to power on.

the tapping of jungkook’s foot ceases, and from his glowing reflection on the vanity mirror, the clueless people surrounding him witnesses love strike.

guess my eyelash wish worked like a charm. your performances went really well

and you looked so cool on stage ☺️

merry christmas jungkook ❤️

“jungkook-ah, what are you smiling at?!”

seokjin cackles. jungkook didn’t even notice him roll his chair so close. he then decides to play dumb to tease their youngest one.

“wow, who is this ____ you’re texting?”

“hyung!” jungkook panics, hissing underneath his breath. “lower your voice!”

“ouch!” seokjin yells, rubbing his arm that was hit as a punishment.

he allows a moment of silence.

his expression goes blank and he avenges himself.

“ah!” jungkook gasps as the slap on his thigh resonates, forced to be ripped away from overthinking a text message. “hyung! you better start running!”

Draft: i know it’s late.. but can i see you later?|

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook one shot #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook au #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #bts fluff #bts reaction #jungkook smut

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suntoru · 5 months

Text

─ ✰ INVISIBLE STRING.

─ SYNOPSIS: the three times you coincidentally bump into toji fushiguro and the one time you find out it was intentional.

─ WARNINGS: 3.4k words!! not proofread, swearing, fluff, ooc toji?, mentions of a dildo, mild violence, creepy perv (not toji), BABY MEGSSS, idk i started yapping halfway through

— AUTHOR’S NOTE: GUYS I LOVE TOJI. I LOVE HIS SLUTTY WAIST. disclaimer i’m only like 6 episodes into jjk i apologize if the characterization is off!

— the first time your ever meet toji fushiguro is on a friday at 8PM. you don’t expect to be so downbad for somebody you just met, much less in a grocery store in your pajamas, but here you are. and fuck, he’s hot. he’s clad in a snug, black compression shirt that outlines his biceps so nicely and enticingly low-waisted white sweatpants that fall deliciously on his hips… compared to him, you look like a hobo in your ratty old pajamas. scratching your head in embarrassment, you instantly look away before he catches you staring— and thank god he speaks up, his voice interrupting your less-than-innocent thoughts.

“think that’s mine,” he motions casually to the black-haired cherub curled up in your arms. the little one’s eyes, swollen and red from the relentless wailing for his papa just seconds earlier now lights up immediately, adoration clear in his eyes. his tiny little arms outstretches towards toji in an adorable plea to be held. rolling his eyes, toji relents, scooping megumi up with one arm and securing him in his hold.

“cute kid.” you coo, ruffling the doe-eyed toddler’s hair affectionately.

“yeah… cute little brat,” he mutters in a low voice. “where’d you find him?” you giggle softly. “was in the toy section playing, noticed he was alone, then started to cry… be more careful next time, okay, ’gumi?” the child nods his head shyly, burying his face in his daddy’s chest. you wish that was you don’t u u horny degenerate /lh

“swear to god, he won’t listen to me when i tell him stuff. and he gets sad too easily, cries when he isn’t allowed to buy whatever he wants…” toji scoffs, pinching megumi’s cheek and a small whine escapes the toddler, effectively tugging at your heartstrings. what a cute little family.

“the mama must be real pretty; cause he certainly doesn’t take after his grumpy papa.” you lightheartedly joke, allowing the black-haired baby to toy with your fingers. “the mom’s out of the picture.” toji nonchalantly reveals, an unexpected hush falling over the conversation.

wide-eyed, you realize the awkwardness that your comment had caused. “i-i’m so sorry!! i didn’t mean to—” you stammer, feeling a pang of regret. “‘t's fine, shit happens.” he shrugs his shoulders ever so casually, dispelling the tension in the air. “it’s just me and this little gremlin here,” he adds, and despite his earlier insults towards the adorable baby, it’s crystal clear he loves him— even if he won’t readily admit it out loud. being a single dad… you can’t even imagine it. must be so hard…

you're so caught up in your feels that you don’t even notice when toji takes a peek into your grocery cart, a snicker escaping him. momentarily confused, you follow his gaze and then it hits you— oh no. what you originally came here to do, the reason you didn’t even have time to dress properly was because it was the last discount day for– looking down in horror, placed proudly, right on top of your cart, is an obnoxiously bright pink silicone dick.

the realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and a flush of embarrassment colors your cheeks as you fumble for words. “i-i… um… c-can explain!!” seemingly enjoying your flusteredness, he loses no time teasing you. "someone's clearly single." he remarks, a smug look plastered on his face. he snatches it out of your cart, dangling the object just out of reach– this bastard!! capturing megumi's attention, the innocent curiosity in his little mind interprets the funny-looking object as a potential toy, prompting him to reach out with grabby hands.

in a state of panic, you swiftly smack it out of toji’s hands, but you fail to realize there’s somebody in your way– you accidentally hit a balding, middle aged man square in the face with a dildo. a fucking dildo. letting out an audible gasp, you quickly turn away as the now angry man swivels around, searching for the perpetrator angrily. your efforts to stay inconspicuous prove futile as the 6'2 sorcerer can't contain his laughter, earning a few odd stares from shoppers passing by.

"it's not funny," you whine, feeling the heat creeping up to your face as he wipes away a tear, still clutching his stomach. he grins tauntingly, wholeheartedly amused.

"nah, that shit’s hilarious."

— “mama, mama!!” coincidence seems to strike once more, for your second encounter with toji fushiguro comes about a week later. you’re minding your own business in a neighborhood park, in the middle of texting your friend when little megumi joyfully latches himself onto your leg, gurgling happily, effectively scaring the shit out of you. safe to say, you're surprised— mommy? you'd met him once for thirty minutes and he's imprinted on you.

but you can't find it in yourself to be mad; he's practically looking at you with stars in his eyes. so you cave, crouching down to meet his height, patting his teeny tiny head gently.

"hi megs!! where's dada?" you question, and sure enough, the adorable little cherub points enthusiastically to his father, who happens to be engaged in conversation with two women. they’re giggling obnoxiously, stroking his biceps and being overly touchy, and he seems to be enjoying it. in an instant, all your former attraction seems to dissipate in an instant. an annoyed huff escapes you— of course, he's a manwhore. you should've known, he seems like just the type, but letting your kid leave your sight was just completely unacceptable.

feeling pissed, you can practically feel a vein bulge in your forehead. you’re going to knock some sense into that thick skull of his. scooping up megumi, you march up to toji, making sure to be extra cautious while holding him in your arms. what was he thinking? is it like this all the time? him getting distracted by a pair of tits and forgetting about his own son? seriously, this man needs to get his act together.

as soon as he’s in range, your free hand swiftly makes contact with the back of toji's head, letting out a loud ‘thwack’ noise on impact. he lets out a painful groan. "the fuck?" toji curses, rubbing the back of his head. unfazed, you return his sass with a stern expression.

"the hell do you think you're doing? talking to girls instead of taking care of your kid? no wonder 'gumi wanders off all the time, you didn't even notice he went missing! stop thinking with your dick all the time and start thinking with your head!!" you scold the older man as he scoffs. "me? you're one to talk, buying a rubber cock for your lonely ass. who the hell are you to judge my parenting?"

you're about to retaliate when the two girls exchange a glance, scowling in annoyance as they side-eye both you and toji. "y'know, if you were married, you could've just said so in the beginning." one of the girls pipes up as the other nods her head. "yeah, stop wasting our time loser, lets go." and before he can respond, they storm off dramatically. he rolls his eyes at them, sticking up his middle finger at their backs.

“whatever. they were bitches anyways. and you’re a real killjoy.” you flick his forehead lightly. “the fact that i, a complete random stranger, takes better care of this kid than you is quite concerning.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever.” he mumbles snarkily, attempting to snatch megumi away from you. he can’t believe his eyes when the chubby little baby starts to tear up, clutching onto you tighter and repeating babbles of ‘mama.’ “megumi, get down from there!” toji hisses. “listen, ya little brat, that ain’t your momma.” glaring, you attempt to hand back the stubborn ‘brat’ to his father, but to your (and his) dismay, he continues to latch onto you with an iron grip. if you didn’t know any better, with how megumi was acting, you’d think toji had never dealt with a child before. all he did was glare daggers at the both of you; the longer the interaction went on, the more irritated he got. a scolding glare towards his son, then the stranger.

“for the last time, stop clinging to that woman! she isn’t your mother.” the poor baby’s eyes glass over, about to burst into tears as you rock him in your arms, letting out a huff in annoyance. “calm your whining. you think he’s going to listen if all you do is yell?”

“fine. i’ll just… pick him up then.” toji grumbled, looking annoyed as he bent over to retrieve his son from your arms. as soon as he picked him up, megumi began wiggling and trying to get away from his father. “stop that.” toji’s face was filled with annoyance as his son’s stubby little fingers wrap around your shirt tightly. he tries his best to be gentle as he pries the baby away from you, yet the little boy began to cry and reach for you. it was clear the youngest fushiguro had developed a strong attachment to you, the stranger who helped him once before.

“‘gumi…” you coo in the softest voice you can manage, pinching his cheek softly. “listen to dada, okay? i’ll buy you ice cream if you’re good.” at the sound of a frozen treat, he instantly stops crying and settles into his papa’s arms, gurgling happily. toji looks at you in utter shock; he lost count of the amount of times he had tried so talk some sense into his little son— but just once from some random stranger, he chooses to listen. the 6’2 sorcerer sighs in defeat, sending his baby another scowl.

clearly, megumi has no sense of loyalty.

— “well, well, well… you again. i’m starting to think you’re jus’ following me now.” for the third time, you guessed it: toji fushiguro. at this point, it was becoming harder to dismiss these encounters as mere coincidences; had the universe suddenly decide to play matchmaker?

“huh?” you scoff, glancing up from your notepad. of course, he had to choose this exact coffee shop to stroll into while you were on your shift. “i work here.” he eyes you cockily, emanating more of that stupidly hot confidence that somehow makes your heart beat just a little faster than it should.

“be honest— you really just got the job cause you heard i’d be here today.” deadpanning, you roll your eyes. he can’t be serious; he’s such a manchild. “yes, because you’re such a celebrity. where’s megs?” you question, noticing the absence of the adorable baby usually accompanied by his obnoxiously sexy father.

“daycare.” he responds with a lazy drawl, his voice a low, resonant hum that sent shivers down your spine. he seemed engrossed with picking something at his nails, the nonchalant demeanor accentuating the sculpted lines of his features. "you know, it's a shame. you seem a lot less charming without a certain little one running around." you yawn, deliberately trying to piss him off.

as if challenging you, he straightens up, piercing grey eyes locked onto yours. leaning forward onto the counter, his proximity sparks something in your core— was he always this pretty? no wonder he’s popular. his lips look so damn kissable. (you wonder how they’d feel against your own.) your heartbeat picks up as you find yourself unable to keep eye contact, pupils darting elsewhere. you really hope your cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

“…u-um. your order?” he grins cockily, pulling back at your surrender. “an espresso. and here, the extra dollar's for you.” he casually tosses you a crumpled wad of cash, and at a glance, worth just a little over one dollar and fifty cents. …you can already sense a burgeoning headache destined to plague you by the end of the day.

“…just— whatever. keep the money. it’s on the house.” you groan, escaping from the dumbass man to the back to retrieve the coffee beans. as you scour the shelves stocked with coffee supplies, you attempt to find the espresso beans.

you thoughts, however, are interrupted when your coworker suddenly pops up, prompting an involuntary shriek and effectively scaring the shit out of you. she beams brightly, enthusiasm radiating from her as she clutches onto your arm, ignoring your reaction completely.

“that customer is just my type!! tall, handsome, hot… mind switching with me, please, please, pleeeeeease??” she begs, her eyes wide with desperation and in her best attempt to coax you. you end up relenting pretty easily— after all, you owe her for the numerous overtime hours she's covered for you, but you can't ignore the unmistakable pang of jealousy tugging at your heart. what’s wrong with you? you shouldn’t care, not in the slightest. shouldn't. he's a random stranger who you just so happened to bump into three times now. toji fushiguro is a womanizer, a horrendous father, and an arrogantly cocky man. but for some reason, you find yourself growing… attached.

your eyes follow your coworker, parading out of the storage room with her lips freshly glossed and a flirty smile on her face. a pang of annoyance prickles at you; you're sure he'll absolutely eat her up.

determined to distance yourself from the sight, you trudge over to the adjacent cash register, taking over for your fellow coworker's customer. a friendly smile graces the face of the person in front of you.

"hi." he smiles brightly, greeting you in a friendly manner. "can i get an iced americano?" you nod, ringing his order up. his request is met with a nod from you, and you smoothly proceed to ring up his order. the clinking of the coffee machine acts as a backdrop to the interaction, your mind momentarily distracted by the lingering sensation of unease in your stomach. once done, you serve the ice-cold drink to the customer, who happily takes it, eyes gleaming in satisfaction before winking charmingly.

"and an extra tip for the pretty barista." he says, his tone suggestive as he hands you a bill. is he... really hitting on you? the air thickens with an uncomfortable tension, and you mutter a somewhat awkward thanks, his smile widens, and he leans in, making you feel slightly uneasy.

"isn't this the part where you give me your number?" he teases, leaving a silent pause that hangs in the air. "uhm... i'm really sorry, but... uh-" before you can finish, he boldly grabs one of your hands from across the counter, getting a little too close for comfort. "no need to say anything, cutie. our lips can do the talking." the fuck is wrong with this creep?

you attempt to snatch your hand back, but his grip is like iron. panic starts to set in as beads of sweat form on your forehead. what are you supposed to do in this situation?

just as the tension becomes nearly unbearable, a large hand intervenes, firmly gripping the weirdo's collar. a hand you so thankfully recognize intervenes just in the nick of time. toji's voice, dripping with venom, cuts through the charged atmosphere.

"why the fuck are you touching my spouse?" his snarl, coupled with an ice-cold glare, sends shivers down even your spine. a plausible lie, and extremely believeable. the smaller man stutters, his eyes searching frantically for an escape from toji's wrath. "i-i, um..." he stutters, eyes looking frantically for help. without a moment's hesitation, toji forcefully drops the intruder to the floor, his intense glare bearing down on the now-submissive figure.

"next time, i'll make sure you pay for it." he warns with a chilling undertone, his voice resonating with a quiet but unmistakable threat.

— seven days after the incident, you find solace in a quaint bookstore, its ambiance offering a quiet and peaceful haven for your studying. you're deep in thought, productivity at an all time high. however, the tranquility is soon disrupted by the unmistakable bickering of a child, no older than two, engaged in what seems like a standoff with a fully grown adult. who in the hell would argue with a kid...?

suspiciously, you stand up, leaving your laptop unattended for a split second to take a peek into the book aisle where the sound was coming from. and just as you suspected; there stands toji fushiguro. you suppress a giggle seeing him all crouched over, a pissy expression on his face.

"ya little rat, go give this to y/n. mama. mama, y'hear?" he hisses under his breath, his words an amusing blend of authority and exasperation. he attempts to give a rose to the stubborn little cherub, who violently shakes his head in refusal. holding a book almost as big as himself, he stomps his tiny foot, lifting the curious george volume even higher, adorned with a big pout that adds an extra layer of adorableness to the scene. "i'll read to you later, so just-"

"well, well, well… you again. i’m starting to think you’re just following me now."

you quip, echoing the words he tossed your way exactly a week ago. a smug grin stretches across your face, savoring the sweet taste of his embarrassment. he whirls around, momentarily losing his cool, a curse escaping his lips as he throws his head back. is that a hint of pink dusting his cheeks? you can't help but revel in delight. and as if on cue, megumi beams at you, his small frame waddling towards you with unbridled joy as you scoop him up with ease.

"mama!!" he cheers as you ruffle his hair playfully before turning your attention back to the other 6'2 baby towering over you. "looks to me like you're the obsessed stalker." you tease, a genuine grin stretching across your face. wiping a mock tear from your eye, you catch a glimpse of toji's eye roll, his attempt to feign composure failing as a trace of a pout plays on his lips.

"shuttup," he groans, rubbing the back of his head. he attempts to use this banter as a distraction, sneakily concealing the gift behind his back. but you're not one to be outplayed.

"not so fast..." you grin, skillfully snatching the crimson rose from his grasp before he can offer any protest. it's undeniably pretty, and you find yourself admiring it, a soft smile playing on your lips. you glance back at toji who, now hands tucked into his pockets, deliberately avoids eye contact. "never knew you were much of a charmer." you playfully jest, twirling the delicate flower between your fingers as a teasing smile graces your lips.

"i'm not." he shrugs, an air of nonchalance surrounding him. you set megumi down, allowing him to gleefully grab another dr. seuss picture book.

"awww, so then am i just special?" you snicker, lashes fluttering softly, the lighthearted banter echoing through the quiet aisles of the bookstore. perhaps a little too loudly, as an employee, with an air of rudeness, suggests that all three of you should be a little more discreet before you're escorted out.

apologizing profusely, you struggle to contain your laughter as the employee, irritated by the disturbance, makes a dramatic exit. unbeknownst to him, however, a janitor quietly mops the floors right behind him— resulting in an unfortunate slip and a rather audible rip as his pants succumb to the unforeseen mishap. your face turns pink, and you bite your lip, desperately trying to stifle your laughter to avoid drawing further attention and the risk of being kicked out.

you manage to slap toji's mouth shut, a preemptive measure against the impending witch cackle that could escape if left unchecked. the employee shoots both of you one last glare, clearly unimpressed, before huffing and storming off in a hasty retreat.

exchanging a knowing glance with toji, you finally peel your hand off his mouth, the quiet snickering between you two escalating into unrestrained laughter. as the atmosphere gradually settles, you can't help but notice toji's intense gaze fixed upon you, a look that goes beyond mere amusement.

it's a gaze so deep, so penetrating, that it seems to hold an enchantment of its own. in that moment, you feel like the protagonist in a love-struck tale, caught in the gaze of someone who sees more than just the surface.

toji fushiguro is a womanizer, a horrendous father, and an arrogantly cocky man. …but… you think you can manage.

and so you find your arms slinking around his waist, a huge, unwavering grin plastered on your face. "you're such a baby, y'know? if you liked me you could've just asked for my number." he grumbles under his breath, yet tugs you closer to his body warmth. rolling his eyes, he flicks your forehead, lips curving up into a smile. "you're the worst."

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