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wildflowerluver · 1 year

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when we are together

aaron hotchner x fem!reader

5 times jack pushes you and aaron together and the one time it works

cw: reader gets injured, mutual pinning, jack also gets hurt (very minor), bau reader, she/her pronouns

wc: 4.9k

༺♡༻

1. carpool

you had first overheard hotch complaining about his car troubles to rossi.

everyone drove the same bureau issued suv. it was odd for one to have an issue and not the others. emily laughed and joked to the group about it being ‘old man troubles’ to which he rolled his eyes.

“it’s going into the shop after work. standard maintenance.”

you finally butted in when hotch debated what rental car to get.

“i can just pick you up tomorrow if you’d like. i drive in your direction anyway,” you offered. “save you the trouble.”

hotch raised an eyebrow. “are you sure? i have to get jack to school too.”

you waved your hand. “i’ll pick you both up at eight.”

true to your word, you pulled up to hotch’s apartment complex a few minutes early and shot him a quick text to let him know you were outside.

jack came barreling out first, hotch not far behind. his backpack bounced as he ran and lunchbox hit against his leg.

“hi y/n!” jack exclaimed as he climbed into the car. hotch greeted you with a quieter hello as he buckled jack’s seatbelt and circled the car to get in the passenger's seat.

you stayed quiet while driving, focusing instead on navigating. hotch had asked jack about his day ahead in an effort to make small talk. the young boy perked up and began rambling off about everything he would be doing at school. you were impressed with how much he seemed to enjoy learning.

it was only a few minutes before you were pulling up to jack’s school as per aaron’s directions. you quickly parked while aaron got out of his seat to help jack out of the car and get his backpack on.

before he exited though, you twisted around to say goodbye to jack and wish him a good day at school.

he waved up at you with a toothy smile.

“maybe you and dad could drive me to school together more often.”

you and aaron met each others eyes in a mutual agreement.

“i think that can definitely be arranged.”

2. work

it was rare that jessica couldn’t watch jack. her job and schedule allowed her to care for the young boy after school and when aaron was away on cases.

today, however, she got swamped with a last minute series of meetings and was out of town for the day. she let aaron know as soon as possible but not quick enough for him to find another sitter.

that meant one thing, jack would have to spend the day at the bau.

aaron coached his son the entire drive over on the proper behavior. it was a paperwork day, thankfully, and he made sure jack knew that everyone on the team had a lot of work to get done. that meant no bothering them.

despite the warning, jack was practically bouncing the entire way up, more than excited he would get to spend an entire day with some of his favorite people on the planet.

members of the team greeted jack as he made his way around the bullpen. morgan even slipped him a lollipop he stole from garcia for the occasion. when hotch had begun to guide his son up towards the office, you offered to let jack sit with you.

hotch tilted his head. “are you sure?”

“i don’t have a ton of files to get done. he won’t be a bother.”

hotch brought a spare chair over to your desk. he thanked you again and disappeared into his office. you knew the young boy would need entertainment of some kind while he waited.

you took a spare piece of paper from your desk and a few pens. jack took them eagerly with a thank you and got to coloring right away.

it was far from a distraction. his scratching on paper served as white noise more than anything.

he seemed to finish after a few minutes, sliding it over to you for approval. you beamed when you saw the drawing. it was you, him, and hotch at what looked like the park. some of the scribbles were a little tough to decipher but you got the gist.

“wow jack!” you exclaimed. “i think we might have found your hidden talent!”

jack giggled, taking the picture back.

“wanna go show your dad?”

the boy was sliding off the chair and running up the steps towards his dad's office before you could stop him. while the offer was made, you were unsure if hotch was in a meeting. the door was already open, though, and jack headed in with ease.

“dad! dad! look what i made!” jack quickly exclaimed. hotch looked up from his file, expression softening as his son handed the picture.

you entered the office next, apologizing for jack’s sudden rogue behavior. hotch held his hand up, lips upturned in a small smile.

he kept the photo framed on his wall.

3. career day

there were plenty of events at jack’s elementary school that were spread throughout the year.

he had an art show, a holiday concert, and even a mini science fair. aaron had done his best to make it to the ones he could, but there were times when work conflicted and he felt awful.

jack had another event, career day, in just a few days and the team had yet to be called in for a case.

this was a big deal for him. once aaron had told him he would be in attendance, jack seemed to work extra hard and checked every single morning to make sure his dad would still be there. typically, jessica would also attend with or without aaron but she was away on a work trip.

as happy as jack was that aaron would be there, all of the other kids in his class were bragging about both of their parents taking the day off.

haley wasn’t around anymore and his aunt was busy.

jack asked his dad before he got out of the car for school. one of the aids had handed aaron a flier with a reminder for the event. in the back, jack piped up.

“can y/n come too?”

aaron glanced at his son through the mirror. he knew how important this event was for jack.

“sure, buddy. i can ask her today.”

jack’s career fair was that friday during your lunch break. the students would be dressing up as their future careers and even prepared a presentation for the parents who had come to see them.

despite not being able to make it, jack had enlisted jessica’s help to make his outfit a total surprise.

aaron and you had left a few minutes before your scheduled break to ensure enough time to make it to the school. you had to admit, hearing that jack wanted you at such a big event for him and being invited made you tear up.

you quickly found seats in the auditorium. jack’s teacher had given a brief speech before releasing everyone to walk around the room.

jack was in the back corner. you and aaron both beamed when you say his career choice.

he was dressed in a suit, one of aaron’s ties around his neck though it was much too long for his body. he had a little bag beside him and an id clipped to his collar. he looked like aaron.

jack immediately ran into his dads legs, squeezing him tightly. you were next.

“hey buddy,” you greeted. “what did you dress up as?”

“i’m an fbi agent!” he exclaimed proudly. “i wanted to be like you and dad.”

you glanced at aaron who pressed his lips together. “you wanted to be like us?”

“yeah! i couldn’t be a superhero so i chose the real thing.”

both you and aaron collected jack in your arms at his words.

aaron stayed close to you and jack went through his entire presentation: what an fbi agent was, why he picked it, and how he can practice in his everyday life. it was adorable.

it was finally time for the career fair to end and jack had hugged you both again before running off with his class. you and aaron needed to get back to work too. aaron drove you two back to the bureau, leaving the radio on at a comfortable volume.

“thank you for coming with me. i know it meant a lot to jack.”

aaron was truly grateful. jack adored you and deep down, aaron always worried that his son would struggle with emotions and opening up after losing haley. but with you, he was the opposite.

you leaned over the center console to squeeze his hand. a small intimate gesture.

“of course. anything for either of you.”

4. emergency room

you loved watching over jack whenever you could.

all of the team, minus you and morgan, had a conference out in wisconsin over the weekend. it wasn’t odd for certain members to not go, the bureau chose who they thought would discuss the content the best.

you volunteered to watch jack in aaron’s absence.

you headed over to the hotchner residence immediately after work on friday. the rest of the team would be heading out that night for the conference on saturday and sunday.

jack was ecstatic that you were watching him. he even made a list of movies he wanted to watch and games he wanted to play.

of course you had been in aaron’s apartment before, but he still showed you around and pointed out where specific things for jack were. he stopped by his bedroom, motioning you to drop your bags.

“you can sleep in here. i changed the sheets and all before you came but there’s also fresh linens in the hall closet.”

he had said it so casually you couldn’t help the blush that formed. you really hoped he didn’t notice.

you had to practically shove aaron out the door after the makeshift tour. he was running late for the airport but you could sense his nervousness about leaving jack. he finally kissed his son on the forehead and squeezed your shoulder.

“good luck at your conference.” you giggled when he rolled his eyes, clearly not excited for it. “try and have some fun.”

“i doubt it.”

the weekend with jack went by smoothly. you did everything on his agenda and spent some time in the city too. it was honestly relaxing to be with the boy.

aaron had texted you before he had left wisconsin, sending the flight information and arrival time. you had responded with a simple ‘safe flight!’ and ventured into the kitchen to make jack dinner.

jack was bouncing around as you cooked. he missed his dad and was excited for him to get home. you warned him gently to be careful and he simply giggled before taking off around the apartment.

you thought all was good until you heard a loud crash and an instant cry.

after shutting the burner of the stove off, you wasted no time in running to find jack.

he was sitting on the floor on the hallway, the table knocked over and a picture frame scattered on the floor. your heart plummeted when you saw the blood on his forehead and hands.

you’ve had training for this. you’ve literally saved people's lives but seeing jack injured seemed to make you falter.

you quickly took him in his arms and brought him into the kitchen, grabbing a towel to his cut. you needed to slow the bleeding before anything. you used your spare hand to wipe away jack’s tears.

“it’s gonna be okay, jackers. i promise.”

his verbal crying had subsided but the tears still flowed. your heart ached.

after a few moments, you removed the cloth and winced. he would definitely need stitches. “i’m gonna take you to get cleaned up, okay?” jack nodded.

you scooped him into your arms, quickly grabbing your phone and keys.

the drive to urgent care went by thankfully quickly. jack kept the cloth pressed to the cut and was taking it like a champ. you knew he would be okay but anxiety still nipped at your head.

doctors took jack back right away. you relayed what happened and that you were his babysitter. thankfully with aaron’s status at the bau, not much information was needed for you to write down.

when you went to follow them back to jack’s room, you were stopped. it was standard protocol for them to not let friends or family back while they operated. as much as you wanted to go and be with him, it simply wasn’t allowed.

you squeezed jack’s hand quickly, reassuring him that he would be okay. your eyes stayed on him until he was led out of sight.

you needed to call aaron.

the team was mingling about on the jet, all immersed in a game of poker while rossi slept somewhere else on the jet. hotch’s phone rang and he placed his cards down to pick it up.

hotch barely had time to answer with a hello before you were apologizing.

“aaron i’m so so sorry,” you cried.

“y/n what happened? where are you?”

“i’m at urgent care,” aaron’s heart fell at your words. “jack fell and cut his head. aaron i’m so sorry.”

you were crying again when you finished talking. he could tell you were trying to muffle your sobs with your hand.

“y/n,” aaron needed to calm you down before anything. “is jack okay?”

“yeah yeah. they took him back to get stitches but they said he was going to be okay. i’m sorry i was supposed to be taking care of him.”

“it’s okay. as long as jack is being taken care of, that's all that matters. i’m sure it was an accident.”

you’re already protesting his words. “but i-”

“y/n,” aaron’s voice is stern. “it’s okay. i’ll meet you at urgent care when we land. shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes.”

he was going easy on you and you knew it.

the thirty minute wait seemed to go by agonizingly slow. a doctor had come into the waiting room and let you know that they were beginning the stitching. the cleaning had taken longer than intended.

you shut your eyes when someone sat down next to you. you knew it was him. you knew you should turn and talk to aaron but the guilt was all consuming.

he finally took the first words. “how’s jack?”

“he’s good. getting his stitches now. aaron i’m-”

“y/n, it’s okay, really. please don’t apologize again. accidents happen,” his words were gentle. you stayed quiet, knowing you would apologize again if you opened your mouth.

aaron’s hand moved to your knee, effectively stopping the anxious bouncing and squeezing to reassure you of his words.

he kept his hand there until a doctor came out to which he stood up, professionalism seeping into his expression.

“you can go first,” you offered once the doctor had informed you that jack was ready to be seen. it felt dumb to have to vocally tell him to go.

aaron was having none of that. he reached down to take your hand in yours and hoist you to your feet, pulling you after him to jack’s room. aaron entered first, hugging his son tightly.

“hi jackers,” you greeted quietly after stepping into the room.

the young boy bit his lip as tears welled in his eyes. “i’m so sorry.”

aaron looked at his son. “what for buddy?”

“i was running when i wasn’t supposed to and i got hurt.”

you took a seat on the bed beside him, carefully wrapping an arm around his shoulder. he leaned into you as aaron occupied the other space beside him.

“it’s alright. i’m just glad you’re okay.”

5. hurts

there was always a risk when a friend, a lover, anyone close to you was in a potentially dangerous line of work.

you and aaron had gone through it a few times with him and foyet and various members of the team. you, however, hadn’t ever been directly put in danger.

that was until this case.

the unsub was profiled as a misogynistic, psychopathic serial killer whose signature involved overkill of women. every female in the immediate area was absolutely terrified.

you didn’t think much of it at first, especially not when you, spencer, and emily had been sent to a suspect's house. the fear only set in when all traits of the suspect had pointed to him being the unsub and you were the one who got attacked first.

hotch nearly lost it when he found you unconscious and bloody. your face had been beaten, nose swollen and lip split. he dropped down beside you, taking your head in his hands and yelling your name in pure fear of losing you until j.j. had gotten the emt’s.

you thankfully didn’t stay in the hospital very long, just overnight. all of your wounds had gotten cleaned and stitched up but the doctor had diagnosed you with a pretty nasty concussion. you were just glad it was a local case so you didn’t have to wait to fly home.

hotch had insisted that he watched over you for at least the first night. there had been other volunteers but no one was going to argue with their boss.

you had strict concussion protocol for the first night. you would need to stay up as late as you possibly could and once you fell asleep, someone would need to wake you up every few hours. it sounded exhausting.

if hotch had any issues with it, he didn’t voice them.

you were still pretty out of it on the drive home. aaron had loaded your bags in his car and kept a secure arm around your waist to help you in the passenger's seat. he even made sure to take the least bumpy route to his apartment.

you stayed leaning against the wall of his apartment hallway as aaron knocked before unlocking the door. jessica was greeting him right away, echoing that jack was in the kitchen eating dinner. the rest of their conversation was fuzzy. your head was pounding and it felt like too much to try and tune in and listen.

“y/n?” aaron’s voice was suddenly close.

you hum as you opened your eyes slowly.

“let’s head in,” his hand fell to your shoulder as he led you inside. jessica must have left because you could only hear jack in the kitchen.

you collapsed on the couch. aaron went into the kitchen to greet his son and get you some medicine.

despite doctor’s orders, sleep was beginning to feel like a good idea. but as your eyes started to slip shut, you heard a patter against the floorboards.

“y/n?” jack’s voice was small. you knew he had never seen you like this. “are you okay?”

you sat up, patting the spot next to you for jack to climb up. “i’m alright, jackers. just got a little hurt.”

an idea seemed to pass over jack’s face and he lit up. “oh! i know how to help!”

you tilted your head to the side. sure jack was smart for his age but you didn’t know how he could help your injuries.

“how?”

jack smiled. “kisses! dad and aunt jess always say that kissing my hurts will make them feel better.”

you bit your lip. the young boy's heart made you tear up. “well i certainly want to feel better.”

jack clambered forward, placing a soft kiss to the cut on your forehead, the bruise on your cheek, and the brace on your wrist.

aaron opened his mouth, a warning for his son to be careful on the tip of his tongue. but when he saw you smile, he stopped.

“dad!” jack twisted around to face his father. “your turn!”

aaron shook his head. “sorry buddy, i think you got them all.”

jack shook his head, pointing towards your very split lip. “nuh uh. i made sure to leave one for you.”

oh.

aaron ruffled his son's hair. he wanted to defuse the brewing situation. as willing as he would be to kiss your injury, it was wrong, unprofessional. “her lip needs to heal. i can’t kiss it.”

“but y/n won’t feel better!” jack sounded clearly in distress. “please?”

both you and aaron knew jack’s stubbornness, something he got from his father.

“alright,” aaron’s voice was softer now.

he circled the couch to stand in front of you. jack babbled on about how he also had special spiderman bandaids in his room and he would even let you have one. aaron’s eyes met yours. it was a silent agreement between the two of you.

aaron ducked down to kiss the corner of your mouth, lips ghosting over the stitches.

it was a surge of emotion but one that you knew he was only doing for jack. his lips left yours much faster than you would’ve liked.

“do you feel better?”

jack’s question broke you out of the trance you were in.

aaron had kissed you. indirectly, yes, but it was still a kiss.

“without a doubt.”

+1 movie night

you and aaron hadn’t discussed the night after the case. though in all honesty, you hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

once you were cleared again for the field, cases seemed to pick up which left less than sufficient personal time for you and aaron. you missed him.

you were the first one in the office friday morning. you had gotten there early to get a headstart on your paperwork in hopes that it meant not having to stay late.

aaron was in next. he usually gave you, or whoever else was in the bullpen, a nod and a quiet ‘good morning.’ today, he changed his route and circled around to your desk.

“are you busy tonight?”

you nearly sputtered out the coffee you were drinking out of pure unawareness of where this question was going to lead.

you shook your head. “assuming we don’t have a case, i’m not.”

“good,” aaron started. “jack wanted to have a movie night and he’s been dying to see you and i wanted to see if you wanted to come over?”

his voice seemed to go up an octave towards the end, as if to cushion the non-existent blow of the question.

you beam. “i would love to.”

aaron’s eyes lift. it’s not a smile, those are rare even for you, but it’s close to it.

“perfect. does seven work?”

you nod.

“great, we’ll see you then.”

you hide your smile in the file you’re working on.

right as aaron had instructed, you showed up at aaron’s apartment right around seven. you knocked twice, stepping back to wait for the door to open. when it did, you weren’t met with your tall solemn boss, but the smaller hotchner.

“y/n!” jack exclaimed, surging forward to hug your waist.

you giggled, hugging him back. “hi jack.”

aaron appeared behind his son, lips upturned at the sight of you two. “hi,” you greeted him.

“come on in, it’s all set up.”

you let aaron take your bag. usually on nights like these, you and aaron stayed up much later than you expected and you crashed at his place instead of going home.

you took a seat at the edge of the couch, letting aaron decide the distance between you two. when he returned, he sat a few feet away. it wasn’t enough to be inferred as him clearly trying to make distance but it wasn’t close enough either.

jack had clambered into his dad’s lap, curling into his chest with just enough vision to still see the movie.

once he had settled, however, his head turned to where you still sat. he extended one of his hands, opening and closing his fists in a grabbing motion. he wanted you closer.

“i wanna lay with you too.”

“of course jackers.”

you smiled and scooted a little closer to aaron. you looked up at him cautiously. being close to jack meant being close to him too. aaron didn’t respond verbally. he lifted his arm from where it sat at his side to rest along the back of the couch. open invitation.

you curled into aaron’s side, legs pressing against his. jack wasted no time in readjusting himself to be strung across the both of you. you could feel aaron’s eyes peer down on you but you didn’t meet his gaze. instead, you settled further into the couch and watched the screen.

as the final few scenes of the movie played, jack began yawning and rubbing his eyes. you knew it was his bedtime but would fight until the movie was over. you brought your hand to his back, running your fingers up and down to help soothe his tired state.

when the end credit popped up, aaron leaned to shut off the tv. “alright buddy, let’s get you to bed. can you say goodnight to y/n?”

jack slid fully into your lap, arms interlocking around your neck to hug you.

“goodnight y/n. thank you for coming over.”

“goodnight jack,” you spoke, squeezing him a little tighter.

when you let go, the boy wasted no time in all but sprinting down the hall to pick out the bedtime story aaron would read.

“i’m going to get him ready for bed,” aaron started. “i shouldn’t be too long.”

you smiled up at him. “take your time.”

aaron too disappeared down the hall and you were left to your own devices.

you knew he wanted you to wait in the living room but your overnight bag was discarded in his room and you really wanted to wash your face and get in more comfy clothing.

you tried to be as quiet as possible as you walked down the hallway, fully intent on going into aaron’s room just to grab your bag. that was until you heard the conversation between aaron and jack. you stayed pressed against the wall next to the door.

guilt climbed in your chest at what you were doing but what the hotchner boys didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“-don’t get it.” that was jack.

you could almost see aaron’s eyebrow quirk. “what don’t you get, buddy?”

“why aren’t you and y/n dating yet?”

you suck in a breath, cheeks turning rosy at the question. you absolutely knew you weren’t meant to hear it. the thought of turning away and completing your original task passes over but you want, need, to hear aaron’s response.

“i don’t think she likes me like that, bud.”

“she does,” jack nearly giggles. “she talks about you a lot.”

you just got betrayed by a seven year old.

aaron seems to change the conversation after that and that’s when you tune out, replaying aaron’s words over and over. i don’t think she likes me like that. does that mean he liked you too?

you’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t notice jack’s door open and aaron step out.

he sighed, not surprised in the slightest at seeing you waiting. “i know you heard all that.”

busted.

you stammer, trying poorly to come up with an excuse.

“come on,” aaron’s hand is strong as he guides you to his room. “he just got to bed, don’t want him waking up while we talk.”

fear courses through you. you could lose your job over all this. dramatic reaction but still a possibility. above all, however, you could lose aaron personally. it was already a barrier you felt like you were pushing

“jack sometimes doesn’t think before he asks a question,” aaron starts. oh. “i’m sorry you had to hear that.

he was sorry?

“why are you sorry?” you’re trying to save yourself the potential heartbreak.

aaron sighs.

“i’m your boss. it’s unprofessional to have feelings for my subordinate. you watch my son too, i don’t want you feeling like i’ve been taking advantage of you.”

you wanted to laugh. aaron was always overly professional with his words.

“i really like you aaron.”

he didn’t respond at first and for a moment you think your confession was a little too strong. but then his eyes meet yours and he smiles.

“can i kiss you? properly this time.”

you hummed. “please.”

aaron’s lips met yours tentatively. his hands cupped your cheeks effectively holding you to him. it was new, though not unwelcome.

you leaned up to loop your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

aaron pulled away first and you whined, clearly upset at the sudden lack of contact. you had waited ages to kiss aaron and in no way did you expect for it to end so soon.

“relax baby,” aaron chuckled. your heart leaped at the pet name. “need to adjust.”

he sat down on the bed. arms snaked around your waist to pull you close to him.

“so you like me too?” the question slips out before you can think about it.

aaron leans up to kiss the corner of your mouth, the same spot where your cut had turned into a scar.

“i do.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotch fluff #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotchner x female reader

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officialclangen · 8 months

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Hi! So, I've heard that you're working on desert and wetlands biomes! Do you have any ideas on what camps you'll add?I think it would be cool if there were a mangrove swamp camp and a like plains marsh in the wetlands, and oasis and desert ruins in the desert! Also, do you have any plans on adding the mountain ruins camp that scribble drew on youtube? That would be cool too.

Hello!

I believe mangroves are definitely in the picture! We were also toying with an idea of a flooded mine-shaft for wetlands as well! I personally want to do one based on a spruce bog/beaver pond! That's what I enjoy about the backgrounds is there's a lot of possibilities! And for desert, there's an oasis and potentially a canyon I think.

As for the mountain ruins done by Scribble, that's unknown! Scribble is currently taking a hiatus from the project :3

Please keep in mind these aren't guaranteed or promises at all! These are just the musings of one of the mods

~Chase

#clangen #ask response #warrior cats #clan generator

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river-bottom-nightmare · 2 months

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the two of the had always treated it as one big joke, was the thing. bruce and dick would put on a show together: a stumbling, overly-friendly yet well-intentioned gatsby and his young ward with a sweet tongue and an artful smile. laugh a little too loud, bat the eyes, play up the youth, and they had gotham eating out of their palms. it was fun, a punchline only the two of them were ever in on.

"that was a good one," bruce said, voice warm, deftly removing his cufflinks. "the bit with mrs. arlington's cosmetic surgery was particularly inspired."

"i thought so!" dick chirped back. his suit jacket was already draped over a chair in the sitting room, shoes flung off. "i mean, what could i possibly know about the divorce rumors."

bruce hummed in amused agreement. "i always forget how tiring brucie wayne is to play, though," he said. "for someone who doesn't exist, he's quite the effort."

right then, though, a quiet ripple of alarm went through dick. "wait, what do you mean brucie doesn't exist? what do you mean he's an effort?"

"i mean he's not...he's not real, dick. you know this." bruce shot him a confused glance. "he's a fiction i have to endure on occasion. having you there does make the theatre much more bearable, though."

"of cource brucie wayne is real. he's you!"

bruce was staring at him now, the tired comfort from a successful night wiped from his face. he was just confused, and more than a little concerned. heart on his cheek , always, helplessly (to dick, anyway). "it's just a performance, dick. it doesn't mean anything. you are well aware—"

but dick cut him off, shaking his head. "nothing is ever just a performance, b. that's not what performance is!"

and it killed him, gutted him that bruce didn't understand this, that he had failed to grasp 'brucie wayne' was poetic, was almost victorian, was a masterclass in crafting a mask around a kernel of truth. was the kind of murder you watched a play just to revel in at the end.

"i don't see how it isn't," bruce said, speaking very carefully. "the version of bruce wayne the public sees is a persona. his very existence is to perform the function of deceit."

"deceit?" dick said incredulously, almost laughing with it. "performing isn't deceit, bruce. and that's not what you're doing either." he jabbed a finger in bruce's general direction. "you way overplay how harmless brucie is, but you're not hardline serious all the time. with me and with other kids you meet on patrol, you're gentle."

"that isn't—"

dick kept steamrolling over him. "and sure, brucie is ridiculous sometimes. but you didn't pull that silliness out of thin air, did you? no, because you're playful with me and alfred."

"how i behave with you and alfred isn't a performance though, dick," bruce explained. "that's simply...well. that's who i am when i'm not pretending to be someone else."

"that's what you're missing, b. a performance isn't you pretending to be someone else. you're exaggerating certain parts of yourself like crazy, but at the heart of it all, you're still you."

"why does this affect you so much?" bruce asked. "you're hurting." you're hurting because of me, went unsaid. it wasn't an apology, but it was the closest dick was going to get.

"because brucie is bruce in all the ways that matter, and bruce is my best friend," dick said simply. "don't you dare tell me my best friend doesn't exist!"

bruce was still tense, though. like his heart was a step behind his head, like was a dandelion seed and the wind was unsure. so dick did what he should have done at the beginning of his whole ordeal: went over to him and looped his arms over his waist in a hug, as high as they would go.

"performing is a little tiring, but like batman is," dick mumbled into bruce's shirt. "it isn't a chore you gotta get through. it's an art, and you should have fun with it! because every show you put on is you basically just exaggerating different parts of yourself. you're not creating anyone new."

bruce reached down to hug dick in return, holding him close and sure, strength and sinew and sharing it all. "dick," he said honestly, "that sounds exhausting."

"yeah. but it's worth it," dick said in return. "you always perform for a reason. brucie exists 'cause you want to help people."

"i suppose that desire's real enough," bruce said, gentle. "in that case, thank you."

"for what?"

"for being my best friend, no matter the performance."

---

hahaha noooo being a performer from a young age hasn't impacted me or dick in any way at all we've got a perfectly normal relationship with performance i promise

anyway look guys!!! i wrote a thing!!! first time in forever idk my writing's rusty but i hope yall like it regardless. lmk if i should pop the taglist back in here i'm pretty sure half the people on that thing forgot i existed

#scribbles from the swamp #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman #robin #dc #dick grayson fic #bruce wayne fic #batman fic #robin fic #dc fic #long post

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crushedgraham · 7 months

Text

Tell me, Tell me

I put these two together because they were kinda similar!

To say you felt like shit was an understatement. Everything hurt. You wouldn’t even be surprised if you were dying, for god's sake it hurt to just breathe. But as you scrolled through your phone, a funny video of a small girl trying to pet a bear with a hilarious country accent popped up on your feed. The urge to laugh puffed up your chest with what felt like pure, scalding lava in your lungs. It flurried into a fit of dry yet mucus filled coughs that stung the back of your throat, filling your eyes with a thin layer of tears.

As you catch your breath (with a worrying wheeze), you couldn’t help but to think of Angela. Instinctively you open her contact to send the tiktok to her but the idea’s quickly shot down when you’re met with the texts that you sent yesterday that she still hadn’t read or replied to. Angela had been swamped more than usual; Null Sector had taken its toll on Overwatch agents, sending them in and out of the hospital. The double shifts she picked up lead to you only catching glimpses of the blonde sneaking into bed at absurd times and waking up to cold sheets.

You couldn’t tell if the ache in your chest was from the sickness or your longing for Angela but either way the pain was really starting to get to you. Considering the fact that she could quite literally be operating on a patient in a life or death situation, you pushed away the little voice (that sounded eerily like Angela scolding you) telling you to call her.

But when you take the initiative to sit up in the large bed, the intensity of your sickness becomes apparent. The room around you spins and blackness dots your vision. Nausea claws its way up your throat and you rapidly swallow mouthfuls of saliva down. Shakily you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the cold wood floor a stark contrast to your feverish body. It offers you a moment of relief as you stumble from the persisting dizziness that snatches away the poor excuse of balance you have right now. Your nails dig into the polished wood of the nightstand to regain your balance, effectively knocking over the note that Angela messily scribbled down telling you not to wait up for her.

Slowly, you make your way from the master bedroom to the top of the stairs. Usually you'd be able to jog up and down the stairs (on occasion with Angela in your arms) without breaking a sweat but just looking down the seemingly never ending steps made your stomach do flips. Taking a deep breath, you begin your descent down the stairs. Each step harder than the last, the blood from your fingertips rushes down to your toes - creating an icy wooziness.

Time seems to stop as the world before you moves in a blur. You only have a split second to comprehend the fact that you're falling before your head hits the floor with a hard thud. God knows how long you were lying there until Angela found you.

Your consciousness slips in and out, catching glimpses of blonde hair, bright - obnoxiously bright lights, and a familiar german accent murmuring words you're too exhausted to comprehend. A rhythmic beeping pulls you away from the daze-like state and you rapidly blink to try and adjust to the awful hospital lights.

Sitting up, you take note that you're in the hospital room that's situated near Angela's office. Distantly, you recall getting your annual vaccines here. Reaching over proves to be quite the task when two thin needles hooked to tubes are probed in both your arms. Because of this, you have to awkwardly twist your arm and stretch out your fingers to press the call button attached to the hospital bed. Practically seconds after, the door swings open with a disheveled Angela storming in.

"Y/N! Was zum Teufel??"

Your eyes widen in shock, you've only heard Angela curse a handful of times and it usually only slipped out during a disastrous event. In your momentary shock, Angela's taken two long strides over to you, her eyes flickering and scanning between your form on the bed and the monitoring machine beside you. Wordlessly you reach up to cup her pale cheek - it felt like ages since you had last seen her.

"Angie,"

Angela's hair's uncharacteristically frizzy and some strands have come loose from her signature ponytail, dark circles drown out the color from her blue eyes and her lips are chapped from her constant biting (a bad habit she picked up due to stress) - you thought she had never looked more beautiful.

"You're so beautiful..."

"What? Liebling are you feeling disoriented? Tell me your symptoms quickly so I can prescribe an extra dosage of-"

Angela's rambling gets cut short when you press your pointer finger to her lips.

"I'm fine, Angie. Don't worry about me."

A bright flush blooms all the way to her ears, her eyebrows pulling together in a tight line.

"Don't worry? Don't, worry?? Y/N I found you passed out in a pool of blood! For god's sake, I had to stitch the gash on your head! What would've happened if I hadn't found you??"

Your eyes flicker down to the tile floor, guilt blending with traces of nausea to create a sickening, gut wrenching feeling. Silence falls over the small room like an overwhelmingly heavy weighted blanket. A click of Angela's heels and the feeling of dry hands pulling you to her chest breaks the silence.

"...I just can't lose you Liebling. Not after I've lost so many- I just can't lose you too."

Her voice is hushed and it cracks on the syllable, her accent thickening from the effort it takes to whisper. Your arms come up to hold her thin waist, holding her close in an effort to say 'I'm here, I'm not going anywhere'. You two stay in that position for who knows how long but it gets cut short when she pulls away hesitantly.

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"..I didn't want to worry you, you've been so busy - I didn't want to add to you're plate."

A sharp exhale escapes through her nose, her hand creeping up the side of your cheek to force your eyes to meet hers.

"I always have time for you, mein schätz. Please tell me next time."

"Only if you take care of yourself too! I mean this in the best way possible but you look rough Angie"

#overwatch #overwatch x reader #mercy x reader #mercy ow #mercy overwatch #angela ziegler x reader #angela ziegler #ow 2 #overwatch 2

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labratatouille · 4 months

Text

History Professor Kyle Broflovski headcanons because my hyperfixation is hyperfixating:

⋆ known to drink red wine from a teapot, Stan will occasionally join him for this reason alone.

⋆ hands covered in rushed ink scribbles 24/7, he’s his own diary.

⋆ to the surprise of basically everybody who has ever witnessed his academic grind-set, unless he is incredibly swamped by work his office remains pretty tidy.

⋆ known to fall asleep at his desk.

⋆ treats lectures like performances, his students thank him for it.

⋆ one time Cartman as a joke edited Kyle’s lecture PowerPoint (with a back-up obviously) to include some incredibly rude images. To his surprise Kyle made direct eye contact with him, sipped his coffee, and ran with it. Nobody suspected a thing.

⋆ he has doctors handwriting, it is illegible, he is not sorry. He also doesn’t believe Stan when he gently lets him know that it is unreadable chicken scratch.

⋆ calls his students nerds, he finds it justified because at least he gets paid to be one.

⋆ while discussing deep and academic historic topics he will not hesitate to swear or use slang, he can and will debate for hours on why he thinks this is fair.

⋆ while his office is tidy, there is certainly an abundance of books. everywhere. every surface, even the floor. bro has his own personal library.

⋆ will buy himself flowers to make his office a bit more cheery, once had a two hour debate with Cartman after buying himself tulips – Cartman is far too into Victorian Flower Language and assumed Kyle had got himself into a secret relationship with this as his pedantic way of announcing it. In character tho honestly–

⋆ refuses to sell textbooks after using them, Kyle and his old textbooks have a parasocial relationship. He annotates them excessively with little doodles and everything.

⋆ actually isn’t super into literature, he was shocked at finding out how into reading Kenny was and is super open to all of the blond’s recommendations. Kenny is the only reason he regularly reads non-fiction books.

⋆ hates the overused Indiana Jones jokes but will not hesitate to make them himself, especially towards Kenny (the walking stereotype of a thrill-seeking treasure hunter)

⋆ odd socks. this man will be wearing the most formal attire ever, refined to the smallest details, then people realise him wearing like one pink sock and one checkered blue sock and be like “ohhhhh screw this guy”

⋆ known for his quick wit and sarcastic comments, always keeping his students on their toes and paying attention to every word he says. When talking to the guys he says that it’s just a tactic to get them to focus, really he just secretly loves being that bitch.

If you’re interested so far then feel free to go check out a fic with this Kyle as one of the main characters on AO3 called Knights Of The Cardinal Compass, a fic where the m4 are all history nerds and go on an adventure looking for the all powerful medieval artefact known as the crusaders compass across continents and far too many cities

AO3: lab_ratatouille

Thank you!! Might be back with a part 2 because this man is special to me <3

#south park #sp kyle #sp style #kyle broflovski #dark academia #it’s a fanfic #headcanons #kyle broflovski headcanons #Kyle broflovski as a history teacher

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ace-of-zaun · 1 year

Text

Pas de Deux pt. 8:

Silco x f!reader, 9k words, SFW

CW: obsessive silco, yandere/kidnapping (please see part 1 for the full series warnings!)

Chapter warnings: emotional manipulation, referenced past abuse, unresolved sexual tension, fluff, talk about death and ghosts, talk about murder, angst, possessiveness

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time for you to start feeling like you’re back to normal. That is, this new normal that you’ve found yourself in, after a chance encounter with the King of the Undercity that had changed your life forever.

But despite you no longer feeling that tidal wave of numbness following the wake of your visit Topside, you do notice a slight shift in the air, especially between you and Silco.

Perhaps you’re just looking at things differently now. You’ve both revealed secrets, and honestly, you feel a huge weight lifted from your shoulders now that you’ve done so.

And gods, that confession he’d made when you were in that booth together. Of course, he’d pretty much said it before, not only in words, but with every soft look and reverent touch. But he’d never said it in those exact words and never like that.

In a moment of self-preservation, you’d decided to just forget about the pills. They were gone and you would never get your hands on them without Silco’s help. Instead, you were choosing to focus on the performance for the chem-barons.

But the bitter truth was, you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep stalling in order to devise a new plan to escape. And what made that truth even more sour was the constant, underlying thought that you had no idea what you were going to do when you finally got back to Piltover.

You no longer have a house, or any money to get a temporary roof over your head until everything settles down again.

You’re completely on your own.

But, you keep repeating to yourself that you’ll just have to burn that bridge when you get to it… of course, you’re not beyond literally burning the bridge between Topside and the Undercity if that’s what it takes.

Until then, you tell yourself to keep stalling. Keep pushing the date of the performance back until you have a solid plan in place. Besides, you still didn’t have a costume despite giving Silco some design sketches and a description of the materials you’d seen at the market.

There’s absolutely no point in asking him to take you back there to buy them, so you don’t even bother.

It’s a warm, rainy day when there’s another, almost undetected shift in the air. The soft pitter-patter of rain on the stained glass window of Silco’s office (which you were surprised to discover was one of his own designs), is almost comforting as you sit curled up on the sofa.

Silco is busily scribbling away on some documents at his desk, leaving you to peacefully read through your newest book, one he’d ordered especially for you. But you find yourself unable to focus on any of the words. Your mind is too scattered to concentrate properly.

As you lean your fist against your cheek, elbow propped on the armrest, you gaze at the King of Zaun, wondering just what could be going through that complicated head of his.

It wouldn’t take a detective to notice that since the visit Topside he was steadily becoming more and more swamped with work. Could it just be a coincidence? Or was there a causal link?

Perhaps the visit to Piltover had required some favours that needed paying back. You recall Silco’s hushed conversation as you’d arrived at the Piltover side of the bridge. Or maybe someone else had gotten wind of the stunt and was attempting to use some information against him.

It’s this thought that prompts you to blurt out your next question.

“Did you want me to help with anything?”

Silco’s eyes snap up to meet yours, surprise etched alongside the intricate lines of his scarred face.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, a slight swivel of his chair to face you.

“With your work,” you clarify, nodding towards his desk. “You’re always so busy, is there anything I can help with?”

The corner of his mouth lifts up a touch and you immediately assume he’s going to dismiss you.

“Actually there is, my darling,” he responds, completely subverting your expectations as he carefully places his pen down on the desk.

A hint of relief rushes through you. This could be your chance to learn something that you could use to blackmail him. Or an opportunity to learn some names or locations of people that could give you sanctuary when you finally escape.

“I have some letters that have yet to be placed in their envelopes and stamped with a wax seal,” Silco continues, rubbing his forehead as if he’s trying to erase a headache.

Your initial instinct is to laugh and tell him that giving you hot wax in his presence is an absolutely horrific idea. But obviously you can’t say that.

Instead, you offer him a simple, and rather pleasant, “Okay.”

Silco begins to roll his chair back, so you purposefully stand up and stride across the room to grab yourself a chair before he can do something ridiculous like suggest you sit on his lap.

Then again, the more you think about it, the more you think it might not be the worst idea. Maybe you’d accidentally break one of his old man hips and render him unable to fight back…

Silco suggests nothing of the sort, pushing himself up from his chair and stalking over to the drinks cart to pour you both a glass of water.

Truthfully, you’re not sure whether you feel relieved or disappointed.

Placing the chair on the opposite side to Silco’s cushioned throne, you quickly get settled, hoping to sneak a look at some of the documents on his desk before he returns. Unfortunately, Silco is rather well-practised at pouring drinks, meaning he’s already back at the desk before you can even make out just one upside-down name.

He gets comfy in his chair, placing your drink in the nearest empty space on the polished wood before taking a quick sip of his own. Then, he opens a drawer and retrieves a small wooden box and a pile of letters and envelopes.

Silco puts the wooden box to one side, which you presume holds the tools to make the wax seals, and places the letters and pre-marked envelopes in front of himself.

The look he gives you as he raises his head and makes eye contact with you fills your stomach with unexpected dread.

“Are you ready?” he asks gravely.

Why the fuck is he acting like you’re about to rush into battle? You’re only putting paper inside other bits of paper; what’s the worst that could happen?

“Uh… yes?” you reply with no small amount of hesitance.

“Alright. This here is what we call an envelope,” he says, holding one up like you would when showing a child. “Typically, we will fold the letter to fit the size of the envelope we intend to use. In this case, I have a size that requires simply folding the paper in half once, like so.”

You stare at him incredulously as he takes a letter, folds it neatly in half, then slides it into the envelope.

…Is this bitch really explaining envelopes to you?

“Once the letter is situated within the envelope, there is, of course, the matter of sealing it so that unwanted parties are less likely to read the contents of the letter. For this we-”

You can’t help but interrupt him as your blood begins to boil with indignation.

“Silco, I’m not a child, I know how to send a letter,” you say sharply, not bothering to hold back on the sarcasm and annoyance that bleed through your tone.

Silco’s expression contorts into one of pure melodramatic shock.

“You do? I was under the impression that Pilties had an entire body of staff to do everything for them,” he drawls, his cynical timbre plucking at the very strings of the deep rage building inside you.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to snap that you’re not a real Piltie and that you’ve done everything for yourself for as long as you can remember, until you suddenly realise that he doesn’t know you grew up in the Undercity just like him.

So your passionate and entirely stupid heart goes for the next best thing without one single approval from your rational mind.

You insult him.

“Oh, piss off,” you snap, your tone drenched in mockery instead of any malice. “At least I didn’t have to kidnap someone just to get a fucking girlfriend.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, that passionate heart instantly begins to sober up, your eyes snapping to his in shock when your brain catches up with what you’ve just said to the Eye of Zaun.

But instead of looking murderous like you expect, Silco is grinning wolfishly, allowing you to relax… marginally. No good can come from a grin as lustful as that.

His voice drops low and his eyes appear to be glimmering as he leans slightly closer to whisper huskily.

“I love it when you get all fiery; you’re like a burst of pure colour in the dark night sky.”

You feel a flushed line of red colour your throat.

Does he really mean that? Surely he prefers the nicer, ‘pretend you’ that you’d spent the past few months acting as, not the unguarded, sarcastic version of yourself that slips out every so often.

“Yes, well, teasing isn’t a very nice thing to do to your partner who is very kindly offering to help you with your work, is it?” you sniff haughtily, deflecting his compliment because you honestly have no clue how you’d even begin to accept it.

“You’re right, I do hope you’ll forgive me, my angel,” he drawls, his lips curling in amusement.

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

Silco picks up the rest of the letters and envelopes, and holds them out towards you in the air above the desk. But when you go to reach for them, he grabs your fingers with his free hand, keeping eye contact as he seductively leans down and presses a chaste kiss on your knuckles.

Now, this of course would have been an entirely sweet gesture, had he not then punctuated it with a quick, kitten lick of his tongue along your middle finger, making you jolt in surprise, as well as a flood of heat rushing through you as you imagine his tongue doing that on other places of your body…

Fuck.

You snatch the letters and envelopes from him, ignoring the blush you just know you’re sporting and childishly muttering a, “You didn’t even apologise,” to yourself as you wipe your hand on your top.

If only you could wipe away the confusing rush of feelings that were now coursing through your veins.

You can tell he’s amused and irritatingly pleased with himself by the way he’s smirking like the cat who ate the canary. It’s a real effort to just ignore him, wanting to give in to every impulsive thought that tells you to push his drink over until it spills all over his desk and onto his lap.

Luckily, as you get started matching letters to pre-written envelopes, Silco begins to focus on his own work again, but not until he’s done his fair share of openly admiring you.

Admiring himself for successfully pushing your buttons, more like.

Time passes quite quickly as you form an assembly line of folding each letter, slotting it into the matching envelope, and placing it on a pile ready for stamping. You try to surreptitiously catch glimpses of names and details of any useful information, without making it seem like you’re reading the contents of the letters.

Once you’ve done that, fortunately memorising a few random names that you hope will someday prove useful, you start on heating the wax and stamping each seal, using the tools you find in the wooden box.

It’s not long before you find yourself getting lost in thought.

If you offered to do this again, could you perhaps sneak in a letter of your own without him noticing? But the real question was, who would you send it to?

Silco had already told you he was working with the authorities, so they were out of the question. And it wasn’t like you had any real friends or family that would be willing to help you.

The Ballet Academy was a no-go as well, given Oswald’s cruel betrayal all that time ago.

Perhaps you could find out where that new chem-baron was based, the one you’d met outside of Silco’s office. What was his name again? …Otto?

Maybe getting in contact with one of the chem-barons was the way to go. You could devise a scheme with one of them ahead of your performance, which would eliminate the need for you to gather any weapons yourself…

But surely Silco would read any reply before you could even have the chance to read it yourself.

You almost jump in surprise when Silco’s hand gently comes to rest on your own, cutting off your train of thoughts. As you’re shocked back to the present, it dawns on you that you’ve just been staring into the lighter flame for an indeterminate amount of time now.

You’d gotten so lost in your thoughts, you’d simply stopped doing anything at all.

When you finally look up at Silco, his brow is furrowed and his eyes tick over your face in clear concern.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asks quietly. Softly.

“Nothing,” you respond with a shake of your head. “Why?”

“You look terribly pensive,” he says, almost like it’s hurting him to see you in such a state.

You desperately try to think of an excuse, one that might work to your advantage given how gentle and understanding he’s been around you these past few days. Ignoring the little itch inside you that feels bad for using his kindness against him, you come up with an idea fairly quickly.

You can feel your whole expression and body language slowly shifting as you turn on the act, carefully laying the lighter back in the wooden box. Silco looks dreadfully concerned when you finally look up at him again.

“Silco, could you ask your staff to stop ignoring me, please? It makes me feel worthless when I try to make conversation with them and they just blank me,” you say, adding a slight tremble to your voice.

Anguish fills the seafoam of his good eye, leaning forward to gently cup your jaw with his calloused palm.

“Who ignores you?” he asks, low and serious.

“Everyone. Unless they’re passing on a message from you, they all just look straight through me.”

The corner of his lips turn down, his eyes following the motion as he stares blankly at the papers on his desk, clearly thinking hard. His thumb absentmindedly traces a gentle line across your jaw and you wonder if he even knows that he’s doing it.

You’re not entirely sure what could be so puzzling about the request. And it wasn’t like it was a complete lie. It was insulting being ignored by people you saw everyday.

At its worst, it made you feel lonely. But on the more practical side, you needed people to actually speak to you if you wanted to get them on your side. Especially if you were going to escape. You’d learnt enough by now to realise that you couldn’t do it all alone.

Silco appears to be stuck in a spiral of thoughts so you try the next weapon in your arsenal: touch.

You stand up, breaking out of his hold to round the desk and perch on the edge of it, sitting right in front of him. Taking both of his hands in yours, you watch the minute tics of surprise play out on his expression while he stares at your joined hands in wonder.

“Silco, we’re courting, surely you want me to get along with your staff now that I live here with you.”

At that, he finally looks up at you from where he’s still sitting in his chair, his expression nothing short of enamoured.

“Say that again,” he begs almost breathlessly, as his mismatched eyes scan your face.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to keep the smug smile from invading your features. You knew that would get him. The older ones love it when you use terms like that.

“What? We’re courting?” you repeat innocently.

“Yes. We are,” he sighs contentedly, accompanying it with a wistful, faraway look over your shoulder, like he’s imagining you both growing old together or something equally nauseating.

You refrain from grimacing and wait impatiently for him to come to a decision, but quickly pull him from his thoughts before he can get any smart ideas.

“Silco?”

He takes a deep breath, standing up from his seat and pulling you up with him. One arm loops around your waist while the other raises so his fingers can gently weave into your hair. The unreadable expression on his face makes you worry that he’s going to deny you again but he proves you wrong the moment he opens his mouth.

“I’ll speak to my staff for you, treasure,” he promises, slowly leaning forward until he rests his forehead against yours.

Your first instinct is to close your eyes, but you fight it as your heart suddenly begins to beat faster in your chest.

Is he going to try to kiss you again?

You can’t. You can’t kiss him. Especially not with the way your arms and legs are starting to feel like jelly.

No, no, no. You can’t feel like this. You cannot react to him like this. You’re just not used to this level of attention and affection, that’s all.

“Thank you,” you whisper, daring yourself to wait just a few more seconds before pulling back from him.

You’re forced to excuse yourself, telling him that you need to get changed and begin your afternoon rehearsals in your dance studio. Surprisingly, he lets you go without any protests.

And as you swiftly walk back to your bedroom, it’s a great mental effort to block out any and all thoughts that begin to swirl through your aching brain.

No thoughts, no thoughts, no thoughts…

And definitely no feelings.

True to his word, Silco must have spoken to his staff because all of a sudden you’re greeted with a simple ‘good morning’, or at the very least an amiable nod, by everyone you cross paths with. Some of them even begin to call you by your name and you quickly jump on the chance to learn all their names too.

Besides giving you some desperately needed hope that you might finally be able to gather some allies in this gods-forsaken place, it also greatly boosts your mood. You no longer feel so isolated; a downright miracle, you think, given your situation.

A few days later, you make your way down the corridor to Silco’s office, your newly increased motivation making you more than ready to see what information you can tease from him today.

You’d come to the realisation that if you learnt more about Silco and his order of operations, you might be able to use that information against him. Whether that be through blackmail, or selling his secrets to the other chem-barons in exchange for help at the performance, or even just learning a piece of information that could be the key to your escape.

Silco had regretfully cancelled your usual lunch together because of some last minute meetings he’d been forced to endure, so you only had the one remaining chance today to see what plans you could make regarding the chem-baron performance.

But when you grasp the handle and push open the door, you’re stunned to find that nothing is set up for dinner like it normally would be.

Silco glances up when you enter the room, his whole body buzzing with annoyance until he recognises you, and a heavy, tired sort of relief sweeps over him. Then, his head snaps to look at the clock on the wall, as if your arrival has suddenly alerted him to just how late it is.

“I’m sorry, darling, I must have lost track of time,” he sighs, running a distressed hand through his hair.

“That’s okay,” you reply, trying not to feel disappointed. “I’ll just head back down to the kitchen and grab something.”

Now that you’re thinking about it, you should probably get something for him too. He most likely hasn’t eaten in a while, especially if he had meetings at lunch.

“No. Stay,” he says, as he sluggishly pulls himself to his feet and makes his way over to you. “I shouldn’t have neglected you for so long. Let me order something for the both of us.”

You’re just about to protest but by the time he arrives in front of you, the tension in his thin body makes it look like he’s about to crumble from stress. Silco carefully places a hand on your arm, his eyes wide and pleading despite the pronounced bags under his eyes.

“Alright, I’ll stay,” you tell him, smiling at him warmly.

It appears to melt some of the stress as he relaxes with a sigh that borders on the line of being shaky. The hand on your bicep strokes down your arm tenderly before he reluctantly breaks away to go to the door.

You hear him giving instructions to the guard while you grab your book from the shelf and get yourself comfy on the sofa.

A part of you feels a little bit bad that he’s so tired and worked up. Something must have happened to cause such an abrupt increase in workload like this.

But the driven, determined-to-escape part of you is focused on the potential for blackmail. Maybe he’ll be more likely to open up to you more in this vulnerable state.

Once he’s finished giving his orders, Silco closes the door and crosses the room to no doubt chip away at more work before the food arrives. And as he slumps back into his chair, you refrain from asking him how his day has been.

You want to wait until he’s too tired to even think about what he’s saying.

Turning away from him so you can’t cave in to your impulses, you only get halfway down the next page in your book when the door opens again, revealing a visibly annoyed Sevika. She hovers in the doorway, seemingly not wanting to even step foot in the lion’s den.

Your gaze bounces back and forth between Silco’s stony expression and Sevika’s stubborn one, morbidly wondering who is going to win the intense staring contest.

Oh, who are you kidding? The lion wins, of course.

“Otto has… requested another meeting,” she announces gravely when Silco’s scowl deepens minutely, indicating he’s run out of patience with the short-lived game.

A muscle tics in Silco’s jaw and he grinds out one, pestilent word.

“No.”

“He’s waiting outside. Says he won’t leave until you see him,” Sevika continues, taking on the air of a messenger who really does not want to get shot.

“I’m busy,” he retorts. It’s said without any emotion, but you can tell by the twitch in his good eye that he’s really irritated.

Unfortunately, Sevika either doesn’t realise this, or just doesn’t care.

“Seriously, boss, he won’t shut up about-”

You nearly jump out of your skin when Silco slams one hand on the wood of his desk.

“He can sleep on the fucking floor of the club for all I care, I am not seeing anyone else today,” he yells, in a rough voice that you’ve never heard him use before. “Now, get out of my sight.”

For a few, strained moments, you think that Sevika is going to yell back, but she appears to rein it in before curling her lip into a snarl. She slams the door shut with a heavy thud that rattles the door frame.

You can practically taste the charged air as you and Silco sit in silence, your lips pulled into a thin line while Silco stares at the door with an expression that seems to be a mixture of strain, anxiety, and pure murder.

He doesn’t even look at you as he abruptly stands from his chair, the motion sending it rolling back in a half-circle. Then, he takes carefully measured steps to his bedroom door, opening it stiffly and entering the room like he’s one wrong move from completely exploding.

You wait for three long seconds before pulling yourself to stand.

Deep down you know you’re not scared of his anger anymore, but you also can’t just leave him when he’s so upset, so you reluctantly follow him into the bedroom.

And as you peer into the darkened room, you find him sitting on the edge of his bed, dark mop of hair hanging down as his head rests in those large palms of his. The door creaks a little when you push on it, alerting him to your presence so as not to startle him.

He doesn’t move an inch.

You cross the room with an inaudible sigh and gently sit down next to him on the bed, waiting for him to work through whatever’s going on in his head.

“I apologise that you had to witness that,” Silco tells you after a few quiet moments, his voice strained and tight.

It’s only because you know he can’t see you that you allow yourself to roll your eyes. You watched him choke out a man only days ago and he’s worried you’re upset because he shouted at someone?

“I… I don’t want to accidentally take out my frustrations on you, darling,” he stresses, his hands clenching against the side of his head.

The statement shocks you a little bit. Your husband would never have said something like that. Something so caring and mindful of your wellbeing.

Your brow furrows as you examine Silco’s posture of utter distress. What’s worse, the inside of your lip is then promptly bitten when you notice that it’s making your heart squeeze in your own mirrored distress.

You sigh quietly.

Why does he have to be so thoughtful? Why couldn’t he just make it easy for you to hate him?

“Silco,” you breathe, slowly and gently placing your hand on his shoulder. “I really appreciate you not taking it out on me, but it’s okay to feel frustrated.”

He doesn’t respond to your attempts to validate him, so you wordlessly motion for him to lie back on the sheets with you. To your surprise, he allows you to guide him backwards to the middle of the bed until you’re both comfortably lying on your sides, facing each other.

Then, you surprise yourself when your arms slowly wrap around his thin frame, pulling him against you in a comforting hug. Your legs naturally tangle together, only coming to rest when you’re both comfy in each other’s embrace.

It’s not until you begin to stroke his back with easy, soothing motions that he goes completely boneless against you, releasing a deep and heavy sigh.

“Why don’t we both take a break for the rest of this evening, hmm?” you mumble calmingly against his sternum.

Silco tightens his arms around you like he doesn’t want to ever let go.

“I’m afraid I can’t take the rest of the evening off,” he replies, just as quietly.

You open your mouth to argue when he continues. “However, if I finish the bulk of this paperwork tonight, I will have time to take you out somewhere pleasant tomorrow morning. Just the two of us.”

Well, you’re not going to say no to going somewhere outside The Drop, even if it is with him and more than likely an entourage of guards as well.

“That sounds lovely, Sil,” you tell him, squeezing your own arms around him in a quick, acknowledging hug.

He sighs again and pulls you even closer, tucking your head beneath his chin. For a second, you think he kisses the top of your head, but it’s so featherlight, it could have just been a brush of air.

Convincing yourself that it was nothing more than another exhalation, you’re just about to start asking questions to glean some useful information from him when he shifts slightly and exhales in one long breath.

But within it, he speaks a heart-wrenching question in a timbre so low, you’re not entirely sure you’re meant to hear it.

“What would I do without you?”

You can’t help the way your heart pangs at the raw vulnerability of it, and it makes you falter enough to hold your tongue.

What is he going to do when you’re gone? And why does that make you feel so… unsettled?

The new emotion throws you for a loop, so you lay there for a little while longer, just quietly holding one another while your brain runs on overtime. It feels like barely any time has passed at all by the time your food is ready and delivered to Silco’s office, so you both get up to eat, resuming your usual routine.

Once you’re finished, Silco insists that he’ll be okay for the rest of the evening, so you return to your room alone, wondering what the hell possessed you to comfort him like that. To abandon your plans of manipulation and extortion for a rare moment of compassion.

It doesn’t take you long before you’re convincing yourself that it was necessary in selling the lie that you’re his loving girlfriend, who cares about him and his well being. That you’re getting strategically closer to him until you have enough information about him to strike.

But you can’t shake the odd feeling in your chest no matter how much you tell yourself it’s all fake.

The next morning, instead of completing your daily stretches in your studio, you get dressed for a trip out, not knowing where Silco has planned to visit.

He keeps tight-lipped as you walk through the club arm-in-arm, but he can’t keep the little, excited smirk from his scarred lips. In the carriage, you pester him with questions until he relents and tells you that it’s somewhere he found in his youth.

Well, the words he actually uses are ‘broke into’ but, you know, it’s the thought that counts.

It takes less time to arrive at your mystery destination than you were expecting and before you know it, you’re climbing out of the carriage to find yourself at a row of shops only metres away from the bridge to Piltover. A knot in your throat, you forbid yourself from even looking across the River, lest it ruin your mood entirely.

He ushers you quickly into a quaint little flower shop, a line of guards following you in whilst two stay outside.

You’re surprised to see that there’s no other customers in such a beautiful store, but it quickly crosses your mind that Silco probably paid the owners a considerable amount to close the business for you both, so there would be no risk of anyone seeing you.

Once inside, Silco takes your hand in his and leads you up the rickety stairs where you discover a beautiful rooftop garden, filled with a kaleidoscope of flowers and plants. Ivy covers the trellis walls and each path between the rows of greenery are lined with smooth cobblestones.

It truly is a hidden gem to the darkened city that lies beneath it.

You spend the next hour or so looking at all the vibrant flora in turn, having to hold Silco back from trying to buy you every single flower that you say you like the look of.

Talk comes surprisingly easy as you slowly walk up and down each row, gazing at the beautiful wildlife together. A strange light feeling sits within your chest and Silco holds your hand pretty much the entire time.

When you’ve finished looking at each of the plants, he leads you to a bench and produces another picnic basket for you to share some lunch.

Truthfully, you’d been hoping he’d agree to take you to a café, having not been to one in months now. But he’d told you that it would have been too risky, which you infer to mean that any nice café would be somewhere visited by Pilties and therefore people more likely to recognise you.

That particular pipe dream out the window, you resolve to enjoy your morning as much as you can as you sit on the bench gazing peacefully at the myriad flowers on display.

Remarkably, you find it rather easy to not get caught up in your thoughts, simply appreciating the fresh air and the quiet.

Just being out and taking a break from the usual routine is honestly refreshing. It almost reminds you of the night you’d spent with Silco on the mezzanine of the club… up until the point you’d gotten blackout drunk, of course.

Next to you, Silco shifts a little until his leg is pressed flush against yours, so you turn to look up at him. As expected, he’s already looking at you. But what you don’t expect, is the look of pure captivation spread across his features, like he’s completely enamoured as he gazes at your face.

You break out into a confused smile, your head shaking slightly in a questioning motion, because you’re not even doing anything. All you’ve done for the past few minutes is sit quietly and stare into space, but Silco is peering down at you like you’ve just promised him the moon.

You’re just about to ask him why he’s looking at you so intensely, when he squeezes your hand, and speaks in the most reverent and soothing tone you’ve ever heard from him.

“I love you.”

It feels like a bolt of lightning has just torn through your chest.

Sweet Janna.

That was somehow much more powerful than the last time he said it. Much more honest and personal. And heartfelt, like it was the most casual, straightforward concept he’s ever known.

Somewhere within you, you know you should be trying to use this to your advantage, exploiting him rather than desperately trying to figure out how it makes you feel. But you’re too distracted by the feeling of your heart thudding in your chest and the racing journey your mind has embarked on.

You have no idea what it all means, why you’re reacting so viscerally.

You definitely don’t love him. You’re not entirely sure you even like him.

But gods, does he make you feel so confused and upside-down and like you’re drifting out to sea when he speaks to you like this.

“I- uh, I…” you stutter, unsure how to respond.

Silco gently holds your cheek, guiding you to look at the small, understanding smile on his lips.

“It’s okay, darling. You don’t have to say it back, I just wanted you to know how I feel,” he reassures you, so softly and gently.

When you’d first locked eyes with the Eye of Zaun across that museum gallery, you would never in a million years have thought he’d be capable of something like this.

A question pops into your head before you can stop it.

Can love change a person for the better?

Could love change you for the better?

The jolting thought feels akin to stripping back a layer of your soul, especially when you lock eyes with him once more, your expression dropping as you suddenly feel incredibly vulnerable in front of him.

Whatever Silco is thinking causes him to mirror your expression, his whole demeanour falling into something terribly raw in a matter of milliseconds.

Then, he begins to lean forward slowly, his eyes never once leaving yours as his lips get closer.

You force yourself to stop him, a flutter of panic rushing through your veins.

If you kiss him, you’ll be giving a piece of yourself away to him, and you honestly don’t know if you could turn back if he owns even just that small sliver of you.

You place a hand on his chest, halting his movements.

“Sorry,” you blurt out, a little too breathlessly for your liking. “I don’t kiss before marriage.”

It’s a cynical little deflection and you know it. But it’s also a means of self-protection.

Automatically, you expect anger, or at the very least frustration, so you prepare yourself for it when you lean back to view his expression in its entirety. Instead, you’re greeted with another tiny, little curl of his lips.

“Alright,” he says, a soft hint of amusement lining his words.

You blink. Then his meaning dawns on you.

“Wait, what?”

His smile grows a bit wider, almost evolving into a smirk. Silco uses one hand to push himself up from the bench and the other to reach into his coat pocket. Your eyes dart to the little black box that appears in his hand and a new wave of panic races through you.

Without thinking, you grab onto his arm and pull him to sit back down on the bench with a bouncing thud, before he can even think about getting down on one knee. Your fingers dig into his forearm as you clutch onto him tightly.

“Please tell me you’re not proposing,” you say desperately, your whole body heating up at the very idea.

Silco chuckles, gently prising your fingers from where they press into his arm and lifting them to plant a quick, chaste kiss on the back of your hand.

“Not yet, my lovely. When I do propose, I want it to be perfect.”

You bite the inside of your lip, hoping he can’t read what it really means.

Fuck, you really didn’t want to marry another old man. At least, not one you weren’t actively manipulating for money.

Unaware of your inner turmoil, Silco hands you the box and you look at it with barely masked trepidation. The hinges of the box creak gently as you slowly open it, finding a necklace laid carefully on a piece of black velvet, to your immense relief.

No engagement ring, thank fuck.

Looped through a delicate silver chain is a dainty, little star charm, lined with tiny gems so shiny, the daylight peeking through the flowered roof of trellises bounces off them.

You have to stifle your gasp of wonder. You’d been gifted plenty of nice necklaces in your time living Topside, but you’d never been gifted one with sentiment.

How did he know you have a fascination with stars?

Silco carefully observes your reaction, but it isn’t until you meet his burning gaze that he puts a gentle hand on your knee.

“You are the light of my life; brighter than any shooting star in our vast galaxy,” he rasps. “I want you to remember that every time you wear this necklace. I want you to always be reminded of how much I love you.”

You sit in dumbstruck awe as he takes the necklace out of the box and unclasps it. It almost feels too natural as you go through the motions of turning to face away from him so he can gently sweep your hair to one side.

Silco reaches over your right shoulder and then the left to catch and place the necklace against your sternum, re-fastening the clasp until it sits comfortably just above your collarbone. But instead of pulling away like you expect, one hand smooths down the side of your ribcage as he presses a lingering kiss to the exposed skin above your shoulder.

You hate the way you have to fight against the shiver your body threatens to produce as he does.

This is all so unfair. All so messed-up. He’s both metaphorically and quite literally putting you in chains, slowly weaving you further and further into his web, despite how desperately you try to fight it.

And if you hate how your body is reacting, you absolutely detest the way your heart seems to think this is, if not a bit cheesy, actually a little bit romantic.

The thought startles you, your eyes snapping wide open just as they were starting to get heavy-lidded.

You’re getting in far too deep. You need to get out before he completely brainwashes you. Before you sink even deeper under his dark, sirenic spell.

Another week passes, but your confused feelings stay, no matter how much you try to focus on escaping. The battle between your ruthless determination to leave and your base instinct to be cherished grows more difficult with every passing day.

It’s not helped any further when Silco pops his head around the door of your studio one morning asking you to visit him in his office when you’ve finished stretching. An unusual request, made infinitely more unusual when he tells you to bring along some pointe shoes as well.

So, pointe shoes in hand, you make your way down the corridor to his office wondering just what the hell this enigmatic man could be planning now. Perhaps he’d gotten impatient and wanted a demonstration of what you’d choreographed so far. Or maybe he wanted another ‘lesson’, especially after he’d expressed his desire for you to teach him how to dance.

But why would he want you to dance in his office after commissioning you a brand new, custom built dance studio?

By the time you’ve reached his office door, you’ve imagined countless different reasons, all of which you shake from your head with a quick rap of your knuckles on the smooth wood. It’s a formality more than anything because you don’t wait to be granted entry, immediately pulling open the door and stepping into the emerald-soaked room.

Silco is already looking up at you by the time you shut the door with a careful click.

“Sweetheart,” he greets warmly from his desk.

“Silco,” you respond with a polite nod, entirely at odds with your subtly coy tone.

He gets up from his chair as you take a step further into the room, finding yourself overcome by a sudden bout of nerves, stemming from the fact that you don’t actually know what he’s got planned for you. So you decide to break the ice with some good old fashioned, harmless flirting.

It’s normal to only start flirting with your partner when you’re months into a relationship, right?

“So, where do you want me?” you ask coquettishly.

Silco smirks from where he stands in front of his desk before a husky growl leaves his lips, leaning forward in anticipation with the salacious word.

“Everywhere.”

You huff a breath of laughter, surprised by how easily you’re flirting with someone you once feared more than anyone else in Runeterra. But the easy feeling is short-lived because Silco abruptly turns and stalks into his bedroom without another word.

Your face drops as you stay rooted to the spot.

Shit, why did you have to say that? This is not the time to address all those puzzling feelings you’ve desperately been trying to shake ever since he’d confessed his love for you.

To your immense relief, Silco emerges a few moments later, holding out in front of him what is, without a doubt, the most beautiful costume you’ve ever seen. Immediately you recognise all the little details that you’d designed in the sketches you’d shared with Silco.

You can’t help the way your jaw goes a little slack as you take it all in.

The whole costume is a haunting pearly white, giving it the air of a ghostly, dreamlike dress. The hard bodice is subtly decorated with delicate lines of pearls, whilst the tulle skirt is long enough to flow all the way down to your calves, in the style of a Romantic tutu instead of the Classic short style that is commonly associated with ballerinas.

Of course, the eerie design had been deliberate. Your muse when designing both the choreography and the costume had been the ballet Giselle; a tragic tale of a young peasant girl who dies of a broken heart and is resurrected as a ghost, joining a collection of spectral, unwedded brides, who rise from their graves at night to tempt and kill any young men who wander too close.

Your grisly choice of story had been entirely defiant. Stubborn to the end.

Partly, you’d just been very drawn to the haunting aesthetic of the unwed spirits. But a part of it was you boldly stating that you’ll never be as foolish as Giselle is in the story. You’ll never die of a broken heart and you’ll certainly never give yourself so wholly to a man who will eventually betray you.

In your eyes, you relate much more heavily to those vengeful brides, the ones who will kill any man who gets too close to them, who try to hurt them. Those spectres that force men to literally dance until their death, when their exhausted bodies and minds can take no more.

That is what you were imagining when you first began to craft your performance for the chem-barons. And seeing that creation become real in front of your eyes is almost ground-breaking for you.

But despite seeing your muse come to life, you can’t ignore the little whispers inside you that quietly tell you that your vision no longer fits. Silco is no longer just a black-and-white villain, like he was in the beginning. He’s something more now.

Something you’re not ready to address.

You can’t shake the feeling that it all feels wrong now.

“Silco,” you whisper shakily, as you stare at the costume in his hands. “It’s… it’s perfect.”

“You designed it, my love, it’s only perfect because your wonderful mind willed it to be,” he replies, bringing you back to the present.

It’s not until he speaks that you almost crash into the realisation that if the costume is ready, the performance is likely to be very soon.

You bite your lip nervously.

You’re not ready, you don’t have a plan yet, you don’t have any weapons, or allies, or escape routes.

You’re not ready, you need more time, you-

“Will you try it on for me, darling? If it needs altering, I’ll have to send it back to the tailor,” Silco asks gently.

“Yeah, sure,” you mumble, still distracted by your racing mind.

You walk towards him and carefully take the dress in your other hand, pointe shoes still hanging down by your side as you hold them by the ribbons. Silco kindly gestures towards his bedroom, so you go in and set the costume down on the bed before closing the door to get changed.

It doesn’t take you too long to put on the costume, as well as the tights and jewellery Silco had left on his bed, and the pointe shoes you’d brought with you of course.

With a quick look in Silco’s floor length mirror, you’re satisfied enough to exit the bedroom, finding him perched on the edge of his desk waiting for you.

The expression that is slowly unveiled on his face as he drinks in the sight of you is enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

No-one has ever looked at you like this before. Like you’re the incandescent Northern Lights in his dark, shadowy world.

He looks like he’s in complete, love-struck awe.

You slowly walk towards him, willing your limbs to stop trembling when you finally stop in front of him, a few steps away so he can look at the whole costume.

After a beat, Silco pushes to stand from the desk, but he doesn’t move any closer. He just stares, his lips parted and his eyes full of pure wonder.

Feeling like you’re about to burst from the building tension in the air, you begin to turn slowly, letting him see the whole outfit. As you do, you can’t help but notice that it fits you really well.

The tailor that Silco hired had done a fantastic job, especially considering you’d only met the small, elderly man for the briefest amount of time in your dance studio. Of course, it hadn’t helped that Silco had scowled at the poor man the whole time he’d been taking your measurements, and had practically growled when he’d tried to measure the inseam of your leg, all but shoving him out the room.

Honestly, you’re surprised the costume fits at all since the tailor had definitely not been given the chance to take all the measurements he’d needed.

Silco carefully steps forward from the desk until he’s in your personal space. Then, he begins to run his long hands over the costume reverently. His fingers trace the pearls on your bodice, slowly travelling up and down the hard material that shifts with every shallow movement of your ribcage.

A flush of heat spreads across your upper chest at his touch, causing you to take in a deep, slow breath. Silco’s eyes catch yours at the sound and it only serves to fan the flames.

“You are beautiful,” he rasps, his voice full of barely restrained desire, “Enchanting. Ethereal.”

You’re forced to hold in an unexpected gasp when he sinks to his knees in front of you, finger tips trailing down the long skirt until he gently grasps the hem between two fingers.

His gaze meets yours once again and you instantly feel as if you’re going to melt into a puddle, heat pooling at the apex of your thighs.

It’s like you’re a god. The devil himself on his knees worshipping you, his seafoam eye a divine mixture of carnal lust and sacred reverence.

“Silco,” you whisper shakily, a wave of emotions rapidly spreading through you.

Gods, what is he doing to you? Why do you feel so… so torn?

How does he just know exactly what to say and do to make you doubt everything you’ve ever known?

It almost makes you feel bad that you’re planning on doing something terrible while wearing it for real. Bad enough for you to really consider what outcome you actually want for the fated performance.

Legs stretched out, one crossed over the other as he leans back on the edge of his desk, Silco stares breathlessly at the office door that you’ve just exited through.

He can’t get the image of you out of his head. That dress and the way it accentuated all your beautiful curves. The devastating way you’d looked at him. And gods, the way you’d said his name.

When Silco had first found you up on that stage, he’d been sure that his admiration for you could never grow any deeper. But now, he feels like he’s falling harder with each passing day.

Now, he knows that what he feels for you is love. Richer, still as all consuming as those first days of pure, unadulterated obsession, but now that feeling grips his soul too instead of just his body.

A loud thud on the desk behind him sounds through the office, but Silco doesn’t flinch. He’d heard his daughter entering via the rafters minutes before, just after you’d said his name in a way he’d been utterly desperate to hear for months now.

It’s also why he hadn’t attempted to kiss you or touch you any further, despite every nerve in his body practically screaming for it. Instead, he’d stood back up and deliberately asked you to rehearse your routine in costume a few times before returning it to him at dinner.

Originally, Silco had been awfully frustrated and borderline furious that you were taking so long to accept his advances to kiss you. But now, with his newly realised love for you, he finds himself slowly coming to accept that it might take a bit more time.

And surprisingly, he’s okay with that. No, he’s more than okay with it if it means you feel comfortable and secure in his presence.

Silco recognises that this is no longer the time to contemplate those sorts of feelings and urges, temporarily switching it off because he can hear Jinx begin to fidget with his eye injector behind him.

She’s tellingly quiet, and Silco lets her be, allowing her to process whatever it is she’s thinking and trying to articulate.

“Who is she? Why is she here?” she asks finally, in a tone that is undoubtedly accusatory, but he can spot the hurt she’s trying to hide.

Silco stands from the desk and walks back around to his chair, waiting until he’s sat back down to analyse her mannerisms and facial expressions. With no instant response, she continues, moving her legs from their casual crossed position to being hugged by her tattooed arms.

“You’ve changed. Ever since she got here, you’ve…” she trails off for a moment, probably searching for a way to not reveal what she’s really feeling. “You’re just different.”

Without asking, Silco knows what she really means. She feels left out.

It’s been only them for so long now and she’s worried that he’ll suddenly give up on her. Like he ever could.

“Pumpkin, she’s not here to replace you. You are my daughter and you will always be my daughter, no matter what,” he reassures her, placing his hand on the desk a few inches away from her leg.

He knows the signs when she’s feeling too rattled to even endure a gentle hand on her shoulder, so he doesn’t push it.

Jinx frowns, staring down at the injector she keeps fiddling with, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“You didn’t answer me. Why is she here?”

Silco tries not to inhale and exhale too loudly, lest she interpret it as him being frustrated with her. He’s not. He just struggles to discuss his love life with anyone, let alone his teenage daughter.

But she keeps asking and it’s clearly affecting her, so he tries to be honest with her. If only to convince her that this change by your arrival is a positive one, and not one that he means to upset her with.

“Jinx, child,” he says candidly. “She’s here because I’m in love with her.”

Of course, she looks utterly shocked by his confession. And then, in her confusion, her lips curl into distaste, her words turning hurtful because she doesn’t understand what it means to love someone like that, so she lashes out instead.

“She doesn’t love you back, you know,” she retorts flatly. In a matter of fact.

Silco’s good eye blinks slowly and he purses his lips as he leans back in his chair.

“She’s getting there,” he sighs eventually, slowly raising his head to gaze up at the rafters. “She’s getting there.”

PART 9

A/N: Giselle has been my favourite classic ballet since I was 8 and my favourite modern ballet is Christopher Wheeldon’s Alice in Wonderland, if anyone’s interested!! If you have a favourite ballet, let me know! -el x

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @ursawastricked

#silco #silco x reader #silco x f!reader #silco x you #silco fic #silco arcane #part 8

74 notes · View notes

writing-havoc · 1 year

Note

Hello! I wanted to request, if you write for Nikolai, a scenario where the female reader has a moment of romantic tension with Nikolai. Although it can be anything that doesn't have distress.

Project

♡ Summary: You bump into Nikolai on the way to the library, he accompanies you

♡ Fandom: Shadow and Bone, Grishaverse

♡ Pairing: Nikolai Lanstov x Fem!Reader

♡ Warning(s): None

♡ WC: 2.1k

Hello! I absolutely do take requests for Nikola

My apologies for taking so long to get to this request </3. I wanted to read King of Scars and Rule of Wolves to try and get a better understanding of his character. Reading takes me a while. It takes a minute actually start a new book and then I became swamped with homework but!! I got it done

Hope you enjoy and that it is to your liking <3

Please excuse any grammar and spelling mistakes

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David needed to be more careful about his notes.

It's not that he was careless, per se, he took good care to make sure they weren't in any immediate danger.

But man are his scribbles hard to read.

There are parts where you can clearly tell he was looking elsewhere rather than at the notebook while he was writing, the words slanting or bunching together or becoming a really long line that he wrote over. And there are parts that one might assume were penned by an upper-class woman.

At this point it's its own language, one that you can't add to your growing list quite yet. Genya, though, is fluent.

Too bad she isn't present at the moment.

David sat across from you. Well, not really sat. More like he got stuck between standing and sitting over a stool as he made calculations on a spare piece of paper, rapidly looking between diagrams and another book of his notes. He mumbled every once in a while, which made Genya smile. Genya was actually sitting, rambling about something that you weren't quite sure the topic of, your presence only acknowledged when she needed you to confirm something and when she first appeared to say hi.

You know it's not meant with malice though. You loved seeing them together. The look David got when Genya suggested something, his brain doing the calculations and seeing that it worked, made it easier to feel like there was hope somewhere.

Somewhere blond, preferably.

"David, can I take your notes to the Little Palace?" You asked, hoping you spoke loud enough to get past the haze he was working himself into. "I just need to cross reference something in the library and i'm not gonna be able to remember this chicken scratch."

"A chicken has not been near my notes ever." He said, eyebrows creasing. "No, you can't. I need them here for this."

You sighed, fixing your posture from where you were leaned over. 'Careful what you wish for', you supposed. "Alright, I'll be back with probably about fifty books in tow."

"There's a book cart just outside the library!" Genya called to you, a smile on her face. "Put them on there and they shouldn't be hard to wheel back!"

"I'll keep that in mind." You replied, voice monotone.

The way back was filled with attempts at trying to not forget what exactly you needed. You thought of various keywords in the notes and the project itself.

It was relatively simple. Just making improvements on Ravkas airships and implementing them in the most optimal and cost effective way possible.

You'll probably need various books actually. The whole "fifty books" joke didn't seem funny anymore. Off the top of your head there was a rather recent one about aerodynamics. One of the Squallers around here should be able to give a bit of insight about it as well. There may be a way to make the airships lighter, but that would be sacrificing strength and safety for the people on the aircraft.

Maybe you could use the idea of the bulletproof kefta and apply that to the hull. At least to the more critical parts. Though that would require a horrible amount of fabric and would just be awkward. They'd have to withstand ground artillery, which is exponentially more powerful than a bullet.

But you could always scrap the fabric and make a different material semi bulletproof.

Inside the walls, you bumped headfirst into a surprisingly stiff figure. You grabbed onto them tight and righted your legs, their arms gripping you as well.

"My apologies-" you looked up, coming face to face with the King "-moi tsar."

He smirked. "Don't fall for me quite yet. I haven't properly courted you. And I know ive told you many a time that you may call me Nikolai, if you so please. It feels awkward among friends to be referred to in such a formal manner."

You sighed, a smile tugging on your lips, disentangling yourself from his limbs. "If you insist, Nikolai."

He grinned, something wide and reaching the corners of his eyes. "Oh, I definitely do."

Nikolai let you go, only moving half a step out of reach. He smelled vaguely of petrichor and more strongly of smoke. But it wasn't choking, rather welcomed. It took you back quite a few years, sitting with your parents next to a great bon fire, smiles on your faces and stories exchanged.

"You seemed terribly distracted just before we engaged in such a lovely embrace." He prodded.

You sighed once more. "Yes. I was attempting to gather a list of books in my head for the reinforcing. It kept getting longer and longer as I thought about it."

"Quite the load, I take it?"

"Unfortunately so. I can think of two others as I stand here." You rubbed your hands over your eyes, dreading the task of reading them. They ached already.

"Ill lend a helping arm. Or two, considering the grave look on your face."

You couldn't help the giggle that escaped your lips, a deep breath filling your lungs with more smoke. A thousand thoughts were playing in your mind, and then a flit of sudden embarrassment overcame your skin.

"My apologies, Nikolai." You took your hands away from your eyes, looking up and finding his trained on you. They looked greener today. "I don't mean to say the work is too much, or too hard, really, I don't. Im just complaining-"

"Allow me to stop you there to say, it's alright. It's to my understanding that you didn't get enough sleep last night?" Nikolai began walking, a slow pace meant to nudge you along, and you followed immediately.

"I..." You wondered how he knew that, and then realized you had complained to Tamar earlier this morning. Your heart fluttered. "No, I didn't. A cold breeze kept coming in through to my chambers. Drove me crazy trying to find where it was coming from."

He made a noise in understanding. "I take it you found it?"

"I did," your shoulder bumped into his arm, "not until I realized the moon had nearly run its course through the sky."

"Happens to the best of us, unfortunately."

Nikolai opened the door to the library, holding it open for you. You grabbed your kefta and playfully curtsied. "Why, thank you."

"My pleasure." It caught you off guard how sincere he was. Still, you smiled, walking through the door and immediately scanning the aisles and aisles of books.

"What are we looking for?" Nikolai asked.

You turned to face him, his eyes doing just that same as yours before. "Nikolai, I cannot ask that of you-"

"Oh but you didn't ask me anything. I'm volunteering my services. You should be grateful, you know. It's not everyday that someone gets to order a king around."

You rolled your eyes, waiting a moment, two, for him to back out. And when he didn't, you swallowed a confession and began to rattle off the list of books you accumulated and the ideas you had with them.

Nikolai went a few rows down, apparently knowing exactly what book you would need about various ways wind behaves given the shape of an object. You wanted to get advice straight from a Squaller, but apparently almost all of them where spread throughout Ravka and those that remained seemed to be highly busy elsewhere, and you would like answers sooner rather than later.

Most the other books you needed were more rudimentary than anything. Little things to refresh your memory. The math was going to be the hardest part.

Some were for inspiration. They broached a similar topic and held actual experiments and diagrams about how they worked. Hopefully they would give you an idea or two.

You reached on your tip toes, fingers just barely grazing the underneath of the last book you needed. The books were tightly packed, which you could feel but didn't know the extent of as you looked down, your muscles stretching to get just a few more millimeters.

When it was finally teetering on the edge, you gave one last tug and looked up. However, you barely had time to realize that three other books were coming down along side it.

You braced for impact, ready to feel the stabbing pain of book corners jabbing into your skull and the nape of your neck. You felt a different presence over you.

The feeling of cloth, warmth and a Kings coat barely felt through your kefta but ever present.

Quickly you turned, seeing Nikolai standing with his arms crossed over your head, a book perfectly balanced there.

"Ow." He said, moving a hand and grabbing the book. He looked at the cover and gave a short chortle, showing the cover. "I believe this, is what you were looking for?"

But your mind couldn't catch up. That smell of smoke filled your nose, the undertone of petrichor back in full swing and paper to boot. The library was silent, a faint chattering heard from outside the door as people passed.

Nikolais hazel eyes stared at you, definutely more green given the palette of his outfit and the browns of the books. The longer you looked the wider the centers became, flickering in size when he looked from your eyes and down your nose, over your cheek, to the corners of your mouth and over your lips, back to your eyes. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, trying to leap out and into the hand that held that damned book.

He knew what he was doing, letting you see it all. Nikolai is a king, master of pretending. His jacket stuttered in and out, heart beating so hard you could just barely see it pick up beneath his coat. This was genuine.

You reached out to the book, fingers touching his warm ones. Without breaking eye contact, you muttered a small "thank you", and watched as his eyes creased.

"My pleasure." He leaned forward, bunting his forehead into yours for a mere moment before leaning back.

"Is your shoulder okay?" You asked, watching him roll it.

He stood still. "I've faced worse. I'll be alright."

He surveyed the area around him, the three books you didn't need scattered on the floor while another two were dropped at his feet. You could feel the four you grabbed resting against your foot where you nearly stepped on them.

"Left quite a mess, haven't we?" You said, tapping the book to your chest. Your heart was still pounding, and you didn't even want to imagine how hot your face felt. Nikolais own was back down to its usual light tan, but his eyes were still like saucers in the center, his breath a slight stutter in his coat. Just barely there.

"Just a little." He leaned down and grabbed two, walking forward and pausing in front of you again. You moved out of the way, leaning down and grabbing the last of the ones that fell.

You handed it to him for him to put back. He allowed his hand to brush yours. You both snickered at the childish flirting, leaning down to pick up the plethora of books you acquired.

Nikolai took two of your books without a word, leaving you with only three in your hands.

"Are you sure you don't have anywhere to be?"

"You're actually quite lucky. I was on my way to Kirigans when you greeted me with that little hug of yours."

You knew it was a lie. But if he was willing to miss whatever it was he was intending on going to to make a detour to Lazlayon, then it couldn't have been that important.

"If you're sure."

"My dear y/n." He just couldn't stop smiling. "I can be sure of anything, if you would will it so."

And isnt that the perfect way to stop your heart? You rolled your eyes. "Such a romantic, you are."

"I hear a challenge."

"Oh saints please no."

You dread to see the lengths he would go to prove just how romantic he could be. But for now, you'll accept this.

#ask #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone x you #shadow and bone x y/n #fanfic #anon #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov x you #nikolai lantsov x y/n

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changelingsandothernonsense · 9 months

Text

Wips on Fridays.

And I seriously feel like it's Tuesday...where did the week go? Why are there earth tremors all the time? Why can't I just art more? idk.

Anyways tagged by @mareenavee and @thequeenofthewinter so thank you guys!!!

Going to drop this week's art and a snippet from something I finished on Sunday.

Art first!

At the stage where I can just use my own shit as references like the dork that I am.

More under the cut! That includes writing.

Because I like him so shhh.

And a cropped for the sensors line art. Ok Writing that relates in a way to all three of these arts..since they are all set within the same 6 months design-wise (sans guns and all that).

Why? Teldryn dressed in the armour he’d been wearing since he crawled out of that damn swamp, old netch leather he pulled off some bandit that tried to shoot him in the ass. He tied his scarf around his neck, stroking the faded vermillion fabric for a moment. Comfort, the only thing he has that provided it. As he slung his pack over his shoulder, something caught his eye. That damn Dwemer Coherer that he had apparently sold his life for. That curious little object just lay there on a shelf, one amongst many miscellaneous objects gathering dust in a storeroom. The thing was a marvel, used as a component on one of their brilliant machines… That sadistic old mer wouldn’t miss it? Would he? Why should he care? Teldryn snatched it from the shelf, quickly putting it in his pack. Fuck him, fuck all of them! He made his way towards the door and opened it into the cool evening air. He had so many things to do. So many reports to write, journals that Caius would want to look over. Every little sordid detail, every expense. He made his way to the shore, journal in hand, his leash that the Blades held him by. He opened it and began to write. - gave me the potion. It didn't cure me. But it did remove all apparent signs of the disease. Divayth Fyr said he didn't actually WANT to cure me, just remove the harmful features of the disease while preserving its virtues. Well, it worked. And now he is eager to test the potion on the other subjects in the Corprusarium. I must hurry back to report to…report to. He scribbled out what he had just written. Awful! Hurry? Why? What was the point of any of this? His skin began to itch again and he sighed. He ran a bandaged hand through his hair, felt the bare skin that dotted his scalp. Bare scalp? He pulled his looking glass out of his pack and assessed the damage. A long scar stretched across his right cheek, cutting into the old tattoos that snaked across his face. He looked drained, pale. His long hair patchy, matted. He hated it! He pulled a dagger out of his boot and began slicing at the strands, hacking, slashing, the hair falling to the sand below. Golden mask, crimson robes. A cacophony of moans, a legion of writhing bodies. A beating heart. He dropped the dagger and fell to his knees. He screamed, burying his fists in the wet sand. Child of his flesh. SPEAK WITH US! He screamed again, throwing a clod of sand into the ocean. He grabbed his journal, tore out the page he’d just written and threw that into the ocean too. Fuck Caius Cosades! Fuck the Blades! Fuck Divayth Fyr and his weird fucking daughters! Fuck that other old man with the snobbish attitude! Fuck the Empire! Fuck the Emperor and fuck the leash that they held him by. A fire ignited in his hands, the journal he had meticulously kept since being dumped in Seyda Neen almost a year ago smouldered in his grip. He’d rather spend an eternity in the prisons below the Imperial City than spend another second serving the whims of those uncaring fucks! “FUCK!” He screamed! His voice, or what was left of it finally returning. Ashen and coarse, unfamiliar. He pounded the sand, punched it until exhaustion overtook him. He slumped over tears threatening to choke in vision. The blur was permanent, everything was out of focus. He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t focus. He punched the sand again before rising to his feet. No, he would not go back to Balmora, he was done with this guarshit! Let some other poor sod chase an ancient ashlander fairytale. He was done! They could think him dead for all he cared. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t. He’d head west, he didn’t particularly care where so long as he could be alone. His skin itched, ash and sinew clouded his vision.

#wip whenever #my wips #my writing #dunmer #teldryn sero #danger!josh #morrowind era josh #corprus disease #nerevarine!teldryn #nerevarine #skyrim #tesblr #the elder scrolls

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preciouslandmermaid · 2 years

Text

| costumes | carmy x reader

Note: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts.

prompt: Masks/Costumed Sex | pairing: Carmy Berzatto/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content. (+unstated but reader is on birth control/creampie)

Bonus Note: Took a while for me to figure out what costume’s everyone was gonna wear. Now we are here. This fic is set in the future/post-canon. Established relationship between Reader/Carmy. I’m sorry Carmy couldn’t be more dressed up/wearing an actual mask. He just…he’s not that GUY, you know? Also, yes, this is a NGHYB Universe Fic.

The Bear signed up to be one of the many businesses that handed out Halloween candy for kids. Your bakery didn’t join simply because you were already swamped with orders of cakes that looked like spiders and ghoulish cupcakes. Now, Carmy didn’t tell his people to dress up, but you can already see from a distance that Richie is in costume. He’s wearing a brown jumpsuit and what appears to be a vacuum strapped onto his back.

You grin, approaching him from across the street, “Ghostbusters, Richie? Really?”

“Uh.” Richie looks at you like you’ve just said the stupidest question in the world, “Yeah, duh.”

The candy table’s cheap and flimsy orange plastic tablecloth flutters in the crisp, autumnal wind. A cursory glance reveals that there’s a QR code to learn about their menu along with a sign-up sheet for emails. Your grin widens. This has to be Syd’s handiwork. The cooler of neon-green liquid, however, is clearly Carmy’s with a hand drawn sign that says ‘Ecto-Cooler’.

“Also, you can’t say shit about my costume.” Richie says, brimming with annoyance, “What are you? A fucking cat?”

“What gave it away?” You ask sarcastically, “The drawn-on whiskers or the ears?” You tug on the hem of your black turtleneck. A little low-effort compared to Richie’s—but you worked with what you had in short notice.

“Neither.” His grin is quick and sardonic, “You’ve got a cat-like attitude about you.”

“Your meaning?” You can already guess where Richie is going with this. He’s either going to call you a pussy, and throw Carmy’s name in there, or call you high maintenance.

Fak exits the Bear with a fistful of glowsticks, “Don’t listen to him.” He’s wearing a stringy, two-dollar black wig that keeps getting into his eyes, a white t-shirt under a black vest, and a red sweater tied around his waist. Another 80’s movie character. You can’t help but wonder what Carmy’s wearing.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Richie shouts, “You’re just being a little bitch ‘cuz I didn’t wanna dress up as Bill.”

“I am not!” Fak says while cracking glowsticks and taping them to the Bear’s doorframe. “It is a little weird to be dressed as Ted without Bill though, you know.”

Richie laughs, “Oh my God!” He gestures at Fak with a flat hand, “Here we go again! See?!”

You use this opportunity of their bickering to slip around the back and head into the Bear through the backdoor.

You find Carmy in his office, bathed in the warm orange-light, and you stop a little short in your tracks. He’s got…product in his hair…and slicked it back away from his face, shiny and clean. His jeans are cuffed at the bottom and a rumpled, red windbreaker with the collar popped hugs his frame. His head is bent over—what you assume is an invoice—while his outstretch hand scribbles notes onto a large yellow legal-pad of paper.

You search your brain for classic 80’s movies based on Richie and Fak’s costumes. You think your presumption is wrong, but you try for it anyway.

“Hmm.” You clear your throat and Carmy looks up, “Marty McFly?”

His eyebrows leap in surprise, “James Dean.” At your blank expression, he adds, "In rebel without a cause."

“Carmy!” You laugh, “There’s no way any of the kids are gonna know that.” You drop yourself onto his lap, winding your arms around his neck, and press a quick and affectionate kiss to his temple. You catch the corner of his soft, quiet smile with your mouth.

In the months of dating, Carmy has softened. He’s a little more eager to let you in, to share his troubles, or apologize in the moments when he’s being non-communicative. Now, you’re not exactly Girlfriend-of-the-Year, either. But you’re figuring it out together, navigating the landmines of past trauma and stumbling your way into building something with strong, foundational roots.

His warm palm slides up the slit of your long, black, and flowing skirt and caresses your thigh. You realize offhandedly that you had instinctively shut the door when you came in. Your lips meet his and gladly open for the stroke and playful tease of his tongue. You resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair—not wanting to ruin the obvious effort he put in—and you settle for clutching the stiff, red collar of his windbreaker.

His office chair squeaks beneath your combined weight, Carmy leans back, nudging your legs apart so you’re sitting with his thigh wedged between them, and your toes touching the floor. His lips move to your jaw, suckling sweetly, and your spine arches with a familiar, heady sensation traveling to your core.

“Carmy, we’re gonna have kids outside in like thirty minutes.” You remind him.

Your hand comes to his throat, just under his jaw, and feels his strong pulse beneath the pads of your fingers.

He huffs, chuckling against your wet skin, “Don’t be too loud then.” He teases.

His hands come to settle on your ass. He pulls you closer, then pushes back, wordlessly guiding you to grind on his leg. You sigh happily and let your eyes roll back. Carmy’s lips on your neck, hands on your waist, and your cunt rubbing against the rough fabric of his jeans—separated only by the thin fabric of your underwear and the even-thinner fabric of your skirt. Once your grinding against him, he shoves both his hands up your shirt, and bunches the fabric above your breasts. A trail of goosebumps rise in the wake of his palms, touching the cool air of his office, and contrasted warmth of his hands.

He tugs the cup of your bra down and laves his tongue across your nipple. You catch a whine in your throat. You might’ve closed the door, but you don’t think it’s locked.

He breathes against you, “Yeah?” His tongue flicks over your erect, pebbled nipple and gently tugs it between his teeth. The action sends a firework of sparks along your skin and your knuckles flare in the tense grip around his shoulders.

“Mhm.” With your verbal encouragement, he repeats the ministration on your other nipple, leaving the other to prickle with the cool air mixed with Carmy’s saliva. You push your hand between your bodies, sliding down Carmy’s pristine white shirt, and palm the front of his jeans. His hard, straining cock twitches against your hand. He makes a desperate, filthy noise in the back of his throat.

You love him so goddamn much it makes your entire body shudder. You capture his mouth, panting against his tongue and teeth, close to coming just through grinding like a teenager at a drive-in movie. You continue to cup and caress his cock through the tight, rough fabric of his jeans, and Carmy willingly spreads his legs wider—even though space is limited on his squeaky, metal office chair. It’s enough to make you dizzy.

“Carmy,” You gasp with pure want. “I need you inside me right fucking now.”

He doesn’t even balk at your demanding, needy tone. Secretly, you think he might like it with how he’s able to unravel your control and composure. You disentangle from the seat and collect the long skirt, bunching the flowing fabric around your hips, and Carmy’s makes a short, strangled noise as you bend over his desk.

You glance over your shoulder and see that he’s removing the red windbreaker. He notices your raised eyebrow.

“It’s vintage.” He explains quickly while hanging it on the door.

You snort and roll your eyes, “Of course it is.”

Carmy’s hands rest on your waist and he squeezes your ass tenderly, “Ready for me?”

“God, yes, please.” You rasp, “Hurry.”

There’s a rustle of fabric, your underwear is pushed to the side, and Carmy’s breath hitches—somewhere between a gasp and a groan—his finger grazes across your slick folds. You nearly snap at him again, beg him to hurry up, to fill you but then the tip of Carmy’s cock is right where you need him. He pushes into you slowly. You choke on your moan. Your hands clutching nothing but boring paperwork on his desk. The papers crumple beneath your palms when Carmy draws out, the ridges of the head of his cock rubbing deliciously along your walls, before he slams back into your cunt.

“Fuck!” You suddenly shout.

Carmy laughs, “Shh!”

He fucks you with singular, focused purpose. His hands hold your hips, your legs spread wide, as his cock pounds into you. You can feel the soft, faint touch of his balls when he buries himself deep and then pulls out. His breathing is hoarse and erratic. Each stroke is driving you close to madness and provoking hushed, pleased mewls from your bitten lips. You rock and thrust against him, your ass hitting his pelvis, making his cock hit something deep and primal inside your cunt. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the tiny, quiet office combined with his restrained, depraved grunts.

His hand slides between your legs and finds your slick and swollen clit, “Mm- fuck.” He says lowly. He plays with you, his index and middle fingers moving in a rapid concentric motion, sending your heartrate into overdrive. You collapse, unable to hold yourself upright, and pillow your head onto your arms.

For a lucid moment—you consider how you look and how someone would see you if they happened to walk in. Your shirt is still bunched up over your collarbones, your tits spilled out from your bra and rubbing against the bills and invoices, your skirt rucked up around your waist while your boyfriend ploughs into you over his desk. It’s like a scene from a porn flick.

You glance over your shoulder and discover Carmy lost in the throes of passion. His face cherry-red and sweaty, the lower muscles of his abdomen flexing (when did he toss his shirt? Is it vintage too?), his lower lip trapped beneath his teeth as he holds back his moans. That’s what sends you over the edge. Carmy, all hot and bothered, burying himself into you as if he’ll die if he doesn’t.

Your entire face scrunches as your orgasm hits and tears spring to your eyes. Your legs tremble and you’re grateful for the stability of the desk under you. Your walls clench around Carmy’s cock, tight and pulsing, and his thrusts stutter. He sheathes himself deep into you and comes with one of his hands clamped over his mouth. You press your lips together, swallowing your own cry of release and pleasure, especially after feeling him come inside you and feeling how his cock swells and twitches inside you.

“Fuck.” Carmy sighs languidly.

You fix your top with a smile, “Yeah, you said it.” You shove a few tissues in your underwear to stop his cum from leaking out before you can reach the bathroom and adjust your skirt. “Meet you outside in a few?”

Carmy blinks, as if in a daze, and your heart flips at his Just-Fucked expression. You lean over, kissing his cheek, because you can’t resist not showering him in physical affection. That helps him snap out of it and his smile is brighter than Rockefeller Center at Christmas.

“Y-y-eah,” He swallows, “Take your time.”

Before you can leave, however, he grabs your elbow and kisses you. It’s a slow and gentle kiss—sweet as rain during a drought—and he mutters a quiet, “Love you, “ on your lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Richie looks at you and his grin widens dangerously. “You’re missing a few whiskers, kitten.”

You check your reflection the Bear’s window and grimace at the smudged whiskers and your clumped mascara. “Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

For good measure, you throw a Snickers at him, and it hits him square in the chest.

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

TAG LIST: I’m sorry, I forgot to tag people LMAO - 10/20/22

@wittyno // @comfortwaterbottle // @guyfieriii // @thebearinmind

@lafantasiaworld // @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid // ))

#kinktober2022comp #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x reader #kinktober 2022

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