@ladyredvelvetwine

🍷 𝙻𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚅𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚎 🍷 𝙴𝙽𝙵𝙹. 𝟸𝟷. 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑. 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝚒 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜,𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 🕯️ 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 🕯️ 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚗 • 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚕 • 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚜 • 𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙼.𝙳. • 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚕• 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 • 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙿𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 ☾ 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ☾ 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 ☾ 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 & 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝☾ 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 (+𝟷𝟾)

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Masterlist :

☾ Bridgerton ☾ Star Wars ☾ House MD. ☾ Criminal Minds ☾ Marvel comics / movies ☾ The Walking Dead ☾ Harry Potter ☾ Horror 🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine 🍷

[ladyredvelvetwine]

+18 What He Can’t Be - Daryl Dixon

‼ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⚠︎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‼ Lady Red Velvet Wine reminds you… only adults may sip from this cup 🖤🍷

Words : 1 426. 🍷 : mention of jealousy, mutual pinning, masturbation, kissing.

Merle arrives like a storm that never learned how to settle. Loud. Sharp. Too comfortable in a place that isn’t his anymore.

The prison shifts around him—people watching, judging, keeping their distance. But you? You don’t care much.

You’ve seen worse than men like Merle Dixon. Men who talk too much. Men who think they’re dangerous because they’ve survived. You don’t scare easy.

The first time he sees you, it’s almost amusing. You’re crossing the yard, sleeves rolled up, hands busy with something practical—always moving, always doing. His eyes lock on you like he’s just found entertainment.

“Well damn,” he mutters, loud enough. “Where’d she come from?”

You don’t even slow down. “Somewhere better than here.”

That earns a laugh from him. “Oh, she’s got teeth.”

You glance at him then. Just a flicker. “Careful. They bite.”

From across the yard— Daryl sees it. Every second of it.

── .✦·········────

You don’t know Merle. Not like the others do. You joined later. After the first camp, after the chaos. You met Daryl when he was already… Daryl. Quiet. Guarded. Rough around the edges but steady. Reliable. Different from his brother in every way that matters.

Merle, on the other hand— He doesn’t stop. Not after that first exchange. Not the next day. Not the one after.

He finds you when you’re working, leans too close, talks like everything out of his mouth is half a joke and half a promise. “Y’know,” he says one afternoon, voice low as you stack supplies, “I’m capable of a lot more than my brother.”

You don’t even look at him. “Congratulations.”

He smirks. “Could show you sometime.”

That makes you pause. Just for a second. Then you glance at him, unimpressed. “You talk a lot.”

“Only when it’s worth it.”

Your lips twitch faintly. “Then you should probably stop.”

He laughs again. And still— He doesn’t stop.

Daryl notices everything. The way Merle looks at you. The way he lingers. The way he talks.

And worse— The way you don’t completely shut it down. You don’t encourage it. But you don’t walk away every time either. You handle it. Like you handle everything. Strong. Sarcastic. Untouchable.

But that doesn’t matter to Daryl. Because Merle doesn’t see your boundaries— He sees a challenge. It builds slowly. A look here. A clenched jaw there. Silence where there used to be small, easy exchanges between you and Daryl.

He doesn’t confront you. Doesn’t say anything outright. But you feel it. The tension. The shift.

Until one evening—

── .✦·········────

The prison is quieter. Most people have settled in, the yard dim under fading light.

You’re inside one of the cell blocks, organizing what little supplies you have left. Focused. Alone. Or so you think.

“You really gonna keep lettin’ him run his mouth like that?”

You turn. Daryl. Leaning in the doorway. Arms crossed. Eyes already locked on you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

His jaw tightens. “Ain’t hard.”

You sigh softly, setting something down. “He talks. That’s it.”

“He don’t just talk.”

“And I don’t just listen,” you shoot back.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Then you step closer. “Why do you care?”

That question— It hits exactly where it should.

Daryl pushes off the wall, stepping toward you. Slow. Deliberate. “Cause he thinks he’s got a chance.”

Your breath catches—just slightly. “And that bothers you?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. No deflection. Just truth.

You search his face. “And why’s that?”

He exhales sharply, like the words are stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. “Cause he ain’t me.”

There it is. Raw. Unpolished. Real. You don’t laugh. Don’t tease. Not this time.

You step closer. Close enough to feel the heat of him. “…Then stop standing there,” you murmur softly.

His eyes flick to yours. “What?”

“Stop watching,” you say. “And show me.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes. He moves fast. Like he’s been holding it back for too long. His hand finds your waist, pulling you in, not rough—but firm, certain. The kiss isn’t practiced. It isn’t smooth like Merle’s words. It’s better.

Because it’s honest. All tension. All restraint finally breaking. You feel the hesitation under it at first—the way he slows, just slightly, like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right.

So you respond. Leaning into him. Letting him know. Letting out a soft breath of approbation, a soft moan when his hand move upward to hold your nape.

That’s when something shifts. His other hand steadies at your side, grip tightening just enough to keep you there. His movements slow. More intentional. Like he’s paying attention. Learning. Not rushing. Learning how to touch a woman for the first time, leaning how to please a woman, learning how to please you.

His forehead brushes yours for a second, breath uneven. “Don’t know what I’m doin’,” he mutters low.

You smile faintly, breath still caught somewhere in your chest. “Then we'll figure it out, together”

That sparks something. His eyes lift to yours again. Determined now. Not unsure. Not backing down.

He leans in again— slower this time. More deliberate. Like he’s testing every reaction, every breath you give him.

He press his forehead to yours, his eyes searching yours as his hand traces an invisible line down your stomach to find the waist of your trouser. He hesitates, scared to mess it up, scared to make you understand he's not like his brother, to find he never done this before.

Your hand find his wrist as you smile softly to him, your breath already quickening in anticipation. You offer him a simple nod and feel his hand going down to your, already soaked, panties. His hand cup your pussy, your warmth and wetness marking his palm.

His eyes finds yours again, his pupils wider when he understands that you're wet because of him, that you're wet for him. You feel your head spin of anticipation, your smile growing as your press soft kisses on his jaw.

“Please.. touch me“ Your voice is just barely audible.

Daryl let out a shaky breath too and let his fingers explore. It's soft, shaking, not really good but when his finger moved higher and finds your clit, he understands that this area is where you need him. He begins to circle it, his fingertip adjusting pressure based on your face.

Your eyes close, you bit your lips to not make too much noise, your mouth open to let out breath.

“Like this?“ Daryl whispers too, his other hand gripping your waist, noticing your shaking knees.

“I need ... i need faster.. please”

He obeys, he adds an another finger to circle your swollen button. You grip his shoulders for balance, and let your head rest against the wall. You let out soft moans, audible for him but not loud enough to wake up someone else. You whisper his name when his fingers move right where the nerves hit.

"Daryl. Don't stop... please" You almost whine, making him smile, an almost timid one while he's literally making you cum. He knows you're almost there so... he decides to speak to you, to bring you to the edge, his fingers never stopping that almost-too-much rythm.

“You ain’t his,” he murmurs. “Never will be.”

Your fingers curl brutally into his shirt, your lips finding his as your moans fill his mouth.

“You're gonna cum for me darlin'? You're gonna show me how good i please you mhm?”

At his words, your eyes water and your orgasm hit. It's been so long since someone touched you, made you climax, especially not a man you have feelings for. You lean your head in the crook of his neck and moan, trying to supress the sounds while he lets out a laugh, just a little.

“That's my girl...”

When you come down from your blurry vision and pulsating clit, you giggle against his chest, still not believing what happened tonight.

You look up and find daryl wiping his hands, his eyes scanning your face to make sure you're fully alright. He whisper, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Was it enough?"

"You were more than enough Daryl, don't doubt it again".

You kiss him tenderly, your hands finding his face, his breathing still shaking. When he finally pulls back, both of you breathing a little heavier, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“Still think he’s got a shot?” he mutters.

You shake your head softly, a faint smile forming. “Not even close.”

And this time— Daryl doesn’t look unsure. He looks certain.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Grace in the Wrong Hands - Gabriel Stokes

Words : 841.

🍷 : mention of faith/religion, flirt, fluff, kissing.

You remember the first time you saw Gabriel. That church—quiet, untouched, almost sacred in a world that had forgotten what that meant. And him— Soft-spoken. Careful. Clean in a way that didn’t belong anymore.

You didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust him. Because people like you didn’t survive by believing in goodness. Not anymore. Not his soft voice. Not his careful hands. And definitely not the collar.

You don’t believe in God either way. Not anymore. Maybe you did once—before everything burned, before the world rotted and turned into something cruel and unforgiving.

Now? You believe in survival. In sharp blades. Quick reflexes. And never hesitating when it matters. You learned fast—how to fight, how to kill, how to live without asking permission from a world that stopped giving second chances.

And yet— He looks at you like he sees something else. Something you buried a long time ago. Something softer.

That’s what bothers you.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

You lean against one of the pews, arms crossed, watching him fumble slightly with a knife you handed him.

“Careful, Father,” you drawl, voice laced with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

He exhales, adjusting his grip. “I’m trying.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” You push off the wood, stepping closer, circling him slowly. “You hold it like that, you’re dead in two seconds.”

He glances at you, calm despite your tone. “Then teach me properly.”

That catches you. You tilt your head, a faint smirk forming. “Oh, you want me to?”

A small pause. Then— “Yes.”

Something about the way he says it— Steady. Certain. Not hesitant. It makes your stomach twist just slightly.

You step behind him, close enough that your presence presses into his space. Your hand wraps around his wrist, adjusting the angle of the knife. “Firm,” you murmur. “Not scared.”

His breath shifts. Subtle. But you feel it. “Like this?” he asks.

You lean in just a fraction more. “Better.” Your voice drops, teasing now. “Good job… Father.”

He stills. Just for a second. You notice. Of course you do.

You keep going. Circling him. Correcting him. Pushing just enough to make him react. “Again,” you say.

He follows. Learns. Listens. But every time you say it—

“Careful, Father.” “Focus, Father.” “Keep up, Father.”

—it lands a little differently.

He doesn’t call you out. But you see it. The way his jaw tightens slightly. The way his focus shifts—not just on the knife, but on you.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

By the time you’re walking back to the church, the air between you feels different. Charged. Quiet, but not empty.

You kick a small rock as you walk, glancing at him sideways. “Not bad,” you admit. “For a man of faith.”

He huffs softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

A pause. Then— “You don’t believe,” he says.

Not a question. You shrug. “Not really.”

“Not at all?”

You glance at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Depends.”

“On what?”

You slow your steps slightly. “On how convincing the preacher is.”

That— That makes him stop. You take one more step before realizing he’s not beside you anymore. You turn.

He’s looking at you differently now. Not just calm. Not just kind. Something deeper.

“Is that so?” he asks quietly.

You fold your arms, tilting your head. “Maybe.”

A beat. Then you step closer again. Slow. Deliberate.

“You gonna try?” you add, voice softer now, teasing but edged with something real.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I might.”

Your heart ticks faster. You smile faintly.

“Careful,” you murmur.

“Why?”

You step into his space. Close enough to feel the warmth of him.

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint me… Father.”

That does it. Something shifts behind his eyes. Not anger. Not discomfort. Something… firmer.

He steps forward. Closing the space you left. The world feels very still. Very small. Just you and him.

“You think I don’t see it?” he murmurs.

“See what?”

“You.”

Your chest tightens.

“All of it.”

You don’t joke this time. Don’t deflect.

You just whisper— “Then what?”

His hand lifts slowly. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him.

You don’t.

His fingers brush lightly against your arm. Warm. Grounding.

“Then maybe,” he says softly, “you’re not as far gone as you think.”

Your heart stumbles. You swallow. “…You’re persistent.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “I’ve been told that.”

You let out a quiet breath. Then tilt your head again, that teasing edge slipping back—but softer now.

“Alright then,” you murmur. “Convince me that life worth living.”

He studies you for a moment. Then— Closes the distance.

The kiss is gentle. Careful. Nothing like the sharpness you’re used to. Like a man who's been forbidden of touch, of kiss, of romantical attraction- but in an apocalyptic world, he might forgot some rules to learn a new life. But his lips lingers. Warm. Certain.

And when you respond— It deepens. Not rushed. Not messy. Just real.

When you pull back, your forehead brushes his. Your voice is quieter now. Less guarded.

“…That part was convincing.”

A soft breath of a laugh leaves him. “Good.”

You smile faintly. Then, just to test him— “Guess I should start listening more… Father.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look flustered. If anything— He leans just slightly closer. “Maybe you should call me Gabriel now..”

And for once— You don’t argue.

🍷Lady red velvet wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Run if you want to - Daryl Duxon

Words : 768. 🍷 : seduction, mention of chasing, fluff, light mention of flirting.

The prison corridors are never truly quiet. Even when they’re empty. Even when most of the group is outside or asleep. There’s always something—dripping water, distant echoes, the low hum of a place that remembers what it used to be. And tonight— It’s dark. Only a weak lantern down the hall, shadows stretching long across the concrete.

You’re supposed to be organizing supplies. Stacking cans. Clearing space. Making things livable.

Instead— You’re lingering. Taking your time. Letting the quiet settle around you. Letting the thrill of it creep in.

You exhale slowly, dragging a box across the floor.

“You know this place is creepy as hell at night, right?” His voice comes from behind you. Low. Familiar.

You don’t jump. You smile. “Then why are you here?”

Daryl steps into the dim light, crossbow slung over his shoulder, eyes already on you like he’s been watching longer than he’ll admit. “Same reason you are,” he mutters.

“Working?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

You huff a soft laugh, turning back to the shelves. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“Didn’t lie.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Then what’s the real reason?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans against the wall, watching you. That look— You know it. Have known it for weeks now. That tension. That pull. The way neither of you says anything outright, but everything sits just under the surface.

You turn fully this time, crossing your arms. “Well?”

Daryl tilts his head slightly. “You like it.”

Your brow furrows. “Like what?”

He gestures vaguely around you. “This.”

The dark corridor. The silence. The isolation.

You smirk faintly. “You’re imagining things.”

“Ain’t.”

“You are.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer. Slow. Measured. “I seen you,” he says quietly.

Your heart ticks faster. “Seen what?”

“The way you look around when it gets like this.” Another step closer. “The way you don’t leave.”

Your breath slows. “Maybe I just like finishing my work.”

He shakes his head slightly. “Liar.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

Now he’s close. Too close to pretend it’s nothing.

“So what?” you murmur. “You gonna do something about it?”

His eyes darken just a fraction. “Maybe.”

A beat. Then you tilt your head, playful, daring. “Run and catch me?”

“Run.”

You don’t wait. The second the word leaves his mouth, you’re already gone—boots hitting the concrete, breath catching as laughter slips out of you, echoing down the dark corridor.

You know he’ll follow. That’s the point.

The thrill curls low in your stomach as you take a sharp turn, slipping past the dim lantern light, deeper into the shadows of the prison. Faster. Quieter.

You lose the sound of him for a second— And it makes your pulse spike.

“Daryl?” you call, teasing, breathless.

Silence.vYou slow just slightly, glancing over your shoulder— Nothing.

A smirk tugs at your lips. “Too slow,” you murmur to yourself—

And then— A hand grabs you. Hard.

You gasp as you’re yanked backward, your body colliding with the cold bars of a cell, the metal biting lightly into your back as his other hand comes up, bracing beside your head.

Daryl’s breathing is heavier now. So is yours. “Thought you lost me?” he mutters, voice rough, low.

You swallow, breath uneven. “Maybe.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer. No space left between you now. His chest presses against yours, heat cutting through the chill of the corridor, one hand firm at your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Got cocky,” he adds.

You tilt your head slightly, a faint smile still playing on your lips despite the way your heart is racing. “Maybe I wanted to get caught.”

That— That changes something. His grip tightens. Not rough. But certain.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, something darker settling there now.

“You don’t make this easy,” he murmurs.

“You don’t seem to mind.”

Your voice is softer now. Closer. Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling lightly into his shirt.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Brat,” he repeats.

“Always,” you whisper.

The air between you feels too tight. Too warm. Your back presses more firmly into the bars as he leans in, his head dipping just enough that his breath brushes your skin.

“You run like that again…” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

His hand shifts at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, grounding you against him. “I ain’t lettin’ you get far.”

Your pulse jumps. You don’t look away. “Good.”

The word is barely more than a breath. Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt. His hand slides just a little along your side—slow, deliberate—like he’s testing the line, seeing if you’ll stop him.

You don’t. You lean into it. Into him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Stay, just stay - Daryl Dixon

Words : 773. 🍷 : mutual pinning, mention of virus / sickness, good ending, fluff.

The prison is too quiet. Not the usual kind of quiet—the one that settles after a long day, when people are tired but alive.

This one is wrong. Coughs echo through the halls. Weak voices. Fevered murmurs. People burning from the inside out.

And you— You’re one of them.

Daryl hates it. He hates not being able to fix it. Hates standing outside those doors, hearing you struggle to breathe. Hates the way you looked at him the last time—sweaty, shaking, trying to act like it wasn’t that bad.

It is that bad. He sees it. And it drives him insane.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do— He goes out. Fights. Hunts. Pushes himself harder than he should. For medicine. For anything that might help. For you.

When he finally comes back, he’s covered in dirt, blood—walker blood, not his—and exhaustion. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rest. Not until he knows you’re still breathing. Still here.

Days pass. Slow. Painful.

Until finally— You get better. Not fully. Not strong. But alive. Not contagious anymore. And that’s enough.

You don’t expect him to change.

Daryl is still Daryl. Quiet. Guarded. Rough around every edge. But something shifts. Subtle at first.

He checks on you more. Brings you food without saying anything. Sits closer than usual. Like he needs to make sure you’re real. Still there. Still his in a certain way.

Tonight, the fever hasn’t completely left. You’re laying in your bed, blankets pulled up, body still a little too warm, a little too weak.

You hear the door creak open. Don’t need to look. You know it’s him.

“Hey,” you murmur softly.

“Hey.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Careful. He moves around the room like he doesn’t want to disturb anything—even you.

Then the mattress dips behind you. You barely have time to react before he settles in, pulling the blanket more securely around both of you. Your back presses against his chest. Solid. Warm. Safe.

You freeze for a second. Daryl Dixon is not… like this. Not with anyone.

“…You good?” he mutters softly.

You nod slightly. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then— His hand finds you. Slow. Careful. Resting first at your arm, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. So his fingers move. Lightly. Tracing small, absent patterns against your skin through the fabric. It’s… gentle. So gentle it almost doesn’t feel real. Your breath softens.

“You don’t have to—” you start.

“Shut up.”

The words are rough. But the way he says them— Isn’t.

You smile faintly. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.”

His voice is quieter now. Closer. His chin brushes lightly near your shoulder. “Almost lost you.”

The words are barely audible. But they hit hard.

Your chest tightens. “I’m still here,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

His hand shifts, sliding slightly higher, resting more securely against you. Like he needs to feel you breathe.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he admits.

You turn your head just slightly, enough to glance back at him. His eyes are already on you. Soft. Open in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say gently.

“I know.”

A pause. Then his thumb brushes slowly along your arm again. Back and forth. Grounding.

“I ain’t good with this,” he mutters.

“With what?”

He exhales quietly. “…this.”

You understand. The closeness. The care. The way he’s letting himself be seen.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper.

He huffs softly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence settles again. But it’s warm. Not empty. His hand doesn’t stop moving. Slow strokes. Light touches. Like he’s memorizing you.

Then— You feel it. A soft brush against your shoulder. A kiss. You still slightly.

Daryl freezes for half a second too—like he didn’t plan it. Then he does it again. More certain this time. Another soft kiss, just below your shoulder, barely there. Your heart starts beating faster.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” you murmur.

“Don’t get used to it.”

But he doesn’t stop. Another kiss. And another. Gentle. Careful. Almost hesitant—but not pulling away.

You relax further into him, letting yourself feel it. Letting yourself feel him.

His arm tightens slightly around you. Protective. Grounded. Real.

“I got you,” he whispers, voice low against your skin.

And something inside you just— gives in. Because you believe him. Because you feel it in every touch, every quiet breath, every unspoken word.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him settle into your bones. And somewhere between his soft touches and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you— You realize it.

You’re falling. Harder than you ever meant to. And for once— That doesn’t scare you at all.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Blame it on the alcohol - Daryl Dixon

Words : 682.

🍷: mutual pinning, mention of alcohol, kissing, friends to lovers.

It’s just the two of you. Again.

No group. No voices. No safety net.

Just trees stretching endlessly around you, the quiet hum of the night, and the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones.

But tonight- You got lucky. A small abandoned cabin. Half-rotten, barely standing, but with a roof that holds and walls that block the wind.

And inside—A bottle.

You stare at it like it’s treasure. Daryl eyes it like it’s suspicious.

“Could be bad,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “Could be great.”

A beat. Then— You open it.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

It starts simple.

You sit on the floor, backs against the wall, legs stretched out, the bottle between you.

“I have never…” you begin, a small grin tugging at your lips, “stolen food before all this.”

Daryl snorts. “Really?”

You take a sip. “Your turn.”

He rolls his eyes slightly. “I have never… trusted anyone first.”

You both drink.

A quiet laugh escapes you. “Okay… that one’s a little sad.”

“Shut up.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The game goes on. Questions get a little bolder.

The alcohol warms your chest, loosens the edges of everything. Your laughter comes easier. His answers come quicker.

And the silence between rounds— Feels less heavy. More… intimate.

You lean your head back against the wall, smiling faintly.

"Alright," you say, glancing at him. "I have never... kissed someone in the last year."

You lift the bottle to your lips. Take a drink. Then glance at him—And freeze.

Daryl hasn’t moved.

“…Wait.”

He shrugs slightly, avoiding your gaze. “Ain’t happened.”

You stare at him, then laugh softly, a little incredulous. “No way.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You’re telling me—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—you, Mr. Brooding Survivalist, haven’t kissed anyone in a year?”

“Not exactly a lotta options out here.”

You grin, teasing. “Still. I figured you had some secret charm going on.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, real charmer.”

You shake your head, amused. “That’s wild.”

A pause. Then your tone softens, just slightly.

“…It’s been a long time, huh?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. And something shifts. The air feels warmer. Heavier.

You don’t look away. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, a small, daring smile forming.

“Well…” you murmur. “…we could fix that.”

He blinks. “Fix what?”

You lean in just a little. “This.”

Your voice is softer now. Closer.

“You’re overdue.”

His breath catches—just barely. “You serious?”

You don’t answer with words. You just lean in the rest of the way— And kiss him.

It’s slow at first.Careful. Like neither of you quite believe it’s happening. Your hand brushes his jaw lightly, grounding him, steadying both of you.

Daryl stills for half a second— Then responds. And it’s different than you expected. Not clumsy. Not unsure. Just… real.

His hand comes up to your waist, pulling you closer without hesitation now, like something in him finally clicks into place. The kiss deepens. Warmer. More certain. The alcohol hums in your veins, but this— This feels clearer than anything all day.

You shift without thinking, your legs sliding over his as he adjusts, pulling you onto his lap. Neither of you question it. It just… happens. Your hands find his shoulders, his grip tightens slightly at your waist, grounding you there, like he doesn’t want you going anywhere.

And the kiss— Turns. Not rushed. Not messy. Just deeper. Closer. Like months—maybe years—of something unspoken finally finding its way out. It’s the way your tongue brush his, the way you head angle to feel him better, the way you allow yourself to make some faint sounds of approval when his hand caress your leg, the way you, almost-, let your hips grind back and forth on his jeans when his hand grip your hair out of your face…

When you finally pull back, you’re both a little breathless. Foreheads almost touching.

Silence hangs between you— Then you laugh. Soft. Light. A little disbelieving.

Daryl huffs out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh slipping through too. “Damn,” he mutters.

You grin, still sitting in his lap, hands resting loosely against him. “Not bad for someone out of practice.”

He rolls his eyes slightly. “Shut up.”

But there’s no bite to it. Just warmth.

You glance down briefly, then back up at him. “…Guess I should thank the alcohol.”

He shakes his head faintly. “Ain’t just that.”

Your smile softens. “No?”

His gaze lingers on you. Steady. Honest. “No.”

A quiet pause settles. You don’t move. Don’t pull away. Just stay there— In his arms.

Warm. Close. Real.

And for once— The world outside doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ My dear readers, I fear i might be back in my TWD era ... <3 If you have a beloved request, you can comment in any of my posts or use the link in my bio to spill your dearest fantasy with whoever you want (you can found all the fandoms i want to write about in the masterlist) of whatever dream you have. I wish the sweetest day to all of you. 🍷 Lady Red Velvet wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

☣︎ 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚕 𝙳𝚒𝚡𝚘𝚗 Say it like you mean it Blame it on the alcohol. Stay, just stay. Run if you want to. +18 What he can't be.

☣︎ 𝙶𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜 Grace in the wrongs hands

☣︎ 𝚁𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝙶𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚗 𝚁𝚑𝚎𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝙼𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝙽𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

☣︎ 𝙿𝚊𝚞𝚕 𝚁𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚊 - 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗..

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Say it like you mean it - Daryl Dixon

Words : 920.

🍷 : Friends to lovers, light angst, jealousy, kissing.

Life in the prison had settled into something almost… steady.

Not safe. Never safe. But predictable.

Runs, watch shifts, shared meals, arguments over nothing that somehow meant everything. New people came in, some stayed, some didn’t. Bonds formed in quiet ways—glances, habits, the unspoken understanding that survival tied you all together whether you liked it or not.

And then—There was him.

The new guy. Too easy with his smile.Too comfortable with words.

The kind of man who filled silence instead of respecting it.

He talked to you the first day he arrived. You answered politely. Then sarcastically. Then… less dismissively than you meant to.

He was persistent in a way that didn’t feel threatening. Just… there.

Offering help. Making conversation. Flirting, lightly, like it was second nature.

You never leaned into it.

But you didn’t shut it down completely either.

And that— That was enough.

Because Daryl Dixon noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the way the guy stood a little too close to you.The way he made you smile—small, reluctant, but real.

The way you didn’t walk away immediately.

Daryl didn’t say anything. Not at first.

But something in him tightened.

Day by day. Until it turned into something sharp. Ugly. Jealous.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

That night, the prison was quieter than usual.

Most people had already turned in.

Lanterns dimmed. Conversations faded.

You had gone outside with him. Just to talk.

That’s all it was.

Fresh air. A break from the walls. A conversation that didn’t feel heavy for once.

You lost track of time.

By the time you came back in, the halls were nearly empty.

Your boots echoed softly against the concrete as you walked past the cells.

Then—

“You know what time it is?”

You stopped. Slowly turned.

Daryl stood just inside his cell, leaning against the bars, arms crossed tight over his chest.

His expression— Wasn’t neutral.

It wasn’t teasing.It wasn’t him. It was something darker.

You raised an eyebrow, slipping easily into your usual tone. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

His jaw tightened. “Been out a while.”

You shrugged lightly. “Talking.”

“With him.” Not a question.

You leaned against the opposite wall, casual.

“Yeah.” Silence stretched.

Then you smirked faintly. “What, you keeping track now?”

Daryl pushed off the bars slightly, stepping closer.

“Ain’t hard when you don’t come back.”

Your tone softened just a fraction. “I’m back now.”

“Not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He stared at you. Really stared.

Like he was trying to figure out how to say something he didn’t have words for.

“You just… go off with some guy,” he muttered, voice rough. “Laughin’, talkin’ like—”

“Like what?” you pressed.

His frustration snapped. “Like he matters.”

The words hit sharper than you expected. You blinked. “…He doesn’t.”

Daryl scoffed. “Sure looks like it.”

You pushed off the bars, stepping closer.

“Since when do you care who I talk to?”

He didn’t answer right away. And that silence—That was louder than anything he could’ve said.

“…Daryl.”

His gaze flicked to yours again. And there it was.

Not just anger. Fear.

“I don’t like it,” he said finally.

Simple. Honest.

You frowned slightly. “Don’t like what?”

“Him lookin’ at you like that.”

Your breath caught. “And how’s that?”

“Like he’s got a shot.”

Your heart started beating faster. “And that bothers you?”

Daryl stepped closer , close enough that only the cold air separated you. “Yeah.”

That word was quiet. But solid.

You held his gaze. “Why?”

That question— That was the one. The one he couldn’t dodge. The one that made his chest tighten like a trap.

“‘Cause…” he started, then stopped, frustrated.

You didn’t move. Didn’t help him. Just waited.

Because this mattered.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. “‘Cause I don’t want him thinkin’ he can take you from me.”

Everything stilled. Your voice softened.

“…I’m not yours, Daryl.”

“I know.” The words came out fast. Too fast.

“But—” He stopped again.

Then leaned forward, his hands clenching to his sides. “But I want you to be.”

Your breath hitched. That was it. That was everything he never said.

The jealousy. The tension.

The way he watched you like losing you would break something in him.

You stepped closer. Close enough that your chest nearly brushed his leather jacket.

“Then say it,” you whispered.

His eyes flickered. “I just did.”

“No,” you murmured. “Say it like you mean it.”

Daryl’s breath stopped. His voice dropped. “I want you.”

That was all it took.You reached to him, grabbing his shirt, pulling him toward you— And kissed him. Hard. Decisive. Like you were ending the argument the only way that made sense.

The wall was cold against your back as you shifted, pressing closer, his hands finding your waist, the one he dreams about almost every night, rough but careful like always.

There was nothing hesitant about him now. No distance. No restraint. Just everything he had been holding back.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathing heavier, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmured softly.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“But you’re my Dixon.”

“Don’t go off like that again,” he said, voice still rough—but not angry this time. He almost cracked an amused smile.

You smiled faintly.

“Then don’t wait this long to say something.”

His hand tightened slightly at your waist. “Fair.”

You leaned in just enough to brush your lips against his again. Softer this time. Reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

And for the first time that night— Daryl believed you.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Undercover chemistry - Aaron Hotchner

Words : 824

🍷: coworkers, flirting, fluff.

Everyone in the BAU knew you and Aaron Hotchner worked well together.

What they didn’t know was why.

You anticipated each other’s moves during interrogations. You finished each other’s thoughts during briefings. And during tense moments in the field, a single glance was often enough to communicate an entire strategy.

It wasn’t something either of you talked about.

But it was there.

A quiet current beneath every interaction.

Which is exactly why the plan made sense.

Even if it made your heart beat faster.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

“We need a couple,” Derek said, pointing at the board where photos of the victims were pinned.

“The unsub targets women in bars,” Spencer added. “Specifically women who appear to be in relationships.”

You crossed your arms. “So we send in a fake couple.”

Morgan nodded. JJ glanced around the table.

“Well… who?”

A beat of silence passed.

Then Morgan’s grin slowly appeared. “Oh, that’s easy.”

Your stomach dropped. Across the table, Hotchner didn’t react at all.

Morgan pointed between the two of you. “You.”

And then him. “And Hotch.”

You felt every pair of eyes shift your way.

“Why us?” you asked carefully.

Morgan shrugged. “You already act like one.”

Reid adjusted his glasses. “Statistically speaking, you two have the highest behavioral synchronization in the team.”

Hotch finally spoke. “If it helps catch the unsub, we’ll do it.”

His voice was calm. Professional.

But when his eyes briefly met yours— Something flickered there.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The bar was loud. Dim lighting. Music pulsing through the walls. People laughing over cheap drinks. You leaned against the counter, pretending to sip from a cocktail while scanning the room. Hotch stood beside you, one hand resting casually on the bar.

Except it wasn’t entirely casual. His fingers brushed lightly against your lower back. Just enough to sell the act. And apparently just enough to make your heart skip.

“You’re tense,” he murmured quietly.

“You’re touching my back.”

“That’s the point.”

You exhaled slowly. “Right.”

Across the room, Morgan and Prentiss watched from a table. Your earpiece crackled softly.

“Looking good, lovebirds,” Morgan teased.

You rolled your eyes. “Focus.”

Hotch leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping near your ear. “Relax.”

His hand moved just a little higher on your back. Warm. Steady. Too convincing.

“You’re enjoying this,” you muttered.

“Maybe.”

You turned toward him. “Careful, Hotch.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Why?”

“You’re starting to sound like you’re flirting.”

His lips curved—barely. “Maybe I am.”

Your breath caught slightly. That was not in the script.

You leaned closer too, matching the energy. “Well if we’re committing to the role…”

Your fingers slid lightly along his tie. Hotch went very still.

Morgan’s voice burst in your ear. “Okay wow, that’s— that’s very convincing.”

You ignored him. Your eyes stayed locked with Hotch’s.

“You clean up well,” you murmured.

His voice lowered. “So do you.”

Your pulse spiked. There was something different in the way he was looking at you now. Not just acting. Not just pretending. Real.

The moment stretched.

Then Reid’s voice cut in urgently. “Unsub entering from the east side of the bar.”

You both straightened slightly. Hotch’s hand tightened at your waist for a moment.

“Showtime,” he murmured.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Two hours later, the unsub was in custody. The arrest had been quick, clean, and successful.

Adrenaline still buzzed through your veins when you finally returned to the hotel.

You kicked off your shoes and collapsed onto the bed, replaying the night in your mind. The flirting. The tension. The way Hotch’s hand had lingered on your waist even after the suspect was in cuffs. You were halfway through convincing yourself it meant nothing when—

Knock knock.

You frowned, getting up. When you opened the door, your breath caught.

Hotch stood there. His tie was gone. His sleeves rolled up.

And for once in his very controlled life— He looked slightly breathless.

“Aaron?”

His eyes searched yours. “I tried to go back to my room.”

You blinked. “…Okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering across his face.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about tonight.”

Your heartbeat picked up.

“The case?” you asked softly.

His gaze darkened. “No.”

The word landed heavy between you.

You swallowed. “Aaron…”

He stepped closer. “Pretending to be with you tonight…” he said quietly.

“…didn’t feel like pretending.”

Your breath caught. The hallway suddenly felt very small.

“And now?” you asked.

His answer came almost like a confession. “Now I can’t stop craving you.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t step back. That was all the permission he needed.

Hotch closed the distance quickly, his hand gently but firmly guiding you backward until your shoulders touched the wall inside the room.

Then he kissed you. It wasn’t rushed. But it was intense. Months—maybe years—of restraint breaking at once.

Your hands gripped the front of his shirt as the kiss deepened, heat rushing through you.

When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested against yours. “You deserve more than pretending,” he murmured softly.

Your voice came out breathless. “Then don’t pretend.”

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. And then he kissed you again.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

The line he drew too late - Gregory House

Words : 1157 🍷: coworkers, light jealousy / angst, happy ending.

The first time you met Gregory House, he told you two things. One: you were wrong. Two: he liked you anyway.

You had been presenting a differential in the conference room, confident and sharp, when he interrupted mid-sentence with that familiar dry tone.

“Wrong. But interestingly wrong, which is the only kind worth listening to.”

The fellows had snickered. You had simply leaned back in your chair, crossed your arms, and replied:

“Well, if you’re so confident, Dr. House, enlighten us.”

Something had shifted in his eyes then. Respect.

From that moment on, a rhythm formed between you. A language no one else spoke.

You argued. You teased. You flirted. But it wasn’t like his flirting with everyone else. With nurses, patients, and random hospital staff, House’s charm was crude, theatrical, disposable.

With you, it was… precise. Smaller. Sharper. Personal.

No one ever said anything. Not you. Not him.

But something changed over the months. House stopped flirting with other women. The fellows noticed first. Wilson noticed second. You noticed last.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The day everything broke started like any other.

You were in the cafeteria with James Wilson, eating something that barely qualified as food while he complained about House for the thousandth time.

“Do you know what he did this morning?” Wilson sighed.

You raised an eyebrow. “Statistically speaking, something illegal.”

Wilson chuckled. Then his expression shifted into that familiar soft smile he had—the one that made patients trust him immediately.

“You know,” he said lightly, “I still don’t understand why someone like you works with someone like him.”

You smirked. “Because someone has to keep him intellectually stimulated.”

Wilson tilted his head. “And here I thought it was because you like him.”

You laughed, brushing it off. “Oh please. I like puzzles, not migraines.”

Wilson leaned forward slightly. “You deserve better company than House.”

Your smile turned playful. “Oh? Are you volunteering?”

Wilson grinned. “Maybe.”

And because the moment felt harmless—because flirting had always been harmless—you leaned closer too.

“Careful, James. I might take you seriously.”

Across the cafeteria, a blue-eyed glare locked onto the scene. House had come down for coffee. He watched everything. The leaning closer. The smiling. The easy laughter.

Wilson touching your arm. And worst of all— You didn’t pull away.

Something dark and ugly twisted in his chest. Jealousy was not an emotion House tolerated in himself.

So instead, he converted it into anger.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

You knocked on his office door that evening like you always did. No answer. You pushed it open anyway.

House was at his desk, bouncing a ball against the wall, catching it with precise irritation.

“You look like someone diagnosed you with humility,” you said casually, leaning against the doorframe.

No response. That was unusual. You stepped inside.

“Bad case?”

Still nothing. The ball hit the wall again. Harder.

You frowned. “Okay… what did I do?”

The ball stopped. House looked up. His expression was ice.

“Funny you should phrase it like that.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you did something.”

Confusion crept into your voice. “House, what are you talking about?”

He leaned back in his chair, cane resting across his knees. “You and Wilson looked cozy today.”

You stared. “…That’s what this is about?”

His jaw tightened. “You were flirting.”

You scoffed lightly. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god?” he repeated sharply.

“Yes, oh my god.” You crossed your arms. “It was a joke.”

“You were leaning on him.”

“So?”

“You were laughing.”

“It’s called having a conversation.”

His voice dropped. “You touched him.”

Your patience snapped. “You flirt with everyone, House.”

“Not anymore.”

The words hung in the air. You froze slightly. “…That’s not my fault.”

“No,” he said bitterly. “Apparently it's mine.”

You stepped closer to the desk. “Why are you acting like I betrayed you? We’re colleagues.”

His laugh was harsh. “Colleagues.”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

Silence stretched.

Then he said quietly: “You know what? You're fired.”

The words hit like a slap.

“…What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re joking.”

“Clean out your office.”

Your voice rose. “You cannot fire me because I had lunch with Wilson.”

“I can fire you for any reason I want.”

“That’s insane!”

“And yet here we are.”

You stared at him. Waiting.

Waiting for the smirk. The sarcasm. The inevitable just kidding.

It never came.

Something cracked inside your chest. “Fine,” you said quietly.

You grabbed your bag from the chair. House didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. Didn’t say anything. You reached the door.

Your voice trembled despite your effort to sound calm.

“You know what the worst part is?”

House didn’t answer.

“You don’t even have the courage to notice how much I've tried to make us work, while you were pushing me away.”

Then you left.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The apartment was silent when you got home. Too silent.

You had packed half a box of things from your office before leaving the hospital. You hadn’t cried there. But now the anger sat heavy in your chest. So, you’re now crying like a little child in the middle of your living room, eyes massively red and mascara running down.

The doorbell rang. You ignored it.

It rang again. Longer.

You sighed, walking toward the door, hands cleaning your under eyes.

When you opened it, your breath caught. House stood there. No sarcasm. No smugness. Just exhaustion.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then he said quietly: “Wilson’s an idiot.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“He thinks he likes you.”

You stared. “And you fired me because of that?”

His voice lowered. “I fired you because you flirted back.”

The words landed softly this time. Not angry. Hurt.

“You flirt with everyone,” you said again, more quietly now.

“Not you.”

Your heart stuttered. House looked away briefly. “Not the same.”

Silence stretched between you. Then he stepped closer.

“And watching you do it with him…”

His jaw tightened. “…felt like betrayal.”

You searched his face. “You never said anything.”

“I don’t do feelings.”

“Well apparently you do!”

He sighed. For a man who hated vulnerability, the next words were practically a confession.

“Come back.”

You stared. “House—”

“I was wrong.” The admission sounded physically painful. “Shockingly wrong.” 

You crossed your arms. “You humiliated me.”

“I know.”

“You fired me.”

“I know.”

“And now you just show up and expect—”

He interrupted, voice rough. “Please.”

That word stopped you. Gregory House didn’t say please. Ever.

The silence between you softened. You stepped closer.

“Why does it matter so much?”

His answer was immediate. “Because it's you.”

Your breath caught. “And if Wilson actually tried something?” you asked quietly.

House’s gaze flickered to your lips. Then back to your eyes.

“I’d probably punch my best friend.”

You laughed softly despite yourself. “Good to know.”

Another quiet moment passed. Then you said gently:

“You’re still an idiot.”

“Statistically speaking.”

“You’re apologizing terribly.”

“Also statistically consistent.”

You shook your head. “House…”

But before you could finish, he leaned forward.

The kiss wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t practiced. It was desperate, frustrated, long overdue. Your hands grabbed his coat instinctively. When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Come back to work,” he murmured.

You smirked slightly. “Only if you promise not to fire me every time someone flirts with me.”

His eyes darkened. “No promises.”

You rolled your eyes. Then kissed him again. Because apparently—

That was the only language the two of you had ever been good at speaking.

🍷Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Read my mind, Professor - Charles Xavier

Words : 841 🍷: teacher-student, light age gap / both adults, fluff.

He had always called you his little light. Not in a condescending way. Never that. But because, in a mansion full of extraordinary minds, yours felt… luminous. Warm. Alive. Untouched by the cynicism he carried like a second skin.

You were younger — yes — but not by much. A former student, now assisting with advanced mutant studies. Brilliant in your own right. Powerful in ways you barely flaunted.

And somehow, without trying, you always caught his attention. The way you challenged him in lectures with that subtle smile. The way your mind brushed against his like a curious flame — bright but respectful. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t noticing.

He noticed. He just never allowed himself to cross the line. He never entered your mind. Not once.

Because you were too precious for that. Too sacred.

Until that night…

It wasn’t an official outing. Just a handful of mutants from the mansion slipping into the city for something normal — laughter, music, cheap lights and loud conversations.

And somehow, impossibly, he was there too. Not in a suit. Not in professor mode. Just Charles.

The bar was dim — amber lights, soft jazz humming in the background. You slipped away from the group first, needing air, and found a secluded table in the corner.

He followed minutes later.

You felt him before you saw him.

“Escaping your own party?” he asked lightly.

You looked up, slow smile forming. “Escaping supervision.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Old habits.”

You gestured to the seat across from you. He hesitated only a second before joining you at the small round table. Close enough that your knees nearly brushed.

No one could hear you here. That was tempting.

The lighting softened the sharpness of his features, casting shadows along his jaw. Without the weight of responsibility in his eyes, he looked younger. More vulnerable.

“You look different tonight,” you said quietly.

“In what way?”

“Less untouchable.”

His breath paused almost imperceptibly. “And you,” he replied, voice lower now, “look as though you’re plotting something.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. “Maybe I am.”

He should have redirected the conversation. Should have stood up. Should have remembered the invisible lines he had drawn.

Instead, he stayed. “Careful,” he murmured. “You know how easily I could uncover your intentions.”

You tilted your head, gaze steady on his. “You never read my mind.”

His expression softened. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because it feels like trespassing.”

Your chest tightened. You leaned even closer now, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe tonight… I’m inviting you in.”

Silence. The air between you changed.

He studied your face, searching for uncertainty. He found none.

“Read my mind,” you said softly.

The words were simple. But they held everything.

His jaw flexed faintly. “Are you certain?” he asked, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Yes.”

He inhaled slowly. Then let the walls fall.

Your mind opened to him like a sunrise.

And there it was. A vision.

You and him — not rushed, not stolen — but close. Intimate. His hand resting gently at your waist. Your fingers sliding into his hair. A kiss that wasn’t impulsive but inevitable. Slow. Deep. Tender to the point of aching. Not scandalous. Not reckless. Loving. So loving it almost hurt.

He felt the warmth of your breath against his lips. The way you leaned into him without fear. The trust. The want.

It flooded him — not just the image, but the emotion behind it. The way you felt about him. The way you had felt for a long time.

When he withdrew from your mind, reality felt too small. You were still there. Watching him. Waiting.

His breathing had changed. You saw it.

“Was I clear enough?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer with words. His hand rose slowly, almost reverently, to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how long I have restrained myself.”

Your pulse skipped.

“I never entered your thoughts,” he continued quietly, “because I feared I would find something I could not ethically ignore.”

“And now?” you whispered.

“Now,” he said, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone, “I find it far more scandalous not to.”

You didn’t move away. You didn’t hesitate. You simply leaned closer.

His other hand came to rest lightly at your waist, testing, giving you space to retreat. You didn’t.

Your lips met his. Soft at first. A question. He answered.

The kiss deepened slowly — not hungry, not rushed — but filled with everything unspoken between you for months.

His hand tightened just slightly at your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers slid gently to the collar of his shirt, steadying yourself against him. It felt like stepping into something inevitable. Like gravity finally winning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm against your skin.

“You are,” he whispered, voice unsteady, “the brightest mind I have ever known.”

A faint smile curved your lips. “And now you know exactly what I think about you.”

He almost laughed softly. “Oh, my dear,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, “I believe I’ve only just begun to understand.”

And this time— He kissed you first.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Mon silence chéri - Remy Lebeau

Words : 886 🍷 : friends to lover, flirting, light self depreciation, fluff.

Remy LeBeau flirted like he breathed. Easy. Effortless. Dangerous. A wink in the hallway. A lazy “chérie” tossed over his shoulder. Fingers brushing wrists that weren’t yours. Girls laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t that funny.

And you? You stood at the edge of it all — arms crossed, sarcasm sharpened, pretending none of it touched you. You hated attention. Hated the spotlight. Hated feeling compared.

And lately, watching him glow under it with everyone else had started to ache. Because when it was just the two of you, it felt different. Movie nights with your head on his chest. Quiet conversations at 2 a.m. His fingers lacing through yours when words weren’t enough. Falling asleep in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Tender. Real.

But he never crossed the line. Never kissed you. Never claimed you.

So maybe… you weren’t his type. Maybe you weren’t the loud, dazzling kind he usually collected like trophies.

That day, he’d spent hours with Jane — laughing, leaning too close, whispering something that made her blush. You saw it. And you disappeared. Avoided him all afternoon. Dodged the common room. Took the long way back to your dorm.

By the time night fell, you were in your room, curled by the window in soft pyjama shorts and an oversized shirt, watching the city lights blink in the distance.

You felt small. Stupid for caring.

A knock came at your door. You froze. Another knock.

“Chérie,” his voice drifted through the wood, low and unmistakable. “Remy knows you in there.”

You almost didn’t answer. Almost. But you did.

He stepped inside slowly, shutting the door behind him. No flirtatious grin this time. No show. Just him. His red eyes softened when they landed on you.

“Been lookin’ for you all day.”

“I was busy,” you replied coolly.

“Busy avoidin’ Remy?”

You shrugged. He studied you for a long moment. Bare legs. Soft cotton shirt. Hair loose and messy. No armor. No sarcasm shield.

And you thought you looked ugly. He thought you looked devastating.

He walked toward the window and sat beside you without asking. Close, but not touching. The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy at once.

“You jealous,” he said quietly, not as a question.

You stiffened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Remy ain’t blind, ma belle. You been hurtin’.”

You looked out at the night, refusing to meet his eyes. “You flirt with everyone.”

“Mm.”

“You laugh with everyone.”

“True.”

“You never—” Your voice faltered slightly. “You never made a move with me.”

That one hung between you. Honest. Bare. He leaned back against the wall, gaze fixed on you like you were something fragile.

“Remy takes his time with precious things.”

Your heart skipped. “I’m not precious.”

He turned toward you fully now. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make yourself small so you don’t gotta feel wanted.”

Your breath caught. He shifted closer, knee brushing yours lightly.

“You think Remy flirts with Jane ‘cause she mean somethin’?” he asked softly. “That just noise. That just habit.”

“And I’m not?” you whispered.

He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Non,” he murmured. “You silence.”

Your pulse thundered.

“Silence’s the thing that matter. The thing you don’t play with.”

His thumb lingered against your temple.

“You don’t think you sexy?” he added, voice lower now. “Sittin’ here in them little shorts, lookin’ at the stars like they owe you answers?”

Heat flooded your cheeks. 

“I’m not like them,” you said.

“Thank God.”

His fingers slid gently to your jaw, guiding your face toward him. You resisted for half a second. Then let him.

“You don’t shine loud,” he whispered. “You burn slow.”

Your eyes locked with his — red meeting yours, steady and intense.

“And Remy?” he continued softly, “Remy don’t rush fire like that. He wait. He respect it.”

Your breath trembled. “I thought you didn’t want me,” you admitted.

A flicker of something almost wounded crossed his expression. “Chérie… Remy’s been wantin’ you since the first time you rolled your eyes at him.”

A small laugh escaped you despite yourself. He smiled faintly.

“You different,” he murmured. “When you jealous, you don’t scream. You disappear.”

His hand slid from your jaw to cradle the side of your neck gently. “And Remy ain’t lettin’ you disappear no more.”

Your heart was racing now. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper against your lips.

“You worth more than every girl laughin’ too loud in that hallway.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt unconsciously.

“And if Remy’s been takin’ his time…” he added softly, “it’s ‘cause you deserve somethin’ real.”

Then he kissed you. Slow. Deliberate. Not the flashy, showman kiss everyone imagined he’d give. This one was quiet. His hand steady at your neck, the other resting at your waist like he was anchoring himself.

He tasted like night air and something sweet.

You melted into him before you could overthink it. His thumb stroked gently beneath your ear as his lips moved against yours — patient, confident, reverent.

When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“You ain’t ugly,” he murmured. “You ain’t second choice. You ain’t background noise.”

Your breath hitched.

“You mine,” he said softly. “If you’ll have me.”

For once, you didn’t hide. You didn’t deflect. You didn’t retreat. You leaned forward and kissed him again.

And this time— He smiled into it.

🍷 : Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Hallelujah, House - Gregory House

Words : 879 🍷 : coworkers, flirting, reader being a singer, tension.

House knew you sang. He had known for months. Not because you told him — you didn’t advertise softness — but because Wilson mentioned it once, casually. “She goes to that little bar near her apartment on Thursdays. Open mic. She’s good.”

Good, House had scoffed. As if that word could possibly contain you. 

So naturally, he ignored it. For months.

Until one evening, after a shift that tasted like stale coffee and near-death, he stood up abruptly from his office chair and grabbed his cane.

Wilson looked up. “Where are we going?”

“Field research.”

“That’s not comforting.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The bar was dim, intimate. Low golden lights, exposed brick, the quiet hum of glasses clinking and people leaning too close to hear one another.

House told himself he was there for a beer. Not to hear your voice. Definitely not because he had imagined it before — low, controlled, with that subtle edge you carried into everything.

Then you stepped onto the small stage. And the air changed. You weren’t dressed like the hospital version of you.

No sharp blazers. No clinical composure. Just simple jeans hugging your hips. A black flannel shirt, sleeves rolled lazily to your elbows. Heels — cozy but deliberate.

Effortless. It wrecked him.

Wilson leaned closer. “Oh.”

House didn’t answer. Because he was staring.

The mic adjusted. The guitarist behind you nodded.

And then— The opening chords of Hallelujah. 

Of course. Of course you’d pick that one.

House knew the lyrics. Knew the theology. Knew the layers. Sacred and profane tangled together like confession and sin in the same breath.

You closed your eyes when you began. And your voice— It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical. It was intimate. Low. Controlled. Wrapped in something almost angelic.

You sang it like you understood every hidden meaning. Like you weren’t singing about broken faith.

You were singing about surrender. About pleasure dressed up as prayer.

And House knew. He knew you knew.

The subtle emphasis you placed on certain words. The way your breath lingered between lines. The slight curve of your mouth when the lyrics hinted at something far less holy than they pretended to be.

You were tricking the room. Making them feel devotion— When you were really singing about something visceral. Physical. Almost indecent beneath the poetry.

It was so you. Intelligent. Layered. A little wicked.

House’s grip tightened around his glass.

Wilson glanced at him. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

He couldn’t look away. Every shift of your weight. Every subtle sway of your hips to the slow rhythm. The way the stage light traced the line of your throat when you tilted your head back for a higher note.

He had fantasized about your voice before. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Personal. Like you were singing directly into his bloodstream.

Then— Mid-verse— Your eyes opened. And found him.

You didn’t falter. Didn’t miss a note.

But something changed. A flicker of recognition. Of satisfaction.

You had known he might come one day. And now that he was there? You held his gaze through an entire line. Soft. Intent. Unblinking.

House felt it like a physical thing. The challenge. The awareness. You knew exactly what you were doing.

When the song ended, the applause was warm and easy. You smiled — polite, modest — and stepped off the stage.

Wilson exhaled. “She’s incredible.”

House stood before the sentence even finished. He didn’t wait for you to approach. He met you halfway.

Up close, you still carried that faint rush of adrenaline performers never fully hide.

“You sing about religion now?” he asked dryly.

You smirked. “You know that song isn’t about religion.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?” you tilted your head slightly. “Most people aren’t.”

His eyes darkened. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” you agreed softly.

A beat. “You’ve been watching me,” you added.

“I observe.”

“Same difference.”

He stepped a fraction closer, voice lowering so Wilson — and the rest of the world — disappeared.

“You emphasized certain lines,” he said calmly. “Deliberately.”

Your lips curved faintly. “Maybe I just like the poetry.”

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe you enjoy hiding something indecent inside something sacred.”

Silence. Charged. Your heartbeat betrayed you slightly. He heard it in the way you take back your breath.

“You came,” you said quietly.

“For a beer.”

“Of course.”

Another pause. “You liked it,” you pressed.

He looked at you steadily. “I liked that you weren’t pretending.”

You swallowed lightly. “I never pretend.”

“Not on stage,” he corrected.

And there it was — that almost-confession neither of you would fully say.

The hospital version of you. The bar version of you. He liked both. Too much.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured.

“I know.”

“And?”

“And I don’t intend to stop.”

Your breath hitched — barely, again. He noticed, again.. He always did.

“You’re something when you sing,” he added quietly.

You smiled, softer now. “Good.”

A long silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. Then Wilson called from the bar, breaking the spell. House didn’t look away from you.

“Next Thursday?” he asked.

You held his gaze. “Maybe.”

He leaned just slightly closer, enough that his voice brushed against your ear.

“Don’t pick something innocent,” he murmured. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Your pulse jumped again. He stepped back before you could answer. And walked away.

Leaving you standing there — Knowing exactly where his gaze had traveled. And knowing he’d be back.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Checkmate Cuddy - Gregory House

Words : 896. 🍷: coworkers, jealousy, flirting, fluff.

You and House had always existed in that dangerous in-between. Too much tension to be innocent. Too much pride to be honest.

You flirted like you breathed — sharp, clever, controlled. He answered with that slow, predatory smirk, eyes lingering just a second too long. It was a dance. A private one.

Everyone saw it. Cameron saw it. Foreman rolled his eyes at it. Wilson teased him about it. Gregory wanted everyone to know that you have an effect on him, and the other way around. 

And Cuddy? Cuddy weaponized it.

Every time she entered the diagnostics office and found you there with him, she turned the volume up. Leaned closer. Let her hand rest too long on his desk. Adjusted his tie. Smiled that slow, knowing smile.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t compete. You observed. Cold. Quiet. Dignified. Cause you know your worth, cause you know your impact, cause you know the way you make him melt.

The first time, you told yourself it was nothing. The second time, you watched more carefully. The third time, you noticed how he didn’t exactly stop her.

And that hurt more than you expected. Not enough to show. But enough to shift something behind your eyes.

House noticed. Of course he did. He noticed the way your sarcasm sharpened when Cuddy’s laugh echoed down the hall. The way you packed your bag a little faster when she leaned too close to him. The way you didn’t look at him when you left.

He never wanted to hurt you. He hurt everyone else on purpose. But you? That was different.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ﾟ｡⋆

The next time it happened, you were sitting across from his desk, discussing a case, when Cuddy walked in — heels clicking, perfume announcing her before her voice did.

“Greg,” she said smoothly, stepping too close. “I need a word.”

You stayed seated. Calm. Detached.

House leaned back in his chair. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Too familiar.

You watched. Not dramatic. Not obvious. But your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

And that was enough. House looked at you. Really looked. Saw it.

The restraint. The disappointment. The way you were pretending not to care.

He straightened. “Unless the word is ‘raise,’ I’m busy,” he said flatly.

Cuddy smirked. “You never complain when I give you attention.”

He glanced at you again. Then back at her. “I complain constantly,” he replied dryly. “You just don’t listen.”

Her smile faltered slightly. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Oh, please. You love it.”

House’s expression changed. Subtle. Cold.

“No,” he said evenly. “I don’t.”

Silence. Even you blinked. Cuddy withdrew her hand slowly. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not interested,” he continued, voice sharp but calm. “In flirting. In games. In whatever this is.”

Her eyes flicked to you for half a second. Understanding dawned.

“Oh,” she said softly.

House didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften it. Just held her gaze until she stepped back.

“Goodnight, Greg,” she said, tone clipped now.

“Door’s that way,” he replied.

When she left, the office felt different. Quieter. He didn’t speak immediately. Neither did you. You were still processing.

He stood slowly, cane tapping once against the floor, and walked around his desk. Stopping in front of you.

“You’re terrible at pretending,” he said casually.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“You were. You’re just not good at it when it matters.”

You crossed your arms. “You enjoy being admired.”

“I enjoy control.”

“And you didn’t have it?” you asked coolly.

His eyes darkened slightly. “I had it,” he said. “I just didn’t want it.”

The implication hung in the air. You looked up at him finally.

“And what do you want?” you asked quietly.

He studied your face — searching for the crack you tried to hide.

“Your admiration,” he said simply.

Your breath caught despite yourself.

“You don’t get jealous,” he continued, voice lowering. “You get distant. Observant. Like you’re already preparing to detach.”

You didn’t deny it. “I don’t compete,” you replied.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

His hand lifted — hesitant for a fraction of a second — before brushing a strand of hair back from your face.

“You think I don’t notice?” he murmured. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention?”

Your pulse spiked. “Shut up” you whispered.

“And yet,” he smirked faintly, stepping closer, “you stayed.”

His fingers ghosted along your jaw — not claiming, just testing. “I let her flirt,” he admitted quietly. “Because I wanted to see if you cared.”

Your eyes flashed. “That’s manipulative.”

“Yes.” A beat. “But I didn’t like what I saw.”

Your composure wavered slightly.

“You looked hurt,” he added softly. “And I don’t like hurting you.”

That wasn’t sarcasm. That was real. Silence stretched.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand slid to your waist.

“Now,” he said lightly, eyes locking onto yours, “I’m going to flirt with you. And you’re going to try very hard not to blush.”

You scoffed. “You can’t.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to that intimate register only you ever heard. “You get jealous quietly,” he murmured. “But you burn, your eyes beg for my attention.”

Your breath hitched.

“I saw it in your eyes,” he continued, thumb pressing lightly against your hip. “You don’t want to share.”

“No,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His smirk softened — triumphant, but gentle. “Good girl,” he said.

His gaze traveled deliberately over you — not crude, not rushed.c“You don’t need to compete,” he whispered. “You already won.”

And this time, when your cheeks warmed — He was watching.

🍷Lady Red Velvet Wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Seen without sight - Matt Murdock

Words : 917. 🍷 : friends to lover, fluff, mention of blood.

You had always loved him quietly. 

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t confessed in rainstorms or whispered under candlelight. It was in the way you guided his hand to a coffee cup without announcing it. In the way he tilted his head when you entered a room, recognizing your footsteps instantly. In the way silence between you never felt empty.

Matt never saw you. Not with his eyes. But he knew you.

He knew the rhythm of your breathing when you were nervous. The tiny hitch in your laugh when you were trying to impress him. The way your pulse changed when he stood a little too close.

And he had known, for years, that you were beautiful. Not because someone told him. But because of how the world reacted to you. How conversations softened around you. How men’s heartbeats shifted when you walked past.

He had also known something else: You were made for him. Strong enough. Gentle enough. Stubborn enough to match him.

But he never said it. Because loving you was already dangerous. And telling you the truth about who he really was? That would put you in the line of fire.

So he kept his secret.

★━━━━━━━━━━━★

Until you found it yourself.

It started with small inconsistencies. Bruises he dismissed too quickly. Bandages under tailored suits. Late nights. The metallic scent of blood he thought you couldn’t detect.

And one night, when he didn’t answer your calls, something in your chest twisted. So you waited. In his apartment. Lights off. Sitting on his couch. Listening to the city breathe beyond the windows.

When the door finally opened, it wasn’t the soft shuffle of a lawyer returning from work. It was heavier. Uneven. Painful.

Matt froze the second he stepped inside. He could hear your heartbeat instantly. Fast. Steady. Determined.

“…You’re here,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught. And then he heard it — the shift in your pulse as he moved further into the apartment.  The fabric of his suit. The faint clink of armor. The smell of blood. You stood slowly.

“Take the mask off,” you whispered.

Silence. He considered lying. For half a second.

Then he reached up. The fabric slid away. He stood there in the dim light, bruised and cut, red suit torn at the shoulder. Exposed.

“I was going to tell you,” he said softly. “One day.”

Your eyes scanned every injury. And instead of fear — You stepped closer.

“You’re bleeding.”

He almost laughed. “That’s your first reaction?”

“I can be mad later,” you murmured. “Sit down.”

He obeyed. Because the tone in your voice wasn’t angry. It was worried.

You moved around him carefully, hands gentle but firm as you guided him to the couch. When your fingers touched his jaw to assess a bruise, he inhaled sharply. Not from pain. From you.

“I knew,” you admitted quietly as you cleaned a cut near his ribs. “I didn’t know how. But I knew.”

He listened to the sincerity in your voice. No accusation. No disgust. Just… care.

“You should be angry,” he murmured.

“Probably.”

“You should be scared.”

You met his unseeing gaze. “I am.”

His jaw tightened. “Of what?”

“Of losing you,” you said simply.

The confession settled between you like something sacred. You pressed gauze gently to a deeper wound and he hissed.

“Sorry,” you whispered immediately, leaning closer.

Your breath brushed his skin. He could feel your trembling now. Not from fear of him. From emotion.

“You kept this from me to protect me,” you said softly. “Not because you didn’t trust me.”

“I don’t want this life to touch you,” he replied. “It ruins things.”

“It didn’t ruin you.”

His breath faltered. You finished wrapping his ribs, hands lingering a second longer than necessary.

“Matt,” you said quietly.

He turned his face toward you automatically.

“You don’t see me,” you continued. “Not like everyone else does.”

He almost smiled. “I see you better than they do.”

“I know.”

And that was the thing. You did know.

He knew the way your body shifted when you were insecure. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you felt exposed. The exact tone of your voice when you were trying not to cry. He knew you.

“Why aren’t you running?” he asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his face gently. His stubble rough beneath your palm.

“Because I love you.”

The words trembled but didn’t break. His heart stuttered violently in his chest.

“You deserve someone normal,” he said hoarsely. “Someone who comes home clean.”

“I don’t want normal,” you replied. “I want you.”

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth.

“And I accept all of you. Even the parts that bleed.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t know what you’re choosing.”

“I do.” Your forehead rested against his. “I choose the man who listens when I breathe. The man who knows I’m beautiful without ever seeing me. The man who risks everything for strangers.”

His hand found your waist slowly, hesitantly. “You don’t touch me like I’m broken,” he murmured.

“You’re not.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Charged.

Then, as if something inside him finally snapped — not from fear, but from relief — He pulled you closer. His lips found yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was reverent. Careful. Like he was memorizing the shape of you through touch alone. You melted into him without hesitation. His hand cradled the back of your head. Yours stayed on his jaw, grounding him.

When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.

“You accept me,” he whispered, almost disbelieving.

“Yes.”

A soft breath left him — something he’d been holding for years. “Then I’m done pretending I don’t belong to you.”

Your heart skipped. “You always did,” you murmured.

This time when he kissed you, there was no restraint left. Not because he was reckless.

But because he finally knew — You saw him. And you stayed.

🍷Lady red velvet wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Movie night - Kurt Wagner

Words : 834. 🍷 : fluff, flirting, friends to lovers, light jealousy.

You and Kurt had always been… something.

Best friends. Study partners. Late-night theologians and philosophy debaters. Two souls orbiting the same quiet gravity at school, always together, always close — never crossing the line.

Years of loving him in silence. Years of thinking he didn’t feel the same.

You flirted sometimes — light touches, teasing comments, playful compliments — and every time, Kurt would blush a deep indigo beneath his fur, tail twitching nervously, golden eyes darting away.

He never stepped forward.Never claimed the space between you.So you convinced yourself : he doesn’t want you like that.

And then Peter arrived. Peter Maximoff. Loud. Fast. Silver-haired and confident in a way that filled rooms. He leaned too close when he talked. Smirked when he complimented you. Called you “trouble” with that easy, dominant amusement.

You didn’t flirt back. Not really. Your heart was still painfully tethered to Kurt.

But when Peter looked at you like that — like you were something to be pursued — it did something small to your confidence. A spark. A reminder that you were desirable. And anyone would feel flattered.

Kurt noticed. He noticed everything. The way Peter’s hand lingered on the back of your chair. The way his voice lowered when he spoke to you. The way your shoulders straightened when attention settled on you.

Kurt hated that it made sense. Peter was bold. Direct. Effortless. Kurt was… hesitant. Too careful. Too afraid to ruin the most precious thing he had — you.

But that day, watching Peter’s eyes roam over you, watching the faint warmth rise in your cheeks, something inside Kurt shifted.

Not jealousy. Resolve.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Thursday night. Your tradition. Movie night in Kurt’s room.

Soft yellow lamps. A thick plaid blanket. The faint scent of incense and old books. His bed was wide enough for the two of you, as it always had been — safe and familiar.

You sat cross-legged against his pillows, sweater sleeves covering your hands, hair falling loosely over your shoulders.

Kurt stood by the small screen, flipping through options.

“What are we watching tonight, meine Liebe?” he asked softly.

You shrugged lightly. “You choose. I always choose.”

He turned slowly. Golden eyes studying you. Not shy tonight. Intent.

He walked back toward the bed. Your pulse quickened.

“Nein,” he murmured gently. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. “Maybe… something romantic?”

He smiled faintly at that. He stepped closer. Closer than usual. You didn’t move — but your breath did. 

He leaned in slightly, and then — His hand lifted. Warm. Gentle. Firm. He cupped the underside of your chin. Your entire body stilled.

Kurt’s touch was never accidental. Never careless.

His thumb rested lightly against your jaw as he tilted your face upward.

You avoided eye contact with almost everyone — especially him. Because if you looked too long, he might see it. The love you tried so desperately to hide.

But tonight, he guided you. Slowly. Deliberately. Your eyes met his. Gold into yours. And he didn’t look away.

He hummed softly, thoughtful, as if analyzing a complex equation.

“Hmm,” he murmured, studying you like art. “That is what I thought.”

Your breath faltered. “What… what did you think?”

“That you look at me differently than you look at him.”

Him. Peter. Heat rushed to your cheeks.

Kurt’s thumb brushed slightly higher along your jaw, barely there.

“You try to hide it,” he whispered. “But you are not as unreadable as you believe.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he said gently, but firmly. “You blush for others. But you tremble for me.”

The words sank into you like fire. He leaned a fraction closer.

“You avoid my eyes,” he added softly. “Because when you look at me… you feel too much.”

You couldn’t breathe. He watched your reaction carefully. The widening of your pupils. The way your lips parted slightly. The way your hands clenched in the blanket.

And for the first time in years — Kurt did not retreat.

“You deserve someone who sees you,” he said quietly. “Not someone loud. Not someone fast. But someone who understands how brave you are, even when you feel uncertain.”

His thumb pressed lightly beneath your chin again.

“You are beautiful when you doubt yourself,” he murmured. “But even more beautiful when you forget to.”

Your blush deepened — not from Peter’s boldness. From Kurt’s certainty. He smiled softly.

“Ja,” he whispered. “That is what I thought.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he released your chin. And stepped back. Turning to the screen as if nothing monumental had just happened.

“I will choose the movie,” he said lightly, tail flicking once with quiet satisfaction.

You sat frozen in his bed. Breathless. Because something had shifted.

He had seen you. Claimed space. Flirted — not shyly, not timidly — but with calm confidence.

And the best part? He had noticed your reaction. Not fear. Not discomfort. Interest. Want. Him.

As the movie began and the lights dimmed, Kurt glanced back at you once — golden eyes glowing softly in the low light.

This time, when your eyes met his — You didn’t look away.

🍷 Lady red velvet wine

[ladyredvelvetwine]

Undercover - Spencer Reid

Words : 714. 🍷 : fluff, flirting, coworkers, undercover.

You and Spencer had been orbiting each other for months.

He was quiet gravity. Thoughtful. Careful. Reserved. You were wildfire. Quick sarcasm. Sharp tongue. Cool exterior that hid too much heat underneath.

Opposites. Which is exactly why the team picked you.

The unsub was targeting couples — studying dynamics, hunting intimacy.

So tonight, you and Spencer were the bait.

The bar was dim, warm lighting reflecting off glass bottles and polished wood. Music low enough to talk over, loud enough to feel intimate.

Spencer adjusted his sleeve for the third time.

“You’re fidgeting,” you murmured.

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“You’ve corrected your cuff alignment every thirty-two seconds.”

He sighed softly. “I am not nervous about being undercover.”

You smirked. “No?”

“I’ve done this before.”

“With me,” you pointed out.

That made him pause. “Yes,” he admitted quietly. “With you.”

You softened just slightly. “It’s just a role,” you teased. “You’ve played dozens.”

“That’s not what makes it complicated.”

Before you could ask what he meant, your eyes flicked across the room.

There. A man at the bar watching couples too closely. Your pulse sharpened.

You leaned closer to Spencer, voice low. “I think that’s him.”

Spencer’s posture shifted instantly — profiler mode activating.“Blue jacket?” he murmured.

“Third stool from the end.”

He followed your line of sight subtly. You swallowed.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Spencer… flirt with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Convincingly.”

You didn’t expect hesitation — you expected awkwardness. Instead, something in his expression changed. Measured. Focused.

He turned fully toward you. And suddenly, the air shifted.

His hand slid to your waist. Not tentative. Not clumsy. Deliberate.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re very good at giving instructions,” he murmured softly.

His voice was lower than usual — not rushed, not shy. Intentional.

Your brain short-circuited. “Reid—”

“Spencer,” he corrected quietly, thumb brushing lightly against your side. “If we’re convincing.”

The warmth of his hand seeped through your clothes. You forgot about the suspect for half a second. Then a full one.

He leaned closer, lips near your ear. “Did you know,” he whispered, voice smooth, “that couples who mirror each other’s breathing patterns are statistically perceived as more intimate?”

Your pulse stuttered. “Are we mirroring?” you managed.

“We are now.”

His other hand came up — fingers grazing your jaw, guiding your face gently toward his.

Your eyes locked. No shyness. No stammer. Just confidence.

“You look at me differently when you’re pretending,” he said softly.

“I—”

“You hold my gaze longer.”

Your stomach flipped.

“And you lean closer.”

He demonstrated. You could feel his breath against your lips now. The room disappeared. The music blurred.

“You’re very convincing,” you whispered.

“That’s not the part I’m trying to convince,” he replied.

Your heart skipped. His thumb traced lightly along your jaw — subtle enough to look natural from afar, intimate enough to make your thoughts unravel.

“For months,” he murmured, eyes steady on yours, “you’ve been teasing me about not knowing how to flirt.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach. “And now?” you breathed.

“Now I’m applying behavioral science.”

A faint, subtil smile curved his lips. “And personal interest.”

That stunned you. Personal interest.

Your brain tried to remember the suspect. Blue jacket. Right.

You glanced past Spencer quickly. The man was gone. You blinked. He wasn’t the unsub.

Your focus had completely shattered. “Spencer,” you whispered.

“Yes?”

“That wasn’t him.”

A beat. “I know,” he said calmly.

Your eyes snapped back to his. “You—”

“I assessed his body language while you were distracted.”

You stared at him.

“You were distracted?” he asked softly.

Your mouth opened. Closed.

He stepped just slightly closer.

“If that was an act,” you managed, “it was excessive.”

“It wasn’t entirely an act.”

Your pulse went wild. The confidence didn’t drop. He didn’t retreat.

“You asked me to flirt,” he said quietly. “So I did.”

Your voice came out breathless. “Since when do you flirt like that?”

He tilted his head, studying your expression with quiet satisfaction. “Since I stopped pretending I don’t want to.”

Silence. The music swelled around you. You were completely speechless.

Spencer Reid — shy, careful, reserved Spencer — had just dismantled you in under a minute.

He leaned in once more, close enough that only you could hear. “Next time,” he murmured, “make sure the suspect is real before you ask me to distract you.”

Then he stepped back. Calm. Composed.

As if he hadn’t just rewritten everything between you. And you stood there, heart racing — No longer thinking about the case at all.

🍷 Lady Red Velvet Wine