. ✦ ݁ ˖

she dont believe in shooting stars, but she believe in shoes and cars ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[midsccene]

— lover of jeff buckley and dave franco h. her literate writer

2002 game of thrones video games orange is the new black

rami malek radiohead the walking dead marvel superman .ᐟ

not always posting, I go through writing phases every now and then though

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[cosmictheo]

𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐘 | ser duncan ― aerion targaryen

( gif credits: @seaside-storm― @somerhall)

—summary: you are the people’s princess, adored by many, owned by duty; as a targaryen, your hand is a prize, your heart a war. two men are willing to fight the world for it, two opposites, two sides of the moon. but it is your loyalty that will decide which man you stand beside… and which one you stand against. —pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!targaryen!reader ─ aerion targaryen x female!cousin!reader —word count: 3k —content: targcest, love triangle!!! jealous and manipulative!!aerion, aerion has been in love with the reader since forever but he is very mean as you know, kind of dreamer!reader, complicated family dynamics (💀), power imbalance, dunk and reader want each other sooo bad, past life lovers trope!! aerion being his usual self, a little mention of reader's hair length.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. this will definitely be a series! 🤭 hope you like it!

You, as was well known, did not fit the mold of the typical Targaryen. You didn't have an evil character, nor were you possessed by the fervent rage of the dragon fire running through your veins. And you weren't detached from the ground like most members of your family, who elevated themselves to the skies, rising up like gods.

For that, the Gentle Dragon, the people would call you. But you were nowhere near being gentle as your father, you believed.

You sure were charming, a seductive force of nature, who had men falling under your spell wherever you went. And you would pretend to be oblivious, brushing off their awful attempts to conquer you as if they meant nothing beyond a bit of fun.

Long before you were old enough to consider wedlock, noblemen and knights had been swarming around you with marriage proposals and negotiations with Prince Baelor for your hand. A castle, they would offer, an ancient treasure, an entire army. But never true and loyal love.

That was, until you met Ser Duncan the Tall.

The first time you saw each other; the afternoon sun was falling heavily on Ashford Meadow. Unlike your cousin and brother, you found no enjoyment in cruelty or status games, but since you were now of age to seek a husband, you had to attend such events, only after much persuasion had your father allowed you to attend with them.

A tournament was no place for a princess; there was blood and carnage everywhere, but blood and carnage coursed through your veins, after all. Your House had been built on that. And your womanhood came with it as well.

You had finally arrived at the place with your family, and your cousin Aerion, impatient and angry as ever, was pulling on his mare's reins with unnecessary force. The animal, a beautiful specimen but exhausted from the journey, whinnied with wide eyes.

You were already on the ground, gratefully petting the horses that had dragged your carriage all the way from King's Landing. Your handmaidens were carefully adjusting your dress and hair, standing all around you in the mud.

“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.” Aerion sneered contemptuously at the towering man standing by the entrance to the keep at Ashford Meadow, who was watching the scene with wide, amazed eyes, his lips parted as he kept admiring your dress and your silver hair, long and radiant under the cloudy and somber atmosphere of the place.

And at the sight of the prince addressing him, the tall blond man cleared his throat in discomfort. “I'm— I'm not a stable boy, m'lord.”

Aerion clicked his tongue, unimpressed, “not clever enough?”

Before the hedge knight could give him a proper answer, the Targaryen boy cut him off, waving his hand dismissively. “Well, if you can't manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.”

“Oh, m'lord, pardons,” from your distance, you could hear how the man sounded so small in front of Aerion, in spite of his impressive height. Somehow, that made you feel a sense of sympathy. “I'm n–no serving man, either. I–I have the honor to be a knight.”

His voice was so respectful and patient, and incredibly deep. A tingling sensation coursed through your belly as you somehow recognized it, like a faint and remote reminiscence, yet vividly present.

“My lady, your quarters are all set for you,” a maid approached to inform you, interrupting your little gossip session.

You turned to look at her, bowing your head elegantly in gratitude, “thank you, I will be there shortly.”

Your maids bowed to you and rushed to assist the other girl.

Your expression shifted completely the moment you noticed Aerion walking by your side, his face stone-cold and arrogant.

“Behave yourself, Aerion,” you scolded your cousin as he stormed past you, as angry as a caged lion. “We're not at home.”

He simply shot you a dark look, signaling you to be quiet and to walk with him, but you just rolled your eyes, ignoring him and making your way toward his agitated mare, which had been led away by the kind man from before towards the stables.

“There you are, girl. Far too many people around,” he was speaking gently to the mare, seeking to calm her. “Yeah, I don't like it either”

“Thank you,” you expressed your gratitude to the stranger, approaching him from behind and walking towards the mare, which was visually much calmer now. “She's very skittish.”

The man, taller than the animal by his side, turned toward you and, as he recognized you, his face broke into a look of shock. He let go of the mare's reins so he could face you and offer a clumsy bow.

“Your highness,” his blue eyes were sparkling nervously as they looked at you from his height. “I didn't mean to intrude. I beg your pardon.”

He was used to stables jus like that one, mud-covered roads, and the roughness of hedge knights, but he had never been so close to a member of the royal family. Much less one who looked at him with such kindness instead of disdain.

“It's just me, please,” you rushed to clarify with an embarrassed smile, as you reached out to caress the mare's muzzle and she gave in to your gentle caress. “'Your highness' is for my grandsire or my father or uncle. And you don't have to apologize for having a kinder heart than my cousin.”

He slowly straightened up under your attentive gaze, although he still hunched his shoulders slightly, as if trying to take up less space in order not to intimidate you.

He was absurdly tall, and his hands were so big that you wondered briefly if they would be able to wrap around your entire waist if he clasped them together around you.

And he wasn't ugly at all; in fact, you reckoned that with a good wash and some fresh, decent clothes, he'd be more handsome than any other man you'd likely ever see there.

“I'm— I'm Ser Duncan the Tall.” He stammered his own name as he introduced himself, offering you a weak smile that looked more like an involuntary nervous grimace on his lips. “It is an great honor to meet you, my princess. You are as beautiful as the stories tell.”

You could feel the heat rising up your neck at his sudden flattery.

A second after the words rolled off his tongue, Duncan seemed to realize what he had just said, for his big ears turned scarlet red with embarrassment.

“Why thank you, Ser Duncan,” you smiled, savoring the name on your tongue as if it were sweet honey. You knew you had heard it before, read it somewhere, or perhaps in a dream, but it didn't feel like the first time your lips had shaped the words. “You're very... tall”

As you glanced over him from head to toe, you noticed that he wore no badge on his old tunic, nor jewels on the pommel of his sword. On the contrary, you smiled sweetly when you realized that his sword belt was a mere piece of rope. 

He smiled back at you, blushing. “Heh— I've been told that.”

“Ser Duncan the Tall...” you repeated his name slowly, lost in thought now, and he held his breath when you called out to him, watching you from above with curious eyes. “I believe I’ve heard that before, now that I think about it.”

His auburn eyebrows arched up on his forehead, looking incredulous, “Really?”

“Does that surprise you, Ser?” you asked back, holding back a giggle as you considered his expression.

That made Duncan blush even more. “No! I mean, aye—I have yet to begin my journey as a real knight. I will begin at the tournament here.”

Your head cocked in earnest interest, “Is this your first tournament, then?”

“It is, my princess,” Duncan confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. “I was knighted not long ago. By Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He passed on the road, and before he died… he made me a knight.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said softly, meaning it. “He must have been a good man, if he raised you.”

Duncan swallowed, visibly moved by your words. “Aye. He was good”

“You don’t look like the other knights here,” you observed quietly just after that.

Duncan frowned slightly. “Is that a bad thing, my princess?”

“No. It’s a good thing.”

You took another step closer, ignoring the protocol that dictated that a girl of royalty like you should not be in a dusty stable talking to a commoner like him.

But there was something about him, though, a purity that contrasted with the cruelty you usually saw in the men of your family.

“I know many knights. My cousin, for example, has the temperament of a wounded dragon, but none of its wisdom,” you admitted in a quiet tone, looking toward where Aerion had gone. “Don't take his insults personally. He despises everything he cannot dominate.”

“You don't have to apologize for him, princess. I'm used to that sort of treatment, unfortunately,” Dunk replied, looking down at you.

His blue eyes were clear, deep, and oddly sweet.

As a born empath, his words struck you with a pang of sadness. The idea that someone so noble of spirit and gentle was used to being treated as less than nothing by men who were not even worthy of being considered his equals was beyond your comprehension.

“Well, you shouldn't be,” you declared firmly. “Steel can make a knight, but it is the heart that keeps him standing. And from what I can see, Ser Duncan, you have more heart than half the lords at Ashford today.”

Dunk blinked, overwhelmed by your candor.

“You are... you are very kind, your Highness,” he was able to say, and this time his voice did not falter as much, although the blush remained bright on his cheeks.

From across the yard, you could hear Aerion’s sharp, impatient voice barking orders at some poor squire. The sound made you wince.

“I fear my cousin will make enemies wherever he goes,” you clicked your tongue in disapproval. “He always does.”

Duncan hesitated, then said carefully, bending down just a bit closer to you so he could confide an important truth, “Begging your pardon, but… he doesn’t seem the sort to win many friends.”

You laughed softly, covering your mouth with your hand. “That may be the politest insult I’ve ever heard, ser.”

That earned you a shy grin from him, crooked and boyish.

Gods, he really was handsome now that you were seeing him up close like that, with that little smile on his lips.

His back was broad, and his immense figure blocked your view like an imposing and majestic tower. You could climb him up like a mountain if you could...

The sudden, inappropriate flash of thought made you blush deeply and you lowered your gaze in shame, feeling hot all of a sudden.

Ser Duncan noticed it, of course, as he couldn't stop ogling at your face in such close proximity, and he caught sight of the dilation of your pupils as you looked up at him, and that also made him flustered, forcing himself to take a step back and regain his composure.

He cleared his throat, his face flushed with worry, “Are you alright, my princess?”

That emerging connection, so unusual between a princess and a knight, was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. A maid, breathless and pale with worry, appeared at the entrance to the stables.

“Princess!” gasped the girl, curtsying quickly but with some trepidation. “I've finally found you. Prince Maekar has been asking for you. He says it's time to go inside the fortress and that it's not fitting for someone of your rank to be out here alone.”

Dunk, on hearing your uncle's name, seemed to shrink a couple of inches in utter fear at your side. The mention of Maekar Targaryen, a man known for his severity and strong hand, was enough to intimidate anyone, especially a knight who barely owned the clothing he wore.

“I must go,” you said with a sigh of resignation, though your eyes remained fixed on the man in front of you. “My uncle is not a man who cares for waiting, much less when it comes to formalities.”

You turned to the maid to indicate that she should follow you, but before leaving, you gave Dunk one last look filled with a warmth he clearly did not expect.

“Ser Duncan,” you bowed gracefully. “I hope to see you again soon.”

“I... I hope so too, Your Grace,” he blurted out, bowing his head as he watched you walk away from him.

“I've told you countless times that you can't just wander off and strike up conversations with the first person you come across, cousin.” Aerion was giving you one of his usual scoldings as he walked alongside you through the main hall of the keep. “It's dangerous for a woman like you to wander around alone. Do you realize what you're exposing yourself to out there? All those men...”

You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest, “I was just comforting your mare, Aerion. She was terrified, and that tall kind knight was— he was just there too.”

The blond furrowed his brow, making a big effort to remember that he too had seen the same man before. “The dirty-clothed beast that was in the stables?” Realization washed over his face as he considered that your silence affirmed his judgment, “don't tell me—”

“He's good, Aerion. And his name is Ser Duncan the Tall,” you rolled your eyes, trying to pacify him. “It's one of the first times in a long time that I've been able to hold a good conversation with a man that isn't about titles or reprimands or power or marriage.”

Aerion let out a dry, humorless laugh, stopping abruptly under one of the stone arches of the fortress. He looked at you with that mixture of possessiveness and jealousy that always made your skin crawl, and not in a good way this time. 

“A good man? That clumsy giant?” he mocked, drawing another step closer to you like a predator to its prey. “He's just cannon fodder, a nameless man who will die in the mud before the sun sets tomorrow. Men of his kind don't have conversations, my sweet cousin; they only have needs. Be careful, lest your ‘kindness’ be mistaken for something more vulgar.”

You felt a spark of indignation ignite in your chest at the offensive remarks aimed at your newest friend. “None of the men I speak to are to your liking, Aerion.”

“You have terrible taste, that's why. All I do is to protect you, my sweet dragon. None of those men are good enough for you, least of all that lout who reeks of horses and despair,” Aerion spat, narrowing his violet eyes. His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “You must know your position. You are supposed to stand by your family, by me.”

You were about to respond with the sharp tongue you had been given by your lineage, but your uncle's deep, resonant voice cut through the air like an axe.

“Aerion. Stop tormenting your poor cousin.”

Maekar Targaryen strode toward you, dressed in dark clothes and bearing that look of perpetual disappointment that seemed to be carved permanently into his face.

His mere presence made Aerion straighten up, though it did not entirely wipe the smug smile from his face.

“Father,” Aerion greeted him with a lazy bow. “I was just reminding my dear cousin that stables are no place for a Targaryen. Apparently, she has a new friend... a certain Ser Duncan the Tall. A commoner knight with more dirt than honor.”

Maekar stared at you, his dark eyes scrutinizing you with an intensity that made you want to shrink back, though you forced yourself to hold your chin high.

“Is this true, niece?” Maekar demanded, dismissing his own son. “Have you been associating with the commoners?”

“I was tending to the mare that Aerion nearly mistreated to death, uncle,” you came in your own defense in a firm voice, though your heart was pounding. “Ser Duncan was the only one who had the decency to help, unlike the servants who fled in terror from my cousin's temper.”

Your uncle was silent for a moment, looking past you toward the courtyard where the tournament activity continued unabated.

“Ashford Meadow is full of desperate men seeking glory at the cost of our blood,“ Maekar finally concluded. “I don't care if he's a giant or a dwarf; keep your distance, girl. The tournament begins tomorrow, and I don't want any distractions from the fact that you're supposed to be here to seek a husband.”

He noticed the way you exchanged a complicit glance with Aerion, and that made him squint his hawk-like eyes.

“You behave like little children. Go to your chambers now,” Maekar ordered you both, though his tone was a little less stern and more tired. Upon seeing both of you resume your walk side by side, he sighed, utterly exhausted, “separated.”

Aerion’s lips twitched in irritation, but he obeyed. “As you wish, Father.”

Once in your chambers, as your handmaidens helped you out of your gown, chattering nervously about the morrow’s festivities, your mind was elsewhere.

With Ser Duncan.

Your maids spoke of silks and suitors, of alliances and advantageous matches, of which lord had looked at you for too long and which knight had nearly been unhorsed in practice that afternoon.

But you heard none of it.

Ser Duncan the Tall.

You were sure you had heard that name before. And that you had seen that face somewhere. But where?

In dreams, perhaps.

In another life.

Your hands trembled slightly as a maid loosened the last ties of your gown.

“Are you nervous for tomorrow, princess?” one of them asked, curious and enthusiastic. “So many fine knights will ride for your favor.”

You swallowed.

“I am never nervous for the knights,” you replied truthfully. “But for the horses”

They laughed softly, taking it for girlish shyness.

“Tell me something,” you called very softly, as casually as you could manage. “Have any of you heard of a knight named Ser Duncan the Tall?”

The room stilled for just a fraction of a second.

You had never asked for a man's name before. He must've been significant.

One maid frowned slightly, tilting her head. “Ser Duncan… the Tall?”

Another shook her head. “I don’t believe so, my princess.”

Another maid, older than the rest, pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I know most of the notable knights here,” she said. “At least the ones with banners or lands. I have not heard that name.”

“No sigil, then,” a third concluded. “He must be a hedge knight, Your Grace. One of no great standing.”

A hush fell over the chamber as you let yourself drift away into your deep thoughts.

One of the younger maids shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “Prince Aerion will be riding tomorrow as well, Your Highness.”

You did not look at her, but you felt the weight of the words.

“He always does,” another maid added, huffing lightly. “He has entered nearly every tourney since you came of age, princess.”

“For your favor,” a third said, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves might listen. “It is well known at court.”

The oldest maid sighed quietly. “The prince has never hidden it. He rides harder, fights fiercer when you are watching.”

“Prince Aerion will expect your favor,” the youngest maid whispered. “He always does. He will be furious if you deny him.”

“No,” you denied.

The room seemed to draw in a collective breath.

“No?” one maid echoed. “You have never denied him before, Your Grace. Prince Maekar will be displeased as well.”

“I will give my favor to Ser Duncan the Tall.”

The words settled into the chamber like some declaration of war.

A hedge knight.

Against a prince.

“My princess…” the oldest maid said carefully. “Do you understand what this will mean?”

“Yes,” you answered, certain.

Your voice did not tremble.

It surprised even you.

The feeling wrapped around your heart like a promise.

You would simply do what you had already done once in a dream.

[midsccene]

PROMISED TO ANOTHER

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Benedict can’t hide his feelings any longer. Years of longing, stolen glances, and unspoken words come crashing into one night as he finally admits what you’ve both wanted all along.

𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘: Explicit / F!Reader

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: angst, unprotected sex, dry humping

𝐖/𝐂: 3.8k

It was unfair.

Not in the dramatic way people liked to whisper about at balls, but in the quiet way that sat heavy in Benedict’s chest and refused to move.

Everyone had always known he loved you. It had never been a secret, not really. When you were both small, he was the one who waited outside your estate with dirt under his nails and a crooked smile, insisting the flowers he brought were better because he picked them himself. When you grew older, he learned exactly when to speak to you and when to stay quiet, how to read your moods from the way your shoulders sat or the way you pressed your lips together when you were trying not to say something sharp.

He had always assumed, stupidly, that loving you like that meant something.

So when Anthony announced the engagement, Benedict felt something hollow open up beneath his ribs. He smiled because he was trained to smile, because that was what second sons did. He applauded when his sisters did. He even nodded when someone clapped him on the shoulder. All the while, his stomach twisted like it was rejecting the reality of the words.

Anthony marrying you made no sense. Anthony did not notice the way you hated being interrupted, or how you went quiet when you were overwhelmed instead of loud. Anthony did not know that you took your tea with too much milk because you secretly hated the bitterness. Anthony did not know you.

Which was why Benedict nearly spoke without thinking.

The family had gathered in the drawing room, Violet seated at the small table with her lists and books, already discussing details as if they were inevitable. Colours. Fabrics. Flowers. All harmless things that felt suddenly violent to Benedict.

“I was thinking lilies,” Daphne said brightly. “They are very fashionable.”

You smiled politely, but it was the tight one. The one Benedict recognised instantly.

“They smell too strong,” he said.

The room stilled.

Benedict realised too late that he had spoken aloud. His eyes lifted, catching yours before he could stop himself. There it was. Surprise, yes, but also that flicker of recognition, like you knew exactly why he’d said it.

Violet turned slowly. “Too strong?”

Benedict cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of everyone watching him. “They give her headaches,” he said, quieter now. “She’s said so since she was twelve.”

Anthony frowned. “I don’t recall—“

“No,” Benedict cut in, then softened his tone. “You wouldn’t.”

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Violet recovered first, offering a careful smile. “Well. Then we shall avoid lilies.”

She returned to her book, though her attention clearly wasn’t on the page anymore.

Benedict looked back down at his hands, heart pounding, regret and bitterness tangling together. He had not meant to expose anything. He had not meant to prove a point.

But the damage was done.

You walked through the Bridgerton garden with Anthony, your arm resting in his as the two of you spoke politely. He was like every other gentleman of the ton. Courteous. Proper. Predictable. To you, he felt no different than any other man you had been presented to. He spoke of responsibility, of duty, of the future as if it was already decided. Children were mentioned more than laughter ever was.

Your mother accepted his proposal on your behalf. That was the end of the discussion. You had no real choice but to comply, and everyone treated it as if you should be grateful. The first two nights after the announcement, you cried quietly in your room until exhaustion finally took you.

All you had ever wanted was simple. You wanted a man who truly loved you, not rushed affection or obligation disguised as care. You wanted love that grew slowly, so you could grow into it too. You wanted a marriage that felt alive, not something done out of expectation. You wanted someone who wanted you for more than children. You had almost had that once.

Benedict.

You and Benedict had been close, closer than anyone ever allowed themselves to say aloud. But that was forbidden now. You were marrying his brother. Declining the engagement was never an option. The ton would have destroyed you for it, and your family would never have forgiven the shame.

That night, you could not sleep.

When the house finally settled and the halls fell quiet, you slipped from the bed you shared with Anthony and stepped into the corridor. This was the Bridgerton house you were staying in until the wedding, before you left London and began a life that already felt decided. You moved carefully through the halls, barefoot, listening for any sound that might stop you.

You knew exactly where you were going.

You loved painting. It had always been the one thing that cleared your head, that let you breathe. The Bridgertons had a large painting room, one you had admired but never truly used. That night, you decided you would. You told yourself it was just to calm your thoughts, to tire yourself out enough to sleep.

What you did not know was that Benedict was awake too.

He had been restless for hours, unable to sleep, frustrated with a painting he had been trying to finish for weeks. Something about it refused to feel right. He convinced himself that what he needed was quiet, space, and maybe inspiration from the artwork already hanging in the painting room.

The late hour felt perfect. No siblings. No servants. No interruptions.

He entered the room and flipped the light on, filling the space with a warm glow. He reached back to close the door behind him.

Then he stopped.

Because you were there.

For a second, he just stood there, staring. He took in a slow breath, his chest tightening at the sight of you alone in the room at that hour.

Your head snapped up at the sound. “Bened—” You stopped yourself quickly. “Mr. Bridgerton.”

You rose to your feet immediately. The name felt wrong in your mouth, but you forced it out anyway. You had never called him that before. Not once. It had always just been Benedict, said easily, comfortably, like it belonged to you.

The change did not go unnoticed.

Benedict felt it the moment you said it. He kept his expression neutral, but the words hit harder than he expected. He had grown used to his name on your lips, used to the familiarity of it. Hearing you put distance between the two of you made his chest tighten.

He swallowed and moved further into the room, stopping at the empty canvas beside yours. He did not look at you right away.

“You’re up late,” he said, breaking the silence.

“I could not sleep,” you replied with a small nod. After a beat, you added, “I should leave.”

You kept your eyes anywhere but on him. You were painfully aware of how improper this was. A lady and a gentleman alone. At night. And worse, you were to be married.

Benedict shook his head almost immediately. His curls shifted before settling back into place. His gaze stayed fixed on the canvas in front of him, though he could not stop himself from glancing at you when he thought you were not looking.

“Please stay.” The words came out soft and quick.

You hesitated, still standing, hands clasped in front of you. You avoided his eyes as you gave a small nod.

It was then that Benedict really allowed himself to look at you.

He took in every detail carefully, as if committing it all to memory. Your hair was loose, falling down your back in soft waves. Your nightgown was simple and not improper, but it left your arms and neck bare, the fabric fitting close enough that it was impossible for him not to notice. His throat went dry as he looked at you, his attention lingering longer than it should have.

You sat back down on the couch. Benedict turned his gaze away, anywhere but at you, hoping you had not caught him staring. He moved to a canvas not far from where you sat. You settled onto the couch with your notebook, beginning to paint quietly.

Benedict tried to focus on his work. He told himself to concentrate, to keep his thoughts on the canvas in front of him. Still, every few minutes, his eyes drifted back to you. He felt tense and restless, his thoughts pulling in too many directions at once. He knew he should not feel any of it, yet he did.

Eventually, he could not keep silent any longer.

“Are you… enjoying your marital preparations, then?” he asked, his grip on the paintbrush tightening slightly.

“I— yes.” you said, nodding.

The answer was not entirely true, and Benedict knew it. He knew exactly the kind of man you had once said you wanted. You had told him before, plainly, that he was the only man you could ever imagine marrying. Neither of you had ever been brave enough to address what sat unspoken between you.

Benedict’s jaw tightened as he looked back at his canvas. He felt bitter and restrained all at once. He knew the truth of your wishes, even if neither of you dared to say them now.

“And Anthony…” he began, his tone sharp. “…he’s treating you well, I suppose.”

It was a small miracle that Benedict managed to keep his temper under control at the mention of his brother.

“He is..” you nodded, your eyes still fixed on the notebook in your hands.

Benedict let out a quiet scoff, his grip on the paintbrush tightening further as he listened.

“But you don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

This time, his eyes stayed on you. He leaned back against the easel, folding his arms across his chest as if bracing himself.

“I am perfectly happy?” you frowned, finally looking up from your notebook.

The lie was obvious. Benedict caught it instantly. You blinked too much when you lied, something he had noticed long ago, something you had never managed to stop doing.

Benedict raised an eyebrow at your statement, immediately noticing the way you blinked too many times. He pushed himself off the easel and took a step toward you.

“Are you now?” he challenged. “Because to me… you don’t seem happy at all.”

You practically slammed your diary down onto the couch. “You are most improper.” You stood abruptly, pointing at him as you spoke.

Benedict reacted to the sudden shift in your behaviour with a scoff. He rolled his eyes, clearly unfazed by the accusation.

“Improper? You’re one to talk.”

He folded his arms across his chest as he continued.

“You’re not exactly a prime example of propriety at the moment, being alone with a man who is not your husband.”

His blue eyes hardened as they stayed fixed on you.

“Oh you know what I meant!” you yelled in a whisper.

Benedict let out a sharp breath and shook his head, disbelief written across his face. He stepped closer, closing the distance between you until he stood just inches away.

“No, enlighten me. Say what you mean.” His voice was low as he spoke, his gaze intense and unwavering as it stayed on your face.

“I do not have to explain myself to you!” you snapped, turning your face away from him as your frown deepened. You took a step back, putting space between the two of you.

“Then let me explain something to you.”

You scoffed. “I do not want to hear the words that come from your mouth.”

“Do you understand the peril you bring?” His voice dropped even further. “The way a single glance from you sets my pulse alight, as though I might — without warning — be entirely undone?” He took a sharp breath afterward.

Your eyes widened at his confession. “Who do you think you are?” you asked, your frown deepening.

“Someone who loves you very much.” he said. His eyes were half lidded now, his gaze softening despite everything.

“No. No see that is where you are wrong,” you said sharply, pointing at him, your voice filled with anger.

He raised his eyebrows and leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “Am I? Am I wrong? For loving you, for wanting you.”

Benedict’s heart was hammering in his chest at this point. He had blurted out the words without realizing the gravity of his confession. His gaze still held determination, but now there was a flicker of vulnerability there as well.

“You have no idea how much I’ve tried.. to avoid this.”

Benedict swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands almost twitching to reach for you. He took a deep breath.

“Every attempt to distract myself…”

He murmured, his voice strained.

“Every attempt to push you out of my mind… has failed.”

He closed his eyes and leaned forward, his forehead almost touching yours. His arms itched to wrap around you, to pull you closer. He could feel your breath on his face, and the proximity set his skin on fire.

“You consume my thoughts, my every waking moment.”

You deeply inhaled, your chest heaving at his words and the closeness, not even Anthony had ever made you feel what Benedict Bridgerton was making you feel.

Benedict felt your breath hitch, and it sent a jolt down his spine. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please..”

His hands moved to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. He rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling. His touch was desperate as he held you in place.

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back up to meet your eyes. His hands burned where they rested on your hips.

“Tell me to stop.”

He whispered, his voice hoarse. He was losing control with every passing moment.

“Do not.” You breathed out, your eyes glued to his. A warm feeling settled deep in your stomach.

Benedict’s grip tightened on your waist, his eyes darkening at your words. He closed the gap between you, his lips slanting over yours in a rough, passionate kiss.

He pulled you impossibly closer, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair. His other moved lower until it reached the hem of your nightgown, bunching the material in his grip. His fingers found purchase on your bare thigh, his touch sending shivers across your skin.

Benedict’s hands roamed over your body, unable to get enough of you. His movements were feverish, his fingers gripping and exploring, mapping out every inch of you.

He nipped at your bottom lip, then trailed down your neck, leaving a line of hot, wet kisses along the way.

His hands continued to slide up your thighs, inching higher and higher. His mouth never left your neck, his lips and tongue working hungrily against your skin. His fingers eventually reached the waistband of your undergarments, and he tugged them down without hesitation

The reality hit you hard, so you stepped away quickly, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving. “We should not.” You shook your head.

Benedict nodded, resting his hands on his hips as he looked around the room, his chest rising and falling, his lips still wet from yours.

You both stared at each other, breathing heavily.

You couldn’t help it. You moved toward each other, kissing eagerly. Benedict had known for many years that all he wanted was you, and you had known just as long that all you wanted was him.

Benedict's hands found their way back to your waist as he pulled you flush against him. His tongue darted out to invade your mouth, and he moaned into the kiss. Your taste was intoxicating.

His hands explored your body, fingers trailing up and down your sides, lingering near the curve of your breasts.

Benedict's hands moved lower, grasping the backs of your thighs. He lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the couch.

He sat down on the couch, positioning you on top of him, straddling his lap.

"God, you're beautiful."

He murmured, his hands roaming freely over your body once again.

You moaned in response to his words, your fingers tangling in his hair. Your hips grinded against his, seeking friction.

Benedict groaned at the sensation, his hands moving to grip your hips, grinding you down against him.

One of his hands moved up to the buttons of your nightgown, undoing each one with practiced ease. He pushed the fabric off your shoulders as soon as the buttons were undone, exposing your bare chest to him.

His breath hitched at the sight of you, and he couldn't help but reach up and cup your breast in his hand.

You moaned again, arching into his touch. Your head rolled back as his hands roamed all over your upper body, the roughness of his fingers sending shivers down your spine.

You could feel him growing harder beneath you, his hips grinding up against your soaked center.

His mouth continued its path down your body, moving lower and lower until he reached the hem of your nightgown, still bunched up around your waist. He pulled it further down, revealing the wet fabric of your undergarments.

His breath hitched at the sight, and he wasted no time pulling your undergarments off, leaving you completely bare.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, attempting to catch your breath. Your hands rested on his chest, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt.

"You are still dressed." You murmured against his lips. Benedict chuckled lightly, his hands coming up to rest on your hips.

"Oh, I am so sorry." He replied, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.

Benedict's hands moved to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in a swift motion. His chest was now bare, his skin golden in the dim glow of the candles. He tossed the shirt aside, then returned his hands to your hips, skimming them up your sides.

You couldn't help but inhale at the sight of him. His chest was broad and taut, his shoulders were strong, his arms muscular.

Your hands wandered over his torso eagerly, fingers skimming over each muscle.

"I want you." You murmured, gazing up at him with a mix of adoration and desire.

Benedict's grip on your hips tightened as your fingers explored his torso. He let out a low groan at your words, his eyes darkening with desire.

"Then you shall have me." He replied, his voice hoarse. His hands moved to the waistband of his trousers, eagerly pushing them down his hips.

He kicked off his trousers and underwear, leaving him just as bare as you. His cock was hard and straining, leaking precum at the tip. He let out a breath as the cold air hit his member, then quickly pulled you back towards him, positioning your center directly over his cock.

Benedict let out a curse under his breath as you ground against him, his head rolling back against the couch. He held your hips in place, preventing you from moving anymore.

"Lift yourself up." He ordered softly, his voice strained.

You lifted your hips off of him slightly. Benedict repositioned himself, aligning the tip of his cock with your entrance.

"Down." He gritted out, his grip on your hips tightening.

You lowered yourself down onto him, sinking onto his cock inch by inch. You both moaned in unison as he filled you completely.

"Oh god..." Benedict groaned, his hands digging tighter into your hips.

You gasped at the feel of him inside you, his size stretching you deliciously. You stayed still for a moment, trying to adjust to the feeling.

Benedict stayed still as well, his hips resting against yours as he gave you a moment to adjust.

"You feel so.. so good." He murmured, his breath ghosting over your neck.

You moaned lowly in response, your hands moving to grip his shoulders for support. Your hips bucked forward, seeking friction.

His grip on your hips tightening as he lifted you up and then pushed you back down onto his cock. His fingers dug into your flesh as he began to thrust up into you, setting a steady pace.

He grunted, his head bending down to bury his face in your neck.

You moaned louder at his words, your head falling back as pleasure clouded your mind. His thrusts were strong and deep, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars.

"Benedict... oh god...." You panted out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Benedict moaned at the sting of your nails on his skin, his thrusts becoming deeper and more erratic.

"Bloody hell.." He mumbled, one hand moving to hold your hair. He pulled your head back, baring your neck to him.

His mouth latched onto your neck, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses down to your collarbone. His tongue swirled around the hollow of your collarbone, then continued lower to your breast.

"So beautiful." He murmured against your skin, his mouth closing around one of your nipples. He sucked and nibbled on the hardened bud, his free hand moved back down to your hip to hold you in place as he continued to thrust.

"Oh god... I'm close." You gasped out, feeling the mounting pressure building in your core. Your hips grinded down against his, meeting his thrusts with every movement.

Benedict groaned at your words, his pace becoming rougher and more insistent. He could feel your walls clenching around him, signaling how close you were.

"Come for me." He murmured against your neck, his fingers moving down to your clit, rubbing rough circles around the bundle of nerves. He wanted to feel you come apart around him, to see you lose control in the best way possible.

His words and the pressure of his fingers on your clit sent you over the edge. Your back arched as pleasure washed over your body, your nails digging deep into his shoulders.

"Benedict!" You cried out, your eyes squeezing shut as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. You clenched around him as you rode out your orgasm, the feeling almost too much to handle.*

"Oh god... oh god... oh god..." You panted, your body shaking slightly from the intensity of it all.

Benedict moaned as you tightened around him, the feeling almost too much to bear. His hips thrusted up into you, his movements becoming erratic as he chased his own release.

He moaned, his fingers still working your clit to prolong your orgasm. His teeth found your neck again, biting down on your skin.

You gasped at the feel of him biting down on your neck, the pain mixing with the overwhelming pleasure. Your hands tangled tighter in his hair, holding him in place as he continued to thrust into you.

"Come inside me."

You murmured into his ear, your breath hot against his skin. Your words sent a shiver down his spine and he let out a low groan, his cock swelling inside you.

He moaned your name like a mantra, his thrusts became more desperate, his hips snapping up to meet yours with increasing force. He was close, so close.

"I'm gonna.. I'm-" He groaned out as he thrust into you one last time.

After, he was clearly spent, but his arms still held you close, holding you against him.

[eddielove]

In 20 years he’s going to be to us what Tom Cruise was to our mothers

[celluifleur]

is it a crazy thing to say that i would pull a belly conklin on the franco brothers

[lovemeanyway7]

[thehyperfemininesoulaani-deacti]

TEAM BY LORDE!?

[the-rest-is-confettii]

time to open up the morning newspaper

[midsccene]

unprofessional proximity — clark kent

warning: unedited p in v sex mention of erection

summary: you and your ex boyfriend work at the daily planet together.

wc: 4.6k

a/n: if you see anything that doesn’t quite make sense ignore it I wrote this while half asleep ! I hope whoever’s reading this enjoys <3

Working at the Daily Planet was hard enough without the universe deciding to throw Clark Kent back into your life.

Your ex. Your “we tried and it blew up in our faces” ex.

And now the two of you were supposed to share the same newsroom like nothing ever happened.

Clark was professional about it, of course. He always was. He’d give you that polite nod in the mornings, ask if you’d finished the draft Perry wanted, walk you through edits with the same calm patience he gave everyone else.

But underneath all that composure was something sharper. You caught it in the way his eyes lingered a little too long when you brushed past his desk, or how he’d clear his throat mid-sentence, as if he’d accidentally let his thoughts wander somewhere they shouldn’t.

It wasn’t any easier on your end. Every time he leaned over your shoulder to point something out on your screen, the familiar warmth of him hit you like a sucker punch.

His cologne, the brush of his sleev, even the quiet way he said your name — it all pulled you back to late nights you didn’t want to think about, arguments that ended with slammed doors, mornings tangled in sheets that felt a million years away now.

You told yourself you’d moved on. You told yourself you were fine. But there was no denying it, Clark Kent made the office feel smaller. Some mornings you’d catch him watching you across the bullpen, eyes soft in a way that made your stomach flip, and you couldn’t decide if he missed you, or if you just missed the idea of him.

He never brought it up, never crossed that invisible line you both pretended wasn’t there. But the silence between you two carried more weight than any headline you’d ever write, and every smile, every accidental touch, every quiet moment of eye contact felt like a story waiting to break.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖

Today didn’t make it easy. The newsroom was loud, full of ringing phones and clacking keyboards, and Perry was in one of his moods. You tried to focus on your story, but every time Clark walked past your desk, your brain just… stopped working.

You could feel him before you saw him, the quiet kind of presence that used to calm you but now only made you tense. His tie was loosened a little, hair still damp from the rain outside. He always looked like he was trying too hard not to stand out, which only made him stand out more.

When you finally glanced up, he was already looking your way.

“Perry wants us on the Metropolis Housing piece together,” he said, holding a folder like it was neutral ground.

You blinked. “Together?”

He nodded, that polite, reporter smile tugging at his mouth. “Said it’s overdue. Wants it filed by tomorrow morning.”

“Of course he does,” you muttered, taking the folder before you could stop yourself. Your fingers brushed his, and you both froze just long enough for it to feel like something.

He cleared his throat. “I uh—sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t.

You opened the folder and flipped through the pages, pretending to read, pretending not to notice that he was still standing there.

“So,” you said finally “you doing the interviews or am I?”

“Both of us,” he replied, calm as ever. “I figured you could handle the council side. I’ll take the developers.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Sure.”

He gave you a small nod, then walked back toward his desk. You let out a quiet breath and told yourself that was that. Just work. Just a story.

But by seven, you were still in the office. Everyone else had gone home, and you were sitting side by side at his desk, going over the notes. You could hear the low hum of the building around you, the rain against the windows, and the scratch of his pen as he edited a line.

When you leaned in to look, your shoulder brushed his. Neither of you moved away.

The silence stretched. You felt it again — that invisible pull that made your chest tighten. He didn’t look away this time, and you knew he felt it too.

“Clark,” you said quietly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“This is complicated enough already.”

“I know.”

“So don’t—”

But you didn’t finish, because he was already standing, stepping closer, hands shoved into his pockets like he was holding himself back. The look on his face wasn’t the one you remembered from all those late nights years ago — it was softer, tired, like he’d spent too long pretending this didn’t matter.

“I don’t want to make it harder for you,” he said finally. “I just—sometimes it feels like we never actually ended anything. We just stopped talking.”

You swallowed. “That’s the same thing.”

He nodded, slow. “Maybe.”

Another pause. You could feel the air shift.

“Can we just… work?” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Please.”

Clark hesitated, then gave you that same polite, careful nod he’d started giving you every morning. “Yeah,” he said. “Work.”

He turned back to his notes, and for the rest of the night you both pretended not to notice the inches between you, or how they felt smaller than they should.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖

You were the first to reach the door, bag over your shoulder, already feeling the weight of the rain dripping down your coat. Clark stepped out right behind you, hands stuffed in his pockets, his coat buttoned up.

“So,” you started, adjusting the strap of your bag, “developer interviews first or council?”

He shrugged, eyes on the slick street. “Council first. Makes more sense to hit the offices before they close for the night.”

You nodded, but your voice felt flat. “Right. Yeah.”

He stayed close behind you as you stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’ll wait with you until you grab a cab,” he said casually.

You glanced at him, not quite believing the words. “You don’t have to—”

“I’ll wait,” he repeated, calm, neutral. No edge. Just… factual.

You sighed and pulled your coat tighter. “Fine.”

Five minutes later, standing under the awning, the truth became obvious. The street was a mess. Traffic moved slower than a crawl, and cabs were nowhere in sight. You groaned, tugging your bag strap.

“Well,” Clark said, glancing at you, “looks like your cab isn’t coming anytime soon.”

“Yeah, thanks, genius,” you muttered, squinting at the empty street.

He paused, hands still in his pockets, and then said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. “You could… come to my place. Just for the night. Work on the story there. It’s closer than your walk, and you’d stop freezing.”

You froze, a rush of everything, annoyance, old memories, and the tiny spark of comfort he always seemed to carry, hitting at once. “Clark…”

“I mean,” he added quickly, voice careful, “we’d just finish the work. Nothing else. I get it if you don’t want to.”

You looked at him, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, glasses fogged a little, and you wanted to say no, wanted to make it clear this wasn’t about getting close again.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, crossing your arms. “This whole working together thing isn’t really going the way I wanted it to.”

He tilted his head, expression neutral but patient. “We’ll stick to the story. Nothing else. I promise.”

You hesitated, rain dripping off your hood. Finally, you exhaled and nodded. “Fine. But only because I can’t get home.”

“Logical choice,” he said, opening his umbrella and letting you step under it first.

The walk to his apartment was quiet, save for the splatter of water on the sidewalks. You both stayed under the umbrella, side by side, and even though you tried to focus on notes in your head, the closeness kept catching you off guard. Every brush of his shoulder, every glance down at each other made it harder to act like this was just professional.

By the time you reached his building, both of you were damp but not frozen, the air heavy with the smell of rain and asphalt. He held the door for you, and you muttered a thanks, trying to sound normal.

“Coffee?” he asked as he led the way up the stairs.

You shook your head, shoulders stiff. “Just… let’s get the story done.”

He nodded, sitting down across from you with his laptop open. “Fine. Story first.”

You pulled out your notes, but your eyes kept flicking to him — the way he absentmindedly brushed hair from his forehead, the slight tilt of his head as he focused. He hadn’t said anything else about the rain, about the walk, about how awkward it probably was that you were here.

You started on the council interviews, glancing up every so often to make sure he was following, and he stayed quiet, steady, typing and sorting through his notes. You both pretended this was just about work. But you knew, deep down, the story tonight wasn’t just the article you were writing.

Clark kept his focus on the task at hand, his eyes shifting back and forth between his computer screen and the notes he'd typed out.

Every now and then, though, he'd catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye — the way you'd fidget with your pen, the tiny furrow of your eyebrows as you concentrated, the occasional sigh or muttered curse under your breath as the cursor refused to produce the words you needed.

He tried to push the thoughts away, this wasn't the time or place for them.

You could feel Clark's gaze flicker toward you again—just a brief, assessing glance before he forced his attention back to the screen.

Then, almost imperceptibly.

He said your name. His voice was low, not quite hesitant but measured. Like he’d been turning that single word over in his head for too long already.

Your fingers stilled on the keyboard, your breath hitching just slightly at the sound of your name in his voice.

Clark exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair.

"...We should talk about what happened."

You held your breath for a second, waiting. The air between you two was thick—like the moment before lighnting strikes.

"I know we said just the story," he started carefully, eyes flickering down your body. His fingers drummed once against the edge of his laptop before stilling again.

"...But are we really okay?"

The question hung in the air, you finally found the courage to look up, just enough to meet his eyes, blue and unguarded for once instead of carefully neutral lke they always were at work.

"You tell me," you said quietly, voice steadier than expected despite how your pulse hammered.

Clark held eye contact, before he looked away again toward where storm clouds still pressed heavy outside.

"We're professionals," he said finally with forced lightness, but judging by how tight his jaw clenched briefly afterward betrayed something deeper.

“There’s your answer.”

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with something between frustration and a quiet ache.

Clark’s expression tightened and for a moment, neither of you moved or spoke again while rain tapped against the glass windows.

“Right.”

You wanted to snap back with some biting remark or sarcasm, but something held you back. The part of you that didn’t wanna go through everything again, even if everything was some of the best times of your life

The other part, though... that was harder to admit. The part that still noticed the way Clark's hair fell over his forehead, or the way his shoulders tightened when you spoke. The part that would catch itself staring at his hands as he typed, wondering if they were softer or rougher than you remembered.

You glanced at him again. He looked focused but rigid, like he was holding something back. You wondered what it was, what thoughts were racing behind those deep blue eyes.

Your stomach jumped as his eyes met yours when he'd caught you staring before you could look away again.

You weren't sure who moved first. It might have been you, maybe you'd just shifted in your seat. Maybe it was him, he'd pushed away from his laptop, leaning back in his chair with a frustrated sigh.

But suddenly, the space between you felt smaller, and you were acutely aware of every inch. His hand rested just inches from yours on the desk. You could almost feel the heat of his skin, just close enough to touch if either of you dared.

Clark’s breath hitched, his gaze flickered down to where your hands nearly touched, then back up to meet your eyes with a deep intensity. His fingers finally brushed over yours.

Your breath stuttered out as you turned your hand just enough to slot them together properly. His thumb traced an absent line over knuckles there once before squeezing gently.

"Still not professional," Clark murmured again though his voice had gone softer now.

And then he leaned in.

Slowly. Deliberately. Hiving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to, to end this before it started all over again when they both knew how badly those things had ended before.

but you didn't move back even an inch, instead just stayed there letting him close distance.

His lips were warm when they finally met yours. After so many wasted months pretending there was nothing there anymore, it didn’t matter —neither of you cared about that now,not when fingers tangled together.

The kiss was hesitant, like both of you were testing the waters. But then Clark’s hand slid up to cradle your jaw in a way that sent a pool of heat toward your lower stomach

You tangled one hand into his shirt while other stayed locked between his fingers. The room spun as Clark lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, knocking aside papers and laptops without a second thought.

You arched against him with a muffled sound when his teeth grazed your lower lip

You could feel Clark’s entire body tremble against yours as his fingers tightened in your hair, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go even for a second. The desk creaked under the weight of both of you.

His breath hitched when your nails scraped down his back beneath his cotton shirt. He groaned your name while his forehead dropped heavily onto shoulder.

You could feel it—the undeniable press of him against your thigh, heavy through the damp fabric of his slacks. Clark exhaled sharply at the contact, his hips twitching forward.

His hands slid down to grip your waist tighter as if to ground himself while lips trailed along your jawline. His hands were steady as they undid the buttons of your shirt, each one opening up another inch of skin to the cool air that did nothing to quench the ache in your core.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured. "So damn beautiful."

His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the waistband of your jeans, his breath hitching when he found how warm and damp you were beneath them. Clark's pupils dilated further as his thumb brushed over where you needed him most through the fabric.

"Christ," His grip on you tightened before he groaned softly against your skin.

"I can't wait any longer." Clark’s fingers trembled as they fumbled with his belt, the metal clasp cold against your skin where it brushed. The second he freed himself he let out a strangled groan, forehead dropping to yours as his hips jerked forward instinctively.

“Fuck,” he choked out, voice wrecked already.

His thumb swiped over the head of him once before aligning himself with you. The feel of him brushing against where you were most sensitive made you gasp, your body arching toward him.

His hands shifted, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, he leaned down pressing his lips against your jaw before trailing down your neck as he fucked you.

Clark was hard and throbbing against your gummy walls as he hovered over you. His eyes were half lidded with desire, his breath ragged as his cock twitched at every shift of your bodies.

Nothing else existed except Clark’s name on your lips as you came undone beneath him.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reblog if you’re a sick fuck

[midsccene]

I knew you were trouble — jack wilder

warnings: rookie fbi!reader magician!jack fingering p in v oral (f!receiving)

summary: you’re chasing a magician who steals from everyone, including you.

wc: 4.4k

a/n: took it upon myself to write a jack wilder fanfic cause there’s barely any and it’s criminal I also haven’t watched the movies in a year so bare with me if it’s inaccurate !

“Hey! Stop him, my wallet!”

You weren’t even supposed to be near the docks that night, it was supposed to be a quick walk to clear your head after a miserable day of paperwork at the Bureau. But of course, the second you decided to breathe like a normal human being, someone decided to commit a crime right in front of you.

You turned just in time to see a guy sprinting through the crowd, hoodie pulled up, backpack bouncing against his shoulder. The man yelling after him looked like a tourist, all sunburned and confused, clutching at his empty pocket.

Your brain didn’t think. Your badge was still clipped to your belt, your legs were already moving.

“FBI!” you shouted, cutting across the walkway.

The hoodie guy glanced back, surprised, and you caught a split second look at his face. Sharp features, a wild spark in his eyes, the kind of grin that made you instantly sure he’d done it on purpose.

He ducked left between two food stalls. You went after him, dodging a family with ice cream cones, almost slipping on the wet pavement.

“Stop!”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He jumped a railing, landing hard, and you followed, the impact stinging your knees. You were close enough to hear his breathing, the scuff of his sneakers against the concrete. You could tell he wasn’t just some random pickpocket. He was fast. Precise. Like he’d done this before, a lot.

He cut down another alley, and for a second you thought you’d lost him, until you saw a flicker of movement by a side door. He was trying to duck through it.

You lunged.

Your hand caught his arm, fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie. He jerked back in surprise, turning halfway, and the motion pulled you both off balance.

For one dizzy second, the world spun, you caught a flash of his face, that same grin but closer this time, his eyes meeting yours in something that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite amusement. Then he twisted. Smooth. Effortless.

The next thing you knew, he’d spun you around like it was a dance move and slipped free. You stumbled forward, caught yourself against the wall, turned back—

Gone.

No sound. No footsteps. No exit door swinging. Just the faint echo of the city and your own heartbeat hammering in your ears.

You took a few steps down the alley, looking behind dumpsters, checking corners, but it was empty. It didn’t make sense.

You pressed your hands to your knees, catching your breath. “What the hell…”

By the time you got back to the Bureau, you were exhausted, hair sticking to your face, shoes covered in grime. The fluorescent lights inside made you squint.

Dylan Rhodes was still at his desk, jacket off, tie loose, his usual “I’m too tired to care” expression firmly in place. He glanced up when he heard you drop the recovered wallet onto his desk.

“Lose a fight with a trash can?” he asked.

“Funny,” you muttered, brushing dirt off your sleeve. “Caught a thief. Kinda.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Kinda?”

“Yeah. I had him. For like, two seconds. Then he Houdini’d his way out of my grip.”

Dylan leaned back in his chair. “So, you chased a suspect without backup, got thrown around, and lost him.”

You frowned. “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad,” he said, but his tone wasn’t mean — just exasperated, like he was too used to this kind of rookie chaos. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” you shot back.

“Pretty sure no one plans to,” he said. Then, after a pause — “You at least get a look at him?”

“Yeah.” You sat down across from him, resting your elbows on the desk. “Young. Mid-twenties maybe. Street type. Hoodie, dark hair. Fast as hell.”

Dylan typed something into his computer, nodding. “Maybe we’ll pull him up in one of the security feeds. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

You exhaled, leaning back in the chair. “Thanks.”

“Go home, rookie,” he said, already focused on the screen again. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

You didn’t argue.

Your apartment wasn’t much, one room, small kitchen, view of a brick wall, but it was quiet. You dumped your bag on the couch, kicked off your shoes, and collapsed onto your bed still half in your work clothes.

For a few minutes, you just stared at the ceiling, replaying the chase. The way he’d moved. The twist that had knocked you off balance. The fact that he’d looked you dead in the eye before vanishing into thin air.

You sat up, grabbing your bag to unpack the usual mess, phone, badge, pen, random receipts. You reached for your wallet—

It wasn’t there.

You froze. Checked again. Then checked the couch, your coat pocket, the floor. Nothing.

You dragged a hand down your face. “No. No, no, no.”

Then you realized.

He hadn’t just taken the tourist’s wallet.

He’d taken yours too.

You flopped back on the bed with a groan loud enough to startle your upstairs neighbor. “Unbelievable.”

You turned your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Somewhere out there, that guy was counting your cash and probably laughing about it.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖

Down by the river, the air was cool and damp, city lights rippling over the water.

Jack Wilder crouched by the edge, pulling two wallets from his hoodie pocket. The first one, the tourist’s, he opened lazily, sifting through it with practiced fingers. A few twenties, some loyalty cards, nothing interesting. He pocketed the cash and tossed the rest into the river without looking.

The second wallet, though, caught his eye.

He flipped it open, expecting the same boring stuff but there it was.

Your badge. Your name. Your photo.

Jack blinked, eyebrows lifting slightly. “FBI,” he murmured.

He glanced at the photo again. You looked serious, professional, not exactly how you’d looked earlier when you were chasing him down like you meant business. There was something kind of funny about it, though. The rookie agent and the thief.

He thumbed through the rest. Cash, a few cards, a folded-up photo — you and another girl, arms around each other, smiling.

Jack paused on that one. It wasn’t the kind of thing people usually kept in their wallets anymore. It made you seem… real. Not just a badge or a title.

He hesitated, then pulled the photo and your FBI card out, slipping them into his jacket pocket. The rest he could toss.

He stood, watching the empty wallet sink beneath the water’s surface.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, half-grinning to himself.

Then, as quietly as he’d appeared, Jack walked away.

You weren’t even supposed to be there.

That’s what you kept reminding yourself as the government-issued sedan tore down the street, red and blue lights bouncing off every window you passed. dylan was driving way too fast, like he thought he was in one of those old cop shows instead of a real human vehicle with a very breakable passenger seat.

He didn’t even look at you, just said, “new orleans precinct. four magicians. pulled off a bank heist from vegas. don’t ask.”

You followed dylan through the hallway, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, files clutched against your chest, until you hit a hallway lined with interrogation rooms. voices leaked out of each one.

Behind a one-way window, a lady sat straight in a chair. Reddish hair, black dress, expression like she was extremely unimpressed and unbothered. A detective sat across from her, waving a file around, but she didn’t even flinch.

Merritt McKinney. you knew the face from news clippings. the mentalist.

Then your stomach dropped.

“That’s him,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Dylan turned, frowning. “what?”

You pointed through the glass.

“That’s the guy who robbed me.”

Jack Wilder was lying there, legs lifted lazily over the table like the concept of rules didn’t exist. Hands cuffed to the table, but he looked completely at ease.

You froze in the doorway. He hadn’t seen you yet.

“You sure?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, i’m sure,” you said, still staring.

Ten minutes later, you were in the room.

Well, technically observing, like dylan had told you to. but you were sitting at the end of the table, pretending to take notes while your brain replayed the last time you’d seen him. The chase, the alley, the way he’d slipped out of your grip like jello.

“You like magic?” he asked, grin lazy.

You blinked. “uh—”

“She’s here to observe,” Dylan cut in, dropping a thick folder onto the table. the slap made you jump. “Don’t talk to her.”

Jack tilted his head. “Oh, come on. you bring her in here, sit her across from me, and i’m not allowed to talk to her? that’s kinda rude.”

“What’s rude,” Dylan said flatly, “is robbing a bank.”

Jack smiled. “i mean, yeah, but it was a good trick.”

“it wasn’t a trick,” Dylan snapped. “it was theft.”

“All magic’s theft if you think about it,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “Stealing attention, stealing time, stealing the part of your brain that says this isn’t real. We just take it a little further.”

You had to bite your tongue not to say something.

Dylan flipped open the file, the vegas audience, the french bank vault, cash fluttering through the air. “Tell me how you did it.”

Jack raised his brows. “Oh, we’re skipping dinner first?”

The comment earned a small smile from you.

“Wilder.”

Jack sighed. “Fine. We rehearsed, we traveled, we robbed a bank. ta-da.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one i’ve got.”

His eyes flicked back to you again. not in a flirty way, not even smug, more like he was cataloguing you. remembering.

You looked away first.

Dylan kept talking, something about jurisdiction, international theft, and performance law. Half of it you tuned out. you were too focused on the small movements jack kept making, the twitch of his fingers, the restless tapping of his knee.

After maybe twenty minutes, dylan finally snapped the folder shut.

“You think this is a game,” he said.

Jack smiled again, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “this is the opening act.”

The next half hour blurred. agents shuffled papers and people yelled down hallways. by the time you and dylan made it to the front steps, the sun was already bleeding orange over the city.

The front doors burst open. the four horsemen walked out together, Dylan’s expression immediately went from tired to what the hell, and you just stood there, frozen.

Atlas in front, confident as ever. Henley beside him. Merritt with that same smug tilt to his head. and Jack. Jack at the back, jacket half-zipped, hands shoved in his pockets like he hadn’t just been in cuffs thirty minutes ago.

Nobody stopped them. not the officers, not the agents, not even Dylan, who just stared like his brain couldn’t process it.

“they’re not— they’re not even—” he started.

“cuffed?” you finished.

“yeah.”

“should we…?”

“i don’t know,” he said, rubbing his face. “there’s— there’s paperwork, there’s— god, this makes no sense.”

But you couldn’t stop watching jack. he turned once, mid step, glancing back at the building like he knew exactly where you were standing.

He didn’t do anything. didn’t wave or wink or pull some stupid trick. He just looked at you, one heartbeat longer than necessary, before turning back and walking away with the others.

You stood there until the street went quiet again, until Dylan finally barked somthing about “federal nightmares” and stormed off toward his car.

You stayed a moment longer. The city lights were starting to come on, one by one.

And somewhere in your chest, under all the confusion and the adrenaline, you felt it — the same thing you’d felt the first night you saw him.

the pull.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖

You stared at his file, the photo of him taken just yesterday before interrogation. Jack Wilder.

His dark hair was slightly messy and his eyes had that impossible calm about them that made him look like he knew a secret you didn’t.

Cute, you thought. You shouldn’t have been thinking that, especially not about a criminal who had just pulld off a string of high profile heists, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Your stomach twisted with a mix of exasperation and something else, something you weren’t ready to name.

You jumped slightly when the door opened and Dylan walked in. Your hand slammed down on the file before he could see what you were looking at. He didn’t notice the blush creeping up your neck.

He was focused, serious, already running through his checklist in his head. You took a shaky breath and tried to convince yourself you hadn’t just been staring at a criminal’s picture like he was some cute stranger on the street.

Later on your break, you walked to the small coffee stand around the corner from the office. The air smelled like roasting beans and the city, and for a moment it was a relief from paperwork and files and the endless stream of cases that always seemed to pile up.

You were halfway through deciding what kind of latte you wanted when movement caught your eye.

Someone with a hood pulled low over their head bumped into a man walking in the opposite direction. You barely had time to notice the casual apology before your instincts fired.

That bump wasn’t just accidental. The person’s hand had slipped into the man’s pocket with the precision of someone who did it often. You saw the wallet leave the man’s grasp before he even knew it was gone.

“Hey!” You called out without thinking.

it didn’t surprise you who it was. Of course it was him. Jack Wilder. He looked up, eyes lighting up when he saw you, not in a friendly way, not exactly, but in that way that made your stomach twist into knots.

Without missing a beat, he sprinted down the alleyway, hood falling back slightly, revealing that familiar messy hair and sharp eyes.

You didn’t hesitate. Your legs pumped, the streets suddenly smaller, somehow more familiar, as though evry corner, every alley, had been waiting for this chase.

You had done it before, back when he’d slipped from your grasp in the chaos of a different day, and you weren’t about to let it happen again.

He was fast, but you were fast too. You’d grown up on these streets, you knew every shortcut, every corner that might give someone like him an advantage.

You were just one street away from your apartment when you finally started feeling the burn in your lungs and the ache in your legs. Still, there was no way you were giving up. Not this time.

Then, just like that, he vanished around a corner. Your chest heaved as you skidded to the turn, heart hammering, only to see him again. There he was, crouched slightly, hands on the door lock to your apartment building. It wasn’t a mistake, it couldn’t be. He was heading inside, like he knew exactly where he was going.

You ran the last few steps, heart in your throat, and pushed the door open, following him without even thinking.

The stairs blurred beneath your feet as you sprinted, counting the levels, wondering how someone could move that smoothly even after running so fast.

He stopped at your door, hands in the air as if he had nothing to hide, and you skidded to a halt a few feet away, gasping for air.

Your hair was sticking to your forehead, your chest heaving, and you felt like your lungs were going to catch fire any second.

“What? Why did you run here?” You finally managed, voice harsh with frustration and disbelief.

He shrugged, calm as if sprinting through city streets and breaking into your apartment lobby was the most normal thing in the world. He gave you a small smile.

You crossed your arms, trying to seem a little more professional. “Why’d you steal that man’s wallet? Seems like you already have enough money.”

The recent bank robbery, the shows, the tricks — he clearly didn’t need more money.

He tilted his head at you and replied simply, “Why not?”

You narrowed your eyes, taking a careful step toward him. You reached for your cuffs instinctively. “You’re under arrest.”

Jack didn’t panic. He didn’t run. He just started walking toward you slowly, and you stepped back, adjusting your stance.

“Aren’t you gonna arrest me?” He held his hands out.

you snapped the cuffs onto his wrists and grabbed his arm to turn him toward the door, ready to lead him out of the building. The click of the metal hitting the floor behind you barely registered over your own racing heartbeat.

And then they were gone. The cuffs had slipped off, falling to the ground with a quiet clatter, and before you could even act, he tugged on your arm, pulling you toward him. You stumbled, barely catching your balance, eyes wide as your heart hammered in your ribs.

“What are you— you—“ you stammered, trying to regain control, but all your authority had vanished in that instant. He was close, dangerously close, and calm. Hands still holding yours, gaze locked with yours.

The moment stretched long enough that you couldn’t remember if it was seconds or minutes. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, and for a brief flash you wondered how this was even real.

Then he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath, and all the logic in your brain started screaming at you, reminding you that he was a criminal, a thief, someone who should never be this close.

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and calculating, and that little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You really like keeping me on my toes, huh?” he murmured, voice low and daring.

Your mouth opened to argue, to protest, to say something smart, but before you could get a word out, he closed the distance. His lips met yours.

It was long, overwhelming, and impossibly intimate. Your chest pressed against his, knees threatening to buckle, and every sensible thought screamed at you to stop, but your body didn’t care. His hands gripped your arms gently but insistently, keeping you close as the city noise faded into nothing.

your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer still as if daring to bridge every inch of space between them. A low groan vibrated against your mouth when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe—but not far enough for reason or restraint to catch up.

Jack stepped back toward your apartment door without letting go of your arm, his hand brushing the handle. “It’s locked—” you said, breathing a little heavier. But just as the words left your mouth, the door swung open. You stared at it in surprise, then back at him, mouth slightly open.

“Nothings ever really locked?” He frowned, shaking his head slightly, a small, almost mischievous crease between his brows, before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours again.

His mouth was warm against yours, his tongue teasing your lips apart as he guided you backward through the open door. The second it clicked shut behind you, he deepened the kiss, hands sliding down to grip your waist with possessive intent.

You could feel him smirk when your breath hitched at how easily this had happened, and worse? You didn’t even care that he’d just broken in.

The couch hit the back of your knees before you realized it, his arms caging either side of where his body pressed into yours, his warmth seeping through every point he touched.

And yet, all coherent thougts evaporated when those large hands slid higher up under fabric of your shirt, forgetting rules entirely now because oh god, wasn't this better than arresting anyone anyway?

The world narrowed down to just him, the feel of his calloused hands on your skin, and the heat of his body pressed against yours.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing down the column of your throat, and you couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped you. His hot breath teased your skin, sending shudders racing over your body. His mouth lingered there, as though he was memorizing every dip and curve of your neck, before pressing a gentle, almost reverent kiss to the pulse point.

Your fingers curled into the material of his shirt, desperate for anything to anchor you in this overwhelming moment. He nipped at the sensitive skin just below your ear, eliciting a soft gasp from you.

"God, the way you sound—" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that reverberated against your skin "I could listen to it for days."

His lips continued their path along your jawline while your heart raced as he worked the buttons of your white shirt open, one by one. The way his hands lingered on your skin was so reverent, almost like he was worshipping you.

By the time the shirt was off, you were nearly trembling in anticipation, his gaze holding you captive.

Jack leaned back slightly, his brown eyes dark and full of something dangerous as they raked over where he knew exactly what effect this was having on you. His smirk grew sharper when your hips jerked up instinctively against nothing but air.

"You're so fucking pretty like this," he murmured roughly. He was hard, yhe sight made you shiver. He dipped down again, this time pressing an open mouthed kiss right between your breasts.

His lips continued their torturous descent over your stomach, and then suddenly, he paused.

he looked up at you for a brief moment, a smirk playing on his lips. "Lift your hips for me."

you whined and lifted your hips for him. Jack’s hands slid under you, gripping the back of your thighs as he tugged you closer to the edge of your couch, his fingers flexing possessively.

His smile turned downright filthy when another little sound escaped past your lips.

“So fuckin’ eager,” he murmured before ducking his head lower, still—hot breath ghosting over the damp fabric of your panties in a way that made every nerve in your body light up.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down just enough to expose what he'd been dying to taste since this whole damn thing started.

The second his tongue dragged up along slick heat? Your back arched off the surface beneath you with a gasp so loud it echoed, his answering groan vibrating against where his mouth now worked in slow, torturous strokes between your thighs that trembled around him.

His grip tightened on your hips, holding you in place as he lapped at you like a man starved.

Every flick of his tongue had heat pooling low in your stomach. You couldn't stop the way your fingers tangled into his hair, pulling, tugging him closer even though he was already buried so deep between those shaking thighs that there wasn’t an inch left untouched by mouth or hands alike.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours in that moment, a wicked gleam in them as he saw what he was reducing you to a whimpering, trembling mess that could do nothing but lay there and take whatever pleasure he deigned to give you.

He knew how much you loved this—how much you needed it. And God, he was so damn good at it, every move deliberate and calculated as he pushed you just to the edge, then his fingers slid into you as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. They curled up, stroking, his thumb rolling over that bundle of nerves that set your body on fire.

Then he pulled back.

“Come here.”

your breath hitched and you moved to his lap, your thighs pressing against the sides of his legs. Jack groaned as you settled in, one hand gripping your hip while the other guided himself between your thighs, hot and hard against slick skin.

"God," he breathed out roughly before capturing your lips again with bruising force.

Jack's hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in hard as you rocked against him, every movement drawing a ragged groan from his throat. His head tipped back slightly when the friction of your bodies had him seeing stars.

"Fuck," he growled out between gritted teeth, pupils blown wide with pleasure as watched where two joined together so perfectly beneath dim light above.

The pleasure was overwhelming, every movement sending waves of sensation through your body. Jack's hands tightened on your hips as he guided you into a steady rhythm, slow and deep at first, but quickly building in intensity.

His breath came in rough gasps against your neck, lips brushing over the sweat skin there before his teeth grazed lightly along your pulse point just hard enough to make you whimper again.

Jack's grip on you tightened, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he felt that familiar tension coil deep in his gut. His eyes locked onto yours, dark with lust as the rhythm between your bodies grew desperate, frantic.

"Look at me," he demanded roughly, voice thick with pleasure when his fingers curled possessively around your thighs, his hips snapped up into yours over... over... until neither could hold back any longer

pleasure crashed over both of you, overwhelming, and consuming. It was like fire under your skin — intense and burning and so good you almost forgot how to breathe for what felt like an eternity at the same time that it wasn't nearly enough.

Jack's arms encircled you tightly, pulling you down against his chest as if he was trying to merge your bodies together.