Omg the Coupe x Author Reader was so amazing!!! I love reading those kind of stories, they build suspense and make me want to read more!! Will there ever be a part two?!! I’m dying for Coupe to realize the reader is the author 😔🤟🔥🔥🔥
Book Club of Two//Reveal
👽: First Part Here//🩶
🖇️: Coupé x Fem!reader
☑️: Proof Read
⚠️: TOOTH ROTTING SAP/FLUFFY/CUTENESS OVERLOAD/you confess that you’re the author!!/enjoyyy :3
★ Week three was quick to come and go. Then week four. Then week five. The ‘book club’ becomes the center of your week, everything else orbiting around it.
★ Coupé gets bolder with her analysis. Starts asking questions like, “Do you think the author has experienced this?” and “What do you think inspired this dynamic?” You get better at deflecting. Mostly. (You also get worse at hiding the way you look at her.)
★ Week six, and she’s poured the wine and you’re both settled in your usual spots—close enough to share body heat, far enough to maintain plausible deniability—when she says,
★ “I wrote to the publisher.”
★ Your heart stops. “What?”
★ “The author’s publisher. I sent a letter.” Shes blushing now, actually blushing, and it’s adorable. “I know it’s probably silly, but I wanted her to know how much these books mean to me. How the writing is—” She struggles for words. “How it’s changed the way I think about storytelling. About connection.”
★ You’re going to tell her. Right now. This moment.
★ “Coupé—“
★ “I probably won’t hear back,” she continues, not hearing the confession building in your throat. “But I had to try. I had to at least tell someone that this author is—” She looks at you, and her eyes are so soft it hurts. “That she’s brilliant. That her work matters.”
★ “I’m sure that—” Your voice cracks. “I’m sure that she would appreciate it.”
★ “I hope so.” She smiles, and it’s shy and hopeful and you are gone. “Because I meant every word.”
•••
★ The letter arrives at your publisher’s office three days later. Your editor forwards it to you with a string of heart emojis. You read it seven times, alone in your room, and try not to cry.
★ Coupé’s handwriting is neat and careful. Her words are thoughtful and specific. She quotes your own passages back to you like their poetry, analyzes your themes with the precision of a scholar and the passion of a devotee. At the bottom, she’s written,
★ “Please tell the author that her books have made me believe in magic again. The real kind. The kind that happens when someone sees you clearly and won’t look away.”
★ You hold the letter against your chest and let yourself feel it. Everything. Holy cow you’re in deep.
•••
★ Week seven.
★ Youve been writing her into your new book even more lately. The love interest has started quoting Coupé word for word. Has her laugh, her careful way of holding eye contact like it’s something precious. Your editor has noticed.
★ “This is your best work yet,” they’d written. “What changed?”
★ Everything, you thought. Everything changed. Now you’re standing outside Coupé’s door with wine and the letter—you brought the letter, folded in your pocket, evidence and confession both—and you think…
★ Fuck it.
★ She opens the door.
★“I need to tell you something.”
★ Her expression shifts. Careful. “Okay.”
★ “Can I—can I come in first?”
★ She steps aside.
★ You walk to the center of her room, and you turn to face her, and you pull the letter from your pocket.
★ “This is from you,”
★ Coupé’s eyes widen. “How did you—”
★ “Because I’m the author.” The words come out in a rush. “I wrote the book. And the other two. I’ve been writing under a pen name because I needed the money and also because I was processing some stuff, and I never thought—” You stop. Breathe. “I never thought someone like you would read them. Would love them. Would see—” Your voice breaks. “Would see me in them.”
★ Silence.
★ Coupé is staring at you like you’ve just rewritten reality.
★ “You,” she says finally. “You wrote—“
★ “Yeah.”
★ “The throne room scene. The knife scene. The—” She presses her hand to her mouth. “The rain scene?”
★ “All of it.”
★ “Oh my god.” She’s laughing now, breathless and disbelieving. “Oh my god. I’ve been sitting here telling you—analyzing your own work like some kind of—” She breaks off, and when she looks at you again, her eyes are shining. “You let me.”
★ “I liked hearing it,” you admit. “Hearing what you thought. What it meant to you.”
★ “It meant everything.” She crosses the space between you in three steps. “Do you know how rare it is? To find writing that feels like someone reached into your chest and pulled out all the things you’ve been too afraid to say?”
★ “I—”
★ “That’s what your books did.” Her hands find yours. “That’s what you did.” She leans in slightly, whispering now. “The rain scene, when you wrote that, were you—” She pauses, gathering a bit of courage. “Were you writing about someone real?”
★ “I was writing about what it felt like to want someone I thought I couldn’t have.”
★ “And now?”
★ “Now I’m standing in her room, holding her hands. Hoping I didn’t just ruin everything.”
★ “You didn’t ruin anything.” She squeezes your hands. “But you should know—I’m going to have so many questions about your writing process.” Her lips curl into something genuine and you laugh, shaky yet relieved. “Yeah?”
★ “Yes. Starting with,” She nearly closes the space between you, and her breath ghosts your lips. “Starting with whether you’d let me kiss the author of my favorite books.”
★ “I think that could be arranged.”
★ She kisses you, and it’s soft, certain and tastes like wine and possibility. When she pulls back, she’s grinning. “This book club just got a lot more interesting,” she says.
★ “Two person club,” you remind her.
★ “The best kind.” She kisses you again, quick and sweet. “Now come on. We have six more chapters to discuss, and I have notes.” You let her pull you to the couch, let her settle against your side, let yourself have this. Coupé, curled warm against you, talking about your words with that same awe.
★ And when she pauses her analysis to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, you think ‘This right here… is what I was writing about all along.’
How about that a recap from that night at the bar with our lovely Robbie 🧐
Also, love love love your fics! Have read EVERY SINGLE ONE! You're PERFECTION 🖤🩷💜
The Night Before
👽: hehe thank you, and yesss. how about that night? hmmm… *twirls nonexistent mustache deviously*
🖇️: Robert Robertson x gn!reader
☑️: Proof Read
⚠️: NSFW/SEXUAL/SUGGESTIVE THEMES/drunk shenanigans with z team/little sprinkle of bi activity/the club goes hard//enjoyyy :3
★ The bar smells like whiskey and regret. And it’s one of those smells you’ve become familiar with. Comfortable, even. Coupé’s laugh is velvet rough against your ear, her fingers grazing yours as she reaches for her glass—accidental, maybe, but the way she lets it linger says otherwise. You’re dizzy already, and you haven’t even finished your first drink.
★ “You always this trouble?” You murmur, leaning close enough that your breath ghosts her cheek.
★ “Only on weeknights.”
★ You grin. “Good thing I like weeknights.”
★ The warmth spreads from your chest to somewhere lower, but then Colm’s voice booms across the bar—“Drinking contest! Now!”—and suddenly you’re being dragged toward a row of shot glasses that glint like tiny threats under the lights.
★ Sonar’s already two shots in, grinning like a clown. Colm cracks his knuckles like this is a sport. And you? You’re stupid enough to say yes. The first shot burns. The third one stops burning. By the fifth, you’re not sure if you’re laughing or choking, and honestly, it doesn’t matter because you’re winning.
★ “Holy shit,” Sonar wheezes, gripping the counter. “How are you still—”
★ “Built different,” you slur, slamming another glass down.“Clearly.” Sonar hiccups, watching with admiration at this point. Colm groans, head in his hands. “I’m out. I’m fuckin’ out.” You watch Coupé stifle a laugh while she tends to him, patting his head affectionately.
★ Well, shit, at least you earned some bragging rights for actually—genuinely out drinking Punch-Up. (Barely) Hell yeah.
★ Prism’s cackling from across the room, phone held high, livestream chat probably going insane. Flambae wolf whistles sharp enough to cut through the bass heavy music, his grin wicked and proud. “Damn—you’re fucking crazy, bitch!” he shouts, and you blow him a kiss that he catches—pretending to take a sassy bite out of it like an apple.
★ The night fractures after that.
•••
★ Malevola finds you near the bathroom hallway, all sharp eyeliner and sharper smile, her hands sliding up your arms like she’s got nowhere else to be. “You’re trouble, babes” she says, but she’s already pulling you closer.
★ “Everyone keeps saying that.” You hum.
★ “Because it’s true.”
★ And then she’s kissing you—quick, messy, her black lipstick smearing across your mouth like evidence. It’s almost cruel, the way she casually pulls back with a smirk, thumb swiping your bottom lip.
★ “Looks good on you.”
★ You’re still catching your breath when she disappears back into the crowd, and you’re left there, dazed, lipstick stained, wondering if that actually just happened. Do you follow? Fuck, you wanna follow. You’re already moving through the crowd, pretending not to be desperate.
★ The music swells. The lights pulse. You catch Courtney and Mandy at the bar, standing way too close, Mandy’s hand resting on Courtney’s lower back in a way that’s definitely not platonic. You knew some gay shit was happening between those two. (You make a mental note to ask about that later. Maybe. If you remember.) You keep moving, Malevola still out of sight. Damn…
★ Golem’s wedged into a corner booth—took three people and some creative maneuvering to get him through the door, but he made it. Of course only after getting him in, did they check his I.D. (They let him stay anyways. It took too much effort getting him inside…) He’s nursing something in a comically small glass, looking content as hell, and honestly? Good for him.
★ You stumble toward Phenomaman, who’s smiling at nothing in particular, just happy to be here it seemed. You were trying to say something about the music or the drinks or literally anything—maybe if he’s seen Malevola. But then the world tilts. Someone spins you around, and suddenly there’s a hand at your waist, steadying, grounding.
★ The lights blur into smears of gold and violet. The song shifts again, slower, less hectic. And when you look up. It’s Robert. His eyes catch the light, dark and intense, and he says your name like it’s the only word he knows. You flush. Stumble. He catches you, easy, like he knew you’d fall. “Robert, what are we doing…?”
★ “Dancing.” His voice is smoke and honey. “What does it look like?”
★ “Looks like you’re—”
★ “Looks like you’re trying to talk when you should be moving.”
★ His hands settle on your hips, firm, deliberate, and suddenly the crowd doesn’t exist. Just him. Just the beat thrumming through the floor, through your chest, through the space where his body presses close to yours. “You always this handsy after a few drinks?” you tease, but your voice shakes just enough to betray you.
★ “No.” He doesn’t elaborate, just pulls you closer, his movements fluid despite the alcohol humming through both your veins. His nose brushes your temple, then lower, tracing the curve of your jaw.
★ “You smell like bad decisions,” he murmurs against your neck. “You smell like worse ones.” You quip. His laugh is low, then his lips are pressed below your ear—soft, testing. When you don’t pull away, he does it again, this time with teeth. Your breath hitches.
★ “Robert—”
★ “Mm?”
★ “We’re in public.”
★ “I know.” His hands slide lower, thumbs tracing circles against your hips as he sways with you, keeping rhythm. “You didn’t seem to mind when Malevola had her tongue in your mouth over there by the bathrooms, though.”
★ You pull back just enough to glare at him, heat flooding your cheeks. “And you would?” You retort. His grin is lethal. “Oh, no. I mean—of course I wouldn’t mind, look at her.” He says honestly, “But I’d kiss you better, is what I was getting at.” His hand moves up, thumb wiping away any lingering lipstick from Malevola before resettling onto your hip, pulling you back against him.
★ It’s supposed to be banter. Supposed to be playful. But the way he says it with certainty, his hips already rolling against yours in a subconscious rhythm that’s got nothing to do with the music, makes it something else entirely. Your heart skips two beats. Because you can feel him. The heat of his body. His hand placement. The tension between you and—oh fuck.
★ He’s hard.
★ Your breath catches. Your eyes flick up to his, and he’s already watching you, jaw tight, something like apology and challenge flickering across his face all at once. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, one hand sliding up your spine, the other still anchoring you against him like he’s daring you to say something.
★ You don’t. You just press impossibly closer. His head drops, forehead to your temple, then lower, lips brushing the shell of your ear again, and you feel the words more than hear them, “Wanna get out of here?”
★ It’s not really a question. More like a match struck in the dark. You nod before you even realize you’re doing it, throat dry, heart doing something crack head level in your chest. “My place,” you manage, and it comes out softer than you meant. Breathier. He pulls back just enough to look at you, then he grins. Slow. Dangerous. The kind of grin that makes your knees forget they have one job to do.
★ “Let’s go, then.”
•••
★ The Uber driver doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. Probably sees this kind of thing every weekend, but you’re grateful anyway because Robert’s hand is on your thigh, his mouth on your neck, your jaw…
★ You kiss him at a red light. He kisses you back like he’s been waiting all night. His hand slides higher. Your fingers twist in his shirt. The driver clears his throat, and you break apart just long enough to breathe before you’re back at it, laughing against his mouth.
★ by the time you stumble through your front door, you’re not sure who pulled who inside first. Doesn’t matter. Robert’s hands are on your waist, your back hits the wall, and his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, hotter. (Fuck maybe he was a better kisser than Malevola…maybe. Might have to try again with her just to double check.)
★ The thought is fleeting. You tug him toward the bedroom, and he follows without hesitation, fingers tangled with yours, grinning like he’s won the lottery. And when you fall back onto the bed, him right there with you, all you can think is, fuck. yes.
sappy male reader... kising flambaes missing fingers... please and thank you <33
love your fics btw!!
The Important Hand
🖇️: Flambae x masc!reader
☑️: Proof Read
⚠️: SFW/SAPPY/FLUFFY/CUTESY/AWWW/established relationship/you comfort your fiery boyfriend about his little nubs. LOL.
★ The TV’s murmuring something about a cooking competition—knives flashing, someone dicing onions with theatrical precision—and you feel Flambae’s hand twitch where it rests against your chest.
★ “Show off,” he mutters at the screen, but there’s something else in his voice. Something quieter.
★ You tilt your head back to look at him. He’s focused on the TV, but not really. His right hand has curled slightly, tucked between your bodies like it’s trying to hide.
★ “Babe?”
★ “It’s stupid.” He huffs a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Just—watching that guy. Makes me think about… you know.”
★ You do know.
★ You’ve heard the story. Robert. The fight. The way everything went wrong in the space between one heartbeat and the next. How anger cost him two fingers and nearly cost him more.
★ “Hey.” You shift, turning in his arms until you’re facing him properly. “Look at me.”
★ He does, but his jaw’s tight. Self conscious in that way he gets sometimes, when the missing pieces feel louder than the ones that remain.
★ So you lean in and kiss him. Soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that says I’m here and you’re here and that’s enough.
★ When you pull back, you catch his right hand before he can tuck it away again. You bring it to your lips—press a kiss to his palm first, then his thumb, then each finger that’s still there. Taking your time. Making it deliberate.
★ Then you kiss the space where the others used to be. The pinky. The ring finger. Just the tender nubs remaining, the ghosts of what was two little fingies. Flambae makes a sound—somewhere between a laugh and something shakier.
★ “What are you—”
★ “Shh.” You kiss them again. “These too. All of you.”
★ His breath catches.
★ You guide his hand up, settling it against your cheek, and he cups your face like you’re something precious. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his eyes are doing that thing where they’re too bright, too soft, too much.
★ “You’re ridiculous,” he whispers.
★ “Yeah, but you love me.”
★ “I really do.”
★ You turn your head just enough to kiss his palm again. “Besides,” you murmur against his skin, “you’ve still got your ring finger on the left hand.”
★ He blinks. Then he gets it.
★ His laugh this time is real—surprised and warm and a little watery. “You are such a sap.”
★ “That’s what really counts, right?” You grin. “The one that matters.”
★ Flambae pulls you back against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His right hand stays cradled between you both, but it’s not hiding anymore. It’s just there. Part of him. Part of this. On the TV, someone’s plating a dessert with gold leaf and unnecessary flourishes. Neither of you are watching.
