heyy i love love loveee your writing i look forward to your updates literally every day, first time requesting and honestly im nearly finished with iron flame and im still NOT over liam so i was wondering if we could have a liam fic, maybe with reader sort of taking the place of jesinia and violet being the number 1 winggirl (no pun intended) for liam, lots of tension and maybe a bit of spice 😼
hope you’re having a good day!!! xoxo
Stolen Glances
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Pairing(s): Liam x reader
Warning(s): none, tad spicy but nothing too crazy, light pining
Summary: You and Liam had been dancing around one another for months now -- leave it to your #1 wingwoman Violet to push the two of you together, for good this time.
SR’s Note: Eeeek I love a good Liam fic, especially when he is down bad hehe. I hope this is what you were requesting and that you like it! xo
Tags: @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @whyucloudingmymind @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @paintedbyshadows @woollybread786 @cherry-hotline @obi-wansgirl @therevoloutionhasbegun @poisonivy2267 @freakishfandomfiend @littleemissperfecttt @luvly-writer @fiahtheteaaddict @loveofmychips @w1ngsofwax @bodhidurrans @notnowkittenwhisker (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)
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"You're staring again," Violet says, nudging you with her elbow hard enough that your quill finally slips, leaving an ugly ink smear across the parchment.
You jerk your head up from the scribe's ledger, cheeks heating as your zoned-out gaze jumps to hers. Across the courtyard, Liam leans against one of the massive stone pillars, sunlight catching the golden strands in his hair as he laughs at something his (rude, but pretty) pink-haired friend says. His broad shoulders shake with it, the movement effortless, like everything else about him.
"I wasn't—" you start, but Violet arches an eyebrow, and you sigh. "Fine. Maybe a little."
Violet grins, tossing her braid over one shoulder.
"You know... he asked about you yesterday. Wondered why you weren't at sparring practice."
That sends butterflies aflight in your stomach.
"Now I know that's not true. You mean to tell me he really noticed?"
Violet’s grin widens, and she leans in like she’s about to share a secret.
“Noticed? He practically interrogated me, Y/N. ‘Where’s your scribe friend? She usually watches sparring.’” She mimics Liam’s low, measured tone so perfectly you almost drop your quill again. Violet giggles as your cheeks flush, your breath escaping you.
"You can't be serious-"
"Dead. Serious." Violet swears, raising an eyebrow.
You swallow hard, your pulse thrumming in your throat. “I... I had to finish translating those old battle reports,” you mutter, staring down at the ruined parchment like it holds the answers to your sudden inability to form coherent thoughts.
“Uh-huh.” Violet drags the syllable out, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger. “Well, he’ll be at the sparring rings again later today. And before you lie and say you’re too busy again,”
She holds up a hand when you open your mouth. “Nope. I already checked your schedule. You’re free.”
The courtyard seems to tilt. You’ve spent months watching Liam from the edges of training sessions, memorizing the way he moves -- fluid, and controlled, so handsome, so lethal.
And, every stolen glance across the archives, when he'd stroll through the stacks, following Violet like a lost puppy through the rows? Gods how handsome he looked when he smiled, especially when Violet would force the two of you to speak, and how his grin would grow each time the two of you interacted.
But the idea of him noticing your absence? That was new.
That, was dangerous.
Violet elbows you again, softer this time.
“You better go. Before I drag you there myself.”
* ✧･ﾟ: *
The outdoor sparring rings smell of sweat and iron, the afternoon sun baking the packed earth until it cracks like old parchment. You hover near the west entrance, fingers twisting the strap of your satchel as Liam steps into the ring adjacent from you, rolling his shoulders. Violet catches your eye from the ring just over one, wrapping her knuckles in that starchy white tape that you hated the texture of. She shook her head slowly, mouthing go closer with exaggerated eyebrow waggling that made you want to throw your inkpot at her.
You frowned lightly, but stepped forward anyways, the light breeze sweeping your hair behind your shoulders gently.
Liam’s movements are sharper today; less playful, more intent. His opponent, a wiry second-year from his own quadrant it seemed, barely landed a hit before Liam had him pinned, forearm braced against the older kid’s throat.
“You yield?” Liam asks, not even winded. His opponent taps out, and Liam helps him up with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You admire the flash of sharp canines anyway, imagining how they may feel against your soft skin-
He’s distracted today. And quite frankly, so were you. You can tell by the way his gaze keeps skimming the edges of the crowd, like he’s searching for something, his hands resting on his waist as his chest rises and falls in steady cadence.
It's then that he spots you, and his whole posture shifts.
The tension in his shoulders eases, and that grin turns real, crooked at one corner. Heat floods your cheeks, but you don’t look away. You can't. Not when he's standing just there, golden skin aglow, his muscled arms bulging beneath his fitted black shirt...
Violet was right -- he notices. He notices... you, of all people.
“Y/N! Liam jogs over, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Up close, you can see the faint scar along his jawline, the way his pulse jumps in his throat. “You’re late.”
You blink, your brain short-circuiting at the way your name sounded on his lips.
“Late?” Your fingers tighten around your satchel strap. The word comes out breathier than you intended, and Liam’s grin deepens, his blue eyes flickering with something warm and knowing. “I wasn’t aware scribes had a schedule for watching cadets bruise each other.”
Liam huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The motion makes the muscles in his arm flex again, and you force yourself to focus on his face instead.
“Fair,” he says. “But you’re usually here by now. I was starting to think Violet lied about you coming.” His voice drops just a fraction. “I might’ve skipped my last match if you hadn’t shown up.”
Your stomach twirls. Gods, he'd waited. The realization sends a rush of heat through you, settling low in your belly. Behind Liam, Violet makes a very unsubtle thumbs-up gesture before ducking behind a group of third-years and into her own ring to square up, leaving you alone to try to speak properly to this gorgeous man. Traitor.
“Well,” you say, tilting your chin up, “someone had to finish those reports. Navarre’s archives won’t organize themselves.”
Liam hums, stepping closer. The scent of his leather and whatever delightful bodywash he uses wraps around you like silk.
“Sounds really boring,” His thumb brushes your wrist where it’s still wrapped around your satchel, sending a jolt up your arm. “You should just... skip it, next time. Unless you prefer spending your evenings between the stacks, instead of out here, you know. With me.”
You'd like to tell him where you'd like him between.
You should pull your hand away. You should. But his thumb traces a slow circle over your pulse point, and suddenly the courtyard feels too small, the crowd too loud.
“Oh, and risk missing the opportunity to watch you put second-years in headlocks?” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere breathless. “Never.”
Liam’s grin turns wolfish. He leans in, close enough that his next words brush warm against your ear. “I’ll even let you pick my next opponent. Bet you’ve got opinions on who deserves a good takedown.”
You laugh, shaky, but before you can answer, a sharp whistle cuts through the air. Liam straightens, glancing toward the ring where a burly third-year (one you recognize as Garrick’s usual sparring partner) jerks his chin in challenge. Liam exhales through his nose, fingers flexing.
“Duty calls,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move. Not yet. His gaze lingers on your mouth, then lifts, deliberate. “Stay after?”
Though he says it like one, you know it’s not really a question.
* ✧･ﾟ: *
The sparring match is brutal, more so than usual. Liam moves with a focused aggression that sends the third-year sprawling into the dirt within minutes, his movements sharp and efficient, like he's working through something. Every time he glances your way, his jaw tightens just enough to make your breath catch.
Violet sidles up beside you after a few minutes in, her elbow bumping yours again in greeting.
"He's showing off," she whispers, gleeful. "Gods, this is so embarrassing."
You don't answer. You just can't. Not when Liam flips his opponent onto his back with a controlled twist of his hips, the muscles in his arms straining as he pins the guy down.
You hate the way your mind replays the defensive motion, uncomfortable with how sexually your mind is beginning to twist it.
When it's finally over, Liam helps the third-year up with a clap on the shoulder, but his attention is already sliding back to you. The crowd thins as cadets disperse for individual training time and for the dining hall, leaving the sparring ring rather quiet save for conversations growing distant and dragon roaring from the vale beyond.
Violet squeezes your hand once before jogging off with a wink, running to catch up with Rhiannon and her other friends. You could make your way back to your own quadrant -- Amari knows the amount of reports that still needed filing.
But Liam was walking toward you now, his gaze locked on yours like he's mapping every flicker of hesitation in your expression.
"Thought you'd bolt," he says when he's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The fading sunlight catches every hue of blue in them, turning them warmer than they have any right to be. His knuckles brush your elbow, his skin on yours featherlight, and you shiver despite the setting sun.
You swallow. "I don't run."
Liam's mouth curves, slow and knowing. "No. You don't." His hand slides up your arm, fingers tracing the edge of your scribe's insignia on your sleeve. You glance down at where his hand rests against your arm. "But you hide, don't you."
You open your mouth to protest, but the words dissolve when Liam’s thumb presses gently beneath your chin, tilting your face up again. His calloused fingers are rough against your skin, a contrast to the careful way he speaks to you, touches you; like you're a precious thing that might break if he grips too hard.
“I don’t-” you start, but Liam shakes his head, his other hand settling at your waist, pulling you closer until the heat of his body seeps through your robes.
“Yes, you do,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Every time I catch you watching, you look away like you’ve been burned.” His fingers flex slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you aware of the strength coiled beneath his skin. “Why?”
The question hangs between you, charged and heavy. You could lie. You should lie. But the way Liam’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing in the courtyard worth his attention... it makes the truth spill out.
“Because I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit, the words barely above a whisper. "I've never... it hasn't... this has never happened before. For me." You stutter, cheeks warming. His thumb is cool as he slowly strokes it across your warmed skin, his eyes boring into yours, willing you to admit what had been building between you for months at this point.
"I've never felt this way, Liam. Expecially not for someone outside of my quadrant, and I... I don't know what to do with it. How I feel, I mean."
Liam’s grin is slow and damn near predatory as his half-lidded eyes gaze down into yours.
“I can fix that.”
He finally does what you'd been hoping, wishing, praying to the Gods for since the day you'd met; he closes the distance between you two, and he kisses you.
His lips are rough from the wind and his training, but they move against yours with a deliberate softness that makes your knees weak. The kiss isn’t tentative-- Liam doesn’t do tentative, it seems, but it’s not demanding either. It’s a question and a promise, and when you gasp against his mouth, his hands slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him as they settle on your lower back. You can feel the hard planes of his chest through your robes, the rapid thud of his heart matching yours.
Someone whistles in the distance, and Liam growls against your lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to snap at them.
“Fuck off,” he shouts over his shoulder before slanting his mouth over yours again. This time, there’s no restraint as his tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when you part them, the sound he makes is downright feral. One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head just so, while the other presses against the curve of your ass, arching you against him until there’s no space left between you.
You’re vaguely aware of the quite empty courtyard by now, of the fading light casting long shadows across the sparring rings, but none of it matters. Not when Liam’s teeth graze your lower lip, not when he murmurs, “Gods, finally,” against your skin like it’s been torture waiting this long.
You laugh, breathless, and he nips at your jaw in retaliation, his pale stubble scraping deliciously against your throat.
“Laughing at me, scribe?” His voice is rough, edged with something dark and possessive that sends a shiver down your spine.
“Never,” you lie, and Liam huffs, dragging his mouth along the column of your neck until you whimper. His grip on your hair tightens just enough to make your scalp tingle.
“You’re a terrible liar.” His breath is hot against your ear, his hips pressing forward in a slow, deliberate roll that has you clutching at his shoulders. “Tell me you want this.”
You don’t hesitate. “Liam, I've wanted this for... Gods, I don't know how long now. How long has it been since we first met?”
Liam’s answering chuckle is sharp, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks not knowing if your feelings would be returned of not.
"Three months, one week and two days," he says softly, kissing your cheek with a gentleness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. "But, who's to say I've been counting."
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, emotion clogging in your throat. How silly you'd been, dancing around one another for so long when clearly, he'd felt the same if not more for you this entire time.
His brows lowered as his gaze focued on your mouth again, where your pearly whites sank into your plush, full lower lip.
"Y/N... please don't torture me," he breathed, his fingers softly rubbing against your back as you leaned into him, gazing up into his eyes again as he spoke. "If you really want to do this, if this is what you want, then-"
"It's what I want," you blurt out, surprised by your own boldness. He is taken aback, his brows rising as an astonished grin overtakes his lips once more.
His hands find the underside of your butt, scooping you up in his palms as though you weighed nothing. You squealed as he held you against him, arms wrapped around you as you wrapped your legs around his waist.
“Good,” he murmured, kissing your jaw as he started walking the two of you back to his dorm. “Because I’m done pretending that this isn't what I've wanted, too.”
* ✧･ﾟ: *
