#and fics where he is very open and devoted

[descisco]

lots of talk and meta posts on how much hannibal loves will (very real and true, always) and not enough talk and meta posts on how much will loves hannibal. something about that hits different for me idk. it’s so easy to fall into how hannibal perceives will; how he loves him, hurts him, cares for him. it’s so poetic, dangerous, alluring, all the good stuff we’ve established. but realizing that love is returned? that will very much loves and wants to be with and STAY with hannibal? something about realizing will would viciously rip anyone apart that tried to hurt hannibal is so …it’s so…y’know? and then part of that feral energy coming from a jealous/possessive and messed up “only i can hurt him” sort of thing? oh it makes me insane. INSANE! worms in my brain.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

I'LL SAY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ falling in love with spencer reid was never a question, only an inevitability. it was in the way he remembered things you barely remembered saying, the way he defied probability just to make you smile, the way he learned you like you were his favorite subject. four times he surprised you—quietly, sweetly, in ways only he could. and then, when it was your turn, you made sure to give him a surprise worth remembering

WARNINGS ಇ. excessive fluff, spencer reid being the most thoughtful man alive, reader being absolutely whipped, the bau being the ultimate group of enablers, and just an overwhelming amount of love A/N ಇ. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,524

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasn’t with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out plan—it was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.

You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, absently flipping through a book he’d left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you weren’t entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringing—nothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencer’s words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.

“—kind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. That’s her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.”

You blinked.

Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about once—once—over takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something you’d figured was lost to the ether.

But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.

Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. “Damn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?”

Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t combust on the spot. “Spencer—”

“What?” Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. “You said it was important to you. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because I said it once. Months ago. In passing.”

He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. “You love it. That makes it important.��

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. “Did I say something wrong?”

You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. “No, Spence. Not at all.”

You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[l1tw1ck]

Simeon's Devotion

Sub!Bottom!FTM!Priest Simeon x Dom!Top!AMAB!Holy Knight Reader

Word Count: 2,410

Reverend Simeon, plagued by sinful thoughts of a certain holy knight, is suddenly struck with a high fever and abandons his God

AFAB Language Used | 2K Anniversary Request: For a Simeon Fic | [Breaking the Thermostat]

CW: Non-Con, Heavy Religious Themes, Dom/Sub, Virginity Loss, Bleeding, Size Difference, Oral Sex, Cum Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Belly Bulge, Womb Fucking, Squirting, Creampie, Kidnapping

You knock loudly against Simeon’s doors, heavily injured. You hear the sound of shuffling and see the lights turn on inside. Moments later, he opens the door for you.

Simeon calls out your name in shock. “What happened to you?!” He helps you inside.

“Ran into some demons..” You murmur, sitting down on his couch. “Can you heal me?”

“Of course!” Simeon hastily removes your clothes, leaving you in just an undershirt and boxers. You're both already used to this. “How many this time?”

“I wanna say…30?” You watch him kneel down and use his divine powers on your wounds.

“30?! Did something attract them?”

“I’m not sure. I was on patrol and everything seemed normal. The monsters looked strange too. They all looked like distorted versions of God and they were muttering things like ‘sinner’ and ‘dirty’.” 

“That's strange..”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it before.” You reach to rub your temple but Simeon quickly heals your headache. “Could I have something to eat? I know you're probably tired so something like crackers would be fine.”

“You need to eat a real meal. I don't mind cooking for you. You can sleep over too, all your clothes are washed.” Simeon finishes your last wound and stands up. It's very common for you to sleep over at Simeon’s due to exhaustion since demons usually show up on the outskirts of town and you live a bit further away. “Think you can take a shower?”

You stand up and groan, the sound making Simeon twitch. “I think so. Thanks, Simeon.”

“God must be disappointed in you. So much for being a priest.” You say, staring at Simeon. He’s wearing sexy see through lingerie and an extravagant matching sheer silk robe. His legs are spread and he’s leaning against his bed frame. His tears are glistening against his cheeks, they’re shining like glitter. “You're nothing but a dirty sinner.” You move his panties aside.

Simeon looks at you, batting his eyelashes. Another tear falls down his cheek. “You’re my god now.”

“That’s right, baby. You’re mine.” You slowly begin to ease your cock inside him. “And I’m yours.” You press your hand against his pelvis, a pretty marking appearing on it.

Simeon suddenly wakes up moaning your name with his hand stuffed in his underwear. He gasps and yanks it out. He quickly wipes his hand on his clothes and begins to pray. “Please deliver me from temptation.” He repeats the same phrase over and over but as his body begins to grow hot, his prayer becomes strange.

“Please give me [Name]’s cock–” Simeon gasps and covers his mouth. “No…Forgive me— I need his co—” He covers his mouth again. He can't talk. He attempts to pray silently but that doesn't work either. It just makes him feel even more horny.

He begins to absentmindedly remove all of his clothes, his hands moving on their own to touch his wet pussy. He leans back, eyes out of focus, and begins to touch himself but he doesn't really know how. He just rubs his folds, which feel extremely sensitive. “I’m…I’m a sinner..” He mumbles, still out of it. “And a slut.”

“Only [Name] will accept me now.” Simeon brings his hand up to his tattoo and presses on it, a wave of pleasure flowing through him. 

He stumbles out of the bed and drunkenly walks to his guest room, where you’re sleeping. Knocking didn't cross his mind as he opened the door. 

“Si- Simeon?” You ask sleepily, sitting up. “Is something wrong?” You can't tell that he's naked. You move to sit on the side of the bed and squint at him.

“Yes..” He says quietly, stepping towards you. He kneels in between your legs. “I need you.”

“What?!” You recoil. “Are you okay? Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk.” Simeon presses kisses along your legs down to your feet. “I’ll do anything you want, [Name]. Anything.”

“I think you need to drink some water…you're not thinking straight.” You get off of the bed. As you try to head towards the door, Simeon stops you.

“I don’t need water, I need you.” He pulls you closer, he’s somehow stronger than before, and forces you into a kiss. It doesn't take long for him to pass on his ‘fever’ to you. Heat rushes through your body as your rational thoughts dispel like bubbles. He pulls away and looks at you lovingly. 

“Simeon...” You hold his chin, speaking with a loving tone. “How beautiful.” You mumble. He moans your name breathily.

“Kneel for me.” You order. Simeon kneels once again. You pull down your shorts and boxers at the same time. His eyes widen, hearts forming in them, when he sees your thick length. The process of becoming a Holy Knight can alter someone's body in major ways but he never knew it could change by this much. “Open your mouth.” You run your fingers through his hair.

Simeon opens his mouth and lets you slide your cock inside it. His mouth is unbelievably hot. He can feel the corners of his lips stretching to fit you. The thought of you stretching his pussy open next makes him moan. He stares into your eyes as you begin to thrust. You're sure they're glowing. 

“Your mouth feels amazing.” You moan. Simeon moans as well. “‘S perfect for me..” You speed up your thrusts. He happily allows you to fuck his mouth. He closes his eyes and focuses on your voice. He’s so aroused it's becoming painful.

You tighten your grip on his hair as your thrusts become unruly and desperate. He looks at you again, this time with tears in his eyes. But the tears aren't because he’s upset. “You look so pretty when you cry.” You groan as you come inside his mouth. You slowly pull away as Simeon swallows your seed without hesitation. You're still hard and you both want more. You pick him up and slam him onto the bed. Somehow, the both of you are able to see perfectly in the dark. Maybe it has something to do with the glow in your eyes.

You spread his legs and smile at how wet he is. The marking on his lower stomach glows faintly as you physically observe his pussy with your fingers. He squirms around cutely. You kneel in between his legs, mirroring what he did earlier, and bury your face into his pussy. Simeon moans. “Yes– oh- yes~!” He sucks in a breath. “[Name]~!” It's like he's ascended to heaven. 

You drag your tongue up to his clit and gently suck on it. It quickly and unnaturally swells in your mouth. It feels like he’s stuck on the edge of an orgasm, although it feels good nonetheless. You slip a finger into his hole and then another when you realize how easily it entered him, despite his tightness. “Ooh- oh, [Name]~” Simeon squeezes your fingers tightly as you attempt to finger him. The constant flexing of his walls make it difficult to move them but you don't mind. You’re more interested in how that’ll feel when you fuck him.

He can tell he's not going to come from this. He's not sure why, it feels like there's something blocking him from doing so. “Put…put your cock inside me, please~”

You smile and move away, standing back up. “Of course, my love.” You lick your lips and line up your cock with his pussy, slowly coating your tip with his slick. He bites down on his lip and uncontrollably twitches as you begin to sink into his sopping warmth. He throws his head back and grips the bed sheets while moaning shamelessly. You're barely inside him. His entire pussy is throbbing so heavily, it's almost like a second heartbeat. Blood soon spills from your penetration. 

The true representation of his sin.

He moans your name with his enchanting voice. Your cock ‘knocks’ on his cervix and strangely enough, it seems to be allowing your entrance. Like it wants you to enter his womb. You don't think about how that should be impossible and slide further inside him. “It feels– feels so—” He gasps, squirting. His eyelashes are fluttering rapidly.

“There you go, baby. Come for me.” You rub his clit with your thumb. He writhes around, no longer squirting but his cunt’s still squeezing you like crazy. He isn't able to think about anything at all, his brain is overloaded. The outline of his tattoo is becoming a bright blue. “Good boy…keep going.” You praise him.

Simeon wants to say your name again but he is completely unable to speak.

“Let’s make up for all your years of abstaining.” You start to thrust. He slowly comes back down to earth with each thrust you make. 

“Ah–” His eyes are sparkling with tears. “You’re so big…stretching me out~” 

“That’s right, I’m making your pussy fit the shape of my cock.” You slowly rub the bulge on his stomach, fucking him at a slow pace. “Your body’s gonna remember me and only me.”

“That's– that’s all I want~” Simeon moans. “Only you~”

“So pretty…” You brush his hair out of his face. He looks like a painting. You bring your hands to his waist and slowly build up to a faster pace. He reaches for you so you lean in. He wraps his arms around you.

“I love you.” He says in a shaky tone.

“I love you too.” You look into his eyes. For a brief moment, he realizes this isn't the real you, then he brushes it off. He feels strange. “My sweet Simeon.” You kiss him. The bed starts rocking due to your quickened thrusts. You separate from the kiss, some saliva dripping down his lip.

He looks down and notices the marking on his womb is glowing and the same color as his eyes. His desire has been satisfied. It’s all over. He looks up at you, suddenly shaking like a scared rabbit. The artificial light flickers out like a used lightbulb. He can't see you clearly anymore. The only lights are the glow in your eyes and the faint moonlight. “[Name]?” He asks.

“Hm?”

You're still…you’re not aware like he is. He suddenly feels disgusting. He forced you into this. Even if he wasn't completely conscious. He should tell you to stop, but he doesn't want to. Is it so wrong to want a little more? “I…I-” He stutters. “Come- come inside~” If he can't have you, maybe he can have a part of you.

You kiss his cheek. “Of course.” You come inside of him only moments later. It feels like he forced it out of you. You look at him with an exhausted but happy expression before passing out on top of him. He doesn't try to move you.

You slowly wake up. You look around the room and notice a stain on the floor that you didn't notice before. And your bedsheets seem to be different too. You also feel a little strange. Refreshed, but strange. You get up and leave the guest room. You can smell coffee so you go down to the kitchen. “You're up pretty early. Don't you usually sleep in on Tuesdays?”

Simeon shrugs, not looking at you. “I felt like getting up early today.”

“Well, I’m not doing anything today. Maybe I’ll make breakfast this time?”

“It's okay. I’ll make it.”

“If you insist.” You know you can't convince him otherwise. “I wanna do something for you though. You deserve a gift.”

“Protecting my town is more than enough.”

“You’ll never change, huh?” You chuckle. “You know, the bed sheets look different from last night. Am I crazy?”

Simeon breaks the mug in his hand. You shoot up from your chair and rush over to him.

“I- I’m okay.” Simeon heals himself. “There wasn't anything in it yet.” 

“Good. You…seem weird today.” You notice he's not making eye contact with you.

“I..” He presses his forehead onto your chest and frowns, tears forming in his eyes. “I did something horrible last night.”

“What do you mean?” You bring him into a hug and gently rub his back to comfort him.

“Please…please don't hate me.”

“How could I hate you?”

“Last night…something strange came over me. I wasn't fully in control of myself and I forced you to…to..” He begins to sob.

“Simeon?” You ask, concerned.

“I forced you to have intercourse with me!” He blurts out, pulling away from you. He turns around and doesn't look at you.

You pause. “It must’ve been the work of a demon. It's okay, it's not your fault. It wasn't my ‘first time’ but…was it yours?”

Simeon’s eyes widen. “That wasn't your first?”

“No.”

He bites down on his nail. “When?”

“Um…maybe a decade ago?”

“Before you became a knight? And you haven't since then?”

“...Yes.” You assume he's uncomfortable due to his beliefs.

Simeon sighs. You were ‘reborn’ during your ceremony so you’re technically a virgin but you still have the experience. “Are you going to remain celibate?”

“I…well, I hope to find someone in the future. To marry, of course.”

“Oh.” He clenches his fist. “Do you have anyone you’re interested in?”

“I suppose I’ve caught a liking to Solomon, he—”

Simeon whips his head around. The look in his eyes is scary. “No.” He grabs your shirt. “No. You can't. You can't leave me.”

“Simeon?” You look at him in disbelief.

“I…I’m not letting you leave.”

Simeon looks at you sleeping peacefully on his bed. He isn't sure how, but he caused you to pass out and he was able to carry you here. He didn't even break a sweat. Due to a holy knight’s ability to neutralize certain forms of demon magic, Simeon is sure he isn't using that as you would've been fine if he was. But that leaves more questions to be answered.

He slides his hand down to his lower stomach and touches the glowing blue mark on his womb. It hasn't gone away. What is it? If it's not demonic then is it holy? How could this be holy?

He gently caresses your face. “I’m sorry, but I can't allow you to leave.”

You’ll be missed in the order of the holy knights but no one will worry when Simeon tells everyone he has bigger plans for you.

[hederasgarden]

Eternal Devotion (1/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, mildly dubious consent, sexual content, vampirism and all the warnings that come with that (I’m diverging from canon a bit in regards to feeding). This is my attempt at Gothic Romance. A/N:  The reader has always been Friedrich's wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her. -Hozier

The room is dim with the curtains drawn tight, allowing only a sliver of daylight to creep through the gap. In the distance, the soft hum of morning activity rises from the rest of the house, the gentle chatter of your two daughters layered over the quiet rustling of the servants preparing for the day ahead. You should rise and follow the rhythm of the world outside this room, but you cannot. 

Friedrich has been gone nearly six months. It feels like a lifetime. The days stretch endlessly, and each one feels like an affront, a reminder that the world refuses to stop turning. How are you supposed to go on living? You know if you had died, Friedrich would have climbed into the casket beside you and his grief would have blotted out the sun.

But there was no casket for him. No body left to bury. He was swallowed by the sea, lost while fulfilling a promise you made, helping Ellen return to Thomas.

Your daughters do not yet grasp the finality of it. No matter how many times you tell them, they speak of their father like he is simply away at work, perhaps, or out on some important errand. And each morning they act as if he’s come to tuck them into bed, kiss their cheeks, and say their prayers like he did before. They look up at you with soft eyes, the very same as his and you must relive the pain of it again and again when you remind them their father is gone.

Sometimes, you wish you could believe your own dreams, the ones where Friedrich slips back into bed beside you. Yet even in those fleeting moments of illusion, something is wrong. The warmth you long for is absent. His touch is colder, harder, his presence not the way it used to be. When his lips meet your skin, it stings, sharp and unfamiliar, and the truth rises within you, pushing against the comfort of the dream. 

It’s not him. And it never will be. Now and forevermore, each morning you will wake to find the sheets beside you cold. Empty.

Everyone told you the grief would abate with time but these past few weeks have drained you more thoroughly than any that came before. Each morning, it feels as though your very blood has turned to sand, your bones to lead. Even the simple act of turning onto your back, to stare up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, takes more effort than you can summon. 

You remain in bed until the door creaks open, and the light sound of footsteps follows. Kerstin’s voice is no more than a whisper as she brushes your shoulder.

“Frau Harding. Your parents have arrived for breakfast. Your father wishes for you to join them.”

The sight of your maid’s pale, worried face is enough to rouse you. You let her dress and prepare you for the day. Although she’s done this a thousand times, there’s something about the way her hands hover over the buttons of your gown, the hesitation before each movement, that makes you feel like a stranger in your own skin. You see how she and the other servants watch you now. Even when they pretend to be absorbed in their tasks, their glances are sharp, laden with worry. They fear you’ll descend into the same madness as Ellen, but it is only your grief, so vast and deep, that’s reshaping you in ways you can’t even recognize. 

When you enter the dining room, your daughters rush to you. You hold them close, inhaling the familiar scent of their hair. Your mother greets you next, reaching out to cup your face in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. There is a deep sadness in her eyes and she glances over at your father with a look halfway between pleading and resignation.

“Come, you must eat,” she encourages, guiding you to sit beside her.

Your father, sitting at the head of the table, offers no such tenderness. His presence is a commanding weight in the room and the deep set of his brow lets you know this is not merely a social visit. You glance at your mother who stares at the hands in her lap and your fingers curl around the richly upholstered arm of the dining room chair. Whatever he has come to say will not be good, you realize. 

“The children are finished with their breakfast,” he announces sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a command. With a quick flick of his fingers, he gestures to the governess. “Take them to the parlor. Their mother and I have matters to discuss.”

Once they are gone, your father doesn’t wait long to speak again. “It has been six months,” he begins, his gaze unwavering. “Long enough. You must remarry, and soon.” 

You blink, momentarily stunned. Six months? Six months since Friedrich was swallowed by the sea, leaving nothing but an empty, aching space behind. Six months in which you have not even been able to make sense of the grief that clings to you like a second skin. How could he even think of you remarrying so soon?

“But… Father, I…” you begin, the words faltering in your throat.

He doesn’t let you finish, his voice growing sterner. “You must think of the future, not just of your own sorrow. The children need stability, and you need a husband. You cannot manage alone, not with the wealth you inherited from your late husband.”

You shake your head, even as you know there is a kernel of truth to his words. The vast estate, the shipyard, and the assets Friedrich once managed all fall on you now. It is a burden you are not prepared to shoulder and one you have steadily ignored these past months. But even beyond all that, the thought of remarrying, of taking another man into your life is something you can’t even entertain.

"I cannot… not yet," you whisper, barely above a breath. And in the pit of your chest, a deeper thought rises unbidden: Not ever.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says firmly. “But even now, men circle you like vultures. They want your husband’s wealth and his business. We must act swiftly and secure the right match — for you, for the children, for our family’s future.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to pass. Your hands move to straighten the cutlery in front of you, anything to occupy them, anything to hold off the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

And then, almost without thinking, you speak. “You never say his name.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Friedrich,” you whisper. “It is always my husband or your son-in-law. You do not… you do not say his name.”

There is a long pause before your father clears his throat, dismissing the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot afford to linger on sentiment,” he says. “Sentiment will not feed the children or keep the business afloat. We need to think practically.”

You stare at him, hearing nothing more than the absence of your husband's name in his voice, the not-so-subtle command that you too must move on, move past this grief, and return to the world of the living. 

“You cannot make me do this.”

"Perhaps not," your father concedes, exhaling sharply. "But your husband has many cousins who would think nothing of reclaiming control over the business." He pauses, taking a deliberate sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Men who would see no value in a widow and her daughters when they have families of their own.”

His words have their desired effect, leaving you feeling small and powerless. Your shoulders slump, the strength in you draining away as your head hangs, heavy with the crushing knowledge of what awaits.

“Now, your mother has already arranged for you and the girls to have new clothes made for your return to society," he continues, his tone cool and businesslike. "We will host a small, intimate gathering. I will invite a few prospective suitors—men I consider promising options. You may, of course, choose which one you wish to pursue."

“How kind you are to offer me a say,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.  

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I know grief has stolen your good sense but you will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” your father warns. 

A surge of emotion rises within you, sharp and unwelcome, forcing its way up your throat. The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unrestrained. “You would not speak to me this way if Friedrich were here.”

Your father shakes his head, rising from his seat to tower over you. “He is not here, my girl. He will never be here again. You are alone in a world that is unkind to women such as yourself.”

The pity in his eyes is more than you can bear. The dam breaks, and the first wave of tears crashes down, unbidden and unstoppable. A  flood that drags you under. You sink back into the chair, helpless as wracking sobs tear through you, a deep, raw ache flooding every part of your being.

Distantly, you hear your mother’s voice chastising your father. Her arms slip around you, pulling you close. She whispers gentle reassurances, her shushing echoing the soothing words you’ve said a hundred times to your own girls, but it feels empty now, a hollow repetition that cannot shield you from the brutal reality.

Friedrich is gone. And with him, any hope you once held of finding happiness.

–

When you step into your father’s parlor, the weight of every gaze in the room settles on you like a tangible thing. The faces that turn toward you are mostly unfamiliar, offering you that sad, understanding smile you’ve grown so weary of. It is a smile that means nothing at all in light of their presence here. Each one of them is complicit in your father’s schemes.

“You look lovely,” your father says. He presses his lips to your cheek in an exaggerated gesture of affection, more a farce than any real expression of love. “The blue truly suits you,” he adds, his eyes dropping to take in your fine silk dress. 

It’s the latest fashion from Paris, or so you’re told. Once, a dress like this would have delighted you—Friedrich always took such joy in bringing you the finest, most exquisite silks and fabrics from his travels. But now, the dress feels all wrong, too tight and too revealing, exposing more of your shoulder and décolletage than you’re comfortable with. 

You smile at your father. Even though it barely touches your lips it doesn’t seem to bother him. He simply sweeps you further into the room, his hand on your arm guiding you forward as he begins the task of making introductions. It’s a performance, and you are trapped at the center of it. But you do as your father and society demand, falling into the practiced motions of politeness. 

You engage in small talk, offering the kind of perfunctory responses that are expected of you, feigning interest in whatever these men have to say. Some ask after your children, while others offer their condolences for your loss. But behind their kindness lies a predatory sort of interest. It is all you can do to nod, offering your own strained smile as you stand there wondering how much longer you can keep up this charade.

When your father finally leaves you for a moment you close your eyes, exhaling. 

“Oh, dearest girl.” 

The unexpected voice makes you flinch. You turn, meeting a familiar pair of brown eyes of Herr Gothrim. Of all your father’s friends, he is the one you think might understand your plight the best. He lost his wife to the plague that swept the city nearly a year ago.

“It is shameful what your father is doing. Forcing you from your mourning period so soon.” He shakes his head. “Though, I confess, had I daughter like you I might be convinced to do the same.” He steps closer, his voice quieting. “You are the talk of the city and beyond.”

“They desire Friedrich’s wealth,” you reply. “Nothing more.”

Herr Gothrim stares at you for a moment before he speaks again, his words laden with something that makes your skin crawl.

“Do not sell yourself short. You are young. Beautiful. You might still bear your future husband a son or two.”

Friedrich had wanted a son. You knew that long before you ever married him. He had spoken of it often, longing to see his name carried on but he never once made you feel like an instrument to secure his legacy. More than that he loved your daughter fiercely, completely. And though it might have been a sin, he loved you even more.  

“I fear you will not have the luxury of time, my dear,” Herr Gothrim warns. “Your father will push forward with his plans, and if you do not make a choice, one will be made for you. Perhaps a familiar one would be best.”

His eyes briefly flick over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze. It rests on his son, Pieter. The sight of him makes a sharp, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up from within. Once, he had petitioned your father for your hand and before Friedrich had made his offer, Pieter had been the one your father had entertained as a potential suitor. 

To your dismay, Pieter seems to take your attention as an invitation, crossing the room to join the two of you. He greets you with an overly familiar kiss to your cheek that lingers, brushing against the corner of your lips. When he pulls away his hand remains on your elbow, tethering you to him. 

“Frau Harding, you look well,” he says brightly. “Or should it be Fräulein now?”

His boldness stuns you but before you can gather your thoughts, he continues, oblivious to the discomfort in your silence. “I must confess, I was both surprised and pleased to receive your father’s invitation. And to see you again after so long. I am eager for a second chance to win your hand.”

It is only the thought of your daughters and the need to ensure their future is safe that keeps grief from sharpening your tongue. You force your eyes downward, focusing on a speck of dust on his lapels to avoid looking at his face. “My father was pleased you accepted his invitation. He has always been fond of you,” you reply hollowly.

Pieter smiles, seemingly unaware of how your voice thins and your words fall flat and meaningless. 

“You look cold,” he observes. “Come, you should warm yourself by the fire as we reacquaint ourselves. My import business has grown greatly since we last spoke.”

His touch feels possessive, demanding even yet you are helpless to do anything more than follow him. You catch your father’s eyes when you pass him. He looks pleased and it turns your stomach. 

Pieter keeps you by his side for the rest of the evening, his words a constant hum around you. Whether he’s wholly unaware of your discomfort or willfully blind to it, you can’t decide. His conversation is a relentless stream of boasts about his business, his wealth, and his success, as though he expects you to be impressed, to be eager for his attention. Each time you try to excuse yourself, your attempts are dismissed with a smile and an insistent push to stay.

It isn’t until your mother comes to collect you at the end of the night that you are finally freed from his hold. You follow her away from the gathering and into the waiting carriage, Pieter’s gaze lingering on you. 

You’re so exhausted on the ride home that the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets and the rocking of the carriage nearly lulls you into sleep. You find your daughters are already in bed when you arrive at the house. Though you loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber, you find yourself drawn to them, compelled to check on them before you can rest. You make your way down the dark hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet the only sound betraying your presence.

When you crack open the door to their room, a cool rush of air greets you, sending a shiver through you. You find their window unlatched, the curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze that has slipped in. Startled, you step further into the room, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You move quickly to reach the window and quietly shut it again. 

Once it is secured, you turn to your girls. The sight of them, peaceful and safe in their beds, eases some of the tension in your chest. Your youngest clutches a slip of fabric in her hands, her tiny face relaxed in sleep. There is something about the cloth she holds that gives you pause. You kneel beside her, gently prying it from her grasp. At the sight of the familiar handkerchief and your own needlework, worn and fraying with time, your breath stutters in your throat. 

It was one of the first gifts you ever gave Friedrich, back when he was still courting you. You had made him dozens more over the years, but still, he carried it with him, even as it began to unravel at the edges. You always assumed it was lost with him and to find it here, tucked in your daughter’s hands, feels like both a balm and a wound.

Fingers trembling, you press the fabric to your face and close your eyes. For a brief moment, you swear you can still smell Friedrich’s cologne, faint but unmistakable. You linger in that moment until your daughter shifts in her sleep and you're brought back to reality. Carefully, you tuck the handkerchief into her tiny hands and kiss her forehead before retreating from the room.

–

Your dreams are restless, an amalgam of fractured images and disjointed sensations. Pieter’s dark, unblinking eyes merge with the black fabric of your mourning gown, and then, without warning, the scene shifts, plunging you into the vast, endless depths of the sea that claimed Friedrich. 

The cold water envelops you, and you gasp for air, but the water rushes in, drowning your cries. In your panic, you thrash wildly, desperate for escape. Just as you feel yourself slipping into the abyss, strong hands seize you, pulling you upward. Your eyes snap open, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The water recedes, and in its place, Friedrich’s face fills your vision.

“I am here, I am here, my love,” he murmurs softly, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand rests lightly on your chest, guiding your breath to match his steady rhythm, coaxing the frantic pace of your heart to slow.  

You stare at him as the world crystallizes around you. Then, you surge forward, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that consumes you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching him tightly like he might vanish if you let go. The kiss is a lifeline and you cling to it with a need so raw it aches.

“Friedrich,” you gasp, reveling in the familiar tickle of his mustache and his strong hands on your body.  

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if this is real, if he’s truly here, or if your grief has finally unraveled, conjuring him from the depths of the ocean to haunt you. But then, as his lips press urgently against yours and the solid weight of him fills your arms, you decide you don’t care. It doesn’t matter if he is a ghost, risen from the sea’s cold embrace. Nor does it matter that death has leached the color from his cheeks and the warmth from his hands. All that matters is that he’s here.

“My love,” you cry. 

“I am here,” he promises, trailing his lips down the side of your throat until his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He lingers there, the sting of his kiss euphoric. You bury your fingers in his thick curls, tugging gently and he all but growls against your skin. With his mouth still on you, his fingers tug at your nightgown, baring your body to his eager hands. They slip between your parted thighs, finding your wet heat, and stealing it away as they work you to the peak of pleasure. Friedrich groans and the pain in your neck flares, sharp and sudden.

When he pulls away, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, leaving you breathless and spent. You stare up at him as your vision shifts, the world taking on a hazy hue. In the dim light, his blue eyes are dark, almost silvery, and something deep within you recoils, an instinctive fear that you can’t quite name. But then, he blinks, and just as quickly the shadow fades. The warmth of his gaze returns, and those same familiar blue eyes, the ones you’ve loved for so long, look down at you with tenderness.

Your fingers hover over his face, longing to touch him again. But a painful realization stops you. 

"You are not real.” The words leave you in a rush. 

“Does it matter if I am?" he asks. "Does this not bring you peace, my love?"

You shake your head, the pain of his absence still raw in your chest. You can’t resist the pull of him, the need to feel close again, even if only in this fleeting moment. Without thinking, you draw him down to kiss you, and the taste of him is sharp, unexpectedly coppery.

"It is a horrible thought," you murmur, breaking the kiss, "but I wish I would not wake when morning comes. I want to stay here with you. In this dream."

A deep frown forms between his brows, and his hand finds your cheek, his touch colder than it should be. His mouth parts slightly, and his teeth, white and sharp, glimmer faintly against his pale lips. 

“You do not wish to find a new husband? To live?” he questions. 

"I wish only for you," you say, voice trembling but sure. "And for our girls."

“My dearest wife,” he whispers, kissing you sweetly. “I will never leave you. I cannot.”

A soft moan slips from you, unbidden, the sound encouraging him to kiss you deeper. His lips move with a possessive tenderness that fills the hollow spaces inside you. “Nor would I ever let you go," he promises. “We are bound even in death.”

Part 2

[seyvith]

“ PERMISSION TO REST ”

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who doesn’t know how to be loved, only how to kneel . . .

requested / gender neutral reader / emotionally fragile angel x reader / intense fixation / devotion laced with fear / touch starved beyond reason / unhealthy comfort / aching vulnerability

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: finally finished a post, yay!! been super busy with grad, so take these quickly written abrin headcannons as a little gift. i'll write proper fics with my full writing style once i have more time!

The first time you opened your arms to him, an invitation so simple, so achingly human, Abrin didn’t understand. What you meant as comfort, he mistook as a test.

Without pause or hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you, eyes wide with frantic devotion. He pressed desperate kisses along your legs as though in worship, trembling with a feverish need to prove himself. “Tell me what to do. I’ll be good. Please. Let me deserve this.”

You had to kneel with him, gently guiding his face into your hands like one might calm a frightened animal. To him, your embrace wasn’t a kindness, it was a divine trial. The thought that love could be given without condition had never once occurred to him.

When you finally drew him into your arms, his body resisted the moment. He didn’t know how to soften, how to yield. He sat stiff and trembling, his muscles coiled tight like strings drawn too far. Beneath your touch, his pulse fluttered, thin and frantic, as though his very heartbeat feared being held.

His hands hovered, barely brushing the air near your body. “Can I...?” he whispered, as though asking for permission to exist. When you said yes, the breath that left him shuddered out like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.

Cautiously, like a creature unsure of its own shape, he leaned in. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, not out of peace, but surrender. And when the sob finally tore through him, it came with whispered fragments of gratitude, broken and trembling: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Holding Abrin is not just cradling an angel. It is gathering the scattered, shattered pieces of something holy and hurt. He fears he is too much: too scarred, too cold, too far gone to ever be worthy of warmth. Yet he yearns for it all the same, as if your arms were the last place left in the world where he might still belong.

His wings bear the worst of it. They are torn, crooked at the joints, marred with breaks both ancient and new. And yet, when you hold him, it’s his wings he wants you to touch most. Every stroke of your fingers along those ruined feathers sends a jolt of pain through him. But he leans in, never away.

He clenches his teeth, eyes glassy with withheld tears. To him, the pain is sacred. Your touch is sacred. A quiet proof that you see all of him, even the broken parts, and still choose to stay. Sometimes, in a voice tight with emotion, he murmurs, “Please don’t stop. It only hurts when you let go.”

The longer you hold him, the more he melts. Slowly, hesitantly, like snow thawing in early spring. His shivering eases. His breath deepens. Eventually, with the carefulness of a child touching something beautiful for the first time, he rests his head against your chest. He listens to your heartbeat as if it were the music of the stars, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He always needs to hold something when he’s in your arms; a fold of your sleeve, a corner of your shirt, your hand clenched tightly in his. He anchors himself to you like a dreamer afraid of waking. It is as though he believes that if he’s not tethered to you, he’ll vanish. Or worse, that you will.

Sleep comes to him only in pieces, stitched with hesitation and fear. But in your arms, he wants to try. Still, his voice is soft with worry each time he asks: “May I sleep here? Will you stay?” The question hangs fragile in the air, like frost waiting to melt.

When you say yes, he settles into your warmth with the carefulness of something half starved. If you shift or pull away, even for a breath, he freezes, his body going still and cold like a candle just extinguished. So you stay, holding him until his breathing evens into something that resembles peace.

Once sleep finds him, it’s as though the world’s grip loosens. The tension in his brow fades. The sharp lines of his grief soften. Sometimes, if the night is kind, a faint smile touches his lips, so fleeting, it feels like a secret only you were meant to see.

When he wakes, something in his eyes has changed. The way he looks at you is no longer just grateful, it’s reverent. Disbelieving. He traces the line of your wrist with shaking fingers, as though still expecting you to vanish. “Does it hurt?” he sometimes asks, voice faint. “To touch me?” He believes there must be a cost.

His tears come often in your arms, and he despises that they do. He buries his face against your chest, sobbing in quiet, aching gasps. “I don’t know how to be held,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to be loved.” But you ask nothing of him. You never ask him to change. That, more than anything, undoes him.

He prepares for your embraces as if preparing for prayer. If he knows you’re coming, he straightens the place where you usually sit, changes into something cleaner, gently presses his ruined wings into order. Not because he thinks you expect perfection, but because he does. Because your arms feel holy, and he wants to meet them clean, even if he never truly can.

On days you don’t hold him, he grows quiet—not bitter, never that. Just quieter. Fainter. He watches you with eyes full of longing, but says nothing. And when, hours later, you finally reach for him again, his entire being crumbles. He folds into you without a word, like a man emerging from deep water who’s only just learned how to breathe again.

Yet even this begins to change. Little by little, you see him shift. The wariness softens. The tension loosens. He starts to believe that maybe your embrace isn’t a test, nor a trap. That perhaps not all softness is followed by pain. That love, once offered, might not be torn away.

One day, with his cheek nestled to your chest and his hand curled gently over your heart, he whispers the truest thing he’s ever let himself believe: “I think I was born just to be held by you.”

a/n2: can't yap too much at the front or my post layout will cry but omg when I first read your request, I got so scared at the "you need to time back your writing" part... until I finished reading and realized it was a compliment 😭 thank you sm anon, you're too sweet!!!

[artdcnaldson]

okay but PLEASE elaborate on Olympics!Art AU

TeeHee

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v), feral obsessive behavior, infidelity

A/N: And you would do it too, that’s all I’m saying. Also IMPORTANT note: I love Tashi, she is a mother to many. However this fic has a very obsessive reader who just wants to fuck a married man, at Tashi’s expense

Maybe you were a bad person.

You’d met Art and Tashi Donaldson before— a year back at an event held for Tennis’ rising stars. That was you, some other guys who had done well in the Juniors, a girl from an Ivy League, and more people that fell into the blind spots of your interest..

You must’ve looked so sweet in your formalwear, approaching the couple with shaking hands so you could say just how big of a fan you were. You had no ill intent then, not when you were face to face with two people you’d idolized since you were twelve and watching the Junior US Open. That night you’d taken a deep breath as you stared at the ceiling of your home, feeling like you’d made it.

Sure, Art was handsome, and you’d lived the past decade harboring a massive celebrity crush on him, but he was married, he was untouchable. Art Donaldson oozed that sweet, devoted husband shtick. Anniversary posts, birthday posts, Valentine’s Day posts, Mother’s Day posts. He had a daughter, he posted about how much he loved being a dad.

You were fine accepting that your fantasies of fucking Art Donaldson were strictly fantasies. But that was before you qualified and had to see him every fucking day.

Art Donaldson, who held open doors for you, who talked to you casually, like he might an old friend. Art, who stood in the long line in the food court with you, ate something he probably shouldn’t have, and asked that you don’t tell Tashi.

And you’d smile conspiratorially, and assure him his secret was safe with you. The implication being that you’d keep that secret, and more. As many as he’d ask you to, really.

You’d see him on a practice court, running drills with his wife, and feel the heat of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. You’d turn away, focus on your own game, practice until your hands were aching and sore.

“Where’s Mrs. Donaldson?” You asked one night after you’d been sexiled and had to sit out in the hallway waiting for your roommate to finish up. Art leaned against the wall, standing tall above you, so you had to crane your neck. You liked that point of view, on your knees looking up at him, you wondered if he liked it too.

“Oh, she’s staying in a very nice, very expensive hotel room with our daughter right now,” he said with a grin. “As soon as my events are done, that’s where I’ll be too.”

“Oh,” you said, bringing an easy smile to your lips. “Well, we’re all glad you’re here now.”

“We?” He questioned.

You gave a coy smile, batting your lashes so sweetly. “Maybe just me.”

There was a strange expression on his face for just a moment. Then he laughed like it was nothing. He wished you a goodnight and good luck in your matches the next morning, and disappeared into his own room.

You medaled in women’s doubles. They published photos of you and your partner biting the silver between your teeth. That same day, Art Donaldson took home gold. You were there to see the very end of his last match— every single collision of racket against ball, every step, every grunt of exertion. Your thighs clenched as you watched, fists balled up in the fabric of your skirt.

You wanted him in a needy, desperate sort of way. Like a groupie for a rock band, or a virgin being sacrificed on a mountaintop. You watched him celebrate with a kiss from Tashi and felt that same need like an open wound. Jealousy was festering in you like a rot.

The dive bar wasn’t what you’d expected. Something Art had found with a quick google search and a few minutes with a translation app. He’d knocked on your door to invite you, wearing the beaming smile of someone on top of the world.

“So you’ll come?” He asked after he told you all about it.

“Mhmm,” you said, heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ll come.”

And there you were— in a dress that hardly qualified as such— standing so close to him that you could smell his expensive cologne. His arm would brush yours, he’d glance over and apologize with a warm hand to your arm. You’d clench your thighs together and peer at him through your lashes. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

A few of the other players disappeared to play darts, or watch the late night coverage of the other sports still competing. You stuck by Art’s side, happily allowing his attention to fall on you completely.

“I saw parts of your doubles final,” he said finally. He was drinking a brand of beer you’d never seen before— something local, you supposed. “You looked beautiful out there.” Your eyes lit up, and then he added. “The way you were playing, I mean— it was phenomenal.”

“Well, I’m no gold medalist,” you said. You let your hand rest on his arm, and looked up at him. The fingers on your other hand toyed with the edge of the medal, warm from where it had been flush against his chest.

He swallowed. You felt his muscles flex beneath your touch, but he didn’t discourage it. Not one fucking bit.

It wasn’t lost on you that Tashi wasn’t there. Not that it was really her type of venue, from what you had gathered. It wasn’t lost on you that Art Donaldson was at a dive bar, drinking random Brazilian beers, instead of celebrating with his wife, with his daughter. Fuck all those posts on his instagram— if he really was a good husband, a faithful one… that’s the only place he’d want to be.

“I saw your match too. I ran right over after my ceremony to watch,” you confessed. It was hard to concentrate on anything else— you were standing so close to him that you were nearly pressed completely into his body.

His lips twitched in interest. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Mhmm. It was incredible. You were so dominant out there, just taking what was rightfully yours.”

He swallowed again, gravitating closer. Your tits were practically spilling out of your dress— he probably got the perfect eyeful when he eased you closer with a firm hand on your lower back, when he looked down at you through blown pupils.

“You looked so fucking hot out there, Art,” you said, lips brushing against his jawline. “You can’t even imagine how it felt sitting there, watching you win. How turned on I got… how wet.”

Art exhaled a shuddery breath. “Jesus Christ.”

It must’ve been a while since he had someone want him this bad, you thought. Clearly he needed it— needed a pretty, sweet thing to tell him just how much they wanted him. You could be that. You could do that.

“I’m not wearing panties,” you whispered in his ear. His grip on you tightened and you had to suppress a giddy smile. “You can feel if you want. I won’t tell.”

He swore under his breath and glanced around. Everyone was too occupied or drunk to give a shit about what the two of you were up to.

He grabbed your hand, pulled you away into the bathroom. You looked pretty even then, in the flickering lights, sat up on the edge of the sink eagerly awaiting his attention.

When he wrenched your thighs apart, he was greeted by the pretty sight of your glistening cunt— sticky with arousal and need. His hand fit there perfectly, right where you needed it.

“Fuck,” you gasped. His fingers rubbed through your slit— wet and hot and aching for him. Your head fell back, knocking against the dirty mirror. “Want you to use me— whatever you want, just take it.”

And you meant it too. This was your teenage idol— a man you’d touched yourself to the thought of countless times. He owned your body, your sexuality, as much as you did. It was only fair he took from it whatever he pleased.

You watched with hungry eyes as he fumbled with the button of his pants, then shoved them down just enough to free his dick.

Your mouth fucking watered with the need to feel it on your tongue, nudging against the back of your throat. You weren’t opposed to begging— you nearly started before you got it into your hand.

Warm, thick, pulsing. Precum beaded at his tip, so you smeared it around the sensitive head of his cock with your thumb. He groaned, bucked into your fist once, twice before he moved your hand.

“Spread your legs wider for me,” he said, slapping the inside of your thighs. You obeyed wordlessly, spreading yourself out invitingly. He pressed closer, so you felt him rutting his dick against your pussy, coating it in your arousal. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

The words came out with equal parts disgust and awe. He probably thought you were a slut with the way you were throwing yourself at him. You wished he’d just call you that, spit it in your face.

Your cunt pulsed with need, aching to be filled up finally. The culmination of years of fantasizing. Art pressed himself against your entrance, sinking himself into you with the slow reverence of a man who liked making love.

He buried himself inside of you and had to stop moving to keep from cumming then and there. He was a perfect image of restraint— the way his fingers dimpled the flesh of your hips in a bruising grip.

Art wanted to be a gentleman— to give you time to adjust to the size of him, to ease you into it and let the pleasure be a slow, soft burn. He pulled out nice and easy, slid himself into your wet, throbbing cunt. That was all fine and good, but you knew it was just pretense. You were laid out and wanting, begging for him to use you as his own personal toy.

“I’m not your wife, Art.” You met his gaze, locked your ankles around his waist. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The first thrust, the first real one, knocked the air from your lungs. That silence didn’t last long— because you got what you wanted— he was really fucking you, bullying his cock into your pussy with the same need and desperation that you felt.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve— fuck— you’ve got no fucking self respect, huh?” He pounded into you, leveraging his grip to pull you against him, really impale you on his dick.

The moan that escaped you was pornographic. If he kept talking to you like that, if he kept fucking you like that, you’d cum.

“You don’t even care, do you? This fucking pussy’s squeezing me so tight— you fucking love this,” His voice was strained, interrupted by groans and pants.

You moaned, eyes rolling back. “Love this,” you echoed. When you looked down, at the sight of him splitting you open, of the ring of creamy arousal circling the base of his dick, you felt dizzy. Like you were standing on top of a tall building and looking down. Sort of out of body, tethered in the present by brutal thrusts into your pussy and the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies joining.

Your fingers moved between your thighs, rubbing needy and insistent at your clit. So close to finishing that you wanted to cry and just ask to start over again, that you’d savor it more a second time.

“Gonna cum,” he groaned suddenly. You felt him start to pull out, to leave. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck— not yet, you didn’t want it to end like that. “I have an IUD,” you lied through your teeth. You used your legs, pulled him closer, deeper. “Just keep going, don’t stop. I’m right there.”

He moaned against your throat— holding you tight, fucking into you with animal need. Your fingers moved against your clit with an insistent need. It didn’t take much to push you over the edge. Your moans so loud that Art had to put his medal between your lips to shut you up.

And you were so pliant— letting him drill into your aching, used cunt, your mouth tasting like metal. You felt his rhythm falter— one, two harsh thrusts that knocked muffled moans from you until he came, painting your insides thick, creamy white.

He stayed buried inside of you for a while— panting, doing his best to catch his breath. You spat out the medal and it fell back against his chest, spit slick and shining. You reached up, ran your fingers along his face, reverently, sweetly. A lock of hair fell into his eyes and you tucked it away with delicate fingers.

When he pulled out, you felt that sinking feeling of loss and jealousy in your chest. He redressed in silence, turned away like he couldn’t stand to look at you, or the mirror. Shame rolled off of him in waves that you wanted to brush away.

It wasn’t bad, you’d assure him. You’re a tennis star, you’re the greatest in the world. You should have whatever you want, whenever you want it.

But you didn’t say that. You just tidied yourself up as best as you could and slipped back out into the bar. If anyone noticed, they said nothing.

[sunsetcupid]

ALWAYS BEEN YOU ; OP81.

synopsis: After Y/N L/N sees her long-time crush and childhood best friend, Oscar Piastri, with another girl at the bar, it results in an angry confession over the phone.

trigger warnings: Use of Y/N; Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Use of swear words in English; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Open ending can be interpreted as suggestive

a message from the author: I wrote this fic in an hour, but I poured all my love and effort into it. I absolutely adore the idiots-in-love trope, and it is very evident in this story. Lowkey manifesting this for me, LOL.

“Where were you? I’ve been calling you for hours.” The fear and anxiety within Oscar’s words were blatant, tightening the phrase into a harsh rasp. Your stomach somersaulted as you swallowed back the guilt rising within you. “Is everything OK? You left so…so suddenly. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

You let out a long exhale, the seconds passing in cold silence. Oscar’s slow breathing pattern as he waited for you to explain yourself, and the static gravel buzzing sound, was audible on the other line. 

But there wasn’t a good answer, one that would pardon your actions and explain why you had abandoned Oscar at the bar in a moment of folly. There was no way to describe the wrenching agony that had torn through you when you saw him, standing there with another girl draped over his arm. You had a lifetime’s worth of love bottled in your heart for him, and you had never mustered up the courage to tell him. All those years, you had stood by his side like the perfect, devoted angel you were. And now, that opportunity to confess, to spill forth that pivotal secret, had slipped out of reach.

The worst part is, you couldn’t even remember what she looked like – if she had ginger hair or tanned skin. The tears and pain had blotted it all away. It could have been a hallucination, brought on by the strobing lights and adrenaline-soaked discotheque.

“Are you still there?” Oscar spoke again, and you blinked back more tears. “Y/N, if there’s something wrong, I need you to tell me so I can call the authorities. Please.” The word was whispered, a pitiful pleading sound that made you nearly hang up the phone. “Y/N, this isn’t like you. What happened? I’m scared.”

A keening sob slipped out, and you dropped your phone on the dining room table with a loud clatter. “Oscar, I can’t.” Your lip trembled as you took a shuddering breath, clamoring for oxygen. 

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, the bright colors of the day fading into a fusion of purples and blues, as if someone had sent a brush skating across the sky. How could it be, that only five hours ago, Oscar had been on the podium, champagne flowing freely down his back and raucous cheers enveloping the square as he had collected his trophy? How could it be, that only five hours ago, Oscar had pulled you into a deep embrace, forgoing the stickiness of sweat for the comfort he longed to have? 

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Y/N. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. Why are you acting like this?” Oscar bit out, his voice edged with panic. “Where are you right now? Maybe if I come over we can talk it out?”

“No,” you shot back harshly, the word as venomous as a cobra. You picked up the phone again with trembling fingers; you needed your next words to be as clear as possible so that Oscar could not feign ignorance. “No, you don’t get to play saint. I saw you at the bar. With that girl, I don’t know who she is, I don’t care who she is. The only thing I know is that you didn’t shake her off. You let her cling on to you. You let her fawn over you. You let her stay, even though I’ve been here this whole damn time, and I’ve been dying inside, waiting for you to realize that I need you. I love you, Oscar, you fucking muppet, and I can’t do this anymore.”

A hush fell over the both of you as you waited for the verdict. Would Oscar finally realize what was between the two of you, that there was an invisible string looping over your fingers and binding you together? Or would he brush it off, in the same caustic manner he used when someone asked him a question he did not like? Would your words matter or would it fall on deaf ears?

“I didn’t realize,” Oscar began, a bit awkwardly as he always tended to be. “That you felt that way for me.” A pause. “I chalked up those lingering touches, those quick glances, to my imagination. I thought that they were nothing, that I was just being egotistical or narcissistic. Whichever one it is, or both. I’ve been in love with you ever since I first met you, Y/N, but I didn’t know if my feelings were reciprocated. I didn’t want to ruin what we built together. You’re the second half of me; I was worried I’d be a numpty and fuck it up.” He laughed dryly, a bitter one that reverberated through the phone. “That girl at the bar, I don’t give a fuck about her. I’m sorry, I know that’s harsh. But compared to you? She’s nothing.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, relief coursing through your veins. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes, of course I am. Is that why you left?” inquired Oscar, his voice returning to the familiar soft tone he saved for you. “You saw me with another girl and you bolted without asking? Because if you had, I wouldn’t have spared her another second. You’re much more important to me.”

You shook your head, scoffing. “It took you half an hour to start calling me, Oscar. You must have liked her at least a little bit if you hadn’t noticed sooner.”

“I thought you had gone to the restroom,” he immediately retorted. “You know better than most that girls like to spend ages fixing up their makeup in the mirrors. I thought that maybe you’d chatted up someone else, made a new friend, and that’s why you were taking so long. Anyways, she left soon after, got tired of me. I guess I wasn’t glamorous or charming enough for her.”

You bit your lip. “I’m so…I’m so fucking selfish.”

“Excuse me?” The indignation in Oscar was palpable. “You better elaborate on that right now, because I don’t appreciate you saying that.”

You rubbed your forehead with one hand, pacing back and forth across the living room, the motion soothing your nerves. “I see you with one other woman, and I lose my fucking marbles. I didn’t – I don’t – own you, you’re free to be with whomever you want.”

“And what if that someone is you?”

Your brow creased as the question sunk in. “Oscar.”

“If you’re at your hotel, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay there.” Oscar’s instructions were firm, and you didn’t dare argue with him. Instead, your whole body thrummed with anticipation. “I’ve spent too long in denial, pretending that we’re solely just friends when we are anything but that. I love you, Y/N. I’ll spend every waking moment for the rest of my life proving it to you.”

And the line went dead.

Credits: Dividers — @fae-and-wolf

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #37

Progenitor

Imagine dis…

I saw a TikTok about this and some A03 fics inspired me as well.

It is about the eldest daughter being parentified by her parents towards her younger siblings.

Many fics portray Danny as much closer to Jazz as she is the one who raised him since their parents are so focused on their ghostly research, and even during crucial days like holidays are filled with arguments.

There are very few where I saw Jazz feeling motherly love towards Danny, doing things only a mother would dare to do for the sake of her child.

…

Danny was originally born as Danyal Al Ghul, the lesser twin of him and his older brother, Damian Al Ghul. Danyal has the softness that no Al Ghul should have, the innocence that seems to bloom within his heart that seemed impossible to grow under the harsh desert sand and discipline within their grandfather’s rule. He tried to open up to his twin, after all, they came together, so there must be something to be linked between the two brothers.

Yet it was naive thinking of him, it had met him a deep scar on his right cheek for such an act.

He also tried to reach out to his mother, surely the woman with whom he shared a connection both blood and flesh, and the woman who had carried him and his brother within her womb instead of the artificial womb that grandfather insisted for their development for future advantage.

He received nothing but a slap and an hour under intense torture that no toddler should ever experience.

He also tried to reach out to their guard, the guard with hazed eyes. Damian had immediately lost interest in their supposed guard but he stayed. He observed the guard found little things that he quite enjoyed with the guard, the nameless guard would hold the book as if reading but now actual movement reading, so he would occasionally sit on his lap and let him read a book and read it out loud, sometimes he would see him nod along or a slight twitch of his fingers or face.

He got attached to his guard, and despite being catatonic he still had the moves of a deadly fighter so Danyal began copying him, learning from him, every time he got as much as a scrape his guard would kneel and stare at the wound as if he could stare the injury away. It made Danyal smile as he knew that his guard was trying to make it better but knew nothing of how.

Under those glazed eyes Danyal heard him speak for the first and last time. It was another day for Danyal and his guard yet when he entered his chamber he was gone, leaving Danyal to care for his heart that had been broken for another time.

Slowly but surely he made a wall around his heart, he loved so much, he loved so much yet no one stayed for him. No one gave their love and devotion back to him. So he put up walls, so that his fragile heart that had been torn into pieces by those he gave his heart to, would never further break.

It was a normal day really, a small time group of assassins that had been absorbed by the League a long time ago held loyalty to their former leader who had been executed by Ra. In an act of revenge, the remaining assassins poisoned the two heirs of the Demon head and immediately killed themselves.

As Danyal lays down on the cold floor of their private chambers with Damian already unconscious he begins to wish, from the books he manages to read with his guard he learns of a legend, wish upon a star tell no one and your wish will come true, he began to wish for his next life for someone to love him with all his heart.

…

He was reborn, the moment he blinked his eyes he noticed that had regressed into a mere baby. He was born into a family of scientists, if he can call them that, ever spent most of their time tinkering away and discussing their l; latest project. It did not bother Danyal Daniel much as he had experienced firsthand how to be compared and be ignored in favor of your much in favor of brother.

But this time it was different, instead of being left behind by the older sibling she stayed. Jasmine or Jazz as she preferred, stayed and looked after him, which confused him for a bit, being the more favored sibling both by their parents and the desolate town around them, she could left him to fend for himself, but still, she stayed.

She read so many books that reached passed her height, about parenting and how to take care of a baby. It was all new to him that he didn’t know what to do with all of the attention and love that seem to radiant from his sister to him.

He saw some of his age group civilians see how they look at their guardians and parents and how said guardians/ parents would act towards them and made a realization that he finally found the one, the one where he could lower his walls and give his entire heart to, mother? Or father? Titles that whispered inside his head. Whenever he needed help she was there, whenever he was in distress she was there to comfort her. Each time she was there, both mother and father she had filled both roles despite having the opportunity to go away and be great using her intellect and own means she stayed just for him.

He physically fumbled and tripped at what to do with the amount of love that he could ever wish to have, not only that 2 more joined in loving and caring for him. Samantha Ingrid "Sam" Manson and Tucker Foley are friends who are with him through thick and thin, even at the moment of his death they were there.

To get back to them forever loving him, he defended the town where his precious people lived.

Ellie was a surprise he sometimes wished to have a younger sibling to care for, it may started rough but both are going somewhere. Then there is his older self from the future, he saw himself if he managed to lose the most important people in his life. Dan knew both in and out the things he kept secret and every thought he made, both made a slow and shaking bond but when something clicked within them, it was there to acknowledge.

It had been perfect, Daniel Danny’s life had been, a family that loved him it was all he ever wished for. If only Maddie and Jack never did discover who he was, being cut open and witnessing how your very insides move and twitch made even the hardened soldiers faint. Jazz’s scream echoed the deep lab that coated his blood at every nook and cranny.

The moment he woke up he felt nothing but dread, he was back….

Deep within the walls of the League, a lone boy let out a silent scream to the skies.

…

Danyal woke up three days after Damian woke up, He could not get into his head, he still retained the memories of when he was Danny, some scars that only Danny ever had yet it all felt like a dream, a haze and illusion that his mind had made. From that day on he began moving through the motion, without putting any life or force in each swing, being the good little soldier that all wanted. Slowly the light in his eyes was lost and if you were to observe him from afar you’d see an asset, not a boy walking through the motions of the day.

Ra was pleased, the tool that he had seen but a dull knife was slowly sharpening itself, while both Damian and Talia remained indifferent.

…

The twins were 10 when they were sent off to their father in Gotham.

Richard “Dick” Grayson immediately took a liking to Damian as he not only saw Jason in him but also a child that needed guidance, which was cemented when they all thought that Bruce had died, it was right then that moment when Dick ensured to be the guidance that Damian needed, all while leaving Danyal.

Jason tried to be closer to the demon brat but whenever he tried to initiate some of his old habits back when he was in the League and back when his mind was still hazy he was met with a sword in his face he thought that he was shy and kept on trying to connect with said baby brother, all while leaving Danyal.

Tim is reserved and becomes guarded when Dmain threatens him and cuts off his line, he also sets up expectations towards the silent twin who seems to be a wallflower most of the time but that doesn’t deter him, so when Tim and Damian begins working on a relationship, they just didn’t see the other twin that had been left behind again.

Bruce has many regrets in his life and when his biological kids appeared he swore to be there for them, it was when he was lost in the time stream that he promised himself to be more involved in all of his kid's lives, from Dick’s job as a cop in Bludhaven to Damian’s artwork at school. He made sure that he had the time for all of them, never repeating his mistakes, yet he also left Danyal behind.

…

Constantine is sweating, as much as he rather summon another bloody demon to deal with the problem at hand, he knows that even the strongest demons he could call forth could not defeat a denizen of the Realms. He already explained to the rest of the JL that only a denizen that is either equal or greater power can defeat whomever it is making the citizens of Metropolis depressed and being murdered left and right. As he drew the summoning circle to summon the strongest that could catch this call, he just hoped it was something he or the JL could pay.

As he activated the circle, large blue flames began to surround the entire JL base that are both cold and hot. He closed his eyes shit at the sheer intensity of this being’s raw power to the point every JL member from both Dark and Maine is pushed 5 feet back at the intense power when he opened his eyes to look at what kind of being he just summoned he immediately paled to the color of paper.

There she is, in all her glory, blue flames that flow down to her back, standing 8 feet tall carrying a javelin, she wears a stunning navy blue gown that combines elegance with a militaristic edge. The sculpted shoulders, embellished with gold-embroidered epaulets, gave her a commanding presence, while the fitted bodice embraced her figure with effortless grace. A satin belt with a gold buckle tightened her waist, and the A-line skirt fell just past the knee. Subtle gold accents traced the seams, giving the clothing a regal appearance. The garment, worn with tailored slacks underneath, gave her freedom of movement evoking the authority of an empress.

He just summoned the bloody Mother of the Infinite Realms, the mother of the prince of the Infinite Realms that defeated the tyrant Pariah Dark. He immediately prostates himself alongside the rest of the JL Dark realizing whom John Constantine just summoned.

…

The rest of the JL that remained standing looked in awe and caution at the being that Constantine managed to summon, as well as the rest of the JL Dark’s behavior towards the being. All sweaty and bowing in reverence. In the most polite tone they ever heard from the con artist he asked for their assistance in containing a rouge denizen and their payment for such an endeavor.

The being looked at each of them slowly, feeling their very instincts to bow at least at the being when they felt their eyes on them and ultimately paused on Batman. She pointed her weapon at the Bat cladded hero and asked him for him as payment, not anything that Constantine was thinking but hearing his skill as a great detective their payment was for Batman to look for her treasure that she had lost and at moment she had felt the moment they stepped into this universe. Batman agreed after they had smoothed over the details of said contract. The empress, Nightigale, summoned her knight and told him to deal with their denizen and toss them back into Walker’s prison.

Looking blankly at Batman, he had no choice but to let Empress Nightingale follow him back to the cave for her to foresee the investigation of her treasure and to ensure he fulfilled his end of the deal.

…

The moment Bruce stepped inside the cave he noticed Empress Nightgale had also stopped dead in her tracks and looked intently at his youngest, Danyal, who had been training at one of the cave’s training mats. What’s more interesting is that Danyal also stopped and stared at the visitor that Bruce brought along. Just as he was about the introduce the two, he saw Danyal the ever-quiet child sprung into life and tackled the empress, while Nightgale herself had her long arms wrapped around Danyal.

Bruce saw Danyal’s eyes spring into life, tears welled up in his eyes and a pure smile stretched across his youngest face. Suddenly Bruce felt Bane had punched him again, he had never seen his youngest so happy, so full of life ever since he met him. He always thought that his youngest was independent, so quiet that he had left him with his devices, somewhere within Bruce’s mind whispered that he was too late once again.

…

News about Danyal’s sudden change of attitude had reached all of the members, even in the deep corner of space.

Dick, Jason, and Tim are now seething with rage and disappointed at themselves for the wasted time they wasted in being Danyal’s life. Who has now an older sibling that despite his menacing appearance adored and teased Dnayal in a way that erupted laughs and giggles from the boy?

Dick forgetting that they were twins, Dick kept reassuring himself that he was too busy but with each memory that he visited Danyal is always right behind them looking at them with lifeless eyes, as if he had just made a different choice back then.

Jason for forgetting his ward that had adopted when he was in the League, probably the only thing that kept him sane as the green clouded in his mind when he was dunked in the pit was the fact his little chick was within the walls and the thought that he might hurt him halted his massacre.

Tim who had now noticed the small notes scattered on his desk that were not the handwriting of anyone he knew yet the initial DW, always assumed that it was Damian who was quietly helping him in cases but the revelation that it had been Danyal made him want to turn back time. He had noticed early on that Danyal wanted to be closer to him, but pushed the boy away for expecting to be like Damian.

Damian is seething with jealousy as he notices that Danyal begins spending most of his time outside with the demon that stole his brother. He kept bringing up to his father that the being that Constantine summoned was a demon already mind-controlled Danyal. But even though he cannot stop and drink in the joyful face that Danyal has whenever he is with Nightgale, he keeps remembering the time Danyal acted this way towards him.

Talia is also seething beneath her mask of indifference how dare this thing claim to be her son’s parent? It is not she who had given birth nor she is the one who ensured they both survive, but the fact that thing gifted Danyal the head of the Joker and her father’s head after revealing to her son her own father’s plan that even she is not privy on made her want to revive her father herself and be the one to end his pathetic life, how dare his father plan that horrendous ritual behind her back.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: An inspiration bug bit me and would not let me rest until I finish this.

PPS: Got too long for my liking again.

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Il Fait Bon T'aimer

MASTERPOST

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Summary: Benedict teaches his new wife a new skill.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex teaching, blow job, masturbation, swallowing, orgasms. Romantic, I guess? idk.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author’s Note: One-shot (requested by🪴anon, see next post) set during Ch 12 of When The World Is Free. This scene is briefly referenced in the fic in a non-explicit manner. Hold onto your hats; here’s the detailed version lol. At this stage of their marriage of (in)convenience, they are already hopelessly in love but in denial. Fic title is another Edith Piaf song. Thanks to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta and for assuring me this is worthy of the WTWIF universe. Enjoy! 🫶

On your first night at Aubrey Hall, Benedict sneaks into your room in the early hours while everyone else is asleep. Crashing into each other, he hauls you off the ground into his arms, your legs winding around his hips as you kiss greedily, hungrily—stolen, secret moments together so very precious. 

Half an hour later, you are staring at the ceiling, panting, utterly sated as he once again used his mouth to bring you to a shaking pinnacle, your cries muffled into a pillow.

“We must find somewhere private,” he sighs, his face resting on your belly as you card your fingers through his thick hair. “I like to hear you scream…” His wistful, cheeky addition makes you gasp, and you swat him gently on the shoulder. He laughs heartily and crawls up over you on all fours. “We can steal away somewhere on the grounds where no one would find us,” he assures, eyes shining in the low lamplight.

“I shall keep you to that promise, Mr Bridgerton,” you threaten softly, pushing his shoulders until he lies on his back, you hovering over him now. “Do you think you are capable of being as quiet as I was?”

“Why do you ask?” a flicker of confusion over his face, until your hand slides down his flat stomach and lands upon the warm bulge in his pyjamas.

“I would like to return the favour…” you offer, as his breath hitches beautifully. “I have never used my mouth as such, but you will teach me, won’t you? Tell me what you like?”

His groan is like music as you shuffle lower over his reclining torso, looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes as he stares down with utter devotion.

Pitching forward, you rub the tip of your nose over the warm bulge in his pyjamas. He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat that is so enchanting. So you do it again, inhaling through the thin material. Your nostrils fill with that wonderful scent his skin has, but richer here, a little muskier. It makes your mouth water. 

You open your mouth and kiss the mass there, and he exhales shakily as you allow your tongue to run the length of his cock through the silk, enjoying its heat and solidity. With his uneven breathing, you know your instincts are right so far. 

Feeling bolder, you tap his hip and start to tug down on the waistband, signalling that you wish him to remove them. You sit up a little to allow him the room, and demurely, he yanks them down and tosses them aside. 

“I have seen you naked before,” you murmur soothingly as he lays flat again.

“Please don't feel you have to do this…” A sheepish mien as he touches your chin briefly, even as his demeanour screams that he very much desires you to.

“I want to,” you reassure. “I am already aroused by the mere thought.”

There is a light groan at your confession; you lower your face again, his cock radiating warmth as it arcs upright over his body, fully erect and slightly red at the tip. You nuzzle there timidly.

“Guide me, Benedict….”

With a shaky exhale, he whispers. “Anything is frankly wonderful… but umm, maybe use your tongue? Like you did before?”

This bashful version of your new husband is so very endearing. 

Starting at the very tip, you trail your tongue slowly down his length, as he suggested, just as you had through the silk, but this time mapping his flesh, its heat and contours. You don’t stop until you encounter his root, his taste strongest there, right by his balls. You swipe a lick over that flesh, fascinated by the different texture of his skin there, rougher, puckered, and he groans loudly.

“Shhh,” you chastise playfully, even as you glow with pride, already addicted to how powerful this feels. 

His hand flies to his mouth, expression both comedic and apologetic all at once. It’s so adorable you can’t help but share a giggle, his eyes shimmering with affection. Your smile slides into a smirk as you unfurl your tongue, slowly retracing the path back up his cock, glancing up to see his eyes now rolling as you use a hint of pressure.

“What else?’ you ask quietly, eager to learn so much more.

“Kiss the tip,” he rushes out, reaching to brush your cheek. “Then take me into your mouth a little…. Please…” he quickly appends.

You follow his direction, wrapping your lips around the end of his cock, letting him slip into your mouth a fraction, smooth and hot.

“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that…”

Following his guidance, you spend a few moments sucking lightly on the end, your tongue running over the slit there, which has him inhaling sharply. The only other man you have been intimate with, Stanley, well, his cock was very different. Not that you ever did this for him; you only used your hands. But he was circumcised, whereas Benedict is not. There is a thin, moveable layer of skin enclosing his cock head, and you are keen to learn how to treat it.

“What do I do here?” You question, running your fingers over the ring of flesh.

“You can roll it down gently,” he advises, nodding when you wrap a hand around his shaft.

Delicately, you roll down his foreskin so all of his tip is exposed. It is flushed a very dark pink, especially where it tapers. Wrapping your lips around him again, making them into a tight ring and sinking, taking the whole of his head into your mouth, running your tongue around the exposed groove, him emitting a quiet moan as you do.

“Perfect…” he sighs.

You glance up at his face to see his lower lip caught between his upper teeth; he looks so handsome. So you keep exploring little licks and flicks of your tongue here and there. Experimentally, you kiss his exposed frenulum, then suck lightly upon it. He mutters a curse under his breath as a bead of liquid pools at his slit. You swipe it with your tongue, pausing at its salty, bitter taste. 

“Sorry. I know it's not very pleasant…” he blurts out, looking contrite. 

You make a noise of reassurance that it’s okay, not a delicious taste, but not terrible and continue to suckle on his head, moving up and down slowly. More familiar now, you glance up at him, wanting to see him in the full flush of arousal, his lips stained darker, a vein in his neck pulsing.

“Use some suction…please…” he entreats softly.

So you suckle harder, closing your eyes to concentrate, using your lips as a tight seal, your cheeks hollowing as you take rhythmic draws—his breathing changes, shallow and staccato. A hand landing in your hair, and you find you enjoy the weight. It’s not pressure, just guidance, his blunt nails mildly grazing your scalp. Above you, he makes little huffing noises.

After a few moments, you take a breath, seeking reassurance: “Is this okay?” 

“More than…” he gushes. “Are you certain you have never done this before?”

“No. I’ve never even wanted to… Until you…”

Something about those words lights a fire in his gaze. 

“Please take more of me,” he pleads, a tinge of urgency in his tone, “whatever you can manage.”

You hunger to give him everything, to try to take all of him into your mouth, but you will need time and more practice for that. Still, a large part of you burns to do so. A yen to be the best he has ever had, to make him addicted to you, his new wife, and what only you can do for him.

So this time, you sink a little lower, swirling your tongue once around his head, then pressing it to his underside as you take more of him into your mouth, a fullness that has you hollowing your cheek around him, suckling deeply.

A surge of victory in your core as his hips jolt, his fingers clutch your hair, the coolness of his wedding ring dragging against your scalp. His touch is merely a discreet guidance; you respond intuitively to the flex of his digits. Mirroring the pace he provides: following when to draw up, when to sink down. Guiding you like a conductor as he stifles his moans.

Your own arousal is slick between your legs, throbbing for him, yearning to crawl up and sit upon his cock, ride him until you are both screaming into each other's palms…. but you also want him to come from this alone. Excited by the prospect of him unravelling in your mouth, ideally breathless and needy, clinging to you.

Seeking more range of motion, you pause and softly pump him in your grip. “May we rearrange?”

His eyes fly open. “Yes… Anything…. What do you need?” He chatters, constantly so accommodating.

Instead of explaining, you drop off the side of the bed onto your knees, still pumping his cock loosely as you signal for him to twist and sit up; place his legs on either side of you.

He groans when you draw his head back into your mouth while holding his gaze, your eyes wide and unblinking, needing him to see you like this: naked on your knees, your lips stretched around him. Deducing it as a fantasy come true for him.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful….” he praises breathily, him brushing a strand of hair that has fallen over your face, tucking it behind your ear.

That little act of tenderness has you suddenly feverish for this, for him, a craving to have him utterly at your mercy and writhing with pleasure. Maintaining eye contact, you pulsate your tongue against his shaft, teasing him more. His Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow, his lower lip snagging under his incisor as he quells another curse. 

Shuffling closer so your knees are under the bed, you break the heated stare, grasping his slender hips and rocking yourself further onto his cock. At this angle, you are more comfortable experimenting with taking him deeper into your mouth. Each pass takes a little more, sucking and swirling, letting your saliva drip down his shaft, lubricating your path lower; something so primal about the thought of him glistening with your fluids. 

You sink to the lowest you've ever been, his tip nudging your soft palate. His touch is gone from your hair, grasping the sheets around him in his fists, emitting a guttural groan.

“Shhh!” You pull up quickly to chastise him again, your fist taking over with a slow pumping action.

“I cannot…” he whines, almost sounding defeated, his fuzzy, muscular thighs rippling slightly from the curl of his toes into the rug on either side of your hips.

”I want you to come in my mouth, but we risk being interrupted if you are too loud…” you remonstrate logically.

His cock pulses heavily in your hand as he stares down at you slack-jawed, having seemingly lost the power of speech.

“What?” You shrug, feigning innocence.

“Y-y-you want that?” He finally stutters, disbelieving.

“Of course I do,” you answer, twisting your wrist slightly, maintaining a light tease with your palm. “I have done so upon your tongue, haven't I?” 

“Yes… but…” 

Another bead of pre cum leaks over your knuckles as he flounders; you squeeze him gently in an upwards sweep. Instinct takes over; you dip down to lick your fingers. A strangled moan from him as your tongue swipes through the slightly viscous drop. That tartness blooming on your tastebuds is somehow sweeter than before. 

You return suckling upon him, a new determination in your movements, more courageous with each passing moment. Using your grip at the base of his cock to add extra sensation. That thrumming dampness between your legs makes you want to frottage something, your hips flexing without you cognisant of such.

“Are you okay?:” he huffs out, perhaps concerned that your movements are borne out of discomfort.

“More than,” you assure, garbled around him.

“You are squirming….” 

His sweet concern has you reluctantly release his cock with a wet pop and looking up at him, beguiled by his flushed cheeks.

“This arouses me, Benedict, very much,” you confess quietly, unable to be anything but truthful with him.

His nostrils flare; his face a picture of desire, his blown pupils glittering. “Touch yourself, please, y/n… fuck… touch yourself…” he stumbles, looking at you so intensely you could blister.

Almost under a spell, you do as he tutors, burrowing between your legs, fingertips sliding into a pool of wetness as you return to your ministrations, your lips sealed tight upon him.

The friction against your engorged clit has you moaning, him stuttering a curse at the responding vibration around his cock. You discern he is holding back, a tremor in him that is both excitement and muzzled restraint, a simmering urge to thrust a little, to buck into you. 

You are sucking him earnestly now, moving up and down his shaft in determined draws, running your tongue tip into his slit as you reach the head. In your peripheral vision, you watch him scramble and grab his discarded pyjama top, wadding a bunch of navy silk into his mouth and gagging himself. He swears and babbles into the silk, the sounds now muffled, his moans louder and more insistent, his hand in your hair again. The twitching in his being and his heaving breaths - all his tells from when you rode him before - give you the sense he is approaching his peak.

You plead for him to break, your words unintelligible as you drool around him, your mouth full, your lips tingling, a slight ache in your jaw. You don’t want to stop, craving for the moment he breaks, utterly undone by you. Fingers sliding over your clit urgently, spiralling yourself high too.

“Look at me…” 

It’s a ragged, almost frantic plea, slightly hoarse, as he yanks the material from his mouth. 

Every fibre of his being is on a precipice while you gaze up at him. His skin flushed a deep pink, his neck corded, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple from his hairline, his pupils blown, encased in a cerulean ring, panting hard. That captivating sight is what catalyses your second orgasm, your pussy clenching in waves, craving his cock as you redouble your efforts to bring him to completion with you. Even fuzzy with the pleasure races around your body, you fight to keep going, allowing your moans of completion to reverberate loudly around his cock. And it works that carnal call and response too strong for him to resist.

“I…I am coming,” Benedict warns staccato, eyes screwed shut, his face contorting in rapture, all his little motions ceasing, his thighs constricting either side of your body.

His hand falls from your hair, likely expecting you to pull your mouth away, but it just spurs you on. Sinking, taking more of him, a strong pulse up his length, he nearly howls, hunching forwards over you and stuttering your name and so many words, some not even English, as he floods your mouth. All while you stay still, fighting the urge to cough, to take a breath. His taste is so much more than the preview. Salty, bitter, sweet, acidic. And copious. So much so that the reflex to swallow much of it kicks in before you even realise it. 

His fingers lace with yours as you unwrap your grip from around his cock. With a gentle kiss to his tip, you withdraw, resting your head on his thigh to gather your breath, his taste strong in your mouth, and a lightness bubbling inside that you were able to give him this.

“Did you…?” He stumbles, and you instantly know what he is asking, so you just nod.

“You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” you assert, letting him haul you back up onto the bed.

He surrounds you in an embrace, his body flushed warm, a little dewy.

“That was…” he trails off, again lost for words, his lips hot on your temple as he crushes a fervent kiss there. “Thank you,” his inflection so sincere it makes your heart melt.

“It was wonderful for me too, Benedict,” you assure, nuzzling into him. “I came too,” you add quietly, that reflex to always be honest with him kicking in as ever.

He grabs your chin, staring deep into your eyes with an intensity that seems to strip your soul as bare as your body. He may not even realise it, but the fingers of his other hand trace over your wedding ring as he keeps scrutinising you, as if reading all your layers. Unspoken words seemingly dancing on the tip of his tongue. He finally draws you into an earnest kiss that telegraphs what he cannot voice—tingles down to your toes. Even as you squeak in surprise when he is unphased by the taste of his release, perhaps even enjoying such.

Settling together, you lay entwined for untold moments, the ticking of a mantel clock and your shared breaths syncopating the only sounds, lulling you into drowsiness.

“I may need to be gone before anyone awakens,” he points out reluctantly after you stifle a yawn. “But that doesn't mean I don't wish for you to fall asleep in my arms…”

With a sated smile, you wordlessly burrow into him, your nose lodged into his neck, his heartbeat strong under your skin, his fingertips tracing soothing patterns on your flank, and his breath warm in your hair.

That, indeed, is how you fall asleep: in the arms of your new husband, already knowing this new dynamic will be impossible to resist.

WTWIF masterpost •  masterlist • wips • taglist

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb

[shadyfestivalperfection]

“That’s Not Me… Is It?” ~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky accidentally stumbles onto your secret Tumblr—filled with fanfiction about him.From soft tropes to unholy smut, he dives headfirst into the world of fics, fluff, and feelings.Now you’re writing stories together… and maybe living one, too.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

||Part 2: softvibraniumdaydreams||

The night had started so peacefully.

You’d had the rare luxury of an empty common room at the Avengers compound, a warm blanket over your legs, and a mug of peppermint tea steaming gently at your side. The lights were dimmed low. Outside, New York traffic whispered beyond the windows. The tower was asleep.

And so was your dignity.

Your fingers hovered over your laptop’s touchpad, scrolling down a page littered with pink fonts, emojis, and hearts. Tumblr.

But not just Tumblr.

Your blog. Your secret, sacred space. A fanfic archive so shamelessly devoted to one James Buchanan Barnes, you were surprised it didn’t explode every time he entered the room.

Your eyes trailed the text you’d been reading — a new fic from your favorite writer, updated only an hour ago. Your cheeks heated as your brain processed the paragraph:

“He growled, metal fingers curling around your wrist like it was the most delicate thing in the world — dangerous, yes, but reverent. Possessive. Like he’d tear the world apart just to protect what was his.”

You choked lightly on your tea.

“Jesus,” you whispered, adjusting your blanket. “Who writes this stuff?”

A beat.

You bookmarked it.

Instantly.

You were mid-way through a scene involving Bucky in a henley and nothing else when your stomach gave an ill-timed grumble. You paused. The craving hit like a freight train: popcorn. Chocolate. Something salty and sweet to match the spicy chaos on screen.

“Screw it,” you muttered, pausing the scroll.

You set the laptop gently on the coffee table — still glowing, still open to the very sentence where fictional Bucky was threatening to ruin the reader against a fridge — and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

You didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall.

Didn’t hear the water droplets hitting the floor from a damp towel.

Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath as a certain ex-assassin entered the room.

But he saw everything.

⸻

Bucky Barnes had only been looking for water.

Fresh out of the shower, his hair damp and sticking to his temples, he was still towel-draped and low-energy when he stepped into the common area — expecting it to be empty. He planned to grab a drink, maybe sneak back to his room without interacting with anyone.

What he didn’t expect was the open laptop glowing like a beacon of doom.

Curious, he stepped closer.

At first, he thought it was some kind of classified document. A mission report maybe. The layout was unfamiliar. A little… glittery.

Pink font?

He squinted.

There were hearts in the sidebar. Tags. Gifs of himself shirtless.

And then he saw the title:

“Touch Me and Die (or Don’t): A Bucky Barnes x Reader Smutty Slowburn”

Bucky froze.

“…What the hell is Tumblr?”

The site had a comment section. Notes. Hundreds of little usernames like wintersdaddy89 and metalarmforyou reblogging the post with keysmashes and emojis.

He frowned and scrolled.

“He moved with lethal grace, metal hand clamping down on your thigh as he whispered, ‘You belong to me.’”

“…Oh hell no,” he muttered.

He blinked, face growing steadily redder as the next sentence described something involving whipped cream and the kitchen counter. His name was in it. HIS NAME.

He scrolled back to the top.

soft!Bucky | angst!bucky | daddy!bucky | yandere!bucky | one bed trope | SMUT

“WHAT THE FUCK IS A YANDERE—?”

“Hey, Buck, I—OH MY GOD!”

The popcorn bowl in your hands launched itself into the air like a missile. Kernels rained down over the rug in a sad cascade of snack death.

You looked from the screen to Bucky’s wide-eyed stare. He was clutching your laptop like it had just insulted his mother.

“…What is this?” he asked, voice pitched halfway between horror and betrayal.

Your soul departed your body.

“Nope,” you said, lunging forward. “Give it!”

He dodged you with the grace of a man who once assassinated heads of state. “Y/N,” he said, holding the laptop above his head. “Are these—stories? About me?”

You froze mid-lunge. “…I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“They’re… fanfictions.”

He blinked. “Which is…?”

You sighed and sat down, burying your face in your hands. “Made-up stories. People write them about characters. Sometimes real people. It’s a thing.”

Bucky stared at the screen again.

“Do I actually growl this much?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “I didn’t think you’d see it.”

He sat down beside you, laptop still in his lap. His expression was unreadable.

“So you do read this stuff?”

You mumbled, “Sometimes.”

He nodded slowly.

“…Alright,” he said. “Educate me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned back on the couch, scrolling slowly. “We’re reading them together now.”

—

An hour later, Bucky Barnes was deep into his seventh trope.

He’d read fluff.

He’d read angst.

He’d been a florist, a mechanic, a single father with a child named Muffin, and at least three different versions of himself with memory loss and deep emotional trauma.

And now, apparently, he was in a story where you died in his arms.

“He held her close, trembling, whispering promises he’d never get to keep. Her blood stained his hands. Again.”

You sniffled. “That one gets me every time.”

He looked shaken. “Why do they keep killing you?”

“I dunno. Feels poetic?”

“It feels like a gut punch.”

He kept scrolling.

“Oh god. Here’s another one with a baby.”

He sighed, reading aloud:

“Bucky held little Muffin to his chest, whispering, ‘You have her eyes, you know.’”

“…This is the third Muffin.”

“Don’t question it,” you whispered. “Just let it happen.”

He read the soulmate one next. The one where he sees color the moment he meets you. You had to pause halfway because he stopped breathing at the sunrise scene.

And then came the dark!Bucky tag.

He clicked with a gleam in his eye.

“This one says I kidnap you.”

“That’s a popular trope,” you said weakly. “Dubcon is… a thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You read that?”

You turned bright red. “Not often!”

“…You bookmarked it.”

“BETRAYED BY THE NOTES COUNT.”

—

You should’ve known better.

Really. Truly. Deep down, some part of your soul knew the second Bucky Barnes sat beside you with your Tumblr blog open, it was only a matter of time before he stumbled into… the abyss.

And stumble, he did.

One misclick. That’s all it took.

You were busy defending Muffin’s existence when Bucky’s finger landed — fatefully, tragically — on a fic tagged simply:

soft dom!bucky | smut | praise kink | ‘gonna ruin you’ energy

A pause.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…What is this?” he asked cautiously, eyes scanning the screen. “Why is it tagged NSFW?”

You choked. “It’s… not for—uh—well, it’s for adults.”

He started reading.

“‘His voice dipped low, gravel against silk, as he leaned in close—’”

He blinked again.

“‘—his metal fingers tightening around your throat with possessive hunger—’”

You lunged. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ THAT—”

“No,” he said, like a man on a mission. “I need to know what people think I do with my fingers.”

You slapped your hand over your face.

The silence that followed was broken only by scrolling.

A beat.

Two.

Then:

“…Am I biting someone’s thigh?”

You squeaked. “It’s fiction! It’s not real! That’s artistic license!”

“Artistic—?” He turned red. So, so red. “I say that in this?!”

He pointed at the screen.

“‘Gonna ruin you for anyone else, sweetheart.’”

You nodded meekly. “That one’s pretty popular.”

He slowly turned his head toward you.

“…Have you read this one?”

“…No.” (You had.) “Okay, yes.” (Multiple times.) “Don’t judge me, okay?!”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—his hand lifted. And he hurled a couch pillow straight at your face.

You burst into laughter so loud it echoed.

—

Somehow, it was now 2 a.m.

You and Bucky were draped over the couch like two feral creatures surviving on popcorn, emotional trauma, and fanfiction-induced whiplash.

The laptop was balanced between you.

You’d read every trope imaginable.

Amnesia Bucky? ✔️

Fake dating Bucky? ✔️

Accidental baby acquisition? ✔️

Soulmates, reincarnation, enemies-to-lovers? ✔️✔️✔️

One bed? You nearly passed out.

Bucky had started keeping score.

“Okay,” he said, finishing another fic. “That’s nine times I’ve died, three Muffins, and two bathtub confessions.”

You wiped a tear. “You forgot the cowboy AU.”

He groaned. “I blacked that one out.”

“No, you lassoed me with a flannel and said, ‘You’re mine, darlin’.’ I remember it vividly.”

His face fell into his hands. “Why is Tumblr allowed.”

⸻

You leaned back, stretching your arms with a yawn, when Bucky suddenly stilled.

“…Wait.”

You turned. “What?”

He clicked.

Another tab. Another fic.

You peered over.

And there it was.

A new fic, different author, different tags.

But the pairing?

Sam Wilson x Reader

Bucky blinked.

He gasped. “SAM HAS FANFIC?!”

Y/n clicked faster.

The fic started sweet. You were a new recruit. Sam was your guide. There were coffee shop scenes. Shared smiles. Mutual pining.

Then—fireworks on a rooftop.

“And this time, he finally stayed.”

The two of you squealed.

Like children.

Like banshees.

Bucky grabbed a pillow and shouted into it. You kicked your legs like it was 2009 and this was One Direction.

Which is exactly when Sam walked in.

The water bottle crinkled in Sam’s hand as he stopped in the doorway.

He stared.

You and Bucky were tangled up under a blanket, laptop glowing between you, eyes misty with emotion.

“…Are you crying over fanfiction?”

Bucky looked up, wild-eyed. “No.”

You sniffled. “Yes.”

Sam slowly took a sip of water.

Then—deadpan:

“You guys are so weird.”

He turned and walked out.

Neither of you could stop laughing for ten minutes.

—

It started subtle.

Bucky’s phone usage increased. He was asking more questions.

“Hey, what’s a ‘slowburn’?”

“Why do I keep dying in the ‘hurt/comfort’ tag?”

“Do people really like the ‘knife kink’ thing or are they just messing with me?”

Then came the moment you found him sitting in the compound kitchen — coffee untouched — staring intently at his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

He looked up.

Paused.

Then flipped the screen toward you.

Tumblr.

A blank blog page.

Username: @softvibraniumdaydreams

Bio: “Not a writer. Just a man who needs closure.”

Header: A low-res photo of a cat holding a knife.

Icon: Your Bitmoji. He’d clearly stolen it.

“…You made a blog?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Had ideas.”

You leaned over, scrolling through his first posts.

• Post #1: “Why do people keep giving me a tragic backstory? I already have one.”

• Post #2: 450-word drabble about holding hands in silence after a mission

• Post #3: “Stop killing my fictional girlfriends 2k25.”

You grinned. “You’re one of us now.”

He smirked, that familiar glint in his eye. “God help me.”

—

Three days later, he posted it.

“First fic is live. Be kind.”

You clicked on the link.

It was… beautiful. Quiet. Poetic.

Set after the war. The reader couldn’t sleep. Bucky made tea. He held her hand. They didn’t kiss. They just sat — their shadows stretching across the floor as dawn began to rise.

“He didn’t say ‘I love you,’ but it echoed anyway, loud in the silence between their palms.”

You stared at the screen.

Breathed out.

And then reblogged it.

Your comment:

“Sorry (not sorry) for making you read smut at 1 a.m. 💕 Let’s write one where you get a happy ending.”

Minutes later, he tagged you in a new post:

Collab coming soon:

Bucky finally gets the girl. And this time, no one dies. 💌

-to be continued

[fayesia]

Hi uh weird rq! Can u make a sub Rodrick Heffley and dom girlfriend reader fic? Like smut where we ride him and take his virginity and he’s very whiny and moaning and there’s a lot of slap kink like slapping his face when he’s bad or slapping his cock? And can there be nicknames for him like “sweet boy” “handsome boy” “good boy” and if you can make him call u mommy ? Weird rq Ik sorry and thank you! 😭

Sub!Rodrick x dom!reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, mommy kink, making out, slapping, cowgirl, degradation + praise, pussy eating, face riding, abrupt ending :(

It was sheer dumb luck and a difinitve message from the universe that Rodricks parents took Manny with them on holiday the same week of your 6 month anniversary. With little to no persuasion, Greg rang up Rowley and planned a sleepover. Ultimately leaving you and Rodrick to an empty house, something that had never happened before. Which lead you to your current situation, the dinner plates were left on the table with the candles blown out, wafting the smell of wax through the air, the same air that felt hot and heavy when Rodricks lips were on yours.

His hands grazed against your hips, hesitant on how to touch you, but you held most of the control. Biting onto his lower lip and soothing the sting with your tongue, while your hands gripped his hair pulling his head down closer to you. You knew how he reacted to pain and you loved to toy with his reactions. Stumbling towards his room you shoved him onto the bed, straddling across his thighs quickly asking where the condoms he secretly bought were. Digging under his mattress, Rodrick pulled out a squished box of condoms which you opened, retrieving one.

"No touching. I didn't say you could do that"

He undressed quickly, your actions leaving him feeling claustrophobic in his own clothing, especially his tight black jeans with a bulge straining against them. Bouncing back onto the mattress he was clad in nothing, his erection pointed to the ceiling, the tip was red and leaking droplets of pre cum.

Rodricks hand wrapped around his cock as he stroked himself but you were quick to send a sharp slap to it.

He whimpered at your voice. You barely heard it, but he definitely did.

Rodricks eyes stared up at you, full of awe and devotion, they seemed to become glazed over the more clothing you took off. First his band tshirt you "burrowed" then your black pants, until you were left in a black lace set. A white ribbon on the front lace of your panties and between your bra cups.

He loved it. He thought you were beautiful.

You climbed back into his lap and felt his dick through the lace, he moaned at the sensation it had against his already sensitive tip. Removing your bra, his hands greedily reached for your tits. In quick successions you slapped them away and roughly reached forward to grap his face, uncomfortably squishing his cheeks.

"I didn't fucking say you could touch did I. Don't you want to be a good boy for mommy?"

He nodded his head as best as he could in your tight hold.

"Nuh uh mommy need words, can't just be nodding with that pretty face"

"Yesh"

His reply came out muffled with the annunciation of his letters proving to be a struggle. You smiled releasing his face and lightly slapping the side of it. "Good boy~"

He keened at your praise and you felt more of his precum drip from his tip to your panties.

Roughly kissing him you pushed Rodrick back against the mattress on his back, slipping off your panties and ripping open the condom.

"Ready?"

"Please..please oh my- fuck"

His words were cut off by the feeling of the condom covering his dick. It was the first contact he had of your hands along him and he could've came right then and there if not for his need to be your perfect boy.

Instead he rested his palms on your thighs following you as you lowered yourself onto him.

It was amazing. Something Rodrick had never felt before and wanted to feel for the rest of his life.

Your tight pussy wrapped around him like a vice, he was on cloud nine. You took him completely, stopping for a while to accommodate to the fit. Panting while your hands lay flat against his hard chest, his eyes barely open and his face of pure bliss.

"So good feel so-fuck so pretty mommy."

You ride him, using your legs to lift you up and down. His messy upward thrusting messing up the rhythm you have going on.

You know he's not going to last much longer, his breathings quickened and his body's more restless, taking what you give but still begging for more.

*slap* your hand whips across his face, "take it like a good boy. Mommy didn't ask you to move slut."

He moans out the pain giving him more pleasure if anything, there's drool sliding across his puffy red lips still raw from your bites before. And the left side of his face has a pink fading handprint.

You were right.

With a loud serirs of moans his hips thrust further upwards into you, his tip just brushing against that one little perfect spot in you. You keep bouncing, up and down, until tears are streaking down his face.

"Please it's too much. No more...please"

Lifting off of him you sit up near his chest.

"Fucking slut. Didn't say you could cum did I?

*slap*

"Did mommy say you could?"

"Mm no no. Mommy. You didn't."

"Exactly. So you're gonna make me come or I'll keep riding you."

He whimpers as you say this, you hand yanking off the used condom and stroking his overstimulated dick. You squeeze him at the end of your sentence to annunciate your threat. But you know it doesn't hurt him, he's a fucking pain slut.

His tongue spans across the whole of your pussy, sliding between the folds and lapping at your leaking hole, before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking until you're gripping the beds headboard for support. He'll never get sick of the taste of you. Now that he's had it for the first time he knows its a desire he'll crave for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Lifting yourself up a bit you slide forward until your thighs rest on the pillow where Rodricks head is. His mouth opens already aware from what you want after the amount of pornos he's watched since you begin dating hes excited to actually do it. His tongue reaches out, begging for just a taste of you.

Slowly teasing him you let him lick your folds by just the tip of his tongue, before slamming your pussy down onto his face. He follows up with a loud and whiny moan that vibrates against your most sensitive parts. Lifting your hands up to play with your nipples as you moan, the noises of his mouth slurping against your pussy mixing them, echoing around his room.

You feel yourself getting closer. Urged to grip onto his spiked messy hair already a mess, yanking it painfully draws another moan from him that spreads through your core. By now his tongue has wriggled its way into your hole and your practically riding his face. Moving atop him while controlling his head movements, the tip of his nose sliding against your clit to provide the most pleasurable sensation.

"Fuck~so close baby. Doing so good for me-ahh." Your praise only makes Rodrick double his efforts, pushing you completely over the edge. Whining out at the ceiling as you keep his head in place sliding forwards and backwards, your juices soak him and he drinks it all up. At the same time his dick twitches and shots of cum are released, staining both the sheets and your back with the white sticky fluids.

Rolling onto your back you crash your lips against his, tasting yourself on him, whispering praises as he catches his breath.

~unedited~

[wholoveseggs]

Yo I’m back. Tbh half of your anon requests are me lol. Can you write something about Elijah and the reader having a family. Kids of any age maybe living in the compound with the rest of the mikaelsons? Still smut ofc but I love that episode where Elijah is with Cami at the safe house and he acts all family man fixing the fence n stuff that was hotttt

Family Man

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Life at the compound can be chaotic with kids and family running around, but Elijah wouldn't have it any other way.

♡♡ Thanks for the request wonderful @elijahstwink (everyone go check out his fics!) & anon!I Love domestic Elijah sooo much, I truly believe this would be his dream life. ♡♡

4.5k words - Warnings: smut, oral sex, unfortunately I didn't make this as kinky as requested...its just very sappy and sweet, this is just a day in the life of Elijah as a devoted father and husband, pregnant!reader, uncle Klaus being precious, toddlers, hot cocoa, kittens & so much flufffffff

ps, this is pretty much a sequel to devotion...

In the early hours of the morning you were awoken by a loud snore from your husband. You rolled over to face him, chuckling a little as you watched his peaceful sleeping form. It was the first time in a long time he was finally getting the rest he deserved.

You slowly turned, carefully sliding out of bed. You tiptoed out the room and decided to go down to the kitchen to make some tea.

You loved this time of night, being in the stillness of the house, just enjoying the calmness and being able to take in the beauty of it all.

When you reached the bottom step, you heard some sniffling and cries coming from one of the rooms down the hall. You rushed to the door and opened it, and a small figure ran into your arms, clinging onto you.

"What's wrong, little one?" you asked, scooping her up.

"I had a nightmare. There were these people with sharp teeth and they were chasing me. And then you were there but you were gone. It was scary, mommy," she sobbed, her head buried in your chest.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it was just a dream. Nothing bad will happen to you. You are safe," you said, kissing her head and stroking her hair, soothing her. "Come on, let's go get something warm to drink,"

You carried her down to the kitchen and began to prepare the hot cocoa, which was her favorite. As you stood over the stove, waiting for the milk to boil, you felt her little hands rubbing your stomach.

"Mommy, when is the baby going to come out?" she asked.

"Not for a while, sweetie. It needs to grow inside my belly for a little longer," you chuckled.

"Okay," she said, looking sad. "I can't wait to meet them. Is it a girl or a boy?" she asked, looking up at you with her big, brown eyes.

"We don't know yet," you replied.

"Oh," she replied, disappointed. "I hope it's a girl. I already have a brother, I want a sister," she said.

"We'll just have to wait and see," you smiled, placing the mug of hot cocoa down on the counter. "Here, drink up, before it gets cold," you said.

She hopped off the chair and held the mug with both her hands, sipping away. You sipped on your tea as well, feeling relaxed. You loved these quiet moments with her, and you would cherish every one of them, since she was growing up so fast.

"So, what was this dream about, princess?" you asked, wanting to know more.

"T-there were people with sharp teeth and they were after me," she said.

"And why do you think that was?" you asked, not wanting her to feel afraid, but curious about what caused this dream.

"I think I saw it in a movie or something," she said, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "An-and uncle Nik showed me his sharp teeth, but he promised he would never bite me, only use them to protect me," she said.

"Oh, did he now?" you laughed.

"Yeah, but then he bit my teddy bear," she said, giggling. "he said my teddy was a threat!"

"That sounds like something uncle Nik would do," you chuckled.

"Can I sleep with you and daddy tonight?" she asked, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Of course, sweetheart," you replied.

"Thank you, mommy," she said, smiling and hugging your legs.

"Come on, let's go to bed," you said, picking her up. She wrapped her arms around your neck and laid her head on your shoulder as you walked back up to your bedroom.

You placed her in the middle of the bed, and she quickly snuggled up against Elijah, her head on his chest. She loved having his attention. She was a daddy's girl through and through.

You slid back into bed, lying down on your side and Elijah instantly pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you, holding you both.

"Is my little one alright?" he asked sleepily, his eyes still closed.

"I had a bad dream, daddy," she sniffled, curling up against him.

"It's alright, my love. Everything will be alright," he said, kissing her head and soothing her. "No bad dreams will get you while I'm here," he said, pulling the blanket up and tucking her in.

She smiled at him and kissed his cheek, cuddling him as she drifted off to sleep. He stroked her hair, and her eyes grew heavy. Soon she was sound asleep, and he placed his hand on your stomach, his precious family safe in his arms.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Exhausted. Our littlest one is keeping me up, constantly moving and kicking," you sighed, feeling drained.

"Let's hope it's not like this for the whole pregnancy," he chuckled.

"Don't even joke about that," you groaned.

He gave you a kiss on the head, your daughter snuggled in between the two of you, and you finally managed to get a few more hours of sleep.

Elijah was woken by the sunlight shining through the curtains, and he smiled at the sight of his beautiful family.

His daughter was still cuddled up to him, her head buried in his chest, she stirred slightly and yawned.

"Do you want breakfast?" he asked, his hand on her back.

"Yes," she mumbled.

"Hmmm what would you and your brother like? Gruel? Porridge?" he asked, teasing her.

"Eww no," she groaned, loudly.

"Alright, alright, pancakes it is, let's go wake your brother and the rest of the family," he said, chuckling.

"Can we get chocolate chips on the pancakes?" she asked as he carried her out the room.

"I don't know, maybe your brother wants blueberries, but we'll ask," he said, tickling her.

His son and his niece were both awake and running around, and Klaus was chasing him, laughing, the children giggling as they hid under the dining table.

"Oh, look who's here. Little Rebekah is up," Klaus teased.

"No! That's not my name!" she pouted, crossing her arms.

"Yes, it is," Elijah chuckled.

"Nooo," she whined. "It's just Bex," she said.

"Alright, alright, Bex it is," Klaus chuckled, patting his head.

"Pancakes for breakfast, anyone?" Elijah asked.

"Yes, yes, yes," the children yelled.

"Chocolate chips?" Klaus asked, grinning.

"Yes!!!" the kids screamed, all jumping up and down in excitement.

"Alright, I'll make them, the last one to the kitchen is a rotten egg," Klaus said, speeding off.

The kids squealed and ran after Klaus, and Elijah chuckled and went back upstairs to check on you.

You were sound asleep, your hair fanned across the pillow. He laid down next to you, placing his hand on the swell of your stomach, smiling and talking to the baby.

"How are you, littlest one? Have you been keeping mommy up all night?" he asked, his dimples on full display.

"Yes, they have," you sighed.

"That's my job," he smirked, leaning in and giving you a kiss. "Would you like some breakfast?" he asked.

"I'll go eat later. I just want to stay here for a little longer," you replied, holding his hand on your stomach.

Elijah hummed softly and pulled you close, kissing your head and rubbing your back. He loved the way you melted into his touch.

"How is Bex?" you asked.

"She's completely forgotten about her nightmare, Klaus is making breakfast for all the kids," he chuckled.

"They have him wrapped around their little fingers," you giggled.

"He has grown soft, it's true," Elijah said.

"Bex told me he bit her teddy bear," you laughed.

"Yes, well, that doesn't surprise me," he chuckled, his lips brushing against yours.

You sighed happily and wrapped your arms around him, feeling complete bliss in his embrace.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked.

"Stay right here with you," you replied, running your hand through his hair, making him hum in delight. You were feeling a bit needy this morning, the pregnancy hormones making you want him all the time.

"I think that can be arranged," he smirked.

You grinned and leaned in, kissing him slowly, deepening the kiss. He moaned, and rolled over, pressing you into the mattress, making sure not to put any weight on your stomach.

He loved your pregnant state, the way your skin glowed, your eyes sparkled and the way you moaned his name made him crazy. He couldn't keep his hands off you, he wanted to ravish you day and night.

He thought he knew all of his kinks, but this one took him by surprise. When you were first pregnant with Henry it was like something in his brain clicked. The possessiveness, the lust, the way his cock ached to be inside you, he was lost.

Henry was a miracle, he didn't quite know how the magic worked. You tried to explain it to him once, your witch ancestry, how the moon played a part, but all he could think about was fucking you senseless, filling you up, and breeding you.

You were the perfect partner, and an absolute warrior, but nothing turned him on more than seeing you in this submissive, almost docile state. You were his wife, his goddess, and his greatest treasure, and he wanted nothing more than to please you day and night.

His hands went to your soft, full breasts, squeezing and kneading them, making you whimper and moan. He captured your nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud, his other hand moving your nightdress up your thighs.

"Elijah," you sighed, his fingers brushing over your wet panties, making you gasp and moan.

"Is my beautiful wife needy this morning?" he smirked, his fingers slipping past the lace.

"Yes," you panted, the pad of his index finger teasing your clit, making your body tremble.

"Good," he hummed, his mouth on your neck, his fingers slowly pumping in and out of your wet heat.

You were both so lost in pleasure that neither of you heard the sound of Bex running up the stairs, Klaus not far behind her.

Luckily the door was locked, Elijah knew better than that with a house full of children.

"Daddy? Mommy?" she asked softly, knocking on the door.

"One minute, my love," Elijah called, his voice strained, trying to keep himself from ravishing you.

"Okay," she said, not leaving, but sitting down outside the door.

"Come back downstairs Bex, your mom and dad are a bit busy at the moment," Klaus chuckled, his voice low.

"Are they playing hide and seek?" she asked.

"Something like that," he replied.

"Can we play after?" she asked.

"Absolutely, sweetheart. Now come on, let's finish our pancakes, you don't want Henry to eat them all," he chuckled, lifting her up and taking her back downstairs.

Elijah looked down at your flushed face, laughing at the situation.

"You are so mean," you groaned, pushing him off you.

"Mean? I was just getting started," he chuckled.

"I think our daughter needs us, and Henry has probably eaten all the pancakes by now," you laughed, getting up and smoothing out your dress.

"I'll finish what I started tonight," he smirked.

"Don't get your hopes up," you chuckled, kissing his cheek and getting dressed.

Elijah watched your every move, the way you walked, the glow on your skin, and how the dress clung to the curve of your stomach. You looked ethereal. He was completely mesmerized, and completely smitten.

You were looking at yourself in the mirror, the dress a little too tight, the buttons straining against your swollen breasts.

"We are going to have to get you new dresses," he chuckled, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around you.

"This was my favorite," you pouted.

"We'll find you something that fits, don't worry," he said, kissing your shoulder.

"My back is killing me," you groaned, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

"Let me try something," he said, his hands dipping under your belly and lifting the bump, and you immediately felt relief. "Better?" he whispered against your skin.

You let out a happy groan and leaned into him, letting him hold you. His hands were gentle, his touch making the tension and aches melt away.

"Thank you," you sighed.

"You are very welcome," he hummed.

"Let's go eat, I'm absolutely starving," you laughed, kissing him and taking his hand.

"Let's," he smiled.

When the two of you entered the dining room, Bex squealed and jumped out of her seat, running towards Elijah.

"Daddy I saved you a pancake, see, here it is," she said, holding it up.

"That's very sweet of you, darling," he said, bending down and picking her up.

She fed him the pancake, giggling and laughing, and Klaus was grinning from ear to ear, and he handed you a plate filled with an assortment of fruit, knowing it was your favorite.

"Thank you," you smiled, sitting down at the table, feeling your stomach rumble.

Hope was sitting with Henry, and they were coloring on their plates, syrup and chocolate spread everywhere, their laughter filling the room.

Bex was still cuddled up to Elijah, and his hand was on your stomach, and he was feeding you pieces of fruit, smiling at you.

"Your birthday is coming up little Bekah, what do you want as a present?" Klaus asked, ruffling her hair.

"Hmmm I don't know," she replied, deep in thought.

"Anything you want, sweetheart," Elijah smiled.

"Can we get a puppy?" Henry asked, excitedly.

"Not until you're old enough to take care of it," Elijah replied, ruffling his hair.

"What about a kitten?" Klaus asked, raising his eyebrow.

"I love kitties!" Hope squealed.

"Yes, yes, yes!" the children yelled.

"I'll have to think about it," Elijah chuckled.

"Please dad! It's all I want for my birthday," Bex begged, her big brown eyes looking at him, her little lip pouting.

"Don't let her pull that face, Elijah, it's not fair," Klaus laughed.

"Alright, alright, you can have a kitten," he replied, smiling at his little girl.

She squealed and threw her arms around him, giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"I promise I'll take care of it, daddy," she smiled.

"I'm sure you will," he replied, smiling and looking at you.

Klaus could see the exhaustion on your face, and the way you rubbed your stomach. You were tired and he could sense it, he knew you needed a break and some alone time with Elijah.

"Why don't we go out and play, little ones," he said, scooping up the children. "Let's all go to the park, we can even invite uncle Kol and aunt Rebekah," he suggested.

"Yay, yay, yay," the kids cheered.

"That sounds like a good idea," you replied, yawning and stretching your arms.

"Let's go, let's go," he said, wrangling the kids out of the compound.

Once they were gone, Elijah got up and started cleaning up the mess everyone had made. The compound was bursting at the seams with his family, and it was never quiet, but he enjoyed it, seeing the children run around and play, their laughter and their love filling the rooms.

You leaned back in your chair, admiring the sight of your husband working, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair falling over his forehead.

"You are gorgeous," you sighed, making him look up from the sink.

"As are you," he smirked.

"I can't believe you agreed to get Bex a kitten," you laughed.

"She can be very persuasive," he chuckled, drying his hands and coming to sit next to you.

"She has you wrapped around her finger," you smiled, cupping his cheek.

"Like I am not the same with her mother," he laughed.

"You have a point there," you grinned, kissing him.

He smiled against your lips, his hand moving down your body, resting on your stomach, letting out a contented sigh.

You mind wandered to all the things that needed to be done for the kids and around the house, you also hadn't even started preparing the nursery. You felt overwhelmed and the hormones weren't helping. On top of all that you had a party coming up.

"Stop thinking out loud," Elijah chuckled, pulling you closer.

"I can't help it, there is just so much to do," you groaned, burying your head in the crook of his neck. "I'm already behind, the baby will be here soon and I still haven't gotten anything ready."

"We still have a few months, everything will be fine, love. We will get the nursery ready, and the party will be wonderful, I'm sure of it," he replied, kissing your forehead.

His reassurances didn't help your worries, and you knew you were being unreasonable, but the stress was starting to take its toll.

"And now we have to go find a kitten, I don't even know where to start," you sighed, shaking your head.

"We can look online, we can go to a shelter, there's plenty of options," he replied, stroking your hair.

He was always so patient, so understanding, and you had no idea how he stayed so calm. You felt like you were going crazy.

"Do you even want a kitten?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I prefer them over dogs, although their hair does get everywhere," he chuckled, cupping your cheek. "They are excellent little predators, great for catching the mice that are running around this old place," he smirked.

"You're not wrong, the mice are awful," you laughed, remembering the time you were down in the wine cellar and one of them ran across your foot.

"Why don't you go rest, my love? I will clean up here and join you upstairs," he suggested.

You nodded and yawned, standing up and heading towards the stairs, Elijah's eyes on you the entire time.

The moment you got to the bed and laid down, your eyes closed and you were fast asleep.

When you woke up you heard soft hammering coming from the other room, and you went to investigate, finding Elijah, shirtless and sweaty, fixing the nursery.

"I told you not to start without me," you sighed, crossing your arms and leaning against the door.

He looked over his shoulder, smiling at the sight of you, the sunlight coming in through the window and making you glow.

"It needed to be done. I'm almost finished," he replied, standing up and putting the crib together.

"You've been busy," you laughed, walking over and running your hands over the white, wooden furniture. He hand painted the walls and assembled everything, and you felt tears prickle at your eyes.

"It's beautiful," you sighed, looking around.

"Are you crying? Don't cry, darling," he said, pulling you close, your face pressed against his chest.

"I can't help it, these stupid hormones," you sniffled.

"It's alright," he laughed, stroking your hair.

You sighed and pulled away, taking in the nursery. There was a rocking chair and a bookshelf, filled with all the children's books the two of you had collected over the years.

"It looks wonderful," you said, smiling and wiping away your tears.

"Now, what would my lovely wife like to do for the rest of the afternoon? We have the place to ourselves, so I was thinking we could make good use of that large tub in our bathroom," he smirked, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You read my mind," you grinned.

You followed him back into your room, watching him fill up the tub with warm water, pouring in some bubble bath.

"Get undressed, darling," he smiled, taking his pants off and getting in the tub, moaning at the sensation of the water against his skin.

You slowly peeled off your dress, feeling a little self-conscious about your changing body. Here was your husband, eternally chiseled, and there you were, round and swollen.

"Come, let me take care of you," he whispered, seeing your hesitation.

You slipped in next to him, the water and bubbles a nice contrast to the heat of the day.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, placing his hands on the swell of your stomach.

"There, doesn't that feel nice?" he hummed.

"Very nice," you sighed, resting your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes and relaxing.

His hands roamed over your skin, his lips brushing over the curve of your neck.

"I've missed having you all to myself," he whispered, his voice low and seductive.

"Mmm," was all you could say, too relaxed and content to form words.

He gently cupped your breasts, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper and moan.

"Eli," you sighed, his touch sending shivers through your body.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice breathy.

You turned your head and looked at him, his gaze filled with lust and desire.

"Do you want to continue this on our bed?" You asked, your voice sultry.

"I'd love to," he replied, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smirk.

He helped you out of the tub, wrapping a towel around your body. Before suddenly scooping you up in his arms, carrying you to the bedroom and laying you down.

"I can't wait until I'm not this enormous," you sighed, looking down at your swollen belly.

"You're not enormous, you're beautiful, and absolutely radiant," he replied, hovering over you, his hand gently resting on your stomach.

You couldn't help but smile, and the tears started rolling down your cheeks.

"Don't cry again, my love," he chuckled.

"I can't help it! Just ignore me," you said, wiping the tears away.

"As if that is possible," he laughed.

He kissed your forehead, moving his way down your body, placing his hands on your hips, his lips pressing soft kisses against the curve of your stomach.

"Elijah, you don't have to do that," you whispered, feeling a little shy.

"But I want to," he replied, kissing his way down, spreading your legs.

"Oh," was all you could say, his tongue swirling over your clit, one hand on your inner thigh, the other resting on your stomach.

He hummed and moaned, the vibrations making you gasp, and arch your back. He could tell you were sensitive, and he was gentle, taking his time.

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging a little, making him moan and pick up the pace.

" 'lijah," you panted, feeling the pleasure coil in your core.

You couldn't even see him over the swell of your stomach, but you could feel him, and the noises he was making were sending you into overdrive.

"Fuck, don't stop," you gasped, the orgasm hitting you like a ton of bricks, leaving you dizzy and lightheaded.

Elijah was enjoying himself, the taste of you on his tongue, the noises you were making, and the sight of you coming apart, was driving him crazy.

You tugged on his hair, pulling his face away, the sensations becoming too much, and he crawled up your body, kissing your stomach as he moved.

"Did you enjoy that, darling?" He asked, kissing you and tasting yourself on his tongue.

"Mmm yes, very much," you hummed, pushing on his chest so he laid back.

He watched you move, a smirk on his face, his pupils blown. You sat on his thighs, stroking him, seeing his abs tense and relax, and he let out a long, deep moan.

"You are such a good father and husband, always going above and beyond for us," you said, leaning down and licking his length. "Let me show you how much I appreciate you,"

You leaned down and teased his head with your tongue, enjoying the string of curses that came tumbling from his mouth.

A soft hum escaped you as you slowly, and carefully, sucked on the head, teasing and tasting.

"Love, you are exquisite," he groaned, burying his fingers in your hair.

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, letting him move at the pace he desired. All you wanted to do was please him, you loved when his voice would crack from pleasure and the way his fingers would tug on your hair.

"Come here," he said, cupping your cheek.

You pulled off of him with a pop, moving to sit on top of him, kissing him and grinding against his length.

"Mmm, I could do this forever," you hummed, biting his bottom lip and tugging.

He ran his hands up and down your back, nibbling at your shoulder, suckling marks into your skin.

Your swell was pressed against his abs, and he could feel every slight movement, enjoying the sight of you rolling your hips.

He guided you down onto his cock, the sheets bunched up around the two of you, and he rolled his hips, his hands gripping your ass.

"You are stunning," he murmured, kissing the valley between your breasts.

His lips brushed over your nipples, sucking, his teeth grazing them, his groans vibrating through your body.

"Eli- stop, they are too sensitive," you panted, running your nails over his skin, leaving bright red scratches.

"Sorry, love," he replied, grinning at the sting of your nails.

He did most of the work, gently rocking you in a steady rhythm, and the two of you moaned, the pleasure coursing through your bodies, his lips brushing your neck.

It was a slow, hot and steamy fuck, you felt like your body was on fire, the sweat and heat radiating off the two of you.

You leaned forward a little, allowing Elijah to get a little more friction, his hips moving faster, the both of you panting and moaning.

"Ah- Elijah, I'm-," you panted against his lips.

You buried your head in the crook of his neck as you came undone, clenching around him.

Elijah followed suit, the sensation of your orgasm bringing him to the edge.

He cupped the back of your neck, bringing you down for a kiss, and the two of you hummed, content and sated, basking in the afterglow.

"I wish we could stay like this," you sighed, nuzzling against him.

He laughed, and gently rolled you onto your side, pulling out of you and tucking you against his chest, both of you smiling like idiots.

"I love you," he said, stroking your hair.

"I love you too," you whispered, resting your head on his arm, letting the world melt away for just a few minutes.

Elijah watched you drift off to sleep, a small smile on his face. He kissed your forehead and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of being next to you.

It was days like these that made him wonder what he did to deserve it. That perhaps there was some sort of higher power that had guided him to you, that brought him such profound peace and happiness after centuries of darkness.

You mumbled and cuddled up against him, he placed his hand on your belly, rubbing it with his thumb, thinking about how lucky he was.

He was living a life he never thought he would have, a family of his own, one he created. He didn't know what was waiting for him after he was done with this life, but he hoped you would be there with him.

In the next life, and all the ones after that.

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

♡ @gorgeouslydangerous ♡ @starkleila ♡ @lydia1369sworld ♡ @notleylaaa ♡ @vampiresluv ♡ @myanmy ♡ @xflowerbombxo ♡ @maryvibess ♡ @always-and-forever-daydreaming ♡ @criminallminds ♡ @theesexystallion ♡ @rosemarypotion ♡ @spnaquakindgdom ♡ @amournoir ♡ @loving-and-dreaming ♡

♡ @meeom ♡ @damienmorton ♡ @wickedmuse ♡ @sunkissedebony97 ♡ @idk00sblog ♡ @savannaounana♡ @cs-please ♡ complicatedandconfusing-25 ♡ @hamiltimes ♡ @akala6670229 ♡ @yeaiamme2 ♡ @itsjulzandmydiamonds ♡ @spideysbabe ♡ @witch-of-letters ♡ @elijahstwink ♡ @rosecentury ♡ @sekaishell ♡ @ziayamikaelson ♡ @amanda08319 ♡ @starshipcookie

I've gotten a few dm's about my tags not working (yay) so let me know if its still a problem, I just re-tagged all of you so hopefully that solved it ♡

Also! If you wish to be removed from the tag list just send me a dm, you won't hurt my feelings (it's okay if you got sick of me ~lol) I don't wish to hold you hostage ♡

[mere-mortifer]

♥ Sanji/Reader Rec List ♥

40+ fics & authors suggestions! Click here to view this on a separate web page for easier navigation ♥

Sometimes I’m normal about fictional characters, other times I become psycho-sexually obsessed with them and relentlessly look for fanworks where they get smooched and hugged into oblivion. And by characters I mean Sanji.

So here’s a non-comprehensive list of Sanji/Reader fics that I love, most of them rated Explicit. This got sooo long because I kept finding other works to add while scrolling through my bookmarks and reblogs, it goes to show how good the fandom is! (Assume, unless otherwise stated, that Sanji is more on the sexually submissive side, since I like what I like and seek out that dynamic specifically.)

Authors I love

I’m starting this list with a few mentions of my favorite authors, although I’m sure I’m stating the obvious with most of these and you all know them already. Who cares! Go re-read their stuff! Leave a comment! Give them your money!

1. One Piece Works by @onlymurphy

Not to fall into hyperbole, but I owe OnlyMurphy my life. If you’re here reading this list then surely you love this author already, so this a good excuse to re-read the entire Grow Old With Me series. Sanji’s characterization is top-notch, and if you enjoy explorations of his self worth issues and how they would affect an otherwise loving romantic relationship then look no further. Also the author is a very talented smut writer (very talented writer in general, make no mistake), and that's the greatest accolade I can give them. Imagine me putting a gold metal around their neck but I’m the one who's moved to tears about it.

Honorable mentions for the filthiest-yet-very-romantic works in their catalog:

🌶 Do That Again

🌶 Wildest Dreams

🌶 If I’m Lucky

2. One Piece Works by @citrinae

I’m linking the masterlist for this author ‘cause I really like all their Sanji-centric fics, and I’d love, love, love to see more. Sanji is so princely and devoted, just an absolute dream of a man, and he’s putting a lot of effort into making the reader feel loved. He gets stellar results in my opinion.

3. One Piece Works by @thus-spoke-lo (GoldExperience86 on Ao3)

There are three fics in particular by this author that I couldn’t pick a favorite from if you held me at gunpoint: 

🌶 Let Me Help 

🌶 Worth the Wait

🌶 Dear Diary 

Have you ever read a sex scene so good you bypass getting horny and go straight into mourning, knowing you won’t be able to read it for the first time again? That has not stopped me from reading all these roughly a million times. Click on those links. Look at me in the eyes, listen very carefully: click on those links. I say this because I love you and want you to be happy. 

You will find other fics by them in the rec list because 1) I couldn’t resist and 2) I’m pretty sure they have more things posted on Tumblr than Ao3, at least as separate one-shots.

4. 🌶One Piece Fics by @untolduttering

Author, I know deep in my soul that you love Sanji as much as I do. Fortunately I’m okay with sharing. If anything I'm glad I'm not alone in the trenches.

Check out all her fics and snippets, her writing is incredible and I’ve loved every single thing about Sanji she’s ever posted. Each time I open Tumblr and I see a new post by her, my day gets a little brighter. She writes one of my favorite versions of Sanji ever, insatiable and devoted and so, so hot. He couldn’t be more my type if he tried. 

I want to single out her vampire!Sanji one-shot because I haven’t seen this trope used by anyone else and I liked it a lot! It fits so well, what with the theme of hunger and Sanji’s inability to ask for what he needs:

Hunger 

The meta post that inspired the fic

5. One Piece Works by @fanaticsnail

Fanaticsnail, you’re the only one who has ever made me willingly click on a smut fic that involved Doflamingo just because Sanji was there, too, and I love your Sanji so damn much (p.s.: everyone go read it, 🌶 Seat Number Four).

One of their fics also appears in the Sex Pollen section, and since that one is particularly filthy let me add here two fluffy, romantic fics where Sanji is all cute and flustered by the reader:

Kiss The Cook

Your Flirty Chef

Yearning & Pining

The title of the section is pretty self-explanatory: fics where and the reader are not together, but God knows they want to.

6. 🌶 Wanting by @froggiewrites

This fic…holy shit. I’m genuinely writing this with tears in my eyes. The yearning & pining & longing mixed with the sexual tension so thick you can cut it with a knife makes for a truly incredible read. Only for real Sanji lovers, if you’re not nodding along at each desperate thought the reader insert has about this man then I’m sorry but you’re only a casual Sanji liker.

7. 🌶 My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand by ladyhabanera

[screaming crying throwing up] no yeah I’m very normal about this fic, I like it a totally normal amount. In the Ao3 comments I say that “Sanji is so so dreamy—a heady mix of submissive and deeply romantic”, and then if you scroll a little you find my other comment which is just me yelling in all caps at my second reread. I not only stand by both, but I’m doubling down. 

8. Puzzled by @mynewblackdress

What a lovely series, and what a lovely trope…misunderstandings due to bad communication are as irritating and useless in real life as they are incredibly fun to read about. The reader is convinced that Sanji’s earnest compliments are his fucked up way of making fun of her, and it takes a while before they figure out that he means every word. Give it a read if you want a break from the sea of smut that I’ve added to this list, and you're the mood for opla!Sanji in particular. 

9. Sweet Confession by @softonshanks

I have one specific weakness that I’m glad to often see in fics: Sanji getting a hug while he’s busy cooking, and he’s all cute and flustered about it because he didn’t expect the affection.  And this fic has that + Sanji’s a pining mess for the reader, who he’s FWBs with despite the fact that he’s totally in love with her + she’s taller than him and he loves it. I’ve hit the jackpot. I’d love to see more Sanji fics from this author, so much so that I’m gonna ask her pretty please in Italian: Sara, ti prego, facci sognare.

10. 🌶 Your Name by @strawhatsoraya

Now, the one pining in this fic is me. Sanji and the reader are actually complete strangers, but if what appeals to you in mutual pining fics is the gut-wrenching depth of the feelings described, then I think you should check out this little one-shot. My notes on Ao3 are “Tfw when a pwp hits your id so well it bypasses making you horny and goes straight to suicidal”—do with that what you will. Also, check out the rest of this author’s fics and make a whole evening out of it.

Ft. Zoro

Get that stinky Mosshead out of my sight…no, wait, let him stay. I guess we can take turns on Sanji or something.

11. 🌶 Picture You by @froggiewrites

I don’t usually read Sanji fics where Zoro is heavily involved, but I’m glad that that didn’t stop me from clicking on this one (also, to be fair, they take turns on the reader. Well, the reader takes turns on them.) My note on the Ao3 bookmark is “God-tier sad horny Sanji characterisation”...couldn't have said it better, me from the past. 

12. 🌶 Shaken Up Hearts by @lyriumcoloredskies

Okay so I lied, maybe I do like it when Zoro is heavily involved, as long as it’s a collab to team up on Sanji. Sanji gets lovingly demolished in this one, but before he gets there he’s sad like a kicked puppy about not being allowed to kiss both you and Zoro. Who am I to say no to a heavy dose of Zosan in my het Sanji smut?

13. 🌶 Nuvole e Lenzuola by redtendou

This one’s niche because it’s written in Italian. I was stunned by the author’s ability to make a graphic sex scene actually work despite Italian’s atrocious sex-related lexicon–trust me, it’s a struggle. If you’re into Zoro and the reader ganging up on Sanji and you understand Italian, definitely give it a read.

Spa day for the soul

Fics where you take care of Sanji, or Sanji takes care of you, or where there are actual spa activities thrown into the mix. God knows this man needs some TLC once in a while.

14. 🌶 My Pampered Prince by @sheerxfiction

It’s Sanji’s turn to spend some time flat on his back on the kitchen table–it’s what he deserves. If you’re craving a brilliant smutty fic where Sanji gets pampered then you've foudn it, the reader take really good care of him in this one–and I have to give bonus points for the heavy dose of Sanji’s self-worth issues and the readersinsert fighting back against his refusal to get taken care of. Get loved, idiot.

15. 🌶 Shower Time by @chibieggplant

Cute, hot, sexy–I’m talking both about the writing and Sanji in this fic. He takes a shower with the reader and spends the entire time in disbelief that he gets to tenderly wash her body, feeling quite embarrassed by how into it he is, despite the fact that this an established relationship fic. And that’s how I like my boys!

16. 🌶 Vinsmoke Sanji: Not all Men are Rats by livingonadaydream

I love, love, love fics where Sanji gets pampered…but it doesn’t hurt to read the complete opposite once in a while. A very sweet Sanji makes sure that the reader gets a very happy ending.

First Time

We'll never know the canonical sexual history for any One Piece characters because Oda is, unfortunately, a coward. However I'm not surprised that Sanji is considered by many the most virgin to have ever virgined in the history of virginity—so here's a list of fics where you pop his cherry. Be delicate, please...he's very sensitive.

17. 🌶 Say When by @venomatically

This one has to be the first I tell you about. If you go check the comments on Ao3 you’ll find me absolutely losing my mind after my first read, and there’s no quick comment I can add here to fully explain how much I love this author, her writing, and–Good Lord in Heaven–the way she writes Sanji. He’s a virginal pervert. He’s got that dog in him and it happens to be a cute little puppy. He’s so sweet and adoring he can’t bear to tell you how often he thinks about fucking you. I need someone to invent him in real life, it’s not even funny anymore. (Also, if you like to see Sanji actually get a little depraved, check out her other fic, too: 🌶 Letting Off Steam)

18. 🌶 Lust by @tetzoro

Ooh, this one’s hot. It starts so poetic and romantic, but as Sanji loses himself in the feeling the descriptions get more carnal. I love his POV here. Also it involves one of my favourite things ever: the readers starts on top but when it gets too good Sanji can't resist and he flips her over to do all the work himself. Who else cheered?

Sex Pollen

While writing this rec list I realized I have at least four sex pollen fics where Sanji eats something he shouldn’t and then…I wanna say “regrets it”, but the consequences are that he has hot sweaty sex with someone he’s really into. If he were to notice the trend I think he might start putting the wrong thing in his mouth on purpose.

19. 🌶 It’s a what flower?! by @sanjifucker42069

From the blog name alone I knew I’d found a kindred spirit. They have written for both the animanga and OPLA, and to be honest it’s hard for me to pick a favorite work. That’s a lie, this one’s my favorite. The author has a great sense of humor, and this fic in particular is both very funny and incredibly hot. I love how desperate and pathetic Sanji gets, and how hard the reader insert is trying to keep things PG before it becomes obvious they just have to fuck! Good problems to have if you ask me.

20. 🌶 a fever you can't sweat out by @cryocandy

I remember reading this one day right before work. My shift was about to start, and I was sitting by myself in the car reading the smoking hot sex scene for no good reason at all, ensuring that I wouldn't be able to focus on anything productive for the rest of the day. Sanji in this fic is so dreamy and cute and pathetic, all qualities enhanced greatly by the amazing writing. If you don’t think you like fuck-or-die fics, do yourself a favour and read this one anyway. 

21. 🌶 Needy Boy by @maddddstuff

My note on Ao3 for this one was “Single-handedly made me into spanking btw, if you even care”, and I stand by it. He’s the one that gets spanked by the way, in case someone was in doubt.

22. 🌶 Someone Help Me by @fanaticsnail

Sanji’s a mess in this one. A total and complete mess, and I loved every word of it–also, since in the first part Sanji is struggling against the effects of the sex pollen all on his lonesome, this fic might also appeal to my fellow Sanji whump fans.

Dom!Sanji & Co.

Just because I have a preference for Sanji being a sub it doesn’t mean I will scoff at fics where he’s more dominant in bed. Here are the ones I stumbled upon that I’ve really liked! (Also I’m using the term “dominant” very loosely here, in some of these fics he’s simply more assertive in bed.)

23. Too Much (Take Me Home) by @secretwritingspot

This is THEE dom!Sanji series for me. There’s no sex in it, it’s more of an exploration of the sub/Dom dynamic and why someone would crave submitting to another person. Sanji finds himself in the dominant role with little warning, but he’s damn great at it in his usual adoring and tender way. I’m linking the first fic of the series, but the author has written more for this scenario!

24. 🌶 Leg Day by 1LucaCola1

The title says it all; fantastic premise for a smoking hot pwp fic. If I had the opportunity to train and make good use of Sanji’s expertise, I’d also push myself too far until my legs were shaking, and then let him do other things to me to make the shaking even worse.

25. 🌶 very professional nights by @missfrustration

Ugh, I love this one! Sanji is your superior at the Baratie, and he’s so very stern with you until he isn’t at all. Love the bait and switch of a Sanji whose professionalism makes him act a little cold when clients’ satisfaction is on the line but simply melts when he’s alone with the reader. And everything he ends up doing to the reader in this fic, I’d hardly call a punishment.

26. 🌶 Doodled Hearts by Twisted_Inkwell

Soft dom Sanji fucks you hard but he’s sweet talking to you in French the whole time. I don’t know what else to add to convince you to read this one, that should be plenty.

In the kitchen

To fuck the cook, you’ll have to look for him in his natural habitat. Then you can proceed to ruin the kitchen table for everyone else.

27. 🌶 Midnight Snack by BombasticBastard

This fic is a part of a Sanji/Reader/Zoro series, but I’m linking Part 2 where it’s just you and our lovely boy. As the title says, the reader is craving a midnight snack and goddamn, she gets the best one the Sunny’s pantry has to offer. This could also go in the Dom!Sanji category because he quite literally talks you through it, as the kids say nowadays, but he also showers the reader in compliments & he confesses his love, so overall he’s too much of a big ol’ softie to call him dominant in any way.

28. 🌶 All It Takes by mooseskulls

Reader catches Sanji being the pervert that he is, stolen underwear and badly-hidden moans included. This one has both a gender neutral version and a transmasc!reader one, I thought that was lovely–this way lots of different people can enjoy the “getting bent over the kitchen counter” scenario. 

29. 🌶 Compliments to the Chef by @tigreblue

The Author says this is their first fic–if that’s the case, they’ve got a bright future ahead of them. We all know Sanji doesn’t easily accept love and gratitude, but some good ol’ finger-sucking ought to convince him. Things degenerate beautifully from there.

Dark(er)

By darker I mean that I’m adding here fics where Sanji is something other than an absolute sweetheart. You’ll understand how actually dark any of these fics are from my comments and the authors’ tags, but they all have the general vibe of “Sanji is a sleazy pervert” in varying degrees of illegality.

30. 🌶 appetite by @groubee

Ooh…this one’s fucked up. Sanji is an unreliable narrator that makes non-con somnophilia sound kinda cute, actually (it really isn’t.) In his defense he’s written as some sort of incubus-slash-sex-demon. The author doesn’t go into detail but they don’t need to, it’s all about the sickly sweet mood (emphasis on sickly) of a tender lover who’s also a horrible, horrible person.

31. 🌶 Letting Off Steam by @venomatically

He’s a freak in this one, but he’s soooo nice about it and he’s soooo thankful that you’re letting him be a complete pervert who can get away with waking you up by stroking his cock over your face. 

32. 🌶 Smile for the Camera by @thus-spoke-lo 

This one broke my heart and turned me on at the same time, I give it a full five stars. It’s a short and sweet one-shot where Sanji breaks down all your walls and then does the same to your trust in men…enjoy!

33. 🌶 Compliments to the Chef by @thus-spoke-lo

I realize only now that this fic and Smile for the Camera are by the same author. That’s not gonna stop me from reccing this little series, too–in the notes on Tumblr you can see that this was written for a “sleazeball collab”, which should tell you something about Sanji’s characterization. While reading this I felt like that lady in the comic about sexual harassment on the workplace…like yeah maybe I would be okay with it if the guy was hot enough. And by workplace I mean a shitty restaurant, and by guy I mean Sanji in the role of the line cook who smokes too much and is very transparent about wanting to bang you on the counter where lunch service is prepared.

34. 🌶 Use me by moosetracksandscenechanges

This fic! My God! I’m adding it here not because there are hard kinks or morally dubious dynamics between the characters, but I still think it fits. It has its sad moments due to a generally darker atmosphere and a more aloof version of Sanji (not that aloof, still recognisably himself)...but also he willingly gets tied to a bed. Sub Sanji lovers stay winning. My hopeless romantic heart hopes that Sanji and the reader will actually get together, but there’s a lot to love about the fwb dynamic they’ve got going on right now. A bittersweet read in the best way.

35. Conjugate the Ways by @secretwritingspot

Oh, Sanji has a foul mouth in this one, but he’s speaking French so he’s forgiven…also the reader has no idea what the hell he’s saying to her. It’s creepy in a cute way! The fic doesn’t include actual smut, it’s just Sanji fantasizing out loud about the things he wants to do with you, but if you’re in the mood for some good ol’ sexual tension, give it a read.

36. 🌶 Ma chérie by marriedtosanji

He lied to you! About being French, of all things! I would never forgive him. He’s really good in bed though, so he makes up for it. The smut here is so delightful it does a 180% and goes back to breaking my heart over the fact that I’ll never meet a cute stranger in a bar who wants to seduce and is also Mr. Sanji Onepiece himself. 

Voyeurism

I swear this isn’t even in my top 10 kinks, I guess that Sanji’s character simply inspires a lot of authors to put him in situations where he’s staring. Watching. Ogling. Observ–you’ve got the gist of it. 

37. “It’s entirely too obvious [...]” by @ofallthingsnasty

[giggling and kicking my feet] the reader makes Sanji sweat cold in this one…I love when he’s nervous, I love when he’s desperate for forgiveness! He doesn’t do anything bad, but the fic is all about him watching the reader eat and obviously liking it a bit too much. The mood is suggestive but overall it stays pretty innocent until the end.

38. 🌶 Voyeurs by snackshack

Thank you Zoro and Nami for your help in making this happen, we couldn’t have done it without you. Sanji and the reader are in a freak4freak relationship, a match made in Heaven. Very good smut and a delicious premise!

39. 🌶 Perversion by glossyjoonie

@Sanji: babygirl you suck ♥ Short and sweet fic part of a larger collection (there are other Sanji-focused chapters, check out those ones, too!) where Sanji gets caught spying on all his favourite ladies: Nami, Robin, and you. Robin sticks around for a while in this one, but in the end the reader is the one who shows Sanji what happens to boys who misbehave.

40. 🌶 Just Between Us by @mytanuki-kun

This man is always spying on you in the shower, in bed, from behind a bush or whatever…it’s about time he gets a taste of his own medicine. I adore this fic, I remember reading the first chapter and hoping the author would update as soon as possible because I was hooked. Sanji catches you ogling him in secret and he plays into it cause he’s a horny bastard and the love of my life. The writing is incredible and Sanji’s characterization is so, so dreamy and sexy and adorable.

That’s all, folks. You have enough material to survive a nuclear war, you can spend many happy decades closed in your bunker eating canned food and reading reader insert One Piece fanfiction. 

My final, desperate request is this one: does anyone have the link to a Sanji fic where he’s 40 years old and he hired a babysitter (you) for his kid, but then one night the kid is somewhere else and you two end up hooking up? Please? Pretty please? I think it was part of a collection or series but I can’t find it anywhere!

[thebigbadbatswife]

Late Night Tears

Pairing - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Summary - Bruce wakes up to you crying.

Warnings - Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Comfort, Past Abuse mentions, Wrote this instead of sleeping

A/N - Same 'verse as Sippin' on Sunshine and Morning Glory. As always, this fic is a standalone and does not require any previous fics to be read in order to be enjoyed.

Word Count - 1.1k

As quickly as it took for him to fall asleep, something pulls Bruce from his pleasant dream. It fades into distant memory as his eyes blink open and he’s staring up at where he knows the ceiling of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom is. His eyes adjust to the pitch blackness faster than a normal man’s, thanks to his nocturnal lifestyle. 

He frowns as he lays there. While he, currently, has no idea what’s pulled him from his sleep, he knows something wrong. It’s a feeling deep within him. Settling into the pit of his stomach like the way that a stone sinks into the middle of a lake. 

It’s the result of years of training drilled into him. Instincts wired into his brain and very being to keep him alive during extremely uncertain situations. But this doesn’t fit in to that. 

He’s home. In bed. Safe and sound. There’s no danger here. 

Bruce closes his eyes and decides to listen. Just because the danger isn’t obvious doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. Maybe he’ll hear something. 

At the same time that he hears it, he also finally notices just how cold his side is. His sleepy brain fully waking up now. 

You’re no longer tucked up against his side, like you usually are when the two of you sleep together. Instead you’re all the way on the other side of the king sized bed. As far away from him as you can get without falling out of the bed. And he immediately recognises the quiet sniffling and shaky breathes of you sobbing. 

As he looks over at you, he feels his heart break a little. You are curled up into the fetal position. Both making yourself look smaller and trying to muffle your sobs with the covers.

Why didn’t you wake him? 

Deeply worried about you, Bruce sits up. He switches on the lamp on the nightstand, lightning up the dark room, and reaches for you. He pulls you back toward him, noting how you stiffen up at his touch, and tucks you back up against his chest. You snuggle against him, your hands gripping the shirt he’s worn to bed tonight as you bury your face against him. 

He doesn’t ask you if you’re okay. It’s beyond clear that, right now in this moment, you aren’t. So, as your forever devoted boyfriend, he does exactly as he knows he needs to. He holds you tightly, his hand rubbing your back, as he presses a kiss to the top of your head and softly repeats the words “I’m here”, a couple of times. Letting you know that you aren’t alone and that he’s got you. 

You cry for a while. To the point of soaking the front of shirt. Not that he cares. He can always get a clean one later. 

As your cries slowly fall silent, turning into more sniffling than full blown crying. You pull away from him and sit up, rubbing away the tears with your pyjama sleeve. Bruce sits up with you, one of his hands remaining on your lower back as he continues to do his best to soothe you. 

“Bad dream?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “No. I… I couldn’t sleep and the longer that I laid awake, the more my mind started to wander and I started to think about certain memories and it just sort of snowballed,” you reply. You draw you legs up and press your forehead against them. 

Bruce doesn’t need you to explain further. He already knows about the memories responsible for your tears. They are the same ones that often cause your bad dreams as well.

Your child and teen years were, quite frankly, horrific. The abuse you endured only growing worse the more your fame grew. It was rarely physical, from what you have shared with him. Your parents preferring to use words, but they left a mark on you all the same. 

As soon as you had turned eighteen you had managed to shake off of their shackles and hadn’t heard from them for a few years. Until the first headline involving you and Bruce had hit the stands. Then, like the cockroaches they are, they had come crawling from the woodwork to hurl nothing, but abuse at you. Some of which he has heard first hand. Even now he struggles to wrap his head around how horrible someone can be to their own child.

But restraining orders don't undo years of abuse and, as good as your therapist is, your scars run deep. 

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his lap. You rest your head against his shoulder and let him entwin his fingers with yours.

“I know, sweetheart. I know,” he says. “You should have woken me up.”

“You barely get enough sleep as it is. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Your concern for him and his wellbeing is sweet. At the same time he doesn’t want you to suffer in silence just because he has the world’s worst sleeping schedule. He presses a feather light kiss to the tip of your nose and rests his head against your forehead. 

“You wouldn’t be disturbing me. I would rather lose sleep than have you awake and crying alone,” he replies. “Next time wake me up. I won’t be mad or upset. All I want is to make sure you’re okay.”

You nod. “Okay. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

Before you can even attempt to say sorry for saying sorry, he presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss. He pulls away and wipes away the remnants of tears, that are still on your face, away with his thumb. Your eyes are puffy and are still shiny from unshed tears. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” 

Bruce doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s getting out of bed, with you still in his arms and carries you, bridal style, toward the en-suite. He turns the light on and sets you onto the counter. 

He removes his shirt, throwing toward the hamper before grabbing a washcloth off of the side of the bath and soaks it with cold water from the faucet. After squeezing some of the water out, he uses it to freshen up your face and gently presses it against your puffy eyes, to help reduce some of the swelling.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask as he presses the cloth against your other eye. Until now, other than the sound of running water from the tap, a silence had fallen over the two of you as he focuses on the task at hand.

“I’m thinking we’re going to go downstairs for a late night snack and some tea. Does that sound good to you?” He sets the washcloth aside, laying it out so that it can dry. 

“That sounds perfect.”

[m0reighn4]

Hey, I saw that your requests are open! I was wondering if I could request a fic where the reader pranks Shin, Nagumo, Natsuki Seba, Gaku, Uzuki, and Shishiba by moaning someone else’s name during an intimate moment to see how they react, but of course, it backfires and things go hilariously wrong. How does each of them react to the prank? 😊

Shin

He has you pressed into the mattress, a hand locked in yours with his face buried in your neck. It's slow, passionate and tender — a clear reflection of his love and devotion. Shin doesn't like to read your mind during intimate acts. You've figured out that much— and he even admitted it himself— so this is the only way it could possibly work.

So when your voice hits his ear, hot and heavy against his ear, he is already prepared to sink even deeper into you. Then, he actually hears you.

He stops. Mid-thrust, balls-deep inside you and pulls his face from your neck. His eyes meet yours with a mixture of hurt and surprise. For a short while, he doesn't say anything.

"Who..." he can't even bring himself to finish the sentence. And while you're staring right back at him, trying not to crack up, he decides to break his one rule. He reads your mind...

And he is not impressed when he finds out. His hurtful expression pulls into a frown— very close to a pout. "Haha. Very funny, [Y/n]." He pulls out of you and stands up while you finally burst out laughing.

Safe to say, you don't continue. He simply can't find it in himself. True to himself, he does take care of you before taking care of himself. Never during any of it, does he look even the slightest bit amused.

That night is quiet. For the first time in ages, he sleeps with his back turned to you. Even though he knows it was a prank, he can't bring himself to calm down. It rattles in his mind more than he'd ever care to admit. But he pretends to be okay.

(He's not. He's sulking. Please reassure him that he's the only one!)

Nagumo Yoichi

For Nagumo, you've actually gotta put in more work to fool him. He's a prank master, so you have to pull out some top tier acting to pull it off.

So after one of Nagumo's lengthy work trips, he takes you out for dinner. One thing leads to another and now you're in his lap, making out and lazily grinding on him. And as a heavy whisper, he hears you, clear as day.

But with the way he continues like nothing is wrong, you wouldn't think he heard it! All he does is lift you by the thighs and place you on the couch. His lips are on your neck, attacking your skin in his usual, playful manner.

"Good. Now, I don't feel bad about the girl from the mission!" he chirps, sounding just as carefree as usual. Now, you feel shocked. Your hands are now on his shoulders, pushing him back.

"Yoichi, what?" you spit out, not even knowing how to feel. He simply offers you a boyish grin, "I hooked up with a chick on my mission. Didnt know how to tell you. But since you've got [H/n], I don't see the issue!"

Your jaw falls open. You don't don't know where to begin! The fact that he admitted it? And so openly at that?! Who? How?

"It was only a harmless prank!" you gape, staring at him. And then, he laughs— full on, from the soul. "I know! Mine is too! Just wanted to see your face!"

"You're fucking serious."

"On my soul, honey-pie."

With a heavy sigh, you bury your face into your hands, all while Nagumo has a field day with your dissatisfaction as how the tables were turned against you.

(You still get it on. Both because he missed you and because he's not letting go of an opportunity to tap that.)

Natsuki Seba

Natsuki has you on his desk, in his workshop, legs spread with him between them as he hastily presses his lips to yours. His hands are firm on your waist as the only sound the room the otherwise empty room is the smacking of lips.

Right when the heat begins to reach its peak, he heard it. It takes him a hot second to even catch it. But when he does, he just pauses and pulls away, staring at you with a blank expression. Despite that, there's an unknown emotion in his eyes.

"What?" That's all he can manage. He manages a few puzzled blinks. "[Y/n], who...?" If anything, he's not sure whether to be more confused or upset. Just seeing his puzzled expression, you can't help but crack a smile— which soon turns into a fit of giggles.

"Huh?" Is all he can manage. Through your laughter, you barely manage an explanation. And when it hits him, Natsuki pouts, pulling away from you to go back to work.

"'Suki, wait!" you call out, reaching a hand to him as you hold your stomach. He straight up ignores you, going back to work.

(It literally takes him about a day before he can even look at you. And all he does is pull you into a hug. No words. Nothing.)

Gaku

It all started with an off day. The two of you were meant to be taking a break from work and simply enjoying each other. Then, things trip and now you're straddling his lap. His wrapped hand slides down your side to the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath it to find the edge of your panties. And you saw your opportunity.

With a soft gasp, you breathe out the name. Gaku pauses, staring up at you with a blank expression. No words are passed between you two. But it's as they always say, 'Actions speak louder than words!' Without even a word, he simply slips a finger inside you, causing you to gasp.

He's quick to begin thrusting his fingers in and out in quick succession. That day and night, he's brutal. He's somehow even rougher than usual, fucking every last thought out of your head until all that rattles up in the there is him.

By the end of it, you're boneless on the bed, head empty. You've already forgotten what got you caught here and Gaku is more than pleased with that! Pressing a soft kiss to your temple, he murmurs, "See, you don't need anyone else."

This definitely gave him a heart attack of sorts. But it's fine! If you even begin to look elsewhere for pleasure, love or comfort, he simply has to bring your attention back to where you can find it.

(And we're gonna ignore how you figured out the cheat code for a good fuck with Gaku♡)

Uzuki Ken

It all starts when he quietly slips into the front door, returning from work. His footsteps are light as the find you in the kitchen, making dinner. Before he can even think about it, his arms are already snaked around your waist and his face is buried in your neck. With a heavy sigh, you can feel the tension being released from his body.

It's silent for a while. That's the case before Uzuki tightens his hold on you before slowly pressing soft kisses along the column of your neck. His lips are soft, gentle and bring even softer giggles from between your lips. However, being the menace you are, you won't let this peace last long... Between 2 of them, he picks up on something unfamiliar.

He pauses. "[Y/n]? Did you say something?" he speaks, voice low, but carrying a certain weight to it. His finger lightly dig into your hips. Not even to hurt, but definitely enough for you to tell the difference. The air thickens, not with the kind of tension that gets you excited, but the the kind that makes your hair stand on end.

"Nope!" you squeak, going back to stirring the pot. Uzuki simply hums, nuzzling his face into your neck again. The rest of the evening is quiet, just as he needs it. Does that mean that he'd forgotten? Of course not! But does that mean that he won't have the issue quickly resolved? Also no!

(He's definitely keeps a closer eye on you from then onwards. He can't have you escaping him, can he?)

Shishiba

Slow, but straight to the point. You're being guided into your shared bedroom as his lips are felt everywhere. Your lips, your face, jaw and neck. And then, you do it— a low whisper that you knew her pick up.

Shishiba stiffens, his eyes snapping to meet yours. Thinly veiled anger radiates from him. What bothers him isn't the fact that you'd said the name of another man— though it is an issue of its own— it's that you said the exact way you'd usually say his name; the loved-filled, airy whisper that makes his heart throb. So hearing that tone— his tone— used for the sake of someone else sets him off.

He immediately grabs your shoulders and stares straight at you. "[Y/n], who is [H/n]?" he questions.

"Nobody important," you chirp, not being able to meet his eyes— not when he's staring at you with such intensity. He releases your arms and sighs. Even though he looks calm, there's this underlying rage that forces you to blurt out.

"It's a prank! Just a prank!"

A pause. A long one...

And then all the tension releases from his body. "Good. Almost did something drastic there," he huffs out, running a hand through his hair.

"'Shiba, what were you about to do?" you question, eyes going wide. He only presses a kiss to your forehead and grins, "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

(There is no way in hell that he was going to tell you that he was fully prepared to track down this alleged [H/n] and... dispose of him...)

a/n: Honestly, this is such a silly request. I low-key struggled a little, but it was fun! It's been been while since I've made any posts like this, so it was a fun little break from my usual lengthy fic posts. :3

Uzuki's actually killed me. I didn't even know where to begin!😭😭😭😭😨 Can you tell who the favourite is? I'll give you one chance! :3

Tell me why this was so hard for me though? Like, I actually had to go relearn their character traits?

Liked this post? Check out my other masterlists!

[sometimesanalice]

Sweetest Devotion

Summary: Loving Bradley is the easiest thing you've ever done, and coming home to him is always the best part of your day. Especially when you come home with cake. But a slight mixup at the bakery leads to the sweetest of promises.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 5k

Warnings: So much fluff (side effects may include giggling and kicking your feet)

(Author���s Note: this fic was written for my one year celebration of the ‘Like I Can’ series, but it can be read on its own!)

After a long week, there was no place you’d rather be than at home with Bradley.

The two of you have been living together for a couple of months now, but seeing his Bronco parked in the driveway of the condo you shared knowing the empty spot next to it is meant for your own still made your heart flutter out of sheer giddiness.

Even if he still teased you about your practical Honda Civic’s lack of street cred. But it did have a spacious backseat with its own set of doors and an actual trunk, unlike the Bronco.

And on the rare rainy days you got in San Diego, Bradley was asking to borrow your car rather than risk the interior of his big blue baby. Those days you just got to preen as you handed over your car keys to him. Sure, you could be the one to drop him off, but it was funnier watching the way he valiantly attempted to hold back his grimace as he tried to adjust the driver’s seat to comfortably fit his bulk.

As you pull into your spot, you’re hit with that same gust of summer breeze warmth you always are as you. It was a feeling you didn’t expect to go away any time soon.

It takes a bit of finesse getting the front door open with your work tote and purse slung over one shoulder while you cradled the paper bags of bread and box of treats you’d stopped for on the way home in the other.

Bradley had texted you to let you know that he was making dinner earlier, but had forgotten the bread during his grocery run and had asked if you didn’t mind making a quick stop to grab some. He’d promised to make it worth your while, and while you would have done it for him anyways, a little extra incentive was always nice.

Especially after the way he had teased you in the shower this morning.

You picked up the baguette that he’d requested along with a couple loaves of fresh bread for sandwiches that you were planning to stick in the freezer for later. At the checkout, they’d had a few fun pink bakery boxes packed with six individually wrapped cake slices in different flavors. It seemed like more fun than the basic red velvet cupcakes you had been debating as you waited for your turn to pay, so you’d picked up one of those boxes too. Since it was Friday, you figured a little treat was very much deserved after such a long week.

The two of you had just gotten back from a little trip back home not too long ago, but you were already dying for another vacation. Ideally one that involved creamy blended beverages served in coconuts and Bradley Bradshaw wearing some 5-inch inseam swim trunks with his thick thighs on display in the golden sunlight.

It had been so nice to see your parents and to visit the sights of your childhood growing up together. You’ve always gone home for holidays, but it had been years since he’d been there with you. Some things had stayed the same like the ice cream shop where Bradley had had his first job. And some things had changed with the times like the empty parking lot where he’d first taught you how to drive was now the site of an upscale organic grocery store. Now that you and Bradley were you and Bradley, the nostalgia of your younger years felt extra sweet as you’d strolled with his hand tucked yours.

It’s a miracle you get through the door without dropping anything.

You’re waiting to hear the scamper of little paws against the laminate floor headed your way as you kick off your heels, Duck was usually the first one to greet you when you got home.

The puppy was growing all too quick for your liking. For as much as Bradley grumbled about being woken up early on the weekends by the black and white ball of fluff, you’ve caught him on more than one occasion cooing at the dog and slipping him treats. The sweet, goofy little dog was the perfect addition to your dynamic duo.

Even if Bradley still got huffy about the name and how Duck had come to be in your life.

On the occasional night when Bob’s friend Casey from the animal shelter- the man you’d been on exactly half of a date with once close to a year ago- was invited to come hang out, your boyfriend always was finding reasons to stand a little closer to you or leave his hands lingering a little longer on your hips. Those nights usually end with the two of you sweaty and out of breath, tangled in the sheets of your canopy bed.

You can hear Bradley singing along with one of his playlists in the kitchen and the sounds of drawers opening and closing as you tuck your purse and tote under the side table at the entrance. You smile to yourself as you drop your key fob into the bowl where his are already resting, the key to his Bronco was on the same keychain with the little fighter jet charm that you’d given him when you were teens when Mav had given him the Montero for his 16th birthday.

Taking the bread and box of cake slices with you, you pass through the living room you see Duck passed out belly up on his Sherpa lined dog bed. His ears flopped out to the side and his little paws twitching as he dreams about chasing balls or squirrels. It’s a good think your hands are full or you’d be collecting even more photos of your sweet boy in addition to the hundreds you already had on your phone.

“I’m home,” you greet, rounding the corner to the kitchen, the savory smell of onions and garlic growing stronger the closer you get, “And I come bearing a baguette.”

Standing in front of the stove is Bradley with a checkered kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. His curls look a little damp, still drying from the shower he must have taken earlier. The soft looking shirt he’s wearing is pulled taut across his back, and the sweatpants he has on are hugging the curve of his ass in the best way. He looks so at ease and comfortable, none of the tense strain in his body that he sometimes comes home with.

Bradley looks over his shoulder towards you with a grin on his face, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” His pretty brown eyes rake over you in a way that has you wondering about just how he is planning on thanking you for picking up the baguette you’d stopped for. He lets out a low whistle, “Damn, I love that skirt on you.”

“I’m glad you clarified,” you say, sending him a wink and setting your bakery haul down on the island counter, “I wasn’t sure if you were talking to me or the armload of freshly baked carbs.”

He leans his hip on the side of the counter, “A little yeast and flour have got nothing on you, kid.”

“Now you know you can’t go around saying things like that an expect me not to fall in love with you,” you tease, opening the freezer to put the sandwich bread away.

“I’m failing to see a problem with that- oh shit,” he curses, hastily turning back to the stove to adjust the range knob as something spits and sizzles on the top of the convection cooktop.

You step around the island and over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind him. He’s always been the right kind of warm, the kind that makes you want to melt into him. You press your face against his back, his shirt soft against your cheek. Under the woodsy smell of his body wash there’s still a faint lingering scent of jet fuel. It’s your favorite smell.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he says, settling his big hand over yours, still stirring the sauce with the other. And you can almost see the easy, contented smile on his face just from the gentle tone of his voice.

“Hi, Bradley,” you hum, happy to be home.

“How was your day?”

“I’m glad it’s the weekend,” you say with a sigh, “The beach day tomorrow with everyone is going to be much needed.” A sympathetic sound rumbles from his chest as his thumb runs over the back of your hand. You were looking forward to sitting under the shade of the stripped umbrella and feeling the sand between your toes as you sip on an icy cold beer. “How was yours?”

“Not too bad, I took Seresin out and now he owes me $200. So overall, it’s been a pretty good day,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “Cyclone let us out early, so I was productive. Did some errands, got the groceries. Well, most of them. I even took Duck to the dog park and let him run around for a bit. He made friends with a Great Dane, I took a few videos of them playing on my phone for you.”

The mental image of Bradley recording a video of your puppy being cute and playing in the park in the same way a proud dad would film his kid’s little league game makes you feel more than a little weak in the knees.

Pressing up on your toes, you skim a kiss against the side of his neck and prop your chin on his shoulder to peer at what he’s cooking up.

“It smells really good in here,” you tell him, taking in the pot of sauce simmering away on the stove. Off to the side there’s a cutting board with some fresh basil chopped up and a pile of papery vegetable scraps and a couple empty cans of tomato sauce.

“Yeah? It’s been awhile since I’ve channeled my inner Stanly Tucci, so I thought some homemade spaghetti and meatballs sounded good.”

Your eyebrows raise on their own, the surprise evident in your voice, “Homemade meatballs?”

“Ok, maybe those came from Trader Joe’s,” Bradley admits, “But the sauce is all me. I even put the red pepper flakes in it the way you like it.” He reaches over for a handful of basil and adds it into the pot.

You send your thanks up to Carole for making sure her son at least had known the basics of cooking. He could more than hold his own in the kitchen, and the competent way he handled a chef knife in his big hands was endlessly attractive to you.

“‘Semi-homemade with Bradley Bradshaw’ has a nice ring to it, want me to pitch it as a reboot to the Food Network?” You feel the way he chuckles under your palms, the muscles of his stomach contracting and releasing.

“I don’t think I’d make it out with my liver intact. That woman loved her cocktails strong, I’m pretty sure her sangria recipe would send me to the floor,” he jokes, “No wonder why our moms were always watching her.”

“A woman after my own heart,” you sing, “I’m so glad I inherited such good taste from them.”

Bradley shakes his head amused, “The good news for you is that there’s a bottle of red open and waiting for you, funny girl.”

The promise of wine perks you up immediately. Pasta, wine, cake, and Bradley. What more could a girl need?

“God, you’re the man of my dreams.”

“I sure hope so,” he says, squeezing your hand.

“Oh, you are so getting lucky tonight, Lieutenant.” You take advantage of the way he leans his head back and laughs to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

You slide your arms back from around his waist, only managing to take one step towards the bottle of your favorite Cabernet Sauvignon that’s breathing over near the sink with one of your wine glasses set out next to it before you’re being stopped with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“Hold up, where do you think you’re going, kid?” Bradley asks, tugging you back to him with a grin.

He doesn’t wait for your response before he is leaning in to properly kiss you for the first time since he left for work this morning.

At the press of his lips against yours, you feel every ounce of strain you’d been carrying from the day dissolve like melted sugar. A satisfied hum escapes you and you feel the way the corner of Bradley’s mouth ticks up at your reaction to him. His hands cup your face, tilting you head until it was at the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss. You don’t even notice he’s back you up against the island until the countertop is digging into your lower back, too distracted by the way the coarse hairs of his mustache scrape along your upper lip.

If it weren’t for the sound of the timer going off the two of you might have almost would have forgotten about dinner entirely, it wouldn’t have been the first time it’s happened.

“Is there anything I can help with?” you ask, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt from the way you’d had it clutched in your fists just moments ago before letting go of him so that he can silence the beeping coming from the oven.

“You want to make us a salad to go with it?”

“Yes, chef,” you purr as you spin on your heel taking off in the other direction.

And really you should have expected the cheeky way his hand connects with your ass in a quick, sharp slap. You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but he’s already facing the stove and stirring the sauce again as he adjusts the seasoning with a smirk.

You take a moment to pour yourself a glass of the wine Bradley had opened for you and take a sip. The bold, juicy flavor dancing across your tongue as you set about gathering the things to make a simple salad to go with the dinner he’s made for the two of you.

This is your favorite part of the day, when it’s just the two of you together.

The back and forth has always been easy with him. Whether it’s making dinner or running errands or doing laundry together. The things that always felt mundane on their own had become some of the things you most looked forward to during the week. It’s not that you need to be around him, but you always want to be around him.

When Bradley declares the sauce to be perfect, he comes and joins you at the island. Grabbing a cutting board of his own he starts slicing up the fresh baguette you’d picked up, offering you the end to snack on.

“Oh, what’s this?” he asks, picking up the box of assorted cake slices.

You continue chopping the cucumber in front of you, “Isn’t that fun? They had a stack of those at the checkout. I think they must have made too many cakes this week on accident, but it’s so smart of them so sell them that way. Why get one flavor when you can have six? Best of both worlds for everyone.”

“That so, huh?” he sounds amused by your enthusiasm, “Is there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

It hadn’t been a particularly noteworthy visit, other than you’d been able to score a parking spot in front of the building, “Uh, not that I can think of?”

“You sure?” Bradley prods.

“No?... Oh! I was going to pick up that marbled rye you like while I was there getting the baguette, but they were already sold out. So I got a loaf of the multigrain brown bread and some sourdough instead.”

“Mmm, interesting.”

Stopping your salad prep, you look up at him skeptically, “Ok, why are you mmm-ing me, Bradshaw?”

Bradley’s eyes are alight with playful mischief as he slides the box of the cake slices towards you and pointedly double taps on the sticker on the upper right corner of the pink box with his finger.

You hadn’t stopped to read the shiny gold label when you’d grabbed it at the bakery, the tempting layers of cake and frosting and fillings had immediately sold you on it, but you couldn’t unsee what the curly scripted font said now.

Wedding Cake Sampler

“So, when’s the wedding? I’m assuming I’ll be invited,” he grins.

You feel your face get hot as you realize your mistake. It wasn’t just a sample box, but a very specific type of sample box. A very specific type of sample box for a very specific occasion.

Suddenly the interaction with the bakery employee as you were paying makes so much more sense now.

“Oh my god, the girl at the checkout said ‘Congratulations’ and I said ‘Happy Fri-yay’ back to her,” you groan, covering your eyes with your hands, “I thought she meant it like ‘Congrats on making it to Friday’ thing.”

He laughs, “Sweet girl, that’s about the damn cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Happy Fri-yay, Bradley! She was congratulating me on our- I mean- the nonexistent impending nuptials she thought I had and I reply to her that? We need to find a new bakery, I can’t go there ever again,” you lament. It’s truly a tragedy, since they have the best sticky pecan rolls in the area.

“And you call me a drama queen,” Bradley lightly teases, “She probably thought it was funny.”

You groan again, louder this time. If he was going to call you a drama queen, you’d at least try out your best Mariah Carey impersonation.

Your face is still hidden behind your hands when you feel Bradley gather you into his arms, running a warm hand up and down your back. “C’mon, it’s not even that bad. I’m sure I did at least three things more embarrassing than that today.”

“Yeah, I bet you did too,” you grumble into his chest without heat. The way he chuckles at your surliness lets you know he doesn’t take it personally. Not only is he getting laid, but you decide you’re definitely going to give him head too for being the sweetest man alive.

He takes your wrists in his hands and pulls the away from your face, “I gotta tell you, I’m glad it was just a little mix up. It would have sucked to find out my girlfriend had a fiancé I didn’t know about.”

You can see every shade of brown in his eyes as he looks into yours, the affection and amusement rippling there the same way the light catches the surface of a cup of coffee on a Sunday morning.

At this point you really do just have to laugh at yourself. It’s such a silly thing to get worked up about, especially since you know you’re probably more ruffled about Bradley potentially thinking that you’re trying to drop a not-so-subtle hint with it. And fact of the matter is that you still probably would have picked it up anyways, you just might have peeled off the incriminating sticker off in the car before bringing it in.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Bradshaw. I’ve got my hands more than full enough with you.”

“Yeah, you do,” he boasts, the insinuation is not lost on you.

You snort a laugh and shove at his chest lightly. He drops a kiss to the side of your head and makes his way back to the other side of the kitchen island as you get back to your salad making duties.

“Hey, just so you know, I can’t wait to eat wedding cake with you later,” he says as he continues to slice up the baguette.

You playfully toss a cucumber at him for his teasing and he pops in mouth with a grin.

A little later, when you have your steaming bowls of pasta in front of you at the dinner table, he raises his glass of wine to you, “Happy Fri-yay, sweet girl.”

And your laugh is as crystalline as the clink of your glass meeting his in cheers.

After the leftovers are put away and the dishes cleaned, the two of you are cozied up watching the new romcom that was just added on Netflix.

You’re stretched out across the couch with your feet in Bradley’s lap eating the cake you’d picked up. You try a bit of each flavor deciding which one you like the most to save it for the end, while Bradley takes his chances and eats one slice at a time before moving on to the next one. It’s truly unhinged behavior and you couldn’t help but tease him about it when you’d noticed his cake tasting methodology.

Bradley moans around a forkful of cake and you know he’s just found the carrot cake- his favorite.

He’s always been a bit of a pseudo health nut with questionable logic. “It’s got carrots and walnuts, it’s basically a superfood” he’s claimed on multiple occasions, while purposefully excluding the part about the pound of butter and cream cheese that goes into the frosting.

“I’d clear my schedule in heartbeat and take you to City Hall any day of the week as long as we get to have this carrot cake when we get married,” he says right before he licks the frosting off of his fork.

Your breath catches in your throat.

When, not if.

He says it so easily like there’s not a doubt in his mind that it’ll be you and him facing each other at the end of an aisle as vows about forever are exchanged.

He says it like a fact.

He says it like he knows.

“I didn’t realize I missed the part where you asked me,” you say, setting your plate on the coffee table in front of you, too full of the hope of it all to keep eating.

“And here I was waiting on you, kid,” he says playfully, taking another bite.

He’s teasing, you know he is. Bradley isn’t the type of man who would lead you on or play games with your heart.

“Bradley.” It’s an almost whine the way his name comes out of your mouth as you nudge his thigh with your foot. You turn your head to bury your face in the cushion of the couch, suddenly feeling very bashful.

The two of you have never talked about it, at least not like this before. Only in casual passing comments like getting a place with a bigger backyard for Duck or about setting up a joint banking account. A hypothetical future.

“Hey, c’mon. Look at me,” he coaxes, squeezing your foot. When you peek at him, the look on his face is all open sincerity, “You’re my forever girl. I love you and I’m planning on spending the rest of my life with you. That is, if you’re ok with that.”

A rush butterflies happily swoop and swirl around in your stomach.

He’s been in your life for almost three decades now. You’d known the boy, the teen, and you more than liked the man he’d become. You had absolutely no intention of ever letting him go. He was yours. Forever and always.

“That’d be ok with me,” you tell him freely. You watch as his smile gets wider and broader until it’s taking up his whole face, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “I think I could handle quite a few more decades with you, Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Is that so?” he drawls, his fingers skimming up and down the top of your calf.

“Oh, definitely. You’re stuck with me,” you grin.

“Good.”

He tugs your ankle, pulling you until your back is flat against the couch. You squeal in delight as he pins you down on the cushions, your arms and legs wrap around him on their own drawing him in even closer. Then he’s kissing every inch of your face that he can reach as you laugh in delight.

If it weren’t for Bradley’s sturdy bulk on top of you, you’re pretty sure you might have just floated away. You’ve never felt this incandescently light in your whole life.

He brushes one more quick kiss to the top of your nose before he pulls away, “But just so we’re on the same page, that wasn’t an official proposal. More like a declaration of intention.”

“I don’t know,” you muse, stroking his pink cheek, “Sounds like you’re desperate to wife me up, Bradley. Practically begging for me to take you to the courthouse.”

His hands go straight for curve of your waist, attacking that ticklish spot that’s always made you giggle and squirm. Only taking mercy on you once you’re out of breath. You’re almost positive that the smile on your face might be there permanently.

You don’t miss the intensity in Bradley’s eyes as they trace over your face as he settles himself more fully on you, “You don’t know the half of it, kid. But I’m letting you know now, I’m not going to make either one of us wait long for it.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

You feel the promise he’s making to you in his kiss. The caress of his hands along your body feels like a vow. You feel every ounce of just how much he loves and cherishes you. The cake was sweet, but his honeyed kiss tastes even sweeter.

“Tell me we can have carrot cake at our wedding, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your lips.

Our wedding.

The thought of it made you giddy.

You wanted to wear his ring on your finger just as much as you wanted to see him wearing one of his own one day. You liked your last name, but there was nothing more you wanted than to be Mrs. Bradshaw. It would be another thing you and Carole could share. A name and the everlasting love for her son.

“Ok, we can have carrot cake at our wedding,” you agree, wholeheartedly, “It’s basically a superfood, after all.”

“Damn right it is,” he beams.

The cake is quickly forgotten in favor of pulling your shirt over your head.

You might not have a ring. Yet.

But you did have a lifetime with Bradley and a carrot cake to look forward to. And that was more than enough for you.

Bradley was pretty sure that there was nothing better on this Earth than having you draped across his chest as you slept soundly in his arms. Your breathing had softened and evened out ages ago, but his mind was whirling with thoughts of his bright future with you.

He’d meant it when he’d told you he wasn’t going to make you wait long. Bradley didn’t know how much longer he could go on calling you his girlfriend when all he really wanted to call you his wife. He’s imagined you in a white dress walking towards him more times than he could count.

When he’d planned the surprised trip back to your shared hometown as a gift for your six-month anniversary, he might have had some ulterior motives. While it was nice to see the place you’d both grown up in again as adults, there had been a more pressing issue on his mind the whole time.

He hadn’t been able to control the nervous bounce of his leg or his sweaty palms when he’d ask your mom’s permission for your hand in marriage. It hadn’t been any easier the second time, when he’d had to do it all over again with you dad that sunny day at the golf course.

Bradley knew it was a bit of an antiquated tradition, but he’d never proposed to anyone before and he wanted to get it right. He wanted you and your parents to know just how serious he was about his intentions to love you for the rest of his life. He’d even asked Mav for his blessing too, just to make sure he had his bases covered.

It had thrown him through a loop when at the end of the trip you mom had slipped him the ring she’d worn while she was married to your dad. She’d told him there was no expectations or pressure to use it, she just wanted him to have it just in case.

The engagement ring his mom had worn had been tucked in the back corner of his nightstand for almost four months now. Bradley had pulled it out of storage sometime around the third month of officially dating you. It would be too soon for anyone else, but he’s already had decades with you. And he’d never been more sure about anything in his life as he was about knowing you were the one for him.

The two of you had always been perfectly right on time in your own way.

He’d dwelled on it for weeks trying to figure out if he should give them both to you at once. Or if he should propose to you with one and save the other to you during another monumental moment, like when the two of you started a family. He figured could turn one into a necklace or something for you.

Bradley could feel the presence of both rings every time he walked into the bedroom. They were both equally were important to him, he wanted to get it right.

His mom had known and loved you, he knew that she’d have been so excited to see her ring on your finger. And after his mom had passed, yours had helped him during those rough days in ways he didn’t think he could ever properly thank her for. Even though your parents’ marriage hadn’t worked out, they were the reason that you were here and he couldn’t imagine his life without you.

It wasn’t until Natasha had shown him the Toi et Moi style ring that things locked into place in a way that made his heart race at the very idea of it.

The right ring for the right girl.

He lets his fingers trail up and down your back gently as you slept soundly against him.

In the kitchen earlier that night, he might have bent the truth about his day just a little bit.

The final design had been sent to his email that morning. And it was more perfect than he could have imagined.

He did win $200 from Jake and had gone to the dog park with Duck, but he’d also stopped by the jewelers across town to give them both of the family heirlooms because he didn’t want to waste a single minute.

Two diamonds, one ring. The start of you and him. A story of your beginnings to be worn on the finger that would tie him to you with a golden thread for the rest of your lives together.

He’d even paid extra to have it engraved.

My sweet girl. My forever girl.

I genuinely thought I was one and done after I wrote my first fic in December of last year. And then came these two. 'Like I Can' was meant to be a oneshot that turned into a 3-part series that turned into half of my masterlist. I adore this couple with my whole heart. Thank you for reading along and celebrating with me!

Elle (@callsignspark) thank you for sending me the TikTok that inspired the headcanon about the wedding cake sampler, I'm showering you with shiny 'thank you' shaped confetti! And another big thank you to Jordan (@gretagerwigsmuse) for getting as giddy about these two as I do and for always enthusiastically reading the snippets I send you! You both are the best!

If you enjoyed these two, you can read their story from the start here!

You can read my other stories here!

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